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Melanie knew she had to get home early and get some rest. She had to be on her toes for Thursday’s soiree at Mahdi Alkali’s. Lots of foreign diplomat license plates filled the city streets, as well as the suburbs. It was curious that most people didn’t know what these diplomats did. It seemed as if they hung around embassies and ordered each other around. It was as if they existed under an impenetrable cloud. She wondered how Shannon got into the business of catering to these mysterious people. She decided she’d ask her over brunch.
She checked her desk planner. Luckily, it was a light week. There were no parent-teacher conferences, no soccer practice, no school plays. The biggest challenge was all the paperwork. She was inundated with surveys, questionnaires, and reports about sharing information with parents. She was submitting the same information over and over to different groups. Why wasn’t there a template so she didn’t have to repeat her responses? Ah, bureaucracy. Everything seemed to be a political football. She thought she had gotten away from most of it when she left the agency, but no. Bureaucracy was everywhere. Melanie sighed. She remembered her new slogan: change the world one kid at a time. Maybe when they were grown-ups, people would be kinder and more tolerant. She prayed.
The week started with a new schedule for Melanie, Cosmo, and Kramer. Up at six o’clock. Dogs go out. Melanie makes coffee and toast. Dogs come in. Dogs get fed. Dogs go out again. Melanie takes a shower and gets dressed. Dogs come in. Melanie goes to work. After work, Melanie goes home. Dogs go out. Dogs come in. Melanie fixes dinner for herself and the dogs. They watch TV. Dogs go out. Melanie goes to bed. She found the routine reassuring. At least until Thursday.
Then the day came. The morning routine was normal, although she had a bit of the jitters. Decaf. It had been several years since she was in action. The past two years, she’d been in graduate school, and before that, she was doing desk duty. She took a few meditative breaths and continued on the day’s path.
The morning at school was the usual. Good morning, behave, etc. She kept checking her watch, the hall clock, and the timepiece on her desk. The minutes were moving at a snail’s pace. She couldn’t phone Patterson or Gilmour with any questions. Going forward, everything except her surveillance device was on paper.
When the final bell rang, she jumped from her seat. Partly from nerves, and partly to get this mission moving. She arrived home by four. The dogs were now greeting her at the door, always sitting at attention. “Smart fellas. Didn’t take you long to figure out I was your new mommy, eh?” Their tales pounded a rhumba rhythm on the floor. “Come on.” She entered the kitchen and let the dogs out.
She showered and dried her hair, and wrapped it in a skullcap. Next came the makeup. She started with a heavy concealer for her scar. A porcelain foundation to contrast with the black dress. Her eyeshadow was dramatic, with black eyeliner circling the deep blue contact lenses, finished off with dark eyebrows. She enhanced her cheekbones with contrasting blush. Ruby red lipstick, and a black wig. She took a long look and smiled. She barely recognized herself. She pinned the brooch in front of her sternum, the best placement for picking up her conversations. She slipped on the slingback shoes, grabbed the silk purse, and gave herself a spritz of Coco Mademoiselle. She went to the back door to let the dogs in. They stopped, sniffed, and tilted their heads. “No, Mommy doesn’t smell the same or look the same. But I can assure you it’s me.” She held the door open, and they obediently went inside. They knew their dinner was waiting, regardless of who this strange woman was.
At five thirty, a black town car pulled into her driveway. She looked at the dogs. “Okay, my canine pals, it’s showtime!”
Melanie had read somewhere that rich people rarely wore coats because they were chauffeured everywhere, never having to stand in the cold.
The driver greeted her at the front door. “Good evening, Ms. Carlyle. My name is James Collier.” He was carrying a gorgeous silk and cashmere wrap. “In case you get a chill.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t help noticing the tag on the shawl: Brunello Cucinelli. There goes another 1800 dollars. This one I’m keeping. She checked her handbag for the fifth time to be sure she had everything.
It took about forty minutes to reach the diplomat’s residence. There were well over a dozen black town cars, limousines, and SUVs double-parked, most with diplomat plates. All had dark tinted windows. Melanie could tell which vehicles were police by the configuration of the headlights.
James came around and opened her door. “You may leave your wrap with me if you so choose.” He had a slight accent. UK? New Zealand? She didn’t and couldn’t ask. No small talk.
“Thank you, James.” Melanie snickered to herself, wondering if that were his real name.
“According to the schedule, I am to pick you up in two hours, unless you need me here sooner.” He handed her a small device, the size of a flash drive. “Just press this button and I’ll be outside.”
“Thank you.” Melanie, now known as Sylvia Carlyle, showed the security staff her invitation and her identification.
“Good evening, Ms. Carlyle. Enjoy the exhibit.” The man had a Mediterranean accent. Possibly Albanian.
Melanie Drake, aka Sylvia Carlyle, gracefully and confidently climbed the marble steps as if she was supposed to be there. Another gentleman in a black suit, black turtleneck, and an obvious earpiece opened the door for her. She showed him the invitation, as well. “Enjoy the evening.” Definitely Albanian. Melanie was well aware the Albanian mafia was active all over the world, including the Middle East. It came as no surprise the agency had their eye on Mr. Mahdi Alkali.
Melanie entered the main living room and was handed a cocktail. Something exotic, she assumed. All heads turned as she passed through the crowd. She had an air of assurance, and beauty to match. She sidled up to Mr. Alkali and extended her hand.
“And who is this wonderful work of art?” he said as he kissed the back of her hand.
Smarmy. “Good evening. I’m Sylvia Carlyle. I appreciate your allowing me to view Mr. Bayard’s work.”
He gave her a curious look. Melanie knew she had to explain her presence. “I’m the curator for Mr. Poulos, the Greek shipping magnate. He is interested in Pierre’s work. I know none of the work here is for sale, but Mr. Poulos asked if I could review it for him, so he could, perhaps, have something commissioned. I trust I am not intruding.” She focused her steely blue eyes on his.
“No, not at all. You bring more beauty to this affair. Please, follow me. I’ll give you a personal tour.” They crossed through the foyer, and a guard unhooked the red velvet rope.
Melanie couldn’t believe how easily she was accepted as Alkali showed her to the large room that held the exhibit. She surmised dressing well, smelling good, and flirting could take a girl a long way.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Poulos?” he asked.
“Just a few months. I was studying abroad when I met him. He wanted someone to cover up-and-coming artists in the States.”
“Tell me more about Mr. Bayard. How did you discover him?” She peered at one of the paintings. The plaque said MORNING’S BRIGHTNESS, but it was a very bad imitation of Jackson Pollock, who had absolutely no brightness in his work or his life. Bayard’s piece was orange and red splatter. Melanie thought some of the kids in her school could do a better job finger painting. She murmured, “Interesting,” a polite way of saying “I don’t get it.”
“Yes. I think all of his work is interesting.” He emphasized the word as if he knew she was mocking it.
Trying to regroup, Melanie moved to another piece that showed more promise. This one was called MIDNIGHT’S DARKNESS, an apt description of the dark streaks of blue, gray, and black. “Now this one speaks to me.” She stepped back to get a different perspective.
“Ah. That is one of my favorites.” Alkali seemed pleased.
