by Nic Saint
Marjorie, who seemed to awake from a deep stupor, looked up at the mention of her name. “Mh?” she asked. The town’s librarian, she was an owlish figure, with large glasses and a perpetually strict look on her face. If someone were to make a movie of her life, they’d have to tap Maggie Smith for the lead, Marjorie a dead ringer for the venerable British actress.
“Are you all right, hon?” asked Alice, concerned. “You look distracted.”
Marjorie shook her head. “It’s Virgil,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “When I called his cell just now to remind him to pick up the meatloaf from Bud Bouchard’s, the call went straight to voicemail! And when I called the dispatcher she couldn’t reach him either!”
“He might be busy on a case,” Felicity suggested.
“Or interviewing a suspect,” Bettina said.
“My Virgil would never refuse to answer my calls,” Marjorie insisted with a quiver in her voice. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
The policeman still lived at home and was devoted to his mother. Or rather it might be more accurate to say he was scared to death of her.
“You know? I tried calling him earlier too,” said Alice now, “and it went straight to voicemail as well. Normally he always picks up on the first ring.”
“That’s because he’s still in love with you,” Mabel was quick to point out.
“No, he is not,” said Marjorie, visibly piqued. “My son isn’t in love with anyone, and most definitely not with Alice.” She leaned over to the policeman’s daughter and tapped her knee smartly. “No offense, honey.”
“None taken,” Alice murmured, looking a little surprised.
“Well, he did once confess he’s always had a thing for Alice,” Mabel insisted. “Remember, Fee? You told us all about that.”
Not for the first time Felicity thought she should learn to keep her big mouth shut and never to divulge anything to anyone in this town, for whatever she said did the rounds of the gossip mill within seconds.
“Well, all that’s not important right now,” said Alice primly. All this talk about Virgil being in love with her clearly irked her, for she was an almost married woman now, and it simply didn’t do to have a not-so-secret admirer. Most certainly not Virgil, who was practically Alice and Felicity’s stupid little brother. “The fact is that I saw his car parked in front of the Lawford Street construction site and when I went in search of him all I found was his cap.”
Like a white rabbit from a hat, she now produced the cap, and Marjorie stared at it in utter dismay. “Where did you say you found that?” she asked.
“It was on the ground at the construction site, no Virgil in sight.”
“But that’s impossible!” cried Marjorie, taking the cap and pressing it to her bosom. “Virgil would never drop his cap. He knows how hard I worked to sew his name into it!”
“Yes, I thought that was a little strange too,” Alice said, not specifying whether she meant the sewing part or the gone missing part. She shared a look of worry with Felicity, and for some reason Felicity’s mind immediately flashed back to their meeting with Severin Lobb, and the threats the man had made about destroying this realm and all of its inhabitants.
Even though she knew for a fact that Reece was behind this whole spiel, it still gave her pause. But just as quickly as the thought had entered her mind, she dismissed it. Whoever this Severin Lobb was, and he was evidently a New York-based actor friend of Reece’s, he would never make Virgil Scattering disappear. Why would he? There was absolutely no connection.
“We better focus on Gardenia,” she said. “She’s our number one priority. I’m sure Virgil is fine,” she added, addressing Marjorie, who was looking shell-shocked now, still pressing her son’s cap to her bosom like a lost relic.
Soon the plan was decided upon: they would cover their bases, with Mabel staking out the Number house, Marjorie visiting Gardenia’s place of work, Bettina Roy’s boss, and Alice and Felicity driving around to see if they couldn’t locate the woman. If they did locate her, they were going to take away the gun and have a nice, long chat with their homicidal townie.
And so the meeting of the HBNWC was finally adjourned, and they all rose as one body. They’d been seated in the salon at Felicity and Alice’s house. As it was, the company had had to make do with chairs, as the sofas were still out in the backyard, drying out after the unexpected indoor shower.
And as they stood, Mabel pressed her lips together and said, “This whole dreadful affair is all Mayor MacDonald’s fault, of course.”
