Live and Let Spy (15 page)

“Wait,” she said, perking up her ears. “Do you hear something?”

Jo stopped to listen. “Not a thing.”

“Maybe it was just my imagination.” Theresa shrugged and continued on.

After a few more minutes passed, Theresa halted again. “I definitely heard something that time,” she proclaimed.

“What'd it sound like?” Jo asked.

“A cry of some sort,” Theresa replied. “Over there, I think. By those magnum bottles.”

Then Jo heard it. A muffled cry from deep behind a wall of bottles. They both moved closer and peered between the magnums.

“Look!” Jo cried, reaching between two bottles and feeling the wall behind them. “It's wood! A door!”

“Hello?” Theresa called.

The cries came again, louder this time.

“That's it!” Jo exclaimed. “We have to get through that door.”

“Check out the floor,” Theresa ordered. “There are wheel marks. The wine rack is on wheels! Grab an end.”

They slowly rolled the massive rack of bottles to the side. The wheels creaked and moaned, but they moved. And sure enough, they had uncovered a stout wooden door.

“That thing must be a thousand years old,” Jo surmised.

“Maybe,” Theresa replied, fishing the magic key ring out once again. “But the lock is brand-new.”

Theresa slid the key into the lock with a smile and turned. It didn't budge.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“What?” Jo asked.

Theresa jiggled the key. “Take a guess.”

“Aw, no fair!” Jo cried. “It worked on all the other ones!”

“Not
this
one.” Theresa slipped the key back in her purse and sighed. “Now what?”

“Well . . . ,” Jo began.

“You have something?” Theresa asked.

Jo wiped her wine-stained hands on her designer dress and yanked a bobby pin from her hair. “What do you think?”

“I think we're doomed,” Theresa replied glumly.

“It can't hurt to try,” Jo replied sharply. She inserted the bobby pin in the lock and tried to jimmy it. “This always works in the movies.”

“Jo, that's a state-of-the-art lock,” Theresa lectured. “It has a complex series of tumblers that will only open to a specific computer-coded key. Not magic keys, and certainly not bobby—

The pin clicked and turned in the keyhole.

Jo giggled and beamed up at Theresa, whose jaw was practically on the floor.

“I'll accept your apology later, Brainiac,” Jo said. She turned the knob and pulled the door open with a loud, grating squeal.

“Hello?” Theresa called. “Caylin? Anka?”

They peered into the dim chamber—then gasped. Both Anka and Caylin were sardined in the tiny crawl space, their arms and legs bound.

“You're okay!” Theresa wailed, tears of relief falling down her face.

“Ohmigosh!” Jo cried. She crouched down and hastily untied the ropes that bound them.

Theresa pulled Anka out, then Caylin. Both young women were sobbing. Caylin's burgundy formal was covered with a film of dust and grime.

“It's about time,” Caylin complained through her tears.

“You're free now.” Theresa wrapped Caylin in a hug. “I was so afraid you'd—”

“Not so fast!”

“Ewan!” Jo cried.

Theresa whipped around. Ewan stood behind them,
sneering as blood and wine dripped off his chiseled features. “Nobody's going anywhere!”

“And who's going to stop us?” Caylin growled, massaging blood back into her fists.

“Who do you think?' Ewan pulled an automatic pistol from his coat pocket.

“You shouldn't play with guns, Ewan,” Jo warned in her Selma voice. “People could get hurt.”

Ewan's eyes went wide. “Y-You!” he sputtered. He actually smiled through the blood. “Skydiving suits you, Selma. The impact did you some good. I prefer blonds.”

“I think you've had too much wine.” Jo pulled the wig off and tossed it aside. “I like myself just the way I am, thank you.”

“I liked you, too, Selma,” Ewan replied. He picked a shard of glass out of his cheek and regarded it momentarily before tossing it aside. “That's why I'll have to kill you first.”

Ewan leveled the gun on Jo.

“Hey, lover boy,” Theresa called out.

Ewan glanced at her and sneered. “Yeah?”

“If you're gonna take her out don't forget the keys to the car!”

Theresa tossed the magic key ring at Ewan. He reached out with his free hand and casually caught them.

