When Poppy's grandfather dies, her father inherits his childhood home in Happy Springs, New Hampshire. He decides to take his three daughters from England on their first trip to the land of his birth to fix up the house as a potential summer home and give Poppy a break from some problems she's been having. He says it's an old house that just needs a little work to restore it back to its full glory. It's going to be fun fixing it up. Poppy isn't so sure...

 

Chapter 6 -"Living in America"

*Rosenberg’s View*

I hate fucking mathletes.

Back when I joined the Bureau if you wanted to be a Special Agent all you needed to have was a solid college degree, aptitude and the ability to go all ‘Gang Busters’ on the bad guys when required. Sure, we had the nerds who would do the paperwork and forensic stuff but in the field it wasn’t book smarts that won the day it was street smarts. A Special Agent needed… well I was going to be all pc there an’ say ‘grit’ but let’s be blunt, what a Special Agent needed was balls.

So you can imagine my joy that after 27 years on the job when I should be the Special Agent-in-Charge, I’m being told to pick up the coffee and doughnuts. Me, an experienced field agent, was told to get the coffee and doughnuts instead of that wet behind the ears Johnny Utah wannabe, Augustine. Un-fucking-believable. At least I can live in hope he’ll jump out of a plane without a parachute sometime soon.

I nod to Agent Atkins to buzz me through into the industrial unit we’re renting. I like Atkins, he’s a good kid. He’s an old style agent; he played some college ball while getting a degree in criminology and in his five years since Quantico had built up a good reputation as a stand-up guy. Plus he drinks his coffee as God and J Edgar intended a Bureau man too — black, no sugar. Unlike that mochafrappamacchiachino fruity shit the mathlete drinks. Hell, you could stick a little paper umbrella in one of those and it wouldn’t be out of place it’s that not coffee.

Passing through the reception façade full of posters for our cover operation and the books we’re supposedly wholesaling, I dump the doughnuts and coffees on a shrink wrapped pallet of J Edgar Hoover biographys that we’ve been using as an impromptu snack counter. At least having to get the snacks meant I got the doughnuts that I wanted, though that was only a tiny consolation. Grabbing my own doughnut and coffee I take a seat at my desk facing the operations board while the others grab their own stuff and get seated. Like any good SAIC, Special Agent Soto likes us to have regular updates though this morning is a special one given we have the full team in, including the two junior G-Men.

Yeah, junior G-Men, technically New Agent Trainees as they haven’t graduated Quantico. They aren’t even 23, the minimum age for entering the Bureau. Some pen pushing moron in Washington thought it would be good to establish a ‘Future Agent’ programme to fast track the so-called best and brightest through the system at an earlier age. All they had to be was over 18 and have a college degree. Williamson is 20 and got her first degree while still in a training bra, while the mathlete is 19 and got his first degree before he started shaving. Knowing my luck they’ll probably both make SAIC before I retire.

I’m honestly not sure which of the two I hate most, the hacker mathlete Augustine or the preppy co-ed Williamson. Scratch that, I do know which one I hate the most. I have to put up with Augustine’s pretty boy face every day where as I only get to see Williamson a couple of times a week. Hell, all the time she wears that tight skirt we’re copacetic. *Huh* What do ya know? Absence does make the heart grow fonder.

Logging onto the network I try and tune out the incessant prattle from Williamson and Augustine about MTV or Jersey Shore or whatever the fuck it is that those kids talk about. In background I see SAIC Soto starting to write up today’s updates on the board but what has most of my attention is the email from the London police with the background information I asked for on the Haas’s. Most of it is the usual inconsequential crap but attached to it is a folder marked ‘Poppy Ashley Haas (Jacob Willem Haas III)’. Opening it up, there’s a case report also attached relating to the murder of some kid called ‘Arundel, E’ but that’s largely incidental compared to the biographical information on the Haas girl. Well, I say girl but this file says a whole something different. I can feel a laugh building in my belly that I fight to keep down. So this is the kid we’re trying to get the mathlete into the panties of eh?

Leaning back in my chair, I take a sip from my coffee before tipping a nod to a confused looking Augustine. If only he knew why I’m grinning at him. If only…
 

~o~O~o~
 
*Augustine’s View*

I try to stifle a yawn as I grab my morning coffee and doughnut and take my seat at my workstation. I’d been up until late last night, well early hours of the morning really, trying to access some of the accounts of the byzantine web of company holdings that the late Jacob Haas set up. Sadly, with little luck as whoever set up their security was very good. Scratch that, they were not just good, they were very, very good. I wasn’t ready to give up yet but this was going to take a lot longer than I’d expected unless I could somehow get my hands on computer inside the corporate firewall.