Felicity decided to take the bait and asked, “How do you figure that?”
“Well, if he hadn’t allowed those pavements to deteriorate to this point none of this would have happened. If Gardenia hadn’t taken a tumble I wouldn’t have been induced to help her up and invite her into my home and to take me into her confidence. And then she wouldn’t have decided to get a gun and get even with the people she perceives as her family’s tormentors.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Mabel,” said Bettina soothingly. “She would have snapped eventually. People like her always do.”
“I’m not blaming myself,” snapped Mabel. “I’m blaming the mayor.”
“Oh, right,” said Bettina with a tilt of her chin. She was not used to being spoken to this way, and it was obvious she felt Mabel was getting a little bit above herself, as mayoral secretary feeling she was the boss of them all.
“I think something terrible happened to Virgil,” muttered Marjorie, still fingering her son’s baseball cap with trembling hands.
“And I’m sure he’s fine,” Mabel retorted with vigor. “Virgil is a big boy, and I think it’s time for you to treat him like one.” She sniffed loudly. “He’s probably holed up somewhere with a woman, just like he was last time.”
Marjorie’s head snapped up so fast there was a sound of creaking vertebrae. “How dare you! My Virgil doesn’t get involved with women.”
“Well, he did when he got involved with Grover Calypso’s wife.”
Felicity closed her eyes. Oh, God. Not that story again. Virgil had been tasked with the seduction of Grover Calypso’s wife in a bid to prove her unfaithfulness. And he’d proved it, all right, for he and Emilia Calypso had been discovered in a tight embrace, her lipstick all over the policeman.
“That was an accident,” said Marjorie decidedly.
Mabel snorted. “His lips accidentally ended up on that woman’s lips and his arms around her like an octopus? And a married woman at that!”
“Now, now, girls,” said Felicity, trying to break up the fight before it became physical.
“My Virgil would never do such a thing!” Marjorie repeated with quaking voice, twin circles of crimson lighting up her usually ashen cheeks.
“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s a man, Marjorie, and a man has needs!” Mabel huffed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s holed up with Jackie Bouchard. I heard she’s between lovers at the moment. He probably picked up that meatloaf and decided to have a taste of Jackie in the process!”
“That’s a lie!” Marjorie cried. “Take that back, Mabel Stokely, or there will be hell to pay!”
“I’m not taking anything back! Everybody knows Jackie Bouchard is less than particular when it comes to choosing her lovers. Last time she was doing the horizontal mambo with Alice’s uncle, isn’t that right, Alice?”
Alice, who seemed reluctant to venture into the fray, nodded. “That’s finished now, I think. Jackie seems to have moved on from Uncle Charlie.”
“See?!” asked Mabel triumphantly. “She’s a free woman again so naturally she will search around for her next piece of man candy!”
“Virgil is not man candy!” Marjorie screamed at the top of her voice.
“Jackie Bouchard prefers her men married, Mabel,” Bettina pointed out. “And Virgil most definitely isn’t the kind of man she would seek out.”
“He’s a man, and that’s all Jackie needs,” Mabel insisted.
/> “My Virgil is not a man,” said Marjorie, and this drew a snort from Mabel.
“If you say so, but I think you’re delusional when it comes to your son.”
“And I think you’re despicable!” cried Marjorie, and stood quaking from outright indignation at this string of slurs on both her and her son’s character.
“And I think we should try and stop Gardenia before she commits mass murder,” interjected Felicity, trying to be the voice of reason as usual.
Marjorie sniffed. “Let Mabel stop her. She’s the one who started this whole thing in the first place. If Gardenia slays dozens, it’s on her head!”
“I’m telling you,” cried Mabel, “that it’s Mayor MacDonald’s pavement!”
“Keep telling yourself that,” said Marjorie nastily. “But you’re still her enabler.”
