Double-Edged Steele
A Scarecrow and Mrs. King -- Remington Steele Story
by AMY S.
Disclaimer: This story is not in any way associated with the owners of Remington Steele or Scarecrow and Mrs. King. The characters, except for those I invented for the story, are not owned by me, and the story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights. It is meant as fan fiction and is purely for entertainment.
Summary: The story begins in 1980, before the time of either series, then picks up in 1987 where both series left off. Remington and Laura return to the US from Ireland, unaware that they have a double-agent and Lee Stetson as shadows.
Rating: PG-13
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Archive: This is at my personal website
www.astone.homestead.com, where you can also find my other stories and the Word version of this one (for ease of reading!). Add a link to that site or ask first.________________________________________________________________
Chapter 1
April 5, 1980
Whoever said, "In London, April's a spring month," was not sitting with Lee Stetson on that bench in front of Buckingham Palace. He sat there in the frigid wind, dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit with the collar of his tan and all-too-thin trenchcoat shrugged up around his ears, waiting for a man in a black leather jacket to ask him for directions to Harrods. He had been waiting for four hours.
To pass the time, he began talking to the red-jacketed palace guard nearest him. He talked about the weather, English food, and the amount of traffic. He knew the man's eyes would never waver and he would get no response, but there was simply nothing else to do.
Lee ran his fingers through his sandy brown hair and surveyed the street in front of him once more. Still nothing. His thoughts turned back to the guard as the corners of his mouth went up in a private smirk. Francine Desmond, his fellow agent and current girlfriend, would have been able to get a reaction.
He thought of her and the way she toyed with him while his subconscious continued scanning the foot traffic. She wanted to go skiing some weekend. Lee was an excellent skier, but he kept putting it off. He had even asked Billy to send him somewhere warm with white sand beaches and cocktail lunches. Billy had sent him to London. Maybe it was all pointing to the end of things with Francine.
Just as he was planning how to let her go easy when he returned to Washington, a man, about his age but with a mane of ebony hair and blue eyes peering out from under a tweed snap-brim hat, tripped over Lee's outstretched feet.
The man was tall and slender and was wearing a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. Lee waited for the question, but it did not come. The man continued on, hands jammed into his pockets, with only a, "Watch it, mate."
About one minute later, another man clad in black leather ran up to him.
"Which way to Harrods?"
"I'm not sure. I just got in."
The exchange ended with the courier pressing a slip of paper into the agent's cold palm.
*
"Scarecrow, I don't care how cold it was. Just tell me what the message said!" Lee's section chief, Billy Melrose, was apparently not in the mood for a transcontinental weather report from the young agent.
"It was just one name, Billy. Douglas Quintaine. That was all. No indication of whether he's the thief, a fence, or the tooth fairy, for that matter."
Billy softened a bit. "Well, I'll check it out from here and call you back. Give me an hour."
"Ok. Thanks, Billy." Lee replaced the receiver, then went into the bathroom of his small hotel room and opened wide the hot tap on the tub. He was thankful the hotel had American-style accommodations instead of one bath at the end of the hall. He planned to soak until Billy called back.
Lee was tempted to get in fully clothed, but he thought better of it. He neatly hung his suit coat on a hanger, then stripped to the waist. The bath was steaming. He added a touch of cold to the mix, then dropped his trousers and shorts to the floor. Lee yanked off his socks, then lowered his body into the tub.
As the water rose, his fingers slowly lost their blue tint, and his entire body turned pink from the heat. He laid back, eyes closed, enjoying the small delay in the case.
The telephone rang once and then was silent. Lee leapt out of the tub and ran across the room. When it rang again, he let it ring three times before picking up.
"Scarecrow."
"Well, Lee, it looks like Quintaine is the man we're after." Billy ran through Quintaine's long list of aliases and past thefts as Scarecrow gathered a blanket around his still naked body. "We don't know a lot about him, but we do have a photo. Meet the courier at the same drop tomorrow at nine a.m. to get it."
