by Maia Ross
“I am so sorry to bother you, Irma, but I am helping with the flowers, so I need to leave Mr. P somewhere quiet for a bit. Can he stay with you?” She held Mr. P out, his little legs thrusting in mid-air, the rest of him tucked into a tiny canine tuxedo which was about as charming as anything gets. Ever. I felt a surge of love for Mr. P. There was still good in the world, and charming things to look forward to. As soon as I’d dispatched the threat to Charlotte, I was going to take Mr. Pugglesworth for a good long walk in the woods, and engage in some world-class tummy rubbing.
“Of course, Mrs. Sepp, please do leave him with me.”
She heaved a sigh of relief, her impressive bosom quivering, and delicately set Mr. P on the terrace’s patio stones, baby-talking him the whole way down. He promptly sat, his legs splayed out, his tiny tux crinkling. Mrs. Sepp waved and left, and he started whining. Emily, who’d been lurking in the background, stepped towards him, her hand outstretched to pat him on the head when he suddenly started making a gravelly noise deep in his throat. I tilted my head, trying to sort out what he was doing. “He’s growling!” I finally realized.
Emily froze, her hand outstretched, the smile on her face fading.
“I’ve never seen him do that before,” I said.
“What do I do?” Emily said, her face turning ashen. Normally I would feel some sympathy toward her, but Mr. P was an excellent judge of character.
“Back up, please, dear,” I said, looking at her. She was wearing a pair of short shorts, her legs unblemished in the way that only young people’s could be, a little t-shirt that skimmed her waistband. Her hair was in a messy bun that looked like it had been professionally tousled. Her clothes, microscopic as they were, looked designer and expensive and I wondered for a minute where she’d gotten the money to buy them. And then I thought about how Emily had known Charlotte was at the clinic when the bomb threat was called in. Not to mention that her Fruit of the Looms were currently looming in Richard’s cottage.
“Irma,” Emily said nervously, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I smoothed the expression off my face, annoyed with myself. “I’m sorry, dear, I know I need to speak to you about something, but I just can’t remember what it is.” I tapped the side of my head. “Just trying to jostle my brains a little.” I flashed her my most winning smile.
She pursed her lips. “I literally can’t remember anything we need to talk about.”
“I’m sure it’ll come to me,” I said. She smiled awkwardly, before returning to the tent-raising area.
Antoine, who was standing—theoretically—out of hearing range, leaned forward and said quietly, “Are you quite all right, Miss Charlotte?”
She was white as a sheet. Immediately, I felt terrible for not noticing. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
“Perhaps you would like to take a small rest?” he added. “I am happy to supervise the remaining work.”
She looked out at the huge white tent that was being erected to the right of the pool and tennis court. There seemed to be some co-ordination challenges between both sides; right now it sagged in the middle like a girdle that had lost its snap. Emily was gesturing wildly in three different directions.
“How exciting tonight will be!” Charlotte said, before adding, “If we all live that long, that is.”
“We will.” Then I did something I never did: “I promise.”
“Thank you, Irma. You always do the right thing,” she said as she put her hand over mine. “What time is it?”
“Eleven,” Antoine said quietly while I stewed in my own horror. Had I really just promised Charlotte everything would be fine? Was I losing my mind? It was too close, I was too close to all this.
There was a long moment before she said softly, “I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Antoine, thank you.”
He shot me a relieved glance and handed her cane over. She smiled weakly before she made her way inside.
“She’ll be fine,” I said.
“Of course, Irma,” Antoine said, which made both of us liars.
I waited until she was out of earshot. “Antoine, can you please help me with something?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you remember anything about that phone call with Jake Tapper?”
He looked placid for a moment, but I knew his prodigious brain was working. “The young man said he needed to speak to her about Master Scooter’s overdose. I did ask him for more details, but he hung up right after he gave me his phone number. I’m sorry if I failed to—”
“Not at all.” I finished my tea. “Was Emily around at the time?”
Another pause. “I believe so. She’s been in the main house all week, organizing deliveries and the like. I answered the call in the great room. It does echo a bit, I’m afraid.”
“No worries, Antoine. Thank you.”
Antoine smiled before departing to follow Charlotte.
I contemplated the options in front of me when my phone buzzed with a text: Good afternoon, Irma. Kak si? How are you?
I swung my leg while I thought about what to say. Boris wanted his favour. Busy.
What time shall we meet tonight?
And his favour was an invite to the fundraiser.
Cocktails at seven?
As my date.
Perfect.
Perfect for him. Not so much for me. For a moment I wondered if Boris had killed Jake just to wrangle an invite to the fundraiser.
I sighed and went to check on Violet.
Thirty-One—Violet
The knock on the door was Irma’s: rapid, relentless, tiny-handed.
“Hiya!” I pulled it open, feeling a little frazzled. I knew my hair was in a wild knot on the top of my head. And the blinds were still drawn, throwing eerie shadows everywhere.
“I’ve seen people tortured in cheerier rooms, dear.”
I snickered.
“You do realize there’s a whole outdoors out there. Do you want to play tennis?”
“I have never held a tennis racquet in my life, Irma.”
“I could teach you.”
