Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery

by Miller, Melissa F.

“You just remind me of my sister, that’s all.”

  He marked his spot with his pen and closed the notebook. “Which one?”

  “Sage. She’s an ... well, she used to be a forensic accountant. She’s a nanny now. But she has that very fastidious, precise accountant attitude. She’d totally save all her questions for one call.”

  “It’s not that weird,” he insisted defensively.

  “It is for a reporter. I thought you guys were sort of scattered, digging out notes from deep within piles of paper, all stained with coffee rings and stuff.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Stereotype much?”

  “Ah, I forgot. You’re a financial reporter. Of course you cross your Ts and dot your Is.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not,” I assured him. “It’s just pretty foreign to me. I was raised in a fairly loosey-goosey manner. I think Sage’s detail-oriented nature and love for mathematics and finance was her way of rebelling against our hippie upbringing.”

  “What did they do? For work, I mean?”

  “They used to own an eco-resort. Now they don’t.”

  “Small business owners? I think they might have had more business savvy than you give them credit for.”

  Yeah, until they didn’t, I thought.

  I changed the subject. “Let’s Google the number. Start there, at least.”

  He kept his eyes locked on mine for a few seconds longer, as if he were willing me to talk about my family. But I just gazed back at him blankly until he blinked then looked away.

  “Right,” he mumbled. He rested his sister’s phone on the table and pulled out his own.

  He typed in a Google search with his thumbs then swiped past the first several hits, grumbling about the bait-and-switch results that required a credit card to get the full report. I smiled to myself; I shared that pet peeve.

  I refilled my cup from the little ceramic teapot, careful not to touch the sticky, plasticized tablecloth. While he drilled down into the results, I drank my tea and fought the urge to search out the world’s largest container of thyme oil.

  Thyme oil happens to be a natural sanitizer. There were no alcohol-based gels for the Field family. We made our own. From thyme grown right in on little seaside plot of land. Anyway, my skin was crawling, and I vowed to not to glance at the posted grade by the front door on my way out and to never, ever look up the restaurant on the health department’s website. I was sure I didn’t want to know how many violations this joint had racked up.

  I peered over Victor’s shoulder at his results. “Mia Kim. She’s the owner of the phone?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Does her name ring a bell?”

  He rubbed his hand across his lips. “No.” He shook his head and repeated the word. “No.”

  Before I could tell him that I knew he was lying, the bell above the restaurant’s front door tinkled and I shifted my gaze to the front of the building to see the poor sucker who’d decided to eat here. It wasn’t a lone diner. Two men crowded into the narrow entryway. Something about them made me uneasy. I don’t know if it was their demeanor or their appearance or what. But I tensed as soon as I spotted them.

  Then the taller of the two called to a waiter on the far side of the room, who disappeared around the corner without acknowledging him. At the sound of his voice, a shock of recognition ran through me. I scooped up our personal belongings from the table and threw them in my purse. I grabbed Victor’s wrist, wrenched it hard, and pulled him down alongside me as I slid under the table.

  “Ow,” he yelped, trying to shake himself free of me.

  “Shh, shh.” I covered his mouth with my other hand and jammed my mouth right next to his ear. “They’re here. The guys from the apartment. I don’t think they spotted us.”

  His eyes widened with comprehension and fear, and I slowly removed my hand. We crouched there wordlessly in the cramped space and waited. I strained to hear over the impossibly loud thudding of my heart, like the bass line in a song. I could just make out low voices, growing louder, as footsteps neared our table.

  I held my breath as two pairs of running shoes stopped beside the table. In my mind, I pictured what they were seeing. Tea for two. Cash to cover the check on the table.

  “Eles se foram.” A guttural voice, almost a growl.

  “Desaparecido,” came the reply. The disgust needed no translation.

  After an interminable minute, the feet moved away, continuing on to the back of the restaurant. I figured they’d check the bathrooms, maybe peek into the kitchen and ask a waiter if he’d seen us, and then leave.

  Hang tight, Thyme, I told myself. Just a few minutes more.

  Beside me, Victor squeezed my hand—a gesture of solidarity, or maybe reassurance. The footsteps returned, passing our table, headed back toward the front. Just a few more steps and they’d be out of the restaurant, away from us. We’d be safe.

  That’s when the rat ran across my thigh.

  * * *

  I held the napkin to Victor’s hand, applying gentle pressure to stop the bleeding. “I’m really sorry I bit you,” I apologized for the umpteenth time.

  It was true. I felt awful. But when he clamped his hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming that blasted rodent turned around and ran right back across my lap going the other direction. There’s no other way to put it—I freaked out. Apparently my teeth came down hard on the soft, fleshy webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

  And, man, was Victor ever a bleeder. He’d toughed it out under the table until the bad guys had left the building and even waited an extra minute or two after the bell announced their departure.

  But once they were definitely clear of the restaurant, he’d jumped up, holding his arm aloft. Blood squirted everywhere. Our waiter raced over to give us the stink-eye but locked in on the Jackson still sitting on the table and offered assistance instead. He’d even procured a reasonably cleanish cloth napkin before he pocketed the bill and glided away.

