Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas Read online

  "I find it difficult to believe I could be related to any of you." He put an emphasis on you that made us feel like we'd barely evolved past a planarian with STDs. We all seemed to hold our breath.

  "But he is my sixth cousin, twice removed." He made a face. "I guess every family tree has it's…" Anderson looked Frank up and down. "Black sheep."

  Frank chose not to respond. He was used to judgment as a carney. If only people knew he had a PhD in philosophy from an Ivy League college. But he didn't really care what anyone thought. Anderson's slight meant nothing.

  The plane approached again. We all stood there as it coasted to a stop. Once again the door opened, and the stairs were lowered. A pretty young woman stepped out and stood staring at us. She hesitated for a moment, but then decided to approach us. That had to be brave. At this point, if it were me, I'd get back on the plane.

  "Hey!" she said breathlessly as she caught up. The young woman was even prettier up close. Short, glossy red hair in a bob, bright green eyes rimmed by impossibly thick eyelashes. She was wearing a white button-down blouse and navy capri pants.

  "I'm Annie." She extended her hand to Anderson. Apparently, he looked a little less weird to her.

  Anderson's eyebrows went up, but he took her hand and shook it. Each one of us introduced ourselves. Frank even took her hand and said, "Frank." But then, he always behaved like a gentleman.

  "So!" Annie said brightly, "there are more than just me. Good! I was worried about coming to some strange island all alone." She came over and stood next to me. Apparently, she'd decided I was safe too. I smiled at her.

  We chatted aimlessly on the tarmac as the plane landed a third time. Each of us insisted we didn't know Mr. Owen and we didn't know each other. Annie and Anderson seemed to relax a little.

  A short, dark-haired man got off the plane and walked toward us. Juan Perez was thirty and super hot. He smiled, his teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. He wore a black T-shirt and pair of jeans. Again, here was another person dressed normally. I shot a look at Madame Angelina, who pretended to be very interested in one of her ten rings on her right hand. That's right. Ten. On a hand with only five fingers.

  "Hello." Juan's rich baritone caressed the air. "My name is Juan Perez. Are we all here for the same thing?"

  We indicated that we were and once again made our introductions. There were two people left to arrive. This had seemed like a good idea, but the tropical heat on the hot tarmac was brutal. Giuseppe was starting to sweat. Why on earth did he wear all that black? I didn't want to ask, because then we'd be subjected to more of his poetic musings.

  The plane landed two more times, offering up Nora Bineppe, a fashionably dressed woman about my age, and William Bukowski, a large, well-built man of forty. William and Nora regarded the rest of us for a moment. Nora decided within seconds that we weren't worth her time and attached herself to Anderson.

  William, however, would be a problem. Shrewd, brown eyes watched us warily. He didn't say much for an introduction. Did I mention he was huge? At least six-foot-four, he towered over the rest of us. If I wasn't an assassin, he might've intimidated me.

  "Nora Bineppe." The woman extended a perfectly manicured hand toward me. "Senior Editor. Fashion Magazine." She seemed to talk only in segments.

  "Which fashion magazine?" Tiffany Lauper asked before blowing a big gum bubble and popping it noisily. Where did she get gum? I wanted gum.

  Nora shook her head. When she stopped, every hair fell obediently into place. "No. Not a fashion magazine. Fashion Magazine. You understand now?" she condescended.

  "Oh goody." Tiffany Lauper acted like she hadn't heard the snub. "You know, I've always wondered. Is the eyeliner supposed to be on the inner lid or outer?"

  The woman looked as though she'd been vomited on. "I don't do things like that."

  "Outer," Annie piped up. "You'll look like a zombie if you line the inner lid."

  The car appeared just in time. Raoul smiled as he pulled up in a ten-passenger van. He did a good job of acting like he didn't know us. Raoul was the island manager. He ordered the food, supervised the staff, made sure everything was ready whenever the family came out.

  "Please," he said. "Please get into the car. I will take you to the house."

  * * *

  Before our targets had gotten here, I'd given my cousins the tour of the house. They were wisely impressed with all the hidden doors that connected to secret passages in the walls. And every room had been fitted with a large, two-way mirror.

