The Hunger Pains (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 2) Read online

  The Hunger Pains

  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

  From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from EAT, PRAY, DIE

  THE HUNGER PAINS 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

  ISBN: 978 0 9945756 2 3

  www.chelseafieldauthor.com

  For my greyhound, Asha.

  The least doglike dog I know.

  1

  No way was I going to let them win. I sucked in a deep breath and fought the denim fabric straining against my hips. With white-knuckled fingers and the power of positive thinking, I managed to do up the top button. Aha!

  I straightened to survey myself in the mirror and got a glimpse of short copper-brown hair, blue eyes, and an oxygen-starved face before the aforementioned button launched itself free of my jeans and rolled under the bed. My housemate’s cat, Meow, who had been fast asleep on my pillow, dived after it like it was a cockroach. Her favorite prey.

  Jeans: one. Izzy: zero. I stripped them off and left them discarded on the floor in disgust. My client, Earnest, sat in front of his computer all day eating snack food, which meant I sat around all day eating the same. His metabolism allowed him to get away with it. Mine, not so much. Three months in, that button was a message. A message I didn’t have time for right now. I was running late, and while Earnest Dunst was in some ways the most easygoing client in the world, he didn’t deal well with a disrupted routine.

  My phone buzzed with an alert.

  That outfit is perfect. You look wonderful. Now hurry up and leave.

  I looked down at myself and snorted. I was wearing a pair of hipster briefs that had once been red, a white sports bra, and gray socks that had a hole in each heel. Not the best outfit for fighting my way through Los Angeles’s morning traffic.

  After I’d arrived late a couple of times, Earnest, in his infinite geekiness, had designed a phone app to help me be on time. It sent motivational text messages until my phone’s GPS proved I’d left the house. The texts were selected by some algorithm that meant I never had the same sequence twice. Almost all of them made me laugh. None of them made me on time.

  I snatched a pair of black sweats off the floor. They were more presentable than most, with a slim fit that could pass for real pants if no one looked too closely. They also had an elastic waistband. And were covered in Meow’s hair. I threw my legs into them, pulled on a loose-fitting top to cover my extra pounds and the telltale drawstrings, then grabbed my phone, bag, and keys.

  My phone told me I should’ve left four minutes ago. Not long by most people’s standards, but time stretches differently for anxious, routine-reliant agoraphobics. Still, I couldn’t resist reaching under the bed for the button and sending it spinning across the room for Meow.

  She pounced, and my phone buzzed.

  Your teeth are like a flock of newly shorn sheep (that’s a Bible verse I read once. I think it’s supposed to be a compliment). The point is you can skip brushing them this morning.

  I ran out to the kitchen and started transferring the white-chocolate-and-raspberry muffins from the cooling rack into a container. My phone rang, and I answered without looking at the number. “Hello?”

  “Izzy, I’m glad you picked up.” It was Etta, my septuagenarian neighbor who far surpassed me in both style and sexual conquests. Not that either was hard to do. “You like me, right?”

  “Uh, yes. Of course.” No one would call Etta insecure. Something was up.

  “And you owe me since you had that last adventure without me.”

  “You mean the adventure where I got shot?” My weight gain had started when I was forced into a sedentary routine after a bullet ripped through my leg. No one had forced me to eat all the cookies though.

  “That’s the one.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need your help moving a body.”

  Oh boy. I so did not have time for this. I stuffed the last muffin in the container and unlocked the deadbolt and chain on the front door. A small layer of safety I’d added to the apartment after an unwanted guest broke in. Twice. “Where are you?”

  “At the bottom of the stairs.”

  Our 1960s concrete box of a three-story apartment building in Palms, Los Angeles, shared the external set of stairs I was standing on. So I could’ve leaned over the railing and looked, but I wasn’t quite ready to face it.

  Instead, I locked the door behind me. Christmas was just nine days away, and my housemate, Oliver, had eschewed the traditional wreath and stuck up a poster. It said Merry Chrismyass and featured a picture of Santa bending over to bare his second set of rosy cheeks.

  I sniggered as I did every time I saw it, then asked Etta the question I’d been avoiding. “Is this body dead or alive?”

  “Alive.”

  The giant corkscrew in my shoulders unwound a few rotations. “I’ll be right there.” I disconnected and glanced at the last message from Earnest.

  Don’t mind me. I don’t need any sustenance this morning because I’m a robot.

  Shaking my head, I hurled myself down the two flights of steps as fast as I could manage and found Etta leaning on the banister like she was posing for a fashion shoot. Her soft white hair was down today, falling around her face in loose curls, and her oversized white silk shirt echoed the effect. Charcoal wool leggings, nude leather ankle boots, and a string of pearls completed the outfit. She might have looked like a benevolent angel but for her blue eyes and bony figure that were both a touch too sharp.

  That and the cigarette dangling from her fingers.

