Cat Burglar in Training (12 page)

Breakfast the next day was a silent affair with nothing more uttered than requests to pass the marmalade and the rustle of the newspaper.

“We need to make a decision.” My voice cracked. When Hannah flinched, I said in a defensive tone, “We either stop and sell Oakthorpe or we continue, despite the risk. Those are our only options.”

Father threw his paper down with a sound of disgust. “There is a third.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “We can find the cheeky blighter and put a stop to his high jinks. This is our territory. We’ve never put up with usurpers before, and I don’t think we should take this lying down.”

I swallowed a mouthful of toast and marmalade. “Fighting words.”

Father screwed up his face in a pained grimace. “We’re not selling Oakthorpe. I say we continue with our plans and keep an eye out for the impostor. Of course, it’s going to make life difficult but a Fawkner always rises to the occasion.”

“That sounds fine and dandy for the Fawkner men, but it hardly applies to me.”

Ben waggled his finger in my face. “Mock all you want, missy, but this is serious.”

“Of course it is,” I managed before cracking up.

A knock on the door interrupted my mirth. I rose to answer and another round of pounding fists hurried me along. Humor still wreathed my lips when I opened the door.

“What can I…?” My voice trailed off when I got an eyeful of the two goons on our doorstep. One was the man who’d spoken to Amber before her teacher intervened. He was half a head taller than my five-foot-eight and sported a clean-shaven head. No doubt he thought it made him look tough. In my opinion, it emphasized his ugliness because his cauliflower ears stuck out like handles. The other man was shorter than me by a few inches and running to seed. His belt strained at the waist. They wore cheap black suits made of shiny material. The trousers of the bald man were too short, exposing a pair of white sports socks and runners.

“What do you want?”

“Name’s Vincent. The boss wants his money.” Baldy’s voice matched the gangster image—low and gravelly.

So this was Vincent. “It’s not due until tomorrow.” We’d had to juggle our funds and had ended up a few thousand pounds short on this payment. Not that I intended to tell these men.

“This is like a friendly reminder,” Seedy said.

I inclined my head in my best lady-of-the-house style. “Thank you.” No sense stirring up things with bad manners. “I’ll be at his office tomorrow morning to make the payment.”

Vincent nodded, and I was impressed. Maybe this was a friendly reminder and not the sinister gangster moment I’d imagined.

“Will I see both of you next time?” I asked.

“Sooner, if you don’t make good on your payment. You have a lovely daughter. I spoke to her at the school sports day.”

My pleasant smile faded. A sick sensation cramped my belly, and it was difficult to squeeze out words. “I don’t want any problems, boys. You’ll get your payment.”

Vincent nodded again. “Good. That’s good.”

“There was one other thing,” Seedy added before I could close the door. “Beauchamp said you should reconsider his proposal, and he’d knock some off the total. He said you’d know what he was talking about.”

The dirty old man.
I forced a smile to my face and stuck out my chest. Since the neckline was low, their gazes zoomed straight there like kids scrambling for sweets. “You tell Dicky Beauchamp I’ll keep that under advisement,” I cooed, blinking my lashes in full-out ditzy mode.

Seedy and Vincent didn’t take their eyes off my breasts.

“Bye-bye, then.” I waggled the fingers of my right hand and closed the door with a soft click. “Shit,” I muttered in total understatement.

“Mama!” Amber appeared at the bend on the stairs. “Mama said a naughty word.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to wash my mouth out with soap.”

“Will it taste nice?” Amber wanted to know.

“I doubt it. From memory it tastes like Brussels sprouts.”

“Eew.”
My daughter wrinkled her cute button nose. “As bad as snails and garlic butter?”

“I’ve heard Ben say that.” I checked my watch and let out a very bimbolike shriek. “Look at the time. We’re going to be late for school.” I hustled Amber down the passage to the kitchen and pressed her onto a chair.

“Who was at the door?” Father asked.

“Tell you later,” I said in an aside.

Hannah handed me a plate of scrambled eggs, and I placed it in front of Amber. “Eat,” I said, “but not too fast. I don’t want you to throw up over your dress.”