He stared at the key ring and smiled. “What, no convertible?”

Theresa smiled. “I
knew
I forgot something!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

A blinding spark shot up from Ewan's fist. His face froze in shock and his whole body stiffened, quaking. The gun dropped from his other hand.

In a few seconds the stun gun shut down. Ewan hovered there for a moment, wobbling, fist frozen around the key ring. Then he collapsed in a heap.

“ ‘Don't forget the keys to the car'?” Jo echoed, beaming. “Jeez, T., you couldn't come up with anything better than
that
?”

“Worked pretty well, I'd say,” Theresa said matter-of-factly.

Caylin stepped forward and snatched up Ewan's pistol. “No more socializing,” she commanded, tossing the rope Jo's way. “Help me tie this creep up. We don't have much time!”

“Okay,” Jo said. “T., you take Anka upstairs. While we tie Ewan up, I'll search him for his key chain. Let's lock him up in that crawl space and give him a taste of his own medicine.”

While Jo helped Caylin tie up Ewan, Theresa helped Anka run upstairs. They headed straight for the costume closet.

“Why are you taking me here?” Anka asked frantically as she swabbed at her dirty hands and face with baby wipes. “You're with Caylin, yes?”

“Yes, but I don't have time to explain—”

“Caylin already did,” Anka said. “I know all about my look-alike.”

“Then you have to change fast!” Theresa told her. “You have to go onstage and dance!”

“I don't know if I can,” Anka replied. “The ropes cut into me because they were so tight. My feet are tingling too much.”

They reached the costume closet. Theresa opened the door and shoved her inside. “Please, Anka . . . you have to try.”

Anka stared at her a moment, then nodded. “I will. The audience out there deserves it . . . and so do I.” She began shedding her dirty clothes. “I don't understand. How can someone look like me and dance like me?”

“This impostor—she had plastic surgery or something. Who knows, but everyone thinks she's you. When the
lights go out for intermission, we're pretty sure she's going to shoot Gogol Karkovic from the stage.”

“Caylin told me all that, too,” Anka said as she cleaned her arms and legs. “It's
got
to be the craziest thing I've ever heard.”

“I know it sounds like a bad episode of
The Twilight Zone
, but it's dead serious.”

Anka struggled into her bodysuit. “Ewan kept saying I was going to kill Karkovic, but I couldn't understand how or why,” she explained. “I thought it was because someone had found out my secret—that I faked being from Russia to get into the NRB. But what does that have to do with Karkovic? He's a good guy with a big heart. Why in the world would anyone want to kill him?”

“Because he's a good guy with a big heart, that's why.” Theresa shook her head. “Oh, man, you must have been going crazy in there coming up with conspiracy theories. So why did you do it? Change your name and fake your heritage, I mean.”

“Dancing is . . . well, it's the only thing I've ever been
able to do right, you know? If I couldn't dance for a living, then I didn't have another reason to live.” Anka scrambled to find the right-size slippers. “Ever since I was little, I wanted to dance with the NRB. And I made my dream come true. I didn't do it to hurt anybody.”

Theresa cocked her head to the side as she helped Anka fasten her skirt. “Well, it's pretty dishonest, but it doesn't mean you should be framed for murder.”

“Seriously.” Anka arranged her hair into a tight bun. “But then before Caylin got caught, I was all alone in that little room, thinking,
I'm getting what I deserve. I should be punished for what I've done. What Ewan's doing is right.
” She securely fastened bobby pins all over her head. “I thought I was going to go crazy. I was actually
agreeing
with that psycho.”

“Oh, Anka, no,” Theresa said gently. “No one deserves to be treated the way you were. No one deserves to be punished like this.”

Anka shakily put on her stage makeup and turned to face Theresa. “This is beyond belief. But . . . well, the show must go on, right?”

“Right.” Theresa smiled. “Everything's going to be okay, Anka. No matter what happens, you have witnesses to prove you weren't the murderer.” She paused. “But now if only the murder
itself
can be prevented . . .”

•  •  •

“It's us,” Caylin called as she pounded on the closet door.

