by Sandra Hill
“Yep. This is a tactic, pure and simple, designed to drive us crazy.”
“She’s succeeding.”
P.T. thought about all the mental anguish he’d gone through the past few days and had to agree. “I’ll bet her lawyer is in on this. Another barracuda.” P.T. tapped his Mont Blanc pen on the blotter, then stopped himself. The stupid thing was shamefully expensive—equivalent to the down payment on his first car. “The picketing and threat of a lawsuit were deliberate teasers. They want us nervous and jittery. Just watch. The two of them are going to sashay in here, unannounced, any day now.”
“And they’re going to attempt to extort a pigload of cash out of Ferrama.” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He looked tired. Even his usual meticulous attire was rumpled. P.T. knew the stress of pulling off the stock offering, doing damage control on the picketing episode and searching for the Wall Street princess was taking its toil.
“Attempt is the key word, Dick. Let’s try calling her home again.” He pulled out her business card.
Dick put up a halting hand. “Give it up. There are fifty-eight message beeps on her answering machine, and fifty of those are from us.”
“I even went over to her place last night,” P.T. admitted. “She’s not there, or else she’s doing a good job of playing hide and seek.”
P.T. decided not to mention how long he’d stood outside the Dakota, admiring the beauty of the famous block-long building with its eclectic Victorian facade of buff yellow brick and chocolate brown stone. Despite his admiration for the aged structure, which was accented by crenellations and an iron-gated archway leading to a central courtyard, it was not the kind of home he hoped to have one day. It was too…well, majestic. Nope, he was going to live in a regular neighborhood outside the city. Someplace with a name like Blue Falls or Oak Haven. Someplace where the rat race referred only to a species of rodents.
“So, we wait it out?”
P.T. shrugged. “It’s not our standard M. O. I hate being on the defensive, but the witch has us by the balls. For now. But let’s make sure we have all our ducks in a row before she finally comes in for the attack.”
“Right.” Dick tossed a folder onto the desk. “There’s the P. I.’s report.”
“Anything in her background?”
“Not much. Nothing criminal, anyway. But lots of interesting personality stuff that you might be able to use.”
“Use? Me?” P.T. scowled at his friend. “Not the charm routine again?”
“Whatever works.”
P.T. groaned.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter how liberated women have become, they still dream of Prince Charming. And Cynthia Sullivan is no exception. The P. I. found out that she used to collect fairy-tale books when she was a kid.” Dick smirked at him as if he’d just announced some monumental news.
“So what?”
“So, Cynthia Sullivan is a babe just waiting to be plucked off the vine. Like all the rest of womankind, she yearns, deep down, for a knight in shining armor. And guess what,” he said, waving a hand in P.T.’s direction, “one prince coming up. Come on, amigo, do your magic.”
“I already told you, she didn’t fall for the looks.”
Dick grinned. “I still say your version of the looks is too smooth. Women like a little edge to the game…an underlying rawness. I should give you lessons. All right, if you insist, I’ll be the one to seduce the babe this time. Within a week, she’ll be the first shark in history to purr.”
“Screw you!” P.T. grumbled.
“No, screw her is what you mean. P.T., P.T., P.T.,” he said, shaking his head, “you are still thinking about Cynthia Sullivan as a woman, not as the enemy. And that’s dangerous. It’s probably why your looks didn’t melt her ice. In order for the looks to work, the seducer has to be cool, calm and uninvolved.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“I know. Look, we’re not accomplishing anything, sitting around here twiddling our thumbs. You wanna go grab a bite of lunch and drown our sorrows in three or four martinis? We can be pathetic together.”
“Sounds like a plan. Can we go someplace where I don’t have to be a prince?”
“Sure, as long as it’s not McDonald’s again. Besides, they don’t serve alcohol.”
As P.T. rose from his chair, the cover of the folder flipped open, and the face of Cynthia Sullivan peered up at him from a black-and-white photograph taken for her broker’s license. She stared directly at the camera, unsmiling, but there was a twinkle of mischief in her Irish eyes, probably a reaction to something the photographer had said. “Damn, she’s gorgeous.”
“No, she’s not,” Dick asserted, looking sideways at him with concern as he attempted to whisk some wrinkles out of his slacks.
