Bad to the Last Drop (20 page)

"Wouldn't you know, it was the second-to-last gate in this wing?" Pat asked.

"Could have been worse. We could have had to load out on the tarmac," Deb said.

They handed the flight attendant their tickets and IDs, and smiled at each other as they found their seats in first class. Pat was almost bursting with excitement. The very thought of her first trip to the West Indies was exciting, and she couldn't do anything but grin.
I must look like a hick from the Midwest on her first trip,
Pat thought.
What the heck, why not enjoy it?

"Let's order a drink. I'll buy," Pat said, pinching Deb's arm.

"Ouch! Why did you do that?" she asked.

"Just wanted to see if we were dreaming," Pat responded, looking out the window.

"We're up," the man in the next seat said. "And in first class, drinks are on the house."

Pat smiled her thanks at him and then turned to Deb. "Can you believe the Russians sprung for this trip?"

"Yes, and all we had to do was solve a murder and nearly get killed ourselves," Deb teased.

"Oh, pooh. It was intriguing—well, except for the almost drinking fentanyl in our coffee part. You know, I'm glad everything turned out for the sisters. And to think Joe had actually bought a house on the island of Nevis and put it in their names. The United States must have held just too many bad memories for him."

A good-looking male flight attendant came down the aisle and asked, "Coffee, ladies?"

"What kind of coffee do you serve?" Pat asked.

Leaning down, he smiled. "We serve the best coffee in the world just for you. Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica. Would you like a cup?"

Pat looked at Deb, and she nodded her head. "Yes, please, but please don't put anything else in it," she said in her sweetest voice, and Deb let out a hoarse laugh. The attendant looked confused.

"Just a little inside joke," Pat said. "Forgive me. And do you have any breakfast rolls?"

"Coming right up, ma'am."

Deb sighed and pulled out a
National Geographic.
"When was it," she asked, flipping through the magazine, "that handsome young men started to call us 'ma'am'? I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

Pat nodded, commiserating.

Just a few days ago, Pat and Deb had sat across a beautiful mahogany desk from Peter Thomas ...

By the look of his office, Pat assumed that Peter was more important than they had thought. Two walls were lined with books. Many of them, she noted, were language texts, ancient and modern, and others were on codes. Pat saw a book on the famous Native Americans that were coders in World War II, and her fingers itched to pick it up and read it. With a smile she also noticed a pile of well worn paperbacks—mysteries.

"Thank you for coming in. I'll try not to keep you long. Get your thoughts and ideas on this whole business about Joe Abramov while it's still fresh in your minds." He leaned forward in his chair. "Since Joe's death didn't have to do with the army or the CIA connection, this is not an official investigation. But he was a friend of mine, a buddy. He once saved my life, and I owe it to him to make sure all the loose ends are neatly tied." His face was unreadable. "And I wanted to thank you personally for catching his murderer—not that Detective LeSeur was too far behind you. He had been checking on Montgomery for several days." With a shake of his head, he continued, "And thanks for not getting yourselves poisoned at the same time. We analyzed that coffee in the cup, and it had enough fentanyl in it to kill five people. He really meant business. It's a good thing for him that he vomited right away. "

"You're welcome," Deb replied. "I think I would have preferred that you had been just a little ahead of us on this one. When I think how close I was to lifting that cup ... I understand now that Joe worked with you in 'Nam, doing language and codes, but how did he come into the picture now?"

"Joe had many connections all over the world, including Iran and, of course, Russia. Let's just say that lately we persuaded him to use those connections for his country."

"So the second lottery that his sisters talked about ... you were the lottery."

"Yes, that money came from us." He coughed slightly. "As well as from a few of our friends, who must remain confidential. But know this," he continued. "The money was well spent. Because of Joe and his knowledge, we were able to pick up two main players in the Iraq War. Of course, that's what brought us to Ashland when Joe died. We needed to make sure that there wasn't a leak about him somewhere in our operations. And also, there was some information that he said he had. But that must be lost now. The fire, unfortunately, took care of that. If he had had it on his computer, it was gone. I'm afraid I can't go into much more detail than that. I just wanted to thank you both personally before I call in Andy. He'll probably want to take notes, but unless you object, I'll record this. Don't worry. It's just to give us as much of the picture as possible."

He pushed a button on his phone and the young man came in so quickly that it was clear that Peter had kept him waiting in another room.

"Ladies," he said, nodding as he took a seat, looking like he would rather be in front of a firing squad than in this room now.

"Andy, I know you have something you would like to say before we start."

Looking even more uncomfortable, he blurted, "I'm s——" He got up and paced a few steps before continuing. "I just can't say I'm sorry. This is ridiculous. Amateurs butting into national security. I'm just glad you didn't get yourselves killed in the process."

"It's your sense of responsibility," Pat said, forgivingly. "You've been highly trained to do a specific job, and we trampled all over it. It won't help to get angry all over again. And I can pretty much guarantee that we won't be doing it to another of your operations."

He sat down and grinned sheepishly.

"Now," Deb said, sitting up a little straighter in her chair, "where do you want us to begin?"

"Maybe with fentanyl?" Pat said. And they all laughed.

