Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil (2 page)

“Are you sure? Grandma Matty is probably sleeping. We don’t want to startle her.”

Matty suffered from narcolepsy and frequently dozed off in the middle of conversations. The ritual had been for me to park at the curb and ring the front doorbell to pick up Treanna. I’d never been invited inside. The house was located in a rough area of Miami… not as bad as some, but not a place where I’d feel safe at night. Wrought iron bars on the windows and doors made my skin crawl. I’d never gone to the back door before.

I drove down the alley behind a row of small Florida-style bungalows, thinking this was not the best idea. My tires crunched over the coquina shell road. Matty’s house stood out mid-block in a line of old beige and gray houses. It was a pretty shade of light green with hibiscus and bougainvillea creating a riot of red, pink, and yellow around the back door.

Pulling behind the house, I said to Treanna, “I’ll wait in the car, sweetie,”

“No!” She yanked off her sunglasses. Her lower lip shot out and tears gathered in her big black eyes. “Please, please… I want you to see my room. Visit my toys. China and Polyester and Hasbro and All-Natural Fibers.”

I had to smile. It was one of her cutest quirks. The child was positive all the stuffed animals I’d given her came with their names already on their tags. “Okay…”

Treanna skipped out of the car, ran to my side, and pulled me to the house. She pushed open the back door, and we entered a retro-kitchen complete with avocado-colored appliances and a Betty-Boop cookie jar, except it wasn’t hip-retro, it was just old.

“Follow me!” She tugged on my arm.

We walked through the living room, immaculate in a Saran Wrap way with the furniture preserved in plastic slipcovers. Religious pictures with heavy gold-colored frames covered the walls. A cluster of cupids held an urn filled with silk flowers.

I followed Treanna into the dining room. The scene at the table made the blood pound in my head. Matty and two men were counting a huge pile of paper money. Three surprised sets of dark eyes flashed at me. My heart tap-danced as my feet kicked into reverse. I was sure it wasn’t a friendly game of gin rummy, especially when the guys grabbed for the cash. Drug money?

Treanna was oblivious. She tugged on my arm. “Come to my room.”

“No, honey, I’ll wait in the car.”

I turned so fast she couldn’t grab me, dashed out the back door to my car, locked the doors, and hoped Matty could convince her friends I was harmless.

Five minutes later, the bungalow door slowly opened. I held my breath. Treanna was dragging her feet, tears soaked her cheeks dropping onto the collar of her lovely purple dress.

Rolling down the car window I reached out to her.

By the time she got to me, her nose was running. “I… wanted…you …to… have this picture of me.” She pushed it through the open window. I took it and held her precious hand. She said, “Please don’t forget me.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

She turned and went back in the house, her tiny shoulders slumped.

Guilt and I drove home, making frequent last minute turns in case I was being followed. I checked the rearview mirror, but nothing… no one.

Chapter 3

B
ack at my condo, I chugged a large glass of pinot grigio, then soaked a washcloth in cold water and blotted it on my face. I took Treanna’s photo out of my bag and placed it on the desk. Then I called Elana, our match coordinator at
Big Brothers, Big Sisters.

Elana had interviewed me twice before approving me as a Big Sister. She called once a month to see how Tre and I were getting on.

“Hello?” Was all she got out before I jumped in her face.

“We’ve got to get Treanna out of Matty’s house!”

“Wendy?”

“You’re darn right it’s Wendy. What the heck is going on?”

“What happened?”

That was a nice evasive question. I described the dinner table cash-banquet.

Elana sighed. “If I’d told you, you might not have taken Treanna on as your Little Sister, and you two are such a perfect match.”

“Cut the puffery!” I looked at Tre’s school picture and felt my heart breaking.

“It’s no big deal,” she said. “It’s not like it’s drugs or something dangerous. Matty operates a little bolita business from her house. That’s how she supports Treanna. The bets are a dollar or two or less… chump change.”

“There was more than chump change on that table.” Child Protective Services could take Treanna from Matty and put her in foster care. I’d lose my love bug.

“You know Matty can’t hold a job with her narcolepsy disability. She’s too proud to file for assistance so she runs numbers… bolita.”

“What
is
that?”

“Neighbors make their bets then a runner collects the money from Matty. She’s not hurting anybody.”

