The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  An insane thought fills my head, and I’m speaking before I can even think it through fully. “I’m having a party next weekend at my house. Work people. You should come.”

  Another small smile. “Okay. But only if you tell me more about your designing.”

  “Definitely.” As if she could stop me.

  Kyle and Simon have apparently been waiting for our entrance, because Kyle elbows Simon so hard he falls off the desk where he’s been sitting with his Converse Chucks on his chair.

  “Oh, hey . . . Hey, Paige. I’m Simon. I just wanted to introduce myself,” he says once he jumps to his feet with more grace than someone like him ought to have. I suppose all the LARPing is paying off.

  “Hi, Simon, it’s nice to meet you.” The icy mask of indifference is back over Paige’s face when I glance down.

  Simon looks like the thirteen-year-old who has stopped the cheerleader in the hallway of the school to ask her to the dance but now can’t do anything except clutch his book and stare at her.

  “Uh . . . are you coming to MG’s party?” Paige asks, and the statement goes along so well with my high school metaphor, I have to blink.

  Kyle gives a chortle. “MG’s . . . party?”

  Simon and Kyle have turned to stare, and I twitch uncomfortably.

  “Ah, yeah, I mentioned it to you guys. Next weekend, I’m having work people over, remember?” I never have parties. Ever. I’ve attended exactly one non-work-function party in all my time here, and that was because Matteo accepted for me. “I thought maybe Paige might like to come and hang out and get to know her new coworkers,” I say, nodding exaggeratedly.

  “Oh. Yes. Definitely.” Kyle says, with as much good acting as the original Power Rangers. “Er, what time . . . again? Can you remind me—us?”

  Okay, fine, we’re not going to win any Oscars.

  I nod. “Six o’clock next Sat—”

  Kyle shakes his head vehemently, so I change tactics. “Friday? Definitely Friday after work. I’m ordering pizza, movie night. Totally what I’d already planned.”

  I look at Simon next. Everyone nods like little bobbleheads.

  Paige suspects this is some sort of pity invite—it’s written all over her face. I start planning a defense when Simon saves my rear end.

  “So, Paige.” His awkwardness hasn’t faded, and his gaze is riveted to Paige’s chair. Silence stretches as Simon fumbles for words, and I close my eyes, waiting for him to blurt out what I know is coming.

  “Alligator,” Paige says, voice back to frosty.

  My eyes fly open, and I turn to look at her. Simon and Kyle are already regarding her with horror. “What?”

  “I know that’s what you’re all wondering.”

  Simon’s jaw literally drops open. “Really?”

  Paige snorts. “No. But it sure is fun. You can tell people anything and they believe it. I just try to have fun with it when people stare.”

  Simon’s ears redden. “I wasn’t . . .”

  She shrugs and heads for the empty desk. “You were.”

  Kyle coughs. “You were, dude.”

  Simon reddens further if it’s possible. “Okay, I was, but not for . . . not for that. Well, I mean, I was looking at that but—”

  I cut him a look that I hope clearly communicates that he should stop talking.

  He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He rolls his shoulder and walks over to where Paige is unloading a messenger bag of pens and a notebook onto the desk surface. He sticks his hand out. “Okay, I’m sorry, I was unintentionally rude, and I apologize. I’ll try again. Hi, Paige, I’m Simon. I’m sorry I’m an idiot when I meet pretty girls, but I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Paige’s face whips up to meet his like she’s afraid he’s making fun of her, but her face softens when she sees his obvious distress. She reaches out and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you, Simon. Y’know, for a geeky dude, you have a pretty good grip. I hate when people give me the limp-fish handshake.”

  Preach, sister.

  Simon takes his hand back, and rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, I work out. A little. Training, really—”

  “LARPing,” Kyle supplies helpfully.

  “—yeah, LARPing.” He coughs, then decides to just own it, and shrugs. “I’m training to do sword combat stuff. It really is cool. Better in person than me explaining, I promise.”

