Dorothy Lyle In Help: The Miracles and Millions Saga, #3

By Ella Carmichael

THE MIRACLES AND MILLIONS SAGA

Two minds, two bodies, two hearts, one soul.

Dorothy Lyle returns in her latest adventure, waiting in dreaded anticipation of the day she will leave her apartment and move into the gigantic new mansion it has taken almost a year to complete.

Deep down, she knows she was crazy to have commissioned such a bespoke eyesore, just because a random American appeared to her in a vision.  Okay, four visions.  And a dream.  Three nights in a row. 

Such a concentration of visions must surely indicate she’s on the correct path?  Right?

Refusing to express her fears, she is becoming increasingly aware that life’s challenges are unlikely to vanish just because she is rolling in cash.  She wonders how she and her trusted housekeeper would cope in a modest-sized house, without the benefit of a media centre, a glass staircase or life-sensing toilets. She suspects they would thrive, yet deep down acknowledges the simple life is no longer an option.

And as the Sick Puppy ups the nasty game of cat and mouse, only the modern-day fortress which is her new home stands between Dorothy and a terrible fate.  Perhaps the universe does know what it’s doing after all. 

Welcome to Help.

Book 3 of 10 in the Miracles and Millions Saga.

A story of joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ella Carmichael
• Release date: Jan 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386787648

Ella Carmichael

Ella Carmichael was born in Ireland a long time ago, and only toyed with writing when she was young. That changed as she grew older, and the result is the Miracles and Millions Saga.

Book preview

Dorothy Lyle

In

Help

Book 3 of:

The Miracles and Millions Saga

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A Series of Novels

By

Ella Carmichael

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Copyright © 2017

Ella Carmichael

All rights reserved

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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The wings of angels are often found

on the backs of the least likely people.

~Eric Honeycutt~

Alternative Title

Dorothy Lyle

Grudgingly Admits

that a Woman in trouble

might occasionally require

A man’s

Help.

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

Prologue

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The pool felt cooler than usual. Dorothy was confident she knew the identity of the thermostat-reducing culprit. Well aware of how futile it would be to complain about the chill factor, she resolved not to mention it. Taking into account the three miles she had run on her treadmill that morning, she was confident ten laps would suffice.

She swam to the shallow end and walked up the integrated steps, her mind idly skipping ahead to her schedule for the day. Stepping under the nearest shower, she rinsed off the worst of the chlorine. When she had blotted the excess water from her long blonde hair, she discarded the towel in a convenient hamper, and made an honest assessment of her reflection in a nearby mirror.

The swimsuit she wore was part of the Spring/Summer range from fashion designers extraordinaire, Meg & Mo. They created it with her in mind, and she had gladly agreed to test drive it and provide feedback. She critically examined the garment. On the one hand, she could not help feeling it was a tad sexy.

In all honesty, the costume was better suited to lolling seductively on the deck of a yacht in the Caribbean than it was to a casual swim in Dublin on a cold January day. On the other hand, its high-cut style made her legs appear longer, and there was no denying the aquamarine shade looked fabulous against her newly acquired tan. She tried not to dwell upon the six minutes she had spent in the solarium the previous evening, and sent her skin a silent message of apology.

When she had finished her critical review, she slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops and pulled on a lightweight robe as she walked past the glass wall separating the pool from the sauna and steam room. The lift was already waiting so she stepped inside and pressed the up arrow.

When she emerged at ground floor level, she was pleased to see it looked clean and tidy. The coffee bar was spic and span, and there were no dirty cups or damp towels lying around. Although they had recently employed extra help, it was proving a challenge for Glenda to keep the house clean. If the housekeeper should happen to venture out for a swim and find the pool house looking like a tip, there would be war.

Dorothy approached the floor-to-ceiling pillar that formed the partition between the changing rooms and relaxation area, and touched the camouflaged blue button. A cleverly concealed door popped open and revealed a tunnel. She waited until, with a soft click, followed by an even softer whirr, the lights automatically activated.