“Ohhhhhh,” I said, “Yeah, that’s super tempting, but—”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Do you want to come in?”
“I’d love to, but how much did you sleep last night? I only ask because your eyes are looking a little crazier than I normally like to see in a houseguest.”
“Haven’t.”
“Goodness,” she said, “what were you doing?”
“Playing Call of Duty with a friend of mine in Bora Bora. Part of the night. Most of the night, actually.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she said, inching toward the window. “I only ask because if you don’t get some sun, you’re going to turn directly into a vampire. Or possibly a fruit bat.”
“Yeah, I’m going to sleep before the party.”
“I see.” She pushed some of my clothes off a chair and sat down, putting her phone on the desk beside me.
“Is this dress okay?” I asked as I slapped a light switch on the wall and dangled two choices in front of her; a knee-length cocktail dress, and a longer, swirly, black one.
“Violet, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you own anything that’s not black?”
“Charlotte lent them to me.”
“They’re both lovely.” She took a quick inhale. “But the shorter one is more suitable, I think.”
“Cool.” I plopped down in a chair beside Irma and picked up her phone, scrolling through it until I got to the pictures. I always liked to see people’s galleries.
Irma made a strangled coughing sort of noise.
I looked up. “What?”
“Perhaps asking first is the best approach? Just a thought.” She smiled.
“Sorry, Irma. I wasn’t thinking.” I held the phone out for her to take. She waved me off and I kept swiping. “Oh look, here’s a picture of Advanced Encryption Techniques, a very nice book. Oh, and there’s a guide to Bash scr
ipting. Aaaaaand, a manual about IOT. Where’d you get these pictures?” I kept swiping and looking at the other snapshots. “Nice setup here, good monitors.”
“It’s Jake Tapper’s house. The gentleman who…expired in the woods.”
“And may I just thank you for leaving me out of that particular field trip. Find anything at his place?”
There was a pause. “No. Just what was in those photos.”
I swiped to a new picture and squinted. Then I started to laugh. “Really? Maybe you should have brought me with you on your little break-in fest after all.”
“I can next time if you want, dear.”
“No, really, I’m good. Any way you can go back?”
“I suppose. Why?”
I turned the phone to her, the image on its screen a picture of a desk area. There was a stuffed Donald Duck doll in the frame, along with a number of little figurines and a container of novelty pens. A dusting of orange Cheeto remnants lay over all of it. “See this?” I pointed at a black figurine.
“Yes?”
“It’s a ThinkGeek limited edition Darth Vader collectible.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Darth. I’ve always thought he was misunderstood.”
I rubbed the crease between my eyes. “You’re a terrifying woman, you know that?” Then I let out a breath. “I should have said: this is a limited edition Darth Vader USB holder. You might have found the USB drive that was used to hack Scooter’s IV stand. Or almost found, I guess.”
Irma ran out of the room like someone with their hair on fire and found Camille, who dispatched her tiny assistant to retrieve Mr. Darth. And the countdown began.
Thirty-Two—Irma
After a bath, I made myself a drink from the nice Lagavulin I’d stowed in the bulletproof suitcase my third husband had gotten me as a wedding gift. Truthfully, I was having nerve problems. What if there was a sniper perched in one of the old-growth trees clustered around the house? An aquatic attack? A drone strike that wiped out the estate and we all vaporized instantly? Oh, my.
I decided to make the drink a double. It was the only one I was going to have tonight. Might as well make it count. Then I took a moment to mourn the loss of the ensemble I’d planned to wear, which was impossible now because of the gash on my shoulder. People always asked so many questions when they saw the slightest bit of catgut. I placed my hand on the sutures Dr. Harris had so carefully sewn into me. I had some slight discomfort, but nothing to be concerned about. Hopefully.
I hung up my second-choice outfit, a flapper-style red jumpsuit with flowy lines and wide legs, as I mulled over my footwear decision. I’d brought some lovely high heels which I never wore, strappy sandals that almost made me look tall, and some dressy flats. It was a puzzler. Mr. P was asleep in the corner on his side, his little legs gyrating in his sleep, and was no help at all.
What’s on that USB drive.
I tried to shoo my worries away and chose the flats, a thick-soled sandal. For one, the sandals contained my favourite fashion accessory, a concealed blade in the heel, and two, I’d realized that the pantsuit I wanted to wear was not hemmed properly for heels. I’d had the legs taken up for a garden party last year where I knew I was going to have to do some running—the host had banned her lunatic sister-in-law but knew she was going to show up, and show up she did—and hadn’t had them taken back down again. So, flats it was.
I got dressed and placed the gun I’d brought from home on the bed, making sure the safety was on. Then I shrugged into another must-have accessory, making sure it wasn’t visible in my reflection. I looked at myself in the mirror for too long. I’d promised Charlotte she’d be all right. A promise I’d never made when I was working. But everything was different right now; it was personal. I owed Charlotte. She was my friend, and I would not allow her to be assassinated by a madman.
I let my worries swirl around inside me for a moment, then pushed them down so they were so small I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t hear them. They didn’t exist anymore.
