Eat, Pray, Die (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 1)

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Eat, Pray, Die (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 1) Page 3

by Chelsea Field


  “Señorita, I hope you are hungry,” she said. My stomach confirmed my suspicions by rumbling loudly, and she graced me with a small smile. “Good.”

  She led us to the dining table, where fruit, yogurt, muesli, baguettes, and cream cheese were laid out in an orderly fashion.

  In fact, everything I’d seen of the house was laid out in an orderly fashion, and this, along with Connor’s empty desk in his Downtown office was making me wonder if he was a neat freak.

  “Now these are only the cold options,” Maria said. “I make you whatever you like, toasted baguette or croissant with smoked salmon and avocado, prosciutto and brie, or blue cheese, fig and walnuts. You may also like waffles, French toast, bacon, or eggs done any way. Anything you want, I do. Now to start, you would like freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee, or tea?”

  While she spoke, Connor pulled out a chair for me and tucked me in before seating himself. How kind he was in front of a third party.

  “Thank you, Maria,” he said. “I’d love a coffee and a glass of orange juice.”

  “Orange juice would be wonderful,” I agreed, wishing again that I was back in Adelaide. I’d discovered early on that most Americans don’t know how real coffee should taste, and the drip filter machine I’d spied in the kitchen had ruined any hope of Connor being different.

  Maria bustled out of the room, leaving Connor and me alone. He regarded me hungrily. Probably because he couldn’t eat a thing until I did.

  I cleared my throat. “So, what would you like to eat first… schnookums?”

  He shot me a hard look but remained silent as he passed me the muesli and yogurt. I taste tested them for harmful substances with care, ignoring his long fingers tapping out his impatience on the table.

  “The more ingredients a meal has, the more complex it is to test,” I explained when I was done. He needed more realistic expectations, and the sooner I helped with that, the better.

  He grunted, which I took as an acknowledgement, and I slid the bowl his way. He grabbed my hand instead. I spied Maria returning out of the corner of my eye and left my hand in his.

  As she served our drinks, Connor drew me closer to him and traced the curve of my arm with his fingers. I told myself the goosebumps his touch elicited were from discomfort.

  “Have you decided what you want?” Maria asked.

  I was about to request a toasted croissant with butter to keep testing simple, but Connor jumped in first.

  “Actually Maria, this gorgeous creature of mine couldn’t make up her mind”—he gazed at me fondly—“so we’ll have one of each of the baguettes you mentioned, to share, and finish with the waffles.”

  I’m not sure how he managed to look so smug without changing his expression, but I realized by calling him schnookums I’d started a war. A war I couldn’t hope to win.

  On the bright side, I’d eat a lot of excellent food.

  I started with the coffee so I could wash the taste away with the orange juice. Even without spotting the machine earlier, I would’ve known immediately that the coffee was the automatic drip variety. No crema. Bitter, dirty dishwater aroma. Resigned, I sniffed it, swished it around my mouth far longer than I wanted to, and gulped it down.

  “You know, your nose wrinkles when you do that,” Connor said.

  “Be grateful I don’t gag.”

  He raised an eyebrow a fraction. “Don’t like coffee?”

  I slid the offending mug his way. “This isn’t coffee.”

  He took a long drink, and set it down with an exhale of appreciation. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. Start eating.”

  I followed his request and dug into the food. All was well until I sampled the blue cheese. It was tart and delicious, but I could also taste an astringent, wood-smoke flavor I recognized as Fenella, a potent poison with symptoms that mimic severe intoxication. I spat the morsel into a napkin and tried to recall how much you had to consume before it became dangerous.

  My head felt woozy.

  “Don’t eat the blue cheese,” I told Connor, who’d grown a second head since I’d last looked at him. I poked at one of his noses but missed and giggled when my hand hit my leg instead. Both heads wore identical worried expressions, and it occurred to me that I was supposed to alert the Taste Society of the suspect poison so they could send out a rescue and cleanup team if necessary. I also remembered I’d forgotten to floss last night. I activated the microphone in my ring by twisting it as they’d taught us. “Feeeeneeeeella,” I crooned into it.

