A slight smile played about her cousin’s lips, but then she nodded. “Yeah, probably a dream. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Let me know what your father has to say, all right? I really hope he knows someone on this side I can talk to.”
“Will do, honey. Love you! Bye-bye!”
She rang off and stared out the window for a while. The rain was lashing the single pane, and the sky was pitch black, even though it wasn’t even fully evening yet. Snuggles jumped on her lap and installed herself there, purring contentedly. She stroked her behind the ears. “So it was the food, huh?” she murmured as she settled back.
She thought about what Alice had said about Brian, and wondered what that was all about. But then she figured it had nothing to do with her, and decided not to expect too much. Alice had a habit of making a lot of promises before promptly forgetting all about them. And seeing as she was so busy, it would be a small miracle if she even remembered to ask her father about his Scotland Yard contacts. If he still had any left. It’d been almost ten years since he’d returned to the States and became Happy Bays’s chief of police.
She thought back to Inspector Watley, and the dark looks he’d given her. It was obvious that if it were up to him, he’d have arrested her on the spot.
She heaved a deep sigh. “We’re in deep trouble, Snuggles,” she murmured. “If things don’t look up it’s not such a bad idea to head on over to Mrs. Peak for your kibble. She might just be your new owner from now on.”
She shivered and moved over to the window to close the curtains. For the first time in a long time she didn’t have anywhere to be the next day.
Chapter Three
Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III was perfecting his ice skating technique when his personal valet beckoned him from the side of the rink. As per his instructions, the rink had been closed off to the public to allow Jarrett to practice in private. It was his dream to become the next big thing in figure skating, and since he’d never been on the skates before, but he’d seen all the movies, he knew that practice made perfect, so practice it was.
He was a spindly young man with wavy butter-colored hair and pale blue eyes that regarded the world with child-like wonder. As the son of the richest man in England he was in the unique position to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it, and what he wanted more than anything right now was to be the next British figure skating Olympic champion.
He groaned in annoyance when he caught sight of his valet Deshawn’s urgent wave. “I told you to hold all my calls!” he cried, but the music pounding from the speakers drowned out his voice. It was the soundtrack of Ice Princess, of course, playing on a loop. Motivation was key, he knew, and he watched the movie at least once a day to keep him in the right frame of mind.
Reluctantly he finished his pirouette and swished over to the side.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he grumbled when Deshawn handed him the phone. “This is Jarrett!” he called out pleasantly when it was finally pressed to his ear. “Oh, it’s you, Father,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll. “What am I doing?” He frowned at Deshawn, who shrugged. Father never asked him what he was doing. Just as Jarrett made it his aim in life to do as little as possible, his pater made it his habit to interfere as infrequently as possible, lest he develop a heart condition. “I’m ice skating, if you must know,” he said a little huffily, fully expecting a barrage of criticism to be poured into his ear at this confession. “For what? The Olympic Games, of course. What else?”
“Look, son, something’s come up,” the author of his being now grated in his ear. “I need you to listen to me and listen to me very carefully, you hear?”
He did listen very carefully, even though he was quite sure that whatever the old man had to impart was probably a load of poppycock as usual. “Yes, Father. I am listening,” he announced with another eye roll. There was a crackling noise on the other end, and then his father said, “I need you or that valet of yours to go over to…” There was that crackle again.
“There seems to be some sort of noise. What did you just say?”
“I need you to pick up the parcel and bring it to…”
“I’m losing you,” he said, quickly losing patience.
“The parcel is at… right now, and if you don’t pick it up… it’s going to… along with your mother’s… and that’ll be the end of…”
“You’re not making any sense,” he said, staring down at his nice new blue spandex outfit. He’d bought seven, a different color for each day of the week. He particularly liked the one he was wearing now. It looked exactly like the one Michelle Trachtenberg, the star of Ice Princess, wore in the movie. “What package? And what does Mother have to do with anything?”
“Will you just listen!” the old man yelled, now audibly irritated. “If you don’t pick up that package right now… then… and… unmitigated disaster!”
He sighed. Whatever his old man was involved in, it could probably wait, so he said, “First get decent reception, Father, and call me back, all right?”
And he deftly clicked off the phone and handed it back to Deshawn. He then gave his valet a look of warning. “No more phone calls, Deshawn.”
Deshawn, a rather thickset smallish man with perfectly coiffed thinning brown hair and an obsequious manner, had been in Jarrett’s employ for many years, and the two formed rather an odd couple. One thin and tall, the other short and stout, they resembled Laurel & Hardy in their heyday.
The valet now muttered, “I know, sir. My apologies. But your father said it was extremely urgent.”
“It’s always urgent,” said Jarrett with an airy wave of the hand. “But he’ll just have to wait, for I…” He glided away. “… am on my way to greatness!”
And with these words, he allowed the wonderful music of Ice Princess to guide him back onto the rink and launch him into his most complicated movement yet: the twizzle, a one-foot turn. He usually worked with Vance Crowdell, trainer to the stars, but the man had some other arrangement tonight, so he’d been forced to train alone. Not that he minded. The crusty old trainer had already taught him so many new movements he needed to practice until he’d perfected those before learning any new ones.
And as he closed his eyes and allowed the music to take him into a new and wonderful world of glitter and glamor and thunderous applause, he saw himself as the first male Olympic figure skating gold medalist to come out of Britain in quite a long time.
Philo eyed the woman darkly. “I’m not asking, Madame Wu. I’m telling you. Take the package and hand it over as soon as you’re told.”
“But I can’t,” the proprietress of Xing Ming lamented in nasal tones. Her jet-black hair clearly came from a bottle and her horn-rimmed glasses were too large for her narrow face. She’d been running the small family restaurant for thirty years, one of the mainstays of London’s Chinatown in the City of Westminster. “I have other matters tonight. I can’t do package right now.”
He thrust the package back into her hands. “Just take it already. Lives depend on this,” he added with a meaningful look. A look that said it was her own life that depended on it.
She rattled the package, her eyes unnaturally large behind the glasses. “What is it? Is it bomb?”
“No, is not bomb,” he said, mimicking her accent. “It’s just something very important.” He leaned in. “Very important to Master Edwards.”
A look of fear stole over her face, and she nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. Master Edwards. I will hand over package no problem. Hand over who?”
“You’ll know her when you see her.”
“Is woman?”
“Apparently.”
Actually he didn’t know himself. All he knew was that his contact had told him he would send his assistant, and she would be dressed in black. But since no one else knew about the package he wasn’t too worried. He pointed a stubby finger at Madame Wu. “Just make sure she gets it, all right?”