| |
I GRABBED MY PHONE and answered it with a smile. “Hey, Harrison. How much weight did you gain this week?”
The last time we talked, my former partner complained about going to the gym, and we agreed civilian life had its own pitfalls. But he didn’t respond with his usual banter and, as the silence lengthened, I knew something was wrong. My heart pounded like a hammer in my chest as I considered the possibilities: Director Morrow, Hadley, or even Harrison himself. Maybe it was his girlfriend, Cassidy. I shut my eyes and clenched my fist as I waited for him to tell me the bad news.
“It’s Garrett Stone.”
Garrett Stone—superspy, agency legend, hero. Like my father, the man earned those titles. But Garrett continued his CIA career after many burned out or left for easier jobs. He’d earned the respect of every agent in the business, including me.
Harrison and I owed our lives to him. We had been in Columbia to extract an asset working high up in the cartel when our cover was blown and we had to run for our lives. I recalled the heavy air as we sought refuge in the dense rainforest—the moisture trickling off large leaves, the cry of startled birds, and the biting insects. And the snakes; I shuddered as I remembered them dangling from trees and silently slithering across the moist floor of the forest. When we hadn’t arrive at the pickup rendezvous as scheduled, Director Morrow sent Garrett after us, and he used contacts he’d developed over many years to rescue us. The icing on the cake? He retrieved the asset as well. Reflecting on that mission, I realized that I couldn’t clearly recall the detailed features of the man who saved us. Maybe that’s one reason why Garrett was so good.
“Fortune, did you hear me?”
I shook my head to clear the old memories and focus on what Ben was saying. “Sorry, I drifted for a minute.”
“I know. It’s hard to believe. I never imagined he’d end up like this.”
“How did it happen?” Unexpectedly, a sadness settled over me, and I chided myself for my emotional response. It’s not like Garrett was a close friend, but I never thought he’d die at such a young age. It didn’t seem fair.
“I didn’t see the medical report, but I assume it’s hereditary. However, head trauma likely accelerated it. Anyone who has been in the game as long as Garrett is bound to have battle wounds.”
My brow wrinkled. Hereditary death? I suppose Harrison was right, but I had never seen it listed as a cause. Maybe Ben was becoming a philosopher. Lord, I hoped not!
“Are you paying attention, or has Louisiana turned your brain to mush?”
I ignored his question and asked, “When’s the service?” I loathed funerals, but I’d go because Garrett Stone was one of the good guys, and I wanted to pay respect to his memory.
“I never thought I’d see you slip like this. What have you been doing in Sinful? Living on sugar and caffeine? Something’s melted your mind.”
I sucked in my stomach and scowled at the phone. Just because he was right about my dietary habits didn’t mean I’d become sloppy—or fat. It was simply the news that caught me off-guard and I told him so.
“Quit lying, Fortune. I know you well enough to tell that you have no idea why I called.”
I gazed out the front window of my house, not actually seeing the squirrel tightrope walking the telephone wire or my neighbor in her housecoat pulling weeds in her lawn. Instead, I tried to recall what Harrison had said. But it was no use.
“Next time give me the relevant information first,” I suggested sourly, only to hear him snort with laughter.
“You’re definitely slipping. It’s a good look for you.”
“Oh, really? Well, guess what I’m doing now and tell me how it looks,” I snapped, lifting my middle finger and making a face at the blank screen on my phone. I didn’t need him to remind me that my skills weren’t as sharp as they used to be. I imagined my father’s frown of disapproval, and I got up to pace the living room.
A large oval mirror reflected my movement, and when I paused to look, I visualized seeing my mother. The image of my stern father faded, replaced by one of her laughing as she helped me to my feet, gently assuring me it was okay to cry when I was hurt. I don’t know where the memory came from, but I felt better and my mood improved.
“Okay, you win,” I told Harrison, grinning as I sensed his shock at my admission. “What did I miss?”
After he repeated his story, I felt a little foolish for jumping to the conclusion that Garrett was dead. But I didn’t dwell on my mistake because there was something more important to consider: Garrett Stone was in trouble and needed our help.
“Are you certain this call isn’t being monitored?” I asked.
“No chance,” Harrison assured me. “But don’t count on that to continue. At this point, the only people who know about the op are you, me, and Director Morrow. Once he sets this in motion, any communication between us will need to be restricted. I still have my email account set up if you need to use it.”
He was referring to the one we used to communicate when I first came to Sinful and was hiding from Ahmed.
“I remember. So, when should I expect the package to arrive?” Some old habits, like referring to a person as a package, would probably stay with me for the rest of my life.
“Tomorrow. Morrow is getting Garrett released from the medical facility where he’s been staying on the pretense of visiting a specialist in New Orleans. Once we arrive there, we’ll leave the clinic through the back where Morrow will have a car standing by to transport Garrett to Sinful. In the meantime, Morrow will make arrangements for Garrett’s care at a safe facility and he will contact you when he’s done so. Until that time, you’re on your own. Are you sure you can handle it?” Harrison asked.
I hoped that Garrett’s tenuous grip on reality wouldn’t bring the operation down, but I trusted Morrow’s judgment. If he felt Garrett was in danger, that was good enough for me. Besides, I owed my life to him and this was my chance to repay the debt.
