The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  It was amazing, given her foul state of mind and the fact that her teeth were chattering, that she even heard the mewling sound. But she did hear it, and stopped in her tracks. There it was, very faint. She looked around to the hedges, and then to the bushes that lined the exterior of the garage. She heard it again, only louder this time, and as she neared the edge of the four-car garage, she saw the cat.

  A cat that was, inexplicably, chained to a tree. Granted, there was a little kitty shanty there, and a bowl of water, but the cat was chained to a tree. In her thirty-one years, Rachel had never seen a chained cat. She didn’t even know it was possible to chain a cat.

  And the cat obviously didn’t like it; she meowed at Rachel, who immediately moved to pet it, but the poor thing was so traumatized that it jumped away, aiming for her little kitty jail. Only the feline fell short because of the weight of the chain. Rachel moved very slowly, singing Kitty, kitty, kitty . . . until she at last got close enough to pet it.

  That was, as it turned out, a huge mistake, because the cat was really frightened and let out a cat screech that echoed throughout the entire neighborhood.

  “We’re not going to stand for this,” Rachel assured the cat. “We’ll think of something. Just give me a few minutes.”

  And she did have every intention of doing something, but the sudden sound of pots and pans being clanged together startled her, and she turned to see a woman’s head pop out from behind the door leading to the kitchen.

  Rachel instantly jumped up; the woman’s hair was in disarray, and there was what looked like fingerprints on her blouse. “Are you the help?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes. My name—”

  “Get rid of that shawl and hurry up. This is a nightmare!” she exclaimed, and disappeared again.

  Rachel moved quickly; she followed the woman into a small sort of mudroom off the kitchen, saw hooks with coats on them, and hung her bag, then her shawl over the bag, and was straightening her clothing and hair when the woman shouted, “Hurry up . . . what’s your name?”

  “Rachel.”

  “Rachel, hurry the hell up! We’re already a half hour behind schedule!”

  Rachel hurried the hell up, and stepped through that interior door into a madhouse. Men and women were rushing around an industrial-sized kitchen, checking pots and pans, carrying trays, and barely avoiding collisions with one another. The woman was standing at a small desk with a sheaf of papers in one hand, a Diet Coke in the other. She took one look at Rachel, up and down, and shook her head. “I said skirt. What sort of moron shows up to cocktail in pants?”

  “I ah, I . . . the temp agency said black attire.”

  “Jesus Christ!” The woman slammed the Diet Coke down onto the desk, spun around, and rifled through several clothes hanging from hooks next to her. She finally pulled out a skirt that looked five sizes too small and thrust it at Rachel as she glanced at her feet. “Oh great, boots with heels, too?” she cried angrily. “What the hell do I care? If your feet are killing you at the end of the night, it’s not my fault,” she snapped. “There’s a toilet at the end of the kitchen. Go change.”

  Rachel looked at the skirt, then at the woman, who looked as if she might come apart at the seams at any moment, glaring fiercely and daring Rachel to argue, which Rachel was not stupid enough to do. She just clutched the skirt tightly to her, said thanks, and ran.

  Unfortunately, it took her several minutes to maneuver into that skirt. In the end, she had to settle for zipping only. The button was not going in the buttonhole, no way, no how. She at last emerged, poured into the skirt so tight that she could hardly breathe. Thank God she had on a long sweater that covered any unsightly bulging and knee-high boots. Her hair was braided down her back, and having done some whimsical spell casting on her personal behalf, she’d felt a little festive—she’d threaded gold filigree through her hair to give it a sort of medieval look.

  As long as she didn’t have to bend or sit, she was okay.

  The woman was instantly at her side, pulling her pants from her grip and shoving an apron at her, which she gestured for Rachel to put on. It was white and said across tilt, bodice, Queen Mary’s Catering, and was embroidered with tiny little ships around the lettering.

