The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  Here, I danced alone.

  But this would be a cakewalk. My father had said so. Twenty-four hours and I’d be free. Why then, did I feel the niggle of not-so-fast?

  As if we were telepathic, or my father was GPS stalking me, a text rang through.

  Are you keeping our partner happy? Utmost importance.

  As if I hadn’t already gotten the message. I ignored him.

  My ride from London City Airport had been a conga line of traffic. Caught in the throes of winter, London had retreated to the anonymity of the mundane, brushed to a gloomy grey by bad weather and resignation. All of which did little to improve my jet-lagged, sorry-ass self, the only attendee at my pity party.

  I could be in Paris.

  I should be in Paris. Although, life had a way of directing you where you should go—I didn’t have to like it, but simply pay attention. Which wasn’t my strong suit.

  The flight had not gone as planned. My joie de vivre that welled from satisfying a filial obligation had evaporated somewhere over Kansas. Then we stopped in Gander, Newfoundland. Some minor mechanical thing was fixed promptly but still set my teeth on edge, although I stocked up on real maple syrup. Once in London, the Neanderthal engaged by my Vegas office to fetch me had looked at me askance, asking me twice if I really had a room at the London Club and muttering something about my gender and my birth country. I let him live only because a justified homicide investigation would take not only a complicit attitude on my part, but lots of time, both of which were currently in short supply.

  When we eased to a stop in front of the Babylon London Club, darkness was almost complete. The streetlights sparking on did little to hold back the gloom. The Club occupied a five-story, nondescript limestone building in a row of similar buildings across from a patch of park that lent the neighborhood a bit of Bourgeois flair—the perfect disguise for the luxury, the money, the wealth, and all that went with it, inside. Mayfair was that kind of neighborhood, basking in the noble glow of nearby Buckingham Palace—the epicenter of the über upper crust. The trees, flowers, and punting pond of nearby St. James Park softened the ostentation a tad.

  Light streamed through the windows of the club, framing a glimpse into a world of rarified air. Liveried bellmen wearing cutaway jackets and pinstriped pants, their hands white-gloved, and young ladies attired in dresses designed for us by Alexander McQueen before he died, chokers of south sea pearls, perfectly-seamed silk stockings and Ferragamo kitten heels passed by like figurines turning in a department store Christmas display. Some carried trays of fluted glasses—Kir Royales, a de rigeur aperitif. My stomach roiled. Too much wine during the flight to hide too much worry. On the positive side, I’d found the one thing that killed my thirst for alcohol. A self-defeating Catch—22, of course. In naming me Lucky, my mother had made me a lightning rod for the opposite, turning me into a walking talking, real-life Joe Btfsplk.

  The driver deposited my three suitcases at my feet. “Staying long, ma’am.” It wasn’t a question but rather an assumption.

  “As long as it takes,” I managed through gritted teeth. I turned up the collar of my Burberry against the misty drizzle and shook off a chill, and then I waved him away without even a perfunctory pleasantness.

  The doorman rushed down the steps to greet me. “Madam O’Toole. Your father alerted us.”

  Great. Years of smoothing things over, as he called it, had taught me that flying under the radar was the best strategy. My father, long on strong-arm, short on subtlety torpedoed that. “You have a room for me then.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Third floor, one of the regular rooms as you like it.”

  At least he’d remembered I didn’t like a big fuss—that should be reserved for the paying customers, the club members in this case. “Thank you.” I motioned to my bags. “Would you have these sent up to my room, please. I have to attend to some business.”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course. Please see Julie at the front desk. She has some information for you.” A coat clerk took my overcoat.

  Julie wasn’t hard to pick out. Of the three young ladies waiting behind a burled walnut reception desk that glowed from centuries of hand polishing, she was the only one who watched me like an expectant puppy.

  “Hello Julie.” I acted like I remembered her name.

  My ruse intact, she beamed. “Miss O’Toole. The young lady you’re looking for is in the Royal Suite, fifth floor. She has not been alerted you are looking for her. The sheik will be arriving any minute now. He’s much earlier than expected.” She passed a simple keycard across the desk. “It’s been coded with your fingerprint. You must hold it with your thumb over the sensor for it to function. The elevators…” A light blush colored her cheeks. “I don’t need to tell you where they are, do I?”

