Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  I shook Officer Friendly’s hand. “Thanks so much. I’ll be okay from here.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to wait?” His green eyes were so concerned I thought about adopting him. My maternal instincts were in overdrive. Another pregnancy symptom.

  Part of me wanted him to wait but I was tired of acting like some kind of scaredy-cat wimpy broad. I smiled. “I’ll be fine. If the robber had a partner, he’ll be long gone by the time I get out of here.”

  Officer Friendly went to the elevator and I pushed on Doctor McKenna’s door, feeling like I was entering a portal to a different life. He was waiting with his nurse. She looked put-upon and as tightly wound as the pile of hair on the top of her head, obviously pissed about my incursion into her weekend. The last day of the workweek turns manic workers into manic I’m-off-for-two-days lemmings ready to follow the leader into mandated leisure fun.

  Doctor McKenna stepped out of the exam room. Nurse McNasty handed me a paper jacket and a piece of paper equivalent to an oversized Kleenex and told me to strip as if I didn’t already know the drill. I’d been a female for a number of years.

  Naked, except for the little paper jacket designed to fit short Martians with fat arms and no torsos, I mounted the table and put my feet in the stirrups. I tossed the piece of paper between my legs. I hoped whoever designed these examination tables was burning in hell with his legs gaped open. Absolutely nothing was private from your toes to your molars. I imagined an auctioneer’s voice calling out my features and drawbacks as I lay on exhibition. “What will you bid for this fine low-mileage specimen? Do I hear…”

  Doctor McKenna entered the room, sat on a low stool, put his head between my legs, and mumbled. He was in the driver’s seat with his hands in the ten and two positions on my stirrup-legs. Wacky from crime-scene adrenalin and hormones, my Looney Tunes imagination kicked in and a visual of the doctor driving the exam table up I-95 at ninety miles an hour with me on it popped into my head. I covered my mouth with my fingers to smother a nervous giggle.

  The smell of antiseptic on my hand threw me into a tsunami of nausea. I needed to sit up fast, but with McKenna in my crotch I was screwed, so to speak. I turned to my right and caught sight of the nurse leaning near the door with a lemon-sucking expression on her face. I briefly wondered if I could reach her if I hurled then swallowed it.

  He patted my kneecap in a fatherly way as he stood up “You can get dressed. I’ll see you in my office.”

  Released from the stirrups I was flooded by anticipation, due dates, baby’s names, and designer maternity clothes. I threw on my undies, black slacks and tunic and wobbled into the doctor’s private office.

  Doctor McKenna sat behind his huge walnut desk, his hands in a prayerful position. A glow from the overhead light bounced off his scalp through his comb-over. He took off his wireframe glasses and leaned forward.

  “Wendy, you’re not pregnant.”

  Of course I was pregnant. What did he know? “I want a second opinion.”

  He held out his hands, palms up. “Don’t waste your time. You are positively not pregnant.”

  “What about the vertigo?” I asked.

  Doctor McKenna looked at me like I’d failed sex education. “Vertigo is not a symptom of pregnancy. Not by itself.”

  “But I peed on the stick and it came up yes… I think.” Had the excitement blurred my vision?

  “Regardless, no baby is in there.” He stood, walked around his desk and helped me to my feet. I left his office and stomped past Nurse McNasty who sat at the receptionist’s desk glaring at me. How humiliating to not be pregnant after five on Friday.

  Holding back tears I made my way to the elevator. Roger and I had just finished our third archaeological case in less than a year and I was shopping for an obstetrician, my emotions a mix of joy and oh shit.

  I recalled the look on Roger’s face when I told him I was preggers based on my symptoms of dizziness, nausea, food cravings, and the results of my home pregnancy test. I was shaken, not stirred. But Roger was so happy. The buttons on his safari jacket popped. My focus switched from tomb to womb that afternoon.

  Now, there was no little Roger on the way. All my symptoms were due to extreme dehydration from our Cairo caper. I was in a fog of loss and relief as I strode across the street and into the parking garage.

  Six forty-five and the garage was empty. “Hello! Miami PD?”

