Mind-Bending Murder Page 23

  Randi and Ronni were disappointed that the guys weren't going to be doing landscaping. They'd come up with an idea of turning people's shrubs into animals doing human activities —which just seemed like what they were already doing with taxidermy, except with plants.

  When I pointed out that a bail bondsman needed money to post bail for people, the twins decided to back them. Which was good because I'd already shelled out enough money on this investigation.

  Kayla was so impressed by Kurt's entrepreneurial skills that she agreed to a date. Stewie even let them use the hearse to go to the drive-in. Of course, it was vandalized while they were there—someone painted Druids Drool on the side of it. Stewie placed a curse on the culprits at the next meeting. When two bullies from school came down with scabies, he considered it a sign from Sasquatch that he now had wizardly powers and tried to give them back acne via a spell that he made up.

  Claire turned out to be a perfect fit for the Chapel of Despair. Mike and Stewie were so gaga over her that they named her High Priestess. Heather and Kayla didn't mind at all because the first thing Claire did was have a little "chat" with Stewie on the evils of sexism. Which of course, he continued to insist he hadn't realized he'd been doing.

  The unveiling of the Ferguson sisters' latest artwork was held at the Chapel of Despair a few weeks later. Rex, Ron, and Ivan helped deliver and install the piece, which was then draped with black silk until the ceremony.

  We stood in a semicircle around the altar with my husband's family and Kelly, Riley, the druids, Harold (for moral support for Stewie), and Kurt. Claire looked magnificent in her dark robes and hood. I wasn't sure, but it looked like there was some sort of French designer's logo all over it like a watermark.

  "She's got a friend at Chanel," Riley explained, reading my mind again.

  Stewie raised his arms in the air and did his demon fingers, which Harold thought was a vast improvement on the druid jazz fingers. It looked the same to me.

  "I am the dread demigod Odious!" he intoned in a deep, slightly threatening bass voice.

  Harold applauded enthusiastically. I guess the lessons were paying off.

  "Tonight! We consummate…" Stewie started.

  Claire gracefully floated over to him and whispered in his ear.

  Stewie turned bright red but continued in his thundering voice. "Tonight! We consecrate our new altar!"

  Mike and Heather threw down some very mild pyrotechnics that were a bit better than the Pop-Its they usually used. I wasn't sure if this was Harold's or Claire's influence, but it was an improvement.

  "Why are you dressed like a chicken?" Kelly whispered in my ear.

  "I'm the Bird Goddess," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. The wonderous outfit Kurt had tipped me off to turned out a little less phoenix and a lot more chicken than I'd hoped.

  Kayla tugged on the silk, and it slid to the floor.

  We all gasped.

  "It's a masterpiece!" Kurt's eyes grew wide.

  I had to admit, it was pretty good. An almost full-scale semicircle of stones surrounded the goats that were all dancing on hind legs while covered in black cloaks and hoods. I have no idea how the twins managed it, because some of the goats were on one leg as they held hooves and danced in a circle.

  In the background, lurking behind two stones, was the cougar in a Bigfoot suit, posed in the traditional Sasquatch stride.

  But it was the aliens that were the piѐce de résistance. A UFO loomed over the dancers with lights flashing in some sort of pattern. A beam of light appeared at the bottom, and there was the whirr of mechanics.

  "This one has motion? The twins really outdid themselves," I said to Rex.

  "Well, it helped that the druids paid a lot of money for it," my husband whispered back.

  A platform came down, and a green llama with three eyes and a silver spangled suit was lowered into the middle of the circle.

  We gave it a standing ovation, which in hindsight, wasn't saying much since we were already standing.

  For the reception in the basement, I changed out of the chicken suit, using what I liked to think of as my old room, and joined the others for ominous snacks of black Rice Krispies bars and dark purple Jell-O. Claire had redecorated the sleazy waterbed room into a tasteful library with overstuffed chairs (they moved my massage chair to the office for Kayla) and a fireplace—which worked and was weird because there hadn't been one before.

  "What in the hell is that?" Riley pointed to my arm.

  "It's not as bad as the one you can't see," I admitted as I looked at my newly inked Girl Scout trefoil surrounded by flames, with a banner that said Born To Sell Cookies. "In fact, I really rather like it."

  "What happened?"

  "Bear wasn't happy that we weren't there to really get tattoos, and he didn't like that we were faking it to get information. I apologized, but they felt the only way to show I was sincere was to get two tattoos."

  Riley's eyebrows went up. "And what's the other one?"

  "That is none of your business," I said blithely as I walked away.

  There was no way I was ever going to show him the ink on my left hip, of Dora the Explorer rearing up on the back of a goat that had bicycle wheels for legs. Bear had wanted Dora to be riding on Lance Armstrong's back, but I said no.

  That would have just been tacky.

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leslie Langtry is the USA Today bestselling author of the Greatest Hits Mysteries series, Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations, the Merry Wrath Mysteries, the Aloha Lagoon Mysteries and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy.

  Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele.