“I walked in on a lot more than small change.”

“For Treanna’s sake, please don’t say anything. I’m not telling you what to do… but I’m begging you not to do anything to hurt Treanna.”

Once again, I was in the middle of something I hadn’t counted on. My teeth were grinding as I spoke, “Is Treanna in any danger?”

She continued, “I’ll tell you. But you can’t say anything. Matty’s nephew Leon took quite a bit of the betting money and ran off with it.”

“So it’s not small change.”

“Matty’s not a big-time operator. But she’s going to be hard put to return the money.”

“You could have told me last week. I just promised an important client I’d be in London tomorrow. He’s counting on me. I have no idea how long I’ll be gone. This is a nightmare. How can I leave that child alone?” I hung up.

Roger needed me and maybe, just maybe, I needed him.

Chapter 4

G
atwick was a beehive, even late on a Sunday night, but it was good to be back in England again. Things had changed a lot in five years. There was a tension… a standoff in the air. Security was beefed up. It was a shame in such a civilized country that our every move was monitored.

My nose itched. Conscious of the cameras mounted in the ceiling, I avoided scratching and wiggled instead. What if it looked as if I were picking it? Only you, Wendy.

I made my way through customs with a black wheelie bag full of my sharpest St. John knits and designer shoes. Best to look classy, since I would be spending a few days inserting myself into the life of the mysterious and wealthy Benny Hannah.

A reed-thin man with dark skin and oily black hair wiggled his fingers at me. He wore a high-collared, thigh-length jacket with a row of tiny buttons down the front. I guessed him to be the chauffeur. I eased up to “fingers,” in case we were being watched by someone besides the five hundred cameras and three hundred security guards. “Are you from Benny?” I whispered out the side of my mouth.

“My name is Samuel, miss. Yes, I’m taking you to Mr. Hannah’s home.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’d like to go to my hotel first and check in. It’s rather late.” I looked at my watch. It was after ten, London time.

“Mr. Hannah’s instructions were quite clear. I am to bring you to his home.” He reached for my bag and gently yanked it from my hands.

I felt the power slipping from my control. I had to convert my cash in case I needed it to pay for a cab or fund my escape. “Follow me. I’m going to change my dollars to British currency,” I said.

Samuel bowed from the waist and swept his arm, indicating which way I was to walk. “Mr. Hannah’s instructions are that you not bother converting your money. He said to tell you he will provide for all your needs.”

What did Roger get me into? Once more by my quick jump into an adventure, I’d put myself in jeopardy. I could start a rumble with Samuel, or I could take a leap of faith. Whenever I’m faced with a life-changing decision, I’ve found I will always take the wrong path. I followed Samuel through the airport and to the car.

As far as limos go… it was tastefully compact. Black, shiny, with heavily tinted windows. Samuel leaned in as he held the door. “Please help yourself to the bar. Should you prefer the champagne, there’s a chilled bottle of Dom. I’d be pleased to open it for you.”

He slipped behind the wheel and pulled into the warm London night. “Mr. Hannah’s home is near Westminster Bridge. It will take us a bit of time to get there.”

“I do want to check into my hotel.”

Samuel the chauffeur ignored me. I knew enough about London to know we were not going to be anywhere near the Hyde Park Hotel. After you’ve been kidnapped once, you get to know the drill. This felt like another abduction. I’d only just recovered from being Charlie Hook’s hostage, and here we go again.

As Westminster Bridge came into view, Samuel slammed on the brakes, and I was thrown sideways banging my head on the window. A small yellow cab bounced off the side of the limo and sped off into the night.

“What happened?” I yelled. The limo made a U-turn and headed in the opposite direction.

“Aggressive taxi drivers. Not to worry!”

On the next block the yellow cab came at us again… an angry bee. “Hold on, miss!”

I grabbed the strap above the door and swayed as the cab rebounded from our bumper, spun in traffic, and slammed into a streetlight. And again, we did a U-turn; this time we sped off. A squeamish feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

Chapter 5

I
t was after midnight when we arrived at Benny Hannah’s townhouse in a quiet, well-kept neighborhood. Samuel pulled to the curb, checking his rearview mirror and glancing at the street ahead, and opened the limo door. I stepped out into the broiling hot air. He smiled. “We are experiencing the hottest summer on record. Is it not an American expression… you could fry a steak on the pavement?”

