I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

at me.
    “I needed something to wear—”
    “A Gucci cocktail dress?”
    “—and it was on sale… Come on. It was really good value. And it looked really good on me.”
    “I’ll bet. Look, Harvard won’t remember what you were wearing. A black dress is a black dress—”
    “Not when it’s designer.”
    “It is to a bloke.”
    “It’s too short for daytime. And it’ll show off all my bruises,” I pointed to my shoulder.
    “Okay, fine. You pick something out. Something sexy. Tight. Heels and cleavage.”
    Why is it that women have to show as much flesh as possible to be noticed by a man? You want to keep a guy’s attention, all you have to do is flash a boob and he’s yours. But men can get away with being totally covered all the time and still be considered sexy. If I covered every inch of my skin, I’d look like a nun.
    “Look,” I said, staring at my wardrobe while Luke picked apart my CD collection, “he thinks I’m a stewardess. Can’t I wear my Ace uniform?”
    “Not sexy enough.”
    I was feeling belligerent. “You think I don’t look sexy in my uniform?”
    He appeared in the doorway and gave me a very slow once-over. I felt my insides start to heat up.
    “Yes,” he said softly, “but I think you look sexier out of it.” I threw a jumper at him and he ducked, laughing. “Oh, come on. That was a compliment.”
    Hmm.
    Eventually I picked out a pair of tight jeans and a low-cut top, and spent half an hour covering my bruises with make-up. Then I tarted up my face and hair, added stilettos, and tottered out to face Luke, who was watching cartoons on TV.
    “Will I do?” I posed.
    “You look like a fashion victim.”
    That was sort of the idea. “Is it too much?”
    “No. Very sexy. Can you walk in those shoes?”
    “I can walk in any shoes.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind. Come on. We’ll get my car, it’s more anonymous.”
    I got my bag, filled with all my useful crap, and stumbled after him, my heels clattering on the floorboards. Probably I was making dents. I looked behind me to see, and then walked straight into Luke.
    “Sophie,” he sighed, “did you check the post this morning?”
    I shook my head. “There wasn’t any when I left.”
    “And when we got in?”
    “Let me think. You were complaining about how cold it was in here and then how slow my computer was.”
    He gave me a slow, sarcastic look, then pulled something out of the letterbox. “You’ve got mail,” he said, handing me a pretty pink envelope with a teddy bear on it. I opened it resignedly, and sure enough, there was a finger inside. Along with a birthday card that matched the pretty pink envelope.
    “This is new,” I said.
    “Is it your birthday?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t usually get fingers for my birthday.” I opened the card. A printed rhyme was stuck inside.
    One, two, three, four, five,
    Once I caught a Chris alive.
    Six, seven, eight, nine, ten
    Quit or you’ll be joining him .
    “Nice,” Luke said.
    “I’m not sure if it’s the finger or the bad poetry that’s making me nauseous.”
    “What’s with the numbers?”
    “This,” I held up the plastic-wrapped finger, which was yukky beyond belief, “is number five. I can only assume they’ll be sending me the other five over the course of the week.”
    “He still had two.”
    “But none of his toes. So, actually, there are…” I added it up quickly—I’m crap at maths, okay?—“thirteen more digits to come.” I put the card and the finger back in the envelope. “Do you want to go up to the office?”
    “No. I had a text from Lexy, she’s not feeling too good. I don’t think another finger will do her much good. Or two fingers—did you say you had another one on Saturday?”
    I nodded and crossed to the freezer. “Here. You missed it when you took the others.”
    “I didn’t look in the chip drawer.”
    “Shame on you.”
    “I can’t believe you have a chip drawer.”
    I stuck my tongue out at him.
    I put the pink envelope in a bag, sealed it and added it to the collection. Then I disinfected my hands. Then I wrote freezer bags on my shopping list. If I was going to be getting more fingers, it was only sensible. Maybe I should call the post office and ask them to redirect bulky and/or bloody envelopes to Flight Services Inc. so Alexa could have the pleasure of examining them firsthand.
    “Now are we ready to go?”
    Luke was looking at a Mastercard envelope. “Don’t you want to pay