  A bank of three new elevators hid around the corner, tucked out of sight. The permits alone had almost required a sign-off by the Queen herself. Then we’d had to engage a contractor with an expertise in historic buildings, who billed at twice the normal rate.

  After all the headaches, I didn’t much care for the new elevators, choosing the one old creaky one instead. A set of wooden double doors stood open revealing a golden grate—all that separated me from the elevator shaft. I pressed the button summoning the lift, as they say in these parts, feeling a bit of anxiety drift away. There was something calming about the British sense of decorum, the subtle but inescapable nod to civility. Here people spoke in hushed voices, the music was subtle, classical. No one hurried. No one yelled. No one groped. And for sure no one threw up in the potted plants. No, Toto, we’re not in Vegas anymore.

  Finally, after stretching my patience to the breaking point, the elevator cage slowly eased to a stop behind the latticework of gold metal, the inner doors sliding open to reveal a middle-aged couple, their arms hooked together. They smiled at me through the metal grate, which I grabbed and slid back. I felt a bit too American in my cherry-red Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress and gold sling-backs. Apparently, I didn’t get the brown tweed memo.

  But the lady and I both had Birkins—a stupid-expensive Hermès bag that was often the calling card of those in-the-money. My father knew well my passion for vintage handbags. He’d gifted me one in brown leather that had been carried by Audrey Hepburn in the last decade of her life—something I thought both cool and creepy. All the rest of my meager collection, amassed over my lifetime, had disappeared when my apartment had been immolated. The guy responsible had died an ugly death—too small a price for what he’d done. I was feeling the need to replace at least a few pieces—hence my current fascination with fashion accessories.

  The couple nodded in tandem as I stepped aside to let them by.

  “Oh, Ms. O’Toole, I’m so glad we bumped into each other.” The voice, frosty and clipped, belonged to the Babylon Club’s fusty manager, Nigel Ahern. Thinning strawberry-blonde hair, a thin face, thin lips—well, thin everything, except for the caterpillar perched on his upper lip masquerading as a mustache. Adopting an unctuous air punctuated with a small bow, he motioned me to go in front of him.

  With no gracious way to tell him to bugger off, I did as he suggested. “Which floor?” My hand hovered over the buttons.

  “Third, please. A disgruntled heiress.”

  “That borders on redundant.” I punched his button, then inserted my key in a small slot which granted me access to the top floor, the entirety of which comprised the Royal Suite.

  Not even the hint of a smile moved the caterpillar. “Why wasn’t I apprised of your coming?”

  A bit cheeky. I owned the place—I could do damn well whatever I wanted…without Mr. Ahern’s permission or complicity. “Do your job, Mr. Ahern. Leave me to do mine. When you need to know, you’ll be…apprised.”

  He recoiled as if I’d raised a hand to slap him. “Very well.” The doors opened, and he left me to finish the ride alone with my thoughts. To be honest, I was conflicted about my job at hand. Firing a young woman because the men in her family found he
r uppity went against everything I believed. In fact, it offended me on every level. But, nobody died and made me King, least of all the head of the Saudi royal family. Who was I to meddle? But how would change happen if I didn’t? Why send her to Oxford if she was going to be relegated to the role of human mannequin? Why couldn’t life make sense?

  Untangling this Gordian knot and not hating myself afterward would take a level of championship social tap dancing I wasn’t sure I possessed. Where was my staff when I needed them? I glanced at my watch. Just finishing lunch, I would wager.

  Trapped in my conundrum, I jumped when doors slid open and I came face-to-face with a woman I didn’t expect to see. Not Aziza for sure. Caucasian, hair pulled back, the veiled brim of her hat pulled low, and glam from head-to-toe.

  I greeted her with a smile and a nod as she slid back the metal grate. She seemed as surprised to see me as I was her. Ready to dismiss her, one detail caught my eye as I stepped aside, giving her room to move into the space I vacated:

  Her purse.

