The Goddaughter (5 page)

“You don't have sex with me anymore either! Who's the new one, Frank? Who is she? That slag from United? The one with the fake boobs?”

“Stop whacking me! Cut that out. Godamnit, I'm the captain!”

The silence in the cabin turned to chortles and gasps. Someone started to choke. Pete was doing that silent laughter thing while his whole face went red.

“Mother was right!”
Sob!
“Never date a pilot. Why didn't I listen?”

The cockpit door flung open, and a distraught flight attendant lurched down the aisle. She was pretty in an Anne Hathaway kind of way and would have been quite attractive if she hadn't been sniffling and muttering.

With a start, she seemed to realize where she was. She straightened. Her hand went to smooth down her skirt, and her face set to a professional smile.

She paused two rows ahead of us. Then a glint came to her eye. Her hand reached for a can of pop on someone's tray. She turned, went back through the door to the cockpit and raised the pop can.

I was at just the right angle to see her dump it all over his head.

“What the fuck?”
the captain yelled.

Then she marched back through the cabin, turned and plunked her butt down in the empty aisle seat in front of us.

The middle-aged woman in the next seat patted her on the arm. “There, there, dear,” she said. “Men are beasts, I tell you. Beasts! I should know—I married six of them.”

Pete was close to expiring now. Tears were rolling down his face, and he was wheezing badly. I was really starting to worry.

“Christ,” he said, “what more can happen now?”

CLUNK.

BANG.

WHOOSH.

“What the hell was
that
?” Pete yelled.

There was another
clunk
from the underbelly of the plane, and more screams. Then the plane started to dive.

“Holy mother of god!” Pete grabbed for me.

Lights flashed. The oxygen masks came down. More screaming.

“Put this on.” He reached for one and shoved it on my face. “Don't argue!”

I wasn't arguing. I was all for oxygen at a time like this.

Lights went out completely. One flight attendant fell flat on the floor. Miss Motel 5 was lurching around the aisle holding on to seat backs.

“Frank, if you kill us, so help me God, I will cut your heart out!” she howled.

“Kind of redundant,” Pete muttered through his mask. He held me as close as a person could be held.

One of the nuns started singing “Ave Maria.” A few of the drunken sports-jersey guys joined in. I hoped God wasn't listening. It wouldn't help our chances.

The plane leveled off, and the lights came on.

“Just a spot of turbulence,”
came the voice over the pa system. It sounded reassuring.
“Sorry about that, people. All flight attendants to the cockpit, please.”

“I'll cockpit your cock!” yelled Miss Motel 5.

Pete relaxed his grip, then stared at me.

“Do you ever have a normal day?”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

I
called home as soon as we landed.

“Sammy. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”

“Frig—Gina? Where the hell are you? Vinnie's having a crap. You're not in Toronto. We checked.”

I didn't ask how they checked. They have ways.

“Arizona. Phoenix. Nice place. Hot. You'd like it.”

More cursing.

“The shoes?”

“They're here.”

“Okay, I'm sending someone down. She might need a little convincing.”

“Sammy, no! You are not going to hurt the woman.”

“Sugar! Relax. I just want the shoes. I'll bring another pair for trade. That's fair, right? See—nothing to worry about.”

“Give me another day, Sammy! I got a plan. A cunning plan. Let me try it out.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“One day, Sugar,” Sammy said. “You got one day. Then me and Luca gets on a plane.”

I clicked the phone shut and turned to Pete.

“We have exactly twenty-four hours to get those shoes back, or we move to Argentina. I hear it's nice there in winter.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE

I
t was a really swank hotel, I'll give her that. The place had a bunch of Egyptian-looking pillars out front and a pile of lighted fountains.

Phoenix was a classy place, if you stopped to look. Too bad we'd spent most of the last several hours following the silicon blond across the continent and hiding behind things. Not to mention piling a whack of airfares and other expenses on the company credit card.

At least now I had a plan. Sort of.

