One Spoonful of Trouble (Felicity Bell Book 1)

by Nic Saint

  He was the man she loved and this night would prove it once and for all. Though she still felt as if she’d barely scratched the surface of what made Richard Dawson tick, she was fully intent on getting to know the man a lot better before dinner was over. In fact she wanted to know all about him, up to every last one of his distinguishing features.

  She lifted the lid on the spring potatoes and saw to her satisfaction they were bubbling nicely. Placing the beef tenderloin on the cutting board, she then took a peek through the oven window at the Bundt cake which was going through its final stages. Judging by the smell, it was coming along nicely. Her grandmama would be proud.

  She plunked down on a kitchen stool for a moment, and checked the big kitchen clock. Seven. She still had one hour to finish preparing both the meal and herself, which gave her plenty of time. When the front door opened and Alice strode in, she was glad. She’d expected her friend sooner, and when she hadn’t shown, had figured perhaps she’d decided to catch an earlier movie.

  She was surprised, therefore, when she found Alice’s arms not filled with supplies but with a bulky cardboard box. Setting it down on the salon table with a meaningful glance, Alice waited for a few moments, like a stage manager setting the stage, before the first mewling sounds rose up from the box. Felicity clasped her hand to her mouth in surprise.

  She hurried over. The moment the first flap was turned back, five ginger heads came peeping out, and five throats opened simultaneously to produce the most beautiful concert. She recognized the quintet without fail, and clutched a hand to her heart. “It can’t be.”

  “Oh, yes it can,” grinned Alice. She held out her arms. “They’re aliiiiive!”

  Gaston had also trotted up, and curiously sniffed the air, but unlike his mistress appeared not as excited at this sudden introduction of a competitive element into what he considered his personal territory.

  In a few brief words Alice explained what had happened after Felicity left the funeral home. She added that based on her description of the intruder, Virgil had instantly put a name to the face. “He said it was a guy called Anton Ramsey.”

  Felicity’s jaw dropped. She’d picked up two of the cats and was cuddling them fervently.

  “No way.”

  “Way. Same guy who tried to rob you of your little bundle of cash.”

  “A recidivist scared off by five brave cats,” she said softly.

  “Well, actually they did the scoundrel a favor. The only reason I’d run away from him was to fetch Uncle Charlie’s shotgun. I had it locked and loaded when he escaped like a thief into the night. The last time he was seen he was still running and making for New York. I bet he won’t be back in these parts any time soon.”

  “You’re a heroine, Alice,” Felicity said fervently.

  “No, these guys are the heroes.” She picked up the remaining three, all the while ignoring Gaston’s plaintive mewling. “What do you say if you turn this episode into an article? I’ll bet readers of the Happy Bays Gazette will feast on it.”

  Felicity pursed her lips. “I’ll run it by my tutor.”

  “Come again?”

  “Rick has agreed to be my private teacher. He’s going to make a reporter of me yet.”

  “Just make sure you get the credit. You never know with these star reporters.”

  “Rick isn’t like that. Rick is…” She sighed wistfully, not concealing her true feelings from her oldest and dearest friend. “Rick is simply amazing.”

  “I’ll bet he is,” Alice grunted. “Speaking of which, what do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. You go on and enjoy your movie. I’ve got everything under control here.”

  “I’ll do just that little thing.” And with those words and a last coochie-coochie-coo to the cats, she stepped from the house.

  CHAPTER 43

  The moment Rick settled down with his laptop, he soon lost all sense of time and place. As was his habit when engrossed in his work, he plopped a pair of earbuds into his ears, cranked up the volume on his Coffitivity app, which imitated the ambiance of a cafe, and eased into a cocoon of his own creativity. This absolute focus, which had made him one of the top journalists of his generation, unfortunately also made him unaware of the stirring events taking place outside the fishing lodge that he’d now claimed as his writing shack.

  A mere few feet from where he sat, a heated discussion was taking place. It blended right in with the murmuring sounds of Rick’s imaginary cafe and were therefore lost to his ears.

