Vanishing Act (11 page)

T
he Sisters looked like a row of bronzed water nymphs as they sat poolside, their feet dangling in the water. A few feet away, Myra and Annie sat under a bright orange and green sun umbrella, sipping from frosty glasses of lemonade, compliments of Charles on his last break from the command center. They were close enough to the others that they could participate in the conversation without shouting.

“It’s been five days since Charles put the investigators on Bonnie and Clyde,” Kathryn said, referring to the couple under investigation. “So far all we know is they change their names the way we change our underwear. I even think Charles is having a hard time keeping their names straight.”

“The only bright spot this past week is that Lizzie managed to get Harry back in his
dojo
. He is so happy. I am so happy,” Yoko gurgled.

“Charles said he would have solid information by the end of the day and we would have something to work on. You know how meticulous he is when it comes to planning a mission. I have to admit I’m getting a little antsy myself,” Annie said as she adjusted the massive sun umbrella over her and Myra.

“I went online early this morning to check out what kind of tenant security they have at the Watergate. Nothing we can’t handle,” Isabelle said happily. A moment later, she was in the water and daring the others to follow her, which they did.

“Do you miss being young, Myra?”

“I can’t believe you asked me that, Annie. I wish I was young again and know what I know today. And if you think for one minute getting those tattoos is going to make us younger, you’re wrong.” Myra sniffed.

“That’s why you haven’t moved back in with Charles, isn’t it? Oh, for shame, Myra. I look at mine all the time and just wish there was someone to see it. You need to come alive, Myra. We’re old, we should be having fun or doing something we can pretend is fun.”

Myra’s face turned pink. “You’re being silly, Annie. I’m simply not ready to go back. I may never go back. That ink on my backside has nothing to do with anything.”

“Oh, yeah, well then, prove it to me,” Annie snapped. “Right now, right this minute, march into the command center, pull down your drawers, and
show
Charles your artwork.” At Myra’s horrified expression, Annie leaned back, crossed her legs, and looked smug. “I thought so. You’re afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” Myra said indignantly.

“Then prove it!” Annie challenged.

In the pool, Alexis nudged Yoko. “Look, something’s going on between those two.”

The others stopped splashing and turned to see what Yoko and Alexis were looking at.

“Something’s going down,” Isabelle said as she swam to the ladder, the others following. “Act like we didn’t notice anything,” she hissed.

Chattering among themselves and drying off, the other Sisters watched their mentors argue in harsh whispers. When Myra stomped off, they clustered around the table, wanting to know what was going on.

A devilish gleam in her eye, Annie said, “I just dared Myra to do something. She accepted the challenge, albeit regretfully.”

“What? What?”

“Can you keep a secret, girls?”

The response was a unanimous
yes.

Annie got up, turned around, and mooned the girls. Her shorts went back up at record speed. As one, the girls gasped.

“Myra has one, too, but it’s a little more…artful. That means it took a lot of ink. Her artwork is the reason she hasn’t moved back to the main building. She wants to be back with Charles so bad she can taste it, but she’s afraid of what he’ll think or say when he sees it. I told her to get over herself and show Charles now. She could be moved in by dusk if she doesn’t change her mind. Do you think I was wrong to do that, girls?”

When there was no response to her question, Annie sat back down.

“Myra had Charles’s name tattooed on her ass!” Kathryn guessed, her eyes as round as saucers.

The others started to laugh.

“It took a lot of ink, too. Colored ink. She went all out. We were there a very long time. She made the decision either in memorial to Charles, or else she was hoping Charles would come back, which he did. As you saw, I just went with a rose.”

“Way to go, Annie,” Nikki said, hugging the older woman. “That took a lot of guts. Are you sorry you did it?”

“Not at all. I look at it all the time. You know what I mean. It was…it was like an act of independence. Nellie wants to get one. Believe it or not, Pearl Barnes has two of them. Pearl said it goes with this new life she’s leading. It’s just…exhilarating!”

“So, what do we think Charles will do or say?” Yoko asked.

“I think he’ll be speechless,” Nikki said.

“Myra isn’t wearing her pearls these days, so I don’t know how he’s going to equate the two. Speechless is good,” Isabelle said.

