Granny's Got a Gun (Secret Agent Granny Book 1) Page 6

  “How was school?” I asked, forgetting myself and stroking his hair.

  “Stop!” he said, yanking his head away. “Fine.”

  “What did you study?”

  “Stuff.”

  I sighed. It looked like that one glimmer of sympathy from the previous night was the only attention I was going to get.

  I headed to the kitchen to make a phone call. If spending time with my grandson was going to be time wasted, I had a murder investigation to deal with.

  I still needed to talk to Pauline, who was a prime suspect because she had been a jilted suitor. Being a senior citizen using a walker hadn’t stopped her from affairs of the heart, so it might not stop her from a crime of passion.

  As I tried to figure out just how to approach my conversation with her, a more obvious problem still bothered me—just how would a homebody senior citizen in a dull town know where to get a fast-acting poison and know how to use it? This wasn’t exactly common information, and while we lived in the so-called information age, how would one of my reading group sift through all the junk sites on the Internet to discover how to really administer a poison and which one to use? Assuming they could get over that hurdle, how would they get their hands on the poison? The kind of poison that had killed Lucien wasn’t your garden-variety toxin. It was a deadly poison that one would not normally be able to find.

  The poison problem reshuffled my list of suspects. Charles was the only one who had knowledge of chemistry. Undertakers knew about all sorts of noxious substances used to pickle people. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine him acquiring the knowledge of how to turn those people into corpses in the first place.

  Besides him, Evon was the most educated of our group. In fact, she was the only woman in the group who hadn’t been a homemaker. She’d been a schoolteacher all of her adult life until she had retired a few years ago. She’d been a middle school teacher, however, teaching social studies while dodging spitballs. That didn’t make her a prime candidate as a poison expert.

  Evon did, however, know how to use the Internet, having worked in schools long enough that it had become universal before she left. That meant she had the skills to look these things up.

  The younger generation doesn’t realize, or doesn’t care, just how computer illiterate many people over sixty really are. Pearl proudly proclaimed that she had never been on a computer in her life and never would. I had to personally help Gretchen find recipes on the Internet because she couldn’t get the hang of using a search engine. Pauline expressed a similar ignorance. Even Charles had mentioned that he left “that computer stuff” to his son.

  I used my cell phone to call Pauline, closing the kitchen door so I didn’t have to hear World War III in the living room.

  She took some time to pick up. The voice that said hello was heavy with grief and fatigue.

  “Hello, Pauline. This is Barbara. How are you doing?”

  Stupid question, I know. But what else do you ask in this situation? “Hello, Pauline, are you sad because your jilted love died, or because you killed him and can’t handle the enormity of your actions?”

  Doesn’t quite have the same panache.

  “Oh, as well as can be expected,” Pauline replied. “I just can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a fine man.”

  I decided to lead her on a bit.

  “Yes, handsome too.”

  “Oh, so handsome! He was the last ray of sunshine in my twilight hours.”

  I rolled my eyes in a fashion that would have made Martin proud. She was talking like the character from Endless Beach.

  “You know I loved him, don’t you, Barbara?” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. He made me crazy every time I saw him. He never acted as anything other than a complete gentleman, never led me on or anything like that, but his mere presence set me on fire.”

  I rolled my eyes again. This was getting pretty interesting, though. She seemed to have no intention of stopping, so I let her continue.

  “It was like he turned me into another person. I felt crazy around him. I would have never opened up my heart to any other man the way I did with Lucien. He had that effect on women. He renewed them, just like Marcella after she found a new lease on life in that wonderful novel we read.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again. All of this eye rolling was making me dizzy. No wonder Martin sat on the couch all the time. With his amount of eye rolling, he’d fall over for sure if he wasn’t comfortably seated.

  Something she’d said stuck out in my mind.

  “So he had this effect on other women too?” I asked.

  “Didn’t he make your heart race like a thoroughbred mare?”

  I blushed a bit at the comparison.

  “Well, he was nice looking, but no, I wasn’t in love with him.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised.

  “Other women loved him too?”

  “I know someone who loved him as much as I did, perhaps more.”

  “Really? Who’s that?”

  “Oh, that was said in confidence. Besides, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.”

  “Perhaps we should console her.”

  “I’m sure she’s inconsolable. Now I really must go, Barbara. Thank you for calling, but I’m exhausted. Shattered. I don’t think we’ll ever be the same again. I loved him. We loved him,” she said, her voice coming out as a hoarse whisper.

  She hung up. I stared at the phone, wondering about Pauline’s words.

  Who was this “we”? Someone else in the readers’ group? I’m sure everyone, even Pearl, had noticed Lucien’s good looks—pretty much the entire female population of Cheerville over fifty had—but “love” was an awfully strong word, especially coming from a woman who had been jilted by her own spouse and who had developed an attachment to another woman’s husband.

  So perhaps love was the motivation, just as I suspected. Perhaps this other suitor couldn’t handle rejection as well as Pauline had? Or perhaps Gretchen, feeling beset on all sides by competition, had killed her husband in a fit of jealousy? Maybe even Pauline did it, angry that this other woman had succeeded where she had failed? I needed to learn more.