There were eight descending steps with a convenient wooden handrail running alongside them. She kept a light grasp on the rail as she made her way downwards. Most users of the leisure complex did not enjoy the experience of walking underground. The vast majority simply opened the main door and crossed the courtyard to the central part of the house.

During the preceding six weeks, she had grown accustomed to using the passageway. She quite enjoyed the few minutes of absolute silence it afforded, to say nothing of the protection from the elements. As she passed the giant tanks, the tropical residents were attracted by the light and swam towards the glass. She would usually have stopped to greet her favourite miniature sharks, but today was working to a tight schedule and her stride did not falter. The digital clock on the wall informed her she was already running ten minutes late and, with an exclamation of annoyance, she quickened her pace.

When she reached the other end of the tunnel and opened the door, she was relieved to find the basement empty. She never knew when there might be somebody hovering, either to ask her a question or simply check if she was alive and well. Even though it was a necessary evil, it could be wearing at times.

She quickly made her way past the gym and stepped into the lift that bore her straight to the first floor. Minutes later, she was safely ensconced in her own bathroom. She shed the robe and designer one-piece before entering the shower enclosure. Grabbing her shampoo, Dorothy set-to with a will, singing, Can’t Buy Me Love as she scrubbed what was left of the chlorine out of her hair.

Ablutions completed, she stepped out of the shower and enveloped her hair in a wraparound towel. She flicked on her body dryer and positioned herself in front of the jets of air. Luxuriating in the heat, she slowly rotated until she was happy not a spot of dampness remained. She spent longer than usual styling her hair and applying makeup.

She planned to meet a friend for dinner, and the other woman had the knack of looking striking without having to make much of an effort. Dorothy experienced a moment’s frustration as she pulled the brush through her hair. Thus far, she had made no progress in recruiting a stylist. The situation was starting to become highly inconvenient. Then she shrugged off the sudden negativity. Today of all days, there was nothing she could do about the absence of such a person from her life; ergo it was pointless to dwell upon it. The stylist would no doubt be along when the universe saw fit to send him or her.

When she was satisfied with her hair, Dorothy dressed in a matching set of two-tone black and grey satin underwear. Then she set about choosing a suitable outfit. On the previous evening, she had picked out a dress she deemed appropriate for the occasion.

Alas, overnight, the Irish winter had returned like a persistent and violent ex-lover. On this freezing cold January morning, she was reluctant to wear anything even remotely spring-like. She needed something elegant, comfortable, and above all warm. The drive would be long, and the temperature in the car moderate at best. This was a necessary precaution, as any excess heat might lull the driver to sleep or cause him to combust, whichever came first.

Inside the quiet, womb-like atmosphere of her dressing room, Dorothy browsed through her racks of clothing. Without over-analysing, she selected an ivory long-sleeved top and grey trouser suit from the Chanel Autumn/Winter collection. She quickly donned the garments before she could change her mind. Once again, she checked her reflection and was satisfied with what she saw. After slipping her feet into a favourite pair of Michael Kors boots, she took the lift back down to the ground floor and strolled into the kitchen.

‘Lunch is ready, Boss,’ Glenda greeted her. ‘You look lovely.’

‘Thank you, Glen,’ Dorothy smiled gratefully at her housekeeper. ‘Can you believe the suit is only a size eight? That’s an Irish eight, which is a Dutch thirty-six and a U.S. six. I wish whoever controls the rag trade would quit fannying around with these international sizes and standardise already! Do you think it’s too much? The Chanel, I mean. Should I change into something more casual?’

‘Boss,’ Glenda replied, ‘you’re not in New York, so quit using inappropriate language already and eat your lunch before it gets cold. I fed everyone else half an hour ago. Of course, I don’t think you should change. We don’t want you turning up at that snazzy hotel in Donegal looking like a hobo. Folks will think we don’t take care of you.’

Glenda’s Dutch accent was soothing. Dorothy obediently ceased worrying about the outfit and, taking up her spoon, began to eat the delicious homemade mushroom soup.

‘You’ve been gadding about too much this week,’ Glenda gently scolded. ‘Have you even had time to read the papers? It’s been an interesting few days. The boys from the Troika went home after stopping by to patronise us. By us, I mean the citizens of Ireland, with our austerity, unemployment and emigration.

