Excerpt of Memories Are Murder by Leslie Langtry

CHAPTER ONE

My poor, unsuspecting target had no idea what I was about to unleash on him. I carefully eased up on the toggle. There was no point in giving away our position or letting him know we were watching. Hopefully the drone would maintain silence as it carried out my sinister work.

"Gotcha," I whispered as I looked at the screen. Now you can't hide. I reached for the switch that would deliver the payload. "Almost there…" I said softly.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I ignored it. Damn! My target must've heard the drone, because he looked up.

"Now!" I shouted as I hit the switch and dropped the payload. I studied the screen and shouted, "Direct hit!" I did a little endzone dance to celebrate.

"Mrs. Albers!" a voice called out. "Mrs. Wrath isn't sharing the drone!"

I re-checked the screen. Olaf the goat was gleefully eating the dog kibble that mysteriously dropped from the sky. My Scout troop was at a farm the girls had bought with their proceeds from the WHO'S THERE? BIGFOOT! merchandise. I thought it was a great time to teach them the proper way to use drones. Why? Because Betty's parents complained. Well, Betty's neighbors did anyway.

Apparently the girl was doing some massive surveillance on every house within a oneblock radius. Rex informed me two days ago that not only did she not have a license, but her neighbors might sue her parents for invasion of privacy.

"She doesn't need a license to use it recreationally," I insisted.

Rex's eyebrows went up. "Betty was monetizing this, which was not the worst part of it, by the way."

I guess blackmailing your neighbors for money probably crosses a line. Especially if word got out that Clovis Jenkins, the hard-line evangelical minister, enjoyed wearing hard-core S & M leathers as he lounged in his backyard, or that Dorinda Higgenbottom operated an illegal duck breeding operation out of her garage.

"Why did you say that wasn't the worst part?" I asked my husband.

Rex ran his fingers through his hair. "Because rumor has it she's looking into ways to weaponize it."

"Okay," I decided. "I'll talk to her."

Which had resulted in us spending the day at Sunshine Rainbow Glitter Princess Pony Farm, learning about drones and their legal use, which didn't include extorting money from religious hypocrites and duck brothels.

"Merry…" Kelly gently took the controls from my hand and passed them off to one of the Kaitlyns. "You have to let the girls try it."

"Okay," I grumbled. "It's just so fun! I mean, the technology has advanced so much!”

If I'd had something like this when I was in the CIA, I could've avoided some in-person undercover and done this from a safe distance. Spies today were so lucky. They could sit off-site and take pictures of a black bag drop miles away.

That would've come in so useful when I was undercover with Carlos the Armadillo in Colombia. Instead of following Henrietta the Hernia all the way into Medellin to see if she was reporting to the rival gang about Carlos's drug mules and getting caught along the way, I could've followed her with a drone. Even though I escaped, it would've saved me a black eye, a bruised ulna, two broken fingers, and half a tank of gasoline.

As more dog food rained down on a deliriously happy goat, I thought about the next step in this process. We were planning to talk to the girls about when they could use drones and when they couldn't. Unfortunately, other than spying on people and feeding goats, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the other options.

Kelly had made a list that included delivering gifts to shut-ins and taking pictures of a sunrise, but I wasn't buying it. And if I wasn't, then my troop wasn't either. They were too savvy for their own good. Betty had already found ways to blackmail her neighbors, and rumor had it she was thinking of adding weapons. Would she be satisfied with just doing nice things?  

Unlikely. My name is Merry Wrath Ferguson, and I used to be a spy for the CIA. I say used to be because after seven years of service, I was "accidentally" outed by the vice president as a way to get back at my senator dad. My real name is Fionnaghuala Merrygold Czrygy, but as soon as my name and face were splashed all over the media, I changed it to a combination of my middle name and my mother's maiden name and moved back to Who's There, Iowa to help my best friend Kelly start a Girl Scout troop. Oh, and I also got married to the town's detective. It seems important to mention that.

"Don't touch that button!" Betty shouted at the Kaitlyn, who looked at her curiously.

"Why not?" all four Kaitlyns asked in unison.

I had four Kaitlyn M.s in my troop, and they all looked exactly alike. After seven years, I still couldn't tell them apart. Betty had the girl guide the drone back to us—but stopped it about fifty feet away. Then she hit the button.

