Live and Let Spy (14 page)

And a pickup truck was approaching.

•  •  •

“I guess this means they're onto us,” Caylin said as she swiftly and efficiently dressed the many scrapes and scratches covering Jo's arms and legs.

“You think?” Jo replied bitterly.

The Spy Girls were back safe in flat 3-S that evening.
They gorged on comfort food as a reward for their tough day while making a report to Uncle Sam at the same time.

“We're glad you're okay, Jo,” Theresa said, her concern genuine.

“
Okay? You
try falling out of an airplane, landing in a tree,
and
hitching a three-hour ride in the back of a pickup truck in the freezing cold!”

“All right, ladies,” Uncle Sam cut in. “You're alive, and we've still got a mission to accomplish. Jo, are you with us?”

Jo nodded.

“Good. The call Ewan received on the plane was from the impostor, who most likely told him she was being followed. Somehow they had figured out that you and Theresa live together.”

“Right,” Theresa chimed in, “and the guy chasing me was obviously one of Fake Anka's flunkies as well.”

“You need to watch your backs,” Uncle Sam warned. “In fact, I'm considering aborting the entire mission.”

“Whoa, you can't do that!” Caylin pleaded. “We've come way too far already!”

“We can't let them get away with this,” Jo said, fire burning in her eyes.

Uncle Sam sighed. “I hear you, girls. The truth is, aborting at this stage would trigger a chain reaction at InterCorp,” he admitted. “The conspirators might close up shop. Right now they think they have you on the run. For this reason, I'm going to let you continue.”

“All right!” Theresa cheered.

“We'll figure out something by tomorrow night,” Jo promised. “We just
have
to.”

Caylin headed out for the theater before seven on Sunday morning. It was going to be a long day, and she wanted to be around the assassination site as much as possible. Maybe she'd spot something important. Maybe she'd get a chance to search for the real Anka. Anything.

She was prepared for the place to be a zoo, but when she entered the theater office, she was surprised to find she was the first one there.

“Lazy bums,” she muttered. She figured at the very least that Ottla would be there, making sure all the preparations were, well,
prepared
.

“Oh, well,” she mused. “Maybe this Spy Girl can snoop around a bit more—”

A floorboard creaked behind her. Caylin's eyes went wide. Someone was—

A gloved hand covered her mouth and the sharp barrel of an automatic pistol was jammed against her temple.

“Move and die,” a low voice growled in her ear.

Oh no.

Caylin's heart leaped. Her stomach shrank. She sighed, closed her eyes, and prepared herself for whatever would come next.

•  •  •

“I can't believe we have to work on a Sunday,” Hannah moaned. Her hair was disheveled, and she looked half asleep.

“They want the joint to look tip-top, I guess,” Theresa replied, eyes darting around. She had too many people to keep tabs on: Caylin, who had left the flat early that morning but didn't seem to be there; Fake Anka, who hadn't arrived yet; and the burly guy with the creepy gold tooth.

If either Fake Anka or Gold Tooth saw her, the jig was up.

And while most of the other dancers were milling
about, Theresa could only wonder about Fake Anka. Was she at ballet practice . . . or
target
practice?

•  •  •

“No way Ewan will be able to recognize me now!” Jo said to her disguised reflection in the mirror.

She had given herself a total makeover, complete with a corn silk blond wig, pale skin, blue contact lenses, and red lipstick. She completed the ensemble with a stunning black evening gown—with sleeves, to cover her cuts and bruises. The finished product looked nothing like the Jo—ahem,
Selma
that Ewan Gallagher knew.

“Simplicity is the key,” she told her reflection. “I could grace five covers in one month with this look!” She blew a kiss at the mirror. “Too bad I can't have a hunky underwear model on my arm. Going solo can be
such
a blow to the ego.”

Once she was dressed, Jo again checked out her look in the mirror. It was so different from her usual image. The blue contacts looked so unnaturally natural to her, it was almost creepy.

But Ewan would never recognize her.

“Get ready, Mr. Gallagher,” she purred to her reflection. “You're about to see the dead come back to life—and you won't even know it . . . until it's too late!”