  At her feet, a large, skinny dog was stretched out flat on its side on the sidewalk. He was sleek black except for a stripe on his nose, three white paws, and a smudge of gray on his muzzle.

  “Is that a greyhound?” I asked.

  “Yes. Izzy, meet Dudley. My new gentleman companion. He’s an early Christmas present to myself.”

  With Christmas right around the corner, reminders of the season were everywhere. From billboards, radio, and TV ads shouting about this year’s attractions, to the explosion of twinkle lights, ice-skating rinks, and fat men in red suits that had taken over the city. Of course, in California the skating rinks were artificially frozen, and any snow was made of styrofoam. Even so, the weather was turning cold by LA standards, and it would be my first wintry Christmas.

  Back home in Adelaide, Australia, the holiday was a shorts and flip-flops affair in 104 degrees. We still ate roast turkey; we just washed it down with ice cream.

  Dudley barely reacted to my breakneck arrival. He stared up at me with big brow
n eyes and flopped his tail once against the concrete.

  “Is Dudley okay?”

  Etta nudged him with her boot. “He’s fine. It’s only that he’s never seen stairs before and is feeling a little overwhelmed.”

  I squatted down to pet him. He sniffed me inquisitively and gave another lazy tail wag. “How can I help?”

  “I was hoping you could carry him. I’ll teach him how to use the stairs soon, but he’s never seen anything besides his cage and a racetrack, so today I want to get him inside and let him relax.”

  I considered Dudley, who had yet to lift his head from its hard pillow. “He looks pretty relaxed to me.” Then I noticed again how large he was. About the size of a full-grown deer. And a similar shape, come to think of it. “Wait. You want me to carry him up the stairs? How much does he weigh?”

  “Eighty pounds.”

  Well. It was a lot, but it was also a lot less than me. I sent a quick text to Earnest saying I was going to be late and looked again at Dudley. I’d just been thinking how I needed to burn some excess calories. Why not start now with some strength exercises?

  “Can you get him to stand up?” Weight loss or not, there was no way I could peel eighty pounds off the concrete.

  Etta patted her leg. One of Dudley’s ears pricked forward, but nothing else moved. “Come on, you can do it.” She took a few steps backward, and he heaved himself to his feet. “Good boy!”

  Revising the manual handling procedures I’d learned to move large trays of bakery products in my former life, I put my arms around Dudley’s chest and hind legs, braced my back, and stood up. With his body tucked against mine, I told myself it wasn’t that bad and started up the stairs.

  Dudley stayed as motionless as a statue, which was a great help, but by the time I reached the first landing, my legs were shaking. I might’ve put him down for a rest if I hadn’t been unsure whether I’d be able to pick him up again. I leaned against the rail for a second to catch my breath.

  Etta looked at my trembling limbs. “You know, if you’d stayed together with Connor, he would’ve carried Dudley up like it was nothing.”

  She wasn’t ready to forgive me for “breaking up” with Connor. My former client. He was the kind of man who made a woman hot and bothered in both senses of the words, and our relationship had been fake from day one, but Etta didn’t know that. In fact, it was part of my job to ensure she never knew that. The joys of working undercover.

  “That’s very helpful, thanks.” I panted.

  “Just saying.”

  “Speaking of how heavy Dudley is, isn’t he rather large for your small apartment?”

  “Nope. Greyhounds make great apartment dogs.”

  “Don’t they, uh, like to run?” Not that Dudley had shown any sign of it. I needed to run, though, if I didn’t want Earnest to have a meltdown. My phone buzzed in agreement. I lurched away from the railing and started up the last set of steps.

  “Sure, for a few minutes a day. The rest of the time they sleep or laze around. They call them forty-five-mile-per-hour couch potatoes.”

  Dudley was one heavy potato. But I couldn’t judge. I reached the second landing and plonked him down as gently as I could manage. My back twinged despite the manual handling procedures, so I took a moment to straighten up. Dudley used the opportunity to lick my nose. Then, invigorated from his nap on the concrete, he trotted off to explore the landing, tail waving like a banner of happiness.

  I felt a smile play on my lips. “Welcome home, Dudley.” Then I fished my phone out of my pocket and scanned the latest text.

  If you really hate being late, how come you’re so good at it?

  I arrived in University Park eleven minutes behind schedule. I was expecting Earnest to be upset with me, seeing as he hadn’t replied to my text. I wasn’t expecting him to be so upset that he wouldn’t answer the door.

  Or perhaps he was just engrossed in a computer game. Once, he’d been so focused that I’d managed to rearrange the whole living room behind him into a mirror image of its normal self. The look on his face when he got up for the bathroom a few hours later and saw me sipping a cup of tea on the rotated couch was worth every strained muscle.

  Now I rummaged through my bag for the spare key he’d given me. The key I’d never had to use in the two and a half months I’d been his Shade—or his undercover poison taster for those not familiar with the term.

  A siren wailed nearby, reminding me that while University Park was one of the better neighborhoods in Central LA, it had double the crime per capita of my own chosen suburb of Palms. Of course, the poisoning attempts I was paid to protect Earnest from didn’t show up in crime statistics.

