The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  Without turning around, I mutter, “Let me guess. While she was out, she somehow misplaced her cell phone.”

  He pauses for so long that at first I think he’s disappeared. Finally, he whispers, “How did you know?”

  “One of our operatives lifted it,” Jack murmurs, “After she took a picture of Mrs. Craig with Mr. Fleming.”

  Nigel winces. “Yes, she mentioned seeing the two together. She described you as you are now, not as ‘Princess Maja.’ And she also insists that Mrs. Craig was his guest at the club, despite me insisting that he showed up with an entirely different woman.”

  “How could she think that?” Jack asks. “All traces of Mrs. Craig have been scrubbed from your surveillance footage. It’s just a supposition on her part that the two women are one and the same.”

  “I made it quite clear to her that, to my knowledge, Mrs. Craig has never set foot in the club.” His back stiffens. “She inferred that I was lying to her. She was…well, quite insistent in fact!”

  “Shhh,” I warn him. At this hour apparently a train arrives every three minutes, and the next one is due in two. I scan the platform. Apparently hoping to choose a less crowded car, others have drifted our way: a woman with a sleeping toddler in a stroller; French-speaking tourists laden with shopping bags; and a gray-haired businessman reading a folded copy of The Times. The collar of his cashmere coat still sits high on his neck.

  To contain his agitation, Nigel purses his lips.

  “Have you any idea how she made the connection between Dominic and me?” I ask.

  “She mentioned seeing a very expensive handbag in your possession when you visited the club. She said she saw the same bag in Mr. Fleming’s room.”

  Jack groans. “That damn purse isn’t made of leather. It’s pure albatross!”

  “Yeah? Well too bad. It’s a keeper,” I growl.

  Still shaken, Nigel glances around. “The woman is insufferable—especially when she’s on the warpath, as she is now! As much as I fear blowing my cover, because of poor Aziza’s fate, I now fear for my life—as should Mr. Fleming. I have yet to see him in order to warn him, and, frankly, I don’t dare do so within the club. Because of his club winnings, she has a legitimate excuse to watch him like a hawk”— his voice trembles as he adds—“just as she’s now watching me.”

  I’m concerned that Nigel isn’t just worried about his cover being blown. He’s pop-eyed with fear.

  “We’ll get word to Dominic immediately,” I assure him.

  Jack looks skyward. My guess is he’s wondering if Dominic is still going through his love ’em and leave ’em ritual.

  The train arrives with an increasingly ominous hum before stopping suddenly with a deafening whoosh. The departing passengers surge around us, giving us the cover needed to get away. Jack and I follow the tight crowd toward the staircase while Nigel goes off in the opposite direction, toward an elevator.

  We are halfway up the staircase when Jack turns. “We forgot to mention to Nigel: should it be necessary for us to exfiltrate Lucky, somehow he’ll have to cover her absence with the Rothstein Organization. We should head back and mention it to him.”

  I nod. “He was on his way to the elevator. You meet him there. I’ll walk back down now, in case he circled back to follow us up these stairs.”

  We part with a kiss.

  By the time I get back to the northbound platform, all passengers have dispersed. I hurry down its far side, where I last saw Nigel. But I stop short when I notice that an OUT OF ORDER sign has been strung across the small hall leading to the elevator. In my silence, another’s footsteps can be heard, but then suddenly stop. I see a figure, but it’s too far away to make out whether it’s him.

  “Nigel?” I call out.

  The figure takes off in a quick trot—away from me.

  Instinctively, I run toward him. But as I pass the hallway I glance back toward the elevator. What I see stops me in my tracks: a leg, extended on the ground, keeps the door from closing.

  I run to the prone figure:

  Nigel.

  Although his body is still convulsing, his eyes have already rolled back into his head and his pulse is gone. Blood trickles from his left nostril.

  The bloodstain, on the left side of his open coat, reveals the location of his fatal wound. I lift his coat. A thin slit in his white shirt, now darkened with blood, tells the story: Nigel was stabbed right below the heart.

