by Mary Carter
Skydive. Beverly Wilder had always wanted to skydive. “There’s something else—something important—and it won’t come to me.” She grasped her head while Queenie prayed she’d remember and it would have something to do with the holy trinity: eating, drinking, and shopping.
Skydiving. Bloody skydiving.
“Come on now, mate; the plane is going to take off without us,” Jasper said.
Queenie cleared his throat. If they wanted to do this, he was going to use his stage voice so they would know exactly what they were getting themselves into. “The human body isn’t meant to hurl toward the earth at twelve thousand feet.” He peered at Beverly, whose face looked every bit of seventy-four, but her excited blue eyes could have been those of a ten-year-old. Especially with that silly cap, suit, and goggles. She was going to break his concentration. Queenie took a long, dramatic pause.
“Oh, do hand it over,” Beverly said. She reached for it. He yanked it away.
“It says at best you could break an ankle, or end up paralyzed for life.” He paused for dramatic effect. “At best, Beverly.”
“If I do, it certainly won’t be for very long and I won’t ask you to wipe my arse,” Beverly said. Weeks. The doctor said she had a matter of weeks. Queenie had a sneaking suspicion that Beverly had known something was wrong long before she finally went round to the doctor, and now it was too late. The cancer had spread. She would be dead in a matter of weeks. His sweet, precious Beverly. He didn’t want to imagine his life without her. He was the funny sidekick; she was the star. He was supposed to kick it first.
“They’re waving us over,” Jasper said. “I’ve already signed my contract.” He handed Beverly a pen, and turned on Queenie. “I can just get another one, mate,” he said. Cheeky lad.
Beverly pointed at her skydiving instructor, who was indeed waving them over to his little plane. Then she turned her finger on Queenie. “I am going to get strapped to that ravishing young man over there, and I am going to jump out of that aeroplane, and I’m going to feel the wind on my face, and I’m going to fly. Then you can either pick my broken body up off the ground or take me out for a cocktail and stitch me up one side and down the other. But for now, you’re going to give me that bloody contract, wish me British luck, and stay the hell out of my way.”
“Oh, here.” Queenie thrust the contract at her. “But you’re buying the cocktails.”
“To hell with the cocktails, I’ll leave you my flat.”
Beverly’s beautiful flat. The words made a little pulse in Queenie’s eye start to jump. She didn’t have family other than some American niece she’d never seen or even spoken to as far as Queenie knew. There was a reason for it, something that was wrong with the girl, but Queenie couldn’t remember the details. He was trying to remember when Beverly barked at Queenie to bend over.
“Don’t I always?” he said as he assumed the position and she used his back as a table. When she was finished signing her life away, Queenie knew it was no use arguing any longer. He stood and waved at them as they made their way to the plane. I’ll leave you my flat. Tears came to his eyes. It was like accepting an Academy Award.
Thank you, Beverly, thank you. Dear, sweet Beverly. The flat was in the West End of London. Beverly’s family had owned it going back several generations. When her parents passed and her brother moved to America, it was all hers, although legally it was in both siblings’ names. But then the brother passed. Beverly had been utterly heartbroken. Worse still, in her time of grief her brother’s wife still couldn’t let go of their petty grievances and wouldn’t even let Beverly see or talk to her own niece. He used to rail against that woman every time he saw Beverly crying over a picture of the girl. Years passed with no contact. Beverly sent letters, cards, postcards, gifts. She didn’t get a single thank-you in reply. “Gretchen isn’t giving them to her,” Beverly would say. “I just know it.” The few times Gretchen returned Beverly’s calls she hinted that Ava wasn’t well. Ever since Bertrand’s death, she’d—how did Beverly put it? Recoiled from the world. Queenie didn’t know exactly what that meant except it sounded absolutely horrific. By the time Ava was grown up, Beverly was tired of trying, and too afraid to try to connect anymore. Surely the mother had poisoned Ava against her, and she didn’t want to face that kind of rejection twice. Lucky for Queenie though, it meant the flat was his.
