The Lavender List

by Meg Harrington

  “They’re mistaken.”

  Myrtle sniffs. She doesn’t have any proof, just suspicions. The night before had been hectic, all gun smoke, darkness, and screams of frightened girls.

  Laura tells the hausfrau she really must go and quickly climbs the steps. She doesn’t look back. That would invite Mrs. Myrtle to continue the conversation, and Laura really doesn’t have the time.

  The open door, an unsettling sight, gives Laura a clear viewpoint into Amelia’s empty room. Her belongings are scattered everywhere, and someone has drawn chalk around the bullet holes in the wall. It is, unmistakably, a crime scene.

  It’s also incredibly eerie. Because, despite the mess—despite the chalk—it still smacks of Amelia. Of home.

  Laura ducks her head and goes to her own room. She has to root through her purse for the keys, and she’s just got the right one slotted into the lock when a figure emerges in her peripheral.

  “Hi,” Judy says too brightly.

  If she weren’t a spy who’d tried to kill Laura and Amelia the night before, she might be pretty. Her auburn hair—natural going by the tint of her eyebrows—is pulled back a little too severely, but it highlights the sharp lines of her cheekbones and sharper hook of her nose. She softens her image with the perfect application of rouge. It makes her look young. Wholesome. So, it’s the eyes that do her in as a spy. Judy has watery blue eyes that bring to mind the milky ones of a blind man. And they’re too wide. Too busy.

  “Haven’t seen you around,” Judy says. “Everything all right?” Those eyes rove over everything, slotting away facts and clues like a file clerk.

  The only leg up Laura has in this particular scenario is she knows what Judy actually is, while Judy has no idea that she knows. So, she twists her key and unlocks her door and walks in shoulder first. “Just busy,” she says tightly. “Had to go up to Connecticut.” She’s got to sound harried. Got to sound like an accomplished spy on urgent business.

  “Oh. Did… did Amelia go with you?”

  She plays dumb. “No. I haven’t seen her since breakfast yesterday. Is everything all right? Mrs. Myrtle mentioned a gun of all things.”

  “Yeah! One that went off in Amelia’s room! Half the girls thought it was fireworks, but me, I grew up on a farm.”

  “So you knew it was a gun.”

  “Oh yes,” Judy says. Eyes wide and guileless. She’s really very good at playing this character. “Anyways, I saw you come in, and I just knew I had to ask you about it. I mean you and Amelia are so… close.” Little Judy, the Russian spy, is much better than Laura at playing the innocent busybody. She sounds like any one of the gossips Laura went to boarding school with. There’s no accusation in her statement. Not even thinly veiled insinuation.

  Laura doesn’t even try to be as good. She’s setting a trap and needs Judy to walk into it because she thinks she’s smarter than Laura.

  Even though she hates it, she plays dumb. Plays the spy who thinks she’s clever. “Oh.” She does her best owlish blink. Tilts her head. The clever spy who has no idea how close she is to the enemy. “I’m sure Amelia’s just fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, Connecticut was just exhausting.” The spy just begging to be kidnapped. “I think I’m due for a nap.”

  She steps into her room and shuts the door in Judy’s face.

  The bait has been set in place. Now she just needs Judy to bite.

  With a wig and some clothes she needs to take to the laundry, Laura fashions a terrible looking dummy and tucks it into her bed. She leaves the lamp on next to the bed and it casts deep shadows across the room.

  She stations herself in the closet and waits, her gun held loosely at her side.

  She can’t see the clock from her position and not enough light leaks into the closet for her to check her watch, so there’s just the loud tick of both timepieces to give her any semblance of time.

  She waits.

  Her feet start to hurt. A burn that starts around the arches and slowly, excruciatingly, moves up past the ankles and then into the calves.

  And she waits.

  Her gun is heavy in her hand, and she thinks if she holds it any longer, her arm will fall off.

  And she waits.

  The buzz of forty girls in a hotel diminishes. They retire to their beds. Doors slam shut and do not open.

  And she waits.

  The light on the bedside table flickers. Stays on.

  Her own door opens with not even a whisper.

  Judy, the Russian spy, is really quite good at what she does. Her movements are almost enviously quiet. Hard heeled boots make no noise on the carpet and that creak Laura’s never complained about in the hinge—it’s an excellent early alarm system—doesn’t actually creak. Judy even notices the matchstick Laura left in the door to let her know if people have been in and out of her room.

  Her shoulders sag noticeably when she creeps over to the bed and realizes she’s fallen for a ruse.

  “Honestly, I thought you’d turn the lights out first.” Laura emerges from the closet, gun carefully aimed at Judy’s chest.

  “Myrtle would have gotten suspicious if the lights went out two nights in a row.” She speaks differently now that her secret’s out. Her voice is lower. Sultry almost.

  “Fair enough. We can’t have your cover ruined, can we?”

  Judy shrugs and turns around, hands already up in surrender. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “You whipped your mask off too early last night. Saw your face as I was running away.”

  “It was pitch black.”

  “Excellent night vision.”

  “That why you were recruited?”