  "You did a lot of work," Paris said. I might mention that he had not been dressed as Giuseppe then. That idiocy came later.

  "Actually, Cairo already had the doors and passageways. I just had to add the mirrors." Cairo was the one ancestor I identified with most. Although not an inventor, he'd had an interesting life in the 17th Century. Well, I guess all Bombays have had interesting lives. But he was the one who founded our private island and left me the dodo egg to clone. That was special.

  Once everyone had become familiar with the house, we'd gone over the plan one more time. I was going to die first. Then my Vic, Nora, followed by Paris and his Vic, Anderson. And so on, until the only ones left were Liv and Annie. It should be fun and go according to plan. But if it didn't, we'd just mow them down with machine guns. Sometimes subtlety is overrated.

  Our Vics (Short for victim—Bombays have short attention spans.) were pretty awful. The Bombay Council, currently made up of our parents, handed out the assignments. We never knew who contracted the hits. I didn't really want to know. In fact, I wasn't looking forward to the day when my cousins and I would sit on the Council.

  Anderson Smith, the snooty Brit, may have looked like a typical upper class twit. But he was much more than that. An MP in the House of Commons, Anderson was a mole who sold secrets to Moscow. That's pretty bad, but last year he supplied the Russians with the names of five English MI-6 agents undercover in St. Petersburg. All five Britons were summarily executed and never seen again.

  Annie Web, the pretty American, was the madam of the most expensive brothel in the U.S. Now, prostitution doesn't really seem like a good enough reason to kill someone. But it wasn't that simple. Annie was a sex trafficker. She brought in kidnapped girls from Third World countries and held them as sex slaves for her clients. Just for that, I wanted to have her die first, and in the most unpleasant manner possible. But she was actually Liv's target, and Liv wanted to save her for last, for the psychological torture of seeing everyone die around her. It was a pretty good idea, but I wondered how I was going to look her in the eye for more than a couple of hours.

  Gin had Juan Perez. Gin would die after Paris' target and then take out Juan. Mr. Perez was the most prolific hitman outside of the Bombay family. A renegade who worked for the highest bidder, Juan killed his targets in the messiest ways imaginable. There's no craft to that…no skill. Anyone can walk up and shoot someone. You have to finesse it.

  Anyway, Juan didn't hide or camouflage his kills like we did. He preferred an audience. And he especially liked it if the target had his family around to watch. Last month, in Bangledesh, he murdered a woman who was leading a peace initiative in that country. He just walked up to her and slit her throat, right there in the street. Right in front of her five year old son. I wish I'd gotten him. I'd like to show him what a messy death could really be. I had small explosives that fit in certain moist places and caused a very big boom. But I didn't get him. Gin did.

  Cy was assigned William Bukowski. And after looking at the file, I could see why. Bukowski was big—six-foot-four and two hundred fifty pounds…of muscle. He'd trained as an MMA fighter, but that was just a hobby. William was a drug dealer. Actually, that was not right. It gives drug dealers a bad name. William was higher up in the food chain. He was a smuggler, and his specialty was recruiting tourists as human mules to deliver the goods into the U.S.

  That may not sound too bad, but many of his victims were actually blackmailed into smuggling t
he drugs for him. And the only people who paid for it were his victims. In the past six months alone, three different teenage backpackers visiting Mexico, Chile, and Venezuela were busted at those respective airports. All three girls were doing time. And not in the U.S. They were suffering untold horrors in prisons in Mexico, Chile, and Venezuela. All because they were convinced Bukowski was going to kill someone in their family if they didn't go through with it.

  The big problem with William was that he was a huge, scary guy. While any of us women could've taken him, the Council assigned him to Cy. Probably because Cy was also a big, scary guy who was trained in six different fighting disciplines. The Council knew he could handle Bukowski, and they wanted to make sure he was really and truly dead.

