Authors: Patricia Rice
“Magda as a teen, the world trembles at the notion! I’ll
take this one, if that’s okay. I don’t have any idea how long I’ll be here.”
Patra plopped backward on the rose satin cover of the bed and studied the
wooden tester overhead. “She had posters taped up there. The tape left marks.”
I was ambivalent about Patra staying, but at the same time,
I enjoyed sharing one of our rare sibling moments. “Probably naked Polaroids.
Or dartboards of people she hated. Magda isn’t much into rock stars.” I crossed
over to the mantel, lifted the pastoral painting over it, and ripped out an
audio wire. “Got gum?” I asked, pointing to the camera hole that remained.
Patra grinned. “Man, that brings back memories. Chip off the
parental block, is she?” She sat up and fished in her humongous purse, not
unsurprisingly producing duct tape.
I’d been blaming Graham for the spy holes, but yeah, Magda
had probably picked up some of her perverse habits at home. Grandfather Max had
been a secretive troll, although this equipment wouldn’t have been available
thirty years ago. It was the attitude that had been passed on. We happily
covered the peephole together and returned the boring painting to its place.
Then I sat down in a rose-silk lady chair and pinned my
sister with my gimlet glare.
“Now no one can hear us, tell me what really brought you
here.”
Patra’s perspective
Irritated, Patra glared at her older sister. “Don’t be
annoying, Ana. I’m an adult now, with a good shot at a staff position with
Broderick Media. I don’t need you to torch my boyfriend’s Jag anymore.”
Ana had done that, back when Patra was in high school and
dating the son of a sheik. Patra hadn’t known he was a jerk until he decided
he’d start a harem with her, or add to his existing harem. Her sister hadn’t
bothered asking. Ana had simply come riding to Patra’s rescue and clarified in
no uncertain terms that an all-female household wasn’t helpless.
At the time, Patra had appreciated the rescue. She hoped Ana
was a little less aggressive these days, because Patra intended to make a
career of taking down the arrogant asses of the world on her own.
“Broderick, hmm?” Ana replied with unconvincing composure. “One
of Magda’s buddies? I thought you were working for the BBC.”
Given their mother’s dubious credentials as a power magnet
and Broderick’s influential media consortium, Patra could see the connection.
“I didn’t say I was taking the job,” she said defensively. “But BM paid my
expenses over here. Is it wrong to want to see my family?”
“This is me you’re talking to,” Ana said bluntly. “The
sister who spent twenty years listening to Magda’s schemes and keeping all of
you out of them. You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but at least respect
me enough to be honest.”
Patra sat up cross-legged on the bed and tossed her hair over
her shoulder. Ana still wore her straight raven-black hair in braids wrapped
around her head like an old lady, or Princess Leia. With Ana, it was hard to
tell her intention.
“Look, I don’t want anyone else involved,” Patra said
earnestly. “I respect that you and Nick want to give EG a normal life. But I’m
not the settling down type.”
Ana shrugged. “Totally understand that. But maybe I should
share a little of what I’ve learned in my
normal
life. Broderick Media is a privately owned international conglomerate of
newspapers, broadcast networks, and publishing companies run by Sir Archibald
Broderick. Archie is a notoriously amoral eccentric known to keep house slaves
in some of his more exotic mansions, of which there are many. He is currently
under investigation for encouraging his employees to hack the telephones of
political figures with whom he disagrees, which is apparently anyone who
doesn’t believe Archie should do anything he blamed well pleases. And for this
jewel of perfection, you would leave the BBC?”
Patra glared at her through this recitation, but finally, she
relaxed. “Okay, I’d forgotten you’re more Magda than Magda. Although I’ll point
out that anyone who reads anything except Broderick scandal sheets knows all
this. But you did grab the salient points without touching the more salacious.”
“And your vocabulary has grown since you called me a dirty,
turdy pail of slop. Now that we’ve somewhat established our credentials, want
to go back to the original question — what brings you here?”
“
Elizabeth Georgiana
!”
a furious male voice bellowed in the hall.
Startled, Patra watched her sister fly off her chair as if
they’d been attacked by aliens.
