by Maia Ross
Table of Contents
Title
Blurb
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Also From This Author
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Vitamin Sea
a novel
Maia Ross
Vitamin Sea—Blurb
A retired British intelligence agent and a nerdy GenX couch potato...
Freshly minted retiree Irma Abercrombie wasn't looking for drama when she invited Violet Blackheart—an engineer with a serious vitamin D deficiency—for a visit at her island home. But after an armed robbery in town goes terribly wrong, they get pulled into an island intrigue: Was it a simple snatch and grab, or are there other forces at work? And if Irma's so retired, why is there a dead guy in her driveway?
Irma's hands might be deadly weapons, but she's all thumbs when it comes to computer problems. Next, she has to figure out how to convince Violet to investigate a technology puzzle that might have been masterminded by someone with a taste for murder.
Violet embraces a budding cupcake addiction and day-drinking, while Irma grapples with a bomb threat and wonders how she ended up with a pug as a sidekick...and whether Violet is hiding a few secrets of her own. Irma's headed for a showdown on a luxurious island estate, and she has every intention of dragging Violet along for the ride.
Irma Abercrombie wants to save the world.
Violet Blackheart just wants to survive her vacation.
For John
One—Irma
I’d always found something invigorating about breaking bread with an enemy, especially if you were able to thwart them in some small way. Like I was currently doing with a beaver-shaped dish full of Farmer Ezekial’s whipped creamery butter.
“Irma, are you having age-related hearing problems again?” Snookie Smith's newly acquired pointy-rimmed reading glasses made her look even more praying mantis-like than usual. Her already thin lips pressed themselves together as she looked around at our two other tablemates. She settled her gaze on Charlotte Van Oot, the organizer of the fundraiser we were all meeting to discuss. “Do you find that Irma is in denial of her various–” She gave me a pointed look, “–age-related infirmities?”
I tilted my head to make it seem like I was considering her comments even though, of course, I was not. First of all, I was only seventy-one, and second, I’d heard her ask me to pass the butter perfectly well and had been ignoring her on purpose. Plus, she was only two years younger than me but told people she was fifty-nine. I mean, honestly.
Charlotte patted her mouth with a napkin. “Irma’s doing the island marathon next Sunday,” she said delicately. “She’s quite…un-infirm.”
I looked out at the water and tried to tamp down on my irritation towards Snookie. It would not do at all for me to go across the table and bonk her head on it. Even just a little. So I focused on the calming waves rolling off Lake Ontario and onto the rocks under the patio we were lunching on. It was the beginning of June and early summer sun warmed my face.
Naturally, I had my back to the building and could see all the points of ingress and egress, although the aquatic factor made things a little trickier. It was imperative to see trouble coming, unless you preferred to end up with a tag around your toe and twenty-something morgue interns spelunking around your innards. On the other hand, if I was going to come to a sticky end while eating Chef Louise’s perfect egg white omelettes, at least I’d go happy.
I turned back to the table. “Half-marathon,” I said.
“Half-marathon,” Charlotte echoed with a smile. “So, as I was saying, we need to make sure we have everything in hand for next weekend’s fundraiser.” Charlotte, recently turned eighty-six, was in particularly good spirits today. Her hair was in sweet little-old-lady curls, her pale peach summer suit was understated but handmade in Italy, and the shoes on her feet were stylish but sturdy. Excellent for kicking someone with if she needed to, although I would have been happy to do it on her behalf. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone how important this event is to me and my family. There are so many little ones out there with juvenile cancers who need our help. We’ve promised to raise enough money to finally build the pediatric oncology wing at St. Jude’s Hospital. If we meet our target for the fundraiser, they can even break ground this fall.” Charlotte had lost her little sister to leukemia as a child, and cancer charities had always held a soft spot for her. I sent her a sympathetic look.
“You’re exactly right,” Emily McDonald said fervently. “My college roommate’s daughter is battling throat cancer right now.” Emily was the new planner for this year’s fundraiser, and every single word out of her mouth was always said enthusiastically. She’d been brought on a few months ago when the planner Charlotte had been using for years had fallen victim to a particularly mean-spirited hit-and-run in Canarsie.
I wanted to like Emily because she had the exact same hair as I: a chin-length bob. Hers was black with purple-tinged edges, while mine was silver-grey, but it was similar enough. She was twenty-seven, smiley and petite, and drove a Prius. I once had to use a Prius to run over an assassin who was trying to murder a member of the British royal family, and let me tell you, they are not cars for aggressive people.
I smiled pleasantly at Charlotte. Suddenly I felt air whoosh past my leg and realized Snookie had just tried to kick me under the table. I knew she was up to something when I saw the extra-pointy shoes she was wearing this morning. I was still aggravated with her for letting all the air out of my tires last week in the parking lot of the town’s country club. In the back of my head, I started plotting my revenge.
