The Hitwoman and the Neurotic Witness

by J. B. Lynn

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stood up. “What’s bothering her now?”

  “Her boyfriends don’t like each other.”

  I blinked, certain I’d heard him wrong. “Say that again.”

  “Her boyfriends aren’t playing nice.”

  “Boyfriends? Plural?”

  Amusement flashed in his eyes. “You haven’t noticed?”

  “I know she’s dating Bob. We met him at Alice’s wedding.”

  Zeke nodded. “The Marshal has the hots for her too.”

  The idea that two men were besotted with my uptight, overbearing aunt was too much for me. I sank back down onto the couch. “You’re kidding.”

  Zeke chuckled. “Can you think of any other reason why a man would spend an afternoon polishing silver?”

  “He told me he found it satisfying.”

  Giving the dog a wide berth, Zeke sat down beside me. “Do you remember the time when we were still in school and the local radio station was giving away Chris Isaak tickets and we stayed up all night trying to win them even though we had exams the next day?”

  I nodded slowly, the memory distant and blurry.

  “I can’t name a single Isaak song. I was just trying to win them to make you happy. I imagine Griswald was fussing with the silver for the same reason.”

  “I didn’t know.” I felt more than a twinge of guilt as I remembered that I’d always believed Zeke had been competing with me to win the tickets, not trying to win them for me.

  “And I don’t think Susan knows,” Zeke said. “She probably has no idea why the two guys are up there circling each other like caged dogs.”

  “Dogs?” DeeDee panted.

  “No offense,” Zeke quickly told the mutt.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Time to get lost!” God yelled from his spot in front of the television.

  “Almost eight,” Zeke replied.

  “Armani will be here any minute,” I said, slowly getting to my feet again.

  “I like her.”

  “So does my mom,” I muttered. “Is Gypsy here?”

  Zeke’s expression grew solemn. “Why?”

  His change of mood piqued my curiosity. “What’s the deal with you two?”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “She’s got a job to do. I’m here to make sure she does her job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  He shook his head. “The kind you’re better off not knowing about.”

  “Are you in trouble, Zeke?”

  Something that looked a lot like self-doubt flickered in his eyes for the briefest of moments before he flashed his mega-watt smile. “Of course not.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I was too conscious of all the secrets that I was keeping to call him on the fib.

  “Susan left a plate of dinner for you in the fridge. You should go nuke it.”

  “Dinner?” DeeDee panted, leaping to her feet.

  Zeke jumped away from her.

  “Relax,” I told him. “She’s just hungry.”

  “I don’t want her taking a bite out of me,” he teased nervously.

  DeeDee gave him a long considering look before barking, “Meat!”

  I chuckled at the look of terror on Zeke’s face. It was a good thing he couldn’t understand the dog. “Let’s see what Susan wants to feed you,” I said, ushering her upstairs and waving for him to follow us.

  “I’m going to check on Gypsy,” Zeke declared, rushing up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

  He hadn’t been exaggerating about the tension. I sensed it the moment I stepped into the dining room. Bob and the marshal were studiously ignoring each other while Aunt Leslie prattled on about seeing a bunny at the side of the road.

  I eyed her carefully, trying to determine whether she was high again, or just being her usual air-headed self.

  “Is that you, Maggie?” Leslie asked, staring right at me.

  I turned and peered at the empty spot behind where I stood. “I think so.”

  Both of Susan’s love interests chuckled.

  “Is that your dog?” Leslie asked like she’d never set eyes on the Doberman before.

  Deciding that she must be higher than the Empire State Building, I chose to humor her. “Yes, she is.”

  Confused, the dog cocked her head and asked in her breathy, bimbo-y voice. “Crazy?”

  “High,” I answered.

  “Hi?” the dog repeated. “Bye?”

  “Go see if you can get Susan to feed you,” I said, shooing her toward the kitchen.

  A mutt on a mission, she trotted away.

  “Obedient dog,” Bob said.

