This was great news. Mom could handle the details of the wedding from home. I could continue investigating the Fontanas. Maybe this was what I needed—someone to handle the planning for me.
While I waited, I got dressed. What does one wear to break into a neighbor's house? I could go with my usual black shirt, pants, and boots, but that might attract too much notice if someone saw me, and how would I explain it if the Fontanas came back early?
I always dress like this and thought I'd just pop over…All my other clothes are in the laundry and I needed to borrow detergent…I was painting my bedroom black and thought I could borrow a brush…
I went with a college sweatshirt, jeans, and moccasins. Now I just needed an excuse if I was busted. Got it! I could say that Philby got out and I'd seen her go into their yard. As for why I'd be looking for the cat in their locked house—I'd just have to make something up.
All I needed to do was wait. I sat in the living room watching TV until I saw the car with both neighbors in it back out of the driveway and head down the street. Do you know how much crap they have on television in the mornings? Since when did every single station start a morning show? It's creepy to have complete strangers tell you how they hope you have a great day. They didn't know me. I made a mental note to write in and complain to the local stations in Des Moines. Surely other people were sick of this too.
As much as I hated it, waiting was important. Too many spies have been caught by going into a situation too soon. People forgot things all the time when they left for work. And they were more likely to go back and get it before getting to work. It was better to take the extra time to make sure they were gone for good.
My guess was that these two would put in at least four to six hours of work in their business. If they were home all of the time, folks would get suspicious. Running a strong cover was the key to success as an undercover agent.
One of my first missions had been to track and report on a suspected pair of illegals in Connecticut. Normally the FBI handled that kind of thing, but it had been a special circumstance where the CIA was able to add their own person to the team.
Anyway, Marie and Jessie North had been as careful as they could be. Dormant for years with a couple of young kids, they'd done their jobs very well. It had been the CIA that alerted the Feds to the illegals. Which was part of the reason I'd been assigned.
Both of the Norths had worked at a community college, teaching economics (which, if you ask me, was a dead giveaway). And both were Russian spies. And they'd been in place for ten years before we'd started working on them. I didn't play a huge part in bringing them down because I was just fresh off the Farm—the training compound for the CIA.
It had been a tough assignment. Those two had done such a great job with their cover, it had taken some serious convincing to get the FBI to check them out. My job had been to follow them when they were at work. I'd enrolled in the college as a student and had even taken a class from Marie.
We'd had an entire team on deck. Someone else had followed them the rest of the time. And I didn't have access to that intel. But I'd been the one who'd confirmed they were spies. You never know how you'll get good hard evidence. Sometimes it's strange bank deposits, sometimes you get caught in a brush pass, sometimes your co-workers turn you in. In the case of the Norths, however, it had been a raccoon that brought them down.
As good as they'd been, it had been kind of a noob move to throw microfilm out in the trash. The Norths later blamed it on their eight-year-old son who was a little too ambitious with his chores. But the fact of the matter was that a raccoon had gotten into the trash. A savvy agent had spotted the animal and chased it down, retrieving the evidence. It's the only case in the US that I'm aware of where a wild animal toppled a pair of spies. Outside the US it happens all the time. Usually, it's a chicken. I have no idea why.
These days the Norths are serving time in a maximum-security prison. I felt sorry for the kids. They thought they were Americans, only to get shipped back to Moscow to live with grandparents they'd never known they had, in a country they'd never been to, with a language they'd never spoken. It hardly seemed fair.
After fifteen minutes with no sign of the neighbors, I knew it was safe. I also knew I'd have to go in through their back door to avoid being sighted…especially by Rex. I stuffed my hair into a stocking cap and did a quick check for curly blonde hairs. The Fontanas had brown hair, and there was no point getting busted because I shed the wrong color in their house.
"Okay," I said to Philby. "I'm going in. You're my lookout."
The cat snapped to attention as I made my way to the garage and out into my backyard.
An alley ran behind our properties. I never used it because I had a driveway. But even though the Fontanas had a driveway, they also had a detached garage—which was why I'd been able to see them the other night. It was a strange mistake on their part. An attached garage would've hidden anything. I guess coming in through the alley, as opposed to the busy street, provided some camouflage. Still, I'd take my garage any day. It would be much easier to sneak in a body with an attached garage.
Not that I've ever done that. Okay. Once. Maybe twice.
The back of my yard had thick foliage that gave me a good hiding place as I slipped through the overgrown hedges. Kelly was always on me to trim them, saying something about property values decreasing just by living on my block—whatever that meant. She was naïve. How was I supposed to sneak around without cover?
The garage had a six-foot-tall wooden fence on either side of it. I could scale it, or I could pick the lock on the gate. The lock on the fence looked like a simple padlock. You might think that was a mistake on their part, but if maintaining a cover was more important, they'd have to use a lock like everyone else. They just ran the risk of someone like me living next door with a narcoleptic cat and an insomnia problem.
I pulled on the latex gloves I'd brought and gingerly turned the lock in my hand. It seemed pretty standard, but you never knew. Then, I checked out the fence. I was pretty sure they wouldn't rig it, what with all the school kids who walked down this alley to and from school. But there were other booby traps they might employ.