  “I was recruited because of my excellent language skills.”

  Judy starts to put her arms down.

  “And,” Laura continues, “because of my marksmanship. Keep your hands up please.”

  “They’re getting tired.”

  “I stood in that closet with my gun out for half the night. I think you can keep your arms up for a little while longer.”

  Judy glances over at the bed. “Can I sit?”

  Laura doesn’t particularly want her to sit, because she doesn’t trust Judy even a little, but Judy looks so amused at the idea that Laura doesn’t trust her to sit, so Laura, naturally, has to give her permission. Spy games are so convoluted.

  She motions with her gun, and Judy sits with a sigh.

  “Know why I was recruited?” Judy says conversationally.

  “I get the feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  “I was recruited because no one would miss me.”

  “Low bar they set in the USSR.”

  “There were other factors. A gift for gab and a love of a good fight.” She crosses her legs. It’s rather impressive what with her hands still held up in surrender. “What I don’t understand, Laura, is why you’re retired.”

  Her aim falters, and she hopes Judy doesn’t notice. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re an excellent agent, architect of some of the most successful components of the Resistance, and I’ve seen the wanted posters. The Nazis hated you. So why do you work floor security at a bomb factory? Shouldn’t you be off in Argentina or Italy hunting the war criminals with the rest of your friends?”

  “They needed some of us at home—”

  “And not on the payroll.”

  “I’m compensated just fine.”

  Judy laughs. It’s a rich laugh. Totally at odds with her usual “aw shucks” way of conversing. “Sure. You and all the other little girl spies. If you really want to make your old bosses happy, you ought to get married, put on an apron. Maybe have some kids.”

  She’d like to tell Judy to shut up, but unfortunately Judy has hit on a very sore point for Laura. One that’s smar
ted since the OSS sent her back to the United States. It’s hard to tell someone to be quiet when they’re speaking the truth.

  “Now, the people I work for? They’re—”

  “About to be short one spy if you don’t shut up. I’m well aware of how irritating my government can be, but I’m not about to turn traitor because yours likes girls more.”

  “Why not? I’m loyal to my government, and it’s loyal to me. You’re loyal to your government, and you can’t even afford a real apartment.”

  “No, but I can afford friends. Two of whom are downstairs picking up your boys in the Pontiac.”

  Judy blanches.

  Laura grins. “It wasn’t just girls out on their asses when they shuttered the OSS. And what better way to get ourselves reinstated than bringing in a big fat Soviet catch.”

  A spy, aware that she’s caught, should promptly surrender. Or snap a cyanide capsule between her teeth. There’s only ever two ways out for a caught spy. Turning traitor or dying.

  Fighting is inadvisable. And she certainly shouldn’t fling a wig at the gunwoman and then charge her.

  But that’s precisely what Judy does.

  The gun gets knocked aside when Judy tackles her like a linebacker. It might be for the best. The walls of the Sebastian are thin and a stray bullet could easily kill some innocent girl.

  The women grapple. Judy’s efficient and trained in that bizarre Russian sambo nonsense, something Laura’s never been on the other side of. All Laura has is years of brawling in bars overseas and a few delicious months of training with an Olympic boxer.

  The fight is… painful. A particularly well aimed elbow makes her see stars and stumble.

  That’s all the impetus Judy needs to snap on the hot plate and try to force Laura’s face into it.

  “A hot plate, Laura? What will Mrs. Myrtle say?”

  Oh God. She’s one of those people who quips when she fights.

  Laura grabs a handful of Judy’s pragmatic little bun and yanks hard enough to hear hair ripped out. Then she gets her own elbow into the game and smashes it into Judy’s ribs before she throws her back with her shoulders and rounds on her.

  They both pause for a breath. Judy’s grinning like a crazy woman, dancing from foot to foot, and shaking her whole body like a fighter before the bell.

  Laura falls into a familiar stance and brings her hands up. She’s positive she has less official training than Judy. She never went into the actual ring with the Olympian—it’s unladylike—but she’s grappled and beat men twice her weight and knows for a fact that her right hook has widowed at least one woman.

  She’s also willing to bet that she can take a blow better than Judy.

  God, she hopes she can take a blow better than Judy.

  Her best chance at surviving is putting Judy down fast and after three failed attempts to land a punch, she knows she needs her gun to finish the job. So she dashes for it, and Judy tries to stop her by throwing a bottle at Laura’s head.

  A bottle of acetone she uses when doing her nails.

  When Laura ducks the throw, the bottle smashes against the wall behind her, the fumes hit the scorching hot plate, and the whole damn room goes up in flames.

  CHAPTER 11

  Having never been drugged before, Amelia’s got no idea how a person is supposed to wake up. Is she just supposed to pop awake, or is it supposed to involve lots of delicate fluttering of her eyelids and a suggestive moan?

  She’s pretty sure, for most people, it isn’t supposed to include rolling off a couch and onto her hands and knees, followed by throwing up all the pastries she imbibed earlier in the day.

  The only good part of it is, once the pastries are out of her stomach and onto the expensive carpet, she feels a whole lot better.