That was a terrible thought, but it’s not like he said it out loud. If Queenie could perform magic he’d wave his wand and give Beverly a relationship with her niece. But he wasn’t magic, and it certainly wasn’t his fault. Queenie couldn’t take on the weight of the world. He couldn’t change his past, let alone anyone else’s. And he had a right to be happy about his good fortune. Beverly wanted to give him the flat and he was going to humbly accept it.
Oh, wait until the lads heard about this. He’d be popular again, that’s for sure. They’d probably want him to reprise his Streisand act. He’d finally be the one hosting the after-party after-party. Oh yes, fabulous after-after parties. The view of London from Beverly’s flat was a showstopper. No more living with his brother in a tiny, smelly hovel. He would cherish it, he would! He wouldn’t change a thing. He wouldn’t even rearrange the collection of theater posters on her wall. Even though he thought it was absolutely hideous to hang Pippin next to Cats. It was all going to be his. But Beverly would be dead.
It was unfathomable. He would put it out of his mind straightaway.
Perhaps there were a few minor décor changes he would make. Nothing major. The lampshades with the pink tassels. Not even a drag queen could appreciate them. There was no other way around it. They would be the first to go.
Beverly stood at the opening of the plane. She was supposed to jump. Queenie was right. It was not normal to jump out of a perfectly good airplane and into the sky. They were so high. Nothing but clouds. She gripped the doorframe with both hands, and clung to life. Her instructor uncurled her fingers. “No turning back now, luv.” He pushed them out.
Air screamed into Beverly’s ears. Pain roared through her head. Her face flattened from the wind. She imagined she looked like one of those flying squirrels. But a few seconds later, the pain ceased, and the tunnel of air lessened. She remembered to arch her back and legs and throw out her arms like the instructor taught her. And then, she was flying.
Soaring, floating, cascading, gliding in the wind. She was like a bird. Everyone should feel this sensation once in his or her life. Everyone should feel this alive, this free. Her younger brother’s face suddenly appeared before her. “Bertie!” Oh, how she missed him. She would be seeing him soon if heaven was for real. He wasn’t smiling. But he loved adventures! Why wasn’t he smiling? Because she’d failed. First she’d failed him, and then she’d failed Ava. Dear, sweet Ava. She should have tried harder. She should have been nicer to Gretchen, no matter how impossibly wrong that woman had been for her brother. She should have kept her opinions to herself. It drove a wedge between her and Bertie she’d never been able to repair. Ava had been a child stuck in the middle of stubborn adults fighting over petty bits and bobs. Beverly should have been the one to swallow the sword. Her pride had kept her from helping her niece. It was too late. Why hadn’t she done anything? Oh, why hadn’t she done anything? The clock was ticking. Was there anything she could do? Anything at all?
Help her! she could have sworn she heard Bertie yelling through the wind. Help our Ava.
They picked up speed; how could the ground be coming up already? She wanted to fly forever. She wanted to do it again. Faster and faster they approached. The instructor dipped back and she pulled her knees up for landing. Queenie was standing, grinning, and, good Lord, weeping. Their feet stuttered on the ground, and then Beverly, with her instructor on her back, fell face-first into the dirt. She heard Queenie gasp. But when they finally pulled her up, she was laughing. That was toptastic. Jasper landed right behind her. Smoothly, as only the young can land. She grasped his hands and together they smiled. Then, she rem
embered, and her smile evaporated.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jasper said.
“I have indeed,” Beverly said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ava,” Beverly said. She grasped Jasper’s hands. “We have to do something about Ava.”
CHAPTER 4
Ava was perched at her kitchen table, working on a cartoon strip about young lovers scaling Mount Kilimanjaro, when the doorbell rang. Oh no. No, no, no. Unexpected guests could poison her entire day. The doorbell rang again. She’d been just about to sketch the lovers reaching the peak, a triumphant feat to be celebrated, until it’s discovered that one of them, probably the man, left the camera at base camp and it snowballs into their first big fight. That was the part she was looking forward to the most. Love didn’t count until you’d survived that first big fight. The doorbell rang for the third time. Leave me alone; I’m on a mountaintop.
