The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  She put her hands on her hips. “What car?”

  I opened my mouth, pointed down the empty street, sighed and desisted. “I’ll just get down.”

  I was still trembling as I slid into the car. What a close call. If it had happened yesterday, if it had been a green minivan…but I hadn’t offended any silver Datsun’s that I knew of. Uneasy, but not sure why, I took my mother home and went up to my room to mope. In the doorway, I stopped, the unease sharpening to a sense of intrusion coming from the shadowy quiet of my space.

  It was over, the CIA, the police, everybody said so. So why did I have this feeling I was forgetting something important?

  “Stan?”

  I didn’t recognize Candice until I was well on the way down from the ceiling.

  “Geez, you’re jumpy. What’s your problem?” She stuffed a cookie in her mouth.

  I could have told her, but as a teenage child of divorced parents she already had enough self-esteem problems.

  “What are you doing in here?” It was a violation of the strict separation of aunt and family, and she knew it.

  “I was wondering if I could borrow your typewriter. I’ve got a report I need to type up for school.”

  “It’s in my closet.”

  I turned wearily towards the bedroom. I had a date to be tortured by bingo, followed by getting shoved around a room to accordion music. I didn’t get far when Candice called from the living room. “Stan, I can’t find the cord to plug it in!”

  “It’s in the little compartment on the back.”

  Like a wave it came over me. What I was forgetting. Mrs. Carter’s purse. The little blue claim slip in my coat pocket.

  “That’s where the cord is?” Candice said. “Wow, it’s like a secret hiding place. Cool.”

  Yes it was. It was exactly like a secret compartment in the back of the typewriter. Mrs. Carter had been at Kenyon Business Machines the night she died, Kel had said, at a PT-PAC meeting. The repair slip was from Kenyon. Was it possible? Could she have hidden something in the compartment of her typewriter? But why would she hide anything in her own typewriter and then take it in for repair. Unless she was afraid someone would come after her at home. Which was exactly what had happened. According to the newspaper, her house had been trashed. Maybe the round headed guy had searched for whatever Mrs. Carter was trying to give Kel before coming after us. That’s why it had taken them so long. Ironic if what they were looking for was sitting safely at Kenyon’s.

  My first impulse was to call Kel. Trouble was, my theory sounded pretty farfetched rattling around inside my head. To have to actually say it out loud…I winced and not from wound pain. I write about a roach, but I do have limits to how far I’ll humiliate myself. The idea had serious flaws, even I could see that. There were better hiding places than the back of a typewriter. The whole idea was silly.

  Except for the fact that nothing else in her purse had produced more than dead bodies.

  I could go and check out the typewriter myself, for my own peace of mind. How could I enjoy bingo when I might be withholding an important piece of evidence from the CIA? It only took me a moment to find the slip in the pocket of my coat where I’d left it. Kenyon Business Machines closed early on Saturday, so I’d have to hurry. I grabbed purse, coat and keys.

  “Candy, I have to go pick up something before the store closes and I have this date coming. Could you like, stall him for me until I get back? Maybe introduce him to Grandma?” She looked inclined to resist, so I played my trump card. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “You mean?”

  “Cold, hard cash.”

  “Okay.”

  I said my thanks with only a hint of sarcasm, grabbed my coat and ran. I made it to Kenyon’s in record time and pulled to a stop in front. Inside a young woman, pretending to type gave a pointed look at the clock edging toward four, before giving me a stiff smile.

  “Can I help you?” Her tone said she’d like to help me out the door.

  “I came to pick up a typewriter. Here’s the slip.” I returned her smile with a false one of my own.

  She studied the slip for a long moment, a real speed reader, then pushed back the chair and stood up. She was tall, well endowed, and dressed to flaunt it. As I watched her swaying hips retreat, I curled my lips in disgust. One guess which Kenyon hired her.

  “Isabel, darling.”

  Had I conjured up the toe rag with my thoughts? I turned around. Hadn’t I suffered enough?