  The woman waited impatiently for Rachel to tie the apron, then shoved a beverage tray into her hand. “I’m Mary. If you have any questions about anything, you find me. Do not bother the hostess. You’re serving drinks. Now go!” she said, and fairly pushed Rachel through a swinging door, which she stumbled through, seeing as how she could hardly move her legs in that skirt. Once she was certain she wouldn’t topple over, she paused and had a look around.

  She was not prepared for the room that greeted her.

  On the other side of that swinging door was a large room that had been, perhaps, a ballroom at one point. A thick oriental carpet covered the floor. The crown molding along the ceiling was papier-mâché in the old style, with flying baby cherubs forming a ring around the room and around the huge candelabra that hung from the middle. There was a small jazz quartet at the far end of the room, seated at the edge of a portable dance floor that couldn’t have been larger than about eight feet. There was a full bar manned by two bartenders directly across from the enormous hearth, and a smattering of tables built for two.

  The hosts had gone to great expense to decorate with a Thanksgiving theme—cornucopias overflowing with fruits and grains were in the corners, and two cornucopias on the bar were pouring what looked like champagne. In addition, funky but elaborate paper and feathered turkeys graced the tabletops, as well as a huge one in front of the fireplace.

  Moreover, many of the guests were wearing pilgrim hats.

  Her perusal of the room was interrupted by the arrival of Mary again, who came barging through the swinging door with something that smelled divine. “What are you waiting for?” she hissed at Rachel’s back. “Get out there!”

  Rachel stumbled into the midst of the partygoers and asked the first couple she came to, “Drink?”

  “Darling, I thought you’d never arrive!” the woman laughed. “I’ll have a Manhattan, but please tell the bartender that I want just a dash of vermouth, and in fact, I’d really prefer it if he’d dash just a little more bitters than vermouth,” she said, holding up her fingers to indicate how much more.

  “Okay,” Rachel said, even as she was trying to commit to memory what the woman had just said.

  “I’ll have an Italian Nut. Lots of ice,” the man added.

  “An Italian Nut?” Rachel echoed.

  “Yes. An Italian Nut,” he said with a completely straight face.

  “I’ll be right back,” Rachel said with a smile, and headed for the bar, knowing, even at this early stage, that one hundred dollars was not going to be nearly enough for this evening, because she recognized all the signs of a blow-out, as she had been forced to attend parties like this when she was a teenager.

  When she reached the bar, she smiled and said to one of the bartenders, “I need a Manhattan, with a dash of vermouth. And she asked if you would dash more bitters than vermouth.”

  “Gotcha,” he said, and started making the drink.

  “And an Italian Nut,” she said carefully.

  “Oh man!” He laughed. “These people got more money than brains, huh? You’ll have heard it all by the time this is over, sweetheart. I’m Mike, by the way.”

  “Rachel.”

  “Looking good, Rachel!” he said with another wink, and handed her the two drinks.

  She blinked up at him to see if he was making fun of her. But he just smiled. Rachel smiled, too. And kept smiling as she reached the couple with their drinks.

  Flynn was napping peacefully when Joe shoved him awake by bouncing his head against the car window. Flynn’s eyes flew open with a curse. “Bollocks! What did you do that for?” he asked as he rubbed his head where it had collided with the window.

  “He’s here,” Joe said.

  “Of course he is. Couldn
’t arrive a little late and let a bloke have a bit of a kip, could he, now?”

  Joe laughed. “Dude. You act like you’ve never had to work a couple of full days before. Don’t you have to pull extra shifts from time to time over there?”

  “Lest you forget, I am actually doing two jobs. The one I’m paid quite handsomely to perform, thank you, and then, of course, your job,” Flynn said through a yawn as he straightened his tie. “Naturally, I am quite indebted to you for the opportunity, but I am not particularly adept at napping in a car. So which one is he?” he asked, squinting through the windshield.