* * *
Oh crap, I’d ignored the brat too long. I dashed into the
hall. Graham did not normally address anyone except me directly, but I’d cut
him out of the loop when I’d cut the wires to Patra’s room. The fury was
probably for me.
A bat zoomed past my nose, aiming directly for the stairwell
to Graham’s lair. Okay, this wasn’t just about me. I gestured for Patra to
stand back and close her door.
EG’s door at the end of the hall was shut, so the critter
hadn’t come from there. I located her in my bedroom, attempting to secure the
window over the massive desk that had once been my grandfather’s. She looked up
miserably at my arrival, then donned a defiant expression.
“Why do you keep your window open?” she demanded as if this
was all my fault.
“To attract your pet bats?” I suggested, leaning over to
remove the rod needed to hold up the old pane. “I take it they preferred not to
return to the attic.”
“They were making a disgusting mess up there,” she said as
the frame slammed closed. “So I let them out my window. And they came back in
yours.”
“Lesson learned,” I said dryly. “Pets make messes their
owners have to clean up.”
She stared at me incredulously. “I am not cleaning the
attic! I didn’t invite them in.”
“Your bedroom could have looked like that,” I reminded her.
“You’d better clean it up before it starts stinking.”
“Should I chase out the ones that flew upstairs?” Emerging from
her room in time to dodge wings, Patra asked this a little too eagerly.
“I wouldn’t recommend it unless you want to be transferred
to Uganda to write about tribal mating habits,” I warned. If Graham was capable
of snickering, I think I heard him, but the spider in our attic lacked humor.
He
didn’t
lack the ability to do
exactly as I predicted.
“So Patra, did you finally catch the two-timing creep?” EG
asked, deliberately deflecting any return of the conversation to her. She
wielded information like a lethal sword. Family trait, I fear.
“Old news, baby. I have better things to do than put up with
men. Does this place have any food? Airplane fare is not what it ought to be.”
Relieved of explaining themselves, or even apologizing, both EG and Patra took
off in the direction of the cellar kitchen. Mallard had better pray that he was
back in his realm or his pristine counters would be coated in grease and flour
before he returned.
I waited until they were out of hearing and hit the intercom
on my desk. “Need help battling bats?”
“Only the old ones. Your sister has trouble on her tail.
Find out what she’s doing or get rid of her, and don’t let any of her
acquaintances past the door.”
My eyebrows shot up, but I’d learned not to be surprised by
how much Graham knew, even if he never strayed from his lair.
“I’ll extend the web on the door,” I told him, before
hastening after my sisters and food.
I didn’t know what it was like to have a real family in a
real home, but I didn’t mind finding out.
* * *
“Norfolk,” Nick announced without preamble later that
evening after I answered his ring. “I’m waiting for customs to give me
clearance to sail up the Chesapeake. How would you like the toad delivered —
rolled up in a rug or by the police?”
“With seventy-six trombones and champagne,” I suggested,
putting my feet up on my desk drawer. It was nine on a school night so EG was
in bed, and I’d been working. I could take time for a little exultation. “Smooches
and do you have a favorite pervert you want waiting on the doorstep when you
arrive?”
Unlike Graham, Nick understood humor and knew I was bouncing
with excitement.
“All good. I was thinking of tying him to an anchor and
dropping him overboard until we’re cleared for entry.” A spate of obscenities
erupted in the background. “He’s been a real charmer since the drugs wore off.”
“Oh, goodie. The cops are gonna love a jonesing lawyer. I’ve
been in touch with his bail bondsman. Give me your destination, and they’ll be
waiting to take him off your hands. Oppenheimer filed our embezzlement charges,
so there won’t be any more bailing out for Reggie boy. And I mean it, Nick,
you’re my hero. The sky’s the limit. It’s celebration time.”
Patra peered around the corner, and I gestured for her to
come in. A celebration was merrier with more than one. My basement office
didn’t have the elegance of upstairs, but I preferred solid dirt and concrete
around me. It offered privacy — until Graham had bugged it anyway. I’d
moved a few old leather wingbacks in here to make it cozy. She settled into one
and waited.