Lee groaned as Billy continued, "He seems like just the type to steal a necklace worth $2.3 million right off the neck of the ambassador's wife."
"Thanks, Billy. I'll see what I can dig up between now and my return to hypothermia tomorrow morning."
Lee went from pub to pub all evening, meeting a variety of contacts with a variety of ideas on personal hygiene. One particularly grimy one was named Chalky.
"Wot ya want with 'im, now, heh?"
Chalky turned to the barman and held up two fingers.
Lee told him as little as he could, trying not to breathe in too much. When Chalky heard "necklace," he snorted.
The barman placed a pint in front of each man. Once he had returned to the shadows at the far end of the pub, Chalky spoke.
"Well, let me say this, then. Dougie is up to no good, but it's not your no good. Man you want's called Hampton. Lionel Hampton." Chalky furnished an address.
As Lee left the pub, he found himself now glad of the frosty night air. It suppressed the lingering fumes of the dirty little man who occasionally supplied him with valuable information for the right price. Quintaine must have been a friend, Lee thought, since tonight it only cost me a drink.
Lee Stetson briskly walked back to his hotel to get his car. After folding his six foot, one inch frame into the rusting blue mini, he jammed it into first and headed for 137 Churchill Street. As he drove, he thought of the courier sitting on that same bench tomorrow morning waiting for him even though he was not going to show. He hoped it snowed.
Hampton's flat was a tiny room on the fifth floor of an elevatorless, ramshackle building. Lee brushed away cobwebs and shooed away a rat as he pulled a special lens out of the folds of his coat and held it up to the peephole. He could see a pair of feet propped up on the television. It looked like Lionel Hampton was having a nap.
Scarecrow dropped to one knee before the lock on the apartment door. He removed his lockpicks from his collar stays and silently manipulated the tumblers. Once the lock yielded, he opened the door a crack, then slipped into the room. The feet did not move. Lee had the element of surprise.
Hampton was sitting in a red wing-backed armchair that looked like it had been through the Blitz. As Lee came up to the chair, he drew his gun and cocked it. The sound was enough. Before he had the chance to tell the man to freeze, the chair violently toppled over and a pair of hands blindly grabbed for him. The man was going on instinct and had never turned to look at Lee, so naturally he went after this armed intruder's right side. Lee Stetson was left-handed. He pulled the trigger.
After a quick look in the hallway to make sure no one heard the shot, Lee went back into the dead man's flat. He still needed to find the necklace and determine if Hampton was working alone.
Scarecrow did not enjoy shooting people, but he was enjoying tossing the room. The good guys never get to ransack a room, he thought.
He rifled through desk drawers, kitchen cupboards, and suitcases. He overturned the mattresses and checked the underside of the lamps. He even took apart the trap under the sink. No luck. Now frustrated, he went back toward the body. After turning in a slow circle to see what he had missed, he absent-mindedly righted the wing-backed chair. He stood there, staring out the tiny window, drumming his fingers on the back of the chair. Then it dawned on him.
He pulled a switchblade out of a pocket and tore open the cushions.
*
Two hours later, Lee Stetson was at Heathrow. He dialed Billy's number from a payphone.
"I got it, Billy, but Hampton's dead. I lost the trail after that."
"Hampton? Who's Hampton? I thought you were after Quintaine."
"The Quintaine lead was false," Lee replied.
"I'll call off the courier."
Lee huffed into the mouthpiece as Billy went on. "I still think you should read Quintaine's dossier when you get back. He seems like someone we're bound to hear from again."
"Ok."
"Well, get yourself on a plane back here ASAP. I've got something else for you."
A voice on the PA called his flight.
"I'm way ahead of you, Billy."
Chapter 2
February 18, 1987
Laura Holt-Steele's eyes fluttered open as the sun rose over Glen Cree. It took her a moment to recall where she was. So much had happened in the past several days.