  As for me, I had Nora Bineppe. Editor in Chief of Fashion Magazine—an international rag that rivaled Vogue. Nora was an asshole. But being a bully to your employees doesn't put you on the Bombay Hit List. Nora had been much more difficult to figure out. But if you looked really closely, you'd find that Nora had a sideline. The magazine alone would've made her reasonably rich. But what really filled her bank account was something far more sinister than underweight models wearing birds' nests on their heads as they strolled the catwalk.

  Nora was a middle man. Or middle woman. She was a go-between for laundering money from donors into terrorist factions. It worked like this—Saudi millionaires living in the U.S. gave her the money to take to Angola, where she got it into the hands of al-Qaeda operatives there. It wasn't just the Arabs—there are many other groups she works for—this is just an example. Nora's travel as a fashion editor took her all over the world—the perfect cover for these kinds of operations. But she also had a very sophisticated network of international bank accounts that she could move money around in. It had taken Interpol decades just to unravel the trail and lead it to her. Huh. I wonder if Interpol was the Bombay client. No, I'd rather not know.

  So that was our lineup of evil, nasty baddies. It would be fun to kill them all. And the psychological torture of watching each other die with no idea who was doing it would be lots of fun.

  I'd made the area around the house inescapable. Quicksand, dense impenetrable jungle (filled with recordings of panthers roaring), and a boulder-strewn beach hemmed in the property. The route from the landing strip had been carefully planned so the targets wouldn't see the rest of the island with its condos, pool, and tennis courts. They would truly believe they were stranded with no means of escape. Mwah hahahahahaha ha!

  * * *

  We arrived at the house just as the sun was setting. Raoul pulled the van up and led us inside.

  "Dinner will be in half an hour. I will bring in the luggage and escort each and every one of you to your rooms. Cocktails will be served in the library in fifteen minutes." Raoul was doing a fantastic job. I should give him a raise when this is all done. Sure, he made a king's ransom now, but he deserved it.

  My cousins and I played our parts—acting surprised, and oohing and aahing over the house as we were led to our rooms. Each of the ten of us had brought one suitcase. It was only for overnight. I was the first one in the library for drinks, so I poured a glass of wine and sat and waited.

  I'd decorated the whole house for the holidays. Fires roared in the fireplaces (I had to run the air conditioning since it was so hot outside, but it was worth it for the sake of appearances.), Christmas trees festooned each room, and everywhere else was strung with lights and wreaths. I just love the holidays. Why should I put things on hold just because we were killing people?

  Tiffany Lauper and Frank arrived first, followed almost immediately by the rest of them. People got their own drinks and sat in the room quietly. I felt an overwhelming need to start the conversation, which was weird, because I didn't really want to talk to these monsters.

  Madame Angelina beat me to it. "So this is where our relative lived? He must've died after the decorations were hung." Damn. She'd decided to keep the Gypsy accent.

  Giuseppe was browsing the books. "The sorrowful lack of poetry within this library causes my heart to ache! My soul is starved for lyrical words!" He slammed the book he'd been reading with a loud bang. What had he been thinking? An Italian poet? Seriously? Bombays were great at developing cover characters. We excelled at it. But for some reason, three of my cousins had lost their minds.

  "Well," Nora spoke up, her fingers toying with an expensive strand of pearls. "I find the décor to be repulsive. No class at all."

  "What? I think it's beautiful!" I said a little too quickly. Calm down, Nancy. Who cares if they don't like it? They'll be dead soon.

  Anderson shook his head. "Of course you would like it." He looked like he smelled something bad. "I prefer the elegant and understated look at the holidays."

  Nora nodded. "Quite."

  "I love it!" Madame Angelina declared passionately. "It's pretty and colorful!" She'd toned down the Gypsy look before she came down by taking off the circlet and several rings. It was slightly better. And it was nice she was defending me.

  "Whatever." Tiffany Lauper took the bottle of whiskey from the bar, plopped down in a chair, and began swilling right out of the bottle. She, on the other hand, was taking her character a little too far.

  Juan smiled and sat next to her. "So, Ms. Lauper," he started. "Why are you here?"

  The "rock star" rolled her eyes and in a bored voice said, "What the hell else am I going to do?"

