No doubt. "This isn't about that. I just heard you're a decent hacker."
The girl looked around as if she might have spies surrounding her. "White hat or black hat?"
"It's classified. Can you help me with this?" I pulled the laptop out of my bag.
The little girl sat down at a separate table, away from the rest of the girls, and started typing.
"What are you doing?" Kelly appeared at my side.
"What? You suggested Betty as a hacker."
She frowned. "I didn't really think you'd go through with it."
Why wouldn't she think I'd go through with it?
Kelly continued, "I don't think I can let you do this. We have to protect the girls. What if there's something horrible on that laptop? Like pictures of murders?"
I was pretty confident that would be right up the girl's alley. "I think of this more like experience for her future."
Betty was, of all my girls, most likely to be a spy. Maybe it was my duty to make sure she did it for the right team. Hey! That sounded good. I was just about to tell my co-leader this, but she was pulled away by the "food" table.
"I'm in," Betty called out, and I sat down next to her.
I squinted at the screen. "Really? That didn't take long."
Betty gave me a look usually reserved for people far more grown up than me. "Don't underestimate me."
"Okay." I took the laptop back.
In a hushed voice, she said, "I set you up with a new password. That way you can get on it anytime. It's poopyhead2."
"Why not poopyhead1?"
Betty shrugged. "That's my password." She rolled her eyes. "And now, I'll have to change it."
And with that, she stomped off and rejoined her table and their discussion on French folk dances. That seemed like a safe bet. Safer than "Le Marseillaise."
"How's it going?" I asked Kelly.
"Not bad. The Kaitlyns have come up with serving mini éclairs—which I can get in bulk from the store. They wanted French roast coffee, but we're dealing with little kids, so they're still looking for something to drink. Did you realize how much they know about wine?"
I nodded. "Looks like Lauren's table"—I carefully avoided pointing out Betty and reminding her of what I'd just had the girl do—"has come up with a dance to teach. That's good."
Kelly nodded. "The other table is struggling with a make-it take-it craft. Any thoughts?"
I walked over. The girls were making sketches.
"Any ideas?" I asked, a little afraid of the answer.
Caterina looked up. "Either pipe cleaner Eiffel tower pins, or little French flag pins."
"For SWAPS," Emily added.
SWAPS stands for Special Whatchamacallits Affectionately Pinned Somewhere and, as you can guess from the name, are little pins that Girl Scouts make to trade with each other. In the past I've had to vote down SWAPS made to resemble Bowie knives, submachine guns, and one creative blood-soaked hatchet.
"Flags sound easy." And much better.
We ended the meeting with a shopping list of things for Kelly and me to get—construction paper, pins, glue, tablecloths, etc. The girls went home with a note telling their parents that they needed black pants and shoes.
"How much time before Thinking Day?" I asked as we packed up.
"Another week. I'd say we're ahead of the game." Kelly waved and headed to her car.
I shoved the laptop into my rolling bag and headed home. As I passed by the Fontanas' place I re-texted Rex about dinner the next night. He texted back that he was busy with his various investigations but that we should go so I wouldn't snoop anymore.
Sitting at the breakfast bar minutes later, I poured a healthy glass of wine and opened up the laptop. After typing in my new password, the screen came up with a couple dozen file folders, all named with numbers. This would take a while.
The little twinges of guilt I felt for keeping this from Rex faded as I clicked on the first folder. Cat pictures flooded the screen. Mr. Pickles, Kate's deceased and Roomba-affixed pet, appeared in all of them. Orange tabby cats usually looked angry, and this cat was no exception.
I continued opening files and got photo after photo of the deceased Mr. Pickles. There were pictures of him eating (and looking angry), eating angry, staring out the window angry, and a couple with his angry face sticking out of the top of his cat box. I understood that one.
The last folder was devoted to the cat in various costumes. This was at least interesting. Mr. Pickles dressed as Santa, Satan, the Easter Bunny, and, in one bizarre moment of humiliation, as a dog. I tried to picture Philby letting me do this. I made a mental note to have a tiny version of my wedding dress made—just for her.