A split second later she remembered the owner of the masculine arm that was wrapped around her naked midsection. She closed her eyes and settled back in. He stirred as she did so and squeezed her tightly to him.
One blue eye opened, and he muttered, "Morning, luv." The eye closed again as a contented smile spread across his lips.
After a few moments, Laura wriggled out of her husband's embrace, being careful not to wake him. She unfolded one of the extra woolen blankets from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her as she opened the doors to the balcony and stepped out.
As she looked out across the immaculate and rolling countryside, she replayed the events of the previous night in her head.
She and Remington Steele had watched on television as his newly discovered father, Daniel Chalmers, was buried as a national hero in both Britain and Russia. It was a fitting end for the con man, even if he did die before disclosing Remington's real name. She liked the name Remington anyway, or she would not have given it to her fictional boss in the first place. He seemed satisfied with it as well.
Then he had carried her up the stairs. After a brief interruption in the form of a telephone call from Anthony Roselli, the agent who was more interested in Laura than in deporting Remington Steele, they were in the cavernous master bedroom of the castle.
It had taken them four years and countless false starts, but something was different now. She welcomed his advances.
Out on the balcony, Laura tightened the blanket around her and closed her eyes. Neither had said a word. Laura's pulse quickened as she recalled his breathless kisses. His hands had searched beneath her heavy cotton sweater before she took it off. He had followed suit. As he pulled her to him again, she ran her hands across his chest as he tugged her slacks down. She had always been incredibly attracted to him physically, but the feel of his chest hair against her instantly doubled it.
In a moment, they were both naked. He did not lead her to the bed as she expected, though. He again picked her up and carried her across the dark oak floor, setting her down on the ancient rug in front of the mammoth fireplace.
The fire had burned low by the time they were finished. The room was developing a distinct chill, so they had bundled themselves into the bed, where they slept wrapped in each other's arms.
A kiss on the nape of her neck startled her out of her memories. She turned toward him and hugged him. He was wearing only his shorts.
"Remington, you scared me."
He stepped back and gave her an odd look.
"You know, Laura, until now, you've always called me 'Mr. Steele' when we're alone."
"Would you rather I called you Harry?"
He smiled and pulled her back to him. "You may have the wrong impression about that name."
She looked up at him and said, "Oh?"
"Yes, it is what my father called me for years, but it's also the name I gave him when we met. He couldn't very well correct me without a lot of explaining that he wasn't ready for. Besides, Harry may have suited the man I used to be, but..."
He paused and let her mentally fill in the rest. The look in her eyes told him she understood.
She turned back toward the view and took the few steps to the stone railing, expecting him to follow her. When he did not, she turned to face him again, only to find him gone.
Laura glanced around. Would he really leave her now after all that about "the man he used to be"?
She said his name. After a moment with no response, her brow furrowed, and then her eyebrows went up as a tear made its way down her cheek. This time she yelled.
"Remington!"
Instantly, he reappeared at the doorway, adjusting the belt on his robe. Seeing the tear, he took her in his arms once more.
"Laura, darling, what's wrong?"
"I thought...I thought you were..." Remington felt her go almost limp as she finished, "...gone."
"Laura," he said, shaking his head to scold her for relapsing into mistrust. "Laura, you know. You know I am not leaving you."
They stood there silently for a long time, just staring into each other's eyes.
Laura watched his expression subtly change as his eyes dropped. Then his eyes snapped back up. He looked determined.
"Laura," he said forcefully. "Laura, I..."
She looked at him expectantly.
He took a deep breath as he silently cursed himself for being a damned coward.
"I'm freezing. Let's go back in."
Chapter 3
June 13, 1987
Lee Stetson was also freezing. He hated this bench. He hated the courier for being late. He hated London for still being chilly on a June morning. He hated himself for not wearing an overcoat. Amanda would not have let him outside without one.
