Page 52 of Killers of a Certain Age

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Two days later, my tobacco tea was finished. I strained off the solids, burying them in the garden. The liquid that was left was pure poison. We gathered around the kitchen table, gloves on and Kevin shut in the pantry to keep him from killing himself. The six of us worked slowly, using kitchen funnels to decant the murky liquid into an assortment of opaque toiletry bottles. Face wash, toner, astringent, mouthwash—all got filled and then capped, the lids sealed with melted candle wax to make them spill-proof. A few miniatures with Irish whiskey labels got the same treatment. We were going by train instead of flying, but we weren’t taking any chances on raising eyebrows at Customs. Altogether we had more than enough to do the job.

When we finished, we cleared up the kitchen and poured the rest of the poison down the sink. Natalie sluiced it out with boiling water and did the same for the carboy, eliminating anytraces of what we’d done. We were packed and ready, with fresh papers, disguises, and everything else we needed, all folded into a single carry-on each. The rest of us looked away as Mary Alice and Akiko said a stilted good-bye. Akiko had hardly said two words to her since we’d been in England, but I hoped a little time apart would help her to wrap her head around the fact that this was her new normal—at least for now.

Minka drove us to the train station, where we traveled in separate carriages to London. We got ourselves to Zurich by slightly different routes and rendezvoused in the train station before piling into a hired car service—Lady Henrietta Ridley would never Uber. Helen took point, striding along purposefully while the rest of us scuttled behind. We’d scoured the local thrift shops to find tweedy English clothes, and a set of wigs from a firm that supplied Beyoncé took care of our hair. Natalie found an oversized bra she padded out with water balloons nestled into a pair of socks while I tucked prosthetic ass pads around my hips to suggest flesh that had settled with age. We looked like a girl gang that would have the Queen as our leader, all low heels and no-nonsense curls. Mary Alice had even tucked butterscotch candies in her purse, which she handed out to porters in lieu of tips.

We checked into the spa without incident. The desk clerk that Helen had gently terrorized as “Lady Henrietta” was nowhere in sight. We signed in and were given keys by a slim young woman whose name tag said she was Ji-Woo. She gave us complimentary glasses of alkaline water and Natalie deliberately tripped, spilling hers all down Ji-Woo’s tidy black suit.

“Oh, Iamsorry,” Natalie drawled.

Ji-Woo gave her a thin smile. “Not at all, madam. If you will excuse me, I will just go and change my blouse.”

We waved her off, telling her we would find our own way upstairs. As soon as she disappeared through the door behind the front desk, Natalie nipped around, kneeling in front of the computer while the rest of us studied the brochures of spa treatments, keeping watch on the elevator, front entrance, and office door.

“Hurry up,” Mary Alice muttered. Natalie pushed herself to her feet, her knees giving a creak of protest as I grabbed a couple of Ji-Woo’s business cards.

“Got it,” Nat said. “He’s in Room 217.”

We took our keys and brochures and headed up to our rooms on the third floor. Mary Alice and I bunked together, while Helen and Nat took the second room. There was a handy communicating door, which we left open, and in a matter of minutes we were ready. Each room had a writing desk with a thick leather portfolio, and inside was a full complement of spa stationery, stamped with the resort’s letterhead. I scrawled a note addressed to Günther explaining that the water would be shut off for a short while the following day and that as compensation for the inconvenience, I was arranging for him to have a complimentary mud wrap in his room at fivepmthis afternoon. I signed it with Ji-Woo’s name and stuffed it into the envelope with one of her business cards. I addressed the envelope, careful to cross the seven in his room number like a proper little European. I handed it off to Natalie, who nipped down and slid it under his door before hurrying back.

We were sitting on the edge of Helen’s bed, waiting, when she returned.

“Was he in there?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. I could hear him snoring like a freight train,” Nat said.

“What if he doesn’t wake up in time to see the note?” Helen asked. She sounded like a fretful toddler, and Nat gave her a comforting pat.

“I thought of that. I knocked on the door to wake him up. I was hiding in the stairwell when I heard his door open.” She turned to me. “Billie, you’re up.”

I picked up the phone and punched in his room number. When he answered, I spoke quickly and brightly, putting an accent on my English that was vague enough to have been anything from South African to Latvian. “Mr. Paar? This is Elsa with Spa Services. I am calling to confirm your appointment at fivepmtoday with Annike for a mud wrap. Yes, it is complimentary, courtesy of Ji-Woo at the front desk. The mud wrap is one of our superior services, a value of two hundred seventy-five euros. No, Annike will bring everything with her. Thank you, sir. Your service is confirmed.”

I looked to Mary Alice. “Showtime.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The clock showed five minutes to five when Mary Alice and I headed out. We were both dressed in the plain black scrubs of the spa staff. Mary Alice’s wig was a severe ice-white geometric bob, and her face had been carefully contoured, the shading making her cheekbones high and angular. Her breasts were strapped down and she was wearing steel-rimmed glasses. The effect was severe in a Scandi-chic way. I had opted for a low dark brown bun threaded with silver and cheek pads to make my face fuller. A dusting of pale powder gave me a washed-out, fatigued look. The fact that I was lugging a collapsible treatment table helped sell the impression I was giving of a tired older woman just waiting for the end of her shift. Mary Alice carried a tote with our supplies. We paused in front of Günther’s door and rapped softly.

He opened the door at once, and I ducked my head to hide my surprise. I wouldn’t have known him if he’d walked upand slapped me on the street. It had been more than fifteen years since our paths had crossed, and in spite of his obsession with his health, he looked like shit. He was carrying extra weight, which might have suited someone cheerier, but he looked bloated. His skin was splotchy and there were heavy bags under his eyes. He was wearing one of the spa robes and it gapped a little, showing a chest furry with white hair. His feet were bare, the toenails thick and yellow, and when he smiled, I saw that his teeth were the same.

“Good afternoon, I am Annike,” Mary Alice said in a clipped voice. “You are ready for treatment?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, stepping back and waving us in. “And this is complimentary, correct?”

“Except for the tip,” I said. Mary Alice would have kicked me if she’d been closer, but she merely signaled for me to set up the table. “My assistant will help me to set up. You are being naked?” she asked with a finger pointing at his midsection.

“Yes,” he told her, holding the belt of his robe.

“When the table is ready, you will lie under the sheet facedown,” she told him. “We will prepare the muds in the bathroom.”

He nodded and I hurried to lock the legs of the treatment table, spreading it with a folded blanket and a sheet. Then I laid out layers of plastic wrap, the kind caterers use for food. I ducked into the bathroom after Mary Alice and we pulled a bucket out of the tote bag. It was full of dark green spa mud, powdered and ready to mix. I turned on the tap so he would hear water running while we snapped on gloves and the smallnoseclips swimmers wear. They weren’t as good as respirators, but they would keep us from inhaling the worst of the nicotine. I poured the poison in slowly, letting Mary Alice mix it with a wooden spoon until it made a thick, gloppy paste. I dumped in half a bottle of lavender oil to mask any odor, and we were ready.

We pulled off the noseclips and carried the bucket out to the bedroom, where Günther was relaxing under the sheet. We could see the back of his head, and when Mary Alice pulled the cover back, there he was in all his dimply, mottled glory. Some men age well, but Günther wasn’t one of them. We started scooping up the mud and slapping it on his back, larding him up like we were glazing a Sunday ham.

“That smells unusual,” he said, his voice muffled by the treatment table.

“A new blend,” Mary Alice said smoothly.

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