  Frustrated, I put away my phone and turned to go back to the living room. As I opened the kitchen door I heard a strange sound—silence. Curious, I entered the living room.

  What I saw there nearly gave me a heart attack.

  The television was off. The Xbox was stowed away, and my screen zombie grandson was reading a book!

  Could this be the same boy?

  Then I noticed his feet propped up on the coffee table. Yes, it was the same boy.

  “Hi, Martin!”

  Silence.

  “Martin, say hello to your grandmother,” I said, imitating Frederick’s mantra.

  “Hi, Grandma,” he mumbled, focused as much on the page as he usually was on the screen. Being ignored while he was reading somehow didn’t hurt so much.

  “What’s that you’re reading?” I asked.

  Martin moved the cover so I could see it and kept on reading.

  Dragon’s Fire Book Five: Dragon’s Bane.

  A colorful cover showed a dragon flying through the air and breathing flames that spelled out the title. Below stood three young teenagers—a boy and a girl in armor and wielding swords flanking a boy in robes with hands glowing like he was casting a spell. I was impressed that the girl got to be a warrior. Most of the girls in these books had to be the spellcaster since a warrior was a “tough guy” role. I did notice that she was bigger chested than any girl Martin’s age had a right to be. Ah well, marketing.

  “Is that good?”

  Martin’s eyes widened. “It’s awesome!”

  I wondered if there were any interior illustrations of the girl warrior.

  An idea came into my head, not about the murder but about something almost equally important.
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br />   “Do you have book one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  Martin gave me a curious look.

  “Um, okay. Why?”

  “I want to read it.”

  He stared at me.

  “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “Well, I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Um, it’s in my room somewhere. Don’t move my stuff,” he said, going back to his book.

  A tremor went through my heart. Once while serving in the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan, a territory full of terrorists, warring tribes, and bandits, I’d discovered I had walked into a minefield. I had discovered this because I came across a skeleton. Well, actually, half a skeleton. The other half of the skeleton lay several feet away. Between the two halves of the skeleton was a shallow pit from where the mine had exploded, ripping the poor fellow in half and flinging his two parts into the air like an overeager toaster.

  Walking out of that minefield had been only slightly scarier than the prospect of walking into Martin’s room.

  Have I mentioned that Frederick is one of those parents who thinks teaching his child independence means not taking any responsibility for his child’s room? His wife, Alicia, is the same. They never clean up after him. As far as I know, they don’t even go in there. They leave a stack of his clean laundry at his doorway and take whatever dirty clothes he dumps in the hallway to the washing machine.

  I approached the doorway of Martin’s room with more fear and trepidation than I had the kitchen in Gretchen and Lucien’s house. Dead bodies I can handle. They won’t hurt me. Martin’s room, on the other hand…

  I stopped at the doorway with a gasp. It was worse than I’d imagined. Worse than Iraq in the nineties. Worse than Beirut in the eighties. Worse even than the South Bronx in the seventies.

  Not a trace of carpet was visible, having been completely devoured by a wall-to-wall monster made up by discarded clothing, plastic weapons components, half-built Lego kits, cardboard boxes, empty wrappers, action figures, random bits of paper, and at least one dirty plate.

  There were no straight angles in Martin’s room, the corners and edges all softened by snowdrifts of T-shirts, miniature landfills of cereal boxes, bastions of football gear.

  The place was a cocoon of crud. A nest of nastiness. A despond of detritus.

  How the heck was I going to find a book in here?

  The bookshelves were obviously the last place to look. There were no books on them—a lacrosse stick, a couple of empty soda cans, a hockey mask, and three dirty socks, yes—but no books.

  I took a tentative step inside and nearly turned my ankle on a chunk of Lego. Adjusting my balance, I decided on a safer tactic: I started sweeping my foot back and forth to move the mess in the hope of turning up the book.

  Five minutes of work rewarded me with some visions that will haunt my dreams forever and Dragon’s Fire Book Four: Dragon’s Hoard.

  Close, but no cigar. I put the book on the bookshelf and looked at Martin’s hoard of junk. Certainly not as rich as a dragon’s hoard, but perhaps bigger.

  I went back to sweeping with my feet.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??!!” wailed an adolescent voice from the doorway.

  Martin stood there, looking scandalized.

  “I’m trying to find that book you’re going to lend me.”

  “Why are you making a mess of everything?”

  “Make a mess? Are you jok—”

  “How can I find anything if you mess everything up?” Martin stomped into the room, expertly avoiding the landmines of toys and plastic pistols. He went to a heap of trash in the corner I hadn’t excavated yet, stuck his hand in to the elbow, and pulled out Dragon’s Fire Book One: Dragon’s Quest.

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” I whispered.

  Martin looked at me. “Wouldn’t you be a monkey’s aunt?”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  He handed me the book.

  “Are you really going to read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if it gets you off the Xbox, it must be good, right?”

  He gave me a teenaged eye roll and went back to the living room, where he buried himself in his book again.