I spent the rest of the night searching Kate Becks' laptop, without success. There wasn't anything that even remotely implied she was a spy. No lists of incriminating people or activities, no spreadsheets indicating she was getting mysterious payments from a bank in the Caymans, no aha moments whatsoever.
Even her internet history was limited to Amazon purchases (cat toys and books about cats), Google searches for pictures of cats, YouTube funny cat videos, and a site about linguine that didn't seem to fit at all.
I closed the computer at eleven p.m. and sat there, thinking. According to this, Kate Becks was clean. So, why hide it in a secret room with a dummy and a jar of lemon juice?
People can be weird. Maybe she had a safe room, just for fun. Maybe she fantasized about being a secret agent (or a cat). Had I gotten it all wrong?
Face it, Wrath, you've been out of the game for two years. Like Susan said, I was prematurely expelled from a great career, and I missed it. Was I just imagining these things because I wanted them to be true?
Now, Kate was missing. It might just be that she snapped and ran off. Maybe she took a vacation without telling her boss, her therapist, and her taxidermist.
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.
Ian Fleming's words kept running through my brain. It was possible I was projecting onto this series of events—the fires, the body the Fontanas carried, the missing woman—and was trying to make something out of nothing.
Or…there was something and my spy-dy sense was right all along. Dinner with the Fontanas might be just what I needed to prove my case.
"Tomorrow," I said to Philby, "I'm going out to dinner with the neighbors. If they're spies—I'll know it."
Philby belched, before turning and walking away. Apparently, she was unimpressed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"You look great!" Rex greeted me with a kiss as he picked me up for dinner.
"You too," I said.
Rex was dashing as ever, in a black silk shirt and khaki slacks. He was a striking man with the athletic build of a Roman God. I was never one of those women who went gaga over big muscles. Rex's physique was lean and muscular. And he didn't flaunt it. Which was good because he was all mine.
If she were alive, Grandma Wrath would've said Rex had a nice fanny—referring to his nice, shapely butt. Old Iowans were either keister people or fanny people and used those two terms liberally. But, you couldn't be both a fanny and a keister person. The rules regarding rustic terminology are pretty strict on that.
It wasn't until I started field work as a spy that I learned that one of those terms had a different meaning abroad. In the UK, fanny inexplicably means lady parts. The front parts. I learned that lesson the hard way at a gala at the British Embassy in Colombia. To be fair, I'd had four martinis when I kind of shouted that Riley shouldn't slap the ambassador's wife on the fanny.
Security had quickly escorted us from the building. I've heard from colleagues that our pictures are still posted at the front desk, with Deny Entry in large red letters across the top. We'd even heard rumors that the guards are allowed to shoot us on sight, but that's probably not true.
I was wearing a little black dress and ballet flats. I'd even managed to tame my hair into a semblance of a shape. Granted, it was
the shape of an epileptic octopus in mid-seizure, but it was a shape nonetheless.
He kissed me again, and my heart fluttered. I really did love him. So why was I freaking out? I knew it didn't make much sense, but that was hardly comforting.
The American was a nice restaurant with a northwestern theme featuring elk and bears. A giant stuffed moose confronted us in the entryway. I wondered if Randi and Ronni had done it.
"Over here!" Mark waved from a table in the dining room.
We joined the couple, and I was introduced to Pam. Both of them looked like they belonged here. But while Mark was fifty shades of normal, Pam had a sharp eye, always examining things, paying rapt attention as if she'd need this information later.
In a way, it felt validating.
Rex ordered the wine and the sommelier delivered it. I watched as my future husband had the first taste and approved of the choice, and then the waiter poured for all of us. Rex was so amazing. What did he see in me?
"How about a toast?" Mark asked. Holding his glass in the air he said, "To neighbors! There's nothing more American than that!"
