Charles was the first one to stand. “All right, everyone, we shall reconvene tomorrow at noon. It will give us a ‘lunch appointment’ excuse.”
Annie agreed to contact the available sisters, and it was understood that Charles would prepare lunch, with Fergus as his able assistant. Fergus didn’t mind playing second fiddle to Charles in the kitchen. He claimed it helped him to relax. Once he had made a joke about “relaxing and Annie never being in the same sentence,” for which he had got a pinch on the ass that turned black and blue.
* * *
The following morning, before Myra checked in on Charlotte, she and Charles debated whether Charles should prepare a traditional London fry-up or bangers and mash.
Myra groaned. “Dear, we’re all going to gain ten pounds over the next two days.”
“Myra, we cannot allow our guest to wake up to an Egg McMuffin, now, can we?”
Myra chuckled at Charles’s jest. An Egg McMuffin in that house was never going to happen unless Charles prepared it himself. In his own kitchen. With his own ingredients.
Myra suggested, “How about eggs, sausage, home fries, and toast? A little more American. You can wow her with your British bangers over the weekend.”
“Only if you let me include back bacon,” Charles pretended to protest.
“If you insist.” Myra glanced at the large grandfather clock in the foyer. Seven o’clock. “If I do my math—”
Charles interrupted, intuitively knowing Myra was calculating the time in London and how much jet lag Charlotte would have endured. “It’s noon, old girl.”
She nodded. “Daylight saving time. I never understood why we had to change the clocks. Arizona doesn’t do it.”
“Because the day is long and hot enough,” Fergus chimed in as he rounded the corner from the kitchen.
“Good morning, mate!” Charles clapped him on the back. “Ready to crack some eggs?”
Fergus laughed. “Why am I thinking it’s going to end up more in line with cracking some heads?”
Charles gave him a wry grin and raised his eyebrows in agreement.
On the other side of the house, Charlotte was beginning to stir as Myra peeked into her room, with two of the dogs trailing behind and wagging their tails in anticipation of pats on the head, hugs, and ear rubs.
The shades had been drawn, and the room was cool, with the slightest bit of light filtering through. Charlotte raised her head and stretched, which signaled the pups to vault onto the bed. “Well, good morning!” she gushed. “So nice to see you, too!” She reached for Lady and rubbed her on the head. “Myra, I need to get a dog.”
Myra chuckled. “Excellent idea. But for now—if you’re ready—Charles will have breakfast on the table in about thirty minutes.”
Charlotte peeked across the room and looked in the large mirror on the opposite wall. “Oh dear Lord! I’m a mess! I can’t leave the room like this!” She was half serious.
“Nonsense. I’ll get you a headband while you put on some clothes. I made an appointment for you to get a massage, hair, manicure, and facial. I know how grueling those transatlantic flights are.”
Charlotte checked the dial on the clock. “That’s wonderful. But it’s only seven fifteen. How did you manage it at this early hour?”
Myra made a tsk-tsk sound. “Darling, must you ask? Your appointment isn’t until eleven. They will serve you a light lunch between the facial and the hair appointment.”
Charlotte rubbed her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Would I kid you?” Myra said solemnly.
“You are too good to me!” Charlotte launched herself out of bed and gave Myra a big hug.
“My pleasure, my dear. You get yourself tidied up, and I’ll bring you a headband. What color are you wearing?”
Charlotte looked around the room. “Gee, I have no idea.”
“Did you bring a tracksuit? Something comfortable?”
“That’s pretty much what I live in when I’m home.” Charlotte’s face brightened.
“Well, you should feel right at home here. So, what color are you wearing?” Myra asked again.
“Navy.”
“Righto. I’ll be back in a few.” Myra turned and was surprised that neither of the dogs moved. “They hardly ever cheat on me.” She laughed and snapped her fingers, and the dogs hoisted themselves off the bed and followed Myra to her suite to retrieve a headband for Charlotte.
Good, she thought to herself. That will give us several hours for our meeting and any other business we need to conduct today.
Chapter 9
London
Dr. Julian Marcus paced the floor of his office, perspiration streaming down his cheek. “Where the hell is that damn boy!” He was close to bellowing but caught himself. No need to alarm the nurse and receptionist. He checked his Rolex again. Damn. It had been an hour. Where the hell is he? The sound of the phone intercom made him jump so high, he almost wet his pants. More sweat ran down his face. He pulled out a crisp linen handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.
With shaking hands, he took in a deep breath to steady his voice and pressed the intercom button. “Yes, Gloria?” he politely asked the receptionist.
“It’s your coffee, sir.” Gloria made a face at Dr. Marcus’s nurse, who was standing next to her. She could never understand why the doctor did not drink the coffee in the office. It was a Nespresso, for heaven’s sake. But he insisted on a special blend that one of the Turkish cafés served.
“Send him in,” Marcus barked.
“Yes, sir.” Gloria pushed the quiet buzzer that opened the plate-glass door that led to the private office and patient rooms. She pointed to the skinny twentysomething and jerked her thumb in the direction of the doctor’s private office. “You know where to go.”
Without any acknowledgment, the pimply-faced, grubby excuse of a youth whizzed past her.
“That guy gives me the creeps,” Gloria snarled. “I wouldn’t drink a cup of coffee that bloke brought me if you gave me a hundred quid.”
The nurse nodded in agreement and shrugged, and the two of them went back to work.
Marcus tried to keep himself calm. He did not want to ruin the arrangement he had with Jerry’s employer, Francis (Franny) O’Rourke. Franny didn’t consider himself a drug dealer. He thought of himself more as a concierge. He “procured” special orders for the very rich and upwardly mobile pseudosocial elite: famous and not-so-famous musicians, artists, fashion designers, and models. He maintained a network of drug dealers. Whether it was weed, hashish, cocaine, heroin, fentanyl, opioids, or acid, Franny O’Rourke was your one-stop-shopping provider of mind-altering enhancements. He charged a “finder’s fee” of 25 percent, but it was worth it to most of his clientele. Except Marcus. The fee was rather steep, and his habit was increasing.
Marcus handed over the envelope with the cash. “Why the pressure?” he coolly asked.
“No pressure, mate. Just doin’ what I’m told.” Jerry shuffled his feet.
“I believe you have something for me?” Marcus was not in the mood for games.
“Oh yeah, that. Franny says no dice until you pay up.” The kid wiped his sniveling nose with his ragged sleeve.