  “See, darling. That’s twice now I’ve not confused you with Rosemary.”

  “I’m underwhelmed.”

  “Why didn’t we meet first? I like a woman with spirit.”

  “The only woman you wouldn’t like is one with a sexually transmitted disease. And then you’d have to think about it.”

  My words just bounced off his ego. “So how’s the dog doc?”

  “He’s dating Rosemary.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she’s so happy, I’ll bet she’d let you have the Mercedes back—if you offered her a financial incentive.” Now that it was full of bullet holes, she didn’t want it.

  “Thanks for the tip. I will. Is Mimsie helping you?”

  Mimsie. Why was I not surprised? “Yes, and here she is now.”

  The heavy typewriter accentuated the sultry sway of her hips and squeezed her breasts almost out of her low cut blouse. She squinted at the slip again. “That’ll be one hundred and fifty dollars and fifty-five cents, please.”

  I tried not to look horrified, but it wasn’t easy. I wrote out a check and handed it over with a silent farewell. It would have been nice if I could have peeked inside, just to see if I was buying something besides repairs for a typewriter I didn’t own. She gave me a receipt and for better or worse, it was mine. I went to grab it, Dag didn’t offer to help because gallant wasn’t in his programming, but before I got my hands on it, another voice halted my escape.

  “Isabel?”

  Flynn Kenyon. All we needed now was Muir to complete the set. I really hated playing happy former families. I turned, summoning up a stiff smile for him.

  “Flynn.”

  He came out of the shadows of the closing store, his smile visible first. He wasn’t wearing white, but he should have been.

  “You’re picking up Mrs. Macpherson’s typewriter?”

  What? I almost said it out loud. How could this be Mrs. Macpherson’s typewriter? Had they given me the wrong one? I was tempted to tell him, but something, maybe Dag coiled next to me, stopped me.

  “Is it?” I asked. “I just told Reverend Hilliard I’d pick it up for him.” I felt guilty using the Reverend to perpetuate a lie. Okay, I didn’t feel guilty, but I felt like I should feel guilty.

  “The numbers on the slip matched,” Mimsie whined.

  “If she wants her typewriter, she must be feeling better.” His face was expressionless.

  “I hope so. I’ve been covering for her at the organ.” I hooked my hands round the handle and started to lift.

  “Perhaps I should check it before you go. We want everything to be in order for her, since she’s not quite up to par.” His tall, thin figure loomed over me, almost sinister as his hands reached for the typewriter.

  “Check it?”

  “That’s right. It’ll only take a moment to open it up.” He paused, seemed to home in on my fear. “Unless you have some reason why you don’t want me checking it?”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Reason? I don’t think so.” My mind limped this way and that, looking for an out. “I was just surprised. I thought you checked everything before you brought it out. If you don’t think this typewriter was properly fixed, then by all means check it.”

  I felt I’d lobbed his serve quite neatly back into his own court and allowed myself a small smile.

  “I did check it before I brought it out, Mr. Kenyon,” Mimsie said.

  Which probably meant I’d just bought a pig in a poke.

  Flynn smiled
. “Then I’m sure everything is in order.”

  I grabbed the typewriter and staggered out the door. After slinging it into the passenger seat, I scrambled behind the wheel and squealed away from the curb. At the first light I dug at the latch of the little door. It fell open and a sheaf of papers fell out.

  Computer sheets with diagrams of several buildings, boxes of figures next to each one? Not the “blinding light of discovery” clue I was expecting, but certainly something that shouldn’t have been in a typewriter that apparently belonged to Mrs. M.

  Someone honked behind me and I tossed the sheets down, accelerated, then braked to make the turn onto the freeway ramp. I sped up again, then made the mistake of switching to that same auto pilot that had landed me in the middle of a shootout. The straight stretch of highway made it easy to worry at the problem of what I’d got hold of. What was Mrs. Carter doing with the claim slip for Mrs. M’s typewriter? And what were the diagrams? Something about them buzzed at the edge of my mind. I stole a quick peek and realized that over each diagram someone had drawn circles, small in the center, then gradually widening.