  There is a camera in the hall and the elevator. Security will have seen who did this to him. Someone may be on the way now.

  Still, I’ll be damned if I let the killer slip through my fingers.

  No one passed me going left toward the stairs, and it ends in another fifty yards to the right. No one is there, but out of the corner of my eye, I see a door closing. A soft click confirms it wasn’t my imagination.

  I run toward it.

  The sign on the door reads EMERGENCY EXIT. I open it and discover a stairwell leading upstairs. Besides the dim lights dotting each step, an overhead light glows above. I make out a man running up the stairs: it’s the businessman with the newspaper.

  Hearing my footsteps behind him, he stops and turns around. Having followed and murdered Nigel, this man must recognize me too.

  Smiling, he pulls the knife out from the folded paper. He knows better than to leave any loose ends.

  Gripping the knife high, he runs down the stairs toward me. Between his weapon, his size, and the fact that he’s angled above me, he has every advantage.

  He’ll soon discover he’s also got two major liabilities.

  He’s startled when I pull a pin light from my pocket and flash it in his eyes. This stops him cold, giving me the few seconds I need to punch his nutsack.

  As he doubles over, I slam the wrist holding the knife against the wall. The weapon clatters down the stairs.

  By now, he’s recovered enough to head-butt me, and I go tumbling after the knife.

  He’s angry, but he’s not stupid. Choosing to get the hell out as opposed to finishing me off, he stumbles up the stairwell and out the door at the top, still gasping from my punch.

  I get up and scramble after him. When I open the door, I find myself on a side street: Mayfair Place.

  The man is long gone.

  My first call is to Jack. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he assures me.

  My next call is to Dominic.

  “Ah, Mrs. Craig!” Dominic’s voice is as smooth as velvet. “I have wonderful news for you.”

  “You’d better. Someone just tried to kill me and, as you can imagine, I’m a bit peeved about it.”

  “Well you’ll be happy to know that it couldn’t have been the deliciously divine Ms. O’Toole.”

  “Perhaps not personally—unless she made a miraculous recovery from a sex change operation in the past hour—”

  “Not Lucky. She is”—he sighs rapturously—“all woman. And all mine! In fact, her way of apologizing for wrongly accusing me of cheating was to send up the club’s most expensive bottle of Bordeaux.”

  “What did she say in the note?” I ask.

  “Something quite sensual: ‘A bottle for sharing. See you at three o’clock.’” His chuckle is as giddy as a schoolgirl’s.

  “Did she sign the note?”

  “Did she...Honestly, no.” By Dominic’s tone, he’s back on the defensive.

  Well, boohoo. I almost got killed, so I couldn’t care less. Cruelly, I ask, “Are you sure it wasn’t gifted by one of your two fuckcierges?”

  “Chateau Margaux? Doubtful! Even if Prunella and Lavinia combined their salaries for two years, they could never afford it,” he retorts haughtily. “In fact, the poor dears are so tight for tuppence that they actually demanded a loan from me! They suggested the photos they took of us in flagrante delicto act as collateral. Inwardly, I scoffed at their terms: interest-free, and with payback terms longer than any sane lender would consider—”

  I groan at his cluelessness. “Like, say, never
?”

  “Well…one might see it that way.”

  “Yes, but that ‘one’ would have to have a brain. Dominic, those women were shaking you down!”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “They were blackmailing you.”

  “Oh…Well, perhaps,” He sounds miffed. “In any event, it’s a moot point. When I showed them that my camera set-up was far superior to theirs, they became exceedingly testy. They even had the audacity to say they’d report me to management! But when I pointed out that my relationship with Ms. O’Toole was probably on more solid ground than that of a mere employee, they saw the futility in playing that card…” Dominic’s voice trails off. In time, he mutters, “You may be right.”

  Like, duh.

  “As for the sender of the wine, you’ve made my case for me,” he adds gruffly. “It had to be Lucky,”

  “Who may have a hit squad at her disposal. Dominic, Nigel was just killed!”

  “What?…” Shock tosses his bravado off a cliff. Clinging to the last vestige of his romantic fantasy, he retorts, “Why would you think that would have anything to do with Lucky?”