‘Some boffins published the results of an unusual medical experiment. Apparently, men are more likely to start wars than women. I wonder how much it cost to reach that conclusion. I could have told the big eejits that for free. The National Solidarity Bonds haven’t taken off as well as the government hoped. So far, they’ve sold less than seventeen-million-euro worth. I wonder if they realise you are single-handedly responsible for almost one-third of that figure. They should give you a loyalty card, or air miles at least.’ Glenda paused long enough to draw breath before continuing.

‘There was a warning on the news. Drivers approaching the Inishowen Peninsula are advised to keep their eyes on the road until they reach the designated viewing sites. Personally, I don’t think you should be going within fifty miles of the Inishowen Peninsula. It’s wintry up there. It’s a good thing you’re not wearing one of your little dresses, that’s all I have to say. Plus, it’s simply not safe, all this gadding about. But what do I know? I’m only the housekeeper.’

She paused in her condemnation of the proposed trip, at last giving Dorothy a chance to reply.

‘I am not passing up this opportunity to see the Aurora Borealis,’ she replied firmly, ‘and that’s final. It’s a miracle they can be seen from Donegal at all. Who knows when that might happen again! Besides, I’m meeting Rhona up there. As you very well know, Glen, we made the arrangements before she left for the UK. We’re intending to spend a few days together before she heads off to Mozambique. Setting aside all of that, I should be travelling to Alaska to see the lights. You know it and I know it. Under the circumstances, I feel I’m behaving in a super-sensible and cautious manner. Please stop fussing.’

Before Glenda got a chance to protest that the Northern Lights could as easily be viewed from Norway, while reclining on the deck of a luxurious cruise liner, another woman entered the room. Even in five-inch heels, she strode with a confident gait. Her stilettos made a click-clack sound as she crossed the expanse of the kitchen’s marble floor. She was a tall woman who possessed a pair of piercing black eyes and a Grecian nose a fraction too large for her thin face. She was adorned in a grey jacket with an accompanying skirt showing off her long slim legs to perfection.

‘S’up Boss?’ said the newcomer. ‘I’m loving the suit. Did you have to have it specially made to fit your little legs? Just kidding. I assumed you’d be taking your Prada tote along on the field trip, so I popped in some light reading material. It’s mainly the details of the children’s fund the Trust is so keen to get their mitts on.

‘I left a few clippings in there as well. I thought you might like to read up on the new personal insolvency bill the government is touting. Assuming the legislation is ever passed. The banks are dead set against it because they won’t be able to crucify defaulters for more than six years if it becomes law.

‘Some tough guys rescued a bunch of hostages from Somalian pirates, and I put all the info I could lay my hands on in the bag. Don’t worry, I had all the clippings laminated so you won’t get ink on your hands.’ She paused for a microsecond to check her phone before continuing.

‘The realtors put the brochure I requested in the snail mail. It arrived this morning so I dropped it in there too. Claudia is keen on it for the twins. It generated over three hundred and ninety thousand bucks in rent receipts last year. A steal at 3.6 million in my opinion.’

The tall woman briefly paused to catch her breath and Dorothy thought it best to jump in while the opportunity presented itself. She lifted her eyes from the bowl, gazed earnestly at the other woman and asked, ‘Do you ever feel we’re profiting off the backs of other people’s misery?’

‘No way, Boss!’ was the firm reply. ‘These guys are in hock up to their armpits. You’re not the one who’s forcing them to off-load their assets. It’s the banks and those fellas over at the National Asset Management Agency. They’re lucky to have somebody like you waiting in the wings with a chequebook. I certainly do not feel guilty. On the contrary, I feel grateful for the opportunities.’

‘Well said.’ Dorothy smiled over her spoon. ‘How was last night’s date with the doctor?’

‘Okay, but not great,’ came the hesitant reply. ‘The guy had tiny little hands like a kid. I was creeped out just looking at them. I’m questioning the wisdom of dating a gynaecologist. I couldn’t get the notion out of my head he was picturing my fallopian tubes.’