And as things were coming to a head, and Felicity started to think it wasn’t Gardenia Radcliffe who would draw first blood but Marjorie or Mabel, suddenly the doorbell rang, and she quickly went over to see who it was. To her surprise, she found Gardenia herself hovering on the doormat, brandishing a very neat gun, and pointing it straight at her face.
“I’m going to give you one chance to return the Ring of Hodd to Aragorn, Felicity,” Gardenia opened the conversation, “or else it’s game over for you.”
Chapter 14
Virgil paced his cell frantically. As a policeman it was usually he who put people behind bars, not the other way around. It was a strange state of affairs, therefore, that he would be the one being locked up, and not even in the nice modern cells the Happy Bays Police Department provided its inmates. He’d rarely seen dead people, and even more seldom ones who looked as horrendous as the one this jail cell of his sported.
Since he found himself with a lot of time on his hands all of a sudden, he’d counted the skeletons and so far had counted five. Three hanging from the walls, chains still keeping up their bones, and two in a sitting position, apparently having succumbed while taking a breather.
The entire thing was depressing, for he had the distinct impression that if he wasn’t sprung from this prison he would be skeleton number six before long. He wasn’t a very thickset man to begin with, his mother not one to believe in overindulging, so it wouldn’t take him all that long to expire from hunger. Or thirst, for that matter, for he’d been searching around for a cup of water, or perhaps even a thermos of coffee, but had found none. Neither were there any dispensers for the kinds of snacks he liked. And there sure as heck wasn’t a Bell’s Bakery down here. He’d never heard of this Allard place, and as far as Hodd Rings were concerned he’d never heard of those either.
He walked over to the door of his cell once again, a sturdy wooden contraption, and rattled it vigorously, then banged on it, shouting, “Let me out! I’m a police officer! It’s against the law to lock me up like this!”
But just like the first fifty times he’d gone through this routine, no response came. It was as if they didn’t even have wardens in this place. Budget cuts, no doubt.
A small barred window was set high in the stone wall, so he couldn’t reach it. What surprised him was that he could see the cloud deck from where he stood, the sun unable to pierce the gloom. But if he was feet below Lawford Street, how could he possibly see the sky? It was but one of the many questions he’d been asking himself. Another was what kind of force would open a sinkhole right in the heart of town. Sinkholes occurred, of course, and sometimes even swallowed up whole houses. But they never occurred in Happy Bays, for Chief Whitehouse would never permit them.
He now wondered if search parties would already be on the lookout, thrashing the bushes and scouring the countryside with dogs straining at the leash. His mother would most certainly be very nervous when he didn’t show up with the meatloaf. She’d raise all kinds of alarms. But would they ever think to look for him down here? He was pretty sure they wouldn’t.
So he sank down onto a decrepit cot that had seen better days, and sighed. He wasn’t a man prone to fits of depression or feelings of desperation but he was so now. Things were not looking good for him, that much was certain. And as he sank back, his hands accidentally grazed his gun belt and suddenly an idea struck him. Like a coiled spring, he jumped up from the cot and took out his service weapon. He’d never used it in the course of duty, but he was going to do so now. He studied the wooden door, then put the barrel of his gun against the lock, and pulled the trigger, averting his head as he did so.
After firing a few rounds in quick succession, making certain the shots were grouped around the lock and destroying the ancient wood, he gave the door a look of scrutiny. Then, remembering the age-old adage ‘Who dares wins,’ he put his shoulder against the door and gave it a vigorous shove.
To his elation, the door finally gave up the fight and… creaked open!
He was free! Free at last! And as he darted into the corridor, practically jumping into the air and clacking his heels together, he saw that his wasn’t the only cell on this particular block, for he now saw cell after cell lining the long corridor, wooden torches providing but scant light. He wasn’t deterred, however, but set out on this new journey with resolute step, moving toward what he hoped was the exit—his way out of this dark, dank, prison from hell.