Ava picked up the remote and aimed it at the monitor hanging in the upper corner of the room. It flickered to life, illuminating the unwelcome guests as two uniformed police officers. Cliff, her boss in a way, and the one she was sleeping with, and most likely his partner, Joe. They looked funny together. Joe was a tall beanpole. Cliff was handsome all right, dark good looks and so muscular, but let’s face it—he was short. Still, he was sexy. He had that gruff Napoléon thing going on, and he was good in bed. Not that Ava had anyone to compare it with. Unbeknownst to him, Cliff was her first. It was hard to play the field when you were afraid of the field itself. Cliff cupped his hand over his eyes and tried to peer into her windows. “Amateur,” she said. Her windows were sealed with black sheets. He knew that.
Given the presence of his partner, Cliff wasn’t here for a lunch-hour quickie. Too bad; sex with Cliff was always a nice distraction. Ava turned up the volume on the monitor. She could hear them conferring but couldn’t make out the words. It was her day off. What did they want?
Ava stood and moved along the wall. Despite the black sheets, she didn’t want to take the chance that Cliff could sense her movements. Why hadn’t he called first? She’d wait them out. They’d leave eventually.
“Ava,” Cliff said. “I know you’re in there.” His voice would carry down the block. To the neighbors. Of course he knew she was in here. She was always in here.
“It’s my day off,” Ava said. She was in her pajamas even though it was only two in the afternoon. There were very few perks to being an agoraphobic. Wearing your pajamas at two in the afternoon was one of them.
“It’s a work emergency,” Cliff said.
“Do you have a client with you?” She didn’t want to sketch criminals today, only lovers.
“Open up,” Cliff said. “You know I hate talking through the door.”
“I’m not dressed,” Ava said.
“I’m going to put the siren on.”
That would draw the attention of the neighbors. Cliff knew just how to push her buttons. “Dammit.” Ava opened the door. “Hurry,” she said. Cliff and Joe stepped inside and Ava shut and locked the door behind them. Three locks. She checked them twice. Joe glanced at the locks, then at her horse pajamas, and then looked away. Cliff stared openmouthed at her pj’s. “It’s my day off,” Ava said.
“We need you to do a sketch,” Cliff said.
Ava sighed. “Why doesn’t the department just switch to computer sketches like every other police department in the country?”
“Because we’ve got you.”
Flattery wasn’t going to work. The department was cheap, and old-fashioned. That was the real reason. Not that Ava was complaining. It paid the bills. “She or he?” Probably a she. It was normally a she.
“It’s a girl.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“How can I sketch her now? I don’t see her here.” She smiled so that Joe wouldn’t sense her hostility and figure out that she and Cliff were lovers. Ava watched Joe take in the black sheets hanging over her windows.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” Ava said.
Joe put his hand over his heart. “I’m so sorry. Who died?” Poor guy. Ava bet his daughters ran right over him.
“My father,” Ava said.
“Oh my God,” Joe said. “We’re so sorry to bother you. Our condolences.” He tipped his hat and headed for the door.
“Nineteen years ago,” Cliff said.
Joe stopped before his hand reached the doorknob. “Pardon?”
“Ava’s father died nineteen years ago,” Cliff said.
Joe frowned, then shook his finger at Ava as if he’d just figured out her secret. “Are you on a stakeout?”
“A stakeout?” Cliff said. He gestured to the black sheets. “She can’t see out the windows. How could she be on a stakeout?”
“You’re close, Jim,” Ava said.
“It’s Joe.”
“Right, sorry. I forget that some people get to be called by their real names.”
“Their real names?” Joe said.
“We don’t have time for this,” Cliff said.
“I had to change my name when I went into hiding,” Ava said.
Cliff shook his head. “Cut it out.”
Joe straightened up, hooked his thumbs into his pants. “You can trust me.”
“I’m in witness protection.”
“Holy shit. I knew it. I knew there was something . . . about you.” He paused in the place where Ava was sure he wanted to say “odd.”
