The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 6) Page 6

  “Not quite. Mickey says I’m still on the skinny side, but I’m curving up.”

  I was the band, Double Black Diamond’s cover girl, but the Costilla incident had lost me my Marilyn curves and my extra income for the time being.

  “Well, keep eating. I don’t see The Klinefeld Group investigation getting any cheaper. When do you leave for Paris?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping for next Friday or Saturday.”

  “Tickets would be a problem, but the Bleds name will help you out with that.”

  Sally brought my crullers and I convinced Spidermonkey that he needed to eat one—you know, to keep up his strength. “So you don’t mind working for Calpurnia?”

  “I’m working for you, which I never mind.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said.

  “I do, and I don’t care. I assume that Chuck doesn’t know.”

  “He can never know.”

  We munched our crullers in silence. The problem of keeping Chuck out of this was huge, but he was going and it couldn’t be helped. Maybe I should stop by the cathedral and say a prayer or two hundred. I wasn’t sure if God would be all that open to helping the Fibonaccis, but maybe I could spin it.

  “What do you know about them?” I asked.

  “Them or her?” he asked.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “There is and there isn’t. Calpurnia is unusual as are the Fibonaccis. Did you know that no Fibonacci nor any of their people have ever been convicted or even indicted?”

  “I heard something about that.”

  “They’re lucky. Everything works out perfectly for the Fibonaccis.”

  “What are they into?” I asked.

  “Everything, except women and kids.”

  More relief. I got a little light-headed, but it could’ve been the cruller. “Really?”

  “They don’t deal in sex of any kind. Calpurnia’s orders. Her father wasn’t so picky, but Calpurnia dropped that end of the business when she took power. There were a lot of doubts about her leadership when she did that, but the Fibonacci influence has spread exponentially under her.”

  “So Cosmo’s kind of a figurehead?” I asked.

  “No one really knows what goes on inside the organization, but I’d guess Cosmo is his sister’s right hand man,” said Spidermonkey, looking at his watch. “Loretta’s going to wonder where I am.”

  “Where are you supposed to be? I asked.

  “Buying milk and eggs.”

  “Oh my god. You’ve been here for over forty-five minutes. She’ll be suspicious.”

  Spidermonkey laughed and took out his phone. “Not up to this point. I proved I’m incompetent with shopping long ago. I’ve got another fifteen minutes before she starts calling. Give me your list.”

  I asked for all the info he could get on Angela’s life and everything the cops had on her disappearance, including any suspicions that the Fibonaccis or Phillip had anything to do with it, just in case. Next, there was The Klinefeld Group. Spidermonkey was splitting the cost of researching them with me. He had a keen interest in tracking down Nazis who escaped justice and thought the Klinefeld Group was up to their eyeballs.

  I asked for Paul Richter’s will if there was one, addresses of surviving family, that kind of thing.

  “Paul Richter isn’t going to keep you very busy,” said Spidermonkey.

  “I’m supposed to be doing a cooking class with Aaron so Chuck will run down the Richters while I find Angela.”

  Spidermonkey made a few more notes on his phone and then gave me a piercing look. “This plan is less than ideal.”

  I licked my sugary fingers. “Tell me about it.”

  “You’re going to need more help than either I or Aaron can give you.”

  “I’m open to suggestions,” I said and finished my lukewarm mocha.

  He asked for my Fibonacci phone and put a number into it. “That’s Novak, my contact in Paris. I don’t speak French and you’re going to need someone who does.”

  I looked at the number and got a little queasy. I trusted Spidermonkey completely but adding someone else to the mix seemed ill-advised.

  “Novak is top-notch and he’s a whiz with secure systems.”

  “Is there really any such thing as a secure system?”

  Spidermonkey pushed his cup back and stood up. “No, thank god, or I’d be out of business.”

  “Novak? Is he Parisian?”

  “No. He’s a Serb that emigrated to escape the Bosnian war. He understands France the way only an immigrant can. If Angela is living there, he’s your best bet on getting information. Call him as soon as you have something. I’ll tell him to expect you.”