Before Dorothy got the chance to protest that her assistant’s reproductive system was good enough for any man, a second woman entered the kitchen. This one was considerably shorter and curvier than the stiletto-wearing woman. She was attired in a practical black trouser suit with matching boots. The heels on the footwear were a sensible two inches in height, and the boots shone as if they had recently been polished. The latest arrival had tousled fair hair and a sprinkling of freckles on her little nose.

‘S’up Boss? Cool suit,’ she said. ‘Is it just your medium-sized Louis Vuitton for the car? I’ll ask one of the boys to bring it down. You do realise we’re running twenty minutes behind schedule, don’t you? It’s starting to cause a bit of tension.’

‘Oh, tell the big fucker to take a chill pill!’ Dorothy snapped. Seeing the chagrined expression on the other woman’s face, she relented. ‘Sorry. Just the one Louis for the car, thank you. I promise I’ll be ready to hit the road in ten minutes. I just have to put the final touches to my face and I’m good to go.’

‘Pity the boyfriend can’t go with you,’ Glenda’s voice sounded rather hollow, as she was busy loading one of the dishwashers.

‘He has to work,’ Dorothy explained patiently. ‘He has all of his usual commitments this week, plus he’s also a guest presenter on a radio show. It’s actually quite exciting.’

As Glenda chose to remain uncharacteristically silent on the subject of radio presenting, Dorothy took the decision to quit while she was ahead, and returned to her room. She resisted the urge to wander out to the balcony and gaze at the sea. Instead, she brushed her teeth and touched up her makeup.

Finally, she slipped on her Rolex. She spent a few minutes in her wardrobe reviewing her selection of coats and debating which one to wear. There was a cherry red one with a slight military air she was fond of. She was not certain it was the right look for the Chanel suit, and reluctantly hung it up again. Next, she tried on the Orla Kiely black coat which was her current favourite, but swiftly rejected it as well, determined not to play it overly safe.

Feeling daring, she opted for a white, ankle-length, Stella McCartney number. It was not a coat she would ever have chosen for herself and had been a Christmas gift from Viv of all people. As her pal had clearly splashed out more than she could afford on the garment, Dorothy was determined to give it plenty of use before the weather turned warm.

If she asked Glenda’s opinion, the housekeeper would no doubt urge her to wear the black Orla Kiely and forget about fashion statements. Ah fuck it! I’ll wear the white one and Donegal will have to take me as it finds me.

Before she could change her mind, she draped the white coat over her arm, grabbed a suitable scarf and leather gloves and left the suite. Once again, she took the lift down to the ground floor. There was a collective exhalation of relief as she stepped out onto the marble flooring that covered the hallway. Dorothy saw her tote bag had been left on one of the side tables and went to pick it up.

No sooner had she gotten hold of it than strong arms immediately confiscated the bag, while others wrapped her scarf around her neck and assisted her into the stylish Stella McCartney coat. She was allowed to call goodbye to Glenda before being escorted out to the forecourt where the freshly-washed Mercedes stood ready and waiting.

Yet more strong arms ushered her tenderly into the back of the car and offered her a cashmere blanket, which she accepted with thanks. Once the safety belt had been fastened and checked, her tote was deposited on the seat within easy reach. Then her driver took his place behind the wheel. The small, tousled-haired woman with the gleaming boots took the seat next to him.

After barking a few orders at those who remained indoors, the final passenger took his place next to Dorothy in the back. He wore a black turtleneck over plain black pants, but was jacketless as he had thrown it into the boot along with the luggage. His body heat was already starting to permeate the car, warming her nicely. She speculated on the possibility the man seated next to her might be at least partially responsible for global climate change.

No fewer than five individuals stood outside the front door, ready to see them off. As the car pulled away, Dorothy waved dutifully, feeling remarkably like the Queen of England. It soon became apparent their progress was being closely monitored from the house. As they approached the first set of security gates, they magically opened as if Dumbledore himself had waved his wand at them.

Don’t start thinking about Harry Potter for feck sake. By the time you get to Inishowen, you’ll be expecting to see centaurs and giant spiders. Rhona will be so not impressed. She might decide you’re a crazy woman and never come back from Africa.

