Vitamin Sea

by Maia Ross

  “How are you, my little sausage?” I said, after looking around to make sure nobody could hear me. “I never thanked you for waking me up in the middle of the night.” I gave him a little smooch, and he made a squeaking sound as he yawned and dropped his face onto my chest. In my bosoms, actually. I tried to move him, but he made a frustrated noise as he looked up at me with his bulgy little eyes.

  “Aw,” Mrs. Sepp said, hoisting the seat like she was a Viking. “He likes you so much.”

  He was a parasite. A charming little parasite. If I’d been able to channel Mr. P’s aura when I was working I could have implemented world peace once and for all.

  She buckled him in and patted him on the head. He panted, then tried to slurp his tongue up her left cheek. He chewed on her for a bit until she pried him away.

  And we were off. I took the long way via the lovely winding street that connected my subdivision with the main road. The top was down on my MG and Mr. P sat upright in his little chair like a real person, his bottom wiggling as he tried to wag his tail, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. It occurred to me that Mr. P might be angling to become my civilian sidekick.

  “You okay there, Mr. P?”

  In response, he snorted, then licked his own face.

  I took the first turn slower than usual. My left knee had been bothering me lately, and it was important to be able to downshift comfortably. I sped up on the straightaway and shifted into fifth. The car hugged the road, and adrenaline hummed in my veins. What had Violet called me the other day? An adrenaline junkie?

  The next corner came at me, and I navigated with quick, tight movements. The engine growled. Mr. P looked excited when I glanced over at him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his face hooked over the door so he could catch the wind. It was a good drive. I felt better.

  I took Mr. P for an abbreviated walk after I pulled into Geraldine’s driveway. Abbreviated because he walked exactly eleven steps before sitting down, tail wiggling, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he panted, his plump sides heaving.

  “We’re going to have a walk now or we’re going to have a walk later, young man.”

  He burped.

  “Later it is,” I pronounced. He did not look impressed.

  I turned to the walkway, tugging lightly on his leash. He didn’t move, his caboose still parked on the lawn, and I sighed. I’d been trying to train him as a guard dog, but it was possible that perhaps he was training me. Me, who once broke into the Kremlin. It was just a supply shed, but still. It was an important one.

  After picking him up, I stood on the walkway and looked at the house. It was a large red-brick Victorian, gingerbread trim hugging the roofline, a sunroom on the first floor, a turret on the top.

  And two escape tunnels in the basement.

  I rang the doorbell, waited while I was observed through the spyhole, and the CCTV lenses pointed in my direction.

  “Irma!” Geraldine grinned at me. She was pleasantly plump, with a grandmother’s face and the best hands in the safe-cracking business. They never would have caught her if she hadn’t bludgeoned her husband to death after years of abuse and—

  Well, I didn’t like to dwell on it. Nasty chap. He got what he deserved. But she’d been pinched for that and did sixteen years in a fairly unpleasant American penal institution, the poor thing, and there’d been some speculation as to whether she’d kept up her extracurricular activities after her release three years ago. I’d heard of a few jobs, safes cracked that were supposed to be uncrackable, all belonging to a series of very unlikeable victims. If it was her, I thought it was nice she was keeping active in her advancing years. Plus, she’d done some security assessments for the Club, and for more than a few of the island residents. Contrary to the saying, crime paid quite well sometimes.

  “Geraldine, my dear, it’s been too long.”

  “I saw you last week.”

  “An eternity.”

  She smiled, pushing wrinkles through her face, and motioned me to follow her to the living room. “I was just about to have tea. Can I get you a cup?”

  “Please,” I said with relish. One of the things that made me so fond of Geraldine was the fact that she liked her tea just as strong as I did. Diesel, they called it in prison. She’d certainly know.

  “So, Irma, what’s new?” Geraldine propped her reading glasses on top of her head.

  I took in the room. It was always overwhelming. Every inch of the walls was covered in aggressive floral wallpaper, Hummels on every conceivable ledge and books stacked on the floor in little Isengard towers. After such a long time in a six-by-eight space, she’d told me she needed to be surrounded by things she liked looking at, and who could blame her?

  I tried to sort through the right way to approach my current predicament with her. I didn’t want to start any rumours, but I owed it to Charlotte to at least try to put the questions around Scooter’s injuries to bed. She needed my help, and so did Julian.

  “I think we have a problem,” I said abruptly. “I’m sure you’re aware of the robbery at Renée’s. And what happened to Scooter.”

  “Yes,” Geraldine murmured. “Terrible thing. How is he?”

  I took a sip of tea. It was bracingly strong. Really got the heart going. “He’s still in a coma. Reading between the lines, it sounds like he might not make it.”

  She grimaced. “Charlotte must be beside herself.”

  “She’s at the hospital now.” I took another sip. It was so strong it made my teeth hurt, but in a good way. “This is bloody fabulous.”

  “Thanks. I’m surprised you’re not more concerned about the robbery in town. Or the fact that an armed robber expired in your driveway. I can’t imagine that’ll endear you to Chief Pickle Pants.”

  “I am concerned,” I admitted. “But I can’t imagine why or how he would end up on my doorstep.”

