Chapter 28 -Target Practice

Image is by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Coffee is perhaps not the beverage of choice after a near-death experience. The body is already in overdrive, and it does not need more stimulants.

Well, Ike had always been different. An awkward child, according to her sniping aunts. Tall, almost a giraffe, not pretty or malleable enough, not enough of a girl. Not cute for sure. Things smoothened as she stormed through her teens—until she hit a whale of a rock close to her eighteenth birthday. One moment she thought she was over the worst, heading for university, adulthood and greater things, until—BANG—the novel she was dissecting for an essay sucked her in.

Oscar Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray is not the right place for a visit.

Creative yes, a fascinating masterpiece, yes.

But not a haven for intrepid literary travellers. Ike knew. She had been there.

Once she got out (to this day she didn't know how), she staggered into the kitchen, her foggy head screaming with pain, her innards in turmoil, and surprised mum by downing four mugs of the extra strong Colombian coffee she brewed for her Bridge ladies. It was boiling hot, scalded Ike's tongue and fired through her oesophagus all the way down into the middle of her being. There, her weird metabolism had morphed the brew into something soothing, something that kept the top of her brainpan from launching skyward, her stomach from upchucking its contents, and eased her wobbly vision back to the here and now.

To Ike's surprise, she found herself clutching the dratted novel to her bosom. Her mum was unamused and gave her a good bollocking that re-started the fiendish pounding and nausea all over again.

Since that day, coffee had been Ike's cure for all things weird or wonderful, and she kept little espresso pods in her handbag, just in case. She had downed one on the way back to the hotel; it tided her over until the LiteraTours management was installed on the hotel terrace, an azure sky arching above, pine trees swaying in a warm breeze that banned November to the recesses of their minds. Having stopped a waiter from opening one of the red and white striped umbrellas, Ike, Brigitte and Gary basked in the sun, while Jon and Boris chased each other on the lawn.

Gary's phone rang just as he was about to attack the tiramisu. His lips, thin but well-shaped, with an upwards trend and little dimples in the corners of his mouth, muttered muted curses.

"Excuse me for a moment." Gary rose from the table and strolled towards the pillared stone railing of the terrace, covered in glossy green creepers. His back facing the two ladies he spoke softly to whoever had rung him, until he fell silent, slim white fingers pressing the phone to his ears. He swung around, and faced them, eyebrows climbing on his forehead and a world of disbelief drifting into his face. His gaze roved from the trees to the two figures on the lawn and from there to Ike only to bounce back off again the next moment. After that, he avoided eye contact.

Okay, right. Ike had got the message. Something was up, and it affected her.

Ike placed her cup back in the saucer. It was her fifth, anyway. Time to slow down otherwise she would rotate under the ceiling tonight. Brigitte twisted around in her seat, her spiky hair in disarray, like a hedgehog after an encounter with a power mower.

"What's 'is lordship up to now?" When in stress, Brigitte's haiches went AWOL, betraying a nationality she usually smothered under her excellent command of the English language.

"Don't ask me. Ask the master of Nettlehole, he seems to be finished, anyway. Don't forget to pull your forelock while you're at it."

Brigitte touched her gelled bangs and grinned. "Nothing to pull there."

Gary had cut the call, but instead of returning he stood and scowled at the faraway pine trees.

Time to shake him out of his trance and Ike knew how. "My lord?"

As predicted, that yanked his mind back from deep space onto the terrace.

"Are you quite finished with that rubbish?" Gary limped towards the table and draped his long limbs over a wicker chair covered in red chintz cushions. He glared at his sweet, loaded with mascarpone and covered in oodles of powdery cocoa.  A lonely strawberry sat on top of the concoction. Gary snatched the unsuspecting berry off its perch and put it into his mouth.

"That was Adrian," he said, munching.

"Your son you would tell off for eating with his mouth full," Brigitte said.

Gary swallowed. "I didn't. Do you want to hear what he said or not?"

"Given that it seemed to have put you into a crappy mood and given I suspect it might affect me, I would indeed appreciate a briefing, yes." Ike reached for the silver coffee flask but withdrew her hand at the last moment, and it wasn't because of the wasp sunning itself on the handle. Wasps in November?

"Given that it's you and you happen to be spot on, I shall share." Gary picked up his fork and batted the air with it. That unsettled the insect, it took to the air and bumbled off, its flight so erratic, it had to be on its last legs. Or wings, for that matter. "Guidetti seems to have it in for you. He contacted our good old friend, Kommissar Stoffelhaut back in Germany, wanting to know if you're capable of murder and if so, what your motive might be. He's looking for a connection between the incidents in Rome and our problems on the first Frankenstein tour. He thinks Ike is it."

###

Somehow, Ike found it hard to breathe. "And? What did Stoffelhaut say?"

