Eat, Pray, Die (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Eat, Pray, Die

  Chelsea Field

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  EAT, PRAY, DIE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, poisons, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Chelsea Field

  All rights reserved.

  Published by JFP Trust

  2016 First Digital Edition

  Cover photo: James Field Photography

  ISBN: 978 0 9945756 1 6

  www.chelseafieldauthor.com

  For my husband.

  I got stupidly lucky the day you first checked out my ass.

  Thank you, for everything.

  1

  I’ve had job interviews that felt like a matter of life and death before, but this one actually was.

  The elevator shared none of my fears and shot skyward. I watched the golden numbers light up, one by one, ignoring the butterflies trying to start a dust devil in my empty stomach. In typical Los Angeles fashion, even the damn elevator was more glamorous than me.

  I patted my unruly, shoulder-length hair—a nervous habit I’d developed over twenty-nine years of experiencing it having a mind of its own. There was no mirror to check it in, so patting would have to do.

  I patted at it some more.

  The nagging fear I might be underdressed rose with every floor I passed.

  Twenty-three lit up, and the doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, reminding me of one of Aunt Alice’s disapproving sighs. Aunt Alice and her perfect children never had problems getting their hair to behave.

  I stepped out into the silent, insulated corridor and checked the note I’d written on my left palm hours earlier when my handler had called to set up the meeting. The ink had faded from four bathroom breaks in the interim, but I could just make it out: 2317. The door I needed. I walked until I found it then made sure my shaking hand gave it a firm, audible knock.

  “Come in.”

  I took a moment to steel myself. I was about to meet my first potential client. If he hired me, I would risk my life to protect him.

  If he didn’t hire me, maybe I could talk him into pushing me down the elevator shaft on the way out.

  I shouldered past the heavy door and stepped into a room that looked like it had been plucked from a European design magazine, complete with a gorgeous view through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a sleek rosewood desk that had nothing on it but the token MacBook Pro. I fought back a smirk. Where did this guy keep his stuff?

  The man in question was sitting behind the desk, surveying me with a cool expression. He looked to be in his mid- to late-thirties, but in the sexist way of the world, the lines on his face made him seem distinguished. His dark hair was a smidge past buzz-cut length and struck an incongruous note, hinting he was more practical than the office suggested. My gaze dropped from his hair down to his eyes. They were the stern gray of an overcast wintry morning—the likes of which I hadn’t seen since moving to California—and just as inexorable. The clean-shaven square jaw and broad shoulders did not soften his image.

  No, there was nothing soft about this potential client, and he didn’t look as if he needed my protection either—a notion intensified by the fact that my knees were wobbling and his weren’t. I told myself it was interview jitters and had nothing to do with the way his eyes were roaming over me.

  Or my fleeting wish that it was his hands doing the roaming.

  He did not invite me to sit, and I wondered if this was so he could gauge my competence level by my traitorous knees. I sat down anyway, lifted my chin, and put on my best impression of professional indifference.

  My fear had been warranted; I was underdressed. The conservative navy-blue dress and heels I’d chosen to make the most of the slim build, blue eyes, and pale skin I’d inherited from my mother seemed drab compared to his sharp, tailored suit. Sure, I’d inherited the dress and shoes from my mother too, but I had been hoping they were old enough to pass for vintage.

  By the time his eyes finished their roaming, his mouth had formed a hard line.

  I forced myself to meet his gaze.

  “Isobel Avery, I take it?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  He didn’t react to my Australian accent. Some Americans found it charming. My potential client wasn’t one of them.

  “What experience do you have?”

  I resisted the urge to lick my lips before answering, leaving me acutely aware of how dry they were.

  “I’ve been selected for you by the Taste Society,” I said. “That’s as much as you need to know.”

  In other words, none, zilch, nada. I’d just finished eight months of intensive training, and aside from that, I was as wet behind the ears as a newborn hippopotamus.

  This job would either be my saving grace or the final rut in a long road of potholes. If I tripped and fell, I would lie and die where I landed, and they could use the shallow depression as the beginnings of my grave—since I sure didn’t have enough money for a proper burial.

  One step at a time, I told myself. First get the job, then concentrate on whether you can pull it off.

  I stared at him, willing him to say yes.

  “You’ll have to do, I suppose,” he said.

  I let out the breath I was holding. It wasn’t the most affirming job offer I’d ever received, but desperation is a wonderful substitute for rose-tinted glasses.

  He stood up and withdrew two envelopes from his inner breast pocket. I caught a whiff of cold, biting citrus and sun-warmed leather as he handed them to me. They were toasty from being against his chest, and, for a brief second, I imagined slipping my hand under his jacket to the place they’d vacated.