What a strange thing to say. Definitely suspicious.
When the waiter left, we fell into some idle chatter about nothing. Pam asked about the school at the end of the block and seemed interested that I was a Scout leader.
"Did you choose the house because of the school?" I asked. I thought it might be rude to ask if they planned to have kids.
Many illegals did. It helped them fit in and made them look like they belonged. But if I had to guess, these two were in their late thirties, so kids might not be in the cards for them.
Pam cocked her head to one side, kind of like an inquisitive pug. "No. When we bought the house, it hadn't occurred to us that there was a school."
How could they not notice a huge elementary school on the other end of the block?
Mark laughed. "Imagine our surprise when, at 2:40, the sidewalk was flooded with kids."
Pam studied Rex. "Is that why you moved to your house? Because you wanted to start a family?" She glanced at me with a smirk in her eyes.
My stomach clenched. I hadn't thought of that. Did he want kids? I didn't. I already had twelve of them, and they were a handful.
Rex grinned. "No. I just liked the house and the neighborhood." He reached over and held my hand. "I'm not ruling them out though."
For a second it felt like ice ran in my veins. We hadn't discussed this until this very moment. You'd think a couple would discuss that before marriage, right?
"Of course," my fiancé added, "that's something we will have to discuss at some point."
My neck started sweating. What the heck? Whose neck sweats when they're nervous?
"Merry," Pam said with a smile I couldn't interpret, "you must love kids, since you're working with them."
Was it getting hot in here? I wasn't even thirty, and I was perspiring like a middle-aged menopausal woman on the equator.
"I do," I said slowly. "And I have a lovely little goddaughter, but for now, this is all I can handle."
"That's right," Mark said. "You don't have a day job, do you?"
Pam stared at me. "I wish I didn't have a day job."
Mark slipped his arm around his wife. "It's better, though, because we are our own bosses. Right hon?"
Pam smiled at him. "Yes. That's true. Still"—she indicated me with her wine glass—"I'd love to lie around the house all day."
Is that what people thought I did? Nothing? That seemed unfair. But come to think of it, the only other women I knew who stayed at home were married and had kids. Well, except for this author I knew of who lived down the street. But as far as I knew, she wasn't right in the head.
Rex squeezed my hand. "Merry's still figuring out what she wants to do."
Okay, I got that he was helping me, but what did that mean? He knew I was a spy before. But how did he really feel about the fact that I didn't work now? One more thing in our to-be-discussed pile.
"I'm hoping she'll find her niche," he said with a smile. "Figure out what she wants to do."
Since when did I have to find something to do? And why were my ear lobes sweating now? I was turning into a mess. I was supposed to be reading these people, and instead, I was getting carried away with my insecurity. I had an appointment with Susan for the next day. I'd have to bring this up to her. Yes. That was it. Save it for later, Wrath.
I shook everything off and smiled as warmly as I could.
"I think it's marvelous, you two working together in your own business. If I joined the police force, I think Rex would have second thoughts."
My fiancé laughed. Loudly. "Merry sometimes has opinions about my job."
Everybody laughed, and I kicked him under the table. Opinions? I'd helped him solve some very complicated cases over the time I'd known him. Maybe he wouldn't want people knowing that.
"I wish I was a detective," I said. "I think I'd enjoy it."
"I'm sure it's pretty quiet," Pam said. "It's such a small town—not much happens around here."
Mark disagreed. "That's not true. There have been some fires here in the last week or so. I thought I saw that on the news. Isn't that right, Rex?"
The Fontanas looked eagerly at Rex. Either they were very curious, or they wanted intel on what was going on, which would be a huge benefit to their operation if they were spies. Did they just befriend Rex to pump him for information?
My fiancé had a wonderful talent for telling people what he knew and making it sound like super-secret intel, when all it really was, was a rehash of the public news.
He nodded. "That's right. Three fires—all arson. The fire marshal thinks it must be kids. But we'll catch them."