Amber grinned, and I marveled at my beautiful, well-adjusted daughter. As always, the past slithered through my mental barricades. My good humor dissipated while I stared at my cold toast. What if Amber’s father suffered bad-hair days…or…or suffered a hereditary disease? How could I help her if I didn’t know her history? I didn’t enjoy lying to her about her father’s death.

“Finished!” Five minutes later, Amber’s chair scraped the flagstones when she shot to her feet.

I pushed my uneaten toast away and stood, glad she’d dragged me from my worries. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll wait out front for you.”

“The small wiggling ears have gone,” Father said. “Who was at the door?”

“Beauchamp sent goons to impress upon us the need to make payment on time.”

Hannah set down the china teapot with a thump. “They didn’t hurt you?”

“I distracted them with my breasts, but they said they’d talked to Amber at the sports day.” Fear shot through me again at the implicit threat against my daughter.

“Told you the scatterbrained act would work,” Father said, leaning back in his chair.

“They threatened Amber.” Because of his stupidity. Didn’t Father understand the consequences of his actions? He’d placed us all in danger.

“And I still say playing the bimbo is sexist,” Hannah said. “I don’t know why you agreed to go along with their crazy scheme. You should have a husband, more children.”

“On that we agree,” Father said. “Not that you’re doing a bad job as the Shadow, but you should marry a good man and produce children to carry on the family occupation.”

“Like you did,” I snapped. The moment the words left my mouth I wanted to drag them back. Father had loved my mother, and they’d lost several babies before I came along. Mother’s health had never been robust, and she’d caught pneumonia one particularly harsh winter and died. Father had never remarried, and if he went out with other women, he was discreet about the fact, but I was tired of the parental guilt trips. The terrible trio wanted to see me settled. I got it.

“Not a cop,” Father said, shaking his head. “Imagine having a copper for a son-in-law. I don’t know what you see in him. If you think walking a tightrope is a turn-on, don’t! I would have thought being the Shadow was dangerous enough. Seeing that copper is not only dangerous, it’s madness.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Biting back the rant trembling at the tip of my tongue, I picked up the car keys. “I’m not working for Ruth tonight, so I want to do the Patterson job in Chelsea, and there are a couple of other possibilities to check out in Knightsbridge. If you and Ben would like to help, I’d welcome your input. I need to pick up the last bit of money from Alistair so we can make the payment to Beauchamp tomorrow.” I turned to leave, then snapped my fingers. “I almost forgot. The garden thefts. Seth purchased a plant at a pub in central London. Maybe you can check out some of the pubs tonight to learn if someone’s flogging stolen goods. Ask a few questions.”

I left the kitchen and hurried out to my Mini. Amber was waiting at the front door.

“Sorry, sweetie. Grandpa wanted to tell me something. What are you doing at school today?”

“Painting.” Amber climbed into her car seat, and I fastened her in. The scent of baby powder and little girl filled my senses. Not so little any more, I reminded myself.

One thing I was sure of—the photographer’s studio was on my hit list tonight.

I had the devil’s own job getting rid of Father and Ben when we arrived in London. Frustrated, I wondered if they could read my mind or if they expected me to meet with the enemy.

Inspector Kahu Williams.

They lingered like flies in a stable dung heap until I lost my patience. “If you don’t hurry, the pubs will close before you get to the West End. I thought the pair of you wanted to be big-time detectives.”

Father glared, not appreciating the dig. “It’s not our fault Alistair hasn’t sold the merchandise yet. These things can’t be hurried.”

I wasn’t a happy camper, and I had no intention of pretending otherwise. The debt belonged to Father. “We have to pay Beauchamp tomorrow, and we’re four thousand pounds short. It might as well be a million.”

“We haven’t arranged a meeting place for later,” Ben said.

We were standing on Kensington High Street, not far from the Goat Tavern.

“Meet me back here at midnight,” I said. “I’ll do the Chelsea look-see, then we can do the others together. Hopefully an opportunity will present itself, and we’ll manage to get something we can liquidate immediately.”

Father and Ben nodded, and the breath I’d been holding eased out in silent relief.

“There’s the bus now,” I said, giving them a verbal hurry along. Under normal circumstances they would have hailed a cab, but with money tight, tonight they were slumming it on the bus.

My shoulders slumped when the bus pulled away from the stop. One less problem to deal with tonight. I slid behind the wheel of my Mini and headed for Chelsea.