  I needed to get out more.

  “The first envelope is from the Taste Society,” he said. “They asked me to give it to you if I approved you for the job. You’ll start at breakfast tomorrow. Before that, have my stylist give you a makeover.” He scanned me again. “A big one.”

  Jerk.

  He didn’t pause to let the insult sink in. “The stylist’s number and my schedule are in the other envelope.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Get a tan.”

  “Sorry, I don’t tan.” Also compliments of my redheaded mother.

  “You do if I say so, sweetheart. You’re in LA now, and I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  Ugh. Sweetheart. “No, I mean my skin goes bright red, then white again. So your options are beetroot or potato.”

  “It’s called a spray tan.”

  “I’m allergic,” I lied. He’d already given me the envelopes, and I figured it’d do him good to broaden his horizons. I
smiled sweetly. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’m gonna go ahead and live to a ripe old age as a potato.”

  I couldn’t tell if the barely perceptible shift of his eyebrows was from anger or amusement. “You chose an interesting profession for that.”

  I brushed aside his comment and headed for the exit. After all, recruitment had told me the job wouldn’t affect my chances of longevity too much, and despite rumors to the contrary, I was taking their word for it.

  I was broke, not suicidal.

  In a last-ditch effort to resuscitate my dreams of leaving a good impression, I paused at the heavy door and gave my new client a wave. “See you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t reply, but when I glanced back, I saw his contempt for my appearance hadn’t stopped his eyes from following my ass on the way out.

  Safely ensconced back in the elevator, I did a little happy dance. Then I cut it short because the glamorous, gold-numbered elevator might judge me. By the time I returned to earth—a.k.a. the ground floor—the reality of my situation had drained away my enthusiasm. Yes, I’d landed my first assignment, but it was a job I would have run from under ordinary circumstances, and I had no one to share the dubious victory with. No one I was allowed to share it with anyway.

  The elevator released me with another of Aunt Alice’s sighs, and I started across the lobby. My new career was classified, and that was all I could tell my loved ones about it, including my poor mother.

  “What are they asking you to do?” she’d asked me, a few weeks before I’d left for LA.

  “Sorry, it’s classified,” I’d told her, “but it’s nothing illegal.”

  She sipped her tea while digesting the news, the worry lines on her forehead deepening. “Is it dangerous?”

  I reached across the dining table and took her hand. I might be allowed to answer this question in a vague sort of way, but no information was better than an affirmative. “Also classified. Sorry.”

  We both sipped our tea some more. I knew the next question would be a bad one when she set her mug down.

  “Isobel, you know I’ll love you and support you in whatever you want to do, but this new job… can you at least tell me you’ll be wearing clothes while doing it?”

  “Mum! How can you even—” I pulled myself up when I saw her lips twitch. She was baiting me. “Nice try. But that’s classified too.”

  Sometimes the classified thing came in handy—“Have you met any nice men?”—but mostly it was hard. My immediate family and best friend in Australia knew only that I’d flown to LA for a secretive job opportunity. Everyone else thought I was here to get as far away from my ex-husband as was geographically possible.

  There was some truth to that version, too.

  I fought off the familiar pang of homesickness and fingered the two envelopes I’d received. I had a decision to make. The client had given his grudging approval. Now I had to read the assignment’s details and let my Taste Society handler know whether I’d take it.

  But first, churros.

  On my way in, I’d passed a food truck selling churros and promised myself I’d spring for some if the interview was a success. I rummaged through my bag for sunglasses and cash and stepped outside into the bright sunshine. The smell of freshly fried churros made my mouth water like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

  I ordered their special of eight churros for three bucks, which left me with thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents to my name. With the current exchange rate, that was equivalent to eighteen Australian dollars, so I wasn’t that broke. Plus, I had a credit card, but it was reserved for emergencies. The last thing I needed was more debt.

  Perhaps I was being overly optimistic to think I had any choice in whether I took on the assignment, but I’d consider that in a minute. Right now, I had churros to eat.

  I lifted the precious paper parcel to my nose and inhaled the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and hot oil—partly in appreciation and partly to check for harmful substances. That was what my eight months of job training had been about: memorizing the taste and smell of all known poisonous and psychoactive substances so I could detect them in food.

  Smelling nothing untoward except that the oil should have been changed a week ago, I pressed one of the churros against the tip of my tongue. Still nothing other than a slight tang that might’ve been deep fried cockroach. Happily, I took my first delicious, crunchy bite, making sure to sample it all over before swallowing.

