It was pushing two in the morning when I followed Hic to my assigned room, banging my luggage and stomping my feet as advance warning to critters of the night that I was coming, and not in a good way. The meal was terrible but I feared the room would be worse.
I have this little, you might call it quirky, thing about holes in fabric. I get grossed out if I’m near any material that has a hole in it. What, that doesn’t happen to you? Nothing bothers me more, not roaches, snakes, or my ex-husband. So given the condition of this hotel, I was heading into a world of holey sheets, Batman. My hands shook.
Hic stopped short and I plowed into him scraping my cheek on the rough surface of his cigar-stinky zoot jacket. He omphed, placing the flat of his hand on what must have been at one time an elegant carved mahogany door. The etchings of two large bucks, their horns entangled in battle dressed either side of the double-door. One swung open with a hinges-pulling-out-of-wood creak.
Hic flipped a switch on a panel to his right and a bank of sconce lights flickered on, revealing a room the size of a football field with a hardwood floor comprised of rippled planks and missing boards. Dust motes thick as a San Francisco night filled the air. Only thing missing was a foghorn. The ballroom was naked as a newborn except for a cot in the middle of the room under a chandelier the size of the Times Square ball, its unlit bulbs choked with fifty years of bacteria-laden spider threads. Yuck.
Hic took my elbow and urged me toward the makeshift bed. The cot held a defeated feather pillow down to its last tuft, a tangle of wrinkled sheets, and a nasty bedspread bearing the Thornhill crest.
“Make yourself comfortable and I’ll switch off the lights. The cost of electricity being what it is, there’s a flashlight under the cot. The little girls’ room is in that direction.” He pointed as he trudged back to the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and my heart galloping.
Waving my hand frantically, I yelled, “Keep the lights on.” It was time for a hole-check.
I held the spread up. It smelled of old attic, rotten wood, and mildew. Nothing too bad so far. Then I spotted it, a hole near the corner, frayed threads crisscrossed over it.
“Not staying!” I yelled to Hic. “Hold…”
The lights went out. I was alone in the dark in a vast empty ballroom with a scary fabric hole. Clutching my bag I bent and fumbled for the flashlight. I clicked the switch. It did nothing. I clicked again. Still nothing. I stepped away from the cot and the holey blanket.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse and tried Hic’s number. It went straight to voicemail. That darn bugger. I thought of calling nine-one-one but I didn’t think a cop would show up to subdue a hole in a blanket. They might cart me off for mental observation. I’d have to survive on my own.
Holding my phone as a light, I kicked the holey blanket to the floor and using the tip of the toe of my shoe, pushed the disturbing thing into the shadows.
I wrapped my trench coat around me, pulled up the collar, and used my purse for a pillow. The thought of a zillion tiny spiders threading their way from the chandelier to my face fueled my imagination. And what if that damn thing fell? I’d be crushed and spidered. I got up, pushed the cot with my foot ’til I moved it out of the chandelier’s kill zone.
The moon tried to shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows nearly opaque with grime. It provided enough light for me to see that I did not want to close my eyes. No telling what was camped out in the dark corners. I lay down, my ears cocked for the sound of serial killers, Avon ladies bearing order forms, and sex maniacs. Speaking of sex, I wondered what Roger was doing. Did he miss me as much as I missed him? I shivered in the cold.
Clump. Thump. Clump. Thump.
What was that?
My neck cracked as I popped to an upright position. I swung my legs to the floor and jumped to my feet, nearly tipping the cot over. A faint cone of pinkish light surrounded me and a cherub-like woman in an old-fashioned housedress with her hair pulled up in a loose gray bun appeared before me. Was I in the final scene of the Andy Griffith Show?
“Sorry, love. I didn’t realize how late it was.” The Aunt Bee lady pulled a blanket from behind her back. “You must be chilled to the marrow. Here’s a clean coverlet without any holes.”
Who was she and how did she know about my holey phobia?
“I’m Wendy Darlin,” I said.
