Shotgun Nanny Read Free Page B

entry.

    Gain entry? Annie read that part again. More than a simple knock on the door was required. First there was a key code she would have to punch into a security gate to get past the fence. This changed daily, the letter informed her. So they thought she might be a part-time clown, part-time jewel thief?

    Okay, ahead of her the gate appeared. She drew her little Smurf-blue putt-mobile up to an alcove that looked like a banking machine. She pushed in her number, waited a moment, and the gates swung open reluctantly.

    After all the rigmarole, Annie expected a castle with a moat, at least, but the house was a family-size, modern-looking stone-and-cedar affair. Hardly looked like the Pentagon.

    As the gates closed behind her, she started to get a claustrophobic feeling. For a second, she wished she’d turned back when she’d had the chance. The curse of an active imagination and a love of old movies was that she found herself picturing ridiculous scenarios. She was Philip Marlowe approaching the mansion where the two-timing dame was holed up, cynically wondering if he’d get out with his life.

    The truth was even more ridiculous. She was a grown woman in a clown costume, wearing polka dots the size of asteroids.

    She parked at the end of the drive and exited her vehicle as instructed. She swapped her trainers for Gertrude’s huge floppy clown shoes and shuffled to the door, the plastic rose in her lapel bobbing to hit her in the nose with each step. She dragged her battered suitcase past perfectly manicured lawns, sterile-looking flower beds containing mostly small evergreen bushes, and up three swept steps. By the time Annie got to the intercom buzzer at the front door she was feeling wilted—not only by the heat. She noticed a small camera in the corner above the door and poked her tongue out as far as she could.

    The door opened.

    And so did her mouth, tongue only partly retracted.

    Cool blue eyes, stubborn jaw, brick-wall chest. The guy from Granville Island. Of all the joints in all Vancouver, I have to walk into to this one…. She nearly giggled hysterically. Brick wall was looking her up and down, noting the suitcase in her hand. He glanced behind her warily and only then opened the door fully.

    “Mark Saunders.” He extended his hand.

    He doesn’t recognize me. Relief shot through Annie. She went into her clown routine in high gear, suddenly thankful for the hot wig, hot suit, hot shoes, heavy greasepaint.

    Behind the human wall, a gaggle of young girls gathered, gawking at Annie.

    “Gertrude Smell-So-Good,” she shrieked in her Gertrude voice. If that voice was a little more manic than usual, she was the only one who’d know. “Here’s my card!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a big plastic rectangle with her name emblazoned on it. As Mark Saunders reached for it, she squeezed the side, and a jet of water shot into his face. The girls shrieked with laughter—they always did. Nothing made them laugh harder than watching their parents get made fools of.

    “Ha, ha.” He wiped his face with his hand, still standing in front of Annie, preventing her from entering. “That’s not the name I was given,” he whispered fiercely.

    “It’s my stage name,” Annie whispered back. “Anne Parker is my real name.”

    He looked a little foolish and backed away. Here we go again, Annie thought as she waddled past him and gave her attention to the girls.

    “I hear there’s a birthday going on,” she shrieked. “Now don’t tell me, let me use my magic divining wand to guess who the party girl is.” She fumbled in her oversize pockets, watching while the girls snickered and kept glancing toward one slight, darkhaired girl who hung back, blushing. Bingo.

    Annie pulled out a long plastic rod and made a performance of running it in the air around each of the girls before approaching the shy one. She squeezed the bottom of the rod when she waved her wand over the blushing girl’s