The Spy Who Kissed Me

Chapter 1-1

1

I’d never have gotten mixed up in the first murder if Mrs. Macpherson hadn’t caught the flu, but I can’t blame her for capricious fate rolling the “who’s shall I smite today?” dice and my name—Isabel Stanley—coming up.

Isabel. Picture someone petite, fragile and blonde, done in soft pastels, lusciously formed—and you’ll know how I don’t look. Most people find it less stressful to call me Stan when faced with a reality that is tall, lots of leg, and colored with crayons in brown and pasty white. Don’t get me wrong. Being darn near invisible isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you. Ask my twin sister Rosemary about her ex. Just be sure to do it from a safe distance. Calling her spitting mad isn’t an exercise in the theoretical.

I used to be a safe distance from her and my mother until six months ago when my instinct for survival got swamped by guilt. Since my livelihood happens via computer and a sketch pad, I was able to make the move from New Orleans, Louisiana to Arlington, Virginia almost painlessly. Painless isn’t possible with my mother in the mix. She’s a fundamentalist Baptist who wanted me to give her more grandchildren, not give the world children’s books featuring a cartoon roach named Cochran. That it pays very well only adds insult to her imagined injury.

My mother’s unhappiness with my roach didn't matter when a significant part of the country separated us, but my dad died and Rosemary's husband, Dag had a mid-life crisis, with lots of gold chains, a Mercedes-Benz, and a twenty-year-old secretary. Dag moved out. Mother wanted to move in, eager to help. Rosemary was in shock or she would have considered the consequences of introducing into her nineties household a woman who still lived in the fifties. I tried to warn Rose, I tried to reason with our Mother, but they didn't listen to me. They never do. Nor did they admit I'd been right when they called me. They just indicated in their differing ways that a move back to Arlington would be for my best good.

My mother believed that I’d never have stooped to writing about a roach if I’d stayed in Virginia. She was right. I'd have been too busy dodging blind dates. Didn’t matter that there were good reasons these guys were still single—scary reasons. I wouldn’t have caved, but Rosemary made me an offer I should have refused: rent-free possession of the apartment over the garage that “Dag, that rotten scumbag, mostly finished before he lost his mind over that slut.” I capitulated with calculated reluctance. I wanted Rosemary in my debt without giving away the fact that I had my reasons for moving to the rescue.

Perky, disgusting little Cochran the Cockroach had reached a level of popularity that had my publicist talking book tour. Not the talk show circuit or high-style launch parties. No, she wanted me to make an endless round of library story hours and school assemblies filled with packs of children asking questions like, “Why are there bubbles in spit?” and “Do you curl the hair in your nose?” I gave up teaching elementary school to get away from questions like that.

I explained my family problem and the role I was to play in the tragic-comedy.

“You could be on the radio!” she countered

“Well, I don't need some guy asking me why I write about a roach and haven't ever married. I have my mother to do that.”

“All right,” she conceded with a sigh, “but I think you're nuts. The tour isn’t forever. Moving in with your mother could be.”

Before I realized I’d been insulted, she rang off and I went back to abandoning all hope and packing. It wasn’t without a pang—or a million pangs—that I gave up my apartment, bid farewell to the pastries and jazz of the Big Easy, and moved in over Rosemary's garage to be part-time house-aunt and resident thorn in my mother's side, freeing Rosemary to pursue her quest to strip Dag of the trappings of his mid-life crisis, from his gold chains to the Mercedes-Benz. She didn't want the twenty-year old.

In the interests of her long-term mental health, it was a good thing she was successful. Though Rosemary and I possess the same physical attributes, they seem to work better for her. She made a favorable impression on the judge, aided by Dag who dragged his child-lover to the proceedings and forgot to request visitation rights to his children. Rosemary didn't get the gold chains, but she got most everything else—including the Mercedes.

No surprise our fractured little family was rubbing along about as smooth as chalk on a blackboard when Reverend Hilliard called and asked me to sub for Mrs. Macpherson at the organ during youth choir practice. I like playing the organ, and I had no reason to think it might be dangerous. Besides, they have hot chocolate afterwards. They have to. It’s January in our tiny suburb of DC and our church is old and cold.

Since I have an aversion to freezing to death and my blood was thinned by my time down South, I dressed for the impending Arctic conditions. Starting with thermals, I worked my way out to jeans and a wooly mammoth sweater, finishing with snow socks and boots. I pulled my hair back in its customary braid and brushed artificial roses onto my unremarkable cheekbones. When I could do no more, I collected coat, hat, and gloves, and opened the door that separated my over-the-garage apartment-by-Goodwill from my sister’s House Beautiful.

Down in the kitchen, I found my mother watching the Gulf War on television. It felt weird, but everyone was doing it. It was our first televised war. My favorite part was the scud studs—and the soldiers. And let’s not forget those men in uniform. What wasn’t to like about that? The only thing that could distract my mother from smart bombs—she’d never admit she watched the scud studs, too—was me. It’s a gift.

