Grandma Lainey pretends to tremble in fear before fixing Bernie with a cool stare. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“If you change your mind,” Mrs. A cuts in, attempting to smooth things over, “the fun starts in the dining room at one.”
In response, Bernie drops the letter like it’s a dirty tissue. “As if. I’d rather—”
Don’t say it,I think. It’s not a sixth sense exactly, but my gut tells me it’s wiser to be careful what you wish for around here.
“Be boiled in oil,” she finishes.
“Maybe next time.” Mrs. A gives the remark a hopeful lift at the end. Hard to say whether she means the boiling or the game.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Bernie sneers. “I doubt there’ll be a next time.”
“Spare us the ominous exit line,” Grandma Lainey says, waving her off. “We invented that trick.”
Once the coast is clear, Mr. Namura emerges from his hiding place, picking up the letter with a sigh. “I thought it would help her get into the spirit of the game.”
“It’s not your fault,” Grandma Lainey assures him. “She was never going to be on our wavelength. At least this way we don’t have to worry about her slowing us down.”
Mrs. A pats him on the shoulder. “Probably we should have gone with a more traditional welcome, like cookies.”
“Or donuts,” Mr. Namura says. “Since she likes boiling things in oil.”
“You know, I still think she might have potential. As a player.” Mrs. A shakes her head like she knows we’re going to argue. “That’s one we’ve never used—boiling someone to death. Maybe she’ll bring new energy to the game.”
“She certainly makes me think about murder.” Grandma Lainey checks her watch. “Enough about her. It’s showtime.”
I hear the old-fashioned music even before I walk into the dining room. According to today’s script, I’m heading for a nightclub called The White Rose, where I will meet my contact. My character profile is slick:
Your role:Katya, ex-spy turned artisanal chocolate maker
Notable props:Trench coat; wig; beauty mark
Objective:Protect your secrets at any cost
The vibe suits my new jacket perfectly, or maybe it’s vice versa. Either way, I’m feeling chic and sophisticated like a Cold War spy, especially with the beauty mark and the smoky eye Mrs. A gave me.
I haven’t seen Felix yet, but I’m willing to bet his ensemble will be less cool than mine. The thought of his reaction to my makeover adds an extra sizzle of anticipation. Last time I was playing a fresh-faced girl-next-door type, which honestly wasn’t that big of a departure from my normal self (apart from the poison ring). This time I have major femme fatale energy.
He’ll probably be intimidated—and impressed. Maybe he’ll even turn out to be my contact? A shady figure from the criminal underworld, perhaps.
That theory lasts until I step through the beaded curtain (a new addition) and into the dimly lit dining room. Someone is singing at a microphone in the corner. The musical roles usually go to Malia, but this is a man’s voice, smooth and rich likethe second coming of Frank Sinatra. He turns at my entrance, sending a saucy smile my way before he launches into the next verse.
Freaking Felix. He said he could sing, but I assumed he was bragging. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. Shock, yes. And jealousy, along with a burning need to best him at something ASAP so he can be equally blown away. But there’s also a melting sensation in my bones, deep down where I can almost pretend it isn’t happening, until he starts crooning right at me, with his hair slicked back and a white dinner jacket and… is that a mustache?
I focus on the fuzzy caterpillar above his lip. Mrs. A’s crush on Magnum P.I. strikes again.
The hint of ridiculousness is enough to restore my confidence as I head for the empty table with the flickering votive and a single white rose in an empty wine bottle. I’m only partly surprised when Felix steps down from the stage to join me.
He snaps his fingers. A waiter (better known as Mr. Namura) appears with a bottle and two glasses.
“Wine?” Felix asks, pulling out the chair opposite mine.
“If you like.”
“What shall we drink to?” he asks after Mr. Namura hands us both goblets of what smells like grape juice.
“Your health?” I suggest, raising the glass to my lips and pretending to take a sip. I wouldn’t put it past Felix to poison me in retaliation.