  I smiled at the builder. I liked the simple, honest man and thought he was a good match for my demanding aunt. Plus he didn’t have the power to arrest my hired-gun butt so I thought he was a better long-term match. “She’s selectively obedient.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he joked. “Susan said to tell you to have a seat. She’s heating a plate for you. Chicken Cording something.”

  “Chicken Cordon Blue,” Griswald corrected.

  Bob ignored him. “She told me your friend Armani is going to be here.”

  I nodded, slipping into a chair.

  “I like her,” Bob said.

  “Everyone does,” I muttered.

  “Do I like her?” Leslie asked. She was studying her reflection in the shiny silver punch bowl on the sideboard like she’d never seen herself before.

  “Like who?” Susan asked, plunking a steaming plate in front of me.

  “Armani,” Bob supplied.

  “Everyone likes Armani,” Susan snapped.

  I looked down at the chicken, ham, and melted Swiss and my stomach roiled traitorously. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Nonsense.” Susan waved her hand at me like I was a pesky fly. “Eat.”

  Susan has never understood my aversion to Swiss cheese, but just the sight of it is enough to make me want to toss my cookies.

  Thankfully the FBI saved me from having to refuse her culinary creation.

  “I’m starving,” Aaron Griswald said as he strode into the room.

  I wordlessly handed him my plate.

  He dug into it with gusto, without even bothering to sit down.

  “Animals eat standing at troughs,” his brother reminded him disdainfully.

  The FBI agent glared at the U.S. Marshal. The marshal scowled back. Neither blinked. Neither moved.

  Aaron swallowed his mouthful of food. Without taking his eyes off his brother he said, “This is delicious.”

  “At least someone appreciates my cooking,” Susan said.

  “I appreciate it, honey,” Bob assured her.

  Breaking eye contact with his sibling, Marshal Griswald flashed her a grateful smile. “As do I.”

  Susan beamed.

  I pulled out a chair for the younger Griswald, indicating he should sit. He did so, but seemed hesitant to relinquish his hold on the plate of food.

  “Do I like you?” Leslie asked.

  Startled, the FBI agent put the plate down with a clatter. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “This is Susan’s sister, Leslie,” Griswald said by way of introduction.

  “Hello.” Aaron nodded a polite greeting.

  “Does everyone like you?” Leslie asked.

  “Not him,” Aaron said, inclining his head in the direction of his brother.

  “I thought you were going to talk to her.” Susan arched her eyebrows at me to better convey her displeasure at my failure to control her sister.

  “I thought you wanted me to talk to Marlene,” I countered.

  “Have you?” Susan asked.

  “No. I took a nap.”

  “Avoiding a problem isn’t the same as solving a problem,” Susan lectured.

  I rolled my eyes, having heard that bit of advice numerous times growing up.

  “Very mature,” Susan groused.

  The shrill beeping of the kitchen timer saved m
e from yet another oft-repeated lecture. Jumping out of her seat, Susan hurried into the kitchen. Bob followed close behind.

  “I hear beeping,” Leslie announced.

  “It’s better than seeing dead people,” I told her.

  “I see dead people,” Gypsy said from the doorway.

  We all turned to look at her. Most of us wrinkled our noses as the pungent aroma of patchouli drowned out the scent of silver polish and potpourri.

  “You see dead people?” Leslie asked, wide-eyed.

  The Griswald brothers shared a loaded look across the table.

  “Zeke’s looking for you,” I interjected, not wanting the conversation to go any further considering an FBI agent and U.S. Marshal were listening.

  “I like Zeke!” Leslie crowed triumphantly.

  “Bully for you,” I muttered, desperately hoping for some sort of divine intervention to save me from this dinner from Hell.

  “Hey, Chiquita!” a familiar voice called.

  I should have known things could only get weirder.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s a sad state of affairs when I think of Armani as my savior, but that was exactly the thought I had as she limped into the room.

  Leslie stared at her disfigured hand in horror. “What happened to you?”

  Armani gave me a questioning look. After all, they’d met before. More than once.

