Triple Trouble (part 10)

In the sitting room…

Amanda Jones pulled back the sheet that had been covering most the painting. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She just had to see if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Sure enough it was the missing painting. Seeing it up close and uncovered made her heart race. It wasn’t because it was a magnificent piece of art. Of that there was no question. But Amanda had seen it dozens of times before, hanging in “Student Conference Room B” on the second floor of the Library. What got her pulse fleeting was that she was without a doubt in the presence of a crime, a very real, irrefutable crime.

Having lost track of time during her snooping, Amanda glanced at her watch to make sure she was still on schedule and her blue eyes nearly bulged out of her head. When she had checked the old grandfather clock, it had said 3:49pm. But her watch now read 4:52pm! There was no way that she had lost so much track of time. Amanda cursed herself for not checking her watch earlier. The dusty grandfather clock in the foyer must work about as well as it looks. By now, Ciara and Dawn would have long since found the evidence they had been trusted with finding. At this point, Amanda was just increasing her risk at having her cover blown by each passing second.

As if to remind her of the fact, the sound of distant clicking heels could be heard coming back toward the foyer. Amanda’s heart rate maintained its sprint while she navigated her slender waist and curved hips around many teetering stacks of things where she discovered the stolen painting. She had to get back to the foyer before she got caught suspiciously wandering. The twisting dance of balance and careful steps in her silver flats carried Amanda back to the foyer where she brushed feverishly at her hair, smoothing out her clothes, and trying overtly hard to look LESS guilty.

“My dear, you look flushed!” said Carla as she returned with a tray of two steaming teacups.

“Do I?” Amanda replied in breath not yet caught, and a voice too cracked.

Almost immediately Carla glanced at the side room from which Amanda had just emerged from, her narrowed eyes scanning as if to see if everything was as she had left it. Her gaze seemed to linger for a moment on a painting covered by a yellowing sheet. Carla pondered if this mysterious Victoria Reynolds had discovered something she should not have, and not covered her silver little tracks well enough.

Amanda seemed to get a pretty good idea of what Carla was thinking and she piped up. “Boy, look at the time! I should really be going!” she said with too much theatrics looking at her watch.

By then, Carla had remastered her composure. “Nonsense, dear. I’ve just finished the tea, and it’s looking to be marvelous today. I would be offended if you didn’t stay,” she smiled a smile that effectively gave off little or no warmth in its reptilian nature. Amanda pondered her options. She did not want to offend Carla. And the woman was alarming in her persuasion. This was certainly augmented by the looming nature of Carla’s stature. Amanda turned and looked back at the door, then back toward the tea tray in her hostess’s hands. The hawkish glare was upon her.

“Maybe I could stay for a quick cup,” she answered sheepishly, feeling her cheeks betray her with more flush. She justified her yield with the thought that Ciara and Dawn probably needed more time anyway. This allowed her to shield the fact that she was just too intimidated by Carla to say no. The case was quickly starting to stray further from the plan by the minute. Amanda wondered how much longer she could believably maintain her story about the innocent high school girl out collecting donations, before Carla caught her in a lie.

“That’s a good girl,” smiled Carla, again with that unsettling smile, as she handed Amanda a cup of tea. The cup of tea that Dawn Meadows failed to warn Amanda about. Carla placed the tray on a small table, while taking a sip of her own tea. Her expectant gaze held her guest’s face prisoner. Holding her tiny cup and saucer, Amanda peered into the other room, where the stolen painting sat. She looked away just as quickly, internally berating herself for such a telltale sign of nervousness. This she followed by quickly taking a sip of tea, startling herself by how hot it was. Again, internally she scolded herself for looking like such a fool.

Her carefully planned sleuthing exterior was coming unraveled, and she could not shake the feeling of being small in Carla’s ever-present loom. The older woman’s hulking and sinewy form made Amanda’s clothes feel smaller than they already were; hotter and itchier. She felt like a little schoolgirl in the authoritative presence of the head mistress. She could not figure out how to stand, how to hide her anxiousness.

“Now then,” Carla started, as Amanda began drinking her tea, “why don’t you tell me a little bit more about your interest in art history, Miss Reynolds?”

“My interest?” Amanda replied more startled and confused than appropriate to such an innocent question. She turned and looked at the door. It looked further away than it had previously. Strange. “Well, my parents always instilled me with a healthy interest I suppose…” Amanda figured a little truth in her fiction was the best way to maintain the integrity of her cover. She prattled on in her personal story.

“My that explains a lot. Do you often spend a lot of time at the Library?” inquired Carla. That was where she had seen this little brat before. They had bumped into each other at the library when she had been carrying some books. Had this little sleuth been spying on her?

