Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (12 page)

“Oh.”

He leaned toward me, a wide, boyish grin suddenly making him look a decade younger. “Now that we’ve got that misunderstanding cleared up, do you like me just a little bit better?”

I nodded.

“Good. I hate playing the heavy. I don’t get my kicks from scaring people.”

“Then you shouldn’t have broken in here in the middle of the night.”

“I forgot to give you a phone.”

“I’ve got a phone.”

“No. I brought you a dump phone. Only I have the number and I’ll only call it from another dump phone. That way there will be no record of our calls.”

“Ask him if he brought any fucking crickets!” God shouted.

“Geez that thing is loud.” Patrick pulled the placemat off the cage and stared at my little reptilian companion. “Why is he chirping like that?”

“He’s on a hunger strike. I gave him freeze-dried crickets but he wants the real thing.”

“Alive!” God said.

“Live ones,” I muttered.

“It must be hard on him.” Patrick actually managed to sound sympathetic when talking about the reptile. “He’s in a different place, being fed different food.”

“See!” God boomed. “Even this gun-toting miscreant understands.”

“He must really miss Katie,” Patrick mused.

I stared at him. That thought had never occurred to me. I looked down at God questioningly. He had suddenly busied himself with picking up a dried cricket and examining it.

“The least you should do is get him the food he’s used to. You wouldn’t want him to starve to death.”

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

“I’m starting to like this guy,” God said. “He’s a wise man. You should listen to him.”

“But more importantly, Mags. We’ve got to put together a plan for you to kill Alfonso, and keep you alive.”

Chapter Fifteen

T
HERE AREN’T ENOUGH
hours in the day to live a real life and be a killer-in-training. There isn’t enough coffee either. That was my conclusion the next day as I sat at my desk at Insuring the Future.

My middle-of-the-night rendezvous with Patrick had left me sleep-deprived, not to mention grouchy. While he’d brought me a gun along with the phone, I didn’t have a plan with which to use it. He was convinced that the best way to kill Alfonso was not to go chasing after him, but to figure out a way to make him come to me. Personally I didn’t think that kind of thinking made much sense, but the redhead was the experienced professional, so I sort of nodded my head in agreement. He’d promised to call within twenty-four hours with a plan of attack.

Meanwhile, I had to follow Life Lesson One to the letter: Don’t get caught, which meant that I had to keep showing up for my crappy job. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I spent the morning taking an inordinate number of calls from people claiming their vehicles had been damaged by hail. I kept a close eye on the clock, watching the minutes roll by, as I waited for my lunch break. I had high hopes I’d be able to run out to my car and catch a quick nap.

Suddenly I smelled pepperoni.

That was never a good sign. Pepperoni meant my boss Harry was lurking nearby. I looked over one shoulder and then the other searching for the department’s manager. Sure enough he was standing behind me.

“Hi Harry.” It wasn’t often that I hoped for more work to do, but I offered a fervent prayer that I’d have to answer my phone. Soon.

“Hello, Margaret. How are you feeling today?” He stepped closer and patted my shoulder, a gesture that was probably meant to seem comforting, but was just downright repulsive.

Fighting the urge to shake him off, I forced myself to stay still. I stared at the phone willing it to buzz. Nothing happened. “Better, thanks.”

“Good. Good. You missed a meeting yesterday. I’d like you to come by my office so I can fill you in.”

“I read the memo.” That was a lie. I’d seen the memo on my desk and folded it up into a small square to tuck under the short leg of my chair to keep it from rocking.

“Good. Good. I just want to go over the details, the finer points with you.”

His hand was still on my shoulder, but now he was kneading my tense muscles. I wondered if I could make a case for harassment. Of course if I did that, I’d draw attention to myself, which was probably not a good idea. Patrick had stressed over and over again that I should make every effort to fly under everyone’s radar. His example of being the state’s hero cop and losing out on making money with his side business was a pretty convincing argument.

I couldn’t very well accuse Harry of sexually pressuring me if I was trying to keep up an act of quiet status quo, so I asked, “Can we meet this afternoon?”

“Of course.” He sounded exceedingly pleased with himself, as though he knew he’d pressured me into doing something that made me uncomfortable. “Come by my office at two. I’ll be waiting for you.”

With a last squeeze of my shoulder, he left. He was such a power-hungry little prick. I thought that maybe once I was done with Alfonso I’d turn my gun on Harry.

It wasn’t until he was gone that my phone rang. I glared at it. Now that he’d left I had no desire to pretend to work.

After fielding a few more calls, I left my desk. It was finally lunchtime. I’d made it halfway to my car, halfway to a world of uninterrupted slumber, when Armani’s voice reached me.

“Hey, Chiquita!”

Grudgingly I turned around. She was sitting at a table under a tree, waving me over to join her. I almost told her to leave me the fuck alone, but then thought better of it. If I pissed off Armani, I’d certainly become the center of attention. Last year a fool in human resources had refused to sit with her at the office Christmas party. She’d “predicted” that he was in for a string of bad luck. Then, in a period of seventy-two hours he ended up with four flat tires, all the screws fell out of his desk chair, and a link to a video of him drunkenly warbling Air Supply’s “All Out of Love” spread like wildfire throughout the company.