Chapter 15
Rick Dawson leaned back in his chair. He was still holed up at his desk in the editorial office of The New York Chronicle in the heart of downtown Manhattan. He’d already put in long hours on his series revealing the exploits of Chazz Falcone, who just happened to be his father, and expected to put in many more. And as he put the finishing touches to the story how his father had swindled three council members, two bankers and five homeowners so he could foist Falcone Tower on the great people of New York, he became aware of a sensation gnawing at his bosom he could only describe as remorse.
He and his father had never seen eye to eye on pretty much anything throughout their long association, but lately they’d made their peace with one another, mostly due to Fee, who didn’t want Chazz to be absent from their lives. She was the one who’d insisted father and son put their grievances aside. And now he was writing what most assuredly would sink the man’s presidential ambitions more efficiently than that iceberg had sunk the Titanic that fateful night.
And even though he’d just written the perfect article, one that would land him on the Pulitzer shortlist, he didn’t feel the usual exhilaration that came with nailing a story.
Suggs had told him Fee called to ask him to nix the story and frankly he didn’t blame her. He probably should have listened to her when she called earlier. But when it came to his work, he was not unlike Chazz himself: tenacious and remorseless. But ever since Fee’s call a small voice had niggled at the back of his mind, clamoring for his attention, and now he finally recognized that voice for what it was: his conscience.
Could he destroy his father’s presidential hopes and dreams? As a father Chazz had been a failure, one Rick and his sister Charlene had rarely seen until much later in life. As a businessman he was unscrupulous and had stepped on many toes. But as a father-in-law he was nothing short of spectacular. He simply adored Fee, and had once even proposed marriage to her himself. And Rick was sure that as a grandfather to his kids, he would be amazing.
And could he really deny his future offspring the presence of their grandfather in their lives? In all fairness he didn’t think he could.
So he stared at his computer screen now, where the articles he’d already written were lined up, like so many bullets about to destroy his dad’s political career. He’d poured his heart and soul into those articles, and now he saw that it was no good. He couldn’t go through with this. He couldn’t drag his father’s name through the mud. So he did the only thing possible: he clicked the files, one by one, and hit the Delete key.
His heart hurt as he did so, but another, deeper part of him actually rejoiced. And when he was writing a short missive to Suggs to announce that he wouldn’t be able to deliv
er on his promise to write the series, he actually felt a strong sense of relief.
Ten minutes later he was on his way down to the parking garage, whistling a happy tune. Tonight he was going to sleep in his own bed. He wasn’t going to get that Pulitzer, but he was going to make Fee happy, and that was more important than receiving accolades from his peers.
And it was as he stepped from the elevator, a spring in his step, that he became aware of two men waiting for him, their arms folded across their chests, their buttocks wiping the dust off his car with the backs of their trench coats, their faces spelling trouble with a capital T.
The New York Chronicle parking garage would have appealed to Deep Throat, the man who’d supplied Woodward and Bernstein with some juicy tidbits about the Watergate affair, for it was all dimly lit corners and nice big concrete pillars to lean against and to hide behind, cigarette smoke slowly curling upward. It was a cavernous space and not very hospitable at all, except for men in trench coats and deep throats. Even Cancer Man, the chain-smoking mysterious figure from The X-Files, would have felt right at home here. But not Rick. He wasn’t one for Deep Throats or Semi-Deep Throats, or even Shallow Throats for that matter, lurking behind pillars.
But as he approached his car now—a dingy old Ford that had seen better days—and he saw the two goons awaiting him, he gave a deep, heartfelt sigh.
And then one of the men spoke, holding up a nifty little gun. “Hold it right there, Ricky, or consider this your final day on God’s green planet.”
Chapter 16
He didn’t even have to look hard to recognize Jerry Vale’s ratty mug, so he said, “Hey, there, Jerry,” his eye dropping to the gun the goon was pointing at him. “What’s up?”
“You know, I think I like ‘God’s green earth’ better, Jer,” said Johnny now. Almost as an aside, he nodded at Rick. “Hey, Ricky.”