“I’ll take care of him,” I promised.
“Fortune, no one can know that you’re harboring a top CIA agent with dementia,” he warned me—unnecessarily. “If Garrett’s whereabouts are leaked, you’ll have an international villain gathering in Sinful. I don’t know how the agency has kept a lid on this as long as they have, but you can bet there’s a long list of people who would like to get their hands on Garrett.”
“This is Sinful,” I reminded him. “There’s no sneaking anyone into town, so I’ll introduce him as my uncle. Ida Belle and Gertie will help sell the story and keep him safe.”
“I hope you can keep him from spilling secrets. What Garrett’s carrying in his head could topple countries, and if any of his stories make it onto the internet, it could get rough. Even deadly.”
“You just worry about your end of it,” I advised him. “How are you going to avoid suspicion if you disappear the same day he does?”
“I’m not disappearing. Cassidy and I already had a romantic getaway planned, so it fits in perfectly,” he explained.
“Does she know what you’re doing?”
He sighed. “I can’t tell her without putting her in jeopardy. I hate keeping it from her, but it’s for her own good. All she knows is that we’re escorting a friend to your place before continuing with our vacation... Hey, Cassidy’s calling so I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After he disconnected, I couldn’t help but wonder why Morrow wanted Ben and me to handle this. We no longer had agency resources. But maybe that was precisely the reason. Morrow was taking pains to hide Garrett, and I wondered if his caution was because he suspected someone within the CIA was after Garrett too.
I wasn’t sure if I should let Carter in on the plan. I didn’t want to keep secrets from him, but telling him could place him in a difficult position. Once the CIA learned that Garrett had slipped their leash, they might decide the risk was worth sending out a wanted bulletin. Hopefully, Morrow would have a place for him before that happened.
I grabbed my phone and called Ida Belle, thinking she and Gertie might be able to help me decide how much I should tell Carter.
“Can you and Gertie come over? I have, uh, a new recipe I just made and need your opinion.” As soon as I called, I realized that even though no one was listening, I’d need to be careful with my words. Unfortunately, my reason was lame.
“You’re experimenting in the kitchen?” Ida Belle hooted. “Did you ruin a skillet or a pot?”
“What’s the difference?” I asked with a frown.
“Well, if you don’t know, then suffice to say that your new recipe needs improvement,” she replied.
“Fine. I’ll call Gertie then. She won’t turn me down,” I said, knowing exactly how she’d react.
“Just put the coffee on and dump your new recipe in the trash can,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll pick Gertie up and be there in five.”
Three minutes later, my front door crashed open and Gertie hollered, “Don’t despair, Fortune! I’m here to help.”
I popped my head out of the kitchen and waved with the knife I was using to cut the pie I had bought from Francine yesterday. I heard Ida Belle mumble, “Oh, no! Gertie, she’s already cutting it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll accidentally drop it on the floor.” Gertie entered the kitchen and smiled as though she wasn’t plotting to destroy a perfectly good pie.
I grabbed the tin and held it close. “Merlin’s flirting with diabetes, so don’t give him Francine’s pie.”
“Where’s your test project?” Ida Belle asked suspiciously, putting her nose to work. “I don’t smell anything. Did you undercook it?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I replied. I wasn’t annoyed because I’ve no doubt that had I really attempted to make something from scratch, it would be much worse than that. Like four-alarm worse. But to set them at ease, I offered the pie as proof that I wasn’t experimenting in the kitchen lab. “Straight from Francine’s.”
Gertie sniffed it before poking a finger through the crust. She made a face and touched her finger to the tip of her tongue. Her eyes widened, and she smiled. “I’ll get the plates.”
“In that case—” Ida Belle dipped her finger into the pie with a shrug. “If you don’t stake your claim, Gertie will mark the whole thing as her territory.”
“Ha! I was at least willing to try it,” Gertie said.
“And I was standing by to call poison control,” Ida Belle retorted. “Sorry, Fortune, but I’m taking the safe course of action until you prove yourself in the kitchen.”
I grinned and shrugged it off, but Gertie nodded. “She’s right. When Jimmy Patrick brought home a wife from Chicago, she almost killed him with the mushrooms she found growing by their house. She chopped them up for her supper dish.”
“I take it he got his stomach pumped in time,” I said.
“No. He choked to death because she didn’t remove the bones from the chicken she used in the casserole,” Gertie said. “Otherwise, those mushrooms would have done him in.”
“What happened to his wife?” I asked.
“She moved back to Chicago.” Gertie headed to the drawer for flatware while Ida Belle rolled her eyes.
“She means with the meal, Gertie!” While I set the coffeepot and cups on the table, Ida Belle explained, “His wife was busy picking bones from her dish when Jimmy died, so she never ate the deadly meal.”
We sat down, and I promised them, “I’m not trying out new recipes and if I ever decide to take it up the culinary arts, the ingredients will come straight from the grocery store. In cans and boxes.”
Gertie patted my hand. “Stick to what you know.”
I gave them a toothy smile and confessed, “That’s what I called you about.”
