Chapter Ten A New Mission
Chapter Ten
A New Mission
Pinewood
Myra was up early the next day. Lady and her pups lifted their heads and then placed them back on the bed. It was too early for them. They needed another half hour before they had to go outside and then have breakfast.
Myra was unusually agitated. Something about this senior living thing bothered her. Something wasn’t right, and it had nothing to do with the proximity of the residents to her own age. There was a vulnerability about it.
Myra knew she was fortunate enough to have whatever she wanted at her fingertips. At least material things. She would give it all up if she could have her daughter back. But she couldn’t, so she would do the best she can with what she has. And she has many resources.
She padded into the kitchen and fixed a cup of coffee with the French press. Myra had always used an automatic coffee maker, but Charles insisted that once she had coffee made that way, she would never go back to Mr. Coffee. “You’re divorcing him!” Charles proclaimed.
When Charles began to show signs of boredom after his retirement, Myra suggested he develop a hobby. Much to her delight, and to her dismay, it was food. Charles became a gastronomical connoisseur, and over the years developed into a gourmet cook, with Fergus as his sous chef and kitchen help.
Myra was in excellent shape, and she only imagined she was getting fat. Charles was very keen on never mentioning any woman’s age, weight, or shape. If the woman asks, “Does this make me look fat?” the answer is always, “Of course not, honey. You look gorgeous.”
Myra and Charles were never fancy people.
They had nice things but nothing extravagant.
Myra was low-key. She preferred classic but casual clothes.
Unlike Annie, who preferred her white rhinestone cowboy boots.
Myra was the yin to Annie’s yang. Actually, the two couples fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Myra’s coffee preparation must have disturbed the pups, because soon Lady strolled into the kitchen and sat at the back door.
Her pups were not far behind. Myra walked outside with them while her coffee was going through a full-immersion process.
She had to admit, it made a delicious cup.
She strolled over to the garden, where Charles grew his vegetables for cooking.
Myra was in charge of the herb garden. It was the season for basil.
She rubbed a leaf between her fingers and inhaled the essence of the fragrant oil.
“I’m surprised this isn’t illegal,” she said, and chuckled.
As soon as Lady rounded the corner, Myra knew it was time the coffee was ready. Funny how certain routines seem to evolve without planning. By the time she got to the kitchen door, Myra could smell something baking in the oven. “Oh, no! Not scones again!” She was half joking.
Baking wasn’t Charles’s forte, with the exception of scones and Yorkshire pudding. Annie once argued that popovers did not count as baking. “But don’t let me stop you from making them!” she said gleefully.
Charles then gave Annie a history lesson of the cherished delight, citing that “pudding” referred to rustic desserts, eaten by lower-class people, and were made in coal ovens by the miners.
Regardless of their origin, popovers, as they’re called in America, are a Pinewood favorite.
Charles also pointed out that they are lower in carbs.
On the other hand, scones were packed with carbs, sugar, and fat.
“Oh, Charles, why do you tempt me with such things?” Myra took a long whiff of the treasures in the oven.
“It’s part of our marriage certificate. I do believe it is stated quite brilliantly. ‘Charles must, at all times, unless other wise noted, tempt Myra with a variety of delights.’” He raised his eyebrows.
“Darling, it’s too early for verbal volleyball.”
“Who said anything about sports, love?” Charles pinched her fanny.
Myra patted him on the cheek. “Later, darling. We have work to do this morning.”
“Yes, we do. But not yet.” He wrapped his arm around Myra’s waist, bent her slightly backwards, and planted a wet kiss on her mouth.
“Off me, you brute!” Myra kidded. “At least give me a scone first.”
Charles pulled on the oven mitts and removed the pastry. “I shall apologize in advance. These were made yesterday. I was simply heating them up.”
Myra made a gesture with her arm in the air. “Check, please!”
Charles placed the scones, butter, and jam on the table, then pulled a chair out for Myra. “I’ll be right back.” He kissed the top of her head.
Charles hustled down the stone steps to check if any information had come through about Sunnydale. He powered up his monitor and saw that several in-network messages waited.
Sunnydale is a recipient of several government grants. Money was released to an LLC, a subsidiary of another LLC, an additional subsidiary. Funds are distributed to several different subs, one in Caymans.