“It’s an egg. Fry an egg. It never gets this hot in Miami.”

Samuel motioned for me to walk in front of him and followed me up the steps of a white-trimmed, red-brick townhouse. By the glow of the streetlight, I could see a spray of flowers dancing in the window box, a hideout for gossamer-winged fairies. I was falling back under the spell of London.

The chauffeur poked a small button in the center of the door. A distinguished voice answered what sounded like an old-fashioned bicycle bell. “One moment, please.” There was the sound of a buzzer and Samuel opened the door. I stepped into Benny Hannah’s world.

Benny was a short, slightly rotund version of the actor Ben Kingsley. He possessed gentle brown eyes and a brilliant white smile. I took an instant liking to Roger’s client.

A half-whistle escaped his lips before he spoke. “Roger lied. That scoundrel. He said you were a wrinkled grandmother with varicose veins and a huge wart on your nose. Why… you, my darling, are lovely.” His eyes twinkled with mirth.

He nodded at Samuel. “Upstairs.”

I turned in horror as Samuel carried my bag up the carved mahogany staircase.

“Wait… I can’t stay here. I’m booked at the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel.” I spoke so fast I almost tripped over my words.

“It might not be safe for you to be alone. I must insist you be my guest for this evening. You’ll be in the Rose Room. It overlooks the garden, which I’m sad to say is suffering from our unusual heat. After you’ve freshened up, you must come back down and join me in the library. I have some divine port. Take your time. My home is your home.”

Trapped! It was too late to flag a taxi, and I had no cash. I could play the frightened female and wrestle my luggage from Samuel, dash out to the curb, and stand on the street wondering what to do next… or I could play along. Why was my fancy hotel not safe?

I followed Samuel and my bag up the wide mahogany staircase. It was three flights to the Rose Room. The townhouse appeared to have two bedrooms on each floor. All the doors were closed and the halls were silent. “Is anyone else staying here? Just in case I hear noises at night, I won’t be concerned.”

Samuel smiled. “Nothing to bother yourself about, miss. Mr. Hannah is on the top floor, two flights above you, and I’m downstairs off the kitchen.” He motioned toward the back of the room, pointing to a dark wooden door as he placed my suitcase at the foot of the four-poster bed. “Your bath is just there… en suite. If you don’t require anything else, I’ll excuse myself.”

Chapter 6

S
amuel closed the Rose Room door. My first thought was to call Roger. I had his international number.

I took a bunch of deep breaths as I stared at the tray ceiling and then scanned the room. The walls were painted in a brownish color that almost looked like leather. The bed was carved mahogany and loaded with big, fluffy pillows. The duvet was cream colored and felt like a cloud. A painting of an English country scene hung framed on the wall near the wardrobe. There was a crystal ashtray on the nightstand along with a small, jeweled flashlight.

Not happy about being forced to stay at Benny’s for safety, I pulled out my phone and hit “Roger” on my speed-dial. A computerized voice said the connection was unable to be completed. Trying a second time, I got the same garbled message.

Might as well make the best of it. I yanked my cosmetics from my carryon and pulled my knits from the luggage. Most of my outfits were bulky and London was in the middle of a killer heat wave. I pulled a lightweight white wrap-dress and shook out the wrinkles. It might work, as it was chilly in the townhouse.

I peeled off my travel clothes and tossed them onto the wardrobe floor. It felt great to shed my sweaty duds. The waistband of my slacks had eaten into my skinny middle, leaving bright red slashes across my stomach.

The bathroom was a gold and mirrored fantasyland with tiny bottles of perfumes and lotions in a crystal bowl on the brown marble counter. The faucet and knobs were all shiny gold. There was a handheld shower. No matter how luxurious the bath in Britain, you have to deal with a squiggly showerhead on a rope. I grimaced as I unseated the beast from its mount.

The water pressure was low and it took time to work up a decent spray. A shot of water hit my face as I leaned over, reseating the showerhead. I gasped and struggled to catch my breath. Me and water-in-the-face… top of my phobia list. I grabbed a washcloth and blotted.