"You modified that with a flamethrower?" I asked as I gaped at the now burning pile of hay. "How did you get it so small?"

Kelly ran into the barn and returned with a fire extinguisher and put the flames out. She shot me a look.

"That is so bad!" I said while secretly giving Betty a thumbs-up that Kelly couldn't see. "You'll have to tell me what you did so I can make sure no one ever replicates it," I insisted.

Except me.

Perhaps reading my mind, Kelly ordered everyone into the barn for a brownie break. This was our go-to distraction tool. Everyone liked snacks. Even the Huns and Visigoths loved snack breaks.

As we filed into the barn, Kelly discreetly took the drone and handed it to me. The look on her face told me to deactivate it and that I wasn't getting any snack until I did. Grumbling as I stomped outside, I sat down at a picnic table to examine the mechanism. They'd better save me a brownie. I was starving.

I very gingerly poked around the small device, trying not to trigger it by accident. These things could be touchy. I'd seen flamethrowers embedded in toy cars, Swiss army knives, and once in a Yakuza member's pet hermit crab shell (which came as a brief and fiery surprise to Pete, the hermit crab).

The little nozzle must've receded back inside the drone. I could hit the button on the controls, but then it would burst forth, literally guns blazing. However, if I just found the right spot to pop it open without it shooting fire, I could disable it. It couldn't be that hard, right? I mean, a child installed it.

My cell buzzed. Riley's picture appeared on screen, his good looks marred by the addition of horns and a beard, drawn in sharpie. I took the call and hit the speaker.

"Hey Riley, you're on speaker and there are little girls around. FYI." I continued to prod the underside of the drone. Maybe I should take the batteries out? No, then the mechanism wouldn't work.

"Merry." Riley's voice had an edge to it. "You're with the girls?"

"Yup." My fingers slid over something, and I examined it closer. "We're teaching them the rules of the road, drone-style."

"Oh yeah? I just ordered a huge commercial drone for my private eye business."

I looked at the phone. "I should probably vet it for you, just to make sure it's safe."

He sighed. "It'll have to wait because we have a problem."

"We?" I asked as I turned my attention back to the drone. "How does this involve me?"

Riley had been my handler during my years with the CIA. He retired some years ago and followed me here, where he set up a private investigation firm. Since I tended to solve a number of his cases before he did, I was surprised that he'd actually want to include me in his problem.

"Did you hit on one of your married clients?" I continued.

The charming, drop-dead gorgeous man was his own worst enemy sometimes. "No," he said slowly. "We have a visitor. From the past."

"Well…" I found a hinge and began working it back and forth. "If it's one of the many bimbos you seduced over the course of your career, you can handle it on your own."

The mechanism was about to give! I almost had it!

"I wish it was that simple," Riley said. "Unfortunately, it's an old contact of yours."

My eyebrows went up at this news, but I kept working the mechanism.

"I've been visited by Russian spies, Chechen strongmen, and the Yakuza. Most died, some were arrested, and two of them married my twin sisters-in-law. Who's left to find me?"

"Merry," Riley snapped. "Will you take this seriously? This isn't a joke!"

Oh, this baby was about to pop. I pulled out my camping knife and slid it into the crevice to give it a little help. "Okay, fine, who is it?"

There was a pause that made me a tiny smidge nervous. "It's Teo. From your days with Carlos."

The hinge sprung and the flamethrower activated, setting the picnic table on fire. I stepped away, snatching my phone before it could burn.

"Teo? Teo the Tapir? Is here?" I squeaked.

Carlos the Armadillo gave everyone a nickname because he didn't like his. It was given to him because when afraid, he could jump three feet in the air, straight up. Like an armadillo. It didn't stop him from getting hit by my car. Or maybe that's why I hit him with my car years back.

You can kind of guess the meaning of most nicknames. Henrietta the Hernia had two bulging hernias that made it impossible for her to wear a bikini. Paco the Packrat hoarded twist ties and wine corks. Most of the nicknames were harmless. And you might think Teo the Tapir would be too. It wasn't.

"He is. And Merry," Riley added, "he's looking for you.”