“Well, I am very glad we could get that straightened out. Yes. We will see you this weekend. Two rooms. And a complimentary scalp massage for my trouble? How kind.”
She hung up and turned to me. “Who the hell is Debbi Williams?”
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 any traces 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, I am sorry,” 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 five pm this 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.