  Joe handed him the binoculars. “Tall guy, black suit.” Flynn looked through the binoculars. A tall man in a black suit was hugging a trim woman in a tight skirt and high heels. As he watched, the woman reared back, said something, then went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. Their prime suspect tightened his arm around her waist and held her to him, kissed her for what seemed awfully long for a man who had just buried his wife, and, presumably, his wife’s dog, as that little bugger had also had the bloody bad misfortune to have been murdered.

  “Ready?” Joe asked as Flynn lowered the binoculars.

  “Quite.”

  Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “You know where to find me,” he said with a grin. Flynn opened the car door, and as he stepped out, Joe leaned over and said, “Hey, bring me something back, will ya? Like a turkey sandwich, something like that. And a piece of pumpkin pie.”

  “Righto,” Flynn said cheerfully, and slammed the door shut, knowing full well—as he was certain Joe knew—that he had no intention of lugging any sort of food item back from this posh little Thanksgiving gathering. It was not his style to diddle food.

  In his breast pocket was the invitation they had secured (through “channels” Joe said). At the front steps, a footman in an American Indian suit opened the door for him. Flynn stepped inside the marbled foyer and was instantly greeted by Mr. Edward Feizel (of Feizel, Goldman, and Bernstein), and presumably, Mr. Feizel’s wife, both of whom looked exactly like the file photos Joe had shown him.

  The Feizels were hosting a holiday party for their more lucrative clients and consorts, which, apparently, they did with annual regularity. It was, by all accounts, quite a smashing do.

  Feizel squinted up at Flynn, a blank look in his eye as he searched his memory banks. Flynn handed him the invitation, and with one look at it, Mr. Feizel immediately nodded. “Aha! Honey, it’s the guy I told you about. Mr. Oliver, is that right?” he asked, extending his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Feizel,” Flynn said, shaking his hand, then extending it to the wife. “Good evening, madam, and thank you for allowing me to attend.”

  “Oh,” she said, touching her ear as she smiled up at him with big brown eyes. “You’re quite welcome!”

  Feizel’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re British? Shit!” he exclaimed, and leaned into Flynn to whisper, “I didn’t know Wasserman was in that kind of dutch!”

  Flynn leaned into Feizel and said pleasantly, “Actually, we’re not entirely certain Mr. Wasserman is involved in any sort of dutch, so it’s probably best to keep it all hush-hush.”

  “Right, right,” Feizel said, lifting a finger to his thick lips to show how hush-hush he intended to keep it. “But between you and me, Ollie, I never much liked the bastard.” He clapped Flynn on the back. “The party is just through there,” he said, nodding at a pair of double open doors that led into what looked like a ballroom. “Help yourself to food and booze and have a happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Feizel said, smiling like she’d eaten a canary.

  Flynn gave her a subtle wink, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled into the party.

  It was packed already, with half the guests milling around in some sort of ridiculous-looking pilgrim hats, the very same sort of hat that a maid tried to put on Flynn’s head. He politely declined, walked farther into the room, and had a look around, thought to himself that Joe would be sorely disappointed if he knew what beauties were milling about inside. There were plenty of them, all wearing tight dresses and sweaters that showed their rather curveless frames to their best advantage.

  And there were plenty of blokes, too, dressed mostly in dark suits that made it impossible to distinguish one from the other. Fortunately, Wasserman’s height made it quite easy to spot him, and he was, remarkably, already in deep conversation with another woman.

  There was plenty of time for Wasserman, Flynn figured, and he was a bit ravenous, so he walked to the buffet, helped himself to a plate full of grilled shrimp and little pastry cups with something mushy in them, as well as a cup of the black ooze Americans called coffee. He was just polishing off the last of the shrimp when a woman behind him said, “How very boring of you.”

  Flynn turned to see who had said it and was pleasantly surprised—she had long blond hair that hung straight past her shoulders, a skinny black dress that barely covered her bum and dipped almost to her navel. She was holding a martini in long slender fingers and sucking on the olive. He smiled, held up the coffee. “It’s rather chilly out.”