  Page looks at him like he’s declared his ambition is to play for the band in the Tatooine cantina. And then she smiles slightly, not missing the implied invite. “LARPing, huh? Never got into that. I like to rock climb on the weekends, and any of you are welcome to join me anytime.”

  Simon looks like he’s not sure if it’s a joke or not. “Really?”

  Paige: “Yes, really. Upper body strength—”

  “No, I meant, really, I—we—could come?”

  Paige laughs outright. “Yeah, any of you are welcome to come. You guys are all a little weird, but I think I’ll take it.”

  Simon flushes. “Cool. Now. Let’s talk business. What are you currently reading? And what do you think about the current run of The Hooded Falcon?”

  Paige’s eyes light up. “I’m a huge fan of Oracle, or anything Gail Simone draws.”

  I leave them to their conversation and sit down at my own desk, finally taking a moment for a breath. I’d been nervous about adding another person, but Paige seems to be awesome. I smirk as a line from one of my favorite Netflix binges surfaces in my mind. Maybe things are finally lining up for ole Liz Lemon. I have to only hope that things with the case will resolve this nicely.

  CHAPTER 11

  By later that afternoon, Lawrence hasn’t returned my calls or my texts—a bad sign. I probably should swing by to make sure he’s okay. I don’t think my coworkers will notice if I cut out a little early, though I feel somewhat guilty that it’s to pay a personal visit to a friend.

  I’m also not getting a lot done at my desk at work, anyhow. My Hooded Falcon stuff is coming along okay; I’m on autopilot with the dialogue, but it’s not bad. What I’m struggling with is the end of Hero Girls and any sort of idea for the new pet project I accidentally pitched at the meeting. It’s like the creative well inside of me has gone still, dark, and silent, receding down to a winter level. Each time I try out an idea or a set of possible characters, it just feels flat. Off. Trite, tried, or tired. The three Ts of death, in my way of thinking. What I really want is to reach a new audience. An audience for whom I can open a world to the wonder of comic books. And that certainly isn’t going to happen with robot aliens versus cowboy chimpanzees, or whatever. Actually, maybe something outlandish could be fun to write, if I can make it me . . . I mentally smack myself on the head.

  It’s bad when I’m actually considering writing about cowboy chimpanzees. There’s no true inspiration there. No message. No target audience other than “guys who like robot aliens versus random things.” Sure, I can stick social justice and satire in it, but how many people will get the deeper heart of that satire? That’s what I show up to work for. To wrap a deeper truth in a good story and awesome art. To inspire. To change the world, one fun page at a time.

  I shove away from my desk and growl.

  “Good day at the office?” Kyle asks, not even lifting his head from his work. “I swear you’ve growled more today than Simon’s stomach.”

  “Shut up, dude. You know I’m following a timed diet this week,” Simon shoots back.

  I look between them.

  “Simon is trying to get fit”—Kyle uses air quotes—“for LARPing.” I think it’s a pretty accusatory tone for someone who actively did the same thing.

  “It requires stamina and strength,” Simon argues back. “People who do real combat are athletes.”

  It devolves into a conversation about knights and the different types of armor and whether or not someone had to actually be fit to kill someone with a sword.

  “Okay, well, I’ll leave you to your work,” I say ma
ybe five minutes into the debate. “I have that meeting with the production crew this afternoon.”

  Andy, who has largely been ignoring the arms discussion, turns around at his desk and flops blond hair back over his shoulder. “Let us know how it goes. And don’t forget Ms. Kalapulani wants a report about the project next week, so keep notes.”

  “Ms. Kalapulani?”

  Andy flushes, and I can tell he’s embarrassed by my catch. Usually we call her Lelani—both to her face and within the team. She’s never insisted either way, so I am surprised he’s changed.

  I don’t press him on it. So, he’s trying to kiss ass. Or feels awkward calling his boss by her first name. Fine, whatever. His deal. I have no problem addressing Andy as Andy. My body will be dead and cold before I call him Mr. Dermot.

  “See you all later.” No arguments, just some generalized waving, so I head out.

  Outside, the day is gray and blustery; fall is on its way. I’d prefer bright sunny skies and crisp temperatures to the slightly damp threat of possible rain in the air. Rain makes things cold, and I hate being cold.