  “How much does he cost?” I winced, ready for the pain.

  “Nothing. He owes me a favor or two.”

  “You don’t have to use up your favors on me. This is my problem.”

  Spidermonkey gave me an unexpected hug. “You’re doing the legwork on The Klinefeld Group in Paris. It’s the least I can do.”

  He left and I ordered another iced mocha so maybe Sally wouldn’t think he and I were a thing. She kept an eye on me while I worked on the airline tickets for Paris on my regular phone. The flights I wanted were sold out except for first class and even I didn’t have that many frequent flyer points. I’d have to call the brewery travel office and see what they could do.

  Jordan was on call twenty-four seven. I still hated to bother him on a Saturday. He’d be at one of his kids’ many sports—baseball, as it turned out—but he was surprisingly thrilled to hear from me. I’d met the pitching legend, Oliver Jakes when I was at Cairngorms Castle and he was now dating my cousin, Sorcha, aka Weepy as the family called her. I’d almost broken them up while at the castle and during my efforts to fix it, I’d introduced Oliver to Jordan. Oliver had done a mini-camp for Jordan’s peewees and Jordan thought I was some kind of miracle worker.

  I’d forgotten all about the mini-camp, but Jordan hadn’t. He was happy to help. The Bled name was enough to pull any amount of strings and he’d get back to me with confirmation. I ordered four more crullers as a peace offering in case Mrs. Papadakis hadn’t been able to run off Uncle Morty and Melvin and drove home expecting at best a terrible stench and, at worst, raging writers.

  I got the stench. My apartment was trashed, covered in nasty pizza boxes, used napkins, and to go boxes from Kronos. Skanky lay in the middle of the room, bloated and mewing pitifully.

  “For crying out loud. What did you eat?” I asked the cat that was known to eat tin foil.

  He burped. I’d never seen a cat burp before. It was really weird to watch.

  “I’m calling the vet. It’s your own fault if she stomach pumps you.”

  I did call the vet and she was unimpressed. Considering what Skanky had eaten before and lived, she wasn’t worried. I was supposed to watch him and call her if anything exciting happened. By exciting, she meant call her if he died. She wanted to perform a necropsy and see what his stomach was made of. It’s time to get a new vet when they start hoping your pet will die so they can dissect them.

  “Now we need a new vet,” I told Skanky. “Thanks a lot.”

  Burp.

  I peeled an anchovy off his head and then started cleaning around him. It took me an hour to get to the kitchen, where I found a note that made my blood run cold.

  You will pay for this.

  It was written in Uncle Morty’s jagged block lettering. I guess Mrs. Papadakis had sicced her cousins on Morty and Melvin. Uncle Morty could really make my life hell, but considering the mess he left, he’d already done his worst.

  I went on to clean the rest of my apartment and, by the time I was done, Chuck had called to say he had a new murder to deal with and we wouldn’t be going to whatever comic book hero movie he’d picked out that week. I tried to sound disappointed and did too good of a job. He promised we’d go before Paris. Damn.

  So because of some grisly murder in Dogtown, I got to have a girls’ n
ight with Claire, Dad’s assistant and my old high school rival. Claire was always up for a night of guilty pleasures. It gave her a break from her endless search for her next husband. We made carbonara and watched a marathon of Scandal while eating entire pints of ice cream. Skanky didn’t die or throw up. Life was good.

  Chapter Seven

  Chuck woke me up the next morning by dumping a load of books on my bed.

  “What the?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “I got them,” he said.

  I stared at the pile. “Did you buy every travel book on the market?”

  “Only the ones on Paris. How about you take half and I take half?”

  “Take them to Paris?”

  “No. Read and take notes on where to go and what to do.” Chuck was so excited, he was pacing and making huge hand gestures like he was suddenly Sicilian.

  “But I’ve been to Paris. I can get us around,” I said with a yawn.

  Chuck snorted. “You get lost in the Central West End.”

