Scareplane

by Elise Sax

  “Fred has been on butt detail for the past few days,” I explained to Peter.

  “My sympathies, Fred. But obviously the chief believes that you have both a sensitivity and a competency to do this difficult work. Hats off to you, my man. Hats off to you.”

  Fred stood taller and seemed to think about Peter’s words. “I am sensitive,” he said.

  “The first moment I saw you, that’s exactly what I thought,” Peter said and winked at me.

  I wrote up my statement, giving the details about the gun and knife and how Larry tried to save me and how Peter saved Larry. “Done,” I told Peter when I finished.

  He looked over my shoulder at my statement. “Would you mind if I make one small editorial change?”

  “Uh, no?”

  I handed him the paper and pencil, and he erased everything about him in my statement. “Is that legal?” I asked. “That’s an official statement.”

  Peter shrugged. “In my experience, ‘legal’ is up for debate.”

  “But why don’t you want anyone to know that you saved Larry?”

  “I like to keep a low profile. Do you like steak? I’m feeling like a big steak and a bigger martini for dinner.”

  “I like steak,” I said, but what I really wanted to say was, “who the hell are you?” He was like Spencer up to a point. Like Spencer, he was sexy as hell, a perfectly coiffed and dressed metrosexual, but whereas Spencer stopped at animalistic manly manliness, Peter continued with a cosmopolitan, worldly James Bond thing. He seemed perfectly happy at all times, relaxed, content, like no matter what happened, he would be totally fine.

  Spencer came back into the lobby with Sidney, Frank, and Leah. “You can’t force us to stay in town,” Frank growled at Spencer.

  “Listen, Frank, you’re on my beat now. You get me? So, you’ll stick around until I’m satisfied. Are we clear?”

  Frank was big and smelly, but Spencer was big and smelled good. Frank was annoyed, but Spencer was fed up. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours,” Frank told Spencer.

  “That’s enough. We good here?” he asked the rest of them, and they nodded. When they left, Peter stood and smoothed out his suit. He gave me his hand and helped me up.

  “Little brother, how about we all go into your office and talk a minute before we go to dinner?”

  “Absolutely,” Spencer said, giddy. “I’ll show you my new Glock. You’re going to love it.”

  Peter and I sat in the chairs facing Spencer’s desk, and Spencer handed his brother his gun after he took out the bullets. “Pretty,” Peter said, approvingly.

  “Joyce Strauss tried to kill me,” I said, breaking into the family reunion. “She put a knife to my throat and a gun to my head. She didn’t like me butting in about the murder.”

  “Gladie likes to butt in,” Spencer explained to Peter.

  “I know. You’ve told me.”

  “You have?” I asked.

  “Spencer used to only talk to me about baseball and interrogation techniques. Now it’s all you, Gladie,” Peter explained.

  The two handsome men stared at me, and I felt my face turn bright red. I fanned myself with my hand and tried to catch my breath.

  “Joyce tried to kill me,” I repeated, trying to get back on track.

  “I think she was trying to scare you,” Spencer said.

  “She did a good job.”

  “Something went down between her and Mike,” Spencer continued. “I’m thinking he had something on her, and she didn’t want it to come out. What do you think, Peter?”

  “I think that’s a safe bet, but I’m afraid I have to add something to the mix.”

  Spencer leaned forward. “No way.”

  “Way,” Peter said, nodding.

  “No way!”

  “Way.”

  “No! Way!”

  “Way.”

  “What are we talking about?” I asked. “What way?”

  Peter turned to me. “I’m sorry, Gladie. It turns out that Mike Chantage was dirty dealing. International dirty dealing.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Mike was a spy,” Peter and Spencer said in unison.

  Once again, I was confused. I didn’t know how Spencer’s brother would know anything about Mike, let alone that he was a spy.

  “Let me explain,” Peter told me. “Actually, I can’t explain, but let me give you hints.”

  “She loves hints,” Spencer said.

  “Now and then, I come in contact with people like Mike,” Peter explained.