“Seriously?” Cliff said.
“Please, don’t blow my cover.”
“Holy shit,” Joe said. He took a step forward and lowered his chin. “Mob?”
“Would I be wearing horse pajamas if it wasn’t the Mob, Joe?” Ava said deadpan. Joe squinted and considered her question. Ava should behave; she really should. But when you stayed in all the time, your pent-up energy had to go somewhere. It was too fun messing with people like Joe. And there was no real harm done.
“Get dressed!” Cliff said. “You’re coming to the station.” The station? Ava never went to the station. Never. “If I have to put you over my shoulder and carry you out covered in asses—”
“Asses?”
He glanced at her pajamas. “Mules, ponies, whatever.”
“They’re horses. Racehorses.” It was her day off. She could wear whatever freaking pajamas she wanted to wear.
“It’s the mayor’s daughter,” Cliff said.
“Emma?” Everyone knew the mayor’s only daughter, Emma. Everyone loved Emma. A blond angel. A total sweetheart. She was just about to celebrate her sweet sixteen. A party for the ages. “Is she all right?”
“It was an attempted kidnapping. A man grabbed her just outside the mayoral home. She screamed and bit him. Bodyguards came running.”
“Oh my God.”
“You don’t want him to get away, do you?”
Ava glanced at Joe, who became intensely interested in a porcelain cat on the windowsill. He reached out as if to pet it.
“Don’t touch that,” Ava said to Joe. “It’s bugged.” He jerked his hand away. God, Ava was an awful person. He was just too easy. Ava stepped closer to Cliff. “Bring her here,” Ava said.
“High profile. Can’t bend the rules on this one.”
“I’m not prepared,” Ava said. “You know I have to prepare.”
“You don’t have a choice. Not if you want to keep your job.”
“Call Gary Vance.” He wasn’t as good as Ava, but then again, he also wasn’t afraid of showing up to work.
“The mayor requested a female sketch artist. He requested you.”
“By name?”
“Yes.”
“The mayor knows my name?”
“Of course he knows your name. Your sketches have led to ten apprehensions in three years. Makes him look good. Like it or not, people know your name.”
“But not your real name,” Joe said. “Right?”
Cliff shot Joe a look. �
��What’s it going to be? Either you come with me or you resign.”
Shit. Ava couldn’t lose her job. If she lost her job she’d lose her home. It was only a rental, but it was safe. But she wasn’t prepared. She wasn’t prepared. Did she have any Xanax in the medicine cabinet? “I’ll get dressed.” Ava hurried into her room. Getting dressed was easy. She didn’t have very many outfits. She threw on black pants and a black top. She grabbed a blindfold from her top dresser drawer. She grabbed her cell phone and pushed the speed-dial button for her therapist, Diana. While it rang she hurried into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She rifled through the contents. No Xanax. She’d had no reason to refill the prescription. Cliff didn’t mind hanging out at her place. He brought all her clients here. She could get everything she wanted delivered. Her mother stopped pushing her years ago. Why did it have to be Emma? Poor, sweet Emma.
Ava reached Diana’s voice mail. Nobody was ever home. How easy it was for most people to go places, do things. Ava would kill to feel so free. She hung up and ran into the living room. “You’re going to need to blindfold me,” she told Cliff. “Carry me out to the car. You’re also going to have to talk the entire time. I don’t care what you talk about; just don’t stop talking. And Xanax. You’re going to have to find me some Xanax.”
Ava and Emma sat in a back room of the police station. As requested, the windows were covered in Ava’s black sheets. Ava was going to get through this, and she was going to help catch the man who tried to kidnap the mayor’s daughter. Two bodyguards stood by the door, Cliff was in the left corner behind Ava, and the mayor’s wife, Mrs. Rhodes, sat next to her daughter, holding her hand.
“Why the sheets?” Mrs. Rhodes asked.
Cliff stepped forward. “To protect Emma’s identity.” Thank you, thank you, thank you, Ava thought. He wasn’t the best boyfriend in the world, but at that moment he really came through. She was going to owe him one.