Milo ...Messages

    By Pattie Lawler

 

            Milo sat at his desk, waiting for his customary sangfroid to return. He was alone, owing to Simon’s forethought, and was glad for it. The message on the computer screen had caused almost a solid minute of blinding rage. It had taken two agitated turns around the room before he could comfortably reread the email from Peter Reynolds.

            Simon’s friend at the 43^rd, Detective William Spencer, headed the Reynolds investigation at Simon’s request and had turned up enough dirt to warrant serious police interest. Almost immediately, Spencer’s case intersected an open FBI file. Milo stepped in, summoning his contacts within the bureau to work with the police, and the pace quickened. Everyone was now poised, waiting for Reynolds to make the next move; which arrived today in the form of an email, requesting an interview.

            “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” was Reynolds’ parting warning.

            Milo threw himself from the chair and stalked to the nearest window, hoping that the view across the farm would calm him.

            Behind him, the door opened. Surprised, he turned and saw Albany scanning the room. She spied him, smiled, and just like that, all was right with his world.

            “I’m sorry.” She closed the door but didn’t release the handle. “No one was sure where you were, and I had no hope of actually finding you. Next time, I’ll knock, I promise.”

            Smiling, he hurried forward. “I’m sorry you were worried.”        

            She shrugged, taking his proffered hand and allowed him to pull her to the window. “It wasn’t worry so much as lonely. I’m not at home yet, so I’m sort of at loose ends.”

            “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m never quite comfortable anywhere but Owswell and maybe the penthouse.”

            “What about the farm in Cornwall?”

            “We go to Scarlet Grange even less than Fairbanks. It’s livestock down there, and Mr. Parr manages them better than I ever could.”

            “And the one in New York state?”

            He shook his head.

            “Why do you keep them?”

            It was his turn to shrug. “Tax shelters. My accountants say buy property, and I do, though usually I buy hotels.”

            “Do you know how cool that is?”

            He grinned, wrapping his arms around her. “No. Tell me.”

 <0>

            They spent the rest of the morning pouring over their calendars.

            “Would you like to do something while the theater’s closed? Slip away for a week, maybe?”

            Albany looked up from the laptop. “Only if you’re involved.”

            “I might see my way clear,” he teased.

            “What did you have in mind?”

            “I’m not sure. Is there anywhere you’re dying to go?”

            She wagged her eyebrows at him, and he laughed. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

            Albany rose and moved to stand behind him. Sliding her arms down his chest, she gave him a hug, her cheek to his. “I don’t care where I am, as long as you’re there.”

            “Then, how about somewhere warm?”

            “With Milo.”

            “Somewhere close.”

            “With Milo.”

            “Like Morocco.”

            “Oo! Excellent belly dancing in Morocco!”

            “With Milo.”

            She laughed, hugging him harder. “An oversight, my love. With Milo, of course.”

            “I’m not convinced. And you’ve never told me why you took up belly dancing.” He felt her stiffen and draw back enough that he caught and held her hand.          “Albany?” He rose, turning, fearful that he had somehow hurt her. “I’m sorry. Did I—”

            “No,” she cut him off, shaking her head but avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with you. I’m sorry I reacted that way.”

            Throwing his arms around her, he pulled her close.

            “It’s just that...” Her voice was a mere whisper as she spoke against his chest. “I was beginning to think that I was completely unsexy.” She hiccupped a derisive laugh but snaked her arms around his waist, clinging to him. “They call me Widdle Wendel at the house, but originally it was Mousy Widdle Wendel. I was taken for a man as often as a woman. I felt sure...I mean I thought that if I did something...” She sniffed loudly. “There was a production of Aida being staged and an Arabic dance instructor directing the supernumeraries. I would follow along when I could. One thing led to another and I started taking classes.”

            Milo’s grip tightened and he kissed her head. “There is nothing unsexy about you, Albany. Believe me.”