Coming around the desk, P.T. arched a brow.
“She’s not bad looking, I’ll concede that. But gorgeous? No way!”
“If a woman’s appearance doesn’t shout bimbo, you think she’s less than a ten.”
“She’s hard, P.T. And foul-mouthed. Bette Midler with a Harvard MBA. Since when do you go for that type?”
“Unlike you, I never limited myself to types.” He sidestepped the punch Dick attempted to deliver to his upper arm.
“Ha! She doesn’t even have a great bod.”
“Are you nuts? Those legs alone would drive a man to impure thoughts.”
“I never knew you to be a leg man.”
“I’m an everything man…when it comes to gorgeous women like Cynthia Sullivan.”
“I am really worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” He poked Dick in the arm as they walked out the door. “What can a goose do, a duck can’t and a lawyer should?”
“Please. Your jokes are so old they aren’t the least bit funny anymore.”
“Stick his bill up his ass.”
“See. Not funny. At all.”
P.T. chortled anyhow, then asked, “Should we stop and see if Jake wants to join us?”
“Nah. He’s down at the police station.” Dick mumbled the last words.
“Why?” P.T. tensed, suddenly alert, and stopped in his tracks.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Why stop now?”
“All right. If you must know, someone stole the limo.”
“Oh, God!”
“And there are bullet holes in the elevator.”
“What next? A stiff in the closet?”
“I sure hope not,” Dick grumbled.
Cynthia was bored stiff.
After two days of incarceration, she had indulged in five bubble baths using Priscilla’s Perfumed Pellets. (Thank God her fifty-foot restraining chain extended to the adjoining bathroom.) She’d listened to every Elvis song ever recorded on an old-fashioned 45-rpm record player. (The first time Elmer had boasted that he had a forty-five collection, her heart had jumped, thinking he meant guns.) She had learned all she ever wanted to know (which wasn’t much) about fairies, angels and rock ’n’ roll from the flaky but kind-hearted Elmer. And she’d endured a mud mask, makeup demonstration, facial aerobics, color analysis, eyebrow waxing, manicure and pedicure from Ruth, who’d attended no less than five beauty schools where, Cynthia suspected, she’d been a less than superior student. Only brain-melting tedium had caused her to submit to the dingbat’s ministrations.
No, that was mean-spirited, she immediately chastised herself. Ruth was a gentle, friendly woman who was trying her best to make Cynthia’s confinement bearable. Unlike Naomi, who cared only about the castle and its unending renovations. Yesterday Cynthia had put a stranglehold on Ruth’s neck, threatening to choke her to death if they didn’t release her. Naomi had barely blinked an eye. “Go ahead,” she had commented, walking blithely out of the room. “I’ve thought about it more than once myself.”
In fairness, Cynthia conceded that Naomi might have known she’d never follow through. But then again, maybe not.
“I’m turning into a prune here,” she called out t
o Ruth from her bubble bath. Through the open door, she could see Ruth sitting cross-legged on the bed, drying Cynthia’s newly laundered panties and camisole with a blow-dryer. Naomi still wouldn’t allow her any additional clothes, not even one of Ruth’s gaudy bimbo outfits. The only way Cynthia could remove her underwear for washing was to pull the panties completely off both legs, then down the chain attached to her ankle—a ridiculous, convoluted procedure necessitated by Naomi’s stubbornness.
“Just a sec,” Ruth answered brightly.
“And this hot oil treatment…should it be congealing on my hair?”
Ruth bit her bottom lip. “Oops.”
“Oops? Oops what?” Cynthia asked, emerging gingerly from the slippery tub. What she didn’t need was another injury. Her toes were healing very nicely, thanks to the freedom of going barefoot and some Dr. Scholl’s foot products Naomi had miraculously produced. Naomi was determined that when Cynthia was finally released, there would be no sign of the corn to produce in court. Little did she know that Cynthia’s lawyer had already gotten all the photographic and medical documentation needed.
A half hour later, Cynthia was sitting on a chair by the bedroom window while Ruth used a diffuser on her long hair. Outside, birds sang melodiously, and fresh country air wafted in on a slight breeze.