The Pattersons’ flat was situated in Cheyne Gardens. It was still light so I drove down the street, taking note of the pedestrians out walking dogs and general comings and goings. At the end of Cheyne Gardens, I turned into St. Loo Avenue and drove for five minutes before I parked. No sense raising the suspicions of nosy neighbors by driving up and down.

The Pattersons lived in an old Victorian mansion that a developer had converted into expensive flats. Security consisted of a locked door. When a visitor arrived, he or she buzzed the floor they wanted to visit. Not exactly top-of-the-line security.

I strolled down the street trying to look as if I belonged. I’d even dressed the part in a demure black skirt and beige top. Flat shoes, a handbag and a string of faux pearls completed the outfit. I blended like cream and strawberries, especially with my mousy brown wig and brown contact lenses. Careful makeup changed the shape of my face, and I dared anyone to pick me from an identity parade and state categorically that I was Lady Eve Fawkner.

At the entrance to the mansion, I walked up the short path and pressed the intercom for the flat on the top floor. When nothing happened, I let out a put-upon sigh and leaned on the doorbell. Miraculously, it buzzed open seconds later.
Piece of cake.
Now the hard part. I needed to enter the flat.

Instead of taking the lift, I headed for the stairs. The old Victorian mansion was four stories, and each flat took up one floor. The light between the second and third floors had burned out. Or been taken out? The thought slid into my mind like a stealthy fox. My internal warning signals clanged. Instinctively I slowed my ascent of the stairs and listened for the slightest sound. Nothing, but I smelled a hint of citrus. Aftershave perhaps?

At the doorway to the third floor, I listened for a final time before easing the door open and pulling a pair of gloves from my bag. The soft slide of shoes on a tiled floor made me hesitate. According to my info, the Pattersons were taking a long weekend in Paris. Had they arranged for servicemen to call while they were away? Pest control?

The warning chime of the lift sounded. I heard footsteps again then the doors closed with a smooth clunk. I exited the stairwell to see the lift descending.

No need for stealth now.

My gut told me I was late to the party. Too late. Somehow, my competitor was one step in front of me again.

Still, I needed to check. After drawing a set of lock picks from my black leather handbag, I entered the Pattersons’ flat. At the doorway, I pulled on the gloves.

“Shit.” I glared at the floor, taking no pleasure in learning I was right. The shiny black business card bearing a silver cat proved it. The opposition had been and gone. Muttering under my breath, I stomped inside, unconcerned about cameras or security. No doubt my opposition had dealt with them as well.

Quashing admiration, I sped straight to a window overlooking the street below. A BMW drove down Cheyne Gardens and disappeared from sight. A young mother pushing a pram ambled down the footpath, pausing to chat with another mother and toddler. I couldn’t see a single person who fitted the role of thief.

Maybe roaming the luxurious rooms was a timewaster, but in a fit of pique, I stripped off my right glove to collect my competitor’s business cards. A grin grew at the thought of my competitor’s puzzlement. Why hadn’t the reporters pried details of the calling card from the police? I imagined the prick to his ego, and grinned evilly as I stepped into the Pattersons’ designer kitchen.

My, my. Another business card.

I pocketed it and searched for more during my quick walkthrough. As I’d suspected, anything of value had disappeared along with my competitor. But being an ambitious trainee cat burglar, I noted security details—bolted windows, a safe behind a painting of a dog in the small office. The alarm box in the passage leading to the bedrooms.

“The alarm.” My gaze shot to the silent red light on the front of the box. A blinking red light. I’d triggered an alarm! And if I didn’t move it, I’d meet the law face-to-face. Apart from a mess, I’d never live down the shame. A Fawkner in prison. The probable reactions of the terrible trio, not to mention my daughter spurred me to speed.

I sprinted for the door, only pausing to snatch up another of the taunting calling cards left by my competitor. I jammed it deep in my pocket and charged for the stairs at a full-out run. “Damn and double damn,” I cursed in a fierce whisper. This wasn’t meant to happen. Father would have a cow when he heard. As I hurried down the stairs, I flirted with the idea of not coming clean. Temptation blazed to life before it died a rapid death. I’d confess all.