My parents were big deals in Washington DC, and I didn't feel like my life made sense there. So I packed it in, changed my name to Merry Wrath (my mother's way cooler maiden name), and came back home to the small town of Who's There, Iowa. My best friend, Kelly Albers, insisted we start up a Girl Scout troop, and we did. Surprisingly, many of my spy skills translated to working with a bunch of precocious little girls.
After setting the box on the dining room table, I opened it. There was a letter inside addressed to me in shaky penmanship. I set that aside and pulled away what seemed like miles of bubble wrap to uncover the urn.
It was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. And I've seen Putin, shirtless, riding a bear. No, I'm not talking about the meme of that. He really did ride on the back of a giant bear. Shirtless. I'd been tailing him and a few members of the politburo for a couple of hours walking in the Siberian countryside—something I would never recommend that anyone do because it's freezing even in summer. After making some joke I couldn't hear to flunkies who could laugh convincingly on demand, he tore off his shirt, climbed aboard a passing bear, and rode off into the sunset.
The urn was a sickly acid yellow peeking out between hundreds of tacky and fake jewels. Someone had given Aunt June a BeDazzler at some point. On the back were the words Hot to Trot in Heaven!
Who was this woman? My family had believed she was just a figment of Grandma Wrath's imagination or an invisible friend triggered by dementia. But now I'd inherited the remains of someone who, in spite of having appalling taste in afterlife containers, seemed kind of fun.
I unscrewed the lid and looked in, wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate hoax.
It wasn't. The urn was filled with a greasy-looking gray ash. I slammed the lid back on and screwed it tight, turning my attention to the envelope, which contained a letter.
Dear Finn, or Merry, or Whoever you really are,
I was impressed that she knew both of my names. As for the Whoever part—I often wondered about that myself. Spies who go through a lot of intensive identities can go a little mad when they retire. They have an identity crisis of apocalyptic proportions as they wrestle with who they really were. I knew a guy who snapped in the end and insisted on going by Spanky the Wonder Bunny in retirement.
I kept reading.
You probably don't remember me, but I'm a friend of the family. It's funny how many people think I'm their aunt when, in fact, my first name is Aunt. Strange, right?
That was one mystery solved. For years, we'd thought the woman was related. Turns out she just had a funny first name. Like Spanky.
I've taken great interest in your career, both in the CIA and in Who's There as a detective. While impressive, you really should be careful with all those dead bodies, dear. Very germy and quite unsanitary.
Yes! Someone actually thinks of me as a real detective! I might have to frame this. And she's not wrong. Dead bodies are germy. Too bad I'd never find out how she felt about cremains.
I regret that you didn't get a chance to know me, but since I have all those pet spiders, people mistakenly believe I'm quirky. I'm actually as normal as the next woman.
Pet spiders? That was pretty quirky, even for Iowa.
I will cut to the chase. If you've received this, it means that I need your help. I need you to find out who murdered me.
Okay, that's it for now! Thanks!
Love, Aunt June
I blinked and re-read the letter. Find out who murdered her? Maybe it was the spiders. And why did she write that's it for now? Did she plan to contact me from the grave? I thought about the Cult of NicoDerm, a local band of delusional teen druids who believed I was a goddess who could talk to birds. If they thought I got mail from dead people…which I guess I now kind of had…they'd never leave me alone.
My cell buzzed. I didn't recognize the number. Most people wouldn't answer the phone under those circumstances, but I didn't get many calls. Besides, maybe it had something to do with Aunt June.
"Ms. Wrath?" a stiff, masculine voice with a posh British accent asked.
"Yes, that's me," I responded. "Actually, it's Mrs. Ferguson now."
There was an irritable sigh on the other end that probably would've qualified the man for martyrdom. "This is Mr. Basil E. Hickenlooper of Hickenlooper, Hickenlooper & Hickenlooper. I am the attorney representing Miss Aunt Delilah June."
Huh. It never occurred to me that June was her last name. I'd always thought it was her first name until moments ago. And even then, I'd assumed it was a middle name.
"I just received the cremains and a letter from her," I replied. "Within the last few minutes."
"Yes," Mr. Hickenlooper said tightly. "We know."
"You do?" I ran to the window and looked out. There were no cars parked on the street and no Brit standing on the sidewalk, so I scanned the rooftops. Spies really liked rooftops. So did snipers. In fact, the CIA 101 training manual actually says If you are under threat, always avoid being within the vicinity of rooftops. It was sound advice, especially if you were in a certain, very snipey neighborhood in Bangladesh.
"Yes," the man said. "I would like to meet with you as soon as possible."
I was still studying the neighborhood. "Um, okay. Are you in Who's There?"
"Good Lord!" the man cried out. "Of course I'm