•  •  •

“Where could Caylin be?” Theresa muttered under her breath. She smoothed out her deep blue velvet dress and checked her watch for the umpteenth time.

She and Caylin had arranged to meet in front of the costume closet at 5:00 p.m. But it was now almost 5:30, and there was still no sign of her. She hadn't even answered any of her texts.

With the ballet less than two hours away, the theater was an absolute zoo. There was a chance Caylin had gotten tied up, Theresa supposed, but it was unlike her not to call or text.

Something must have happened. Hot, unwanted tears burned behind Theresa's eyes as she imagined just how horrifying that “something” could be.

With Ewan and Fake Anka on the loose, no one was really safe. And after Ewan's attempt on Jo's life, nothing was impossible.

Theresa blinked back tears, sniffled, and made her way to the theater office. Ottla was there in her gown, applying some makeup.

“Excuse me, Ottla? Have you seen . . . er, Muriel?” Theresa asked.

“She still hasn't reported for duty today,” Ottla growled. “Of all days! Are you a friend of hers?”

“No,” she lied. “I just wanted to tell her I found a book of hers backstage.”

“Whatever,” Ottla said angrily. “If you see her first, please tell her to find me immediately.”

Now I'm
really
freaked, Theresa thought as she left the office. She ducked into a hallway to call the flat.

No answer.

Maybe Caylin went straight to the preballet reception, Theresa hoped. But deep down she doubted it.

“She's probably chatting with Jo right now, wondering where I am,” she whispered. “Please . . . please let her be there.”

She dashed to the upper ballroom but saw no one after two exhausting laps. Panic gripped her.

Where
is
everybody? she cried to herself, desperate to find a familiar Spy Girl face in the crowd.

Someone bumped Theresa hard.

“Excuse me,” a stunning blond said in a thick French accent.

“No problem,” Theresa muttered. But a few paces later she paused. That dress . . . it was one of her mother's creations! The same dress she had loaned to Jo that morning.

Theresa stared hard at the blond woman. No. It couldn't be.

But when the blond glared straight at her with a big smirk on her face, Theresa couldn't help smiling with relief.

“Gotcha!” Jo crowed, cracking up.

Theresa pulled Jo close. “Look—no kidding around, Jo. Something's wrong.
Really
wrong.”

Jo's giggles instantly ceased. “What?”

“It's Caylin,” Theresa replied. “She's missing.”

“What?” Her fake blue eyes widened in terror. “How?”

“I don't know,” Theresa said. “Let's go over to the hors d'oeuvres table and try to blend. Who knows who's watching us now.”

•  •  •

A few minutes later Jo lined up toast points on a silver tray while Theresa stirred a large vat of caviar with a mother-of-pearl spoon.

“How come when the best food is around, I don't feel like eating it?” Jo said morosely. “Caviar, the best champagne . . . talk about class.”

“No one Caylin works with has seen her,” Theresa went on, ignoring Jo's food fetish. “What could have happened?”

“Have you seen Ewan or Fake Anka?”

“No.”

A toast point crumbled in Jo's hand as she shuddered. “I can't touch this stuff, I'm so nervous,” she whispered.

Before Theresa had a chance to respond, Julius approached. His tuxedo was a far classier cry from the clunky boots and paint-stained clothes that she'd come to know.

“Tiffany! Thank goodness you're here,” he said haughtily. “We need one bottle of merlot. Chop-chop.”

Theresa's jaw muscles pulsed angrily. What a time to play fetch!

“Sure,” she replied calmly. “Where?”

“Wine cellar,” Julius said.

Theresa nearly dropped her spoon. She glimpsed Jo's fake blue eyes widening—she'd caught it, too!

“Wine cellar?”

“Left after props closet, down the hall, last door on the right. Go! Go!” he ordered, shooing her away.

As Theresa headed toward the exit Jo fell in step next to her.

“This place has a
wine
cellar?” Jo whispered. “Have you seen it?”

“No. I didn't even know about it. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Well, I'm thinking that the
real
Anka—”

“Reminded her folks that she's not one to
whine
,” Theresa finished. “And those red splatters in the corner . . .”