  “I say we take the darn thing now,” Jerry Vale was saying.

  “But we just got canned, Jer. Now’s not the time to go carrying out Falcone’s orders. He ain’t our boss anymore.”

  “I know that,” Jerry said with justifiable pique. He didn’t enjoy getting canned. “Don’t you think I know that?” And soon enough, he would have added, Marlene would know it too, and there would be hell to pay. As the breadwinner in his little home, he had a responsibility, a fact of which she frequently reminded him.

  “Look,” said Johnny reasonably, “since the boss ain’t our boss anymore, he can’t boss us around, see? It’s simple logic.”

  “I know all that!” Jerry cried petulantly. “But can’t you get a simple thing into that thick skull of yours? If we steal that laptop and hand it over to Falcone, what do you think will happen?”

  Johnny thought hard about that one. Then he grinned. “Is that a trick question? It is, isn’t it?”

  Jerry rolled his eyes and suppressed a strong urge to hit his partner in the solar plexus. “He’ll be so thrilled he’ll hire us back is what will happen!”

  Johnny looked dubious. “You really think so? He seemed pretty sure when he canned us. His mind made up and all that.”

  “He’ll change his mind as soon as we bring home the bacon.”

  “Bacon? I thought we was stealing a laptop.”

  Jerry threw a quick peek through the window. Rick was still bent over his computer, deaf to the world. He licked his lips. “Here’s what we do. You sneak up from behind and lay him out cold, while I snatch that computer. I’ll bet it’s where he keeps the goods.”

  “Me? Why do I have to do the dirty work?”

  Jerry eyed Johnny’s bulky frame. The man had been a heavyweight champion in the not too distant past, and he still looked the part. “Because you’re the muscle in this little operation of ours, Johnny, and I’m the brains.”

  “Gee, thanks, Jer. That’s mighty nice of you to say.”

  “De nada. Now go in there and smack that bazooka. Oh, and Johnny?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t smack him too hard. He’s still the boss’s son and I don’t think he wants to see him permanently damaged.”

  “Sure thing, Jer. Consider him smacked but not smacked too hard.”

  Jerry eagerly watched through the window, waiting for Johnny to do his thing. When nothing happened, he frowned and jerked his head away from the window to go in search of his companion. He found him seated outside the door.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? The gong?”

  Johnny looked up at him with those cow-like eyes of his. “I don’t know if I can do this, Jer.”

  “What? Why not?”

  He hitched up his shoulders and dropped them again, looking like a giant who just swallowed a dwarf. “I don’t know my own strength. Isn’t that what you’ve told me a million times?”

  “So?”

  “So what if I knock that dumbo’s block off and it stays knocked off? What if I hit him too hard and he doesn’t come to? It’s happened to me before, you know.”

  “I do know,” Jerry said darkly. In fact it had been just that little thing that had ended Johnny’s career as a prizefighter. One of his opponents, after running into Johnny’s left hook, had never really recovered, his brains scrambled. Not that there had been much to scramble, but still. Johnny had been suspended from active duty and snatched up by Falcone as private muscle.

  “Why d
on’t you hit him very gently,” Jerry suggested. “Just a tap.”

  “Like a nudge?”

  “Yeah. Exactly like a nudge.”

  “I can do that,” Johnny said, thinking this through. “But what if I don’t hit him hard enough, and he comes back swinging at me?”

  “Then you hit him harder. Come on, Johnny, just do it already, will you?”

  “Oh, all right,” the big guy said, rising to his feet. With a sigh, he broke through the door, stomped into the lodge and took a swing at Rick. The latter, startled at this sudden intrusion into his private writing time, went down without a hitch, and Johnny, giving his associate two thumbs up, quickly bent down to take the man’s pulse. He nodded happily. “He’s still breathing. I think I nudged him just right, Jer.”

  “That’s fine,” grumbled Jerry, snatching the laptop from the table and stalking out again, muttering to himself about the trouble with today’s goons.