  To learn more about Leslie, visit her online at: http://www.leslielangtry.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY

  Merry Wrath Mysteries

  Merit Badge Murder

  Mint Cookie Murder

  Scout Camp Murder (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  Marshmallow S'More Murder

  Movie Night Murder

  Mud Run Murder

  Fishing Badge Murder (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)

  Motto for Murder

  Map Skills Murder

  Mean Girl Murder

  Marriage Vow Murder

  Mystery Night Murder

  Meerkats and Murder

  Make Believe Murder

  Maltese Vulture Murder

  Musket Ball Murder

  Macho Man Murder

  Mad Money Murder

  Mind-Bending Murder

  Mascots Are Murder

  Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:

  Ukulele Murder

  Ukulele Deadly

  Greatest Hits Mysteries:

  'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

  Guns Will Keep Us Together

  Stand By Your Hitman

  I Shot You Babe

  Paradise By The Rifle Sights

  Snuff the Magic Dragon

  My Heroes Have Always Been Hitmen

  Greatest Hits Mysteries Holiday Bundle

  Other Works:

  Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first Greatest Hits Mystery:

  'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

  CHAPTER ONE

  "On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero."

  —Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club<
br />
  No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listened to people complain about it 'round the water cooler, I couldn't help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gives "avoiding Aunt Jean's potato salad" a whole new meaning.

  That's right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I'd tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I'd had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you'll just have to take my word for it.

  I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hate these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.

  As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn't an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren't in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That's right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn't show was terminated.

  Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the "everything" drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty calloused to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn't exactly have the usual family sense o' pride.

  I found it behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat-of-arms practically glowed on the cold, ebony surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp and topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm, homemade chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don't forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.

  The phone rang, causing me to jump. That's right. I was a jumpy assassin.

  "Ginny?" My mom's voice betrayed her urgency.

  "Hey, Mom. I got it," I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.

  "Don't use that tone with me, Virginia." Her voice was dead serious. "I just wanted to make sure."

  "Right. Like I'd miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down." For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.

  "You know it makes me nervous when you don't call the day you get the invitation," Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)

  "I'm sorry," I continued lying to my mother. "I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner." And I would, too. No point taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.

  "Well, I'm calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!" She hung up before I could say good bye.

  So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed—by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood-oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.

  To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she had failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I'd been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.

  In case you hadn't noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That's right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.

  Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren't allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happens if they refuse.

  Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the "family secret" by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolled around. It wasn't exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren't allowed to leave the family once you know, or well, you knew what happened.

  Most of us didn't even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I'd been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I'd seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. And while I'm fairly certain we haven't figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.

  Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I'd given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight, brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.

  My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she'd go from playing with Bratz dolls, to "icing" them. Shit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "We are all dead men on leave."

  —Eugene Levine, comedian

  The doorbell rang and I automatically checked the monitor in the kitchen. Yes, I had surveillance monitors. Hello? Family hunts us down! Remember?

  "Hey, little brother." Despite my weary voice I gave Dakota a vigorous hug.

  "You alright?" he asked more with mischief than concern.

  "You're joking, right?" And I knew he was. Dak loved Romi almost as much as I did. He just found the whole family of assassins thing amusing most of the time.

  "Well, we went through it and survived. Besides, the training is pretty harmless for the first few years."

  "Harmless? That's an interesting way to describe turning your kindergartner into a cold-blooded killer."

  "Maybe you could write the guidebook! The Complete Idiot's Guide to Turning Your Kindergartner into an Assassin." Dak laughed in that easy way he had about him. Single and thirty-seven, he was handsome and funny. And I should mention that he was single by choice. Dak, like most of the people in my family, had "commitment issues." Personally, I thought they took the family motto a little too seriously.

  I rolled my eyes, "Yeah. That would work." Hey! Was he calling me a complete idiot?

  "Look, Ginny, it's not like you can refuse to go." He looked sideways at me. "You are going, right?"

  "Duh! Do you think I'm stupid? Like I'd let you raise and train Romi!"

  I loved my brother. We were close. We even collaborated on jobs. He had taken this whole Prizzi's Honor lifestyle in stride. After three millennia of contracted kills, the family was extremely wealthy, and we all lived off of huge trust funds. In the past seventy-five years, after some smart investing, no one has had to do more than one or two hits a year. So we all lived comfortably. And we got Blue Cross and dental.

  Dak eased back in the kitchen chair, rudely
devouring my Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. Bastard.

  "Look Ginny, it'll be fine. Romi can handle it."

  I shook my head. "That's not all I'm worried about."

  He stopped eating, and for a moment I thought I might have a few cookies left. "Oh. The other thing. What's up with that?"

  "I don't know. You hear anything?"

  Dak shook his head. "I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he's on the Council, and they don't bust you for almost fucking up."

  I snatched the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. "Yeah, I haven't heard anything either."

  "I guess we just see who shows up and…" He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, "…whoever doesn't." (Insert creepy, "dun, dun, dun," music here.)

  I looked at him, and not just as treacherous cookie thief. "How can you be so cold? We're talking about our family here!"

  "And there's nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn't someone we like."

  Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn't miss too much.

  I picked up my cup of coffee. "We didn't mess up in Chicago, did we?" My mind raced to remember the details.

  Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed. "No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way."