Pissing off Armani Vasquez was definitely not a good idea, especially when one is trying to keep a low profile, so I dragged myself over to her table.

“You look like hell, Chiquita.”

“Didn’t get much sleep.”

“You’re worried about your niece?” For once all her smart-ass attitude was taking a vacation. She seemed genuinely concerned.

“Among other things.”

She nodded sympathetically. “What did The Jerk want?”

The Jerk
was Harry. “To have a private meeting.”

Armani rolled her eyes. Everyone knew what that meant. He’d sit too close. Touch too often. Get way too chummy. “You should report him.”

I shook my head. “Probably. But I’ve got way too many other things to worry about. I can’t handle an H.R. issue on top of everything else.”

“I missed you yesterday. Were you really sick?”

“Needed a mental health day.”

“Good for you.” She unzipped her lunch bag and took out two plastic containers. “You should eat something. You look pale.”

Sleep-deprived, I’d been too tired to pack myself a lunch, and I wasn’t in the mood to make a mad dash for fast food now. “Not hungry.”

She pushed one of the packages across the table at me. “Peanut butter and raspberry jelly. Made it this morning. It’s your favorite, right?”

I stared at her like I’d never set eyes on the woman before. She knew what my favorite sandwich was? She’d made one for me? I pried off the lid and peeked inside. It definitely looked like PB&J. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch . . . except . . .”

I waited for it. I knew such a generous act wouldn’t come without a steep price tag.

But the sandwich looked and smelled awfully good. I found myself saying, “Except what?”

“I need you to be straight with me.”

“About what?”

“About whether or not you’re looking for another job.”

“Your Scrabble tiles haven’t told you?”

She tossed that magnificent head of hair of hers, signaling she wasn’t amused by my crack.

“No. I’m not looking for another job.”

“You swear?”

I nodded.

“Good. You being here is the only part of this job that keeps me sane.”

Opening the container, I took out half a sandwich and bit into it. I considered pointing out that I probably wasn’t the best barometer of sanity, what with the fact I was holding regular conversations with a lizard and I was gearing up to kill a man.

“If you left, I’d lose my mind.”

Something I’d apparently already done. “Which would make you different . . . how?”

“I’m starting to think your inner Chiquita is a real bitch,” Armani complained. But she was smiling.

Chapter Sixteen

N
OTHING TESTS ONE’S
grip on sanity like a family dinner.

That was the conclusion I reached before we even sat down. It was Aunt Leslie and Loretta’s birthday. A celebration that had been scheduled long before the car accident. Aunt Loretta loved, loved, loved her birthday. She adored being the center of attention. She felt like she deserved to be showered with gifts. As her twin, Aunt Leslie just sort of went along for the ride.

Aunt Susan called and left a message to remind me that dinner was that night at seven. I had just enough time to run over to the hospital after work to visit with Katie for an hour, before heading on over to the B&B for what should have been a birthday bash, but had morphed into a family dinner. Meaning me, the three aunts, Alice, and Loretta’s latest paramour, the one Alice had warned me about. Claiming to be suffering from jet lag, Lamont had the good sense to hide out in his room, which was too bad; everyone might have been on better behavior if he’d been there.

Luckily I had their gifts in the trunk of my car, where they had been for weeks. I am a woman of many faults, but I am actually an awesome gift buyer. I pride myself on finding the perfect gift for each recipient. I shop often and early. And I always have the presents wrapped by professionals, because yet another thing I suck at is gift wrapping. The average five-year-old does a way better job than me. I can’t cut in a straight line, I can’t fold for shit, and the tape sticks to everything but where I’m actually trying to place it.

As a general rule, I actually like most of Aunt Loretta’s suitors. Usually the poor guys are besotted with her. It doesn’t seem to matter if they’re forty or ninety, she’s got them wrapped around her little finger—poor saps. But I took an instant dislike to her latest man, even before we were introduced. Just the smarmy way he was talking to Alice from across the room had me on edge. He was standing a tad too close to her. His suit was almost too well-cut for him to be called dapper. His smile seemed too wide to be real.

After Aunt Loretta had showered me with air kisses, so as not to muss her make-up, she dragged me across the sitting room to introduce us. “Templeton, this is my niece, Margaret. Margaret, this is Templeton.”

Alice, stepping away immediately, seemed grateful to be offered the chance to escape from the old coot.

So far the only thing Loretta’s date had going for him was that he was actually age-appropriate for my aunt. He extended a tanned hand toward me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Your niece? Why you two look like sisters!”

Loretta giggled girlishly at the compliment, while I grit my teeth. His words taken another way meant that I looked like I’d already passed the half-century mark.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Margaret.” He pressed his lying lips to the back of my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said with my most charming smile, “Did she say your name was Templeton?”

He nodded.

“Like the rat?”

Taken aback, he dropped my hand as though he’d just realized I carried the bubonic plague.

“Margaret!” Aunt Loretta gasped.

“The rat in Charlotte’s Web,” I explained smoothly. “I’d never heard anyone except the rat called Templeton before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Aunt Susan said archly from behind me.