“Well, I think he’s going to be so flabbergasted that she cared enough to put his name on her ass that he’s going to swoop her back to the bedroom,” Kathryn said, then laughed until she almost collapsed.

“I think I agree with Kathryn,” Yoko said.

Alexis agreed, too.

“Maybe we should go up to the command center and see what’s going on,” Nikki said.

Annie looked flustered. “Maybe we shouldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to tell you all what we did. It has to be a secret.”

“Get off it, Annie. Everyone knows you can’t keep a secret, especially Myra. So we just sit here and wait—is that what you’re saying?”

“Pretty much. She should have come back by now,” Annie said, nibbling on her thumb. “The ice has melted in the lemonade. Maybe it’s time to replenish it, and I saw some peanut butter cookies on the kitchen counter.” A second later Annie was on her feet, leading the parade up to the building that housed the dining room and kitchen.

Annie made a huge production out of replenishing the lemonade, jabbering nonstop as she told the girls to get fresh glasses and put the cookies on a platter, all of which was carried to the front porch next to the building where the command center was located. Not a sound carried through the open door.

Inside, Myra paced the huge living room of the main building. How in the world was she going to do this? She alternated between feeling like a giddy teenager and an old lady doing stupid things…to I-don’t-give-a-shit…to I-do-give-a-shit. Finally, she squared her shoulders, gave the gold bangles on her neck a hitch, and marched down the hall to the command room. She announced herself, and said, “I need to talk to you, Charles.”

Charles poked his head around the corner and responded, “Can it wait, Myra? I’m knee-deep in some things, and I can’t get sidetracked right now.”

“No, Charles, it can’t wait. We don’t have to talk. In fact, you can stay right where you are. I just want to show you something.”

Myra strutted up the three steps to the dais next to where Charles was standing at the computer. She took a huge gulping breath before she turned around and yanked at her capri pants. Charles’s intake of breath sounded so loud Myra thought her eardrums had ruptured.

“Take a good look, Charles! Now, I’m leaving. You think about this all afternoon now, you hear me?”

Myra bounded out of the building like the Hounds of Hell were on her heels. She pulled up short when she saw the girls sitting on the porch eating cookies and drinking lemonade.

“All right, I did it! Are you all satisfied? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I just did. Annie can’t keep a secret to save her life. I’m not showing it to you all, so don’t bother asking.”

“Lemonade?” Nikki asked with a straight face.

“Cookies?” Alexis asked solemnly.

Myra accepted both. “Maybe I’ll show it to you later.” And then she giggled.

“What did he say?” they asked as one.

“Not a word. I think he choked, but I didn’t stick around long enough to be sure. He could be dying in there for all I know. I don’t think we should worry about it, girls.”

“Myra, I like your chutzpah.” Annie laughed.

Charles was indeed gasping for breath one door away. Did he just see what he thought he saw, or did he fall asleep for a few seconds and merely dream about an apparition that had just presented itself?

Was it possible that the love of his life, the very breath of his life, actually had a tattoo on her derriere? And not just any common tattoo but a tattoo that bore his name? He was suddenly so light-headed he had to go down the steps to sit at the round table, and drop his head between his knees.

How in the name of all that was holy was he supposed to work now after having seen what he’d just seen? Was Myra punishing him? Was Myra the shill the Sisters sent to bedevil him with some kind of insidious mind game? He needed advice. Absolutely he needed advice, but where to go for it and whom to ask? Avery Snowden immediately came to mind. Then a second thought came to mind, and that was Snowden spiriting Myra and Annie away at the end of the last mission. Ha! Well, he wouldn’t be asking Avery Snowden anything anytime soon. He made a mental note to take care of Snowden at some point in the future. Rules were rules, and to be obeyed.

Jack Emery? Harry Wong? Bert? Elias Cummings, Nellie’s new husband? But did he want to air his linen to any of these men? Surely he was old enough, mature enough, to deal with his lady’s tattoo on her derriere. Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. He should be flattered.

Charles raised his head. The realization hit him that he was outmanned, outmaneuvered, and under fire. The Sisters were going to be watching him like a bunch of hungry hawks to see what he would do, so they could pounce on him. While they’d all said they forgave him, they still held some resentment toward him. Only a fool would believe otherwise. One way or another they were going to make him pay, vigilante style.

Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts when two different phones shrilled to life, the fax machine went off, and he heard the
pinging
from the computer announcing new e-mails coming through.

On legs that had gone rubbery, Charles got up and made his way to the platform, where he worked literally nonstop. He closed his eyes for a moment, but all he could see was his name on Myra’s buttock. Maybe if it was just blue ink, it would have been different, but the confetti colors that made up his name were so eyeball-popping obvious he was still thunderstruck. He finally admitted to himself that he couldn’t wait to see the rainbow of colors again.

Charles gave his head another shake and got down to business, but the wicked smile stayed on his face as he tried to make sense of all the reports coming through faster than he could staple them together.

Dinner that evening on Big Pine Mountain was a festive affair. The dinner plates were a fiesta of colors, the enameled handles of the silverware matched, a veritable rainbow. The food was superb, with vegetables picked that day from the garden that Yoko had tended so lovingly. A luscious Pecan-Crusted Salmon, fresh garden peas, baby carrots, and new potatoes the size of a quarter, drenched in butter and savory herbs. The salad was new Bibb lettuce with fresh chives, the first tiny red garden tomatoes, and thin slivers of cucumbers. But it was the white layer cake with confetti frosting that sent the women off into gales of laughter.

Myra found herself laughing along with the girls, then winked at Charles as she dipped her fork into the cake on her plate.

Tonight, she thought, might be interesting.

W
ith twilight settling over Big Pine Mountain, Charles Martin set aside his personal desires and turned inward to the matter at hand. At first he thought the Sisters would be smirking and itching to make snide comments, but they proved him wrong. If any of them, Myra included, were thinking even remotely about Myra’s tattoo, you couldn’t prove it by him. The women were in work mode, chomping at the bit to get this new mission under way, especially Yoko, who was taking the whole affair personally.

The Sisters looked upward to where Charles was standing on the platform, their gazes expectant. Charles waved a stack of printed e-mails and began. “Reports from my operatives. I’ll give you the short version, ladies. In the four days my men and women have been tailing the suspects they’ve garnered a wealth of information. I have here eight different aliases that the subjects go by. I want to thank Kathryn for naming them Bonnie and Clyde because it makes it so much easier when we refer to them that way.

“I also want to point out that we have not been able to find any records of a marriage taking place under any of the names we have discovered. Even though Bonnie and Clyde live together and
say
they’re married, there is absolutely no evidence that they are. And at this time we have not been successful in determining Bonnie’s or Clyde’s real identity.

“Surveillance began four days ago, when my people first staked out the Watergate. Bonnie and Clyde have been under the microscope. Bonnie left the Watergate, drove her Lexus to Reagan National Airport, and took a 7:00 A.M. flight to Newark, New Jersey. In the long-term lot, she picked up a black Honda that had obviously been left there for her. She then drove to Menlo Park and went straight to the Hilton. She didn’t register, but she had previously rented one of their conference rooms. She ordered fruit, coffee, and Danish. Within an hour, ten people entered the room. All ten people appeared to be business types, and all of them carried briefcases. My operative managed to get pictures of all ten plus Bonnie. He also videotaped the parking lot, making sure to get the license plate numbers of all the parked cars. We’re in the process of running the plate numbers now, but so far nothing has come back. There were hundreds of cars in the lot.

“Our current thinking is that the business types would have been using their own cars, not rentals or stolen vehicles. Also, for your information, Bonnie’s Lexus is registered under the name Angela Bookman, the name she’s using at the Watergate.

“Bonnie reserved the conference room under the name of Carol Stewart. She used a credit card under the same name to pay for the room and food. The meeting lasted a full ninety minutes. My man stayed with Bonnie and followed her back to the airport, where she next boarded a flight to Pittsburgh. We had just enough time with her layover to get another operative onboard. He flew with her to Pittsburgh, where she did exactly the same thing she had in Newark. She picked up a car, another black Honda in the long-term lot, and drove to another Hilton. This time she used the name Tammy Jessup. My man followed through just the way the operative had in New Jersey. Ten people, all business types. Same food ordered, and the meeting lasted ninety minutes.