            She sniffed again, pressing her head against him. “I’m so happy you think so. Very happy. And tell me, do you own a hotel in Morocco?”

            “Of course we do. It’s why I suggested it.” He laughed, kissing her again. “You’ll be amazed to learn how cheap I actually am.”

<0>

            A relaxing week later, they were back at Owswell. The engagement photo shoot was done, the pictures were in process, and Milo was anxious to make the announcement.

            “If I can’t say you’re mine for good—soon—I’m going to explode.”

            Albany laughed without looking up from her email. “Yeah. With so many men beating on my door, I’d be worried too if I were you. But you know, you’re already calling me your wife. Or at least, you told Betty I was.”

            “Did I?”

            She nodded.

            “Good for me.”

            “Milo, if you’re not careful, I’ll think you have doubts.”

            He sobered, looking up from the morning paper. “I don’t. Honest. I just want you all to myself.”

            “It’s the collector in you. Well, don’t worry. I want you just as badly; I’m just not good at showing it.”

            He smirked. “Not in public, anyway.”

            Albany laughed as well and silence descended as they resumed reading. Not five minutes later, Milo looked at Albany as she struggled to contain her giggles.

            “What?”

            “Oh.” She flapped a hand at the laptop. “I’m looking at the web stats for the page Lacey put up. People find me searching for the silliest things. I like this one, ‘Straps tits down’.”

            “That’s somewhere on your page?”

            “Apparently. Someone might have mentioned it on my guest book.” She looked up, smiling. “It’s amazing what you can find when you look.”

            Milo sat forward, his eyes locked on her face, but his thoughts clearly miles away. Albany noted his mental absence and waited for him to come back. Finally, he blinked, focusing in her. “An inspired idea, my love!” He snatched up his BlackBerry, called Joe, and then summoned Simon. When Joe connected, he asked her to wait until Simon knocked and was called in.

            “Albany has given me an idea,” he announced, placing Joe on speaker. “Cameron’s investigation has stalled, according to Jameson.” He turned to Simon, who nodded. “Well, I propose we create a web page on Tear Spells. History, bibliography, known examples, the works.”

            “Including upcoming auctions and private sales!” Albany interjected. “By tracking the web stats you can see if someone keeps checking for the final piece of the triptych!”

            Milo nodded. “It’ll take time, but it’s more than we’ve got now. And you,” he glanced at Simon, “can’t say I’m putting myself in danger as there won’t be any face time involved.”

            “I’ll think about that and let you know.”

            Chuckling, Milo looked at the phone. “What I want from you, Joe, is that forger.”

            “Elliot Diarmait.”

            Milo’s chin dropped. “Seriously?”

            “What?” Albany asked.

            “Diarmait was an eighth century scribe; he habitually signed his work.”

            “Wow. How cool would it be if they were related?”

            “Hello,” Joe drawled, “the man’s a criminal.”

            “And I mean to begin his rehabilitation as soon as possible,” Milo said.

            “What do you want me to do?”

            “Talk to MI6. I want him. We’ll get him to create a copy of Cameron’s document and make it part of the page…like bait.”

            “This is where the danger aspect rises,” Simon rumbled. Milo ignored him, but the bodyguard drove the point home. “And since you’ve already started your campaign, you might as well come clean.”

            Milo grinned, turning away. “Saw right through me, did you?”

            “Always.”

            “Well, if you hear a rumor of a recently discovered cache of Tear Spells, don’t look at me.”

            “I wouldn’t, knowing you get Lawrence to do your dirty work.”

            Albany dropped her head to hide a smirk.

            “We’ll have the basics of the site up by Friday,” Joe said briskly. “I’ll get what I need from Lawrence.”

            “I’ll work on the content,” Milo said, nodding.

            “And I’ll talk to Jameson. Let him know what you have in mind.”

            “Get Oats at the agency in on this.” Milo said. “We’ll need them for tracking the visitors to the page.”