  “Not lately.” I crossed my arms and managed to look indignant.

  “We have to have a plan or we won’t be able to cover all the major sites.”

  “Have you been talking to my mother?”

  “I might’ve. A little.”

  Groan.

  “Never tell Carolina Watts you’re going on a trip. She’ll plan it for you and then be pissed if you don’t stick to the plan.”

  “Your mom’s a good planner.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  He held up a finger. “Wait right there. I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Wait a minute.” Chuck left and returned with a big box. He dropped it on the foot of my bed. It was so heavy, I caught a little air.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Exactly the one you wanted.” He opened the box and lifted out a deluxe toaster oven.

  I stared. What the what?

  “It isn’t the one?” he asked with concern all over his handsome face. “I got it at that cooking store Aaron likes. No blood.”

  “Um…it’s great. The best. Who told you I wanted a toaster oven?” I asked.

  “Morty.”

  Bastard.

  “Did my beloved Uncle tell you anything else?”

  “He mentioned a tanning bed.” He looked around my smallish bedroom. “But I’m not sure where we’d put it.”

  I am going to kill that old man.

  “I changed my mind on the tanning bed. My pale skin can’t handle it. Thanks for the toaster thing, though.”

  I slid out from under the covers and what little sleepiness I had left was instantly gone. Like an idiot, I’d left the Fibonacci phone on my side table next to my regular phone. I jumped up and stood in front of the table. “I’m starving. Are you hungry? Let’s eat.”

  Chuck produced a bag from The Bagel Factory. “I brought you breakfast in bed.”

  Crap!

  “Um…what about coffee? I could use some coffee.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll make you a latte so good it’ll make you want to go to the gym with me this morning.”

  “No latte is that good.”

  “They are when they’re made with a Rocket.” He ran his fingers through his slightly thinning hair, making every muscle on his taut torso flex under his tight tee. If only I could distract him with sex like every other man in the universe.

  “How about regular coffee made with a machine that has never been bloody?”

  Chuck started over with an arm outstretched. He took my hand and tried to pull me toward the door. He was going to see it. Chuck didn’t miss much. It was his job to ask uncomfortable questions and get the truth. My connection to the Fibonaccis was a truth he absolutely could not have, for both our sakes.

  “Did you wash it?” I blurted out.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The Rocket.”

  “I told you I did.”

  I spun him around and pushed him through my bedroom and out the door. “Okay. Extra foam.”

  Chuck kept trying to turn around. “Don’t you want me to teach you how to use it?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He turned around and grabbed me by the shoulders. He was so tall, the extra phone would be in full view. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Say something good.

  “Yes.”

  Dammit.

  “What is going on? Suddenly, you don’t mind the Rocket and you want me out of your bedroom.” He flushed hard and his blue eyes went all glittery. “Is someone in your bedroom?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Puhlease. You woke me up. Did you see anyone?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “What is it then?”

  “If you must know, I’m a girl and I have stuff.”

  He pulled back. “Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I was trying to be discreet, but I can tell you about it in detail. You see, there’s this little cramp that starts—”

  Chuck threw up his hands. “I’m out.”

  I closed the door behind him and rested my forehead on it for a second. That was close. Then there was a little clattery noise behind me. I whipped around and the Fibonacci phone vibrated itself off my table and landed with a thump on the carpet. It was Calpurnia offering to send a guy named Fats Licata with me to Paris for protection. I told her I was bringing Chuck and Aaron with me. She wasn’t happy, but what could I say? It was happening.

  Then I stowed the phone in a giant box of pads I bought at Costco and put it behind my ugliest shoes in the closet. If Chuck looked there, there were more things wrong with him than I suspected.

  The door opened behind me. “What are you doing?” asked Chuck.

  I crawled backward out of the closet and held up a pair of red ballet flats. “Looking for these. Paris shoes.”

  He frowned and gave me a latte with an apple drawn in foam. It tasted great—better than great, like the best latte ever. “You’re taking other shoes, right?”