Amanda. How his life had changed since he last sat on this bench in front of Buckingham Palace. He and Amanda had been married for four months as of today. He had two strapping stepsons and a mother-in-law who liked him.
The only problem was Phillip, Jamie, and Mrs. West thought of him only as a serious boyfriend of Amanda's. Come to think of it, he hated that, too. He wanted to be home to build model rockets with Jamie and to keep Phillip from tweaking things under the hood of his Corvette. He wanted to tell them.
Lee was surprised at himself. He was not one to let things get to him to this extent. He took a sip from a stainless steel thermos filled with steaming coffee and shook off the mood. As he replaced the cap and put the container back at his feet, he spotted someone in a blue vest carrying a paper sack. The courier had finally arrived.
She did not approach Lee. She did not know who he was. Instead, she stood on the corner. She placed the sack on the ground and checked her watch. In a few minutes, a car arrived. She disappeared, leaving the small sack in the gutter.
He watched all this out of the corner of his eye. Then he reached down to collect his thermos, pulling on his shoelace as he did so. He got up, tucked the thermos under his arm, and headed for the corner. Once there, he feigned noticing his flapping shoelace. He bent to tie it and scooped up the sack. Besides the courier's delay, it was a flawlessly executed drop.
On the way back to his car, which was parked several blocks away, Lee ducked into a cafe. He ordered breakfast and, after the lone waiter disappeared into the back, opened the sack.
The small brown bag held a cheese and mayonnaise sandwich wrapped in cellophane.
*
Remington Steele woke once again in the immense four-poster bed in the Irish castle they were beginning to think of as home. They had spent nearly four months playing at being husband and wife. Remington found Laura particularly adept at making him wish their wedding was not slightly illegal, even if she did not realize she was doing so. He hoped he was making her forget she only married him to keep him from being deported.
They passed the time walking the grounds arm in arm, horseback riding, taking the odd research case that Mildred could handle from LA, and finding ways to get the servants, to whom Steele had given the castle, to go to town so they could have it to themselves.
He lay there, with Laura still asleep next to him, thinking that perhaps it was time to get back to work. He knew Laura was starting to lust more after a juicy case than yet another day in the picturesque countryside. He felt he could not possibly go from being his lordship to Remington Steele, detective, in one or two days, however. He slipped out of bed and spent an hour on the telephone downstairs planning a little diversion.
Just as he put down the receiver, he heard Laura rummaging in the kitchen. He joined her there and began preparing a gourmet breakfast.
As they ate, Laura brought up the agency.
"I think we need to go back soon. Mildred says we have quite a waiting list."
"I was thinking the same thing. I suppose the honeymoon has to end sometime."
"Well, Remington, we'll just have to continue it in LA," Laura said with a gleam in her eye.
"Why don't you let me make the travel arrangements while you call Mildred and let her know we're returning to our fair city?"
In the past, volunteering for menial tasks had meant he was orchestrating some scam, Laura thought.
"Why the sudden interest in playing travel agent?"
"Laura," he said, standing to clear the dishes. "It sounds like you think I'm up to something."
As he moved behind her to take her plate, he continued. "Well, I am."
She looked at him, not knowing what to make of his statement.
"What are you up to?" she asked, trying not to sound distrustful.
"My darling," he began. Then he leaned down, kissed her neck, and whispered, "It's a surprise. I promise you you'll love it."
*
Lee was back on the bench that afternoon. The morning's courier was on her way to an assignment in Jersey City. This time, the sack contained a coded message that he decoded in his hotel room. HRK NRF SLY MPH GRB NUF came out as "Michael Shayne rm. 317 Hil."
Lee stepped out of the elevator just as Shayne, a short fifty-eight-year-old with graying hair, was closing his door behind him. Scarecrow ducked behind a maid's cart and watched his quarry enter the stairwell.
Shayne headed for the train station. Then it was a ferry to Ireland. Lee was right behind him when he asked a porter for directions to Glen Cree.