Kids? Now that was a cover if I ever heard one. He didn't really think it was kids, did he? I realized I hadn't really seen him much lately. He was so busy with work, and I was busy with being a lunatic (a full-time occupation lately).
Dinner arrived, which stopped all conversation. All four of us had steak. As we cut into the juicy, Iowa grass-fed beef, an awkward silence settled around us. This had been harder than I'd thought. Sure, they were acting strange, but as I ran through the conversation in my head, there wasn't any one clue that stood out. If I was going to catch these guys in something, I was running out of time.
"Tell Pam about your cats," Mark said, pointing to his wife with his knife as if I wasn't sure I knew who he was talking about.
"I have two cats," I said as I wiped my mouth on my napkin. "One looks like Hitler, the other like Elvis."
Mark nodded. "They really do. I've seen them in your window, staring at me. It's pretty weird."
"The larger one is named Philby." I watched their faces carefully. Philby was named after a famous Englishman who spied for the Russians.
Their expressions were unreadable. Actually, they were trying hard to look blank.
"And Martini," Rex said. "She had two other kittens, but Dr. Body has them."
"Dr. Body?" Pam's eyebrows went up.
"She's the coroner for the county," I said. "She's very thorough." I put all my emphasis on the last word in hopes of tripping them up. "You can't put anything past her."
"How interesting," Pam said. "Don't you think that's interesting, Mark?"
They exchanged a strange glance I couldn't interpret.
"You know," Mark said, "now that you mention it, there have been an unusual number of murders for a town this size."
Hmmm…
Rex nodded. "You're right. It does keep my department busy."
The four of us continued eating in silence. One, because the conversation was heading in a strange direction, and two, because our mouths were full of yummy, yummy steak. And you should never talk with your mouth full of yummy, yummy steak.
As I ate, I realized I'd been played. The beginning of our conversation was meant to throw me off, make me uncomfortable, distract me. And it did. Oh, these two were good. I'd have to fix that.
The empty
plates were carried off, and a dessert menu was handed to Rex, who the waiter had deemed the leader of this little group.
"So, Mark," I said, "why did you guys move here?"
Mark frowned for just a moment. I'd caught him off guard. But in seconds he was smiling again. "I thought I told you. We bought the business from a couple who wanted to retire."
Pam spoke up quickly, almost interrupting him. "It just made sense, right, Mark? We wanted a quiet life in the country. And this is close enough to Des Moines to make it seem less isolated."
"Did you take on all of the clients the original owners left behind?" I asked. "Or have you had to find new clients?"
"We inherited the folks we have," Mark answered.
Pam said, "We really are quite busy."
Rex's cell buzzed, and he looked at it. "I'm sorry. I have to step outside and take this. I'll be right back."
As soon as he walked away, I started on a new tack.
"I think some of my friends are clients of yours. Robert and Kelly Albers?" I watched their faces. "And Kate Becks?"
I didn't take my eyes off them, but I noticed the slightest reaction. Pam seemed to be sweating, and a vein throbbed in Mark's neck.
"We can't disclose information about our clients, I'm afraid." Pam smiled, but her demeanor had changed just a tiny bit, from challenging to hostile.
I waved them off. "Oh sure. I totally understand. Not sure what I was thinking."
Mark relaxed a bit. "We sure like it here, but with a small town, you have lots of people who know your business."
I looked directly at him. "No secrets in this place. Everyone knows what their neighbors are up to."
The atmosphere was practically crackling with tension.
Pam cleared her throat, a terse smile on her face. "That's so true. In fact, we've noticed you're up pretty late at night."
"That's funny." I lifted my wine glass. "I've noticed the same thing about you."
No one spoke. We were engaged in a spy stare-down. I hoped I was winning.
Mark broke the silence with nervous laughter. "Well, we've always been night owls. The business keeps us busy, and sometimes we work late into the night."
Motto for Murder (Merry Wrath Mysteries Book 6) Page 13