  No response. Even the echo had gone home. How could the crime scene investigators and medical examiner’s people have finished so quickly? Were they afflicted with the leave-work-as-early-as-possible-on-Friday syndrome also? I regretted not accepting Officer Friendly’s offer to wait for me.

  I pulled out my cell phone and punched in nine-one-one but didn’t hit send. What did I have to report? Woman delusional about pregnancy now hallucinating about monsters in shadowy garage.

  If Goldie was where I left her she would be on the next level. Faster to walk the ramp than go to the stairwell in the corner. The staccato sound of my heels on the concrete again reminded me of gunfire. A gust of wind lifted empty potato chip bags, hamburger wrappers, and crumpled napkins. Litterers should burn in hell next to the bastard that designed the gyno examination table. I was not in a good mood.

  I reached the next level and spotted Goldie. She hadn’t moved an inch. What a relief to see her, my home on wheels. I bleeped the fob and she returned my greeting. I settled inside no longer able to hold back my tears.

  Not that the dead body wasn’t a biggie but my mind was on Roger. It wasn’t as if we discussed getting pregnant. I wasn’t sure I was able to conceive. He was so thrilled by the news. He had no family. His baby brother was kidnapped when Roger was nine. His mom and dad were gone. The baby would have been his family.

  I sucked in a deep breath to help me gather my emotions. I saw the miniature Roger in tiny brown wingtips toddle off in a wishful cloud. At forty-two my biological clock was slip-sliding to a halt. If not preggers why did I crave Häagen-Dazs mango ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? There were five containers in the freezer at home calling to me.

  My cell phone rang as I put the car in reverse. Without checking caller ID, I blurted, “Roger?”

  “Who the hell is Roger?” The voice sounded like a geriatric obscene caller.

  “Wendy, I need you!” The Uncle Sam poster flashed into my mind again. The second time I was needed today. Maybe this time it wouldn’t involve a corpse.

  It was my old mentor, Alfred Hiccup. And I mean old. Hic rasped on, “I have two weeks left to exist in this husk, no longer a body, just a husk. I’ve made my final arrangements. You’re the only person on this side I can trust, beside MacGuffin.”

  At ninety-six, Hic’s mind went on frequent flights of fancy. He was positive that after his demise he would return to life via reincarnation, transmigration, or a Greyhound Bus. He refused to sell any of his collection of once luxury, now decrepit, hotels. Purchased for ten cents on the dollar in the nineteen-fifties, Hic’s forty-plus hotels scattered from Maine to Florida were good for only one thing… Halloween Horror Nights.

  My hackles stood at attention. “Who’s MacGuffin?”

  He coughed juicily, sputum hitting the phone in little splats. “My transition coach. Now let’s get back to the favor you owe me.”

  There was only one thing I could possibly owe Alfred Hiccup… his Bronco Buster. Hic had entrusted me with his early cast of Remington’s Bronco Buster last summer. The thirty-two-inch high statue was worth at least a quarter million. Remington cast only ninety of them in bronze. One of them resided in the Oval Office, one of the reasons that Hic’s was very special to him. The darn thing was stolen while in my care as a volunteer coordinator for a charity exhibition for retired Florida cowboys.

  I tried to escape the trap I felt closing around me. “Don’t be silly. You’re not dying. You’re peppery as hell.”

  He growled, “An art dick located my bronco. I want you to steal it back. Get your ass up
to Nashville now. I’m at the Thornhill. I’ll put you up for the night. We’ll work on a tactical plan for the repossession.”

  “I was a witness to a murder today. The police said not to leave town.”

  “There’s a late flight out of Miami International. Be on it.”

  Chapter Four

  The hands on my White Rabbit watch read seven on the pink nose. I was sticky from the crime scene and slimy from McKenna’s probing. Plenty of time to get across the causeway to my Miami Beach apartment, shower, change, and pack before meeting Tippy at eight-thirty.

  I used the Bluetooth link in my Jag to make a plane reservation on the last flight to Nashville via my cell phone. With that accomplished, I was able to devote more of my energy to fretting. I was on the causeway but barely moving. The Friday Traffic Gods had nailed me. I squirmed, tapped my fingernails on the dashboard, and mumbled unladylike words. None of it helped. We proceeded at stop-and-crawl all the way to the end of the causeway where a fender-bender had idiot rubberneckers gawking instead of driving.