  “A jerk? An adulterer? A blackmailer? A liar? A sadist? Or a spy?” I asked.

  “All of the above, but I was referring to the last one.”

  Spy. Spencer’s brother came in contact with spies. So, that meant that he was either a spy, himself, or he was a spy catcher.

  “Isn’t he awesome?” Spencer said, gushing over his brother.

  After dinner, Spencer and I returned home, and Peter went wherever spy catchers went to bed. My grandmother was already sleeping, and the house was dark and quiet. Spencer locked the front door, and we walked upstairs slowly. I was exhausted. It had been a hell of a day. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally worn out.

  Once we were in my bedroom, we closed the door and started stripping down, throwing our clothes on the floor. I was planning on going to bed without brushing my teeth.

  “I’m so excited that Mike was a traitor,” Spencer whispered. “Now Peter will stick around for a day or two.”

  “That was good luck.”

  “It’ll be a treat to watch Peter work, hunting down KGB or terrorists or whatever. Hey, Pinky,” he said, putting his finger under my chin and tilting my head up. “I’m sorry that bitch scared you today.”

  “I almost died. Larry almost died. Joyce actually died.”

  Spencer nodded. His eyes were sad and searched mine for something. “You’re not allowed to die, Pinky. You can’t die because that’ll kill me. You can’t die because I have big plans where you’re concerned. You can’t die because I love you.”

  I tried to swallow, but there was something in my throat. Probably my heart. My eyes filled with tears and spilled over. Spencer wiped my cheeks with his thumbs.

  “She said I was a buttinski,” I said.

  Spencer shrugged. “Just because she was a psychotic bitch doesn’t mean she wasn’t smart and perceptive.”

  “Somebody poisoned her, and I don’t think she was a spy.”

  “Again, she was perceptive and smart. Maybe she knew Mike was a spy and knew who killed him.”

  Spencer had a point. Joyce could have known too much and had to be daffodilled to death. The daffodil angle bothered me, though. It didn’t sound like a sophisticated spy way to kill, as far as I was concerned.

  Spencer kissed me lightly on my eyelids and down my cheek to my neck. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me in close. He smelled so good. I couldn’t get enough of smelling Spencer. I nuzzled his neck and put my hands on his stomach, between us.

  “Have I told you recently that I love you?” he asked, working on giving me a hickey.

  “You just told me.”

  “Oh. How about your ass? Have I told you recently that you have the hottest ass? Jennifer Lopez is a dog in the ass department compared to you.”

  I put a finger on his lips to shut him up. “Let me give you a hint, here, Spencer. Don’t talk about other women when you’re trying to seduce me.”

  “Do not try. Do,” he said in his best Yoda voice.

  “And don’t do your Yoda voice when you’re trying to seduce me.”

  “You have a lot of rules. How about my tongue? Can I use that?”

  “That’s a good point,” I said. “The tongue is good, but wagging it is bad.”

  He picked me up and wrapped my legs around him. “Maybe I should give up trying to seduce you, since I’m so bad at it.”

  “You know what they say: Practice makes perfect.”

  “Good p
oint. Good point,” he said, laying me gently on my bed. He separated my legs and leaned down.

  “Now about my tongue,” he started and then there were no more words.

  Spencer was good at making love and good at loving. After we were finished pleasuring each other, he fluffed the pillows and held me in his arms, cuddling under the covers.

  “It’s kind of amazing that people keep dropping dead around you,” he whispered.

  “Normally, they’re already dead when I find them.”

  Spencer yawned. “It feels great having Peter around. It’s like I have a partner to fight crime with. Not like my idiot police force. I’ve got the only police force in history that was instrumental in keeping a burglary ring in business.”

  “I think they were using shopping as a break from your new detective.”

  “Terri? She’s been great. A real hardass.”

  I wanted to tell Spencer to fire her, to tell him that Detective Fart Face Bangin’ Bod was mean to me, and she had to go. But that broke every dating commandment in existence.