  Eight churros and countless calories later, I licked the sugar and grease off my fingers and tried to recall where I’d left my car. Parking in Downtown LA was a competitive sport that only the mean, skilled, or lucky won. I wasn’t good at sports, and probably couldn’t be considered lucky either, so I was in for a long trek.

  On the bright side, I had some reading material for the journey.

  I broke the seal on the Taste Society envelope and pulled out the two sheets of paper within. The first page was a photo of my new client, Connor Stiles, and his stats. My estimate of his age had been dead on—he was thirty-six. He worked in “Private Security and Investigation” and had a PI license, as well as permits for firearms, tear gas, and concealed carry. No wonder he didn’t look like he needed protecting.

  He was also a millionaire, as expected. Only the rich, famous, and influential required (and could afford) the Taste Society’s special brand of services. That was the other thing I’d learned in my training—the world’s powerful elite are hiding one big, dark secret.

  Almost daily, another celebrity or political figure is in the news for doing something stupid under the influence. Sometimes they sabotage their own careers. Sometimes it’s the last thing they ever do—a fatal drug overdose. The general public take the stories at face value, as I had until a few months ago.

  Now I knew better. The climb to power and fortune is a war zone and poison the weapon of choice.

  Not that every drug-related story is a sabotage or murder attempt. The culture of recreational drug use just provides the perfect environment to get away with those that are.

  My new job was to stop them.

  I swallowed hard and tried to focus on the paper in front of me. Connor stared back, as unimpressed as he had been in the flesh. I didn’t want to speculate about what he secured and investigated to have become a millionaire. Or what he’d done to attract someone’s lethal attention.

  Instead, I flicked over to the second page. According to his Taste Society application, he wanted one of their elite food tasters—known as Shades, to those who knew of our existence—to protect him from “criminal and rival entities.” I hoped these entities only used poison, because I had nothing going for me in the surviving-physical-violence department. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been desperate enough to become a Shade in the first place.

  I forced myself to keep reading.

  Shades need a plausible reason to spend every day with a high profile figure and taste their food in public. So they’re given a cover story for each assignment, which could be personal assistant, life guru, personal fitness coach, or any other fabrication that fits with the individual needs of the client.

  My cover was to be Connor’s girlfriend. Not good.

  I flicked back to the picture of Connor’s unsmiling face. His disagreeable attitude hadn’t concerned me until now. I could handle condescending jerks. I’d perfected the suck-it-up-and-smile routine over years of customer service roles—but none of my former professions had required allowing my customers to grope me. Not that some of the customers hadn’t tried, I just hadn’t had to pretend to enjoy it.

  Maybe I should’ve taken acting lessons as part of my job training, too. Or stuck with selling sticky buns for a living.

  I rounded the last corner and spotted my new company car waiting for me by the curb. It was a beautiful, twelve-years-young silver Corvette, and a far cry from my former rusting hulk. I went to the wrong door before remembering what country I was in. While I’d been in LA for eight months, this was my first week out of the s
heltered confines of the training facility and onto the streets, and it was taking time to adjust. Hoping no one had seen my blunder, I walked casually around the car and slid onto the leather seat.

  My phone rang as I was clicking my seat belt into place. “Hello?”

  “Darling,” my mother’s soft voice floated down the line, “is now an okay time to talk?”

  “Always.”

  “I’m never sure with the time zone difference and this mysterious job of yours.”

  I looked down at my inherited dress. “If it’s any consolation, I’m wearing clothes at the moment.”

  “Yes, but how many clothes is what I want to know.”

  The smile was audible in her voice, and another wave of homesickness swept over me. “Just know I live to avoid disappointing you, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  “What a nice thing to say. Are you okay? Angling for a favor?”

  “Ha ha, very funny.”

  She was uncomfortably close to the truth. I did have one alternative to risking my life and sanity by taking on this new job—I could tell my parents. They would sell their house in a heartbeat to pay off the debt and save me from the mess of my own making.

  Which was exactly why I hadn’t told them.

  “I was just ringing because a nice man from the bank dropped by to ask about you last night,” Mum said.

  The churros turned to arsenic in my stomach. I didn’t have a bank. I didn’t have enough money to warrant one. But the loan shark operation I owed money to had a respectable lending branch as a front for their illicit activities.

  She called him a nice man, I reminded myself. He couldn’t have told her the truth.

  “He said you’d forgotten to give him your new contact details. So I gave him your number, but I didn’t have a current address for you. Have you found a place to live yet?”

  I tried to answer, but my mouth was as dry as the time I’d attempted to eat a sock on a dare. What if he’d hurt her? I knew firsthand these guys were mean.