  That burned up an hour. Collins Avenue would be a mess so I had to meet Tippy before going to my apartment. I’d keep it short then go home, pack, and head to the airport. I should have blown Tippy off but she was a big-bucks client in some kind of trouble and said she needed me. I don’t have it in me to leave people in the lurch, even when they weren’t my favorite people.

  Goldie and I fought our way south on Collins to Spellbound, an upscale club specializing in dark private booths. I didn’t have time to fool with valet parking so I pulled into an empty slot next to the valet stand and wedged a twenty in the attendant’s hand. “I’m keeping my keys. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  I tripped as I walked from marble to carpet but caught myself on the hostess stand. The slender brunette shot me a condescending smile. “Wendy?” I nodded and she led me to a back booth where Tippy was sipping white wine.

  I slid into the booth. The dainty debutante pushed a glass of white wine toward me. She lowered her nearly empty glass and glared at me. “You owe me big time.”

  She knew how to get my dander up. “I don’t owe you jack. A deal is a deal. I did my part by bringing the owners of the Bates Hotel to the table at a great price, about thirty percent below market. Thanks to my sources, you knew they were in a tight spot and would take a deep discount for a quick deal. It’s not my fault you didn’t commission a routine archaeological field survey in accordance with the historic preservation code. Your dad knew better…”

  Tears trickling down her cheeks stopped my tirade. She wiped her eyes with her drink napkin. “That was my fault. Daddy left that up to me and I messed up. Now I have mummies. Not one but two friggin’ mummies!” She threw her hands in the air dumping the last drops of her Pinot Grigio on the table. “And worse, I have Indians on the warpath.”

  I winced. I guess when you grow up with as much money as Tippy, political correctness isn’t always on your mind. Now that she’d raised the subject of Native Americans, the face of the dead guy struck a note. “Is the Bates deal related to what happened in the garage?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how they found out, but a few days after the mummies were found, we got a call from a Semaphore tribal elder. He claimed the land was a burial ground for the old Tequesta tribe and should not be further disturbed. We told him it was our land and we’d do what we wanted with it once the mummy hoax was cleared up. The tribe has become ever more threatening since then. I found a tomahawk on my doorstep this morning.”

  “That doesn’t sound legit. They might as well leave their address for the cops. A tomahawk is a joke.”

  “The guy in the garage today wasn’t a joke. Nor was this.” She pulled her Hermès scarf aside revealing bruises on her neck that could have been made by somebody grabbing her throat.

  I grasped her hand. “Oh my God, Tippy. What happened?”

  “My architect is in a building right around the corner from that garage so it’s the easiest place to park. I stepped out of my car and there was this Indian, ranting about how we weren’t going to dishonor his ancestors and the graves and a bunch of stuff I couldn’t understand. He was crazy or on drugs or something. I tried to get back in my car. He grabbed me by the neck. I managed to get my knife out of my purse. I only wanted to scare him but he squeezed my neck harder and pushed. I fell back and he kind of fell on the knife and then rolled over. I started screaming and you showed up. Then I went downtown and gave my statement. Did you know they can lift fingerprints from your skin?”

  “What’s the story on the knife?”

  “I always carry it. Daddy didn’t want me to carry a gun… figured I’d shoot myself in the foot or something so he gave me a switchblade for my birthday. No way was this guy expecting a shiv. Surprise.”

  A shiv? Who had this Bal Harbour babe been hanging with?

  “Any idea about how he knew where to find you?”

  She stared into her empty wine glass. “I don’t know. He must have followed me.” The waiter appeared at her side and filled the glass.

  For the first time since I arrived, I took stock of her. She looked perfect in a cream-colored suit with dolman sleeves and a row of tiny gold buttons down the front. I wasn’t going to ask how she did it. She probably had three servants rush over to Miami PD and dress and groom her before she left.