Running my hands lightly over the fence, I didn't find any tripwires. Everything looked legit. It was possible I was overreacting to this whole thing. The Fontanas could just be weirdos. It's better to be safe than sorry. I opted for saving time and hoisting myself over the fence.
When I landed on the other side, I froze, waiting to see if anything happened. I'm not being paranoid. Booby traps were a pain in a spy's butt. You never knew what to expect. After thirty seconds with nothing happening, I walked over to the door on the other side of the garage. Hmmm…a double-key deadbolt.
That was surprising. My garage and Rex's just had those pushbutton locks in the middle of the knob. It was rare to find a deadbolt on a simple garage door. My pulse quickened. I was right about these two. I picked the lock and quickly stepped inside the dark building and waited.
My eyes adjusted to the murky interior. It would be smart to keep the lights off. And I did have my cell phone if I needed more illumination. The building was empty. Completely empty with not so much as a can of paint or a hammer in sight. This was tip-off number two.
The neighbors didn't use the garage and parked on the street. It was clever, because it made for a quick getaway if they needed it. Backing out of a garage onto an alley that for twenty minutes a day was filled with school kids would impede their running off. I felt validated.
One question remained—why a complicated deadbolt on an empty garage? Now I faced a dilemma. I could spend half an hour at least in here, looking for secret panels and drawers. An hour if I was carefully avoiding traps. It would take me a lot longer than that in the house. But I'd seen the Fontanas carrying the body from the garage into the house. Which meant the decision was made for me.
Relocking the door, I looked both ways as I worked my way down the sidewalk that connected
the garage to the back door of the house. Large hedges made an impenetrable border between this house and the next, and with only my house on the other side—and unless they had cameras I couldn't see—I was safe from discovery.
The back of the house had two windows, covered by drapes, and a small kitchen window, also with closed curtains. That seemed strange too. I didn't know a single house that even had kitchen curtains.
I was getting close. My "yay" meter shot up as I set to work, picking the double deadbolt on the back door. It sprung with no problem. Now I really was in dangerous territory. Any spy worth their salt would have all kinds of booby traps, hidden cameras, etc.
The door opened up into a little entryway, not more than nine-foot square. It was a mud porch for folks to leave dirty boots, shoes, etc. I scanned the ceiling for cameras and, finding none, had to make a decision.
I could go directly down into the basement, or left, into the kitchen. Common sense told me to start in the basement and work my way up. It's a thorough way to sweep the house, and if it took a while and someone came home early, it would be easier to escape from the ground floor than from the basement.
The stairs were narrow, and it was dark. A panel on my right had four light switches. That wasn't good. There should be one for the mudroom and one for the stairs with a third possibility being an outside light over the door. But four? That was just madness.
Which also meant the fourth switch could be anything that could hurt me. I'd have to decide quickly which one would turn on the stair light.
I opted for my cell phone instead. It's best to err on the side of caution. Turning on my flashlight app, I carefully held on to the rail and descended into the basement. Each creak, every groan, stopped me in my tracks. At any moment, things could go south quickly. Finally, I landed firmly on the bottom step.
Holding the cell in front of me, I looked around. This appeared to be a normal basement—just like mine. Well, not exactly like mine because I had things like an EVP disruptor, an array of guns, and even a box of tampons that held a hidden camera. Still, nothing would've proved me right like finding stuff like that here in Mark and Pam's basement.
Instead, I found a worktable with the usual tools. Rolls of old wallpaper and a few paintbrushes. I made quick work of this level. I couldn't do a deep search. My hope was I'd find something obvious to prove to Rex that these two were illegals.
I took the stairs a little faster this time and walked into the doorway of the kitchen. These people were fairly neat and organized. While I hoped I'd find a box of Russian cereal or detailed plans to take over the United States, the only thing out of place was the dishwasher.
I smiled. The appliance door was open and the bottom tray was out, empty except for a dozen large knives, blades pointing to the ceiling. This was an old trick. It looks like they just didn't have time to empty the dishwasher, but in fact it was a lethal trap if they were surprised. You just had to throw your opponent down onto the deadly knives. I noticed a small moat of dish liquid on the floor, surrounding the knifey door. One little slip and I'd be dead or dying at worst, seriously injured at best.
Nice.
But that would hardly be enough proof for Rex. And it certainly wouldn't be enough evidence in a court of law.
My eyes swept the room as I carefully pulled open cupboards and drawers. Everything looked normal. I decided to look through the rest of the house. If I had to make a break for it, at least I'd know the layout.
I stopped short at the living room carpet and again congratulated myself. Most people vacuum starting at the farthest corner of the room. Very, very few people vacuum themselves backwards, out of a room.
The difference is in the patterns the machine makes on the carpet. And the reason spies vacuum out of a room backwards onto linoleum is to look for footprints later. Sure, you could make them, but then you'd vacuum like normal and leave. It wouldn't occur to you to do it the way they had. And that would give you away.
The question was, did I have time to run through the house and then find the vacuum cleaner to hide my tracks? The answer was no. But I did have a way to enter the room surreptitiously. Taking off my shoes, I was able to climb onto an end table and walk onto the couch. From there, I was able to survey the room. And what I found was shocking.