“I am sick of hearing birds chirp merrily. Why do they have to be so merry all the time? And the air is too darn fresh here.”
“Don’t you like the smell of pine forests and wild flowers?”
“I can get that from a spray of Glade. Give me good ol’ Manhattan any day, with horns blaring, venders hawking and life moving at a fast pace.”
Ruth nodded and chewed gum at the same time. Watermelon flavor, she would guess. “Actually, I like cities, too. When I get my million dollars—that’s what P.T. will give me after the stock sale, plus the trust fund—well, then Elmer and me are gonna buy a tour bus. He already has a band put together. And we’re off to Las Vegas.”
Viva Las Vegas! “Do you believe Elmer is…uh, a fairy?”
“A fairy!” Ruth exclaimed, then put the fingertips of one hand to her mouth and giggled. “Oh, Cynthia! You are such a kidder.”
Yep, that’s me. World-class kidder.
“Elmer is the sexiest man alive.”
“He is?”
“Oh, yeah.” Ruth rolled her eyes dramatically and picked up a funny-shaped comb with three long plastic prongs, which she was using to fluff out Cynthia’s now dry hair. “My third husband, Chuck, was a Chippendale’s dancer, and…”
Her third husband?
“…Lordy, but Chuck did have the body of a Greek god,” Ruth told her, pausing with a slight smile of remembrance. “I was out of luck, though, when it came time for Chuck to…well, you know. He was nothing in the sack compared to Elmer.”
I do not need to know this. I do not want to picture Elmer doing…things. “I didn’t mean that kind of fairy, Ruth. I mean the magical kind. You know, like Tinkerbell or Brigadoon.”
Ruth just gaped at her in confusion. Apparently, Cynthia was the only one to whom Elmer had given the fairy snow job.
“Just because Elmer is unique doesn’t mean he’s queer or crazy,” Ruth told her defensively. “Elmer always marched to the beat of a different drummer…uh, guitar.”
Maybe he ought to march himself to the nearest psychiatrist, Cynthia thought, but she restrained her tongue, not wanting to hurt Ruth’s feelings.
“There,” Ruth said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look much better. And your ends aren’t dry at all now.” She started to walk to the other side of the room. “Let me get a hand mirror so you can check out your new ’do.”
“Just so it’s not a beehive like you gave me yesterday. What I really want is my laptop with email access, a television with the stock channel and a telephone.”
“We don’t have cable or telephone connections here, Cindy.” Ruth had taken to using Elmer’s nickname for her, despite Cynthia’s repeated corrections. She was rummaging through her huge makeup carryall for a mirror.
“I’d also like to get my hands on your stepbrother…Prince Ferrama.”
Ruth glanced up, giving her a conspiratorial grin. “P.T. is good-looking, isn’t he? You’ll have to stand in line, though. Lots of women want him.”
I’ll bet they do. “That’s not why I want him. I have no thoughts of unwrapping him, like the gift Elmer intends for me.”
“Elmer plans to give you P.T.? For a gift?” The prospect seemed to stun Ruth. So that was another bit of info Elmer had shared only with her. “Well, if anyone can do it, Elmer can,” Ruth concluded finally. She was now tossing every blessed thing out of her bag onto a dresser, in search of the elusive mirror.
“Yeah. Elmer says it’s his mission in life to give me a Prince Charming…as a gift. In this case, Prince Peter. Gawd! It boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Anyhow, I can’t picture unwrapping a big box with the prince inside. But I do have this vision of wrapping him in about fifty yards of Naomi’s duct tape and dropping him off the castle catwalk.”
Ruth giggled.
She thinks I’m joking. “Or boiling him in oil.”
Ruth giggled again. “The only oil in the castle is the one hundred percent virgin olive oil down in the kitchen.”
“That’ll do. Of course, I might just prefer stretching him on the rack, assuming this palace has a dungeon.”
Ruth frowned. “Just a wine cellar.”
“Perfect.”
“Naomi was really mad when she saw what you did to P.T.’s oil painting.” Ruth had finally found the hand mirror and was marching back toward Cynthia when her eyes shifted to the wall behind the bed.