  A very rare vintage Hermès Kelly bag, white with bronze trim, and accented with gold fittings. An instant case of purse lust hit my heart. I’d never seen one like it and could only imagine how much such a distinctive, recognizable piece would cost. I wanted to ask her where she got it and what it set her back, but one just didn’t do that sort of thing, not here, and especially not if one was the owner of the Club and, as such, straddled the line between staff and peer.

  What is she doing here?

  4

  Donna

  I’m facing a woman: a tall, slim, brunette—quite pretty, and around my age.

  Surprise flashes across her face. Apparently, she was not expecting to run into anyone.

  Welcome to the club, hon.

  Damn it! In a few minutes, she’ll find Hummingbird’s body. I’ve got to get out of here–now!

  As she moves past me, we exchange nods. But before doing so, I shift the angle of my head to lower the veil of my brimmed hat.

  No need to worry since her gaze has dropped to my handbag. From the way her eyes widen, I guess she recognizes its worth.

  After stepping into the elevator, I casually reach for the button that will take me back to Dominic’s third-floor room. I stand at a half-turn. If she’s watching me, she’ll see a bored woman smoothing her gloves into place.

  During the interminable ride to Dominic’s floor, I’m working out my exit strategy. This mission called for a simple pick-up, so I had no reason to ask Arnie to loop the club’s video-cam footage before my arrival. Now I do. I’ve got to call him immediately.

  After I change out of this getup, Dominic will take “Princess Maja” to dinner outside the club. When he returns, he’ll be alone. If the manager, Ahern, asks him any questions, I’m sure Dominic can come up with some tale that positions him, as always, the playboy hero who dumped yet another adoring fangirl.

  Suddenly, I remember that the tall brunette was admiring my purse.

  It will be a clue to pass forward to the police.

  Granted, should they try to trace it, it’ll lead to a dead end. Buyer 1515 doesn’t exist.

  But since the handbag is one of a kind, I can never take it out again in public.

  I frown as I look down at my purse. Well, heck, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

  I’ll just leave it to Mary and Trisha in my last will and testament. By then the trail should be cold, and heaven knows its value will have gone up even higher.

  I count the seconds before this ancient elevator descends to the third floor. When it finally arrives, I stroll out as if I don’t have a care in the world. Reaching Dominic’s door, I tap twice.

  I hear him whistling as he moves toward it. He opens it, but before he can say anything I rush in past him and close the door firmly.

  “Hummingbird is dead,” I hiss.

  Frowning, he exclaims, “You killed her?”

  “No, you ninny! She was dead when I got there! Not only that, but when I left the Royal Suite someone was getting off the elevator when I was getting on. The woman may be able to recognize me. She admired my purse. She may use it as a clue to pass forward to the police. We’ve got to call Ryan and the others to let them know.”

  When I flop down on his ridiculously shaped bed, the damn thing rolls with the wave I’ve created.

  Frowning, Dominic looks at me sideways. “You’ve created quite a tsunami, Old Girl! You must be heavier than you look.”

  If looks could kill, instead of rolling his eyes Dominic would be rolling in some unmarked grave.

  With a click of my cell, Dominic and I are connected to the whole team: Jack, Abu, and Arnie, who are hanging in Jack’s and my suite at the Ritz; and Ryan and Emma, in Los Angeles.

  I’m quick to the point: “I found Hummingbird at the rendezvous—but she’s dead.”

  The connection’s dead air is finally broken by Ryan’s wary question: “How was she killed?”

  “Not by a bullet, or a knife. Her neck wasn’t broken either.” He can read my miffed tone: And not by me, thank you very much. I add, “However, there were a couple of odd, tiny wounds on the back of her neck.”

  “At the very least, were you able to secure the intel?” Ryan asks.

  “Maybe. I took her cell phone and also the amulet around her neck, since you’d mentioned it as an identifying feature. I also took the items she held in her hands: an antique vase and a couple of hotel security cards on a key ring. Maybe she needed it to get into the suite.”

  “If so, she’d have only needed one of the cards, not both,” Jack counters.

  “Good point,” I reply. “Abu, I’m texting you and Emma a photo of Aziza’s tattoo and amulet now. See if you can make heads or tails of it.”