I flinched. I hadn’t noticed her enter the room.

“Dinner’s ready. Margaret, will you help me serve?” Susan requested.

“Of course.”

Obediently we all filed into the dining room. Aunt Leslie was already seated at the middle of the table. Swirling the water in her drinking glass, she seemed to be studying it intently.

I noticed that Alice sat down next to her immediately. Sad when the best company at the table is stoned. I saw Templeton maneuvering to sit beside her, so I called out, “Save me a seat, Alice?”

Flashing a smile of gratitude in my direction, she offered a silent shrug of an apology at Templeton, who had the good sense not to reveal any disappointment he might have been experiencing.

Following Aunt Susan into the kitchen, I said, “Smells good.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Since when do you say any form of seafood is appetizing?”

My dislike of anything that comes out of the ocean is legendary in my family.

I shrugged. “I smell garlic.”

“Shrimp scampi.” She busied herself with stirring one of the steaming pots on the stove. “Would you put the salad on the table?”

Opening the fridge, I pulled out the bowl of crisp greens. I never understood why she made such gigantic salads. She was the only one who ever ate them.

“A rat,” Susan muttered.

I braced myself. I’d known this was coming. “It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

Susan put the wooden spoon down on its rest and turned to look at me. “I doubt that.”

I didn’t argue with her.

“That was your favorite book when you were a girl. You went around greeting everyone with ‘Salutations!’ for about six months. You were a precocious child.”

I squeezed the sides of the dish. “Who matured into a disappointing adult?”

She shook her head. “Now you sound like your grandmother.”

I wondered what she meant by that. I realized she was right, but still I wanted to know exactly why she’d said it.

“The balsamic dressing is in the crystal pitcher. It’s already on the table. If you’ll have Alice dish that out. . . .” Turning away from me, she resumed stirring.

Dismissed, I carried the rabbit food to where the ravenous diners were poised to devour it.

Aunt Leslie was humming “Puff the Magic Dragon” when I burst into the dining room.

I was holding the bowl so tightly that my hands ached. As I put it down, Alice caught my eye. She looked worried. The problem with having a friend for over twenty years is that she can read me like a street sign. I offered her a weak smile to let her know I was okay, turned on my heel, and headed back into the kitchen for round two.

“How much was Aunt Leslie puffing today?” I asked.

Susan frowned. “Why?”

“She’s singing about the Magic Dragon.” I grabbed the oversized, handmade clay bread basket. It was filled with an assortment of dinner rolls.

“Tread gently tonight, Margaret. It’s a hard day for them.”

“I guess getting older
is
a bitch.”

Aunt Susan was rummaging around in the refrigerator, her back to me. “They miss your mother.”

“Uh huh.”

She handed me the crystal butter dish. She was using all the good stuff tonight. “For most of their lives, those three celebrated their birthdays together. Mary’s birthday is next week you know.”

“I knew that!” I left the kitchen before my aunt could call my bluff. Before she could guess I’d forgotten when my own mother’s birthday is. I’d blocked it out.

I practically threw the bread and butter on the table. Not that anyone noticed. Loretta and Leslie were in the midst of an argument about a long-dead relative who might or might not have killed himself depending on whose version of family history you believed, while Alice was pretending to be enthralled by some tall tale Templeton was weaving about a baseball and a kangaroo . . . or was it a koala bear? I always get those two mixed up.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked Aunt Susan as I swung back into the kitchen.

“Of course.”

“When did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That Mom was . . .” Remembering God berating me for my lack of sensitivity, I purged the words
loony
,
nuts
, and
crazy
from my tongue. “Different.”

“The day she brought Archie home.” Susan made no effort to hide the hostility she felt for my father.

“Really?” If associating with dangerous men was the first sign, then I must be well on my way to the nuthouse, since I’d found myself enjoying the company of Patrick Mulligan.

“No. Not really.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “What was the first sign?”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”

“Did she start talking to things . . . animals?” If she confirmed that was my mother’s first symptom, I was going to book myself a suite at the funny farm.

I didn’t know Aunt Susan could move so quickly. Before I knew what was happening, she’d crossed the room, grabbed both of my upper arms and was shaking me. “Is this because I said you reminded me of her?”

“I . . . no.” It wasn’t like I could tell her my real reason for asking. “Geez, chill out, Aunt Susan.”

“You’re nothing like her, Margaret. Nothing. You’re strong. You’re pig-headed sometimes—a lot of the time—but you’re stronger than she ever was. Tougher. Don’t you forget that.” Her voice wavered at the end, and I thought I saw her eyes glistening with tears, but I couldn’t be sure because she yanked me into her. Hugging me tightly, she murmured. “You’re a fighter, Margaret. This family needs more fighters.”

Aunt Leslie is a big hugger. Aunt Loretta is a kisser. Aunt Susan was never one to demonstrate warmth. But this embrace of hers felt surprisingly like . . . affection. The day must have been hard on her, too.

Feeling bad for upsetting her, I patted her back. “I’m sorry. I—”

“And for the record,” she whispered in my ear. “I think you’re right about Templeton being a rat.”