“Oh, I know that, love.” She chuckled as she placed the blanket on the cot. The cone of light grew weaker. “I’m Mrs. MacGuffin and I have a message for you.”
I stopped breathing. My mouth turned to ash.
“You will find your home though it will not be where you left it.”
The light went out.
“Mrs. MacGuffin?”
She was gone.
I passed the light from my cell phone over the blanket and pronounced it hole-less. Feeling as if I were a balloon with the air slowly leaking out of me, I slipped into a deep dreamless sleep.
Chapter Seven
Sixteen hours of murder, obstetrical humiliation, and holey terror with not even a Wet-Nap. Toppling from the cot, using the dim morning light, I made my way down the corridor to the ladies room. A battalion of commando roaches stood their ground daring me to enter.
Fuhgeddaboudit. I tugged my suitcase and bag into the lobby.
Hic motioned to a taxi idling under the portico. “Let’s go, girl.”
He wore the same zoot suit nicely accessorized with a bright pink art deco tie four-inches wide. He’d forsaken the Kleenex boxes for penny loafers but had forgotten to comb his hair which stuck out at odd angles.
I took a seat in the cab, about to reluctantly sign on as gatekeeper for a hell of a lot of money. I felt like the spawn of a post-apocalyptic Hollywood flick, a dehumanized crunchy wrapped in a London Fog raincoat with cot-head, mascara smudges, and crusties in my eyes.
Hic and I de-cabbed at the Thirty-Ninth Federal Bank. Wobbling behind him I was accosted by a bag lady pushing a grocery cart. She handed me a soggy one-dollar bill. I shook my head and pushed it back in her palm. The ego boost I needed.
The bank was a 1920’s relic with all the warmth veined marble generates.
Hic’s attorney Robert Walker floated toward us. He was a gray-on-gray man, the kind of fellow who would fade into the wallpaper in a boardroom. Without shaking my extended hand or making eye contact with me, he greeted Hic. Perhaps I had become gray-on-gray?
Walker led us into a small conference room. He eased the door closed and took a seat at the head of the table. I dropped down next to Hic. The lawyer spun the combination lock on an ostrich-skin briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. He stacked them in front of Hic.
Every orifice on my body itched with unseen dirties. I impatiently watched the testator study the pages as if it were his last will and testament, possibly because it was. He slid a paper to me tapping the bold-typed clause naming me the Executrix in charge of standing in front of the train called probate.
I swallowed hard and nodded. A promise is a promise.
Hic insisted I raise my right hand and swear to abide by the terms of his will. I doubted it was standard procedure but I went along. Attorney Walker found something fascinating under his thumbnail.
The door opened with a quiet whoosh and three bankers waddled into the room to witness the signing.
“You might be slipping me some disappearing ink,” Hic said to Walker brushing aside the pen the lawyer offered. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a Montblanc fountain pen and with shaky hands removed the cap. He was deteriorating. I blotted a crusty tear from my left eye.
Hic initialed the bottom of each page and then scrolled his two-inch high signature on the final pages.
The witnesses witnessed and the notary noted. The lawyer put the will in a dark green folder, handed it to Hic, snapped his attaché case closed, and left the room. Not even a curt goodbye. Maybe he thought I was responsible for this can of pickled worms.
A smart-looking brunette in a navy
blue business suit led Hic and me to the safe deposit room. Hic put the will in the box, locked it and slipped the key on a gold chain.
“Turn around,” he barked then placed the chain around my neck and snapped the clasp. “Don’t take this off until I get back from… you know where.”
I touched his hand as it slipped down my shoulder. It hurt my heart to imagine I would never see him again. A grinding rusty wheel, Hic was nonetheless an important part of my life.
We left the bank in silence. So many emotions, so little time. Hic squeezed my arm, nodded, and got into a cab. I stood on the curb as he rolled down the window. “I’ll be watching for you, kid.” He saluted and then settled back in the seat.