Theresa let Caylin and Jo in and turned her attention to adjusting a net around Anka's tight bun. Theresa smoothed back the last few stray, matted strands of hair, and Anka was ready to roll.

“I say our only chance is to grab Fake Anka the next time she leaves the stage and replace her with the real Anka,” Caylin said quickly. “Anka, will she leave the stage before intermission?”

Anka strained to hear what music was currently playing. “One more time, in about four minutes,” she replied. “She'll exit for about ten seconds, stage left.”

“We'll be there,” Jo vowed.

“That is, if she doesn't shoot Karkovic within the next four minutes,” Theresa said gravely. “Let's go.”

The Spy Girls formed a human circle around the ballerina.

“Stay back, Anka. No one can see you yet!” Caylin insisted.

They inched their way toward stage left, praying they weren't too late.

The lights dimmed seconds later.

“Oh no!” Theresa gasped.

The girls collectively held their breath as they listened for a shot, but none came.

“It's just the end of the scene,” Anka whispered as they reached a darkened, secluded corner at stage left—their final destination. “She should be coming offstage in a few seconds.”

The resounding music started up again.

“Here she comes!” Caylin said.

The impostor danced toward them, oblivious . . .

Theresa placed her hands on Anka's shoulders. “Break a leg!” she whispered.

Both Ankas' eyes widened as they faced each other for a split second. But before Fake Anka could shriek, scream, or freak, Caylin tackled her to the ground while Jo gagged her with her black silk wrap.

The real Anka entered seamlessly into the scene without so much as missing a beat. A real trouper, she was.

“Do you want to be tied up or down?” Jo asked Fake Anka, who was kicking and struggling under Caylin's grip, her eyes glittering with fury. Jo crouched next to the impostor and offered her a satisfied smile.

As she bound Fake Anka's hands Theresa noticed that the dancer seemed to be frantically struggling to lunge to the left. Theresa scanned the area—the exit, the curtains, the table. . . .

The table!

A black box had been placed on top of the table. Theresa had used that table hundreds of times; she'd never seen that box before.

“What's that?” Theresa asked sharply. “It looks like a shoe box. What's in it?”

Fake Anka growled.

“Check out that box, Cay,” Jo called as she secured Fake Anka's kicking feet. “Whatever's in it, Fake Anka here wants it pretty bad.”

“It's probably her gun,” Caylin said as she snatched
up the innocent-looking box and peeked inside. She did a double take. The box wasn't holding a gun at all.

It was holding a timer.

A
ticking
timer.

“Uh, guys?” Caylin called out.

“What?” Jo and Theresa asked in stereo.

“Does either of you know how to defuse a bomb?”

“What?”

Caylin held the box upright so Jo and Theresa could see the timer counting down from 3:34. “Looks like there's been a change of plans.”

“Ohmigosh!” Theresa exclaimed, petrified. Jo just stared at it in horrified silence, saying everything by saying nothing at all.

“Talk to us!” Caylin cried, staring into Fake Anka's spiteful eyes. “I don't get it. It was
supposed
to be a
gun
.”

“Maybe it wasn't,” Theresa said. “We never knew for sure. Maybe it was meant to happen this way all along.”

A few feet away the ballet continued. The music crescendoed as the stakes both on- and offstage grew higher and higher.

The timer hit 3:00.

“There's no time,” Caylin said. “We need to disarm this thing
now
.” Theresa searched in her purse. “I need something to work with!”

Jo produced a pair of tweezers. “Try these. They're great on eyebrows.”

“Ungag her,” Theresa demanded. “I need her to help.”

2:47.

Jo yanked the scarf from Fake Anka's mouth.

“You better tell me how to disarm this,” Theresa commanded, “or we're all dead meat.”

“No, not us,” Fake Anka taunted them the second she was ungagged. “Just Karkovic.”

2:36.

“But I have the bomb in my hands,” Theresa said, confused.

“You have the timer,” Fake Anka explained. “The bomb is in the wine cellar. Where von Strauss is taking Karkovic right this minute.”

“What about Karkovic's bodyguards?” Theresa asked. “Won't they—”