Vitamin Sea

by Maia Ross

  “So nice to see you...Camille,” I said sweetly.

  Her satisfied expression disappeared and she looked so cross I worried for a minute she was going to stamp her feet. “How did you know?” she hissed. “I worked on this disguise for hours. I brought in an expert!”

  I took a good look at her face. She had a beard, which I somehow hadn’t noticed before, her eyes were now a deep brown, and it looked like she’d added a prosthetic nose and built out her chin. “Who is doing your work these days, dear? It’s fabulous.”

  She looked a little less aggrieved. “Samson Dacosta—”

  “Oh, I heard he’s excellent.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Touché. Where’s the rest of the team?”

  “I have one man on the perimeter, one on the water, watching the shore. Four men on the grounds, and one of them is on the roof of the main house.”

  It might have been my pre-dinner cocktails or the fact that it was such a beautiful day, but a surge of emotion ran through me. “I’m proud of you, dear,” I said, even though worry simmered under my words. We didn’t have enough men. We didn’t have enough time.

  Camille put her hand on her chest, and for a moment I thought she was laughing. On second glance, she was holding back tears. She said, “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, dear. I’ve always been proud of you. But let’s not go all to pieces.” I looped my arm around hers, keeping Charlotte in my eyesight. I had no intention of letting her get away from me. Camille took a few breaths, then pasted a smile on her face, nodding at the partygoer who was walking past her.

  “Tell me something,” I whispered to Camille. “What on earth did you do with your bosoms?”

  “Duct tape.”

  I burst into laughter. “Truly, there’s nothing it can’t do.”

  She shot me a grin. “Do you want to go check out the dinner tent? I did a quick assessment before coming in, but I wanted to run through a few things with you.”

  “I don’t want to leave Charlotte exposed.”

  “I have a man on her.”

  I did a slow sweep of the room and spotted him near the entrance. He was holding a phone, scrolling through it, but without the enraptured look most people his age sported. Plus, the muscle in his jaw tightened slightly when he saw me look at him. To his credit, he did a similar assessment of me instead of immediately writing me off as a non-threat; a quick up and down. He spent a long time looking at my shoes, though, and that’s when a tiny smile quirked at the side of his mouth. He sent me a shallow nod before returning to his phone.

  “Are you sure he can handle—”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “Very nice,” I said, and gave Charlotte the universal I’ll be back soon wave before following Camille out to the back courtyard.

  “What’s security like on the way in?”

  “Limited,” she said succinctly. “People are being checked against a guest list.”

  “No metal detector, no—”

  “Irma, this is a ten-acre waterfront estate, with no way to secure every inch. The police have a small contingent on the premises as well, although they’re trying to stay out of sight. They’ve searched the estate with some bomb-sniffing dogs, and they’re going to do some tours of the parking lot. If someone has transported a bomb in their trunk, they’ll find it.”

  “That’s lovely, dear. I want three men on Charlotte—”

  Camille put her hand on my arm. “We’re going to protect her, Irma, I promise.” When I said nothing, she continued, “I got the results from those background checks you asked for.”

  I held my breath.

  “Everyone came back clean.”

  I sighed out my disappointment. “Are you sure? Everyone? Even Emily—”

  “Everyone,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about, Irma.”

  “It’s just…She’s too happy.”

  Camille gave me an oh come on look.

  “You’re right, you’re right. I’m just paranoid.” I hoped that was it, but if I didn’t think of every possible complication, something would get past me. I looked out at the crowd. “Hello, April, dear,” I said as she walked by.

  “Evening, Irma.” April held a champagne flute, which made me pine for my own adult beverage. She was wearing a stylish flapper-style summer blouse and pants with flats, which I had to say, I’d never actually seen her wear. A gold chain twinkled prettily around one of her ankles, matching the necklace at her throat. She looked lovely.

  “How are you?” I asked, fidgeting with one of the buttons on my outfit. “You look wonderful.”

  “Thank you. I wish the half-marathon wasn’t tomorrow, though.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing flats?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “I turned my ankle last night. I want to make sure it’s rested up.”

  “Good idea.”

  She smiled and drifted away to a group of fifty-something women, all decked out and laughing, enjoying themselves. For a minute, I wished I was like them.

  But then it passed. It always did.

  Camille and I made our way inside the tent. It was lovely, Art Deco detailing everywhere, chandeliers hoisted high, air conditioning blasting us into the Arctic.

  “This is the head table,” Camille said, pointing at the long table located at the far end of the tent. Camille saw my frown and said, “I’ll have a man doing a circuit outside the tent. The estate security has two men there as well.”

  “Good. Where are we sitting?”

  She led me through the jumble of tables, all draped in crisp linen tablecloths, the chairs slipcovered in white. There were gorgeous centrepieces on each table; hydrangeas in heavy square-cut glass vases, strategically scattered candles completing the look. Mrs. Sepp had outdone herself.

  “This is you.” She pointed at a spot right in front of the head table, on the left side of the tent.