With my heart aching I hailed a taxi for the airport and began looking over my shoulder as a flock of worry-vultures swept in. I was the un-pregnant executrix for a legal train wreck and involved in a mess that included two sitting mummies, a Columbo-wannabee, and a dead Indian. Had it been only eighteen hours? Some people can go for days without murders and promises to dying friends.
The Miami-bound plane was in the air long enough for my inflight Bloody Mary to wear off and my edginess to return. I fiddled with the key to Hic’s safe deposit box on the chain around my neck. Peering peripherally at the granny in the seat next to me I got an uneasy feeling. She had a MacGuffinish look about her.
I meant to ask Hic about his so-called spirit guide. I’d have to call him because the next time I saw him it would be too late. I shuddered at the thought of rotating his body in his rocking chair. Norman freaking Bates.
Dashing ahead of my fellow passengers I made it up the congested corridor with two cravings calling to me, neither of which was mango ice cream. An unopened gift bottle of Johnny Walker Black waited in my kitchen bar cabinet. A couple of slugs of scotch and a long hot shower would put me right with the world. I imagined the water cascading over my semi-drunken body.
I speed-dialed Hic. It went straight to voicemail. C’mon Hic, turn your phone on. I need to know about MacGuffin. I left the secure area and crested the first carpeted incline, rolling my wheelie-bag behind me. I felt something that could either be the barrel of a gun or an exceptionally high hard-on poking me between my shoulder blades.
“Don’t turn around.”
The voice was young and male but muffled like he was trying to disguise his voice. Did I know him?
Ignoring his threat, I twisted my head to the left, gun-guy moved to the right. “You don’t listen well,” he snarled.
My first thought, protect the key. I covered it with my left hand and shot my right elbow into his solar plexus. He omphed. I looked back. He was gone, but a wave of deplaning flight-zombies threatened to bury me.
“Listen, bitch. Stay away from the Henman project.”
The barrel of the gun was firm against my spine. He was behind me again. How’d he do that?
“Coward!” I kicked backward with my right foot hoping to trip him, and gambling he wouldn’t pull the trigger in front of a thousand witnesses. Not my brightest move. I nailed his shin. He shoved me. I toppled over my bag.
“You’ve been warned!”
He ducked through the crowd and disappeared, but not before I caught a glimpse of his face.
Two twentyish girls came to my aid, lifting me by my elbows. I felt like an old klutz.
“An ex?” the taller girl asked.
I nodded. Sometimes a white lie is easier.
“I hate when they do that,” the shorter one said.
I thanked them but part of my brain was sorting out gun-guy’s face. I knew him from somewhere.
With my keys in my fist, sharp edges between my fingers, I marched to the South Terminal parking deck. The sight of Detective Sargent Farley Stranger leaning on Goldie confirmed my life was headed in the wrong direction on a dead end street.
Stranger stood out like a cartoon Don Johnson with a rumpled teal sport coat, white trousers, white loafers, and a ten o’clock shadow.
“You look like the woman I told not to leave town,” he growled. His amber eyes were two slits of pissed off.
I decided to play to his cop-ness. “Stranger! I mean, Detective Stranger, I was just gunned. I mean threatened with a gun. At least I think it was a gun.”
“If you stayed in town it wouldn’t have happened.”
I motioned with my head toward the terminal. “I am in town. Some guy told me to stay away from the Henman case and then he pushed me with his gun, well not his gun but he had a gun.”
“Henman case? Interesting choice of words. You have more to do with the parking lot stabbing than you’re letting on. You were in Nashville. Why?”
No sense in sharing the reincarnation story. “Met with an old client, Alfred Hiccup.”
“The eccentric billionaire?”
“You have no idea.” I thought of the cot.
“Ms. Henman received a bloody tomahawk this morning. Know anything about it?” He gave me the stink eye.
“How about you send someone to look in the airport for a young guy with a gun in his pocket, then we’ll talk.” As the words spilled out of my mouth, I realized how stupid my suggestion sounded.
I shook my head. “Can I get in my car? I’m really tired.”
He stepped aside.