  I followed him and took a look at the cover. The same three kids were featured on the cover, although they looked slightly younger. A sticker on the cover said, “Reading is the only cool way to get high! Cheerville School District.”

  “What’s this sticker?”

  “Huh?”

  “The sticker on the cover of this book. Why is reading the only cool way to get high?”

  “It’s a drug-prevention thing the school does,” Martin said without looking up. “They gave me a free book.”

  “For what? Not selling drugs?”

  Another teenage eye roll.

  “No, for getting good grades in English.”

  For all his video game playing and incoherent mumbling, Martin actually did get good grades.

  “Shouldn’t they give free books to kids who aren’t doing well in English?”

  Martin shrugged. “Good point. It’s so you learn that there are better things than taking drugs and getting drunk and stuff.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t get into any of that.”

  “And be a loser like Eddie? When I’m eighteen, I’m getting out of this boring town.”

  “Who’s Eddie?”

  “A guy in senior year. Pretty dumb. Got held back a year. He was dealing and got busted. His dad got him out because he was a minor then, but the school expelled him, and now he’s stuck running his dad’s pet store. He’s a loser.”

  “Well, he’s a good example of how not to live your life,” I said as I put the book in my purse. I intended to read it. I wanted to connect with my grandchild, and I certainly wasn’t going to do that with the Xbox.

  As I zipped up my purse it hit me. For a full half minute I stood stock still, staring at nothing.

  Eddie. A former drug dealer working at a pet store. If anyone could get access to illegal or dangerous substances, it was him. He had the knowledge, the dishonesty, and through his work, access to a wide range of chemicals. And at least two of my suspects had gone to the store where he worked.

  I hurried over to the couch and gave Martin a big hug, followed quickly by kisses on his cheek and forehead.

  “Eeew! Stop!”

  The boy struggled. I didn’t care.

  “You are the most brilliant, most wonderful boy in the world! Thank you so much!”

  “What are you talking about? You can thank me by getting off me!”

  “No,” I said, planting another kiss on his grimacing face. “I call grandma’s privilege. You are a genius, my lovely little boy, and you don’t even know it.”

  Chapter 8

  “You shouldn’t read in the car,” I told Martin. “You’ll get carsick.”

  “I don’t get carsick,” he said, his face still buried in Dragon’s Fire Book Five: Dragon’s Bane.

  I didn’t reply. Who was I to argue? The child was reading.

  We were on our way to the Cheerville Pet Shoppe. Martin didn’t want to go, but I had bribed him with the promise of dinner at his favorite hamburger joint. When he had questioned why I wanted to go, I said I was interested in buying a kitten.

  Actually, I really was interested in buying a kitten. As much as I feared becoming one of those crazy old ladies with a dozen cats and a stinking house, I had to admit that in the evenings, once I had said good-bye to my few friends or left from having a nice dinner at my son’s house, a deep loneliness came over me. It wasn’t just losing James; it was losing my career, my place in the world.

  I had sensed that this was coming and resisted retiring as long as I could, but government regulations finally came into play, and I was forced out on the basis of my age. Oh sure, they had given me a great send-off party, a severance bonus, and a splendid retirement
package, but that didn’t compensate for the change from operative to grandmother.

  It was only after retiring that I realized just how huge a part of my life my job had been. You aren’t a CIA agent from nine to five Mondays through Fridays. The job encompasses you. You’re constantly reading reports or tailing targets or infiltrating nasty nations. I had loved every minute of it. Well, maybe not the intestinal parasites I’d picked up in Somalia, but most of it, anyway.

  Now I would come home to my silent little house in my sleepy New England neighborhood, and the closest thing I could find for excitement was a romance novel or a spy movie on television. Even a kitten would be a welcome diversion.

  So here we were, driving to a pet store to spy on a teenaged drug dealer while looking to buy a kitten.

  I had no doubt Eddie was still dealing. A stint in juvenile hall rarely cured such cases. It had probably only made him more careful.

  One might think that bringing a thirteen-year-old boy on such a mission was irresponsible, and I have to admit that’s correct, but I couldn’t leave him alone, and I didn’t have much time to crack this case. Besides, we wouldn’t do much snooping, just a preliminary reconnaissance. A little old lady with a bored grandson was just about the best cover you could have in such a place.

  The shop was a big one for such a small town. Cheerville had an older-than-average population and, apparently, had more than its fair share of crazy cat ladies.

  Crazier than that, as I was soon to discover.

  When we entered, my ears were filled with the usual barking, meowing, and chirping you’d expect in a pet store, and my nostrils were filled with that musty scent that no amount of cleaning could banish.

  Martin and I stood at the doorway and looked around. A row of cages held puppies and kittens, and suspended from the ceiling were numerous birdcages containing everything from budgies to Amazonian parrots. I spotted several rare species I hadn’t seen since hunkering down in the jungles of Central America.

  The birds were the least exotic of the lot. To one side stood several terrariums with snakes, spiders, and various giant insects. A doorway beyond them led to another room filled with aquariums filled with colorful fish. Next to the front door were the cash register and counter.