  Before long, the two associates were trudging along the sandy beach to Casa di Vitae, their treasure firmly in hand. In fact it had been quite a coincidence that they’d caught sight of Rick in the first place. Having just been given the boot, they’d both felt the strain keenly, and had decided to take a stroll along the surf to soothe their broken spirits. And just when they’d reached Casa di Amore, who would they see but Rick, trudging from the main house to a small shack near the beach.

  It had taken Jerry longer to convince Johnny to go along with the scheme than for him to think it up.

  “We did it, Jer!” Johnny caroled jubilantly.

  “We sure did, pardner. We sure as heck did.”

  And they’d just reached Casa di Vitae, when Jerry detected that something was amiss. When they’d left him, Falcone had been sitting on the patio. Now there was no sign of the billionaire and the place was locked up. They walked around to the front of the house, and tried the bell. No dice. Chazz Falcone had left the building.

  CHAPTER 44

  Ever so quietly, Falcone snuck through the house. He counted his blessings that Grover had told him Rick had set up his home base at Casa di Amore. Having recently fired Jerry and Johnny, he’d briefly toyed with the idea of engaging this Bell woman to do his dirty work, but then the stingy streak that runs through every billionaire’s soul had asserted itself. He’d been staring out his bedroom window at the house next door, and asked himself why he would have to spend good money on Felicity Bell if he could simply pop over and take care of business himself?

  And so it was that he snuck in through the back door and was now on his way upstairs, where he assumed Rick had set up his office. Having been a frequent guest of his good friend Grover over the years, he knew his way around the house as if it was his own. And in a way it was. The two houses had been built by the same architect. The man, even though he’d promised absolute originality, and had charged them accordingly, had simply drawn up duplicates.

  As he placed his foot on the bottom step, he hoped he wouldn’t run into Rick. But even if he did he had his story ready. After all, Grover had once declared that his home was as much Falcone’s as his own, and so what if he was caught? He could simply say he’d been invited by his friend, who would be arriving shortly. It wasn’t even a lie, for Grover had told him his infernal son Bomer had been spotted heading into Happy Bays, and he had a thing or two to say to him.

  Loud banging noises emanated from the living room, as if a gang of movers were redecorating the place. He ignored them, and carefully trotted up the stairs. Arriving on the landing, he waited for a few moments. No sound came from any of the rooms, and he proceeded to the guest bedroom, which he assumed Rick would have picked for himself.

  Gently pushing open the door, he found the room uninhabited. With a frown, he eased back, and perceived with a shock that he had bumped into something soft and wet. Whirling around, he found himself gazing into the amiable face of Bomer Calypso.

  “Hi there, Mr. Falcone,” the young man intoned. He was dressed in nothing but a towel, his bare torso still wet from his shower.

  “Hello, um, Bomer,” the iron-willed businessman riposted, though the sudden meeting had taken some of the iron from his will and possibly some years from his life. His hair couldn’t suddenly turn white, for it already had the silvery hue that comes with age, but he still felt that Felicity Bell, that formidable woman, would never have allowed herself to get caught like this.

  “Dropping in for the party, eh? I’m afraid you’re a bit early,” Bomer continued, holding his head to one side in an apparent bid to allow water to emerge from his ear cavity. “Party’s only starting at nine, but you’re welcome to stick around, of course.”

  Making a quick recovery, Falcone asked, “Will, um, my son be attending?”

  “Rickie? Afraid not. You know Rick. Avoids parties like the plague.” He held his head to the other side now, closely resembling a parrot.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Even though he and this son had never seen eye to eye, he mentally commended him on his work ethic. While young wastrels like Bomer Calypso frittered their lives away by throwing parties for other wastrels, at least Rick had never gone in for that sort of thing. No, the boy had really made something of himself, even though he’d opted to spend his not inconsiderable talent trying to run his father’s business into the ground. “So I take it he’s not here?” he asked, just to be on the safe side.