  Then she remembers how she came to be drugged and tossing all her cookies in the first place.

  Stupid gorgeous rat fink of a dame—

  Nope. Still more cookies to toss.

  That’s when Tall, Dark, and French chooses to enter the room and is clearly horrified by the sight.

  “Something not agree with you,” he asks. Then he looks away, because apparently a gal hunched over her own mess is too much for a dreamy looking French fella.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Apparently my stomach hates getting drugged. Who knew?”

  Michel frowns. “She had her reasons.”

  Amelia wipes her hand across her mouth. “Sure she did, but just cause she had a reason, doesn’t mean it’s a good one.” She thinks about standing. “How long?”

  “It’s after nine now.”

  She tries standing, but has to stop when the room starts spinning.

  “Come on.” Tall, Dark, and French is suddenly standing right beside her and speaking softly. “Let’s get some coffee and proper food in you.”

  “Don’t think that’ll help.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  The coffee and food doesn’t help, but stealing a car while Michel’s back is turned and high tailing it back into the city sure as hell does.

  She isn’t exactly sure where she should head first, but she figures going to the Sebastian—or at least driving by it—is as good a plan as any. So she crosses the bridge into Manhattan with her foot glued to the gas and doesn’t let up until she hits a glut of traffic six blocks from the hotel.

  It’s the kind of traffic that usually makes her glad she walks everywhere, but it’s well after ten o’clock. The only reason traffic would be this bad after ten is if there’s a crazy pile up or an exploding building or—

  She gets out of the car.

  —Or someone’s dead.

  The smell of smoke, of all the pieces of someone’s home on fire, hits her worse than Laura’s betrayal ever could. Her brain stops working, but her feet carry her just fine.

  Down one block.

  Two.

  Six.

  Right to the edge of an inferno she used to call home.

  Girls in soot spattered robes huddle around sobbing, and Mrs. Myrtle paces the edge of the ruins as if her worrying alone will put the flames out.

  People from the neighborhood have come out of their homes to watch and kids up past their bedtimes scream around Amelia’s ankles like it’s the Fourth of the Goddamned July.

  Cops are on the scene. And firemen. Working slowly to figure out the blaze and the growing crowd.

  Amelia grabs one girl by the elbow and asks her if she’s seen Laura.

  The girl points back at the fire that’s hot on Amelia’s face. “She was still inside I think? Helping Judy. Poor kid was in a bad way. Absolutely hysterical.”

  So why didn’t one of them help? Why didn’t any of them?

  She must mutter the question aloud, because the girls look ashamed, and they don’t try to stop her when she rushes toward the fire.

  Nope. It’s the fire itself that stops her. A gout of flame leaps out of what used to be the front entrance. Snatches at her dress and hair and threatens to turn her into smoke and ash too.

  It’s too hot. Hotter than steam off a radiator or the torch her dad used in the garage.

  Hot enough that she knows she can’t go in.

  Because that kind of blaze—that heat. A girl won’t survive. Not an aspiring actress or a Russian spy or a stupid gorgeous rat fink of a dame. That kind of heat kills whatever it touches.

  Including, maybe, Amelia’s last gasp at happiness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Things move fast when the fire breaks out. As fast as the fire itself—which rips across the wall as if it’s coated in gasoline.

  The fighting is frantic. Painful. Smoke scorches her lungs and flames dry the sweat off her brow as soon as it appears. Judy darts in again—confident in her grappling technique. T
he two roll through burning embers and fall out into the hallway where confused girls don’t yet realize they should run.

  She screams for them to go, and Judy laughs as she wraps her arm around Laura’s neck and squeezes.

  And squeezes.

  “Go,” she shouts, mocking Laura. “Run!”

  Feet pound and girls flee and Laura’s vision blurs.

  Judy’s wet lips press to Laura’s ear. “You’ve really got to stop caring about people who can’t return the favor.”

  She tries to hit Judy with a sharp elbow, but all that earns is a grunt.

  “What do you think? After I kill you, should I tie up loose ends? Kill the mobster and his little wannabe actress niece?”

  She brings her heel down on Judy’s toe, but the damned woman is wearing top-notch boots that absorb the blow with ease.

  “I mean, she’s got to go, right? Way too nosy for her own good.”

  She gets a leg between two of Judy’s and tips them both right into the fire.

  The scream that rings in her ears is absolute music.

  She rolls away on blistered hands and goes for the stairs. But the smoke is so thick, she can’t see anything but the orange glow of the flames.

  There’s the laundry chute behind her. A cool smoke-free point in the inferno, but unless there’s actual laundry at the end of the two story drop, it’s suicide.

  God her hands hurt.

  They’re already getting stiff.

  “Bitch.” Judy rolls out of the fire, panting and smelling like seared pork. “Just. You… you bitch!”

  There’s a quip she’s tempted to make about not playing with fire.

  A piece of the ceiling falls between them. A blazing line of demarcation neither can cross. Judy’s polyester shirt has melted into her skin, and there’s an awful burn that’s crawled up her neck.

  She grins. “Could use some butter for that burn.” Much better quip.