  “What’s wrong with these?” I asked, licking the foam off my upper lip.

  “They’re kind of”—he made a squashy motion with his hand—“flat.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “They’re flats.”

  “But we’re going to Paris. Aren’t the women stylish there?” he asked.

  I pulled a battered suitcase out of the closet and plopped it on the bed. “Have you ever tried to walk on cobblestone streets in heels?”

  “Not lately.”

  “I’d like to not break another ankle, thank you very much.” I put the flats in the suitcase and picked up Rick Steves’ Paris guide. “Did you leave any books for the other people?”

  “There was a book on Lithuania.” He sat on my bed and opened the bagel bag. “Let’s stay in bed all day today.”

  I hopped on the bed and kissed his neck. He smelled great, like bagels with a hint of sweat and expensive cologne. “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.”

  Chuck pulled two highlighters out of his pocket and gave me a green one. “Great. We can get all the planning done today.”

  Dammit!

  Chapter Eight

  We arrived in Paris on Saturday morning. In a fit of cheapness, I insisted on taking the train and then the metro into the city from Charles de Gaulle. So stupid. Both were packed and I wasn’t wearing a hat and sunglasses. I should’ve known. There were advertisements using Marilyn Monroe to sell snacks and perfume plastered on the tiled walls. I looked and felt like I’d been mugged, but people still wanted pictures of me. Mickey Stix wasn’t going to be happy. The legendary drummer was always ready for his close-up and thought I should be, too. I did represent the band after all. But makeup was just so much work and in a tiny plane bathroom…forget it. I’d rather look bad.

  We made it to the metro’s line four after about sixty-eight flashes in my face and it was even more crowded. My laziness wasn’t working out for me. As usual, I managed to be wedged in next to tall men who insis
ted on holding the pole above my head. They didn’t smell, but armpit isn’t my favorite spot on a man, especially men I didn’t know.

  The train screeched to a stop and the doors ratcheted open. I hoped a bunch of people would get off. Instead, a bunch got on. Everyone squished up a little more to make room and my suitcase dug into my shins as I pressed it against the pole. We should’ve taken a cab, but Chuck was so excited to take the metro that I gave in.

  People shifted around, trying to prep themselves for the next stop, and I scooted to the left, getting a whiff of hot dog. Chuck and Aaron were on the pole behind me. I glanced back and smiled at Chuck. He swiveled his head around, taking in everything the way everyone does on their first trip to Paris.

  He saw me smiling and leaned over to ask, “What’s our stop?”

  “Etienne Marcel,” answered Aaron.

  I turned the other way to look at my partner, who was staring at his pole, completely disinterested in anything around him. “How did you know—”

  Just then the metro announcer said, “Etienne Marcel. Etienne Marcel.”

  “This is it,” I told Chuck.

  “Great.” He used his long arm to help me squeeze out the door and onto the platform.

  Etienne Marcel was just as I remembered with its white subway tile, harsh lighting, and surprisingly clean floor. I pushed the new rolling bag Chuck bought me so I wouldn’t be lugging around Great Uncle Ned’s battered old luggage and pointed to the right. Aaron grabbed my arm and turned me left.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” asked Chuck.

  “I know where I’m going. Actually getting there is the challenge,” I said.

  Aaron didn’t say anything but took off at a good clip.

  “Should we follow him?” asked Chuck.

  “He somehow knew his way around Cairngorms Castle so I’d say yes.”

  We dashed through Etienne Marcel and followed Aaron out the exit gates, that were conveniently open for our suitcases, past the ticket booth to trot up the concrete stairs into the morning air filled with exhaust and moisture from a recent rain. Two guys tried to give us flyers and another man offered oranges off a little stand between us and the super busy street. I took a deep breath and sucked in the Paris energy. People were going every which way. Horns were honking. A family of tourists were huddled together looking at a guidebook. A woman walked by pushing a little cart filled with round loaves of bread and adjusted the pack on her back that was filled with at least twelve baguettes. Paris. My first love.