  Maybe I’d missed my life’s purpose. I could have been a country singer. I could have been a somebody.

  The world spun, and a three-headed monster was standing over me. I waved at it. Then I decided to take a nap.

  3

  I woke with the urge to vomit and grasped around wildly for a container. Finding none, I jumped up and raced to the nearest door, praying I would find a bathroom behind it. Instead, I saw the hallway that was as wide as my bedroom. Cursing its width with every step, I rushed across it to the next door. No toilet. Halfway to the next door I knew I wasn’t going to make it and grabbed a vase that decorated a nearby shelf. After hurling several times, I sank down on the cool floor and rested my back against the wall. It was in this position, with the vomit-filled vase between my legs, that Connor found me.

  For the first time that day, I was grateful for his acting abilities. He hid his disgust well. In fact, he almost looked happy to see me.

  “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with my great-great-grandmother’s betrothal vase.”

  I groaned and slumped down farther.

  “It’s all right. I heard she was a harpy anyway.” He came over and helped me to my feet, both of us careful not to touch the vase. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  He half carried me to the room I’d rushed from minutes earlier. My body felt so weak, I couldn’t believe I’d covered the distance alone.

  “Stupidly wide hallway,” I grumbled to myself.

  Connor tucked me into bed. “I’ll get you a bucket in case you need it, but the bathroom’s just through there.” He pointed to the only other door in the room.

  I groaned again. Apparently I’d picked the wrong door as well as the wrong job.

  “Get some rest. You should feel better in an hour or two.”

  The second time I woke, it was to the sound of my phone ringing. I answered it groggily.

  “Am I speaking with Ms. Avery?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. It’s Samantha Nielson from Platypus Lending here.” Platypus Lending Inc. was the front for the loan shark. “Are you aware you haven’t made any compulsory payments for nine months?”

  “Did you say you were after Ms. Avery? I thought you said Ms.—”

  “I know it’s you, Ms. Avery. I recognize your voice from all the other times I’ve had to chase you up on this.”

  “Uh, you must be mistaken. I don’t sound like myself right now because I have a cold.” I wondered whether I could pull off a realistic sounding sneeze.

  “Do I need to send someone to go and check this number with your mother again? Perhaps we should tell her why we’re so anxious to get in contact with you.”

  I grimaced. “Okay, you got me. But I can explain.”

  “Ms. Avery, I hope you realize that leaving the country does not exempt you from repaying your debts. We do have legal means to pursue you, even in the United States.”

  And not-so-legal means too. It was a good sign she hadn’t mentioned those. Then again, an experienced criminal organization would be smart enough not to make illegal threats over the phone. “I know. I wasn’t trying to get out of paying, I—”

  “Glad to hear it, Ms. Avery.”

  I hauled myself into a sitting position and unclenched my teeth with difficulty. “Ms. Nielson, you will also be glad to hear that I’ve just completed training for a much higher paying job that will allow me to repay you instead of going backward.”

  With their ludicrous fifte
en percent interest rate, my bakery job’s minimum wage hadn’t even covered the interest payments—let alone made a dent in the loan itself. My debt had climbed from $100,000 to $105,000, and Platypus Lending sent some muscle around to motivate me. So when the Taste Society invited me to apply for a classified position that paid a hundred grand a year from the day of the first assignment, it seemed like a no-brainer. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know anything close to the truth about the job. Or the Taste Society. In fact, I still didn’t know much about the Taste Society.

  But at least I knew when my first paycheck would be. “My salary started yesterday, so I’ll be able to pay back most of the outstanding payments in just two weeks.”

  “I’m happy you’re bettering your circumstances, Ms. Avery, but we can’t afford to wait around for you to sort your life out.”