Ida Belle narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were out of the business.”
“I am, but this falls into the category of an obligation,” I said and then explained the situation along with the plan that Harrison had laid out to me. “I’ll need your help to pull this off.”
“How does Carter feel about it?” Gertie asked, studying me closely. I shrugged and her head drooped in disappointment. “Oh, I see.”
“What difference does it make?” Ida Belle demanded. “This has nothing to do with him, Gertie. If you don’t want to help, then get out of our way and keep your mouth shut!”
Gertie glared. “Don’t be presumptuous! I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.” She turned to me. “You know I’ll always stand by your side, but I worry that you might end up”—she held her hand to her mouth and whispered—“like us.”
“I can see where turning out like you would be a cause for alarm,” Ida Belle growled. “But what’s wrong with ending up like me? I’m happy and independent.”
Before this developed into an argument neither could win, I cleared my throat. “It’s not about Carter or what I want. Helping Garrett is my duty.”
Ida Belle tilted her head and looked down her nose at Gertie before asking, “What can I do?”
“What can we do?” Gertie amended.
“First, help me create a cover story for Garrett. I plan to introduce him as my Uncle Gary.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ida Belle agreed. “He should be your mother’s brother, so you don’t need to worry about the last name difference.”
“How bad is his dementia?” Gertie asked.
“Morrow wouldn’t attempt this if he was too far gone, but I really don’t know. I hope he’s in his right mind while he’s here, but I need to prepare for the worst, just in case,” I replied.
“Then say Uncle Gary sustained a head injury in a bad accident. And he was a movie producer,” Gertie said. “That will explain his bouts of dementia and anything he might say about his life as a spy.”
Ida Belle shook her head. “A producer is too noteworthy. Make him a script editor.”
“And an acting coach,” Gertie suggested. “If he goes into spy mode, he might behave oddly. Do you have a room ready for him?”
“I’m putting him in the bedroom facing the backyard. There’s no way he can escape out the window unless he’s packed a rope, and I’m sure Harrison will have checked his bags. I’ll put a TV and magazines in his room.” I bit my lip thoughtfully, realizing I didn’t know much about Garrett’s personal life. “I’m not sure what his interests are.”
“I have some lovely gardening magazines you can set on the nightstand,” Gertie offered.
“How about a copy of the Ten Commandments for the wall?” Ida Belle snorted. “I’m sure he’ll find them as stimulating as your boring flowers.”
“Is that so? Well, what do you suggest? Coupe on a Budget? Grenades for Every Occasion?” Gertie asked tartly.
“Why not? An old copy of Blushing Blooms is hardly entertaining,” Ida Belle replied.
“And if he has a spell, military-themed items could trigger violent behavior.” Gertie finished the coffee in her cup while I thought about her counsel.
I glanced at Ida Belle, and she pressed her lips together. “In that case, you’d better lock up all the sharp knives.”
What had I gotten myself into? My eyes flickered around the kitchen, assessing potential dangers from a different perspective—that of a guardian or possibly even a parent. “Should I put away the cleaning chemicals? Install door alarms? What if he gets out and falls into the swamp?”
Gertie lowered her brows at Ida Belle. “See what you started? I’m only suggesting Fortune put away things that might encourage him to believe he’s on a dangerous mission. Now, what do you have in the way of food?”
I blinked stupidly, and she rose from her seat, chuckling. “I’ll write,” Ida Belle volunteered as Gertie checked my cupboards and fridge, naming items I’d need.
“Don’t forget bathroom spray,” Gertie told her after she finished taking kitchen inventory. “Better make it heavy duty spray.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked suspiciously.
“He’s a man and that’s enough!” Ida Belle wrinkled her nose in disgust while Gertie nodded and giggled.
“And don’t put out three-ply toilet paper unless you want to pay someone to snake your drain,” Gertie added. “Men are like children when it comes to common sense.”
“So, put out the cheap stuff?” I asked.
“Oh, no! Don’t do that!” Ida Belle’s eyes bulged at my question. “They only use more of the thin paper and don’t bother with a courtesy flush because they think there’s no way the skimpy paper will plug a drain.”
“Regular TP is sufficient,” Gertie said. “Just be sure to have plenty on hand.”
My mind boggled. Who knew there was a toilet paper protocol for men and children? “Is there anything else I should know about?” With each passing minute, I was feeling less sure about my decision to help Gary.
“He’ll drop his shoes everywhere, so don’t trip over them.”
That didn’t seem so bad.
“And he’ll leave bowls and snack bags laying around.”
Hmm. Gary was beginning to sound like a pig.
“Don’t allow him to drop his drawers and kick them to the corner of the bedroom,” Gertie advised. “Give him a basket and make sure he uses it.”
“Put your nice towels away. I guarantee that if you set out three everyday towels and one nice one, he’ll ruin the nice one,” Ida Belle said.
“I’m not sure I’m up to this,” I admitted, ashamed that my voice sounded weak. Now I understood why they had never married. Men were a lot of work!
“You’ve got this.” Gertie’s vote of confidence did little to boost my spirits because she wasn’t finished. “Now, about the bed linens—”