  I swing my messenger bag over my back, thankful it’s waterproof, and settle my helmet on my head with the smallest pang of sympathy for my hair. It will suck to arrive at my very first meeting with helmet hair, but it would suck worse to end up with no brain. And if you’ve ever cycled in LA, you know that you can’t count on drivers being any sort of merciful to a bicyclist. If I play my cards right, I’ll have enough time to check on Lawrence and either bike to my house for my car or call a car to get to the meeting.

  I try to be ultra-alert while I’m biking. Someone once likened commuting by bike in LA to a roller derby, and they weren’t far off. In truth, it’s a bit of what appeals to me. I don’t like feeling like I might get squashed at any moment, but the reactivity of it versus the stop-and-go grind of traffic. I can go around a jam, take a shortcut, double back—to me it’s worth the risk for the flexibility. But today my mind barely registers the red-painted curbs or white pylons of the bike-safe area as they flash by. On autopilot, my brain races as I pedal. The constant motion sometimes shakes loose my best ideas. I often have breakthroughs on my projects during my commute. Instead of working on a new comic, my brain has gone straight back to its current obsession: the Golden Arrow. Specifically, the party I’d gone to, the queen I’d seen dancing, the drugs, the flasks, the golden stickers . . . and the sense that I’m living in some sort of constructed narrative. I can’t come up with any better way of describing what I feel. As a writer, I sense the presence of story, and this all feels like one great big setup, an elaborate . . . something. But what? Is the Golden Arrow really this bored that he’s planning parties and attending them? Is this all a media stunt—a ploy to increase his celebrity status? Why not just go to Casey Junior and take the reward if this is about recognition or money?

  And then there’s the report from the two drug dealers. One could conclude the Golden Arrow is indeed back at the tie-up-bad-guys game. But why? Why tie up guys in secret if at the same time you’re attending secret parties to gain cachet? None of it makes sense.

  The blaring of a horn brings my attention fully back to the road, and I stop just in time to avoid running into a car parked at a stop sign.

  “Sorry!” I yell, getting a middle finger in response. Ah, California. Land of the eloquent.

  With a quick glance around, I pedal forward, determined to watch more carefully. I’m not any help to the case if I wind up Ron-Karr all over the pavement.

  I’m just about to cross the street when I catch sight of a figure I think seems familiar. It takes a moment to place the easy stroll, compact build, and dark hair, but finally it clicks into place: Daniel Kim. The very same Daniel Kim I’m about to meet in an hour at a meeting on the other side of town. On instinct, I slow my advance, eyes scanning the street. He’s walking south, a few blocks from Lawrence’s, but pretty far from both the office and his dance studio on Third. It’s none of my business, I know this, but . . . there’s a strum of mystery deep in my soul that sounds as I peruse the scene.

  Abruptly, I pedal back to the corner I’ve just left and dismount as much behind a trash can as I can manage. From here I can watch without being detected. I nearly laugh out loud at myself. Watch what, though? Watch a guy from my office walk down the street, apparently. I’ve officially crossed into stalker territory, and I’ve made my mind up to get on my bike and go say hello when Daniel does something that sets the alarm bells off in my head.

  He looks around him, scanning the street—I drop back down behind the trash can—before turning and ducking into a narrow alcove just beyond a little shop’s windows. The neighborhood here isn’t bad, but it’s not the greatest, and the set of bars over the window prevents me from really seeing what he’s doing. His movements seem furtive. But what could Golden Boy Daniel Kim possibly be doing that requires stealth?

  I have to get a better look. Before I’ve thought it through, I’ve locked my bike to the light pole and crossed to the opposite side of the street, straining to keep eyes on Daniel the entire time. He seems to be waiting outside a tiny door, intermittently talking into a buzzer box. The store across the way has a useful sidewalk rack out, so I flip idly through a display of men’s secondhand blazers, keeping myself concealed.