  Victor shook his head. “What are you, part vampire? Your teeth are like razors.”

  I opened my mouth to apologize yet again but he waved his hand.

  “I’m kidding. Jeez, Thyme. It’s no big deal. Although”—he paused here to lower his voice to a husky near-whisper—“I think I prefer when you put your mouth to ... other uses.”

  I caught myself staring at his lips and would have kissed him again right then and there, but the memory of the men in the restaurant was too fresh. This wasn’t the time for canoodling.

  “Were those guys speaking Portuguese?”

  His face darkened. “Yes.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They came here expecting to find us. The first guy said, ‘they’re gone.’ The other one said, ‘vanished.’ How did they know we were here? I don’t get it.”

  I furrowed my brow and thought. The men had been tracking us since we’d left Helena’s apartment, but how? After the incident in the parking lot, we’d thought maybe they’d put a tracking device on the car while we were in the apartment, but we’d left the car miles away from the restaurant. It made no sense.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s almost like they put a tracker on one of us. But they didn’t see me in the closet. When you ran into them in the hallway, did one of them slip something into your pocket or something?”

  He shook his head and reached his good, unbitten hand into his pocket and pulled out Helena’s phone. “Nope. And my phone and my wallet are in your bag. You have my notebook, too, right?”

  I didn’t answer him. I was focusing on the gleaming rectangle in his hand.

  “Thyme?”

  “Sorry,” I said slowly, finally pulling my eyes away from his sister’s phone to meet his gaze. “We have to dump Helena’s phone.”

  Victor blanched. “Of course. Her phone. They’re tracking us through her phone.” He pushed the device to the other side of the table, as if he couldn’t get far enou
gh away from it.”

  “But if they can do that, it means they have a source at the wireless company, right?”

  “Yep. Or, more likely, Gabriel hooked up with a local police department or some other law enforcement agency. I don’t think he has the juice to pull any strings inside TeleVantage directly. But he could have gotten a brother in blue to help him out, officer to officer, under some pretense.”

  We stared at the phone for a long moment.

  Then Victor signaled for our waiter, who was loitering just outside the kitchen no doubt waiting for us to leave already. The guy scurried over.

  “Thanks for your help,” Victor said as he folded the blood-stained napkin into a neat square. “I’ll dispose of this for you, okay? Just point us toward your trash.”

  The man considered for a moment, weighing his options. Even a rat-infested dive probably drew the line at reusing linens that had been exposed to a customer’s bodily fluids—I hoped. After a few seconds, he shrugged. “Sure. Follow me.”

  I grabbed my purse and the phone from the booth. We trailed him through the swinging door into the kitchen. A bored line cook looked up from clipping his nails. The dishwasher, wearing earbuds, bopped along to whatever music he was listening to, oblivious to our presence. Our waiter led us through the space to a set of metal doors.

  “Dumpster’s out back,” he said pointing to the door.

  We pushed open the heavy door and stepped out onto a concrete loading dock. The Dumpster sat just below near the curb. I crouched and jumped down to the ground. Victor followed suit. He opened the rusted Dumpster lid and tossed in the bloodied napkin then gestured toward me.

  “Get rid of the phone.”

  I shook my head. “I have a better idea. Let’s send it for a ride.”

  Two buildings to the right, a beer truck idled as its driver wheeled a pallet of kegs up a ramp, making a delivery to a neighboring establishment. I jogged over and slipped Helena’s cell phone into the open truck. It skidded across the metal floor and landed in the back corner.

  With any luck, Gabriel’s goons would waste their time chasing the Budweiser guy from borough to borough while we figured out our next steps. I was feeling pretty clever when I rejoined Victor behind the Chinese restaurant.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now we regroup. It’ll be dark soon. We should get off the street until we have a plan. It’s safe to assume those goons are working for Gabriel. He’ll be able to find me easily. And if he ties you to Helena through the Whittier-Clays ...”

  I stared at him, feeling exponentially less clever by the second. “I’m not sure I follow. What are you saying? It’s not safe for me to go home?”

  Victor raised his shoulders. “I don’t know. But I do know I’d hate myself if something happened to you. So, I think we should find a hotel for the night. And you should cancel your client appointments for tomorrow. Just in case.”

  13

  We walked for a long time, taking a circuitous route to the subway station on Forty-Ninth Street. We took the N Train to Barclays Center. During the ride, which lasted about a half an hour, we talked in low voices, forehead to forehead, sketching out our next moves as we swayed from side to side with the car.

  After Union Square, two seats opened up next to each other and we snagged them. I pulled out my phone and texted my next day’s clients an apologetic cancellation, citing a nasty bout of food poisoning. Then I sent Rosemary and Sage a long text, explaining that I was about to go dark for a day or two. I told them not to worry if they couldn’t reach me. Then I removed the battery from my phone and stowed it in my purse. I knew the warning text was useless. If anything it would probably make my sisters ramp up their level of concern, but I couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth with no notice. I’d have their hides if they ever pulled a stunt like that.

  Beside me, Victor made whatever excuses he needed to make at work in a text of his own and then took out his phone’s battery. Neither of us were TeleVantage customers, but if Gabriel had the capacity to track Helena’s cell phone, there was no reason to think he couldn’t somehow get ahold of our phones’ locations, too.