  “It’s fourteen days.”

  “It’s nine and a half months, and you said you’ll only be able to pay back most of the outstanding amount. Can’t you organize an advanced paycheck?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Ms. Nielson.”

  “Then I’m afraid, Ms. Avery, that late penalties will apply.”

  “Fine!” I shrieked. “Then I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “It was nice speaking with you, Ms. Avery. Have a lovely day, and don’t forget to forward us your new address.”

  I hung up before I could say something I’d regret. While I hoped “late penalties” wasn’t code for broken bones, I had a bad feeling it might be. No way was I giving them my address.

  I shoved the thought down into the handy little hole inside of me to keep my other fears company and slumped back against the cushions. It was then I noticed how large the bed was. A chill crept over me. Surely I wasn’t in Connor’s bed? I looked around. The room was like the rest of the house I’d seen so far: white walls, minimal but tasteful furniture, and no decoration beyond a large abstract oil painting and three floating hardwood shelves that held a single ornament each. No help there. I sniffed one of the pillows. It was definitely Connor’s. And my breath definitely smelt like vomit.

  I hauled myself into the bathroom and spent a few moments trying to find the shower. It was only when I stumbled down a small step that I realized the shower area was one whole side of the room, with no glass or curtain to divide it. There were also no taps, or a shower head that I could see, but I pushed some buttons and water began pouring out of the ceiling. I undressed and hunted around for a new toothbrush. Not finding one, I squeezed toothpaste into my mouth and started scrubbing my teeth with a finger while I stepped under the hot water.

  I wanted to keep my hair and face dry because I didn’t have any makeup or hair product with me, but it was near impossible with the flow coming straight from the ceiling. In a matter of minutes, my hair was wet enough that it was starting to kink, even with the expensive serum, but I managed to keep my face out of the worst of it. After washing the rest of me with whatever I found in the shower, I felt a hundred times better.

  Except that I didn’t have any spare underwear.

  It was a tough choice between going free as an eagle, or borrowing a pair of Connor’s, but I figured I’d feel marginally less uncomfortable wearing his underwear than none at all. Especially in a skirt.

  Serves him right for putting me in his bedroom, I thought as I rummaged through his underthings. He must have had half a dozen guest rooms in the house he could’ve stashed me in.

  His briefs were carefully folded and arranged by color. Definitely a neat freak. If anyone who saw Connor’s underwear drawer also saw the shopping bags still piled in the middle of my bedroom floor, they’d know straight away our faux relationship was doomed.

  Fully dressed save for my heels, which seemed like too much effort, I left the bedroom and entered the grand hallway once more. I was relieved to see someone had taken the vase away.

  “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone here?”

  I didn’t get a response, so I wandered my way into the kitchen. I was starting to feel peckish, but the thought of blue cheese made my stomach churn. Training had taught me this would go away soon enough. We’d had to taste every known poison, by itself and in a variety of foods, to memorize the subtleties of its unique scent and flavor. We’d also had to forgo the antidote so we’d be able to recognize the distinctive symptoms. Some things can’t be learned by textbook.

  Some things can only be learned by subjecting yourself to eight months of stomach cramps, projectile vomiting, and diarrhea.

  The average person wouldn’t survive this teaching method, but all Shade trainees have the rare gene mutation PSH337PRS, which increases resistance to toxic substances.

  The Taste Society wouldn’t tell us how they got their hands on this confidential genetic information that we’d never knowingly been tested for (well, I had some idea, but mine was a unique case). Some of us had speculated about it during training and figured it probably involved shady dealings with pathology labs all over the world—paying them to test all blood samples for the gene mutation in addition to whatever blood work had actually been requested. That would explain the secrecy around it.

  Shades were also supposed to have above-average senses of taste and smell to assist our identification abilities. It seemed to me we were chosen for our above-average skills in screwing up our lives as well. Desperation was at least as important as the gene mutation in this line of work.