I threw my case in the backseat taking a quick scan for stowaways. “I just remembered Tippy had a tomahawk on her doorstep yesterday.”
Stranger nodded, “I know.” He pulled a bag of gummy bears from his pocket and tore the cellophane.
He offered me the bag.
“No thanks. I’m trying to quit.”
I turned on the ignition. “Why are you here? Do you have something to ask me?”
“You pretty much answered it.” he turned and ambled away, his scrunched jacket revealed the butt of his trousers, which appeared to have spent the night in a venetian blind.
I closed Goldie’s door, snapped the locks, amped the air conditioning, and dialed Roger, not that I needed him. No answer. I was ready to click off when he picked up.
“You rang?” he said with a smile in his voice.
My heart was suddenly so full it reached up and plastered a silly grin across my face.
“How are you?” he said
I sighed and cut to the chase. “Fine. Listen… What do you know about sitting mummies?”
“You’re such a flirt.”
“I’ve got a mummy problem.”
“So we are pregnant, little mommy. It’s not a problem. It’s wonderful.”
“I said mummies as in desiccated corpses.”
“You are the least romantic woman I have ever impregnated.”
“Exactly how many women have you… never mind.” My jaws slammed shut.
“Did you say sitting mummies or hitting mummies? The line was garbled.”
I filled him in on Tippy’s predicament carefully avoiding the part about the dead dude for the moment.
“Something’s hinky. Native Americans didn’t bury their dead in a sitting position. That’s a Mayan thing. Now you’ve got me curious. There’s never been a mummy discovery in Miami. The soil is too moist.”
“Just my luck I’m the mummy-ville broker. I could use your expert advice. I’m being threatened off the case and it’s not even officially a case.”
“I’m in Palenque in southern Mexico, up to my elbows in cinnabar, red metallic powder. The Mayan Red Queen mummy has been targeted by antiquity traffickers and we’re beefing up her security. Thirteen centuries old and she’s just made the International Museums’ hot list.”
“I thought you were on the trail of what’s his name?”
“Hush. Not over the phone.”
He paused. I could almost hear him thinking. “The Miami mummies intrigue me. My team will have to finish without me. I can be back by Friday.”
Some romantic words would be nice.
He read my mind. “I really miss you.”
My heart did a pitty-pat.
“Hurry,” I wh
ispered. “That’s two whole days away.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine. Gotta run. Need to find a cat burglar.”
Chapter Eight
Reluctantly I pushed thoughts of a shower and scotch aside. I didn’t have much time to fulfill Hic’s wish of seeing the bronco melted down before he died.
Kit Kennedy was my best friend and consigliore. His nightclub, the Queen’s Croquet was the place to see and be seen. He drew the glitterati from around the world. Okay maybe just South Florida. He ran an upscale nail salon where pampering was the primary commodity. Get Nailed was low key but snazzy.
According to my White Rabbit watch, it was leaning hard on four o’clock when I entered the salon. The tan and ivory walls offset the black marble floor and brushed-steel manicure tables. Classical music played, softening the sound of gossip at the stations. All the techs were male and could have been in the latest issue of Vanity Fair.
I spotted Kit talking to a client. He looked up and shot me a million-dollar smile. He tapped his client’s hand and whispered something to her. She tittered, kissed Kit on the cheek, and sashayed out the door.
My buddy placed his hands on his chest and belted out the first lines of Que Sera Sera à la Doris Day. I joined in the chorus. It was our version of fist-bumping.
Kit’s singing voice was a deep Natalie Cole. Mine was more Lucy Ricardo with strep throat. One of the nail-techs covered his ears and scurried into the facial room.
Queening-out, Kit waltzed toward me, his hand held high over his head. I reached up, grabbed his fingers, did a little pirouette, and yowled the next lines.
We hit the chorus together but the drag-queen supreme had to finish solo when I choked on a Sera and fell giggling into his arms.
“You look like road kill and smell worse.” He examined my nails, his voice going down two octaves. “You just had a mani and a pedi.”
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 20