  "I see," Juan said. "Did you know this man…Mr. Owen?" He looked at all of us. "Did any of you know him?"

  "No," I said, and the others all voiced the same. Frank just sat in a chair and shook his head.

  "Don't you think that's strange?" Annie piped up. "I mean, apparently, we're all related to him and each other. Shouldn't at least a couple of us know someone here?"

  William was leaning against the wall, his muscles bulging as they were folded across his chest. "I find it hard to believe that anyone in this room is related to anyone else."

  "What does it matter?" Giuseppe asked, slamming another book shut and striking a dramatic pose. "We are all brothers in the humanity of man!"

  What the hell did that even mean?

  "I don't give a rat's ass." Tiffany Lauper belched from her chair. "I just want the money."

  Nora nodded. "I think we can all agree with…with…" She gestured to my cousin and must have decided words couldn't label the aging rock singer. "I am here to collect my legacy and leave. I'm certain I don't want to see anyone else in this room ever again."

  Well that was rude. And to her family, nonetheless.

  "We're only distant relations," I said, feeling the need to change the subject. "It's not that weird that we're all strangers to each other."

  Anderson nodded. "I quite agree. I have first cousins in Oxford, not ten miles from my home, whom I have never met." He sniffed. "I'm only interested in seeing what this is all about."

  "So you don't need the money?" Madame Angelina asked.

  He shook his head. "My dear lady, I have no need for the money. But it did pique my curiosity, I must say."

  "Sadly, my art requires the evil of money, for I cannot feed my muse on words alone," Giuseppe added. "Patrons of the arts are as rare as glass butterflies."

  Patrons of the arts? I think my cousin forgot that this wasn't the 16th century. Fortunately, the others ignored him. And what the hell were glass butterflies? His metaphors were going to drive me insane.

  Juan laughed. "I don't need the money, Cousin." He shot a look at Anderson. "But I like money. And I believe you can never have too much of it."

  "I have a severe gambling problem!" Tiffany Lauper shouted suddenly. We all stared at her. Was she just making this up as she went?

  William frowned at her. "I'm with Perez there. I don't need it. But I want it. That's why I'm here."

  Everyone but Frank the carney had spoken, and we all looked at him expectantly.

  "Money's good," was all he said.

  Raoul appeared in the doorwa
y with a polite smile. "Dinner is served."

  We gathered our cocktails and followed Raoul into the dining room. I must admit, I really outdid myself there. The long dining room table was hand-carved mahogany, and the surface gleamed beneath a candle-lit chandelier. Ten, high-backed chairs with claret, velvet upholstery surrounded it. Wreaths of evergreen boughs were draped around the hunter green walls. I'd had to have those sent in from the U. S. There are so few evergreen trees on a tropical island. Okay, there are no evergreen trees on a tropical island.

  Art deco sconces diffused the light bulbs within. Along the longest wall was a huge mirror (one of the many two-sided mirrors throughout the house) in a gilt frame. The table had been set with Limoges china from the eighteenth century and silver flatware, hand carved in Mexico. The centerpiece was the fun part. On a large, bronze platter were ten little statues in a circle, facing in. Liv had wanted them to be little Native Americans, but all I could find in that number was ten little…

  "Are those circus clowns?" Nora recoiled in horror.

  Madame Angelina shot me a look that said, I told you so! Giuseppe shook his head sadly. Oh—like he could've done better!

  Annie picked up one of the clowns and studied it. The colorful little clown grinned at her.

  "Whoa." Juan sucked in air through his teeth. "Mr. Owen had disturbing taste."

  Nora was roaming the room now, touching things and scowling. "This is like a room from my nightmares," she said gravely.

  Hey! "I like it! It's very Christmassy," I might've said a tad defensively.

  Anderson glanced at me. "I'm not quite certain I can eat in here."

  Frank and William sat down at the table. Apparently, they didn't mind the room. The rest of us looked at them then joined them.

  Raoul came through the doorway with a platter of prime rib and roasted garlic potatoes. My mouth began watering immediately. He set the tray on the table and returned with a salad, handmade rolls with honey butter, and green beans with applewood smoked bacon.