“You know what I find so funny, Irma?” Snookie said.
“I can’t even imagine,” I murmured as I motioned to one of the servers for more tea.
“I’ve always wondered; why is your accent so...odd?”
I moved my face into an expression of polite astonishment, a look that had served me well over the years. Then I tilted my head to the side as if I was contemplating what she’d said. “What an interesting question.”
A silence descended over the table. Emily’s fork was halfway to her mouth, Charlotte was mid-chew.
“I mean...” Snookie looked around, but she’d lost her audience. “For a British person, you really don’t have that much of an...uh...you know. Accent.”
Charlotte offered me some of her hash browns.
“No, thank you,�
�� I replied. I’d avoided refined starches and saturated fats my entire life, and now that I was retired I wasn’t going to get taken down by a heart attack. I planned on dying in an explosion of some kind. You know, the usual.
I smiled at Snookie. “I’ve spent every summer here on Beaver Island since I was born, and we moved around a lot when I was growing up. Military family.”
“I hear you’ve just retired,” Emily said. “What from?”
I met her gaze. “Government work.” I didn’t add that everything to do with my former career was classified. Although a tiny group of people on the island knew about my past, on paper, I’d been a supply chain director.
“How interesting,” Emily said politely.
Pop.
“What do—” Snookie started, but I held up my hand for silence. She sniffed. “Really, Irma.”
The water under us crashed noisily, which was a bother. But my pulse had already started speeding up.
Pop pop.
The noise sounded like it was coming from Main Street, just on the other side of the restaurant. The cross-talk on the patio and noise from the water made it impossible to know for sure what it was. Probably a car backfiring or something similar. Not a Prius, obviously. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t take a look.
“Will you excuse me please, ladies?” I said. Snookie’s mouth was still open as I jogged out to the street. My main goal since retiring had been training for the island half-marathon, and I hadn’t been able to squeeze today’s session in yet, so at least I was getting some exercise.
I was probably making too much out of those three noises. Maybe an errant golf ball had pinged across the street from the local sporting goods store. Truth be told, I did have a bit of...well, the word paranoid had been used to describe me at times, which, honestly, was just silly. I was alive in my seventies, when I’d seen people much younger and brighter than I wiped off the board.
I fast-walked toward the origin of the noises, thankful for my sensible footwear choices this morning. And that there was a small poisoned blade tucked into the heel of my left sneaker.
Then I heard the screaming.
Down the street I ran, congratulating myself on my suspicious nature while I passed Main Street’s high-end shops, accented with artisan-crafted store signs and fetching pastel frontage, pristine sidewalks and real gas lampposts hung with a riot of colourful flowers. Beaver Island was a glittery chunk of land on Lake Ontario, two hours from Toronto. Despite its rodent-inspired name, it was an upscale retreat for people from all over, with a focus on aquatic adventures. We liked to think of ourselves as the Hamptons of the North. With more beavers, of course.
I did a quick weapons check. Now that I was a newly minted civilian, I didn’t carry a gun with me, a decision I tried not to fault myself for. But I did have two Shuriken throwing stars tucked into my purse, left over from an impromptu star-throwing contest from the week before. Plus the shoe-blade.
My feet slapped the pavement as I picked up the pace, my arms pumping, adrenaline blazing through all five feet of me. Well, almost five feet.
This was going to be fun.
Slowing down before I could be seen in the glass storefront by whoever was plundering Renée’s Gems, I took a few deep breaths. The street was empty and quiet, strange at this time of the day, but comparatively normal when a thieving lunatic was waving a pistol around.
The gun went off again, shattering the storefront window, the glass spraying onto the sidewalk in front of me. A shard bounced my way and a splotch of red bloomed on my left wrist. But it was a good thing; the pain helped me focus.
And then a crowd exploded out of the store: ladies who’d just lunched, tourists with no plans to buy, small children scooped up and carried, Botoxed second wives on stemware-sized heels. They all became a hysterical jumble of summer pastels.
I crouched in front of the store beside Renée’s and fumbled in my handbag. I had a mirror on a telescoping wand I sometimes used to check if there was a bomb under my car. Just in case. It was like one of those selfie sticks, but actually useful.
I expanded the mirror and used it to see what was going on inside the store. My heart rate sped up even while a calm settled over me; a figure in black, average height, wearing a dark-coloured ski mask, was busily robbing the store. I narrowed my eyes. Normally, jewellery glittered in the shop’s windows like artwork, but every single piece was gone.