“I doubt I’ll get back before morning,” Nick said. “A bed
that doesn’t sway and a pitcher of mimosas will do it. Smooches back at you for
the bondsman. I really wasn’t looking forward to taking a taxi with a
foul-mouthed carpet.”
I laughed, nearly giddy with triumph. “Do you have the
passcode for his account? A judicious fund transfer before his debtors latch
onto it might be in order.”
“The bastard swears Max was broke and all he owned was the
house, so all that’s in the account is what he got out of Graham. And he’s
blown half of that on the yacht and drugs. We’re not buying the house back on
that, Ana.”
I tried not to let my disappointment show. “It’s okay.
You’re back. One thing at a time.”
Graham had only given us until we brought Reggie back before
we had to pack up and leave. If we filed a lawsuit, he’d heave us out personally,
even if he had to use a wheelchair to do it. I’d never seen him outside his
computer chair. Of course, I’d never seen an elevator either — another
reason to call him spider.
I was a little more somber by the time I hung up. I’d really
hoped for millions. Patra looked expectant.
“Nick found the thief?” she prompted when I didn’t
immediately explain.
She’d apparently been apprised of all our activities — not
surprising given that we were raised to spy on everyone, including and
especially family.
I held up my finger as a signal to wait, dialed our friendly
bondsman, who promised me a reward. My civic duty done, I turned back to Patra.
“We have the creep, but we don’t have proof that Graham bought the house
illegally. Without clear-cut evidence, we have to go through the courts. We
have no way of buying the place back from him.”
“But you mentioned a bank account. We’ll get
some
money, won’t we?”
So, I’m the one with a hang-up about the house. I can see
where the others would rather take the money and run. We’d had little access to
cash in our lives. The prospect of dividing up half a million would cause mass
drooling.
“We have to pay our lawyer out of those funds. We’re suing
grandfather’s law firm and paying accountants to research the embezzlement.
Don’t count on wealth anytime soon.”
She looked disappointed. And nervous. Her long fingers
locked together as if to keep the manicured tips from tapping. I recognized the
Magda-ism.
“Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.
“You know about my dad?” she asked, casually studying the windowless
cellar I’d claimed for my own.
Patrick Llewellyn had been a world-renowned and respected
journalist. Magda had actually married him and consented to calling their
daughter by the shortened
Patra
in
his honor. Although knowing our mother, she had probably apologized to the
Queen of the Nile for the corruption of her name.
Patrick had died reporting atrocities in some war zone. I’d
have to count back the years to remember which one. Patra had still been in college,
and he and Magda had long since been divorced.
“What should I know about your father?” I asked warily. I’d
liked the guy, but that didn’t mean I’d trusted him any more than our mother’s
other conquests.
Patra tapped a long nail against the wooden lion’s head grip
of the chair. “He wasn’t shot by enemy fire.”
“They did an autopsy? In a war zone?” I exclaimed. “Why?”
“I think because Magda demanded it. She never told me why. I
didn’t even know about it until recently, when his executor gave me the last of
his effects. Dad was writing a book, and the executor finally gave up trying to
sell it for Dad’s estate.”
She lapsed into brooding silence.
“Don’t tell me — a tell-all about the power behind the
power,” I said dryly. “Conspiracy theories are a dime a dozen. Our grandfather
was after textbook manipulators feeding fascist propaganda to kids. Don’t
question EG on that unless you want an earful. Magda is off on her own power
trip, and so is the spider in the attic.”
Patra looked irritated. “My dad may have
died
because of what he was working on.
This isn’t a joke. He was
shot.
”
“Just as EG’s dad was framed for murder so he wouldn’t talk.
Yeah, power attracts nastiness. Did you plan on fixing the world? Have you already
attracted nastiness?”
I’d just spent an uncomfortable few weeks disentangling
Senator Tex, EG’s dad, from a consortium of power brokers who may have murdered
our grandfather — or hastened his demise, since he hadn’t been well. I was
hoping Reggie the Snake might enlighten us more on that front.
I was in no hurry to pick up where a famous investigative
reporter had got himself killed.