The Mercedes wended its way down the hill towards the town centre. Fortunately, the traffic was light, and scarcely fifteen minutes later the car was on the motorway and heading north. Dorothy made herself comfortable next to the bulk that epitomised her head of security. He fidgeted for a minute, but it was only to transfer his cable ties to a different pocket. Then he spent a few seconds readjusting his knife, before finally leaning back in the seat.

He appeared relaxed, although she knew nothing could be further from the truth. Dorothy sent up a silent prayer they would not be pulled over by the traffic police, as he refused to acknowledge that carrying a knife on his belt was in any way inappropriate, to say nothing of illegal.

She checked the contents of her bag. Sure enough, there were a number of clippings featuring articles relating to a hostage rescue. She briefly wondered why they were there at all. Hadn’t she made it clear she did not intend to buy a home, in or around the Indian Ocean, for at least another two years?

The man next to her tensed and every muscle stilled in his massive frame. Peeking at him from under her lashes, Dorothy saw he was riveted by what she was holding. Well, that explains it.

Pleased she had something which would compensate for her tardiness, she offered him the clippings. With a brief grunt of thanks, he readily accepted them and was soon engrossed. His silence was broken only by the occasional murmur of either envy or approval. She was not sure which. Unnoticed by the man who was absorbed in the clippings, the small woman in the passenger seat extended her right arm. She placed her hand on the driver’s thigh and squeezed it gently. Then the hand was removed. Dorothy pretended not to notice.

Instead, she extracted the details of the apartment block her assistant favoured. It had the potential to be an excellent investment for the twins. As the car picked up speed, Dorothy began to methodically read her way through the literature. The brochure was twenty-five pages long and contained full details of the building, including a floor plan. There were also a myriad of photographs depicting the interior layout of the penthouses, as well as the four retail units that comprised the ground floor. It was an impressive development by anybody’s standards.

At her request, the driver turned on the stereo and they listened to a girl singing about finding love in a hopeless place. The track was one of Dorothy’s favourites and she happily hummed along with it. Briefly pausing in her perusal of the documents, she gazed out at the bleak landscape surrounding the motorway.

Dorothy Lyle was very much looking forward to her first glimpse of the Aurora Borealis. She promised herself that, come what may, the next time that she set off to view them, she would be in Alaska.

1

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Anxious to get in out of the cold as quickly as possible, Horace almost flung open the door to his cottage and leaped down the step. He landed nimbly on the stone flags where he was swiftly joined by Trotsky. Horace was carrying a couple of plastic bags, which he flung on top of the pine table before moving towards the fireplace.

He removed the fireguard and used the poker to stir the glowing embers to life. He had been out longer than expected, and consequently the fire had not been fed for many hours. He carefully selected four small logs and placed them in a wigwam style on top of the hot coals. As an added precaution, he picked an egg carton out of his recycle bin and threw it randomly on top of the whole lot. His strategy worked. The hungry flames began to reach for the carton, effectively igniting the logs. Seconds later, the fire was blazing away merrily.

Horace shivered slightly as he pulled off his old brown raincoat and went to hang it behind the front door on its usual hook. He unclipped Trotsky’s leash and hung it next to the coat, then rushed off to the bathroom to wash his hands. On his return, he set about organising a bowl of food for his pet, then placed it on the special mat he kept in the corner by the dresser.

Trotsky yipped happily and trotted over to make a start on his dinner, while Horace devoted some thought to his own evening meal. He still had a portion of leftover cottage pie which would be perfectly adequate. He rooted around in the small fridge until he found the casserole dish and set it down on the worktop near the sink. He was not really in the mood for pie, leftover or otherwise, but had not prepared or bought anything else, and could not afford to be choosy.

He walked to the table and rummaged in one of the plastic bags. When his hand emerged, it was clutching a bottle of bourbon. ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ he told Trotsky, and went to locate a clean glass.

