Mint Cookie Murder (22 page)

The CIA identified Bobb as a two-bit hustler who just took on the real assassin's persona thinking it made him seem more badass. Suzanne hadn't been very careful in recruiting henchmen. But we'd never be able to ask her. And I didn't mind a bit.

"You said something I've been meaning to ask you about," I said. "Something about all your exes being crazy?"

Rex nodded. "Yeah. I've only had two. Angela was the second. The first one was in high school and a real psycho. Extremely jealous. She practically ruined the lives of any girl I even talked to. I really hope you never have to meet
her
."

"She sounds awful. Not nearly as cool and awesome as your current girlfriend." I said.

The doorbell rang. Rex and I exchanged looks as he set the kittens down on the couch and checked the peephole. He relaxed and opened the door.

Twenty-four second grade girls poured into the room, followed by Kelly. They swarmed me and the kittens, a loud
awwwww!
rattling the house.

Rex stepped in and scooped up the kittens, talking to the girls about them as they crowded around him.

"They really wanted to see them," Kelly said.

"You had no choice," I replied as I stood next to her and watched.

"This is the second time you've had one of your hotties work with the girls," Kelly whispered. "What will they think of you?"

"You're right. I need to talk to Riley," I said quietly so Rex wouldn't hear. Not that he could've heard over the din of squealing Girl Scouts.

"So no more making out with your former boss?" Kelly asked.

I shook my head. "I can't date two guys at once." Rex was the winner. He was here, he could cook, and he made my heart race. Riley was gone half the time and too much of a player. I didn't look forward to telling him this. But I was making the right decision.

"What were you two doing when we interrupted?" Kelly arched one eyebrow.

"Just talking about Rex's hostile ex-girlfriends. Right, Babe?"

Rex laughed. "That's right. But the one from high school was a nightmare. Even with your background, Merry, I wouldn't want you to meet her."

Kelly asked, "You grew up around here, didn't you? Who was she?" She gave me a wink, and I giggled. If she was worse than Angela, I was totally steering clear of this woman.

"A redhead," Rex said as he held one of the kittens out for the girls to coo over. "She works for the Scout Council, I think. Her name is Juliette Dowd."

* * * * *

Want to get an email alert when the next Merry Wrath Mystery is available?

Sign up for our newsletter today

and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

* * * * *

Leslie Langtry is the author of the
Greatest Hits Mysteries
series,
Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations
,
The Hanging Tree Tales
as Max Deimos, the
Merry Wrath 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

* * * * *

Merry Wrath Mysteries

Merit Badge Murder

Mint Cookie Murder

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

Four Killing Birds (a holiday short story)

Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas
(a holiday short story)

Other Works:

Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations

Hanging Tree Tales YA horror novels:

Hell House

Tyler's Fate

Witch Hill

The Teacher

* * * * *

of the first Greatest Hits Mystery by Leslie Langtry:

'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY

CHAPTER ONE

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

~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

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."