Free A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons Page A

the businessman. He had promised that she could always depend on keeping her job at the High Commission, no matter what. Mary had taken a period of stress-related leave but had never really felt the same since losing the baby those many years ago. Even now, when she saw a woman with a big baby-filled belly, she felt empty inside. Sometimes she felt angry, but mostly she just felt empty.
    She selected a soft-tipped black pen for her purposes. The softer the tip, the less her hand ached from writing. She swallowed some coffee and continued with her task. The heavy, gold-embossed cards read,
    The High Commissioner of Canada and Mrs. Carruthers Request the Pleasure of the Company of (here was a blank to be filled in) for (another blank) on (blank) at (blank).
    Mary filled in the blanks in her elegant, flowing script. H.E. Mmutlane Mapandere and Mrs. Mapandere , she wrote in the first blank. A Christmas reception. Mary was a little surprised. She hadn’t really supposed there would be a reception this year, not under the circumstances. Tuesday, December 16, 1997. She had expected it would be canceled. But Mrs. Carruthers had told Mary yesterday to get on with it. She had spoken quite sharply, too, Mary thought. The Christmas reception, with its traditional tourtière and the colonel’s “Moose Milk,” was not, according to Mrs. Carruthers, just the most popular annual event on the diplomatic circuit. It was an obligation on the part of the High Commissioner. 7:00 to 9:00 PM , wrote Mary.
    At the bottom of the card, she drew a neat line through the embossed letters RSVP and wrote To Remind overtop. All of the guests had already been invited by phone, of course—last Monday and Tuesday, recited Mary—and the cards would be sent by hand tomorrow. Mrs. Carruthers had reminded Mary pointedly that Paul Rochon must personally check all the invitations before they went. As if Mary didn’t know that. It had been like that since the time she had messed up. Paul was always nice about it, though. H.E. Maurice La Framboise and Mme. La Framboise , wrote Mary, a Christmas reception .
    Liz had slept extremely well; the bedcovers had hardly been disturbed and some lines from her pillow were etched into her face. Her head felt clear. She had risen early and sat for a time on the edge of the bed, watching through her window for signs of life to return to the street below. She felt content here, despite the grimness of her assignment. Liz had been born in England, in Lancashire, but hadn’t been back for years. She had only been small when her family emigrated—a bit like Natalie Guévin, she realized. England hadn’t left her, though; there was something in the air, or the light, or somehow in the very texture of the place that was familiar, that made her feel comfortable, at home.
    She needed coffee and ordered a large pot with her breakfast. “One cup or two?” asked the room service voice. Liz smiled to herself, supposing it mustn’t be all that unusual for hotel guests to invite visitors to their room and have them stay for breakfast. “Just one,” she answered, then, feeling a need to explain, “I need a lot of caffeine this morning.”
    Liz had been alone for some time now. The trust had left her a long time ago, during the brief marriage, and she couldn’t honestly say that she had given anyone a serious chance since. No time, anyway. She splashed about in the bathroom for a while, and by the time she was ready, the room service waiter was at her door with a tastefully arranged tray, single carnation in a white bubble glass vase, folded newspaper, and enormous thermos of coffee.
    At 6:34 AM exactly, at least according to the hotel’s digital alarm clock, three things happened simultaneously. Liz took the first bite of her breakfast, she spotted the headline on the front page of the Times , and the phone rang. It was Hay.
    â€œYes, good morning, Hay. Yes, I’ve