  Anyway, I didn’t need to worry about her anymore because I had decided to put Mike’s murder far behind me. Ditto Joyce. The two of them were horrible people and maybe traitors to the country. From here on out, I was going to let Spencer’s brother and whoever else wanted to, to investigate the murder and find the killer.

  I was done. Finished. Retired from snooping. No more Miss Marple. No more knives and guns and bridges and daffodils.

  The thought calmed me, and with my head on Spencer’s chest, hearing the beat of his heart and his breathing, I fell into the deep sleep of the innocent.

  CHAPTER 10

  Organization is the key to success, dolly. I’m not the first to say it, and I won’t be the last. I keep a lot of the business in my head, but don’t be fooled by that. I’m organized, and you should be too. An ounce of organization is worth a pound of Tylenol. You get what I’m saying? Don’t get a headache. Organize.

  Lesson 82, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  “I’m the one with jet lag, but you’re the one sleeping? How’s that fair?”

  I opened my eyes. Lucy was standing over me.

  “You’re in Thailand,” I said.

  “I was in Thailand. They’ve got big bugs there, darlin’. I almost put a saddle on one of them and rode it around. But you need me. I heard there was a second murder.”

  “You heard that in Thailand?”

  “Harry has good sources.”

  I sat up in bed. Spencer had gone to work already. I checked the clock. Eight-thirty. I had overslept.

  “Two murders, and I was there for both of them,” I told her.

  Lucy sat at the foot of my bed and crossed her legs. “I miss everything. Why are planes so slow? I could have at least caught the second murder.”

  “It was another daffodil murder,” I explained. “She was flowered to death.”

  “Flowered to death,” Lucy repeated, as if she was tasting the words on her tongue. “Don’t that beat all. So, where do we begin?”

  “I’m retired. I’m letting Spencer handle this one. I almost died yesterday, Lucy.”

  Lucy patted my leg. “I’m so sorry. That sounds horrible. I was thinking we should retrace the days of the murder victims and see when they ingested the daffodils.”

  I gasped. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Oh, good. You’re finally wearing off on me.”

  “But I’m retired,” I explained. “I’m not doing murder anymore.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. Yesterday I had a knife and a gun to my head at once. That’s a sign that I need to mind my own business.”

  Lucy adjusted her beautiful peach-colored dress and ran a hand over her perfectly-coiffed hair. “Gladie, it took me twenty-seven hours of ungodly transportation to get here to help you investigate this killing. Five of those hours were in coach. Coach, Gladie. Do you know what coach is these days? It’s like Rikers Island, but without the legroom. Are we clear, darlin’?”

  I nodded. “I’ll get dressed. Give me ten minutes.”

  While I took a quick shower and dressed in an above the knee blue sheath dress that Lucy insisted I wear instead of my usual casual outfits, I gave her the entire rundown of the suspects and the latest about Joyce.

  “This is a doozy of a case, Gladie,” she said, inspecting my room and organizing Spencer’s and my stuff on my dresser. “You’ve never had a poisoning before. It’s elegant. Stylish.”

  I thought back to what Frank had told me about poisoning. Women did it. That would line up with Cynthia and Detective Foxy Bossy. But I needed to find out how they did it. I needed proof.

  Uh oh. I guessed I had come out of retirement.

  “We’ll have to start at the center of the action,” I told Lucy.

  She picked up her purse. “I’m ready. Let’s get ‘em.” I opened my bedroom door and stepped out. “Phew,” Lucy said. “Good to get some fresh air. It smelled like all the sex in all the world happened in your room, darlin’.”

  We drove to Tea Time in Lucy’s peach Mercedes. I figured the tea shop was the center of all action in Cannes, and besides, I needed coffee.

  “Large latte, Ruth, and keep ‘em coming,” I called to Ruth when we entered.

  “Don’t you see I’m busy?” she screeched back.

  “Ruth seems like she’s in a good mood,” Lucy noticed. “I wonder what’s wrong.”

  “She’s smiling,” I said, surprised. “I didn’t know her mouth could go up like that.”