I took a drink of my caramel macchiato, letting out a contended sigh and slip back in my seat. Oh sweet caramel coffee goodness how you can make my problems go away…

“Howdy thar pard’ner!”

Groaning, I looked up to see Agent Williamson perch herself on the corner of my desk.

“Not you too Anne.”

I resisted the urge to hide my face in my hands. It had become something of a running joke amongst the team to mock my fake Texan accent. No one said hello to me now other than SAIC Soto, it was all ‘howdy’. Still with Anne, I didn’t mind too much. Anne Williamson was drop dead gorgeous, smart and had a fantastic sense of humour. Is it any wonder that I found myself subconsciously sitting up straighter in her presence? When she smiled at you… well, when she smiled at you all those stories you heard about Greek nations going to war over Helen of Troy suddenly started making sense.

“My last boyfriend pulled a face like that during sex,” she said nodding towards my coffee.

I tried not to blush too much at her comment and the mental image it conjured up. I knew I was developing a serious crush on her that wasn’t professionally appropriate but that didn’t stop my heart racing at the thought of being intimate with her. Agents don’t date agents I mentally chided myself.

“Trust me, you should try the caramel macchiato. It’s just the perfect morning pick me up after being up all night.”

“Any luck?”

“No… it’s getting frustrating. I’m beginning to wonder why I’m here.”

“Well, it’s clearly not for your acting skills nerd boy.”

From anyone else that might have felt like a rebuke but with the hint of sparkling laughter in her voice I took it for the good natured teasing it was.

“Ha… ha… ha.”

“C’mon… it’s kind of funny,” she said nudging me with an elbow. “Only you would accidentally end up hitting on someone connected to the case and then panic and build yourself the worst legend ever.”

“I was only there to drop off that memory stick to you! I’m not a field agent!”

It was a stupid, stupid moment of insanity. I was waiting for the chance to meet with Anne when I’d seen two pretty English girls talking. When the cute younger one had made a joke about protecting their towels from ‘gun totting cowboys’ it struck me as funny to play to the stereotype. I’d intended to clown around a bit before coming clean and maybe try getting a date with the older girl, because trust me spending you don’t want to spend too many evenings staring at Rosenberg’s ugly mug while trying not to scream as the older agents keep telling you how much tougher it was in their day.

*sigh* It was all going well until I learnt that I was speaking to a girl called Poppy Haas, niece of Representative Haas. The same Representative Haas who just happened to be one of the principal targets. How the hell was I supposed to know she had English relatives? It wasn’t in the case notes. And it all went south quickly from there. Much like my embryonic career as an Agent would be if I screwed this up. And possibly the whole ‘Future Agent’ project.

No pressure there then.

“Hey, stop the pity party,” chided Anne, tapping my nose with her finger. “You can still spin this to your advantage. If you can get in with the Haas family you have just as good a chance as I do of finding that second set of accounts.”

“If they exist…”

“They better because no way are we getting a warrant for what we need against a sitting member of the House and a well-connected local business family otherwise. We need to find proof of the link to the Albrecht crime family and we need to find it soon. The Bureau isn’t going to fund all this for long otherwise,” said Anne, gesturing the equipment and people around us. “Besides, whether you intended to or not you’ve doubled our chances now. That’s something right?”

“I guess…”

“So buck up little buckaroo!” said Anne, lightly punching my arm. “It could be a lot worse!”

I rolled my eyes in response as I rubbed my arm. I’m fairly sure the hardest material known to man is located in the knuckles of the most petite women.

“Rosenberg seems in an oddly good mood. Someone spike his Wheaties with something this morning?”

I turned to look in Rosenberg’s direction at Anne’s comment, an impromptu shiver running down my spine as he nodded towards me with a slightly unhinged looking grin on his face.

“Yeah, worries the crap out of me.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
“Alright people, if you haven’t already grab a seat and we’ll get this started,” called Special Agent-in-Charge Soto to the room. Behind her shoulder stood a new face that I hadn’t seen before in our little family, a tall well-built man who looked to be in his late thirties. He gave the appearance of a normal agent if it wasn’t for the oddly out of place wire rimmed glasses. “This is Agent Muller from Treasury. Washington believe that he may be of help to us so I expect you all to give him a warm welcome, is that clear?”