  Like a target.

  Traffic was flowing smoothly, so I took another quick look. The buildings weren’t identified, though there was something sort of governmental about them. Anybody watching the war on television knew all about smart bombs and heat-guided missiles. Security measures had been stepped up at the airports and it was common knowledge there were Patriot missiles guarding government buildings because of the threat of terrorism. I wasn’t great at math, but I could put two and two together and get an ominous four.

  A car ahead of me swerved into my lane, startling me out of my sleuth-like musings. I braked hard. The rear of my car slued in a half circle. The horizon blurred to rainbow hues as it went past. I missed the braking Datsun by inches. A Ford by millimeters. The guard rail by less than that.

  No one was more surprised than I was when I found myself unharmed, heading straight and true down the road again. In my rear view mirror, I saw the Datsun swerve off an exit. Idiot, I thought, pressing down on the gas. I couldn’t wait to show Kel his clue. If he was nice, I wouldn’t even gloat.

  Yeah, I would. I’d earned the right.

  By the time I got home, my date was my mother’s date, which shows that life can’t ever be all bad. I don’t think either of them noticed when I slipped away to call Kel about my find. I was reaching for the telephone when something moved just right of my peripheral vision.

  Since everyone I knew, including my dog, was downstairs, I opened my mouth to scream. Nothing got out because someone grabbed me and covered my mouth with their hand. I struggled. I was tired of getting grabbed. We staggered and reeled a bit, then tumbled onto the couch. Before we landed my senses had nailed him as friendly and I’d quit struggling.

  I gave him a severe look from my spot on the bottom. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “You surprised me,” Kel said.

  “I guess coming home is a nasty habit. I’m trying to stop, but until I find somewhere that isn’t my home…”

  He chose the quickest way to shut me up. It was a good choice. I wasn’t going to have fax with him, but I sure liked kissing him on the mouth. And beside his mouth. And along his cheek…

  When we came up for air, I asked, trying to sound severe, “How did you get in?”

  “I picked your lock. After making sure your dog wasn’t here.”

  “Knocking is hard on the knuckles.”

  “And they belong to my country,” he pointed out. “I’m not allowed to bang them against just anything.”

  There was that sense of humor again. If he didn’t stop coming around I’d start believing Congress was spending too little and that love could last. And if I wasn’t careful I was going to get romance writing fantasy mixed up with my reality. Not good.

  I quit stroking the strong column of his neck. A girl who’d recently been to church and almost been killed several times this week, should be resisting temptation, not offering blatant invitations to the author of it.

  I realized “temptation’s” heart was beating as hard as mine and asked huskily, “Did you have a reason for breaking and entering or were you just polishing up your skills?”

  His grin turned wry. “Actually I did.”

  He slid off and helped me upright. I needed the help. Our tussle had not only turned my body rubbery, it made my arm hurt.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay?” I had a feeling it wasn’t fax he was requesting, but I tried to look attentive and alert.

  “It seems that Dillon was right on about the connection between Howard, your round-headed man, and the Mitchell kid. There’s been some major pilfering going on in their guard unit. And either Mitchell and Howard had a falling out, or Mitchell found out about it and got killed to silence him. I suspect the latter, he had a clean record and Howard didn’t.”

  “How awful.” I shivered and Kel put his arm around my shoulders. I warmed myself against the furnace of his body. It was a government sponsored perk I’d helped pay for.

  “It’s a royal mess. Right now they’re trying to find out what’s missing, but with half the unit on its way to the Gulf it’s not going to be easy. Howard made sure the records were all screwed up. A lot of dangerous armament could be missing and in the hands of our enemies.”

  “Wow.” I thought about the weaponry I’d seen on Fox News the past few weeks. It was scary to think of it in our hands, let alone the bad guys. “How did I get mixed up in stuff like this, Kel?”