  We sat at a table and waited for our coffee. Ruth didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She was wiping down the bar with a wet cloth, as if she was trying to get through the layers of varnish. And she was smiling.

  “What is that woman smiling at?” Lucy asked.

  There were about seven stools at the bar, but there was only one person sitting there. It was a man in a perfectly tailored suit, his shoulders wide, and his hips narrow. I knew those hips. Those were Bolton hips. Spencer had a pair just like them. They were very good hips. It was Peter, Spencer’s brother, sitting on a stool, and Ruth was wiping down the bar right in front of him.

  “Is she…laughing?” Lucy asked.

  Ruth was laughing. Like a ninth-grade girl who gets attention from the school’s quarterback, she giggled and flipped her hair, even though her hair was cut close to her head.

  “I can’t believe you fixed my ancient freezer like it was nothing,” Ruth gushed at Peter.

  “It was nothing. The least I could do.”

  Ruth giggled elaborately. She was digging deep into a crush for Peter.

  “She’s under the spell,” I said.

  “What spell?”

  “The Bolton spell.” There was no cure for it. Once under it, a woman was helpless.

  “Bolton? You mean Spencer Bolton? What are you talking about? Oh my. Oh my, my, my, my, my.”

  Peter turned around on the stool and threw me his four-thousand-watt smile. “Ruth, would you excuse me a moment?” he asked her, and she giggled in response.

  “Spencer?” Lucy asked.

  “His brother, Peter,” I said.

  Lucy slapped her chest, as if she was having a heart attack. “There’s another one? Oh, my, God is great.” She punched me in the arm. “You said you told me everything, Gladie. But you left out the most important thing.”

  Peter stood over our table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve ordered a round of scones and clotted cream. Lattes all around?”

  “I don’t mind in the least, darlin’. I love all of those things.”

  “Peter, this is my friend, Lucy. Lucy, this is Spencer’s brother, Peter.”

  She put her hand out, like she was Anna Karenina. Peter took her hand and bowed. Then, he sat down. “Ruth, I’ll take another round, if you don’t mind!” he called. This time, Ruth loved being yelled at across the shop. She pulled out a fancy bottle wi
th a mysterious brown liquid and practically skipped to our table, where she topped off Peter’s latte with the brown juice.

  He took an appreciative sip and closed his eyes. “Ruth, I love any woman who doses my coffee.” He put an arm around her lower back and pulled her in close to his side.

  Ruth giggled and flipped her short hair, again. “Oh, Peter,” she said. “I could be your mother.”

  I coughed. “You mean great-grandmother,” I muttered under my breath, but Ruth heard me and shot me a look that could kill.

  “I’ll get you your latte,” she growled and pulled away from Peter.

  Lucy put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “So, Peter, tell me everything about you. Are you here visiting Spencer?”

  “Yes, and other things,” he said, winking at me.

  “He’s looking into Mike’s murder, too. Mike might have been a spy,” I told Lucy.

  “You told me that you had updated me on everything,” she spat at me between her teeth. I shrugged my shoulders.

  “The spy thing seemed like it was inconsequential to me,” I said.

  “Really?” Peter asked. “Tell me your reasoning.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to tell you your business. You’re probably right.”

  “No, Gladie,” Peter said, touching my hand. “I want to know your reasoning.”

  “Are you joking?” I asked. “You want to know my opinion?”

  Peter smiled. He had a great smile. Boy, the Bolton genes were off-the-charts, like they were created in a designer studio or something. He had a drop dead, hubba-hubba, hunkmobile, muscles-r-us body, but more than good-looking, he moved like an athlete mixed with a ballerina. Smooth, quick, and agile. Peter was an enigma wrapped in whatever one wrapped an enigma in, but whatever it was, it made Peter mysterious. A tall, dark mysterious stranger, but nevertheless, Peter was wide open and friendly to everyone. The perfect best friend. And he wanted to know my opinion. How weird.

  “I’m not joking. Spencer told me about your talents.” I arched an eyebrow. “Not those talents. The Miss Marple talents. You have quite a reputation. I’m impressed.”