“Is that clear?” repeated Soto in a firmer voice, eliciting a louder chorus of assent than her previous question had received. “Agent Muller, perhaps you would like to update the team on the latest information that you have?”

“Of course. Thank you Agent Soto,” he said, clearing his throat as he stepped forward out of Soto’s shadow. “And please everyone, call me George. As you may know, as part of a deal offered by a former Albrecht family employee the Bureau was provided with anecdotal information linking the Haas and de Ville families in a money laundering and bribery operation to Albrecht. Further investigation into these allegations by the Treasury Department suggest that this primarily relates to the Jacob Haas Memorial Dam public works project which employed several companies which we suspect to be fronts for the Albrecht family.”

“A project in which Representative Kathy Haas and her husband were key figures in bringing into being,” added Special Agent Soto.

“Indeed. In addition, Representative Haas has received a large number of small scale individual donations from some first time donors which has attracted the attention of the Treasury Department. We believe, though at this point cannot prove, that these payments are being made by the Albrecht family through third parties. As you may know, Representative Haas came under strong pressure during her primary from a Tea Party backed candidate and only narrowly defeated him. Since her former challenger’s announcement that he will run as an independent candidate in November for her 2nd District seat, we’ve seen a significant upswing in activity from her as she tries to build an early lead and set the tone of the campaign before any of her rivals start their campaigns in earnest. All this and preparing to fight an expected strong challenge from the Democrats has seen a significant drain on her campaign funds. A campaign that to put it bluntly, she doesn’t have the finances for without these additional donations given the impact of the recession on to her husband’s business interests.”

“If we can get traction on any of these we can build a case and get the necessary warrants to start investigating the wider Albrecht link more proactively,” said Soto. “I want you all to co-ordinate any information you have on financials through Agent Muller. It may be that he can spot something we’ve missed. Is that clear?”

I added my voice to the quiet murmur of agreement around the room.

“Good. Now, Rosenberg any joy on the background check on the latest branch of the Haas family to appear?”

“Yeah. I’ve received an update from the London police which I will compile into a briefing note for distribution through the usual channels. In brief, Jacob Willem Haas II, aged 45. He has a Batchelor’s in Agronomy from Dartmouth and a Masters and PhD from Oxford University in England. He is an internationally renowned agronomist and university lecturer in addition to being a former high school football star quarterback. He has no red flags against him from either the British or Homeland. He’s married to Alice Haas, nee Mortimer. British, aged 43 and a law graduate from Oxford. She’s a corporate lawyer but does a lot of charity and consumer protection work. Again, no red flags from Homeland or the Brits. Between them Jacob and Alice have six kids, three of which — Fleur, Poppy and Daisy are present here. The remaining three - Heath, River and Oakley — are in the UK still with their mother. The mother and sons have reservations on a British Airways flight to New York with onward connection to Manchester, NH on August 3rd.”

“Anything in there that can help you play Cyrano to Augustine’s Christian de Neuvillette?”

“Oh come on,” said Soto throwing her hands heavenwards at the sea of blank faces starring at her from around the room. “Not one liberal arts major amongst the lot of you?”

“One,” said Anne raising her hand. “Guys… like in the movie Roxanne with Steve Martin. The Haas girl is Daryl Hannah.”

“Oh, well yeah in that case. I guess there is,” replied Rosenberg, his professional face dissolving into that maddening grin again. “I can build a profile of the girl that can help him target his charms, such as they are, successfully.”

“Great. I want you, me and Augustine to sit down at the end of the day and plan our next step. Everyone else, you have your assigned duties.”
 

~o~O~o~
 
*Poppy’s View*

The best cookery is like dancing… it takes practice, it is best done in a relaxing setting and it is more fun if you do it with others. At least that’s what mum always says to us. Fleur says mum says to dad when they think we aren’t listening that the best cookery is like sex… and you can fill the rest in. I had to resort to the brain bleach to get that image of my parents out of my mind.

I guess that’s why our kitchen always felt so welcoming. Mum would create an atmosphere where it was okay if what you tried to make didn’t turn out right rather than go all Gordon Ramsey on us. I still maintain to this very day that my rhubarb muffins are an overlooked delicacy. A key part of setting that atmosphere was that whenever mum was in the kitchen she would always have music playing, whether from a battered old CD player when we were small kids or from her iPod in more recent times. I have priceless memories from when I was really young of helping mum in the kitchen along with Fleur and Heath, covered in flour and icing sugar and enjoying every moment. It’s not the same here without mum but it is still fun kicking back and clowning around with Fleur, Daisy and dad.

