Marshmallow S'More Murder (Merry Wrath Mysteries Book 3) (20 page)
Read Marshmallow S'More Murder (Merry Wrath Mysteries Book 3) Online
Authors: Leslie Langtry
Two weeks later, we had another Scout meeting—this time in my back yard with a fire blazing and lots and lots of s'mores. I'd missed this. It's not like we could've started a fire in front of the Washington Monument to roast marshmallows (which would probably have gotten us in more trouble than king vulture kidnapping). In the future, I'd prefer trips that ended with gooey, chocolatey treats, instead of stark-raving Japanese psychopaths and shotgun toting moonshiners.
Kelly brought Baby Finn, and I brought the kittens. The girls were delirious with joy. After the screams died down and everyone had a chance to hold the baby and at least one of the kittens, we all told Kelly about the trip. I think the parts about Mr. Fancy Pants were her favorite.
I dug into my pink backpack and brought out several boxes of cookies. For good measure, I made sure no sugar-mad king vultures were anywhere in the proximity.
There were still a couple of questions I needed answers to.
"How did you guys put together that I'd been a spy?" I asked as I tried to keep the Elvis kitty from leaping off my lap like a flying squirrel.
"It's pretty obvious," Betty said. The others nodded.
"Number one"—Hannah counted on her fingers—"you took us to the black box at Langley." Huh. They knew it was called the black box. Impressive.
"And then you added that embassy to the itinerary and vanished while we had the tour," Betty said.
"Don't forget the International Spy Museum!" Inez said.
"Where you vanished into thin air," one of the Kaitlins said. "Not to mention the fact we had to suddenly switch hotels."
"Like I said"—Betty commandeered the conversation—"pretty obvious."
"When you add that to all the other weird stuff that's happened over the last year, we figured you had to be a spy," Lauren said.
These girls were smart. Too smart. And I loved them to death for it.
"One more question, and it's for the Kaitlins…" I asked.
The four little girls perked up, a little flattered that I'd singled them out. Philby was curled up on one of their laps, purring menacingly in case I did anything that would disrupt the massage fest she was getting.
"Which one of you is Evelyn's daughter?" I asked straight out. I'd been too embarrassed this whole trip to ask. It was kind of awful that I didn't know the parents of my girls.
"What do you mean?" one of the girls asked.
Ugh. For smart kids, they could sometimes be a little dense.
"Evelyn Trout—the other adult with us on the trip," I explained.
The four Katilins looked at each other curiously. Maybe whichever one it was, was clearly too embarrassed to admit that the bored, middle-aged housewife belonged to one of them. I guess I could understand that.
"Evelyn isn't any of our moms," one of the girls said. The others nodded.
"What do you mean?" I asked, repeating their earlier question.
Another Kaitlin spoke. "She's not a mom. Not of any of the girls. We thought you knew that."
I felt a twisting in my gut and a wash of cold fire beneath my skin.
"Is she an aunt or family friend of one of you?" I asked.
All twelve girls shook their heads in unison. They didn't know her. Evelyn Trout was a complete unknown to them. Kelly and I froze as we exchanged looks of complete shock.
Uh-oh.
But at long last the nightmare of Midori's murder was over. As for Evelyn, well, that would have to be another mystery for another time. Right now, I was happy to be home. My troop was safe, and life could go on. As I chewed on my fifth s'more, I couldn't help but search the sky, just to make sure Mr. Fancy Pants hadn't followed us home.
* * * * *
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* * * * *
Leslie Langtry is the author of the
Greatest Hits Mysteries
series,
Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations
,
The Hanging Tree Tales
as Max Deimos, the
Merry Wrath Mysteries,
and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy.
Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele.
To learn more about Leslie, visit her online at:
http://www.leslielangtry.com
* * * * *
Merry Wrath Mysteries
Scout Camp Mystery (short story in the
Killer Beach Reads
collection)
Greatest Hits Mysteries:
'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
My Heroes Have Always Been Hitmen
Four Killing Birds (a holiday short story)
Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas
(a holiday short story)
Other Works:
Hanging Tree Tales YA Horror novels:
Hell House
Tyler's Fate
Witch Hill
The Teacher
* * * * *
of the first
Greatest Hits Mystery
by Leslie Langtry:
'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY
CHAPTER ONE
"On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero."
~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listened to people complain about it 'round the water cooler, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gives "avoiding Aunt Jean's potato salad" a whole new meaning.
That's right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I'd tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I'd had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you'll just have to take my word for it.
I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hate these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.
As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn't an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren't in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That's right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn't show was terminated.
Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the "everything" drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty calloused to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn't exactly have the usual family sense o' pride.
I found it behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat-of-arms practically glowed on the cold, ebony surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp and topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm, homemade chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don't forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side which translates as,
Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion
. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.
The phone rang, causing me to jump. That's right. I was a jumpy assassin.
"Ginny?" My mom's voice betrayed her urgency.
"Hey, Mom. I got it," I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.
"Don't use that tone with me, Virginia." Her voice was dead serious. "I just wanted to make sure."
"Right. Like I'd miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down." For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.
"You know it makes me nervous when you don't call the day you get
the invitation
," Mom said, whispering the words
the invitation
. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words
sacred
and
scared
differ only by switching two letters?)
"I'm sorry," I continued lying to my mother. "I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner." And I would, too. No point taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.
"Well, I'm calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!" She hung up before I could say good bye.
So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed—by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood-oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.
To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she had failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I'd been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.
In case you hadn't noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That's right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up.
I dare you
.
Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren't allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change
his
name to Bombay. You could guess what happens if they refuse.
Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the "family secret" by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolled around. It wasn't exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren't allowed to leave the family once you know, or well, you knew what happened.
Most of us didn't even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I'd been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I'd seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. And while I'm fairly certain we haven't figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.
Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I'd given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight, brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.
My heart sank with a cartoon
boing
when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she'd go from playing with Bratz dolls, to "icing" them. Shit.