  “Because she saw you and me together, on Bruton Street.”

  “But…How do you know?” He asked, deflated.

  “As we told you, Abu is tailing her—and apparently, she was tailing you. After he saw her taking photos of us, Abu picked her pocket.”

  “The fact that she took our photo only indicates her jealous nature,” he retorts airily. “Not that she’s a killer.”

  “No, you dolt! It indicates that she knows we work together. The reason Nigel met with us was to tell us that Lucky saw my purse in your room! She told him so, in a fit of anger. She even described me to him. When he tried to convince her that Princess Maja looked nothing like me, she practically bit off his head.”

  My revelation draws a groan out of him.

  I warn him: “Nigel was knifed in the subway. You’re on her turf—her club. Just imagine what she’ll do to you.”

  My heart pounds as I recall Nigel: legs sprawled apart, eyes rolled behind their lids, and the bright red stain on his coat.

  “You’re right. I’ve fallen in love with the target. My stupidity has cost two patriots their lives.” Shame has muted Dominic’s voice to a whisper.

  Suddenly, I feel sorry for him. “Look,” I whisper back, “Just stick to the mission.”

  “I will,” he vows. Softly, he adds, “Do you think the wine is poisoned?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t put it past her.” Suddenly, I add, “But if it isn’t, you need to spike it with the roofie powder before she shows up. We’ll be a block or two away in a van. Leave word with the front desk that you’re expecting a couple of friends, and that we’re to be allowed up to your suite.”

  “Got it. Syringe through the cork. I’ll open it in front of her so that she doesn’t suspect.” Dominic sighs. “In any event, she’ll be the only one who drinks it.”

  That says a lot about the woman you think you love.

  I don’t dare say it aloud.

  15

  Lucky

  Nobody had seen her.

  Our mystery woman was a ghost. A ghost who stashed very pricey handbags under beds, but a ghost just the same. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but I wasn’t getting very far either, and time was slipping like sand. A disguise would explain things. No doubt my mystery woman and the red leather-loving princess were one and the same, not that that would do me any good now. If the mystery woman graced my turf again it wouldn’t be as any iteration of herself she’d shown before.

  Dominic Fleming was the only common denominator.

  I had rebuffed him rather harshly. Perhaps it was time to make up.

  He hadn’t returned to the club yet, but no doubt he’d turn up eventually. Thankfully, Julie once again held steadfast behind the reception desk. “Will you ping me when Mr. Fleming returns, please?”

  “Yes, Miss, of course.”

  The miss was a nice touch—I’d asked, she’d listened. There was a promotion in her near future. I could see she wanted to say more, but she restrained herself. Yes, a very nice promotion.

  While using precious time I didn’t have, waiting for the opportunity to seduce someone I wouldn’t invite into my home given any other choice, I decided to make a few turns around the casino. The first pass confirmed what I already knew: play was light, and everything was well in hand. Nothing like a well-oiled operation to make me feel redundant. The second pass proved more interesting.

  Two men confronted each other in the doorway to the War Room. Backlit by light from the windows beyond, they appeared only as silhouettes. One I’d swear was Sheik Ben. The other, I wasn’t sure, but he wore the morning coat and unctuous air of one of my staff. As I inched my way closer, working to not draw attention to myself, I could see from the postures of the two men, the conversation was heated. The sheik repeatedly pressed home his point with a forefinger jab to the other man’s chest. My staff member, his hands clasped behind him, his chest puffed, took the obvious berating with equanimity, nary twitching a muscle.

  I’d almost made it to eavesdropping distance when both men noticed me. With a lift of his chin, the sheik dismissed the other man. He turned toward me, his eyes lowered.

  Gerald.

  I nodded as he passed, then joined the sheik. His face a blotchy red, a tick working in his cheek, he tried to hide his seething with a tight smile. “Ms. O’Toole.”