            “I’ll include our status in your dailies,” Joe said.

            Simon turned to leave. “A cache, huh?”

            Milo grinned at his back. “Nothing exceeds like excess.”

            A quick knock on the door made Simon lean forward, pulling it open to reveal Lawrence with a large, cloth-wrapped package.

            “The proofs are here,” he announced, hurrying toward Milo. “I called Fanny.”

            “Excellent!” Milo rose and moved to sit beside Albany as Lawrence set the parcel on the table. “I assume the announcement is ready, Joe?”

            “All we need is the picture.”

            Milo slipped the leather bound book from its protective covering. Albany, joined by Lawrence and Simon, watched as he flipped open the cover.

“Wow.”

“You ain’t kiddin’.”

“You look great, Albany!”

“Thank you, though I admit I prefer my arm candy.”

“Yeah, I don’t look half bad.”

Fanny was suddenly at Milo’s side. “Wow.”

Albany laughed, leaning forward to catch her eye. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

“It’s a great picture,” Fanny declared.

“And there are about a hundred more, just like it,” Albany said. “Flee while you still have a chance.”

<0>

It was after dinner that Albany had a moment alone in the library to check her email. She had asked Lacey to track down permission to use a few songs in her final performance as a member of the troupe. Permissions secured, she hit send, forwarding her song list to both the Met’s director and her chosen conductor. She planned for three surprises, two for Milo and one for Fanny, and was worried about the logistics, costumes, and rehearsal time.

Another worry was the wedding present.

She planned on giving Milo the only gift he couldn’t possibly buy; a solo performance on CD. Finding studio time and masking it as something else was her primary concern. Lying to Milo was secondary.

The bottom line was, she wasn’t sure she could pull it off.

As if summoned by pending discomfort, Milo strode into the room, trailing Simon in his wake. He was deep in conversation, his head turned to address his companion.

“...if that’s the way Reynolds—”

“Boss.”

Milo stopped talking and looked into the room.

Albany slowly rose from behind the computer screen, her face ashen. “You were saying?”

“I’ll be in my office,” Simon announced and pulled the door closed behind him. Nothing was said for half a minute, and then Milo sighed as Albany began speaking.

“It’s my fault, really.” She gestured to the desk. “I don’t know where to go, and you’re not used to having a guest using your room. I mean...not a guest. I guess I’ll have to make my own office, and...and...” Milo hurried forward, catching her in his arms as she wiped at her damp cheeks. “This is mortifying,” she whispered.

“No. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“If I wasn’t here, Milo, Reynolds wouldn’t be in your life!”

“A small concession compared to the return on investment.”

She laughed, turning more fully into his chest and hugged him back.

“And you know what’s really wonderful?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “I know how to make you happy.”

She drew back enough to be heard. “You do?”

He released her and held his gloved hands up to where she could see them. “Would you mind taking these off?”

<0>

While en route to Heathrow Airport, Milo, Simon, Lawrence and Milo’s lawyer paused at the Erlestoke prison. A letter from HM Chief Inspector of Prisons granted them immediate access and their escort swiftly delivered them to the assigned cell.

They found Elliot Diarmait seated on his bunk, head in hands. The electronic buzz that heralded the opening of the cell door made the inmate look up. For a second Elliot’s eyes widened, and then narrowed as he sat up straight.

“Diarmait,” Milo said with a nod.

“Scarlet. What are you doing here?”

“Ensuring that you’re in my debt.” He gestured to his lawyer with a nod. “Flannigan will explain the details. I expect to see you in New York by Friday.”

Elliot’s jaw dropped and his gaze swept the gathered men, looking for the punch line of this off-color joke. He finally frowned. “What?”

“Friday,” Milo repeated, turned, and led his entourage from the prison.

Flannigan pulled open the unlocked door and stepped into the cell. “Mr. Scarlet has arranged for your removal, Mr. Diarmait, contingent upon your cooperation.”

 

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