  “You drove into it. What I’d like to know is where Mrs. Carter fits in? There has to be a connection between her and the others besides PT-PAC or the drug angle.”

  I didn’t have a clue how or where a retired schoolteacher fit into a puzzle made up of round-headed crooks and missing smart bombs. Luckily Kel’s question appeared to be of the rhetorical variety. Almost absently he stroked my hair, a slight frown pulling down his brows and a distant look in his eyes.

  “If only I knew what she was trying to tell me the night she was killed. You were right about her purse. Other than the matchbook, there wasn’t anything worth killing her for.”

  “Oh! But there was.” I gave him an apologetic look. “It fell out in Rosemary’s car. I put it in my coat pocket meaning to give it to you and then forgot. It didn’t seem that important. It was just a repair claim ticket for a typewriter.”

  His look of hope faded. “Oh.”

  “No, I think it was the clue. I had this sort of idea, so I went and picked it up myself just a while ago.”

  Hope looked good dawning in his face once more. “And?”

  “Over there on the floor. I found stuff where the cord is usually stored. When you take them in, they make you keep your cord so they don’t lose it, you know.”

  He abandoned me with a bump. I didn’t mind. Really. I mean, this was national security. I wasn’t even a national treasure. So I was cold without the spy hugging me. My country would be a safer place because of it.

  He gathered the sheets I’d dropped when he grabbed me and started studying them with an intensity that said more than words how serious the situation was.

  He looked up.

  “Where was the typewriter?”

  “At Kenyon Business Machines.”

  “Really.” I could tell that interested him, but he didn’t tell me why. Very close-mouthed these spies. Of course, I was only a helpful citizen and not the press, so why should he tell me anything? “Didn’t you say you had a fax machine?”

  I knew exactly which fax he was interested in. I pointed to my desk.

  “I’d like to get my people working on this right now. There’s a clock ticking in my head. I can feel it. Time is running out on this one, Bel. Fast.”

  “My fax is your fax, if you promise the CIA will reimburse me the money I paid for the typewriter?”

  He grinned. “Our money is your money.”

  Truer words were never spoken. Or mo
re ignored by the guardians of it. “Help yourself.”

  I figured he needed a little privacy, so I slipped into the kitchen and rounded us up something to drink. My arm was still throbbing from our wrestling match, so I tossed down a couple of aspirins before I rejoined him.

  “Thanks. Do you mind if I hang around for a bit? They want to send me something in a few minutes.”

  He might as well have asked me if I wanted to keep breathing. I handed him the drink with a hand surprisingly steady, considering it had just hit me that I’d like him to hang around forever. I sank down on the couch, my thoughts spinning in a dazed way. How had this happened?

  Pride. That was my downfall. I’d been so proud of staying heart whole, so proud that I didn’t need a man in my life for contentment. So fate had set out to humble me, to teach me about need and unfulfilled desire, about how to want what you can’t have.

  Kel sat down next to me, his arm sliding behind my head with a casual air that nine out of ten teenage boys would have given their virginity to emulate. There was a short silence. Now that we were no longer discussing murder and mayhem, I couldn’t look at him. What if he looked in my eyes and saw a longing for more than fax between us?

  “I enjoyed your playing at the funeral,” Kel murmured, his husky voice turning lazy as he temporarily stood down as a spy. “Where’d you learn to jazz it up like that?”

  “New Orleans.” His fingers moved in my hair, taking apart my braid and setting the strands free.

  “You have wonderful hair.”

  “Thank you.” I sounded so stilted, I wanted to die.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No…no.”

  He leaned closer, amusement filtering into his voice. “You don’t still think I’m trying to kill you, do you?”

  “No, I’m fine, really.” I’m afraid you’re trying to break my heart is what I wanted to say.

  “You’re wound pretty tight.” He began to knead the back of my neck, his touch strong, but gentle.

  It felt really good. It also started a different kind of tension at a different place in my body. “Maybe you shouldn’t…I mean, well we kind of skipped a few preliminaries in our…”