  She raised an eyebrow archly.

  “Robbery was never my area,” I said, then added, “Would you happen to know anything about it?”

  “Did he crack the safe?” she asked. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “I was babysitting my grandchildren on the mainland, Irma.”

  I took a long sip. “Of course you were. I just needed to do some due diligence. Charlotte has asked me to find out more about the man who shot Scooter.”

  “I understand.”

  She didn’t look insulted, which I took as a good sign. I didn’t like to bring up dark things with her, but it would have been remiss of me not to at least ask the question. Plus, if she’d been involved, this whole thing could be wrapped up, and I could go boating. Of course, if she had been involved, she would have gotten in and out in the dead of night without anyone being the wiser.

  “Plus, the Club’s regatta is kicking off tonight, and Charlotte’s fundraiser is happening this Saturday, so there are a lot of strangers on the island right now,” I said. “It’s hard to maintain operational security, and there are so many soft targets. Plus, the robbery at Renée’s might have been penetration or response testing of some kind. One does worry.”

  “One does,” Geraldine said, trying to do a posh English accent, presumably to imitate me. I liked her enough not to want to kill her over it.

  Mr. P raised his head and looked at some Hummels before putting it down and sliding a tiny paw over his eyes.

  “Do you mind if I walk him after we visit? He loves the field here.”

  “Of course not,” she said smoothly. She was already on her second cup of tea, not that it was a competition. I drained my cup and held it out for a refill.

  There was a moment of silence. I wasn’t sure exactly how old Geraldine was, but she was around my age, maybe a little younger. We were contemporaries, of a sort. And I liked her.

  I weighed telling her about some of our suspicions around what had happened to Scooter at the clinic. They’d come out eventually, and what was I doing here if not to gather intel? But I hesitate
d, struggling to sort out what the rules were now that I was retired. Could I trust Geraldine a little? A lot? Would my loose lips get someone killed? Could they get Geraldine killed? I’d always liked people with a little spice to them, and the fact that she’d gone up the river for bonking her abusive husband on the back of the head was a crime in itself. I did not want to put her at any risk. The poor thing just wanted a calm retirement.

  I tried to read the silence between us. It was comfortable, I decided. “I was wondering if I could trouble you for—”

  She held up a hand. “Irma, you feel free to trouble me all you want. You saved my ever-loving bacon last summer when you—”

  “Let’s not speak of it, dear.”

  She nodded.

  “The medical equipment used on Scooter might have been tampered with,” I said bluntly. I’d thought about how to ease that intel into the conversation but finesse had never really been my strong point.

  She leaned forward in her chair, all business, while I caught her up on what Violet had figured out the day before.

  “That young lady staying with you seems to be a real asset.”

  “She is.”

  “And a bit of a lost soul.”

  I met her eyes. Normally they were somewhat guarded, but right now they looked warm and caring.

  “Rather,” I said. “She’s had a rough go of things, I think, but she’s a survivor. And very sharp.”

  She shrugged her agreement. “It’s not good, Irma, if someone has tampered with the medical equipment at the island’s only clinic. Especially something so universal like an IV stand. Heck, I get a B12 drip from them every now and again.”

  I nodded as I sipped. “Poor Scooter.”

  “Maybe this isn’t about Scooter at all,” she said.

  My teacup paused on its path back to the saucer. “It’s hard to imagine Julian having any enemies.”

  “For someone with such a good imagination...” She let her words trail off, but I got her meaning. I’d known of people who’d committed murder because a neighbour had over-trimmed the wrong hedge. To be fair, English people really loved their hedges. But it was possible Julian was the target if there were nefarious forces in play at the clinic, that much was true.

  “Well, it’s all speculation until the full results come in from Scooter’s bloodwork.” I put my teacup on its saucer and gave her a meaningful look. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to keep all this under your hat.”

  “Nope,” she said cheerily.

  “Do you think the robbery at Renée’s was done by a pro?” I paused as Mr. P rolled on his back, his legs splayed like he was doing a risqué form of yoga.

  Geraldine’s lips thinned like she was trying to suppress a smile as she glanced over at him. Then she said, “It doesn’t feel like a pro, frankly.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking. If it was, wouldn’t he have gone in at night, when the store was closed?”

  “Maybe.” She sipped. “Maybe he did it during the day to make it seem like he was an amateur.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. I so disliked all the ambiguity in my life these days. Everything made so much more sense when I was on the job. People had followed the rules, at least. And there was a status quo that existed between nations and intelligence agencies. I had no clue how civilian society worked, other than the fact that the real world was invisible to them.

  “Irma,” she said slowly. “Are you aware Richard Van Oot, Charlotte’s cousin, just purchased a share of Renée’s jewellery store?”

  I choked so hard on my tea I got some up my nose.

  “And that the first thing he did was take out more insurance?”

  “My, my, my,” I said.

  “I thought you’d like that.”

  “How do you know about the insurance?”

  “I think—I’m not sure, but I think there’s been a complaint called into an insurance fraud hotline.”

  “Oh, you do have good friends.”

  She nodded modestly.

  “And how do you know about the purchase into Renée’s?”