Many miles later, Scarecrow watched as Shayne pulled off the road and got out of his car. Through binoculars, both could see luggage being loaded into a Rolls Royce and a small group saying farewells. When Shayne ran back to the car and floored it, Lee followed suit.
Shayne sped toward the castle, hoping to catch Remington Steele. He had something of an immediate problem, but he arrived just as the Rolls pulled out.
Lee's view, as well as the road, was temporarily blocked by a lorry delivering a refrigerator to a nearby farmhouse. He honked impatiently, then drove through a field full of sheep, taking the direct route to the castle. When he got there, everyone was gone. Shayne had disappeared. The people in the Rolls must have been his contacts, Lee thought.
He drove around back and found a gardener. A brief conversation and ten pounds later, Lee was on his way to the airport.
Chapter 4
Lee Stetson watched from a safe distance as the chauffeur unloaded the luggage. The man and woman, his arm around her shoulders, headed for an unknown gate. When they were out of sight, Lee checked their airline luggage tags, which indicated their final destination as Washington, DC.
Lee found a telephone and called Agency headquarters.
"Billy's not here, Lee. What do you need?" Francine Desmond, able field operative and Billy's assistant, could supply almost any official help Billy could.
"Actually, Francine, I need you. I need a big favor."
"Billy's got you after Tupolev's network, doesn't he? This is an important one, Lee."
"That makes the favor even bigger, I guess."
"Just name it already, Stetson." Francine sounded stern, but he knew it was just her way of teasing an old and trusted friend.
"Flight 803 from Dublin is due in at Dulles some time tonight. I'll be on it, along with two suspects."
Lee described Laura and Remington Steele, then continued, "Just follow them for about an hour. Dulles is their final destination, so they'll probably rent a car. It shouldn't be too difficult."
Francine wrote down all the information, then asked, "Where should I contact you? At the Agency? On your car phone?"
"No, Francine. Call me at Amanda's."
Francine laughed, "Amanda's? Got a little lonely in Europe, did we? I still think you could do so much better than a suburban housewife with..."
Lee cut her off. "Save it, will you? This is important to me."
"It seems to be getting more and more important with you when it comes to Amanda..."
Lee talked over her. "Thanks, Francine."
"...if I didn't know better, I'd say you were seriously off the market..."
Lee repeated, more loudly this time, "Thanks, Francine."
As she continued, he hung up the telephone. He shook his head and smiled. He would never hear the end of this from Francine, but he got a chance to see his family.
*
While Laura checked them in at the ticket desk, Remington Steele ducked around a corner and called Mildred.
"Hi ya, boss. You and Miss Holt, I mean you and Mrs. Steele on your way back?"
"Yes, yes, Mildred. We're at the airport now. What did you tell her when she called?"
"I told her just what you said, boss. No pressing cases out here, but a possible client on your way in DC. I don't think she believed me."
"Probably not, Mildred. She knows I'm up to something. Is the car all set?"
"Your friend shipped it out two days ago. It should be in the hanger by now, all tuned up for a cross-country trip."
"Beautiful, Mildred. Remind me to give you a raise."
"Sure, chief. You kids have a great trip."
He replaced the phone and went back around the corner to collect their carryon bags. Laura was waiting for him.
"Where were you?"
"Mildred asked for a souvenir. Apparently, she didn't pick up enough while she was here, so I popped over to the gift shop."
"The gift shop is at the other end of the terminal."
"So it is, Laura." He kissed her, then picked up the bags. "So it is."
Once they were settled into their seats in first class, Laura said, "You're not even going to give me a hint, are you?"
Remington poured them each a glass of champagne before answering, "You know, Laura, anticipation only heightens the experience when it finally arrives."
His double meaning was not lost on her.
"You're absolutely right," she said, "but I'm a detective. I've got a mystery to solve."
"Well, you won't get anything out of me." He took a sip, then leaned in ever so slightly. "No matter what interrogation techniques you employ."
Continued