  Formality. I guess I too had fallen out of grace—a tumble I’d taken many times before. “Sheik Ben.” I glanced at the back of his retreating butler. “I take it you’ve found Gerald and his service wanting. Is there anything I can put to right?” Jeez, I’d been in-country for less than twenty-four hours and I already was losing the easy swing of American English.

  “That won’t be necessary.” His smile flicked again, then fled. “I’ve not been able to reach my niece. She didn’t show up for her shift today.”

  I didn’t feel the need to reiterate the whole she’s-dead thing. Once you hear that, it sticks—even if one didn’t want to believe it. “I’m turning over every rock. Is everything as you desired in your room?”

  “Of course. You keep looking for my niece. I hold you personally responsible.” He raised his hand to give me a poke in the chest as he had Gerald, then he thought better of it, letting his hand drop. Wise man.

  Normally a stickler for his demands being met precisely, he hadn’t mentioned the flowers. After watching him stalk off toward the elevators, I returned to the front desk.

  “Mr. Fleming just went up to his room…alone,” Julie whispered conspiratorially as I approached.

  “Impeccable timing then, thank you.” I’d be hearing from him soon enough, I’d wager. My note and the wine should at least warrant a proper thank you. I tried to appear all-business, but I was rather alarmed that she would think I would lower myself to chase the likes of Dominic Fleming. A new low. “I have a question for you. Sheik Ben normally is a real stickler, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, miss. Silk sheets, his Champagne, yellow flowers, and Gerald. We all know the drill.”

  And had been stung by the whip when falling short, I gathered from her grimace. “Yet the flowers in his suite are red.”

  She winced. “I’ll get that changed right away.” Fluster and fear niggled at her composure. “I have no idea how that happened.”

  “No need. He hasn’t complained. Guess he is trying to introduce a new era of kindness and understanding.”

  She looked like she didn’t believe it.

  I didn’t either. Miss P had said yellow. Someone had intercepted the order and changed it.

  I needed to know who.

  This one I could do on my own.

  “Julie, just checking, but you did send a bottle of our very best Bordeaux to Mr. Fleming’s room?

  “Yes, miss. With only your note. No signature.” She looked a bit bilious. My stock was falling like it was 1929.

  I
made my way to the alcove just off the lobby. It used to hold a telegraph then a telephone, now it stood as testament to the cost of change. I closed the bi-fold door and pulled out my phone. Now all I had to do was remember my password into the employee network, then another into the accounting ledger. After so many tries that I only had one left before being sent to the digital hoosegow, I made it past go without being sent to jail. A quick search and I found the flower requisition.

  Yesterday.

  And I’d been right, Red Dahlias. I gave a low whistle. They must be out of season…waaay out of season. I looked for the signature.

  Aziza.

  She wasn’t even trying to cover her tracks. Something had her spooked, and with good reason. But why change the flowers? And why did she replace them with expensive flowers?

  I logged off. One more question without an answer.

  Time to get a few from the Fleming peacock. I didn’t doubt I could get what I wanted. The larger question was would I, before he dove across the line and flipped my last switch.

  Time to find out.

  I stood up. Sit up. Stand up. Throw up. A quote from one of my fave films, Victor/Victoria and more than apropos. For the first time ever, I felt a kinship with Julie Andrews in all her petite perfection. I tried to take strength from that.

  With patience at a low ebb, I would need it.

  “I wondered who might show up. I never expected it would be you.” Dominic had changed into lounging pajamas. On most men the look would be fey. On him? Not so much. The broad shoulders, the just-right bit of smooth skin and chest hair visible where he’d left the top button unbuttoned. Handsome for sure, but the fact he knew it, even wore it like a birthright, lessened its effect.

  On unsteady knees, I used the doorway to hold my bulk as I tried to look all casual and seductive. I think I probably ended up looking like I had to pee.

  Clearly, he was a man of indiscriminate taste—he stepped to the side and invited me in. My bottle of Bordeaux sat on the small table next to the small window with the terrible view. Julie had taken me at my word—Chateau Margaux, sufficiently aged to set me back four figures. Two glasses, both empty, stood next to it. He’d suspected, but he hadn’t been sure.