Her meticulously plucked brows arched into her gray fringe as she examined my jeans. She thinks jeans are too comfortable and should be banned. Comfort isn’t the road to true happiness. Discomfort is—if you rejoice in it. Or something like that.

“Slacks, Isabel?” My mother has the perfect voice for registering disapproval. It is light and smooth, but with bite, like plain yogurt.

“I’m allergic to frostbite.” I bent to root through the refrigerator for the pickles. Rejoiced when I found them, used my fingers to dig out a big one.

“You’ll reek of pickle juice. You know Reverend Hilliard dislikes pickles.”

I knew that. It was why I was pickle diving. I looked up in time to catch the match-making gleam in her eye. I wanted to believe she wasn’t that desperate to remove the stain of singleness from my name, but I knew she was. The only thing she wanted more than my marriage to a testosterone carrier was Rosemary’s ex-husband castrated and forced to live the rest of his life as an impotent handyman for a women’s sorority.

She’s still got some work to do on the forgiveness thing.

“How could anyone dislike pickles?” Holding her avid gaze with my limpid one, I submerged my hand in the jar again and then wiped the pungent residue down the side of my jeans. If I had to, I’d hang dill around my neck to keep the reverend away. No way I was getting intimate with a guy under close scrutiny from God.

“Maybe her tight jeans will distract him from the smell,” Rosemary, said from the doorway, her smile shadowed. Suffering agreed with her. Our mutual assets still looked better hanging from her bones than they ever had from mine.

“They are very tight.” She looked and sounded conflicted. Tight was bad, but men were men, and if that’s what it took to get one she would consider looking the other way—even as she planned my guilt trip.

A good thing the telephone rang and dislocated the conversation. Before any of us could answer it, Rosemary’s eldest daughter, Candice, swirled into the room and scooped up the receiver. Telephone answering is the only known benefit of having a thirteen-year-old in the house.

“Jeez, it’s for you, Stan.” She thrust the telephone at me like I’d committed a crime, then vanished, leaving a shimmering trail of hormones quivering in the air to mark her passage.

My mother stared at the place where Candice had been, then turned to look down her nose at me. “I wish you wouldn’t encourage the children to call you Stan. Isabel is a lovely name.”

No one needed encouragement to call me Stan, but I didn’t waste breath pointing this out. I didn’t have time for one of our automatic arguments. I applied the phone to an ear. “Hello?”

“Isabel?”

Okay, so no one except Muir Kenyon called me Isabel. Muir would be at the top of my mother’s potential husband list, because of his lukewarm interest in me, if he weren’t also the brother of Rosemary’s ex-husband. It was awkward, but Muir is so clueless he hasn’t figured that out yet.

“Hello, Muir.” I sounded resigned because I felt resigned. It was all Muir could inspire in a woman, I’m afraid.

“I was wondering if you would care to join me for a cup of hot chocolate this evening? I wrote a new computer program I’d like to show you.”

Somehow Muir has realized I love hot chocolate like hobbits love mushrooms, while totally missing the fact that his computer talk puts me in a coma.

“Gee, I’m sorry. Reverend Hilliard asked me to play the organ for youth choir tonight. Mrs. Macpherson has the flu.”

“Can we meet afterward? I designed this program myself.”

Wow, tempting, but… “No.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He would, but I didn’t have time to get depressed about it. I had to leave before I compounded my sins by being late. I hung up the telephone and shrugged on my jacket while examining Rosemary from under my lashes. She seemed to be in as good of a mood as she could be post divorce.

“Could I borrow your Mercedes, Rose? My car was raised in New Orleans and doesn’t know how to produce heat unless it’s already hot out.”

She frowned. Rosemary is a trifle possessive with her things. When we were kids in nursery school, she used to spend the whole playtime with her toys stacked in the corner guarding them against forays by other kids. And she knows I sometimes daydream while I drive, leading me to end up somewhere other than where I intended—which doesn’t mean I’ve put a scratch on anything of hers.

I watched her struggle between her protective passion for the car she’d wrested from her ex and the knowledge she needed me to drive carpool in the morning because she had a class in glue gun technique. Indebtedness can be a terrible burden if you have a great car.

“The keys are in my purse. Just be careful,” she muttered.

“I’ll treat it like it was my own.”

Her brows shot up. “Not good enough.”

“None of those accidents was my fault,” I protested. “New Orleans is an automotive Bermuda Triangle!”

“One scratch—”

“Cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t take care of your precious car.” How fate must have chortled with glee as I unknowingly threw down a gauntlet in front of it. I didn’t hear it. I was too busy pulling on my wool fedora and, tugging it down over my ears. My mother tsk-tsked and adjusted the hat to a more suitable angle on my head. When she was satisfied, she gave my cheek a pat that was part fond, partly annoyed, and let me escape out the door for my rendezvous with destiny.

As soon as I was out of her sight, I jerked my hat down again. It was cold, and I’m a grownup who can do what she likes when her mother isn’t looking.