  I twirled a finger near my ear indicating that Aunt Leslie was a whack-a-doodle. I figured that was safer than pointing out to the law enforcement officials at the table that she was doped up on some illegal substance.

  “I had a run-in with a Zamboni machine,” Armani answered my aunt.

  Leslie shivered.

  “It was my own fault,” Armani continued cheerily. “If I’d paid attention to my own psychic prediction, none of it would have happened.”

  “You’re a psychic?” Gypsy asked.

  “Uh huh,” Armani said, settling into the seat beside me. “Tell ‘em, Maggie.”

  Despite the cynical glances of the Griswald brothers, I said, “She reads Scrabble tiles.” Without prompting, I drew seven tiles from the purple cloth bag she held out to me. I placed them letter-side-up and in alphabetical order (DEEIRRW) in front of her and watched as she shuffled them around on the table like a street hustler playing Three Card Monte.

  “I like Scrabble!” Leslie declared a tad too enthusiastically.

  “Scrabble tiles?” Gypsy asked, shuffling closer to the table.

  My eyes watered and I wondered if it was possible to asphyxiate on patchouli fumes. “Like tea leaves,” I choked out. “You pull seven and she predicts your future.”

  “Drew ire,” Armani declared in her best all-seeing-psychic voice.

  “That’s past tense,” I told her.

  “But you have pissed a bunch of people off lately,” she countered quickly.

  “By definition past tense is not a prediction,” I groused.

  Armani, who didn’t seem to be affected by the stench, swung her purple bag o’ tiles enticingly to the rest of table. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

  “Me first!” Leslie cried, flying across the room, almost knocking Gypsy over in her haste to reach the bag.

  “Seven,” Armani instructed dramatically.

  Leslie nodded and with great concentration pulled a tile from the bag.

  “Six more,” Armani coached.

  Slowly and deliberately, Leslie pulled out the rest of the tiles.

  “Place them face-up on the table,” Armani intoned in her best ninety-nine-cents-per-minute-phone-psychic voice.

  I fought the urge to giggle, but Leslie and Gypsy hung on her every syllable.

  Leslie laid them out.

  Armani read them aloud. “N, G, N, O, A, W, O.”

  “What does it mean?” Leslie asked breathlessly, staring at the little wooden blocks like they really did hold the key to her future.

  “Give me a moment,” Armani said. “I must seek guidance from the world beyond our own.”

  With a shake of her black, commercial-worthy hair, she closed her eyes.

  I’d never been privy to her entire “I’m a psychic” act before. Covering my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing, I watched Leslie’s and Gypsy’s wide-eyed wonder.

  “I see it!” Armani shouted suddenly, startling her enraptured audience so badly that they both jumped.

  The Griswald brothers chuckled.

  I bit my thumb to keep from joining them.

  Opening her eyes, Armani scowled at the non-believers before reaching her good hand toward the tiles. Using just her finger, she rearranged them, spelling out their message. “On Wagon,” she declared, her voice resonating.

  Leslie gasped. “What does it mean? Am I going on a trip to the wild, wild, West?”

  Sitting back in her chair, Armani looked up at my chemically-enhanced aunt. “No,” she said gently, with more tact than I knew she possessed. “It means you’re going to get on the wagon. You’re going to get clean. You’re going to stop using whatever it is you’re using.”

  Taken aback, Leslie blinked. She would have moved away, but Armani grabbed her hand.

  “This is your future,” Armani told her.

  Leslie hesitated. “But…”

  The situation had suddenly morphed from humorous entertainment to the possibility of a life-changing decision. I held my breath.

  “I’ve seen it,” Armani insisted. “Besides, haven’t you seen the commercials? That shit you’re doing can fry your brain like a huevo.”

  “Huevo?” Leslie parroted back.

  “Fry it like an egg.” Armani delivered the news like it was a scientific fact. “On Wagon.”

  “On Wagon,” Leslie repeated.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Zeke swept into the room, planting an affectionate kiss on Armani’s cheek and disrupting the loaded moment.