  I really shouldn’t be doing this. This is insanity. This is me, reading too many graphic novels and thinking too much about the Golden Arrow. This is the crap that gets me in trouble with Matteo when I decide to play detective on my own. Daniel could just be visiting his girlfriend, or his mistress. Or his mistress’s girlfriend—you know, normal American stuff. Or, I note with intense alarm, he could be handing someone something gold and glittery through a door.

  I can’t quite see the face of the other person; it’s obscured by shadow and the only partially open door, but I know my costumes, and I know my fabric. And the little slip that Daniel makes in handing over the pile he’s holding is enough for me to identify a mask and cape. A gold mask and cape.

  I try and manage the surge of possibilities that blossom to life in my head. This could all be coincidental. This could be totally explained by normal human rationale. Or I just stumbled onto something big. And with this opening, my imagination is off and soaring—no chance of me reining it in at this point. Because Daniel Kim isn’t just your normal human being. I fairly tick off his credentials on my fingers as I know them. He’s athletic, and acrobatic. Check. What did those dealers say? They were tied up by a ninja. Seems to me that someone with an advanced background in dance and acrobatics could essentially be a ninja. He’s a comic book enthusiast, with specific knowledge about The Hooded Falcon, and he’s out here, skulking about in a shadowy doorway with a cape and a mask. My instant suspicion is that if Daniel Kim isn’t at the very least in league with the Golden Arrow, he’s the Golden Arrow himself. He’s handing a cape to someone . . . it could be his teammate!

  The person behind the door. The person behind the door could very well be the vigilante I’m looking for. This is critical information if my theory is going to have legs to stand on. There’s no way I can go to Matteo with something so flimsy as “a guy I know handed someone a stack of fabric”; I’ve got to be sure when I throw Daniel Kim under the bus. And more importantly, if I can get inside information, I might be able to figure out what he knows. Everyone will talk to a friend; not everyone will talk to the police.

  I stand back from the rack, determined to cross the street and get a look at the face of the person behind the door when I unknowingly back straight into the pathway of someone walking on the sidewalk. I’d forgotten it was the middle of the day and that we were in broad daylight in public.

  But as I hurtle toward the pavement, the hands that wrap around my waist to try and keep me upright are surprisingly, and uncomfortably, familiar.

  The pair of oxfords on the pavement I dangle mere inches above are familiar.

  I’ve definitely taken off the pair of gray work slacks th
at are cuffed above the oxfords, and as the person slowly helps me back up to my feet, I know exactly who I’m going to see.

  I school my features into careful surprise by the time they pass a work shirt, cuffed at the elbows, and lastly, Matteo’s rather shocked face.

  “Oh, hello, sweetie,” I say, as if I trip my boyfriend on street corners outside of secondhand stores all the time.

  His face wears instant suspicion. “MG. What are you doing out here?”

  Damn me and my open-book face. I must look guilty despite my attempt not to. I am most definitely not out following someone I now suspect to be the Golden Arrow like some crazy person.

  “Nothing,” I say and then realize immediately that’s a guilty-person answer. “Shopping, I mean. Not nothing, that would be stupid. I’m not just standing on some random street doing nothing.” Shut up, MG, shut up.

  Matteo’s eyes dart around, first to the glass table with bird figurines on it that I wouldn’t be caught dead buying and then to the tub of five-dollar shoes that aren’t any more my style than the birds.

  “Blazers,” I say, waving at the rack. “You know, for”—think quick, MG—“one of Lawrence’s costumes. Halloween. Costume.” Maybe a quick smile to cover my complete inadequacy as a liar?

  Matteo’s not buying it. He nods slowly, gaze passing over the rack of decidedly dowdy and unbedazzled old-man blazers.

  I force a cheery laugh. “You know us fashion designers, always looking for something boring to change into something amazing. I’m planning on adding a double breast with some sequins and stoning the back like an Elvis jacket, what do you think?” I’m full-on rambling now, but I’m hoping to throw enough sewing jargon into my explanation that I lose Matteo.

  It works; he nods again, this time a little more convinced. “Oh, okay, that sounds great. You always do good work. Anyhow, you okay? You didn’t hit the sidewalk, did you?”