The Fontanas didn't have a television. That seemed seriously un-American.
From my vantage point, I could see my living room, and my cat, Philby, standing in the window, paws on the glass, staring at me. What do you know? She did it! I might be able to turn that cat into a proper spy after all.
What was she doing? She was swerving her head from the street, to me, and back again. And again. And that's when I noticed the car coming up the street.
It was the Fontanas. And I was standing on their couch, in the middle of their living room.
I backtracked carefully, which cost me some time. There was no point in making any mistakes. Instead of putting on my shoes, I scooped them up and dodged the dishwasher. I was just letting myself out when I heard the door open on the other side of the house.
There was no time to run up to the gate. They'd see me. Instead, I ran for the hedge that separated my house from theirs and dove over it headfirst. I landed very ungracefully in a heap and managed to crawl to cover behind some shrubs.
The Fontanas' back door opened, and Mark walked out onto the sidewalk, stopping halfway. He looked in all directions for what seemed like an eternity before going back inside.
He didn't see me, but he knew.
CHAPTER TEN
"Merry?" said a pair of shoes on the ground in front of me. "What are you doing?"
I popped up. "Hi honey!" I kissed him on the cheek. "I was just looking for Martini. I couldn't find her inside the house, so I thought she might have gotten outside."
Rex looked at me. "And you're wearing latex gloves because…?"
I looked down at my hands. "Oh that. Well, I'm mildly allergic to the leaves on some of the shrubs."
It was as good of an excuse as any. Would he buy it?
Rex pointed at the kitchen window. "She's in there."
Martini saw us and immediately ducked out of sight.
"Why are you here?" I brushed the dirt and leaves from my clothes.
My fiancé pulled me into his arms. It was nice. Very nice. I really did love him. People often underestimated Rex—something that was very useful to him as a detective. Oh sure, they probably wondered what I, a former CIA agent, was doing with a small-town detective. But I didn't see it that way. I was outclassed. Besides being a total hottie, Rex was a grown-up. He was completely comfortable anywhere. Nothing fazed him. In contrast, I've always been a bit neurotic. I think most spies are.
It was almost a luxury to be around a man who was completely at home in his own skin. I'd never seen him nervous, anxious, or out of sorts. He didn't lose control. Okay, he got angry with me on occasion, but it was a quiet sort of anger. And usually he was right. I just wasn't going to let him know that.
Riley was so unpredictable. And he flirted with anything without a Y chromosome. Charming and handsome, he was also devious and deceptive. With Rex, I knew where I stood. With Riley, I hadn't a clue.
Besides, Rex gave me that warm, gooey feeling inside. His kisses made me quiver, his smile made me feel like I'd won the lottery, and he made me feel special. We fit together like chocolate and peanut butter, like champagne and caviar, like a frazzled Girl Scout leader and a shot of whiskey.
"Just wanted to see you"—he kissed me quickly—"and remind you that Martini has an appointment at the vet's in an hour."
Awesome! "Which was, of course, why I was so worried that she'd gotten outside." To be honest, I had forgotten the appointment.
Rex kissed me softly on the lips. "I have to get back to work. We had a fire at the old ice cream shop on Main, and I'm helping the investigator."
"Another fire? Like the one last month at the arena?"
"Yes. It's probably a coincidence." Rex to
ok my hand and led me inside. "But at least the Tasty Cream has been empty for years. No one was hurt."
We didn't have many fires in Who's There. Maybe one a decade. It seemed strange to have two in two months, and in the spring.
"Good luck." I hugged him before he went out the front door.
I leaned against the door and sort of deflated. Rex had almost caught me. And when we got married, he would be able to watch my every move. In this case, however, I'd dodged a bullet. He'd bought my story about Martini. In the future, once we were living in the same house, this would be much harder to do.
The idea made it feel like my stomach dropped out of my body and crawled away. It was kind of like a cartoon boing. This constant case of nerves whenever I thought of getting married was getting old. I needed to figure out what my problem was. Did I need a therapist? I'd never gone to a shrink before. Well, except for the ones at the CIA who analyzed everything you did to make sure you were mentally stable for the field.
I'd never had a problem with that. But I remember one guy—we'll call him Dan. Dan freaked out the first time he was tied up for a simulation. He started crying and begging for mercy, and they hadn't even pretended to torture him yet.
After a few seconds of that, he declared he was a ferret and made some odd little chittering noises before singing a Weird Al Yankovic song and passing out.
I pulled the cat carrier out of the hall closet, and Martini crawled inside and immediately fell asleep. She was a strange kitten. Always ready to crash at the drop of a hat. And she slept so deeply that a number of times, I'd thought she'd slipped into a coma.
As I dragged the carrier out to my van, I revisited the idea of seeing a therapist. Didn't Kelly recommend one to me? My cell was in my hand, but I could only reach the main button, which I hit, instructing the voice on my phone to call my best friend.
"Merry?" My bestie's voice came on. "I'm at work. What's up?"
"I was thinking about what you said…about me being mental about the wedding."
Motto for Murder (Merry Wrath Mysteries Book 6) Page 8