satisfied. Turning away, she headed to the Hertz counter, dragging a medium-size overnight bag behind her.
Ford Taurus—that was her car. No one ever remembered someone renting the most popular, most vanilla car in America. Arriving at the counter, she pulled out her wallet.
“ Reservation for Miriam Hayes, please,” she said evenly.
“ Welcome to Miami, Ms. Hayes,” beamed a young woman with dark hair and eyes, identified by her name tag as Maria. Thumbing through a stack of reservations, she found Archer/Miriam’s.
“ Everything seems to be in order. May I please see your driver’s license and a credit card?” she asked, glancing at the form.
“ Oh, certainly,” Archer replied, and presented an Illinois license and a MasterCard, both identifying her as Miriam Hayes of Chicago. Maria examined them and handed them back with a cheery smile.
“ Just sign here, please.” She handed Archer a pen.
Archer smiled and held up a pen from her purse. “My lucky pen,” she joked, and Maria nodded.
“ I see you’re from Chicago, Ms. Hayes. Are you here in Miami for business or pleasure, may I ask?”
Archer hesitated an instant, then replied, “Pleasure. To visit my grandchildren. My daughter moved down here last winter, and I’m dying to see her new home.” She smiled fondly.
“ Yeah, I figured it wasn’t a vacation. Not many tourists here in August. Is it your first visit, Ms. Hayes?”
“ Yes,” she lied smoothly. “And I sure like what I see.”
“ Well, we do hope you enjoy your visit,” said Maria, handing her the keys. “I know it’s hot, but don’t let that get to you. Everything is air-conditioned. And don’t miss the aquarium, if you’ve never been.”
Archer smiled, taking the keys. “Thank you for the suggestion, dear. That’s a lovely idea.”
The woman nodded and smiled. Archer gave a small wave and stuffed the keys in her pocketbook, then turned away and walked slowly, hoping she looked like the sixty-something Miriam. As she headed toward the ladies’ room, she was already reviewing her itinerary in her head: Check into the motel; get to the post office: Confirm the route and the discard spots; get some sleep . . . do the job. Then report the completion and get out of town.
The ladies’ room was crowded. Good, she thought, the more the merrier. Archer went to the farthest stall, pushed the door open, and walked in, luggage in tow, latching the door behind her. Unzipping the central compartment of her suitcase, she pulled out faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and black mules with wooden wedge high heels.
Hurriedly, she pulled off the gray wig, yanked the T-shirt up over her head, unwrapped the skirt, and kicked off her Keds. She folded the shirt and skirt, tucked them neatly into her open bag, shoved the Keds in along the edge of the suitcase, and tucked the wig into a corner. Then she pulled on the jeans and tank top and slipped on the black leather mules. From a side compartment she pulled a small silk pouch and shook a pair of pink-feathered pierced earrings into her palm. She slipped these through her ears. Then, from the same pouch, she took a premoistened makeup removal tissue and wiped her face clean of the powder and the lines drawn in for the morning flight. Going back into the suitcase once more, she pulled out a spiky medium-brown wig. It rolled easily over the beige stocking cap, hiding her real hair. She shook her head to fluff out the wig, ran her fingers through it, and sat down on the toilet.
She was breathing fast. Focus, now . . . breathe deep. Feeling slightly more relaxed, she reached in her pocketbook and flipped open the compact. Hardly her style, but not bad. Miriam Hayes from Chicago, here in Miami to visit the little ones, was no more. She pulled out a black eye pencil and rimmed her eyes, then finished the look with red lip gloss, a swipe of pink blush, and a pair of oversize sunglasses.
Before stepping out of the stall, she snatched her
Ford Taurus—that was her car. No one ever remembered someone renting the most popular, most vanilla car in America. Arriving at the counter, she pulled out her wallet.
“ Reservation for Miriam Hayes, please,” she said evenly.
“ Welcome to Miami, Ms. Hayes,” beamed a young woman with dark hair and eyes, identified by her name tag as Maria. Thumbing through a stack of reservations, she found Archer/Miriam’s.
“ Everything seems to be in order. May I please see your driver’s license and a credit card?” she asked, glancing at the form.
“ Oh, certainly,” Archer replied, and presented an Illinois license and a MasterCard, both identifying her as Miriam Hayes of Chicago. Maria examined them and handed them back with a cheery smile.
“ Just sign here, please.” She handed Archer a pen.
Archer smiled and held up a pen from her purse. “My lucky pen,” she joked, and Maria nodded.
“ I see you’re from Chicago, Ms. Hayes. Are you here in Miami for business or pleasure, may I ask?”
Archer hesitated an instant, then replied, “Pleasure. To visit my grandchildren. My daughter moved down here last winter, and I’m dying to see her new home.” She smiled fondly.
“ Yeah, I figured it wasn’t a vacation. Not many tourists here in August. Is it your first visit, Ms. Hayes?”
“ Yes,” she lied smoothly. “And I sure like what I see.”
“ Well, we do hope you enjoy your visit,” said Maria, handing her the keys. “I know it’s hot, but don’t let that get to you. Everything is air-conditioned. And don’t miss the aquarium, if you’ve never been.”
Archer smiled, taking the keys. “Thank you for the suggestion, dear. That’s a lovely idea.”
The woman nodded and smiled. Archer gave a small wave and stuffed the keys in her pocketbook, then turned away and walked slowly, hoping she looked like the sixty-something Miriam. As she headed toward the ladies’ room, she was already reviewing her itinerary in her head: Check into the motel; get to the post office: Confirm the route and the discard spots; get some sleep . . . do the job. Then report the completion and get out of town.
The ladies’ room was crowded. Good, she thought, the more the merrier. Archer went to the farthest stall, pushed the door open, and walked in, luggage in tow, latching the door behind her. Unzipping the central compartment of her suitcase, she pulled out faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and black mules with wooden wedge high heels.
Hurriedly, she pulled off the gray wig, yanked the T-shirt up over her head, unwrapped the skirt, and kicked off her Keds. She folded the shirt and skirt, tucked them neatly into her open bag, shoved the Keds in along the edge of the suitcase, and tucked the wig into a corner. Then she pulled on the jeans and tank top and slipped on the black leather mules. From a side compartment she pulled a small silk pouch and shook a pair of pink-feathered pierced earrings into her palm. She slipped these through her ears. Then, from the same pouch, she took a premoistened makeup removal tissue and wiped her face clean of the powder and the lines drawn in for the morning flight. Going back into the suitcase once more, she pulled out a spiky medium-brown wig. It rolled easily over the beige stocking cap, hiding her real hair. She shook her head to fluff out the wig, ran her fingers through it, and sat down on the toilet.
She was breathing fast. Focus, now . . . breathe deep. Feeling slightly more relaxed, she reached in her pocketbook and flipped open the compact. Hardly her style, but not bad. Miriam Hayes from Chicago, here in Miami to visit the little ones, was no more. She pulled out a black eye pencil and rimmed her eyes, then finished the look with red lip gloss, a swipe of pink blush, and a pair of oversize sunglasses.
Before stepping out of the stall, she snatched her
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