"You're lucky. You've made a friend there. He gave you a clean bill of health and Guidetti a piece of his mind." Gary's cold grey glare drilled into hers, then softened. "Fret not. It appears, even Guidetti is not convinced about a connection. He seems to be responding to pressure from up high to find a new suspect and slam-dunk Shalon's case. Should have known better after arresting the husband. No doubt, that too happened at some senior's request. Guidetti is left holding a stinking baby and must be desperate for fresh nappies."

"You use some interesting metaphors," Brigitte said, fidgetting with the sleeve of her sage-green cardigan.

"Don't I just?" Gary dug his fork into the tiramisu and broke off a large piece. He didn't eat, instead dangled the fork between fingers a pianist would have been proud of. He might even play, he was that sort of person. A repressed creative.

"I wish to point out I'm a victim, not a villain. Somebody is after me. First, that tosser tries to drop Lord Byron's marble head on me. Then, Shalon gets killed while wearing my windbreaker. And today somebody tries to throw me down those stairs. And you said yourself those ladies wanted to talk to me. Somebody's got me in the cross-hairs, and I resent that."

With a shudder, Ike remembered the sudden pain in the back of her knees, the strong arms that encircled her waistline and yanked her off her feet, pushing her towards the staircase.

Flash.

The mental picture switched towards the bundle of rags on the floor of the toilet. Discarded like a used towel. Invisible fingers closed around her throat and pressed, blocking the air flow.

"Is Guidetti aware?" Brigitte drained her cup and pinged it back onto the saucer.

Ike swatted at the images in her mind and cleared her throat. "He knows about the statue's head, the sabotage and the windbreaker, yes. He asked if I've got enemies and I said no. Apart from my ex."

Gary's eyebrows shot up, and Brigitte raised her hands, the cardigan slipping to her wrists.

"Forget it," Ike said. "Ben's not the type. Plus, he needs me alive and paying. Believe me, I would have noticed if he had been the one trying to push me down those stairs. He always douses himself in expensive aftershave. The tosser who attacked me didn't smell of anything. Anyway, coming back to Guidetti I don't get how he can add up two and two and end up with me as a killer."

Gary, his eyebrows back in place, pushed a forkful of tiramisu into his mouth and chewed pensively. He swallowed. "Told you already. Adrian thinks he's under pressure and has to go through the motions. Plus, there are too many puzzle pieces and no connection between them. Just like last time. Just like Stoffelhaut, the guy has a good track record of solving his cases. Police officers these days are  all overloaded, underpaid and shat upon from great heights, but that doesn't mean they're bad at what they do."

"By going through the motions, as you say, they waste time," Brigitte pointed out and refilled her cup. "In the meantime, we've got a killer coming after us. If you ask me, Ike is not the only target. Otherwise, that cochon wouldn't have bothered with the coach."

Ike's hands twitched towards the flask, it took an effort to direct towards the bottle of water. Much better for the dryness parching her throat.

Gary licked his fork, but his mind seemed to have buzzed off at warp speed once more. A glitter in his eyes and he was back. "Got to be two parties with different motives. The women have an interest in Ike. That much we know. And they want the scroll. Not sure what role they play in the attacks."

"Whoever grabbed me had muscular arms and was incredibly strong. I'm no pushover, believe me, but I had no chance. Strangling a person also takes physical strength. My bet is on a man. And don't give me Ben. He's unfit, a floppy noodle."

Gary's mouth twitched, but mercifully he refrained from commenting. Better for his health. She caught a responsive twitch tugging at her face muscles; it released the tautness that clamped her body in a vice.

"Guidetti needs to know this," Brigitte said.

"Yes, and he will," Gary responded. "But it will be easier to throw the chappie off Ike's scent if we present him with a more complete picture. Plus some evidence into the bargain. Faster that way."

Brigitte tapped her nails on the top of the table. "Unfortunately, the picture is far from complete. And we're missing both evidence and motive. The attack on Ike is pretty concrete, so I wouldn't waste any more time. Let the pros do their job."

"He won't believe me," Ike said. "I don't fancy an extended stay in goal. You're both right. We need to give him something proper to sink his teeth into. However, what we have at the moment are unrelated incidents that don't gel. With the sabotage, I thought they were after LiteraTours. I'm no longer sure about that. It's all so weird. A cancelled dinner. Three ladies wanting to chat me up. Lord Byron's head. The brakes of the coach. Finally, there's Shalon. And the attack on me. I would say whoever is behind this, and it might well be two teams, is escalating."

A Gallic shrug from Brigitte. "I still think we should call that copper. What if we visit Cinecittà and talk to the film crew? If nothing comes out of that, we call Guidetti. There isn't much more we can do."

Gary looked at his empty wrist and scowled. "Blast. I'll need a new watch. Fine, let's visit the studios. I'll also leave a message for Adrian, perhaps he can work out a clever way of informing Guidetti about the attack without causing problems for Ike. As to motives, we might be facing a mixed combo of villains with equally mixed motives. If it is Ike and not the company one or more of them are after, she will need protection. Pronto."

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.