He had just poured himself the first drink of the evening when he heard a thud on the door and went to open it. Half expecting to see Amanda, he was startled to come face to face with Bozena, his next-door neighbour, and Dorothy’s tenant. The young woman was wearing a grey anorak with the hood pulled up. Both hands were full and she had used her foot to attract his attention.

‘I took in this parcel for you,’ she said breathlessly, and extended her left arm slightly so he could see what she was holding.

Horace quickly relieved her of the packet and threw it on the nearest worktop. He invited her inside, then perceiving she was having trouble negotiating the sharp drop, took the precaution of lifting her and setting her down on the stone flags.

‘You are very strong,’ Bozena commented admiringly. She used her free hand to push her hood back, and revealed a pair of violet eyes set in a pretty yet pale face.

Horace was sorely tempted to reply, ‘I work out,’ but refrained, not sure if she would get the joke.

The young woman was gaping at him as if she had never seen him before. ‘That is a very interesting sweater,’ she said uncertainly. ‘English people really like their reindeer, yes?’

‘It’s my Christmas gansey,’ he explained patiently. ‘I can only wear it during the month of December. It is now officially December; hence I am wearing it. Is there a problem?’

‘Not at all,’ she replied faintly. ‘I was not expecting you to be wearing a sweater with a red pom pom on it, that is all. You look very nice.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s pure wool and very cosy. Mrs Wilson made it for me. Do you knit?’

‘No!’ she replied hastily. ‘But I am a good cook. That’s why I brought you some bigos,’ she offered him the bowl she was still holding. ‘I always make too much, and I thought you might like to try it. It’s a traditional Polish stew.’

‘Thank you very much, Bozena,’ Horace replied gravely, as he relieved her of the burden. ‘Would you like to sit down for a few minutes? You look rather pale.’

‘I have to get back,’ she replied earnestly. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

‘Is everything all right?’ he probed. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

The violet eyes filled with moisture as the girl looked up at him. ‘You are very kind,’ she said in a tear-filled voice. ‘Marek and I are not getting on as well as we used to that’s all. The hormones don’t help.’

‘Does he not want the baby?’ Horace enquired gently.

‘Oh, yes, he is very excited about becoming a father,’ she sniffed. ‘We have even been to the bank to make enquiries about a mortgage. Amanda put in a good word for us with the lady who owns our house. I expect you know her.’

‘Dorothy Lyle is her name,’ Horace told her. ‘Has she agreed to sell you the property?’

‘Not yet. But if we can provide proof of mortgage approval, her assistant says she’ll give careful consideration to any offer we make.’

‘I see,’ Horace frowned. ‘Is that causing friction between you? The mortgage, I mean. Taking that first step onto the property ladder and all it involves.’

‘Marek has always wanted to own his own home,’ Bozena forgot she wasn’t staying, and moved closer to the allure of the fire. ‘It was his idea to approach the bank in the first place. It’s not that.’

‘Then what is it?’ Horace looked puzzled. ‘If he’s happy about the baby, and he’s keen to buy the house, then what could possibly be putting a strain on the relationship? I know we’re not exactly close friends, but you seem like a very solid couple.’

‘Not quite solid enough,’ the young woman stared down into the fire and an expression of utter sadness crossed her face. ‘Both our families think we should get married next summer. Because of the baby.’

‘There’s no doubt a wedding is an expensive business,’ Horace replied reasonably. ‘Especially on top of baby expenditure and legal fees and all that. I don’t know much about childrearing, but I shudder to recall how quickly I racked up bills when I first bought this house.

‘Maybe you should wait until the year after next before you get married. It’s all right for your parents to put pressure on you, but unless they’re prepared to pay for the whole knees up, it’s not really up to them. It’s a decision for you and Marek to make as a couple.’

Feeling he had provided a very sensible solution to the problem, Horace sidestepped closer to the table and took a sneaky sip of his bourbon. Over the rim of the chipped glass, he eyed the packet still sitting, untouched, on the worktop. He was fairly certain it was from Dorothy, and was keen to open it and see what it contained.

He couldn’t very well throw Bozena out before she was ready to leave, especially as she had brought him the stew. The young woman continued to stare into the fire and a tear