  The table had four place settings. “Will your man be making a circuit outside around this section as well?” I’d gone through too much in my life to be stabbed in the back through a tent at a black-tie event. I’d never live it down.

  “Yes. There’s nothing to worry about, Irma. We’ve got every angle covered.”

  “That is not the very best attitude to take if you want to stay alive, dear,” I said gently.

  “Of course you’re probably right,” she said.

  We sat in a companionable silence for a moment, and my thoughts wandered back to what it would be like to be having a drink with an old friend on my dock before I pushed the idea away. Firmly. I was here, and I needed to be here. Focus.

  In front of us, Emily flitted about, checking the tables to make sure the final details were perfect. She had a ruler and was spot-checking the place settings. I pitied the staffer who accidently misaligned someone’s salad fork. When she finished, she snapped the collapsible ruler closed, placing it into a pocket. My tools of the trade were different, but I recognized the manner. She looked up and noticed us, closing the distance to our table in a few excited steps. A twenties-style brown wig covered the purple edges of her hair.

  “Irma,” she said, breathlessly, “So nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Emily. This is…”

  “Ryan del Campo,” Camille said deeply.

  “Well, what a lovely treat, to meet a friend of Irma’s. Especially such a handsome one! But I thought your name was Boris...And…Andro…? What was his last name? I simply can’t remember.”

  “Boris Andropov?” Camille said, her back straightening.

  Oh, dear.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it!” Emily grinned from ear to ear. “Well, I’m off. Irma, of course you can be seated early, but we’re not letting guests in until seven-thirty,” she singsonged.

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, trying not to be suspicious of her—but failing. After this event was over, she and I were going to have a good long talk that only one of us was going to enjoy. />
  Camille let Emily flutter around for a bit, straightening silverware and fluffing slipcovers. When she went to the other side of the tent, Camille hissed, “Boris Andropov?”

  “Sorry?” I said, brushing a fly off my arm.

  “You heard me.”

  “You know how people my age lose their hearing so suddenly and—”

  “That’s not a thing, Irma.”

  “Well, why don’t we go—”

  “Irma, having Boris here could compromise the whole operation! Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?”

  She did have a point there. “Uh, well, you see...”

  Camille was looking at me, horrified. “Irma, what is going on?”

  “I, er, I...” I was pink, I could feel it.

  “Are you on a date?”

  I couldn’t tell what was horrifying her the most, me dating, or me dating a former Bulgarian security officer. I mean, really, it was totally normal to meet people at work, wasn’t it? I’d read an article about it in Cosmo just last month when I was waiting at the hairdresser.

  “I’m not dead yet,” I said stiffly. My ears were so flushed they actually hurt.

  Camille took in a few deep breaths. “I, uh, see. Well, do you think he’s a security threat?”

  I was suddenly wishing I hadn’t had those two drinks, because another would have gone down perfectly at this precise moment. “Ehh...I mean, you never know. But I don’t believe so.”

  “Didn’t he try to kill you that one time?”

  “I mean, a little. But—”

  She burst into laughter.

  “It was ages ago,” I added lamely. Tomorrow, after this was all over, I was going to get completely swozzled.

  “Alright, Irma, as long as you tell me how your date went later.” She touched her ear. “Irma’s on a date with Boris Andropov.” She listened for a moment. “Yes, but she says only the one time.” Then she touched the tiny earpiece again, so small I hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said dryly.

  “Remember the time you told my prom date you’d shoot him in his ‘nether regions’ if he brought me back late?”

  I waved a hand. “I would only have waterboarded him. Do you have one of those for me?”

  “Yes,” she said, grinning as she rooted through her breast pocket. We both glanced around; there were staff hurriedly putting final touches in place but no guests. Of course, staff were the perfect inside men. Or women. People.

  But then she handed me my earpiece. I settled it in my ear and activated the speaker function by tapping it once. “Evening, everyone.” There were a few clicks in response, and I turned the microphone off. I could hear what happened if someone was transmitting, but they wouldn’t hear me until I turned it back on again. Perfect.

  Camille’s phone rang, and she took a moment to retrieve it from her inside pocket. “Yes?” Her face was focused while she listened. Then she met my eyes, triumph in hers.

  “What?” I asked when she’d hung up.

  “The white van led to three different shell companies. And my contact tells me that the ultimate owner is OotCo.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding for the last few days. “Oh, my.”

  “Oui,” she said, grinning. “Richard Van Oot must have loaned the van to Einar Jonsson for his little escapade in jewel thievery, thinking it couldn’t be traced back to him. My forensic accountant said the subterfuge was beautifully done.”

  “It would be ever so helpful if we had a record of Mr. Jonsson being employed by OotCo.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. He might have been working under the table, though.”

  “Right.”

  “This is good news, Irma. You should look happier.”

  I tried to reconcile the different emotions I was feeling. “The night’s not over yet, dear. And we can’t make a move on Richard until the fundraiser is finished. Charlotte would never forgive me.”

  “Oui,” she agreed.

  “Do the police know about the van’s provenance?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you for your hard work, dear,” I said. “This is almost over.” My purse started to quiver. I had my cellular telephone tucked into a side pouch and found it instantly. I felt a little smug about it, frankly.