The girls stared at each other.

“This is it, T.,” Jo said. “I can feel it! Come on!”

“Left after props closet,” Jo whispered, making a sharp louie.

“Down the hall,” Theresa continued. They gleefully barreled down at top speed.

“Last door on right,” Jo said.

Sure enough, they came face-to-face with an unmarked door.

“I always thought this was a dressing room,” Theresa said. She grabbed the knob. It wouldn't budge. “Locked.”

“Please tell me you have—”

“The magic key,” Theresa finished, dangling the key ring from her fingers. Thank goodness she'd remembered to throw it in her evening bag. She fit the key in the lock, and with a turn of the knob they found themselves in what looked like a standard office, only the lighting was
considerably dimmer. Its only distinguishable design element was a long, narrow hall that branched off from the far corner of the right wall.

“Down the hall. Chop-chop,” Jo mimicked.

“Don't make fun of Julius,” Theresa said. “If he hadn't commanded me to fetch that stupid bottle of merlot, we wouldn't
be
here right now.”

Theresa motored down the hall. When she reached the end of the passage, she turned right—
right
into Ewan!

Theresa and Jo collectively gaped in amazement.

“Watch it, you idiot!” Ewan barked, stepping back and brushing off his designer tux. “What are you doing back here?”

“Allow
me
to explain,” Jo said, stepping forward with her French femme fatale accent. “I was asked to help this stagehand select the best bottle of merlot in the house for Prime Minister Karkovic.” She leaned in closer to Ewan and whispered, “This poor ignorant girl has no idea what good wine is,
n'est-ce pas
? Without my help she'd happily pour vinegar for the PM and call it a day.”

Theresa blinked at Jo but remained deadpan.

Ewan raised his brows, but he didn't seem to recognize either of them in the dim light. A good sign.

“Don't worry,” Jo said with a wink. “The peasant doesn't speak a word of English, either.”

“
I'll
get the wine for you,” Ewan grumbled, holding up a hand.

As he headed to the entryway of the cellar stairs Jo and Theresa followed.

“No,” he blurted. “You wait here.” He started down the stairs.

Once Ewan was safely out of earshot, Theresa swatted Jo on the head. “Peasant?”

“Hey, watch the wig!” Jo whispered indignantly. “So what's the plan here?”

“Think about it,” Theresa said grimly. “There's only one thing we can do.”

Jo nodded. She knew exactly what Theresa was thinking.

“Should you do the honors or I?” Theresa asked. Her hands trembled, and Jo could see the fear in her eyes.

Jo smiled. “It would be my pleasure, T.”

She heard faint footsteps seconds later. This was it!

“Here's a merlot fit for a king, literally,” Ewan said as he headed up the stairs. He reached the landing. “See? A very good year.”

“Wonderful,” Jo purred as he handed her the bottle. She gazed lovingly at the label. “Very nice.” She hefted the bottle up and down in her hand, feeling its weight. “Mmm. And so
heavy
, too.”

Ewan's icicle blue eyes widened in puzzlement. “Wha—?”

“Good night.” Jo raised the bottle and slammed it down on Ewan's head as hard as she could.

Red wine and glass sprayed everywhere. Ewan's head snapped back and he hit the ground with a thud. His face was covered with wine and bits of glass. Small trickles of blood rolled down his cheek.

“Whoa,” Theresa breathed.

“Hope it was as good for you as it was for me, Ewan,” Jo muttered, brushing some glass off her pumps. “Hmmm. Lucky my dress is black.”

The lights flashed three times fast. “The ballet's starting,” Theresa piped. “We don't have much time!” They stepped over Ewan and headed down the stairs.

•  •  •

“This place is a maze,” Jo whispered as they spun through the catacombs. “It's all dead ends. And who drinks this much wine?”

“Come on, this way,” Theresa said. She pulled at Jo's arm.

“Anka!” Jo called out into the stale air.

“Caylin!” Theresa shouted.

Over and over again they kept calling. No answers came.

“Don't give up yet,” Theresa told Jo as she continued to go up and down each and every aisle. A few minutes later Jo saw Theresa abruptly stop short.