Fleur’s got control of the music at the moment, so we’ve got BNL’s ‘Some Fantastic’ blaring out of the small booster speakers to her iPhone. I’m not much of a BNL fan to the same degree as Fleur and mum anyway but I’m enjoying the beat to it and find myself nodding along it and the silly lyrics. In contrast Fleur, ever the exhibitionist, is dancing around the kitchen to it like she doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s good to see her just let go like this, being the old Fleur I used to know. She used to do this all the time until she turned about fifteen and then almost overnight, it stopped. I think she got so caught up in being a grown-up that she forgot that it’s okay to have fun. I missed that Fleur. The Fleur who didn’t give a crap what anyone else thought. Of course, then she started to fill out as the puberty fairy worked its magic and she became one of the pretty popular girls and started to give a crap about what everyone else said. The Fleur who was embarrassed by me… by my transition.

“Hey! No internal monologues allowed!” cried Fleur, giggling as she passed me a bowl full of mixture. “You can help dad by mixing the batter for the pancakes if you’re just going to stand there!”

“C’mon Daisy, let’s show these two how it’s done,” said Fleur, swaying over to our younger sister.

One day I’m going to work out how she manages to roll out of bed and look so good in gingham check pyjama bottoms and a simple red cami-vest. I’m wearing the same thing in green, thanks to mom’s bulk buying, and I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. I can’t help but laugh at Daisy’s little girl version of dancing which seems to involve bouncing up and down as much as anything.

“So how you doing pumpkin?” asked dad, pouring some of the first bowl of mixture into a pan.

“Okay.”

“A good okay or a bad okay?”

“Just an okay, okay.”

“Well that’s better than we’ve had for a while I guess.”

“Actually… it kinda is. It feels like forever when things were just… things. If it makes sense?”

“It does,” said dad, leaning over to kiss me on top of my head. “Small steps pumpkin, small steps.”

“It would be nice to be… normal again,” I replied, passing dad the spatula.

“Like anyone in this family is normal,” said dad with a wink.

I marvelled as with practiced art, he slid the spatula clean under the pancake and flipped it over with a flick of the wrist. Most of my attempts to make pancakes ended up in it splitting into pieces at that point or landing all curled up.

“So what plans do you have for your art given the homework that Professor Marx set you? Sculpture? Still life? Portraits? Some sort of mixed media piece?”

“Not sure,” I replied with a shrug. “Maybe try some portrait sketching? I can do a family piece maybe?”

“Ooooooooooh… you could offer to show Sexy Rexy your etchings!” squealed Fleur.

The room went silent for a moment, save for the noise of a pancake falling to the floor.

“Fleur…” I hissed between clenched teeth.

“Sexy… Rexy? Lucy you got some ‘splaining to do…” said dad, fixing me with the parental interrogation face.

“Well firstly… I don’t call him ‘Sexy Rexy’ that’s a name Fleur made up for him…”

“No she just sighs heartfeltly in the presence of prime Texan beefcake.”

“Not helping Fleur…” I hissed.

“Secondly, I’ve only met him twice and both times were with Fleur…”

“Okay… you said he’s Texan?” asked dad.

“Yeah.”

“So I won’t know his family then?”

“Well, he did say he was staying with relatives while he was here.”

“Maybe I know them then,” replied dad, scooping up the dropped pancake from the floor. “What’s his last name?”

“Stetson.”

“Let me get this straight… his name is Rex Stetson?”

“Yeah, poor kid,” added Fleur opening the pedal bin for dad to dispose of the dropped pancake. No five second rule in our kitchen. “It’s no wonder he’s so buff with that name. Prolly needed to be to stay alive at school!”

“I don’t remember any Stetson’s growing up and my father knew just about everybody in town. Maybe they moved here later?”

“Could be?” I said with a shrug.

“Okay, I’ll allow it… with conditions.”

“Allow what?”

“You seeing this Rex kid.”

“I-I-I… no, you’ve got th-“

“What conditions?” interrupted Fleur.

“One, I want to meet him before you see him again. Two, if he wins my approval no unchaperoned dates until I say so.”

“But it’s not li-“

“She agrees!” added Fleur, interrupting again.

“I… What?!?”

“Good it’s all agreed then.”

“No, wait. Dad it’s no-“

“No arguments pumpkin, we’ve agreed it and I’m not changing my mind. Now please get me some more mixture would you?”

Grabbing another bowl of mixture, I stomped over to Fleur.

“What the hell was that about?” I whisper yelled.