Another message said:
No records of complaints found so far. More to follow.
Charles nodded as he read the short paragraph. Just as everyone suspected, Sunnydale was up to something. What were they hiding under all the layers of LLCs and offshore accounts?
He printed out the message and brought it up to the kitchen, where Myra was slathering locally churned butter on her warmed scone.
“Well, love, looks like we have a mystery to solve.”
“Do tell!” Myra instinctively stroked her pearls. By now she believed they held special powers. They calmed her. They energized her. They instilled inspiration.
Charles read the first one that came through from one of Fergus’s sources. “The second is from Lizzie.”
The wall phone began to ring. Charles answered, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Charles. Lizzie here.”
“Got your message. Anything else to add?”
“I got a text from Theresa saying she needs to speak with me, so I’m about to give her a call. I’ll ring you back as soon as I reach her.”
“Right-o. Cheers,” Charles ended the conversation.
“And?” Myra peered at him.
“And Theresa sent Lizzie a text asking if they should talk on the phone. She’ll get back to us as soon as she makes contact.”
Myra couldn’t resist the temptation to get up and snatch her laptop from the atrium. When she returned to the table, Charles was wolfing down the rest of her scone.
“I beg your pardon?” she said with mock indignation. “I believe that was my scone.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Charles made a Who, me? expression.
“The evidence is all over your face.” Myra plucked the scattered remains of her breakfast treat off Charles’s chin.
“I shall fetch my lady a replacement.” Charles bowed.
“Make it snappy, buster,” Myra joked. She looked up the Sunnydale website again and took the virtual tour. She clicked a tab and read a list of services they provide. Financial Advisors Available was included. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she muttered.
“What, dear?”
Myra read the list, which also included Personal Valet, Catering, and Future Planning. “I wonder what their idea of ‘future planning’ is.” She held up a finger. “Don’t say off to the mortuary you go.”
“I didn’t have to, now, did I, love?” Charles grinned.
“We need to come up with a plan.”
“I have no doubt. Shall we send out a bulletin to the Sisters?” Charles asked.
The Sisters were on a highly encrypted private server that only they had access to.
With each new mission, Charles and Fergus would wipe the server and assign new passwords to everyone.
It was an extra step that assured them anonymity.
Interpol could crack the code, but Charles and Fergus’s fail-safe would immediately delete everything, and cause the server to self-destruct.
They had come close only once, and it had been years earlier.
Technology changes as quickly as most people change their underwear. It was important to keep an extra pair handy. In the Sisters’ case, a spare server was constantly being updated with the latest technology. It was continuously scanned for viruses, bugs, malware, and spyware.
“Kathryn is already waiting for further instructions. Let’s see if everyone else is available for a video conference tomorrow evening. We should have more information by then, right?”
“Right.” Charles pulled Myra’s laptop over to his side of the table and typed a message, asking about availability for the following evening at nine.
Within a few short minutes, Charles was getting pinged. “All are a go!” he announced.
“Wonderful. We’ll bring everyone up-to-date about what we found, and decide if there is any reason we should carry this forward.”
“Brilliant,” Charles concurred.
An hour later, Lizzie and Theresa connected.
Theresa explained everything, beginning with the first visit when she had been turned away.
Then the second, and the woman with the ring.
The accident. No security footage. And then, in great detail, her prowling with her new friends, Henry and Frida.
Theresa described the hearse, the black bag, and Nurse Ratched.
On the one hand, Lizzie was horrified over the risks they took, considering Theresa’s accident and the odd behavior from the staff.
On the other hand, Lizzie would have done the same thing.
Theresa assured Lizzie that she was okay, as were her “people inside,” as she called them.
This was a lot more information than Lizzie had counted on, and she was eager to share it with everyone. Lizzie said she would have someone look into a death notice, and then gave Theresa a backup phone number. She ended their call with, “Please be careful out there.”
Lizzie phoned Charles and Myra and conveyed the information.
“Sounds like we need to get our act together and take it on the road,” Myra said wryly. She immediately phoned Annie and asked her to whiz on over. Annie would be there in less than ten minutes.