  A glint of steel showed in her eyes like I’d never seen in her before. “But I’m going to do this project. For Daddy. And for me.” Then she slid back into her usual personality. “But some boy-genius has decided the mummies might be from another civilization. The history nuts are coming out of the woodwork. I can’t put a toy shovel in the ground much less heavy equipment. I’m sure these mummies are red herons.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Herrings. Red herrings.” Idiots and idioms.

  Tippy rubbed me the wrong way more than once. She had some sort of borderline personality disorder. I was surprised the INS hadn’t picked her up yet.

  She snapped, “Whatever. Anyway, I didn’t commission a friggin’ study. And if I hire just any archaeologist or let the state’s bone-spinner step in I might as well just hand over the land. They’ll declare it a historic site, give me ten bucks, pat me on the ass, and send me down the road.”

  She chugged her wine.

  Her hands fluttered erratically like moths. She babbled. “The construction plans are inked and stamped. I’ve agreed to all the bids and signed the contract to demolish the Bates. A delay will wipe me out financially and Daddy will roll over in his grave.” She belted back the last mouthful of wine.

  To her the mummies were an inconvenience but I was intrigued. Florida history recounted an early Tequesta settlement at the mouth of the Miami River marked by a previous find called the Miami Circle. That site lay just blocks east of the Bates land. The discovery of mummies might indicate the initial inhabitants weren’t Tequestas. Her site might end up an expensive park donated to the state by the Henman family.

  “What have they got so far?” I asked.

  “Two hours into tearing out the parking lot, they found a bunch of stuff in the bucket of a backhoe. Then up comes the head of a sitting mummy. The superintendent thought it was evidence of a murder. Bingo, within fifteen minutes some smartass from the governor’s office closes down the site. The state archaeologist’s gophers found two sitting mummies.”

  “Sitting mummies?”

  “Yeah. Sitting. Weird.”

  “The state was going to leave the mummies in the ground until the chief archaeologist returned from god-knows-where to supervise their removal and certify the mummies are Tequestas. Instead they packed them off to the San Sebastian Lab in Florida City.” She waved the waiter for another round. I passed.

  “The state has shut down the site and is jockeying to force me to sell the land to them so they can begin to excavate and look for more artifacts. The governor’s office is moving too fast. There’s a fix in somewhere.”

  I knew if the state took the land,
it could later swap it for wetlands or other sensitive land. So if somebody owned that kind of property and had somebody working on the inside in the state hierarchy, that somebody could end up with the Bates land for a fraction of what Tippy’s father paid for it. So Tippy could be on the right track.

  “How did the governor’s office get involved so quickly?”

  Tippy ran her finger around the edge of the glass, dunked a pinky in the wine, pulled it out, and sucked on it. Removing her finger she said, “A man worthy of Slytherin, Senator Harry Grant, showed up within forty-eight hours of the discovery of the mummies. He was accompanied by a brand new assistant, a bottle redhead with ice water in her veins.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I recognize the color. She’s doing it herself.”

  “I mean the ice-water vein thingie.”

  “She looks all uppity and tall and perfect. You know the type, cold and bitchy,” Tippy spoke through her wine. She was stewed. “The bitch seems to be the brains behind Grant or his son. She’s barely had time to sharpen one pencil and she’s handing out orders.”

  I slumped in my seat. Something wasn’t kosher. The Senator had his hands in more dirt than on-site digs. He fought tooth and nail for this site, but lost out to Tippy’s father in the bidding war. I thought he gave up and went off to lick his wounds, but maybe not.

  Senator Grant’s son was a Tallahassee lobbyist with an amputated conscience. Father and son were known for having perfect timing. They were often on the scene before the scene occurred. Their hotline sizzled twenty-four/seven with secret deals.

  “Senator Grant’s a big time developer first and a sworn servant of the people last. You’re right; this is taking on the odor of expired sushi.”

  Tippy stared at her empty wine glass. “And I’m sure that even after tonight’s incident, the Semaphore Indian tribe will continue to strong-arm me. They want me to deed the land over to them so they can prevent the site from being exploited. Free and freakin’ clear. I’m supposed to just hand it to their tribe. They say that disturbing the mummified ruins would end the spirit journey… like they didn’t leave for the happy hunting grounds centuries ago.”