As he watched the Norton and Holmes girls and their friend make up lists for their hunt, his brow furrowed in mild consternation.
The Canadian girl was proving more of an obstacle than he had thought she would. He had not been informed much of her personality- heads would roll for that, and it meant he would have to do some last-minute digging into her background very soon.
He had naturally expected the great-granddaughter of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's smarter brother, to have a very intelligent cousin. But a cousin almost as smart as she? It was inconceivable! It was, in fact, very much like the relationship Mycroft and Sherlock had shared a hundred years ago. It could, he knew, prove troublesome. He watched their faces intently- there were differences, naturally, but not as many as one would suppose.
The eyes, especially- they were identical. Oh, color was unimportant- so one pair was a velvety brown, the other, electric blue. It was the person behind the eyes who was the same- the same smart, loyal, serious, fiercely curious person behind each pair.
His hand clenched in involuntary anger. After what Geoffrey Norton had put him through, he deserved to suffer. And how better to make him suffer, than to take the life of his only child?
And if he couldn't manage to get straight to her? Well, he thought, as he studied the Holmes child's profile intently, wondering absently what kind of things he would find in her background history, there was more than one way to skin a cat.
* * *
"How was your day, you three?"
"Super, Grams!" Maya laughed. "Bo won the Scavenger Hunt, but I beat him in Trivial Pursuit, and Shirley won so bad in Twenty Questions, it wasn't even half funny! Mm- what's that smell?"
"Salmon cajetorie," Joanna Holmes appeared in the doorway, a smile on her face, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.
"And sardine enchiladas," Gran added.
"We collaborated on the menu," Joanna beamed. "Now, you three head upstairs, won't you, and keep quiet until supper? I hear your father has a terrible headache."
Robert, who followed the teens through the door, did look terrible. His suit was slightly rumpled, and there were purple smudges under his bloodshot eyes.
"Rough conference?" Peggy asked sympathetically.
"Murderous," he groaned. "The Slavs are cooperative enough, I suppose, but the Americans are being quite obstinate, and the Italians are well-night impossible- nothing seems to suit them!"
"Oh, my poor darling!" Joanna laughed gently. "I know what you need- how does a nice martini sound? With a peel of salmon skin?"
"Er- well . . ." Robert hesitated.
"Fine, then, no salmon skin," Joanna sighed. Her husband brightened.
"Cold and dry, please, Joanna."
So as Joanna was shaking up a martini, and Gran was puffing Robert's pillows under his head as he lay on the couch in the sunroom, the three kids were upstairs, talking like mad.
"I saw Angelo Corelli," Shirley reported, "when we were in the library section- he was totally absorbed in some documents, so I actually snuck up behind him. I got a glimpse of what he was reading- just some boring old state papers, mostly in Italian. They went on about his duty to his country, and how he wasn't 'adequately performing the tasks set' to him."
"So, he's a possibility," Bo said. "I mean, they could have been from T.R.A.C.E. saying he should've got Maya by now."
"They could also have been from his home country, saying he was doing a terrible job of being diplomatic," Maya pointed out. "You heard Uncle Robert- the Italians are being impossible."
"She has a point," Shirley agreed. "I mean, would any subordinate write a letter like that? And what about Michael Grey- did you find him?"
"Yeah. He was complaining to anybody who would listen about the tea- said it was lousy, and that when he's going to do some heavy research, the least he should be able to expect is a 'half-decent cup of tea'," Bo mimicked. "Didn't sound like much of anything to me- wimpy, plain, and boring. That's why I think it has to be Corelli. You know- anybody besides Grey."
"Well, provided Matt is still in New York, he should get my e-mail around suppertime," Shirley said, "so we might have something new to go on by then."
"But," Bo said, standing up, "you'll have to call me if it's urgent. I promised Mum I'd be home by five, and it's quarter to already."
"Alright," Shirley said. "We'll see you tomorrow, then."
"Bye, Bo," Maya smiled from her comfortable seat in the armchair.
"I'll see you," Bo said, and then he was gone.
Shirley, sitting in her swivel chair at her desk, spun around idly, watching the floorboards blend together in a pleasing, fuzzy brown blur.
Maya fiddled around with the leather cord she wore around her neck, from which hung a simply carved cross made out of a rich, reddish-brown wood. She twisted the cord tight, then let it unwind, her eyes following the blur of the cross's motion. She did this several times before, at last, she spoke.
"Miranda Harris." she rolled the word around thoughtfully. Shirley stuck out a foot, stopped spinning, and looked up, puzzled.
"Hm?"
"Your e-mail ID. Your second name, and- This Matt. You used to e-mail me about him all the time. You said his last name was Harris, didn't you?"
Shirley smiled slightly, as if thinking of something pleasant- extremely so. It was some time before she actually answered.
"Yup. Matthew Jordan Harris, fifteen years old, five foot six, brown hair, brown eyes, freckles . . . cute . . ."
"Good kisser?"
"Mm-HM!" Shirley's eyes lit up, making her look like a whole new person.
Maya couldn't help it- she started to laugh.
* * *
Supper was a unique experience, to say the least. If the sardine enchiladas were gross, then the salmon cajetorie was downright vile. Shirley and Maya left the table with their stomachs churning, and Shirley begged Maya to excuse her, but she just had to go lie down. Maya agreed, and headed up to the attic to retrieve her bottle of Pepto-Bismol, which, she claimed, she never traveled without.
No sooner had Shirley, with a slight moan, settled onto her bed, than did her computer light up with the icon 'Mail'.
Stomach forgotten, she catapulted off the covers, and flew to her terminal. Fingers flying, she opened up her 'Miranda Harris' account, and, with a beating heart and beaming smile she read what Matt had written.
Hey, City Girl! Sounds like you didn't waste much time in finding something interesting to do! Well, I can't complain- I've got my hands full down here with a crooked toy store owner, and I'm still working at the UN to help them set up a school for boys at the old K-On school (who knows? Maybe I'll wander down and help teach every now and then!).
As for you two gentlemen- Angelo Corelli has a very nasty history. I won't go into detail, but let's just say it would have been amazing if he'd gotten elected as dogcatcher. The fact that he's an ambassador is nothing short of miraculous! All I can say is, stay clear of him, Shirley- he's a nasty piece of work.
Michael Grey is as puzzling as Corelli is scary- his history is impeccable, with sterling references from dozens of irrefutable sources. Anybody would fall all over him- but I don't like it. How can a guy stay that clean? It's fishy, Shirley (whoops, sorry. I'm also sorry about your bizarre diet. I must meet your mother and Gran some day soon.)
All puns and jokes aside, I wish you the best of luck. Nail those guys, do you hear? Your cousin sounds awesome- get them for her, okay? Get them for me, too. But be careful, do you hear? If something happened to know, I don't know what I'd do.
I'll see you soon, okay? It's a promise.
Love you, City Girl.
Cowboy
When Shirley was done she sat back, breathing a little bit labored. Matt. What was he- her boyfriend? Her soul mate? Maybe both. Maybe neither.
But she knew one thing- although she had cared a lot for Bo when they had been dating, when you got right down to it, it wasn't any different from the way she had before, or after. They had always been friends- two friends, just putting on a little skit for the rest of the world for a while. But Matt- Matt was very, very different.
She hadn't even told him when she and Bo were dating- she hadn't known what to say.
She didn't want to say anything.
She hadn't wanted to admit to herself the reason, but now, she practically forced herself into doing it.
It wasn't that she was afraid he's be mad if she told him she loved Bo, and didn't want to see him (Matt) again;
It was that he might have believed her.