  She pulled the olive from her lips, dipped it into the martini, and slowly put it in her mouth again. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Marlene Reston.”

  “Charlie Windsor,” he said, extending his hand.

  The use of the Prince of Wales name did not register anywhere in the pretty blonde’s head, judging by her blank expression. She flipped her hair to one side before putting her hand in his, and blatantly trailed her fingers slowly across his palm. “It’s a pleasure, Charlie,” she said with a wink. “Are you with FG and B?”

  “In a manner of speaking . . . they are associated with our firm,” he said, smiling as she skimmed his palm again.

  “I’m not with them, either,” she said, now stirring her martini with the olive. “I’m an associate. They like to invite us to these things to remind us what we’re missing by not working at their firm.”

  “And are you missing this?”

  She shrugged a little as she looked around. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I can’t stand the thought of having to sleep with one of the toads who run the place. So . . . did you come alone?” she asked, moving, almost imperceptibly, closer to him.

  “Yes, actually,” Flynn said, sipping his coffee. “My fiancée is in London.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Charlie! Partying alone and so far from home!” she playfully admonished him, and looked up at him through a pair of very thick and long false eyelashes. “That’s really very naughty of you.”

  She smiled saucily, and honestly, Flynn felt his wanker give him a bit of a nudge. What was he to do? He was a man after all, and a man who, regrettably, had not had any sort of carnal relations in quite some time, and the sort of smile she was pointing at him now was designed to catch his attention. There was plenty of time for surveillance work, wasn’t there? Surely he didn’t have to be on the clock 24/7. Flynn smiled wickedly. “It is quite naughty, isn’t it? I really ought to be punished for it. What do you suppose my punishment should be?”

  “Ooh, I don’t know,” she purred, licking at that damn olive again. “Do you like spankings?”

  “Adore them,” he said, and grinned, a little lopsidedly, as he moved closer to Marlene . . . but a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he turned his head before he could stop himself, still smiling—

  And saw Rachel standing there in an apron, gaping at him. For a moment, she didn’t move, but then she suddenly turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Blast it, this wasn’t very good then, was it?

  From Rachel’s perspective, it was disastrous. She wanted to die, right there, in the middle of that fancy house with all those fancy skinny beautiful people around her—let them deal with that while they wore their stupid pilgrim hats. She could just imagine the scene, all gathered around her, cocktails in hand, peering down with looks of horror. “Do you think the poor thing is dead?” one would
ask—

  “Excuse me, miss? I’d like a scotch and water, neat,” a man said.

  Rachel snapped out of it, nodded curtly to the man, and walked to the bar, asked Mike for a scotch and water, neat. He poured the drink, looking at Rachel the whole time. “You all right, kid? You look a little flushed,” he said.

  “Do I?” she asked, absently putting a hand to her face. Which was flaming, naturally, because even though Flynn was the jerk, she was the one who felt like a moron. And here she was in a skirt that was literally exploding off her and a stupid apron, of all things! Not exactly the sexy image she wanted to put out there. Mike was still looking at her, however, and she quickly shook her head. “Nah, I’m fine. Just one too many turkeys in here.”

  He laughed, handed her the drink. “Come see me if you need a little pick-me-up,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got access to all kinds of good booze.”

  She smiled, put the drink on her tray, turned around—and almost collided with Flynn.

  He had the presence of mind to jump back, and once he was assured she wasn’t going to pour a drink all over him, he relaxed and smiled “Rachel?”

  Think, you idiot! her mind screamed. “Oh!” she said, looking very surprised. “Flynn? Is that you?”

  “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  Well, that was obvious. What, he hadn’t thought she’d be invited to some posh party in the swankest part of town? Even to serve drinks? Perhaps she had failed to mention that she was dead flat broke and on the verge of selling her blood to buy food.

  “Yep,” she said, a little loudly. “I’m here!” And she laughed . . . unfortunately, it came out more like a horse’s whinny.