The robber had his hand on the security guard, an island resident called Scooter. Scooter’s face was calm before his eyes caught mine in the little mirror—he was trying to be brave, the poor thing—but the robber raised the gun, aiming it at his head.
Then Scooter trembled, all five-foot-four of him, and all I could think was: He’s only thirty. But the robber was bolting to the back of the store, dragging Scooter, the gun jammed against his temple. His eyes were huge. I’d seen that look before. My pulse quickened, and I dashed toward Spa Lala next door and ran through its reception area. I’d been here many times and knew where the back exit was.
I just had to make sure I got to the alleyway behind the store in time.
My arms pumped as I ran, darting around boxes of bikini waxing strips and moustache lighteners. The spa had emptied itself just like the jewellery store, which was so very helpful.
I eased the back door open and thrust my mirror through the crack, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. A few deep breaths centred me.
There was a white panel van, the windows tinted, the license plate visible, which meant it was probably stolen. A large decal on the side of the van said Nebbit’s Dry Cleaning. The van looked freshly painted, and I’d bet good money the decal was removable. The first two letters of the license plate were TW, but mud smudged the rest of it away.
I tried to sort out how to storm into the alleyway, liberate Scooter, and kick the kidnapper right in the liver. But the engine was already roaring, and the masked robber was shoving poor Scooter into the passenger seat by the collar, the gun still jammed in his ear. The robber leapt in the same door, likely planning to force Scooter to drive.
Reaching into my handbag, I palmed a throwing star and launched it at the back of the van to mark it, just above the right edge of the bumper. It caught and sunk into the metal. The driver hit the gas and the wheels squealed as the van shot forward.
Then the robber reached out the window and aimed his .22 right at me.
Two—Violet
The hold music was making me want to kill someone. To calm myself, I looked at the three monitors I’d dragged to Beaver Island from my Toronto condo. Already I felt better. Then I logged myself into the monitoring system for my company’s infrastructure. It tracked each and every computer object in our environment, and I’d built every single connection myself. I liked seeing the monitors all lit up in green, functioning like a happy little electronic ecosystem. It was my baby.
You okay, Violet? Max McCorkle, my business partner and CEO of our company, texted me. We were on a conference call with our bank, but for some reason, every time the bank put us on hold, their elevator music blasted through the phone at a volume that could shatter a child’s eardrum. I was glad the call was voice-only. If Max realized I was working while on my vacation, I’d never hear the end of it.
Eh, I texted back. You? I tried not to feel bad that Max was the one who was doing all of the talking. I wasn’t the greatest at chitchatting with non-technical folk; my skills lay more in sitting in front of computers in dark rooms and making things happen. Alone.
It’s going to be okay. I promise.
Tears sprung to my eyes. Max had always made promises like that, ever since we were kids, and I’d pretty much always ignored them. Especially now. Everything was very much not okay at our little startup. All we’d wanted to do was build a system that homeowners could use to pry themselves off the power grid, at least a little. We sold solar roofs—and panels—and tied them into a home management system I’d built in my spare time while working for a lunatic who
used to cut his toenails at his desk. I’d been crowned Chief Technical Officer at the Solar Shoppe for my efforts. But six days ago our other business partner, Shane O’Meara, had absconded with all our company’s money. Well, almost all. We had a small reserve he hadn’t been able to touch, and that was keeping us afloat for now. Max and I were on the phone trying to get an extension on our line of credit.
Except I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t figure out how this had happened. I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t make myself believe the bank was going to give us a dime.
I picked up an R2D2-shaped stress ball and started squeezing it. Then I texted Max, I’m coming home.
Absolutely not, he replied immediately. I could feel his frustration through the phone, which wasn’t exactly helping anything; I’d already been stewing in some turmoil of my own. I’d made the mistake of telling my host, a pint-sized acquaintance of mine named Irma, that I didn’t know how to be on vacation. And she’d suggested—in her hypnotically insistent way—that I should “holiday” at her house on Beaver Island. Because it would be relaxing. At no time had she mentioned that ten-mile hikes in bear-infested forests, tippy boats, and race car-fast driving were things that were going to be inflicted on me.
The doorbell rang.
I got up to answer it, checking to make sure my earbud was secure before stepping out of my apartment inside Irma’s country mansion. The house had originally been a family home but had been dissected into apartments back in the nineties. My flat was one of two on the second floor, both with full kitchens, high-end appliances and gorgeous, unfussy coastal furnishings. My bedroom faced the lake, and there was a balcony off the kitchen, with a small widow’s walk on the third floor.
The second floor of the house was balconied, the majestic first-floor staircase splitting as it rose so people could go up one side or the other to get to the second floor. Like at the von Trapp house. I’d never even heard it squeak.