  My stomach grumbled in sympathy or hunger. I considered rummaging through the fridge, but knowing I might be expected to test lunch soon, I decided to find Maria or Connor first.

  Okay, I was also nosy.

  The house was huge, so I took a strategic approach, beginning at the front door and looking in every room. Each one was tastefully outfitted in Connor’s uncluttered, ordered style. In fact, I didn’t spot a single item out of place, and it wasn’t for want of trying.

  I was peering into what had to be Connor’s office, and noting with amusement that this desk, too, held only a MacBook Pro, when he came up behind me.

  “Looking for something?”

  I spun around, refusing to be embarrassed. “You, actually. Is it time for lunch?”

  He was a lot taller when I wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  “Yes. We’ll be eating here again.”

  “Have you, uh, reported the poisoning attempt?”

  Taste Society policy was to have a doctor monitor any Shade exposed to a psychoactive or harmful substance, no matter how low-risk the drug, or how little they’d ingested. Just in case. I hadn’t been in any danger from the Fenella I’d spat out, but I was wondering if the microphone on my ring was broken.

  “Let’s talk about that over lunch. There’s been a change of plans.” He strode away, assuming I’d follow.

  I followed, but not before sneaking a last peek at the floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets in his office. I bet every one of them was locked.

  “Why did you put me in your bedroom?” I asked as I trailed him down the hallway. “You have at least four other bedrooms here.”

  He answered without turning. “You’re supposed to be my girlfriend. Try to remember that.”

  “Speaking of, when I was looking for you, I noticed every room was spotless…”

  “Yes?”

  “So, I was wondering… It’s nothing to be ashamed of or anything, but I feel like I should know the truth if I’m supposed to be your girlfriend.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Do you have obsessive compulsive disorder?”

  “No.” He pulled my seat out for me and tucked me in again. “I just like order.”

  As an experiment, I moved one of the salt shakers on the table a smidgen to the left.

  Connor looked at me, unimpressed, but made no move to correct it. “Maria will bring us hamburgers shortly.”

  I wondered if they’d be safe to eat this time. The Taste Society had taught us that poisonings were common practice among the elite, but I hadn’t expected my first meal to be drug
ged, or for Connor to be so casual about it. Maybe he was used to danger. Me? Not so much. It felt different outside the classroom.

  I ran through the tasting procedure in my head. I’d have to test several sections of the burger since experts could concentrate the harmful additive in just one area or ingredient of a meal. Of course it would need to be the rare combination of almost tasteless and extremely potent to put a fatal dose in only a small section. Even then, if the client ate some and showed any symptoms, the Shade could taste the same section and identify the poison so the correct antidote could be administered immediately. All that meant that the overall risk of a fatality was low, but I had to be thorough regardless.

  To distract myself, I peeked at Connor to see if he was showing any signs of strain from resisting my salt shaker trap. He was watching me with an expression I hadn’t seen before.

  I forgot about the salt shaker thing. This must be Connor the businessman.

  “I need to level with you,” he said.

  For a fleeting second, I thought he was going to tell me he had security surveillance in his bedroom and knew I’d stolen his underwear.

  The truth was so much worse.

  He folded his hands in front of him. “I work for the Taste Society, too.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “All Shade graduates are given a false assignment before being assigned to a real client. This is yours. It’s a quality control measure to make sure you can survive and thrive outside the classroom. Think of it as a final practical assessment. Only graduates who perform well will continue on with the Taste Society.”

  My appetite vanished. The conversation with Ms. Nielson was fresh in my mind, and I had the abrupt urge to throw up again. I needed this job. I’d given up my friends, my family, and the last bit of cash I had to get here, and if the job didn’t work out… well, I guess I wouldn’t have to worry about how to get home.

  For my parents’ sake, I hoped transporting a body in the cargo area of a plane was cheaper than the going rate for an economy ticket.

 

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