They both glanced at the white-splotched portrait. Lacking darts, Cynthia had spent two hours yesterday, in between bubble baths, throwing wet dough balls, formed from rolled and dampened bread centers, at his portrait. He looked rather good with soggy splats on his full, unsmiling lips, which she refused to consider sensual, between his compelling dark eyes (black as Toal’s cloak, her grandma would say, and deep as a maiden’s well) and in the middle of his family crest, which adorned the gold pendant hanging from a ribbon around his neck (a neck she pictured circled by her squeezing fingertips).
Every time she mentioned the cad to her captors, they hedged and avoided direct answers. They wouldn’t even tell her about his kingdom in the Canary Islands. She was convinced he was behind this madcap caper, and he was going to pay…with more than a stock settlement, too. Her price was going up by the minute. She only hoped her brain cells didn’t atrophy during the next nineteen days. She’d need her wits about her when she cleaned his clock and that of Ferrama, Inc.
“Where’s Naomi, by the way? I haven’t heard her electric sander all morning.” Cynthia didn’t see much of Naomi, who held the key to her chains. Most of the time, Naomi was off sanding, drilling or painting.
“She had Elmer drive her to the hardware store in Red Hook. That’s a little town about twenty-five miles from here.” Ruth handed her the mirror and sat down on a chair beside her. “You’ll be pleased to know that Elmer is gonna try to rent a TV and a VCR. Not that we’d be able to get any television stations, but we can always watch videos.”
“Of Elvis, no doubt,” Cynthia muttered under her breath. Out loud, she asked, “Why is Naomi so obsessed with renovating this monstrosity?”
Ruth shrugged. “We all have our dreams, don’t we?”
“But some of us know enough to make our dreams realistic. I assume she’ll be using her million dollars to finish the job here. What a waste! I know a terrific mutual fund she could invest in that yields—”
Ruth made a tsk-ing cluck of the tongue and gazed at Cynthia with an expression bordering on pity. “Cindy, dreams aren’t supposed to be realistic. What’s the point of dreams if a person can’t wish for the impossible?”
How did one argue with such logic?
“Naomi never had much of a social life, although I think she could
be pretty if she’d only let me give her a makeover. And deep down I think she was affected by our mother’s death even more than I. When Daddy married P.T.’s mother—I was only eleven then, and Naomi twelve—she began to dream of this grand home she would have someday where she would be totally in charge. You see, Daddy treated us like little princesses, never letting us make our own decisions. Then, when he died, P.T. took over and did the same thing. I never minded the domineering attitude of Daddy or P.T., but Naomi hated it…and still does. To her, having this castle represents a kind of…freedom.”
It made an odd kind of sense to Cynthia. “So Peter is a prince through his mother’s side of the family,” she mused. “That must have been really exciting for you and Naomi when your dad remarried into royalty.”
“Well, we were kinda young then. And P.T. started bossing us around right from the start; so, it was hard to be impressed.”
“I guess P.T.’s mother must have given up her right to the throne when she married for love, right?” Cynthia hardly suppressed her sigh at the romantic notion.
“Well, Eva did move to New Jersey with P.T.” Ruth was looking everywhere but at Cynthia as she spoke. Their conversation must be dredging up painful memories.
“Eva Ferrama…what a beautiful name!”
“Oh, she was so-o-o beautiful, Cindy. Like a princess, she was…I mean, she was a princess and all that…but, well, you know what I mean. Let’s talk about something else.” Her face was red as a beet with discomfort.
“Just one last thing. Will Peter be willing to give up his castle to Naomi?”
“Hah! He hates this place.”
“Oh? I guess that’s why it’s only fixed up in some places. Which reminds me…how come so much of it, like this bedroom, is only refurbished on one side?”
Ruth’s eyes darted away, avoiding Cynthia’s scrutiny. “Let’s talk about something else,” she suggested again. “Look,” she said, pointing to the mirror in Cynthia’s hand. “What do you think?”
Cynthia lifted the mirror and let out a little squeak of surprise. Oh, my God, I have big hair. Really big hair. Really big curly hair. If ever there was a hair-do, this is a hair-don’t. She started to tell Ruth to comb it out immediately, then noticed her waiting expectantly for her response, a vulnerable look in her heavily mascara-ed eyes.