rapid succession.
“The Oakley Court. May I help you?” a sprite British woman answered.
“I stayed with you earlier in the week and think I left some luggage behind. I was wondering if you could check for me?”
“Most certainly. What name?”
“I’m O’Brien, but the reservation was under my grandmother’s name, Geneva McCarty.”
“Will you hold please?” she said, and switched the line to “Do You Want To Know A Secret.”
“What’d she say?”
Wind rattled the partially open booth door. I put the phone to his ear. “They love their Beatles.”
I held one large shopping bag and Travis had two. Stuffed into a space smaller than a portable toilet, I noticed that a similar smell permeated the air. The longer I waited, the more I began to think about who’d been in here before me and what they’d done.
Travis eyed the golden arches down the street and quipped, “Where’s the beef?”
I began to drool over the thought of a Big Mac and Coke with lots of ice. After some of the meals we’d eaten, the thought of the special sauce made my mouth water.
Without room to move and air that hung around us like week-old sweat socks. Travis said, “Hang up.”
About to bail on the Oakley angle, I pulled the phone from my ear when I heard a man’s voice ask, “Rachael O’Brien, is it?”
“Yes.”
“We do have some items left for you. If you can give me your location, I can have a car bring them to you.”
A wayward crumpled newspaper blew past the booth, triggering a switch in my head. The voice that spoke on the phone was different. It was British, but the way he addressed me was slow like I was a child. “What items do you have exactly?”
He paused. “There’s a suitcase in back with your name pinned to it.”
I could hear a slight clicking on the line, subtle and not as raspy as static. This was taking forever. “Just one suitcase?”
“As far as I know. Are there others in your party?”
Travis pretended he was holding a burger then thumbed a gesture in the direction of the McDonald’s down the street.
“Are there any messages for me?”
“Messages?” he repeated. “If you’ll hold the line, I’ll…”
“Please deposit another twenty pence,” a voice echoed. I hung up.
Travis futzed to get the door open. “What was all that about?”
“He said they had a suitcase of mine.”
“A lot of good that does us.”
“They said they’d drop it off.”
“Is someone from the hotel coming to the dock?”
Burying our heads in our jacket collars we moved down the block. “I think he was fishing for our location so I hung up.”
NOTE TO SELF
Have a sinking feeling that whatever went down at The Oakley Court the night we left was not good.
CHAPTER 17
S acked
I slid out of the taxi on Regent Street. Standing beneath the glow of a streetlamp, a twinge of guilt flinched in my chest. Truth be told, it was the Big Mac I’d greedily consumed. Eating American fast food in a foreign country somehow seemed indulgent. No one said anything, but my conscience told me I’d snubbed English cuisine.
After paying the taxi driver, I stood on the sidewalk and hesitated. A few businesses up the street were open, but it was dark inside Garrard’s storefront. Dead end , I thought and cursed myself for letting the taxi go.
Arm in arm, two well-endowed women with outlandishly tight, low cut dresses and four-inch heels waddled toward us. One of the ladies had a sparkly purse under her arm.
Travis gawked as they passed and one abruptly stopped. “Buy us a drink, lover, and there might be some fluff and tickle in your future.”
“Are you a pearly queen?” Travis asked.
Each had thirty years on us but they didn’t seem to care. Placing a hand on her heart, she pursed her lips, “If that’s what you fancy, then I am.”
Slipping my arm through Travis’s, I tugged. “Have a nice night.”
“Charming, be that way.” Giggles softened as the two continued
“The Oakley Court. May I help you?” a sprite British woman answered.
“I stayed with you earlier in the week and think I left some luggage behind. I was wondering if you could check for me?”
“Most certainly. What name?”
“I’m O’Brien, but the reservation was under my grandmother’s name, Geneva McCarty.”
“Will you hold please?” she said, and switched the line to “Do You Want To Know A Secret.”
“What’d she say?”
Wind rattled the partially open booth door. I put the phone to his ear. “They love their Beatles.”
I held one large shopping bag and Travis had two. Stuffed into a space smaller than a portable toilet, I noticed that a similar smell permeated the air. The longer I waited, the more I began to think about who’d been in here before me and what they’d done.
Travis eyed the golden arches down the street and quipped, “Where’s the beef?”
I began to drool over the thought of a Big Mac and Coke with lots of ice. After some of the meals we’d eaten, the thought of the special sauce made my mouth water.
Without room to move and air that hung around us like week-old sweat socks. Travis said, “Hang up.”
About to bail on the Oakley angle, I pulled the phone from my ear when I heard a man’s voice ask, “Rachael O’Brien, is it?”
“Yes.”
“We do have some items left for you. If you can give me your location, I can have a car bring them to you.”
A wayward crumpled newspaper blew past the booth, triggering a switch in my head. The voice that spoke on the phone was different. It was British, but the way he addressed me was slow like I was a child. “What items do you have exactly?”
He paused. “There’s a suitcase in back with your name pinned to it.”
I could hear a slight clicking on the line, subtle and not as raspy as static. This was taking forever. “Just one suitcase?”
“As far as I know. Are there others in your party?”
Travis pretended he was holding a burger then thumbed a gesture in the direction of the McDonald’s down the street.
“Are there any messages for me?”
“Messages?” he repeated. “If you’ll hold the line, I’ll…”
“Please deposit another twenty pence,” a voice echoed. I hung up.
Travis futzed to get the door open. “What was all that about?”
“He said they had a suitcase of mine.”
“A lot of good that does us.”
“They said they’d drop it off.”
“Is someone from the hotel coming to the dock?”
Burying our heads in our jacket collars we moved down the block. “I think he was fishing for our location so I hung up.”
NOTE TO SELF
Have a sinking feeling that whatever went down at The Oakley Court the night we left was not good.
CHAPTER 17
S acked
I slid out of the taxi on Regent Street. Standing beneath the glow of a streetlamp, a twinge of guilt flinched in my chest. Truth be told, it was the Big Mac I’d greedily consumed. Eating American fast food in a foreign country somehow seemed indulgent. No one said anything, but my conscience told me I’d snubbed English cuisine.
After paying the taxi driver, I stood on the sidewalk and hesitated. A few businesses up the street were open, but it was dark inside Garrard’s storefront. Dead end , I thought and cursed myself for letting the taxi go.
Arm in arm, two well-endowed women with outlandishly tight, low cut dresses and four-inch heels waddled toward us. One of the ladies had a sparkly purse under her arm.
Travis gawked as they passed and one abruptly stopped. “Buy us a drink, lover, and there might be some fluff and tickle in your future.”
“Are you a pearly queen?” Travis asked.
Each had thirty years on us but they didn’t seem to care. Placing a hand on her heart, she pursed her lips, “If that’s what you fancy, then I am.”
Slipping my arm through Travis’s, I tugged. “Have a nice night.”
“Charming, be that way.” Giggles softened as the two continued
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