“The Library? Did I say that?” Amanda couldn’t remember mentioning that particularly incriminating detail. Why would she reveal to Carla that she spends lots of time at the Library? She needed to be careful that she did not say too much or else Carla might get suspicious. Shaking her head of some cobwebs, she noticed that Carla was eyeing her in a new light, an unnerving one. She glanced around Carla’s muscular shoulders to get a peek at the old grandfather clock. The ‘ticks’ were not lining up with the ‘tocks.’ Hmm, that’s strange, Amanda thought. Oh, what did it matter? The clock wasn’t telling the correct time anyways! Boy it was starting to get very warm in the foyer.

Carla continued sharing some of her own stories with Amanda. As many of those in her previous profession, she was theatrical with her gestures. Her hands moved to and fro, the tea always nearly spilling, but never quite. Amanda did her best to keep up, making a game out of trying to watch the swaying tea cup, always sure that it was about to spill. She touched her face, certainly it could not still be flushed, but it felt so hot. She hoped that Carla could not tell that she was beginning to act funny!

“What did you say your name was again… Miss…?” Carla asked. Amanda was not sure how many times she had asked the question, or how long she had been awaiting a response.

“Amanda Jones, I’m a senior at Ivy Ridge Academy Prep,” blurted Amanda, not realizing the slurring slip up in her cover story, or if she had even put the words in the correct order. Her eyelids fluttered. That’s strange. I really need to focus here. I need to stop my fidgeting or Carla is going to notice! Thought Amanda. An unexpected smashing sound caused her to hop step in her silver flats. Keep it under control Amanda! Again she internally scolded herself.

“Miss… Jones, would you like some more tea?” Carla asked with a new look in her eyes. Amanda wondered why this woman was talking so slowly. And why was she using her real name? Her cover story was Victoria Reynolds, senior at Ivy Ridge Academy Prep.

“Oh, no thank…” Amanda began her best mannered response indicating that she already had a cup, when she noticed through fluttering eyelids that her slender hand was indeed empty. Lazily, she glanced down and saw through changing qualities of clarity, the smashed remains of her cup on the ground. Instinct told her to sneak out before she was caught for making such a mess. As she turned her weight on her silver flats to head for the door, she felt her knees abandon their responsibilities. A wave of adrenaline kicked in and got things under control. It was enough to keep her standing, and jolt her mind.

Amanda took a deep breath and tried to gather herself so as not to let on that she was feeling woozy. Aside from dropping her tea, she was feeling a disorienting loss of control in her body, and her mouth was saying things that she shouldn’t. It was not prudent to her cover, and abandoned the entire plan of the investigation from the outset. Why was her mouth so dry, tongue so heavy?

“Miss Jones, you don’t look well…” Carla let the sentence taper off as if to indicate there was more to be said. How did Carla know my real name? Amanda thought. Coherent thought was in short supply. The adrenaline was wearing off, and with it, Amanda’s knees were quitting again. They bent slightly and her body was calling it a day. Her mind spent all faculties on using the rest of her leg muscles to hold up her drooping body. Amanda let out a pathetic little whimper as she fought to maintain control of her body, but her mind was spending too much with too little return.

Her smoky eyelids were now remaining closed longer than open as she felt everything fading into the background of shadow. Carla stepped in close and the proximity was immediately claustrophobic. Amanda had to tilt her head back to look up into Carla's eyes. The angle was disconcerting to her dizzying disorientation. Amanda’s legs turned to jelly. As she dropped, Carla's strong and reassuring arms caught her. She felt her face resting against Carla's soft breast while a groan spilled forth from her fluttering lips. It was as if she wanted to say something, ask what was happening to her, ask to go home, ask for help.

"There, there, dear. You are going to be just fine," Carla's words were strangely soothing as she held Amanda's failing body up. Amanda’s arms hung limply at her sides, her stocking clad legs useless, with knees slightly bent, and feet turned inward. She had clumsily collapsed into Carla's waiting arms, the soles of her silver flats facing upward.

Amanda was too far-gone to put it all together. Her faculties had abandoned her. She felt Carla lower her down to her knees, the carpet soft under the near nakedness of her 15-denier pantyhose. Amanda's long legs obediently folded as she was lowered onto her plaid skirted bottom, and then gently down upon her back. In her fluttering blue eyes she remembered seeing Carla’s heeled feet, then her vision twisted and spun into a velvety blanket of smothered warmth.

Carla looked down on the fallen girl. Her arms were splayed above her head, pulling the grey sweater up from her waist, and revealing a sensually flat tummy. Just a brief glimpse was enough to know her skin was impossibly soft and flawless. The tiny brown plaid skirt draped across her hips, barely covering the poor girl’s modesty. Her long legs dressed in delicately thin barely black pantyhose were bent sideways at the knees from her wobbling collapse. The little silver flats that valiantly tried to turn and run when the girl realized that she was losing her faculties, were still upon her dainty feet, unable to escape. Her head was turned to the side. Wisps of silky brown hair framed delicate soft cheeks while her mouth drooped open in defeat.

“Don’t go anywhere, Miss Jones… I have a rodent to deal with,” murmured Carla as she looked down upon the failed little sleuth.