I walked in the front doors of the place and looked up. The lobby was completely open to the ceiling, which must have been fifteen stories high.

“Wow,” I said. “This is huge! This is perfect.”

“Sort of over the top, in my opinion,” Pete said. He clearly wasn't keen on gold-covered plaster statues and ornate fountains.

“No, I mean the layout. All the rooms face onto this huge atrium. The corridors are open to the lobby all the way up. We'll be able to see what room she goes to without having to tail her.”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

I scanned the huge reception area. There she was, at the counter.

“Easy-peasy. I've got a cunning plan.” I did now too. What a relief.

Blondie turned away from the counter and started toward the gold-and-glass elevators. Even better—we'd be able to see right into the elevator.

“We make out what floor she gets out on, then watch to see where she goes.”

“Now I get it,” Pete said. “We count over the number of doors from the corner.”

“You got it!”

We watched in silence for a short while. Then I nudged him with my elbow. “There she goes. She's getting out on…one, two, three—the third floor.”

She turned left coming out of the elevator and moved down the corridor. No way she'd notice us standing way down below in the lobby. Her whole focus was on finding the right room number.

She stopped. There was a pause as she fiddled with the swipe card. Then the door opened, and she disappeared from sight.

“Fourth from the end,” Pete said.

“Hold on a minute. I'm going to check things out. Just wait here.”

I made for the elevator, leaving a baffled Pete behind.

I got out on the third floor and went to the fourth room from the end. It said 323 on the door. Then I went back to the elevator and rode it down to join Pete.

“We want room 322,” I said when we met up.

He raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

“Trust me.” I grabbed his arm. “All will be revealed. But I'm thinking it might be better if you get the room. Say I have a sentimental reason for wanting that room. And if they don't have 322 available, ask for 324.” Room 324 was a long shot, but it was worth a try.

I watched as Pete sauntered up to the reception desk. A sweet-looking brunette gave him a big smile. I sighed.

While I waited, I looked around the lobby. Lots of businessmen were sitting in leather lounge chairs clicking away at their smartphones. Behind them were several trees in huge planters. A bar stood off in the distance. It had several customers.

Pete walked back to me. He was smiling.

“We got 322. It's your lucky day.”

* * *

The room was straight out of a designer magazine. Shades of cream and mocha, with a king-size bed. Gorgeous, but I was a girl on a mission.

“Ha! I was right. Sometimes I am just so smart, I stun myself.”

Pete looked puzzled again.

I pointed. “The connecting door—see? It leads to her room.”

Now he frowned. Little furrows creased his forehead.

“Hotels all use swipe cards now,” I explained. “How can you pick a lock with a swipe card? But then I reasoned that most of these rooms have connecting doors on one side for families. You can book two rooms and put your kids in the other.”

Pete looked at me inquiringly. “How did you know which side the room with the connecting door would be on?”

“Now that's the really clever part. I figured they would go in pairs. So room one would connect with room two, three with four…”

“I get it—322 with 323.” Pete smiled. “So we open the door on our side and…then what?

I twinkled at him.

“Wait and see.”

* * *

Pete took me to dinner at a swank place close by called the Twisted Fork. I had everything I wanted—steak, baked potato, cheesecake and enough merlot to float a boat. Pete had the same. It was heaven. Nice to know we were food-compatible. I dated a vegetarian once. That lasted until dinner the same day.

While Pete paid the bill, I played with my smartphone to find an address. We made a quick trip to a specialty store called Halloween City. We got back to the hotel around seven thirty. I tried on the maid costume we'd just purchased.

“It's a little skimpy,” I said, pulling down the fifteen-inch skirt.

“I like it!” Pete was grinning.

“Yeah, but I don't think real maids wear this sort of thing.”

“So…who's going to object?”

I scowled at him. Men.

“They'll think I'm a maid-for-hire, if you know what I mean.”

Pete shrugged. “I'll be right there, in case of trouble.”