  She gave me a don’t even bother asking me look. “I’ve put out a few feelers about the robbery at Renée’s, myself. But I haven’t heard anything about anyone, or any groups, using tactics like that.”

  “Bugger,” I said absently. But something about her words was niggling at me. Groups.

  Groups.

  What if this wasn’t about any one target—but many targets?

  “The jewellery store is now partly owned by the Van Oot family. Scooter is a Van Oot. What if someone is declaring war on the whole family?”

  “It’s a terrible family,” Geraldine said, her mouth downturned. “Opioid companies are the real drug cartels.”

  “No doubt some of them are, but many of the Van Oots aren’t even involved in the pharmacy part of the business. Including my good friend Charlotte, who’s never harmed a flea.” And if she was in danger...

  “Of course, of course,” Geraldine said, her face suddenly somber. “I didn’t mean Charlotte.”

  Mr. P yawned, then inchwormed across the floor and engulfed Geraldine’s left foot with his bulk.

  “Mr. P!” I tried to scold him. I was unsuccessful. Geraldine put down her tea cup as I thanked her for her time. Mr. P refused a brisk constitutional on the way out, and after I lodged him in his little seat, we flew home.

  Eleven—Violet

  “Violet, dear,” Irma called from the foyer. “It is I, Irma! I’m coming up.”

  Tiny feet ascended the stairs and made their way to my doorstep. “Hello,” I said warily, turning away from my many screens. She was up to something; I could smell it on her.

  “Would you like to go somewhere fun tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Er…what?”

  “No, thank you,” I amended, kicking myself. Stupid of me to forget.

  Irma looked a little nonplussed. She was wearing a chic summer dress and stylish sandals and looked like she was on her way to a garden party. “Are you certain?”

  “I have to finish my research,” I said, tilting my head toward the closest screen. “Sorry.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  I turned back to my computer.

  “Except…”

  My hands were suspended over the keyboard. The room was full of silence. Finally, I broke it. “Except what, Irma?”

  She moved so quickly I flinched. One minute she was on the other side of the room, the next she was beside me. Creepily. Stifling a sigh, I put my hands in my lap and swivelled the chair.

  I tried not to think about the medjacking whitepaper I was in the middle of. I’d gone down a bit of an internet rabbit hole in my research, but the reality of modern medical hacking was more than a little terrifying. And if equipment at the island clinic had been compromised, I wanted to reverse-engineer it before someone else got hurt.

  “You know, sometimes you remind me of the hunchback of Notre Dame, all squished over your keyboard.”

  “Thanks?”

  “With better hair, of course,” she said cheerily.

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  She smiled. “I just wanted to let you know this is one of the most important evenings of the summer. The regatta kicks off tonight at the Club. It will be good for you to get out. Make some new friends, get a little fresh air.”

  “I have been outside every single day. Almost. Look,” I pointed at my arm. “Even more freckles.”

  She took a gander. “Hmmph.” She picked up one of the plastic doodads on my desk. “What on earth is this?”

  “What is this?” I repeated, horrified. “This is a ThinkGeek limited edition Princess Leia collectible.”

  “Is it—”

  I yanked it away from her. “Don’t touch it! It’s limited edition! You’ll probably crush it in your Charles Atlas hands.”

  She inspected her fingers. “I don’t think—”

  “All right,” I said. �
��Sorry. You have very nice hands. They’re just freakishly strong.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have to do some research on securing medical systems and talk to Julian’s contact at Medicil to review how they run maintenance on the IV stands and all that jazz.”

  “Do you have a meeting set with Medicil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For when? It can’t be at eight tonight. Which is when dinner at the Club starts.”

  I mumbled something.

  “Video conference at three this afternoon?” Irma looked like a cat that had just pounced on something fluffy.

  “How on earth did you understand that?”

  “I’ve always had excellent hearing,” she said, with a wide smile. “Just lucky, I guess. Look, it would be good for you to get out and meet some young people. If you were going to just sit at a desk for your vacation, you could have just stayed at home, no? And it’s a lovely event. The Club always goes out of its way to ensure the food is excellent and—”

  “Really?” I said, perking up despite myself.

  She looked determined to press her advantage. “Yes, absolutely, Luna’s Café does all the desserts, and Jean-Phillipee Morceaux—you know, from the Michelin starred restaurant in Montreal? He’s doing the food.”

  “Reaaallly.”

  “Yes. Bring your laptop, and you can go work upstairs in my office once dinner is over. You can sit silently while you eat, then run away immediately to do nerdy things. What do you say?”

  “Why do you have an office at the Club?”

  “I’m on the board. I do some work for them periodically,” she said. “And Julian will be there tonight as well. The Van Oot family and his have sponsored this event for years.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tried not to think about Michelin-starred yumminess. Irma knew fancy food was my weakness. “I don’t have anything to wear—”

  “Your black dress will be fine,” she said cheerily.

  I flinched again. “How do you know I have a black dress?”

  “I’m going to let you get back to work, dear. I’ll come get you at seven.”

  “But how do you know about the dress? Because—”

  “Lucky guess? Anyway, let’s just think happy thoughts for tonight. The food will be superb.”