I picked my favourite gun off the bed—I liked to call her Vera—and put it into my purse. Some would say it was only a .32, but I knew you didn’t need a big bang to make an impact.
One last look in the mirror. I had sensible footwear, a reliable weapon, and a lifetime of experience. I was ready.
When I swung by Violet’s on my way downstairs, she seemed a little less crazy, which was nice. “Hello, dear. Did Serge drop off the drive? I would just love to know what’s on it.”
Her eyes lit up. “He did. Well, kind of. He cloned the drive and left the original in place for the police to find. I have the copy.”
“Lovely. And may I please take a look at what’s on it?”
“Yeah, no.”
“Yeah, no?”
She nodded.
“It just feels contradictory.” I tried to smile pleasantly.
“It’s encrypted.”
I sat down.
“I mean, don’t worry about it, I can crack it. It’s just going to take a while. I’ve tried a few things already. And I downloaded a copy of the encryption manual that the dude—”
“Jake.”
“Right, Jake had at his place. I’ll see what the manual was recommending for encryption techniques and then counter them. I’m already running a few different scripts against copies of the file, and they’ll run while I’m napping. And I checked Jake out on LinkedIn. He was pretty much a tech beginner, maybe a bit more advanced. I don’t know why anyone would have hired him to encrypt anything.”
“It’s a small town, dear. Richard must have known him.”
She waved a hand. “You can find people on the internet to do this who are on the other side of the world.”
“Not everyone knows that. Plus, people are easier to control when they’re closer.”
A shrug. “What do you think is on the drive?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing,” I said, even though I was beginning to feel excitement humming inside me. I frowned as I tried to tamp down on that, too. It was never good to have too many emotions running around inside you right before going into an op.
“Let me tell you something, Irma.”
“Please do, dear.”
She grinned. “I don’t understand normal people. They just make no sense at all. But I know nerds. And nerds love backups and redundancies and back doors. If I was coding a hack like the one used on the IV stand, I’d document it for another nerd. Whoever put the USB drive in the Darth Vader holder knew only a geek would know what it really was. Whoever left that drive wanted someone to find something meaningful. They either wanted to brag about it—lots of hackers do that and only that—or they wanted someone to appreciate their brilliance. It’s definitely not nothing.”
“I see.”
Mr. P waddled in, went back to sleep in a corner and started snoring like a truck driver.
“It’s going to take a while, Irma. But I’m on it.”
“Days?”
“Could be?” She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.”
I took a deep breath. “It is not your fault whatsoever, dear. And thank you for your help. Have a nice nap and come down for dinner, please. It’ll be delicious.”
She nodded. I gave her a little wave and left. I should have felt reassured; at least we now had a possible piece of proof against Richard in our hands. But going into the fundraiser without knowing for sure who the culprit was would make for an uneasy evening. Without more information, I wouldn’t know what direction the threat was coming from. And Charlotte’s life hung in the balance.
I met Charlotte for cocktails at six after dropping my canine sidekick off with Mrs. Sepp, who’d finished her work for the day. Charlotte looked much refreshed, which was a relief. The theme tonight was the Roaring Twenties and her hair was done in pin curls. Her emerald green beaded dress would have been at home in a salon in Paris after the Great War, except for the tiny bulletproof vest that she was wearing underneath, courtesy of Camille.
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br /> I sipped my cocktail. All right, maybe I was having a second one. A little one, and that was it. I needed to be sharp and on my game tonight.
The sun had lowered in the sky but still lit up the grounds. The tent was finally in place and—for the moment, at least—structurally sound. All the silent auction tables were immaculately prepared and waiting for bidders, white ornamental balls floated in the pool, lights were strung through the trees, and a maze of white carpets—hopefully Scotchgarded—was laid out, connecting everything together. There was no part of the property that hadn’t been bedazzled. I was surprised no one had tried forcing the beavers from the bay into evening wear.
At the edge of all this: one of Camille’s men, armed to the teeth and pretending to be fishing in the water beside Charlotte’s private beach.
Guests had started to arrive and were milling about, and Charlotte decided she wanted to be in the grand entranceway to greet them, so we walked there together after finishing our drinks. It was game time.
She seemed to be managing well without her cane and shrugged me off when I suggested going to fetch it for her. “I’m quite well,” she said, before turning to greet Snookie, who looked down on me over her pointy-edged reading glasses. I mean, really, who wears reading glasses at semi-formal functions?
“Irma,” she said nasally, a sure sign her allergies were acting up. She was allergic to ragweed, and I briefly thought about planting some near her seat at dinner, then rejected the thought due to lack of time. It was a pity.
“Snookie,” I said, threading a slight nasal quality into my voice while I made a mental note to avenge my empty tires at some point soon.
Charlotte swished her away, but not before Snookie gave me an icy glare over her shoulder. I wished copious amounts of flatulence on her.
“Mrs. Abercrombie?” The voice was low and cultured, a man’s voice.
I turned, my hand out to either shake the man’s hand or pull him off balance so I could defend myself if necessary. And possibly kick him in the pancreas. He was young and lithe but still substantial. His hair was close-cropped, and he was wearing thick, stylish glasses, which took up the top half of his face. I’d never seen this person before in my life.