  “Irma? It is Boris. I am here, looking for you.”

  I eyed Camille, who was pretending not to listen to my conversation. Unfortunately, Boris’s voice was so booming it had almost exploded out of the phone. “Well, er, how lovely. Can you stay by the terrace? I’ll come and find you in a moment.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Er, yes.” After we hung up, I cracked my neck to the left, then the right, almost an unconscious action.

  Camille started to giggle. “Going into battle, Irma?”

  “Possibly,” I admitted, as I swished out of the tent, toward Boris.

  Thirty-Three—Irma

  The silent auction tables were located between the supper tent and the terrace, on the immaculately groomed area Charlotte’s family had always used to play cricket.

  At the top of the terrace stood Boris. I tried not to do a double-take when I saw him. He was wearing a sedate blue suit, not a Hawaiian print in sight. His shoes were black and shiny and almost looked like designer Italian duds, but I could see the grippy tread on them, the reinforced toes.

  “Irma,” he said simply, as his hands fell to his sides. He was handsome, I realized, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his face weathered but still recognizable from when we were young. He was in good shape and he looked old fashioned but debonair. Dapper.

  “Boris,” I said in return. I felt, suddenly, like a schoolgirl. Oh no no no no no. No! This was no good at all.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  That blush returned and bloomed right into the back of my ears. I fiddled with the bracelet Violet had given me, wondering briefly how far she’d gotten with her work.

  “May I?” he asked, presenting his elbow to me. “I was hoping to look at the silent auction items before we eat. I have a nephew who has Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

  I put my hand on his elbow stiffly. Relax, the good Irma said, he’s not here to kill you.

  I forced myself to exhale some of my tension.

  Although if he is, it’s nice that he dressed for it.

  “Everything all right?” Boris asked as he led me down the pathway toward the silent auction tables. They were a riot of colour, with tablets looping video of their wares, some perky dioramas presenting other offerings. We moved from one to the other silently. Boris murmured a few comments while perusing the items, glancing around us every once in a while.

  “Do you want to take the left flank, and I’ll watch the right?” I asked.

  A small smile touched his lips. “A lovely idea.” It was an offhand comment, but then he put his hand over mine. It was warm and strong. And pleasant.

  Bloody hell. I checked our right, which was now full of guests milling around, most of them sipping cocktails or doing the same thing we were. I could see Richard hopping from group to group, dressed to the nines, acting like the consummate host. The large snifter clutched in his fingers broadcasted the fact that he was drinking his favourite brandy. He’d once dumped a bottle over my head when I was a teenager; I’d never forgotten the scent.

  I noticed with relief, though, that he was keeping a distance from Charlotte, who was seated at the edge of the silent auction tables. Two of Camille’s men hovered in the background. Both looked like they’d relish pummelling anyone who came near her. I always did enjoy a good pummelling. Really, there was no one suspicious at all; it looked like a normal garden party, an innocuous fundraiser.

  And maybe it was. The little voice was hopeful. Hopeful and stupid. I knew how many threads of evil ran under the civilized world, how many people would do anything for power and money. All I wanted was for none of those threads to entangle Charlotte tonight. Tomorrow was a whole new dilemma.

&n
bsp; “There are two men on my left,” Boris said, looking at a pop-up display of cardboard wine bottles from one of the island vineyards. “But they are not working together. Do you know them?”

  I glanced over his left, putting my hand on his shoulder. Purely to maintain our cover, of course. “Yes,” I said. “One is with my contact, the other is estate security.”

  “And the man in the boat who is not fishing?”

  “My contact, Camille’s. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “Camille Beaulieu?”

  I nodded.

  “Excellent choice,” he said.

  There was more milling and cocktailing and greeting of other guests and Boris behaving himself impeccably.

  “What did you tell the police?”

  “Nothing,” he said, as he entered a bid for a sunset cruise on one of the island’s luxury sailboats. Who, I wondered, was he going to take on that particular outing?

  “Did they seem to suspect you of anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, signing the form with a flourish. “And there will be no DNA or other evidence from me on the young man. I am not worried.”

  “Good.”

  “I heard you were shot the other day.” He moved us on to the next table of silent auction goodies.

  “Just a little.”

  He looked toward the beach and the water beyond it. I could vaguely see Camille’s man bobbing along in his boat. Boris cleared his throat and my attention went back to him. Why was the muscle in his jaw clenched?

  “I hope you understand that times, when we were younger, were...more complicated. And that if there’s anything I ever did to—” He glanced around, “—offend you, I apologize for this.”

  I burst into laughter. I couldn’t help it.

  Boris smiled at my outburst. “I would very much like for us to be friends, Irma.” Somehow he’d looped my hand over his elbow and was tugging me gently to the next display. “Perhaps more.”

  What would that look like, I wondered, a little flutter in my chest. We’d never known each other like that. Truthfully, I had a tendency of marrying everyone I’d...known like that. One of my husbands I’d even married twice, although the first time really didn’t count.