Later, tired but happy to have finished, Andy said, "It was a pleasure meeting you both. Deb, you can tell the sisters that we have found the other accounts Joe had in the Caribbean." He handed Deb a card with numbers on it. "Here are the account numbers and the bank. We have already notified them that they will be contacted, so there shouldn't be a problem."

Turning to Deb, Pat said, "Deb, remember this?" She pulled the empty pill bottle from her pocket. "I meant to give it to you earlier." Turning to Peter, Pat explained, "We had taken it with the files from his apartment. But the funny thing was, this wasn't a real prescription label. See?"

Andy carefully took the bottle. "It just might be ... And you've been carrying this around with you the whole time?" He looked as if he just couldn't believe what he was hearing and seeing. "If this is what I think it is, you two just might have saved five agents who were very much in danger." And without another word, he hurried out the door, taking the bottle with him.

"Microfilm?" Pat asked. "But I only took the bottle to show Marc and find out what was in it."

Peter just smiled at the women and shook his head. "Some of your luck I could use."

Pat was pulled back to the plane by the voice of the steward. "Your coffee, ladies."

And then after their coffee, they fell asleep, and the next thing Pat heard was the captain's voice: "Please fasten your seat belts. We will be arriving on the island of St. Kitt's in five minutes."

Moments later, they landed at a small airport in what seemed like the middle of a rain forest.
Looks like I'll be able to experience getting out on the tarmac after all,
Pat thought, feeling like a seasoned traveler.

Deb's senses were being bombarded. The blue sky, the aquamarine ocean, the scent of flowers. The heat on her body. The sound of the waves and laughing children.
Who would have ever thought I would be here in this beautiful place?
she sighed happily.

"Pat, quit daydreaming for once. Here's your fruit drink, although if you went by content, it should be called a rum drink. I asked them to mix them lighter. But ... oh well, we're on vacation," Deb said with bemusement.

Their lighthearted revelry was invaded by the sound of Deb's cell phone ringing loudly. "Honestly, if that thing rings again, I swear I'm going to throw it in the ocean," Deb said, feigning annoyance. "Hello?" she answered. "Oh, hello, Peter! How kind of you to call us." She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and said to Pat, as if she hadn't heard her answer the phone, "Pat, it's Peter. Peter Thomas." Deb turned her attention back to Peter. "The fruit was in our rooms when we arrived. And the house is so beautiful. The Abramov sisters and their friends got here before us and are already making it their own. Wait; let me see if I can put this on speaker so Pat can hear."

"Just wanted to call and say hello and wish you a great vacation," a tinny voice said from the receiver. "And also, I wanted you to know that the microfilm
was
on the back of the label of the prescription. My guess is that Joe, even in his hardest times, knew he would remember it was there with his pills—and that no one would ever think to look there. He was right. We wouldn't have found it if it wasn't for your incredible instincts. Anyway, our operatives are accounted for and safe."

"Thanks for not saying it was blind luck," Deb called out from her lounge chair. "Although that's about what it was. How are things going for Bill? I know it's crazy, but I hope he's all right. I wouldn't like to think I'd killed someone."

"No, he's just fine. He's safely tucked away in the county jail. After they pumped his stomach out, it was a close call, but don't feel too sorry for him. That large dose of fentanyl was meant for you. Ironically, now that he is being tried for murder, his paintings are finally selling. The collection of caricatures, yours included, are being billed as the 'Black Cat murder sketches' and are being auctioned off at Christie's, which is predicting large amounts. Bizarre."

They were all laughing as they signed off. "You look happy," said a female voice.

Turning, they saw the five Russian women, all of whom looked quite different from the first time they met them. Their skin glowed from the sun and the worry lines were erased from their faces. As they settled in around them, Deb and Pat listened to stories of Joe and Jacob as young boys.

"In many vays, I think Joe was a
poustinik
for your little town of Ashland," Anastasia said to Deb with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

"A pooh ... what?" Deb asked.

"A
poustinik.
It comes from a Russian vord 'poustinia,' meaning 'desert.' In the old days, every Russian village had its poustinik—a very special person, who, for a time or for a life's vocation, lived in a poutinia and prayed for the rest of the village."

"Sort of like a town fairy godfather," Deb said, nodding her head at the idea of Joe's being like an invisible benefactor of the town.

"Another example of not judging a book by its cover," Pat added with a laugh. She raised her glass dramatically. "A toast! To Joe."

"Yes, to Joe," Deb added, smiling at Pat over her glass. "And to no more murders."

As they sat together, the others quietly talking about the next day, Pat saw in her mind a closing to their personal adventure that was like the end of every good mystery that she had read:

As the sun set gloriously over the ocean, the seven beautiful

women sat smiling and laughing, enjoying each other's company

and eager to start new lives and new adventures.

And with a smile, Pat took a sip of her rum punch.

Pat set her suitcase in front of the door to her old Victorian and looked for her key in her bag. It seemed a lifetime ago since she had been home.
Home,
she thought, startled.
This place has become home.
Home—with her things and her husband and her friends. Her watercolors just where she left them. Books unread by her favorite chair. Home.
Funny, to think it could all be just the same, when I feel so different.