“It’s okay Poppy,” said Fleur, placing a hand on my arm. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“THANK YOU?!?”

“You my girl need to get out and about and have some safe fun while we’re here. A few supervised meet ups with Rex sound perfect. All with the added security of the fact that your Uncle is the local police chief. He’ll probably get tasered if he tries to cop a feel in the cinema!”

“This…THIS… is your idea of helping me?!?! I don’t know where. I don’t know when. But you are soooooo going to pay for this,” I growled.

“Bring it on little sister,” giggled Fleur. “You’re talking to a fully-fledged mistress of bitchcraft.”

I passed the bowl of mixture over to dad as the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” I announced, eager to get out of the room.

Walking back to the front door, trying to regain my temper I glanced at the outlines of old pictures still on the wall. Where we had been focussed on bringing the bedrooms up to standard for our own use, we hadn’t done much to the hallway yet. I tried to picture rows of family pictures of dad, Aunt Libby and Aunt Kathy with their parents in different sorts of family poses. Would they be shots of them clowning around or formally posed portraits? Would there be newspaper clippings from dad’s football games? If our own hallway back home was any indication it would be a mixture of all three, substituting Heath’s martial arts for dad’s football. And of course, examples of my art. Some of the smaller, personal pieces that were gifts to my parents for birthdays or various Hallmark Holidays.

I don’t know who I was expecting but on opening the door, it certainly wasn’t the visage of Lycra and spray tan before me.

“Hi sweetie,” she said, flashing her Hollywood smile as she shifted a heavily laden wicker basket in her hands. “Is your daddy home? I’m his special friend Jane. I remembered how much your daddy enjoyed my cooking when we were younger so I brought over some for him.”

Daddy? Do I look twelve? And what’s with the ‘special friend’ stuff? Talking of misjudging things, leopard skin pattern lycra tops… who in their right mind thinks they can carry that look off and not look like Peg Bundy from ‘Married with Children’?

I seriously thought about slamming the door in her face and was very close to doing so before I heard a metaphorical ‘bamf!’ over each shoulder.

“You know you want to do it,” purred sexy devil me, surprisingly rocking the red leather look. I’d have to try and remember how well I looked in a red leather corset. “And they both deserve it…”

“You know it says terrible things about you that I don’t have a rebuttal argument,” said angel me with a shrug before picking at her dress. “And next time could we try and be a bit more imaginative than this white sackcloth of a dress?”

“What can I say? The devil doesn’t just have the best tunes, he has the best clothing designers,” giggled devil me.

“You okay sweetie?” asked Jane, leaning forward to look at me and flashing a view of her buoyancy aids while doing so. “Only you seem to have the oddest look on your face.”

“I’m good thanks.”

“Atta girl!” purred devil me before disappearing in a metaphorical ‘bamf!’

“Whatever,” sighed angel me, disappearing in a similar ‘bamf!’

“Let me go get dad-dy,” I said, flashing my full set of pearly whites in a smile that would have sent most sane people running. “He’ll be right back.”

Closing the door, I found myself skipping to the kitchen.

“Fleur… there’s someone at the door for you,” I virtually sang. “Here, let me help you daddy.”

Taking the mixture bowl from Fleur, I passed it over to dad as he poured another future pancake onto the pan.

“Daddy?” asked dad, reaching out to touch my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Never better.”

“Ooo-kay,” replied dad returning his attention to the pan.

“Daddy… do we have a garden hose?”

“Uh… yeah. It’s in the garage. Why?”

“Oh… just thinking it’s a good way to end a cat fight.”

“Wait… is Fluffy in a fight?”

“Fluffy? No.”

“Then who?”

Anything further that dad might have said was drowned out by an outraged shriek from the front door. A shriek that was followed shortly by another, slightly higher pitched shriek that evoked more fear than anger.

“Poppy… what have you done?” asked dad, as he killed the heat to the pan and hurried towards the front door, closely followed by Daisy.

“Heh. It seems the pupil is now the master,” I giggled to the empty room. “I’ll get the hose.”
 
End of Chapter 6
 
 
 
Author's Note: Firstly, If you enjoyed this chapter, then your comments are always welcome and gratefully received more than you probably know. No reproduction without permission, etc. Secondly, well, it's fair to admit that a regular posting schedule is unlikely but I'm going to keep going to the end and hope that you the reader stay with me on this journey. The next chapter is very clearly formed in my mind so hopefully it will be a quicker turnaround... that being said if wishes were fishes... anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this story. Best wishes!