  And just like that, we were off the grid. Or, as off the grid as one could be taking New Your City public transportation to a hipster, boutique hotel in Brooklyn. I mean, sure, we weren’t exactly camping in a state forest and catching fish with our hands or anything. But without cell phones, we couldn’t order GrubHub or call for an Uber or anything. For two Manhattanites, our current situation was positively rustic. Primitive, even.

  I giggled to myself about the absurdity of it all. He shot me a curious look then squinted at the station name that flashed by out the window.

  “That was Canal Street. The next stop’s us,” he said.

  We stood and fought our way through the crush of NYU students who’d boarded right after we’d found seats. We squeezed out the doors when they opened and hurried along the platform to the stairs.

  The hotel was about half a mile from the station. We covered the distance in just under ten minutes, heads down, walking fast. I knew we looked like two ordinary New Yorkers, always in a hurry as we strode along the street.

  But I felt anything but ordinary. I was on edge, half-expecting two Portuguese men to jump out from every doorway that we passed and gun us down in the middle of the sidewalk. I felt disconnected, adrift, and anonymous as a result of the simple act of turning off my phone. And, if I’m being honest, I felt a little shiver of anticipation at the thought of holing up in a hotel with Victor. I mean, I’d be getting my own room, but there was something undeniably intimate about disappearing together for the night. And he was a great kisser.

  I shook my head at the silly tangent. Beside me, Victor said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he stopped and pulled me out of the flow of foot traffic. We huddled against the side of a nondescript red brick building.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Because if you’re not—”

  “I said I’m sure.” I waved away his worry.

  He leaned in close and smiled, his mouth just a few inches from mine. “Good,” he breathed. “I’m getting used to having you around.”

  His impossibly long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones as he glanced down for a moment then reached out and smoothed my hair back from my face. I tried to ignore my fluttering heartbeat as he covered my mouth with a searching kiss. Yep, we were definitely going to need separate rooms.

  * * *

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the desk clerk said in a nasal, not-even-remotely-sorry tone, “but I don’t have two rooms available for this evening. There’s a three-day craft beer symposium being held at the brewery around the corner, and we’re booked solid. There was a cancellation this morning, so I can offer you one room. A deluxe king with a partial view.” He shifted his gaze from Victor to me and back to Victor again, unable to keep his mild amusement off his face.

  Victor looked at me and raised both eyebrows, as if to say, “It’s your call.”

  I was hungry and tired of walking around. I didn’t want to schlepp to the next hipster boutique and hope for better luck. I wanted to raid a minibar for some overpriced booze and nuts and collapse into bed—alone.

  “Is there a couch or anything in this deluxe room?” I asked, even though I suspected I knew the answer.

  “No. But I can have housekeeping bring up a cot.”

  Yippee, a cot.

  “Sounds great,” I said, flashing a smile that no doubt looked nearly as fake as it felt.

  The clerk followed suit with an insincere grin of his own. “Excellent.”

  He clacked away at his computer keys and processed my credit card while I checked out the lobby. TripAdvisor had described the design as “open, airy post-industrial meets mid-century,” which apparently translated into lots of metal, glass, and wood. No fabrics. Backless chairs. And a dimly lit hotel bar.

  “Your card, Ms. Fie
ld.” He passed my credit card and driver’s license, along with a recycled paper key card sleeve, across the counter. He pointed to the room number he’d scribbled on the sleeve in black marker and rattled off the directions to the elevator, which was plainly visible just to the right of the entrance to the bar.

  I shoved my card into my wallet and handed Victor one of the two key cards. We set off across the vast lobby toward the elevator bank.

  “Have a nice evening,” the clerk called in a strangled voice, as if he we were choking back a laugh.

  “Is it just me or is that guy a weirdo?” I asked.

  “He thinks we’re having an affair,” Victor explained. “Or at least a quickie.”

  I blinked, startled, and felt my skin start to heat up. “Why on earth would he think that?”

  He shrugged and jabbed the elevator call button. “We show up after five p.m. with no reservation and no luggage; you have a New York address on the ID you showed him; and, well, you’re pretty cute. Why wouldn’t he think that?”

  Pretty cute? I suddenly felt all of ten years old. Why do guys think girls want to be described as pretty cute? I mean, I guess it beats smelly and humorless, but, jeez. I pushed the thought out of my mind.

  “Wait. I asked for two rooms. Who gets two rooms to have a … um ... quickie?”

  “Paranoid cheaters, maybe? How should I know?”

  The amber light over the elevator to our right blinked to life and the doors parted. As we stepped inside the empty car, I said, “So you’ve never dated a married woman?”

  He stared at me, his lips slightly parted.

  I pushed the button for our floor and said, “Oh, gosh, don’t answer that. I’m sorry, that was a really rude question. I used to do research into gender differences regarding monogamy. I asked all sorts of inappropriate, personal questions. Old habit,” I explained, mortified at myself, as the words cascaded out of my mouth like a verbal waterfall.

  He furrowed his brow but nodded, like my explanation made at least a modicum of sense. “Monogamy research, huh?”