  Releasing my aunt, Armani pulled Zeke in for a tight hug, pressing her ample chest against him and wiggling flirtatiously. “I missed you.”

  “You don’t say,” Zeke chuckled, disentangling himself from her embrace with easy charm.

  “I have to go to a meeting,” Leslie declared.

  “Good for you,” Armani beamed.

  “Now,” Leslie asserted.

  “Dessert’s ready,” Aunt Susan trilled, carrying in a batch of still-steaming cookies.

  “I can’t have dessert,” Leslie cried. “I have to get on the wagon.”

  “There are no wagons, dear,” Susan admonished absent-mindedly, pulling a pile of cloth napkins out of her apron.

  “I have to get to a meeting,” Leslie snapped.

  Susan blinked. “A meeting?”

  “It’s probably a good idea,” Armani said, reaching for a cookie.

  “Now,” Leslie insisted.

  Susan looked at me expectantly like I was wearing a chauffer’s cap or something.

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?” Susan asked.

  I couldn’t tell her that the idea of leaving my psychic friend, a could-be medium, and two law enforcement officers together was more terrifying than having a gun pointed at me…but it kind of was. “She j-just got here,” I stuttered nervously, jerking my head in Armani’s direction.

  “Where do you need to go Leslie?” Zeke asked.

  “To a meeting,” she replied.

  “Yes. The whole world’s already heard that,” Aunt Susan groused, tossing napkins at people like they were deadly throwing stars.

  Zeke smiled gently at Leslie. He spoke slowly and clearly so that she couldn’t misunderstand his question. “Where is the meeting you want to go to?”

  She blinked and focused. “The Church of Our Redeemer.”

  “Over on Hill Road?”

  She nodded.

  “I can take you there,” Zeke said.

  Leslie offered him a tremulous smile of thanks.

  “Are you sure?” Susan asked.

  Zeke nodded. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run in
that direction. I’ll drop her off and then pick her up on my way back.”

  “Thank you,” I sighed with relief.

  My gratitude must have seemed a bit overblown because Zeke looked at me strangely and I sensed Armani watching me curiously.

  “If you’re sure,” Susan said, unconvinced.

  “He’s sure,” I snapped.

  She threw a killer napkin at me. “Don’t be fresh.”

  “C’mon, Leslie,” Zeke urged, taking her by the arm. “Let’s get you to your meeting.”

  “You’re a good man, Zeke,” Armani said.

  “Not that good,” he muttered.

  “You don’t say,” Armani purred flirtatiously.

  Chuckling, he bent to stage-whisper in her ear, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Armani giggled girlishly while Zeke led Leslie from the room.

  “Thank you,” I called after them.

  “Don’t worry,” Zeke yelled back. “I’ll make sure you pay me back.”

  “Cookie, anyone?” Susan held out the plate.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Bob said, snatching one and popping it into his mouth.

  “Careful,” Susan and I warned simultaneously, “they’re hot.”

  “But I’m sure they’re delicious,” U.S. Marshal Griswald interjected, taking advantage of the fact Bob couldn’t speak at the moment.

  “You haven’t introduced me to your friends,” Armani pointed out.

  “Guests,” I corrected automatically. There was no way I was going to consider a U.S. Marshal, an FBI agent, and a woman who saw dead people to be my friends.

  “But we’re all friends here,” Susan said, shooting me a dirty look.

  “It must be a challenge,” Aaron Griswald mused.

  “What must be?” I asked the FBI agent suspiciously.

  He plucked a cookie from the serving plate. “Maintaining a professional relationship with people who are living in your home.”

  I nodded my agreement, grateful for the out he was providing.

  “It’s the same way in our line of work,” he continued, fixing his brother with a hard look. “We get to know people intimately, build a relationship with them, and then we never see them again.”

  His older brother glared at him and a loaded tension filled the room.

  “So,” I said awkwardly. “Armani Vasquez, I’d like you to meet U.S. Marshal Griswald, his brother, FBI agent Griswald, and this,” I said, waving a hand in the pungent medium’s direction, “is Gypsy. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your last name.”