Trouble. Like that's something I'm not acquainted with.

“You're just after a pair of shoes,” he said. “It's not like we're robbing a bank or something. What could go wrong?”

I glanced over at him. “You don't know me very well yet, do you?”

He watched me take a specialty pick from my purse.

“Do I want to know what that is?” Pete asked. “Or where you got it?”

“I'm a gemologist. I have all sorts of tools, you know?”

“Do gemologists often have to pick locks?”

I opened the door on our end and listened.

All quiet inside. Out for dinner, for sure. Hopefully, she wasn't wearing the shoes. Hopefully, they would be in the room, all by their little selves. I worked my little tool—lovely thing—and carefully pushed the door wide open.

“What the hell?” A balding older man with a potbelly and no clothes lurched off the bed.

“Oops,” I said.

“Who the hell are you?” The blond with the Dolly Parton hair was also wearing no clothes.

In situations like this, I find it best to say nothing. Besides, Blondie was starting to look emotional. I don't think her face was normally that color.

“Oh, I get it! Busting in on my turf, are you? Who sent you? Marty? Did Marty send you? I'll have his balls for earrings, I will.” Blondie pushed off the far side of the bed with both hands to land on her feet. Then she poked a finger through the air at me. “And I got to tell you, ho, that maid getup is just too old.”

“I like it,” the fat man said. He reached for a pillow to cover his wobbly bits.

“Harry, you'd like a knothole in a pine tree.”

“Are we doing a threesome?” Now he sounded excited.

“I'm not doing no threesome. Nobody told me about this, so just get out of here, little miss bouncy maid and find your own john.”

Little miss bouncy maid?

Blondie waved her arms around. “So you look a little like Catherine Zeta-Jones—is that who they're trying to pass you off as? Well, I've been in the look-alike business a lot longer than you, and believe me, sister, you're just a baby.”

So that's what was up with the Dolly Parton hair. She was supposed to be a Dolly look-alike!

One thing I could tell for sure. She wasn't a natural blond.

From the connecting doorway, someone sniggered. I had a good idea who it might be. So I wasn't surprised when he peeked his head around the door to see what was going on.

“Ack!” said the bald man, gripping the pillow with all his might. “Who the hell is THAT?”

Pete stood large as life in the doorway, grinning.

“No men,” said Baldy. “I'm not paying for this. No way.”

“You weren't paying for this anyways, cheap guy. It was a freebie, remember? Friend of the congressman and all?”

Baldy gulped. “I'm no friend of the congressman.”

“And I'm no reporter,” quipped Pete. “Except this here's my recorder.” He pulled it out of a pocket.

“Stop that, Pete,” I said. The poor naked guy was getting all red in the face and huffing like Thomas the Tank Engine.

But Pete was just getting started. “For the record, what's your name?”

Now the fat man went white.

“Bill,” he said.

“Harry,” said the blond.

“I'm getting outta here,” the man muttered. I watched him scramble for clothes.

“Of course, this tape might easily be erased if we could come to some agreement.”

We all looked at Pete with interest. Especially me.

“Shoes,” he said.

“Shoes?”

He might as well have said purple octopuses.

Pete nodded, and indicated with a hand. “Those ones will do.”

I wasn't surprised to see the stacked-heel pumps on the floor beside the bed.

“You want shoes?” Bill/Harry looked baffled.

Blondie came to life. “Don't you get it, Harry? They're shoe fetishists. They get off on fancy footwear.” She looked dreamy. “I had a client once who would only do it if I wore Manolos. That was a great year.”

“Take the damn shoes then. Take mine too—here. I got lots.” Bill/Harry had a shoe in each hand, and it looked as if he was going to hand them over. I was wrong. He heaved them at me.

I screamed, and Pete yelled and launched himself across the room. He grabbed the fat man, and they both hit the floor. Blondie grasped the lamp on the bedside table and tried to whack him with it, but the cords wouldn't come loose and she ended up sprawled across the bed.