  “Nope. Taken refuge in the fishing lodge. I guess he’ll be holed up there until the all-clear is blown, which I fully expect not to happen until very late. Or should I say very early?” He laughed gaily, and Falcone’s lip trembled into something resembling a smile. Not that Bomer’s joke had struck him as amusing, but the fact he was in no danger of running into Rick came as a great relief.

  It did remind him of another important matter, and he drew his face into a disapproving scowl. “I do hope you’re not thinking about returning to your partying way, Bomer. You know how much Charlene disapproves.”

  Bomer’s eyes widened. “I, um…”

  “And speaking of Charlene, I really think you should put in more of an effort to patch things up with my daughter. The sooner you heal this rift the better.”

  Bomer stood on one leg for a moment, now looking like a parrot about to perform a party trick. “I—ah—well, that is to say—”

  Ignoring the other’s inane babbling, Falcone continued, “Charlene is a very proud young woman, but I’m sure that if you explain the situation to her, and show the proper remorse, she will be more than willing to take you back.”

  Bomer hopped onto the other leg. “Oh. Ah…”

  “As it is, I’ll have a word with her myself.” He stole out a hand to clap his future son-in-law on the shoulder, but changed his mind when he realized the young man was still naked from the waist up. “Better put on some clothes. Nudity is something best kept private.” And he gave Bomer a withering stare.

  The young man gulped, muttered something unintelligible, and quickly retreated into his room.

  Falcone stared after him for a beat. He was doing the math in his head. If that room belonged to Bomer, and the guest bedroom was empty, that only left the master bedroom and the second guest bedroom to be explored.

  He decided to approach this the same way Sherlock Holmes would: in a methodical and logical fashion. The most likely option was the second guest bedroom, and the moment he entered it, he found that he’d finally struck gold. A small suitcase had been placed on the bed, and next to it, a briefcase. Quickly crossing to the bed, he peered inside, and found the laptop he’d been searching for. Not bothering to take it out, he simply gathered up the briefcase, and was off and rapidly making his escape within moments.

  It had taken two professionals days to find, and he had done so within the hour. He congratulated himself on a job well done, and before long was out the back door and heading back to Casa di Vitae.

  CHAPTER 45

  Felicity sat nursing a glass of wine, checking the clock over the mantel for the umpteenth time
. Eight o’clock had come and gone, and no sign of her dinner date. At first she’d resisted the urge to call him and inquire as to the reason for his delay, but pride had come crashing down after half an hour, and when she’d found the call going straight to voicemail, had felt a pang of concern.

  Five fruitless attempts to contact Rick later, and three glasses of wine, she was starting to feel the strain acutely. The man was clearly not going to show. And when finally the hands of the clock pointed to nine, she decided to forget all about Rick Dawson. The man was a cad, a scoundrel and a no-good piece of scum. The first impression she’d had of him had proven correct after all, and now she was glad—glad!—that she’d taken a frying pan to his head. She wished it had been a battle-axe.

  Squeezing back the tears stinging behind her eyes, she decided never to open her heart to any man ever again. They were, it was now obvious, not to be trusted, even the ones as smooth-talking and good-looking as Rick Dawson. Correction: especially the ones as charming and handsome as Rick.

  And she’d just spent considerable mental energy thinking up ways and means of torturing the no-good son of a billionaire, when the doorbell rang, and she jumped up from her chair, all thought of roasting Rick over a slow fire wiped from her mind and replaced by the love light, burning as bright as ever. So he had come! He’d probably merely been delayed. A flat tire. A fallen tree branch. A…

  She stared blankly at the stranger. He was short, portly, and his face sprouted eyebrows like the late Leonid Brezhnev. She resisted the urge to blurt out, “Who the hell are you?” and instead merely goggled at the man.

  “Good evening, Miss Bell,” her visitor said in a deep, rumbling voice. He made a slight bow, then added, “My name is Chazz Falcone, and I would like to obtain your services.”

  “My…services?” she asked, puzzled. Why Rick Dawson’s father would decide to visit her at this time of night was a mystery to her, but then a frightful thought occurred to her and she clutched a hand to her heart. “Did—did something happen to Rick?”