  “Got it,” Abu confirms. “The lettering is Arabic, but these aren’t words.”

  “It may be a code,” Emma reasons.

  “Emma, get the SIGINT team to work on deciphering it,” Ryan commands. “Arnie, see if you can hack the key cards.”

  “Will do,” Arnie assures him.

  “Hummingbird was tatted with symbols identical to those on the talisman,” I inform them.

  “When you recover the body, an MI6 autopsy will determine the exact cause of death and send us better photos of the tattoo,” Ryan says. “If she took the time and trouble to tattoo it to her body, it must be important.”

  “We’re recovering…what?” Jack, Abu, and I exclaim in unison.

  “You heard me,” Ryan replies. “The body.”

  5

  Lucky

  A set of grand, inlaid, wooden doors at the end, barred my way. The formal entrance to the suite, they opened to the grand foyer and main room of the Royal Suite—if my key worked. The rest of the suite formed a U, wrapping around the main hallway that I currently strode down. Doors on either side opened to service areas within the suite. On my right would be the master wing with bedroom, closet and a bath the size of my apartment. The other housed the kitchen facilities and two guest suites. Accommodations for Princes and Maharajas, Queens, Hollywood A-listers and perhaps a minor luminary who could tote the freight.

  Another text dinged.

  Remember, all stops to keep Ben happy.

  My father, the ultimate control freak.

  Still thinking about that friggin’ purse, I fumbled with my key, trying to figure out which way it went in the slot and how to hold it so my thumb was properly positioned. The security measures were redundant but necessary. Many of our guests had targets on their backs. Whether it was the Russians trying to punish a defector or kidnappers looking for a human chess piece, or simply an unrequited lover or jilted business partner, the effect was the same—bad news for them and bad press for us, not to mention mounds of paperwork and police crawling all over the place. All of which had a chilling effect on business.

  Which somehow brought me around to the woman with the purse. She didn’t work for us. And she could only have come from the Royal Suite. No one was in the
suite. So how did she get up here? Maybe she had been in the suite and left something? Perhaps. Why did I care? She looked like she belonged here—well, maybe trying a bit too hard, but, in my experience, those intent on doing mischief didn’t walk around with a purse worth serious five-figures.

  I needed to find Aziza, then meet her uncle, Sheik Ben, dazzle him with my best suck-up, and get on a plane to Paris.

  I knocked, but no answer. Aziza must be in another part of the suite. I contorted myself to get the key in the slot. Turns out I didn’t need it—the handle turned easily and the door swung inward on silent hinges like the door of a bank vault.

  “Hello?” I called. The lights in the room were still dark. The only illumination filtered in through the large French doors, four sets of them floor-to-ceiling, marching across the far wall. “Aziza?” At least the drapes had been pushed back, the folds of velvet held to the side with silk ropes. I shut the door behind me and flicked on the lights. Lamps dotted around the room shed a warm glow. A large crystal chandelier in the circular foyer dripped light as it cascaded from the fourteen-foot ceiling. Underneath it, a huge floral display in a cut crystal vase erupted from the three-legged wooden table beneath it. Sprigs of red and green pussy willows, and curled branches with wide gold ribbon winding through it; the whole thing demanded attention. I paused to give it its due.

  Red Dahlia, I thought.

  “Aziza?” I called again. Where was she? Surely, she could hear me.

  A bar removed from a Scottish castle before the turn of the century several centuries ago curved from the wall to my left. A swinging door to the left of the bar hid the entrance to the food service areas. A dining room table with seating for twelve separated the bar area from the great room. Several hand-knotted silk Persian carpets softened the wood floor. Overstuffed couches and wing-backed chairs clustered around glass-topped tables creating nice conversation areas. Oil paintings of people no one remembered filled spots on the wall. Bookcases lined the front wall. Books that looked great but probably hadn’t been cracked since the turn of the last century filled the shelves. The obligatory rare Chinese pottery had been tastefully arranged among the books. An odd gap caught my eye. A faint circle shadowed the wood shelf. A vase was missing—a very important vase—three-quarters of a million dollars important.