  I located the key at last. Now I was thirteen minutes late.

  The tiny one-bedroom apartment was too cramped for a Christmas tree, so the place was a tinsel-free zone. “Earnest?”

  No answer. Not that it mattered. I knew exactly where I’d find him. “I’m sorry I’m late. My neighbor got this new dog and—”

  He wasn’t in front of his computer.

  I pushed away a prickle of foreboding. He was probably on the toilet.

  Figuring he wouldn’t want me to look for him in there, I went into the kitchen to set about getting breakfast ready. The cooking area was about the size of a postage stamp, with chipped cupboards painted lavender by a previous tenant and just enough counter space for a kettle and a cockroach or two. It was adequate for Earnest’s needs. Two eggs, sunny-side up on toast, and a bowl of Froot Loops. The same breakfast he had every morning.

  It’s not that he was obsessive-compulsive exactly. Agoraphobia is an anxiety disorder, and it helped him feel more safe and in control if everything was familiar and within the boundaries of a routine. Staying inside his home achieved the same thing: familiar boundaries. An environment he could control.

  Since it meant my job as his Shade consisted of hanging around his place and feeding him every now and then, I was happy to oblige. I was starting to think the Taste Society paid me too much. A hundred grand a year, and here we were, ten weeks in without a single poisoning attempt. Even better, Earnest only ever invited two other people over, so I hardly had to maintain my girlfriend cover story.

  It made paying off my crippling debt to the loan shark seem doable—not like the life sentence I’d once thought it was.

  Best client ever.

  I hummed to myself as I slid the eggs onto the toast and added salt and pepper. Then I tasted it for poison. In the mild flavors of the dish, most harmful substances would be simple to detect, but I forced myself to take my time, to be extra careful. On this job, a moment of inattentiveness could cost my client his life. A fact that had been drilled into me during training. And with Earnest’s uneventful, repetitive routine, it would be all too easy to relax.

  The food was clear, of course. Transferring the plate to the crook of my arm to make room on the teeny countertop, I poured Froot Loops and milk into a bowl and tasted those as well. The artificial flavors and sugary sweetness were harder to discern through, but I’d memorized the distinct profile of each poison by tasting them firsthand so I knew what to look for. Also clear.

  “Breakfast is ready when you are!”

  Still no answer. Maybe he had gastrointestinal issues. I would have if I’d eaten two bags of Cheetos Bolitas yesterday.

  More likely he was playing some kind of game on his phone and was lost in that special place men seem to find when they take a dump.

  I carried the plates over to the dining table and sat down, listening to the crackle of the Froot Loops, and waited. Ironic, given how much I’d rushed to get here. My mind replayed the button rolling across the floor and suggested I do some sit-ups while I waited. My sore back suggested otherwise.

  I wondered how Dudley was finding his new apartment. If his experience up until now had been limited to his cage and the racetrack, he’d have never seen carpet, or a couch, or a mirror. Or heard a vacuum cleaner run or a toilet flush. Or tasted eggs on toas
t. Or bacon. No wonder the stairs had been overwhelming. I would find all of life overwhelming without bacon.

  As a result, I have a lot of respect for Jews and Muslims.

  Six minutes later, with Earnest’s eggs cold and Froot Loops soggy, I decided special place or not, I was going to interrupt. I went into his bedroom, the door already open, and knocked on the en-suite door.

  No answer.

  “Come on, I said I was sorry.”

  No answer.

  “I’m coming in unless you say something.”

  No answer.

  He was starting to worry me now. I eased the door open slowly, giving him one last chance to look up from his phone’s screen and yell out. Nothing.

  The bathroom was empty. A flutter of fear passed through my stomach. How had I managed to misplace my agoraphobic client?

  Praying I wouldn’t find him cold and motionless on the floor somewhere because I’d been so late he’d eaten without me, I searched the rest of the apartment. It didn’t take long, and it was as empty as the bathroom.

  Okay. Don’t panic. That was good, right? If he’d been poisoned, he would be here. So maybe he was out with one of his safe people. He did leave the house on very rare occasions in the presence of his mother or his best friend Jay Massey. Maybe he forgot to tell me. Unlikely, given he would’ve been worrying about it, but possible. Or maybe they’d surprised him with a last-minute outing. Then in his anxiety he might not have remembered to let me know. That was plausible.

  I dialed his number, half expecting to hear his Star Wars “Imperial March” ringtone somewhere nearby. The apartment was silent, though, and his phone went straight to voice mail. Dead battery? It wasn’t like Earnest to neglect to charge any of his technological gadgets. He treated them with the same love and tenderness as Etta had for her Glock.

  Fortunately, I’d accumulated both of his safe people’s phone numbers over the months of playing the part of his girlfriend. I dialed his mom first. “Hey, Mrs. Dunst. It’s Izzy here.”