Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Don’t fall asleep! You are here to guard the mummy. I’m counting on you.”

  He stood and stretched almost touching the ceiling. “I’m your man!” He jutted his hip and wiggled his boob-less top. I noticed his falsies were stacked on top of each other on the coffee table.

  Locking the door behind me I set the alarm. I climbed into his Escalade and tinkered with the seat until I could touch the pedals. Off to get one cranky archaeologist. I shivered when I imagined his fury. But what else could I have done? Grant’s goons or the Semaphores, one side or the other would have rendered the mummy mute or moot.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The sun had a head start on what looked to be another broiling Florida day. Roger stood in front of the courthouse looking like a homeless Indiana Jones. I imagined him with a sign “Will work for antiquities.”

  I tapped the horn, did a U-turn and waved out the window. “Your chariot awaits, oh jailbird.” He pulled the door open and slung his body into the front passenger seat. No hello. No kiss. He smelled like a smoky locker room. “Let’s get back to the mummy quick! Who’s guarding it?”

  “Kit.”

  “Perfect. A drag queen.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. That drag queen kept both the gangs of Miami at bay with the twist of his wrist. Did you get your Amicus?”

  “No. But I got my ass kissed.”

  “You didn’t get…?”

  “No! Bad joke. I was just verbally abused and fined. I’d rather not talk about it. Show me the mummy!”

  He buckled up suddenly realizing where he was. “Why are you driving Kit’s car?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to pick up Goldie. The dealership has her.”

  “Sorry. I forgot. We’ll get her later.”

  I headed toward the causeway and my beachfront condo.

  “You’re headed in the wrong direction. Take South Miami Avenue,” he growled. Boy one night in jail and he’d turned into Snake Plissken. I wondered if he’d picked up any jailhouse tats last night. He frowned as I continued toward the beaches.

  “I said take South Miami Avenue,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

  That icky feeling that you get when you’re pulled over by a traffic cop set in along with a patch of panic. I looped back on East Flagler and headed south to the site, my mind buzzing like a bumblebee on diet pills. How do you tell the man you love that you’ve moved his mummy?

  “Can’t you drive any faster?”

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to trade him for Johnny Depp.

  Normal people passed us on their way to their normal jobs with normal stress. I envied them for two seconds. In reality I wouldn’t swap places with those cubicle desk jockeys for a Vera Wang wardrobe. I’d become an adrenalin junkie.

  “Err… there’s something you should know,” I said, sounding like a kid expecting a reprimand.

  “Wendy!” his perfect teeth were clenched so tight I couldn’t slip a toothpick between them. “Is the mummy safe?”

  “Yes. Of course!”

  “Is the mummy in our control?”

  “Completely.”

  “Is the mummy in the chamber?”

  “Define chamber.”

  “Wendy!” He punched his fist against the passenger window.

  With the blinker on I cruised to the right edge of the bridge. Roger’s eyes spun nasty little knives at me. Men! They sure could get testy. Putting the car in PARK I rested my left arm on the steering wheel and prepared to ‘splain’ myself. We were over the midpoint of the Miami River, the Bates Hotel site with its yellow accident tape was visible on the left river bank, a healthy drop down from the overpass where we sat.

  I turned to look at my lover, now pissed off passenger. “Last night Grant’s goons and the Semaphores were moving on the site. I had no police protection, I couldn’t reach you…”

  Glancing over Roger’s shoulder, I spotted Tippy’s pale pink thirty-nine foot cigarette boat “Daddy’s Girl” floating like a prissy cork in the river bobbing toward the Metro tracks overpass. I leaned around Roger and squinted against the morning sun.

  “Is that Gary Grant in that cigarette? Because I’m one-hundred and ten percent sure that’s Tippy Henman next to him.”

  Roger turned to look and nodded. He opened the window. “What they hell are they doing together? Drive onto the riverfront. Let’s get a closer look.”

  I pulled off South Miami and onto Southeast Fifth. We rolled silently toward the overpass where the pinkish boat dipped against the seawall. Gary had one arm around Tippy and the other hand filling a champagne glass. They were celebrating something.

  “Strange combination of canoodlers,” Roger mumbled.

  I gasped when I saw what was coming. Sunlight flashed off the champagne bottle as Gary Grant brought it crunching down on the back of Tippy’s head. It was only the wobble of the boat that prevented it from being a dead-on blow. She staggered back. He glanced around, and pushed her over the side of the boat. Tippy went under like a rock.

  Careening off the exit and skating along the river seawall, I skidded to a stop, cut the engine, and leaped from the Escalade.

  Roger was two steps ahead of me. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled at Gary who did a perfect imitation of a killer deer caught in the headlights. The little creep backed up and revved the boat engine. I prayed Tippy was free of the props as I dove in clothes and all. Roger kicked off his shoes and followed me into the river.

  It wasn’t until I heard him splash that I remembered I can’t swim and I panic when I get my face wet. Using every ounce of my Silva Mind Control training I convinced myself I was a Weeki Wachee mermaid. With my cheeks puffed like a chipmunk I flailed my arms until I had my hands on the unconscious Tippy. I held her head above water and did some kicking thingie I remembered from swimming lesson number one hundred and one.

  The sound of pummeling and cursing came from the bow of the boat. Roger was struggling to board “Daddy’s Girl.” Gary swung a metal pole imitating a Highlander in battle. Roger ducked and re-ducked. He always was a good ducker.

  I was about out of Mind Control tips and ready to follow Hic into the great beyond. The seawall seemed to be moving further away. Where was Mrs. MacGuffin? I had a few arrangements to make before the river current took me out to sea riding on Tippy’s body. Now that would make a great headline. Local real estate broker found floating in gulfstream aboard dead client.

  Something large and white and fiber-glassy banged against my shoulder. It wasn’t a manatee and was too slick for a shark. It was a Boston Whaler bouncing at my side. A pleasant male voice said something but with my ears full of water I couldn’t make out the words.

  Strong hands popped Tippy from my death grip and lifted her into the boat. From where I was drowning it appeared that her eyes opened and then closed. Thank God she was alive. A hollow thud followed as her body dropped into the hull.

  The hands reached out for me and not a second too soon. I went down, fought to come up trying that treading water thing swim instructors keep lying about. The human body was not meant to float unless thoroughly deceased. Of that I am very sure.

  Someone pulled me into the whaler. Gentle gray eyes and a twinkly smile went with the muscles that went with the arms. There was something familiar about him. When our eyes met, I was stunned and nearly toppled back in to the water.

  When I revived I was sitting on a plastic cushion on the boat. Tippy lay prone on the floor of the whaler, our rescuer pumping her chest. Her eyes fluttered, she caught me looking at her and closed them. With a smile on her face she turned and vomited river water on the deck. Faker.

  I looked upriver. Roger stood triumphant on the bow of the pink speedboat. Gary Grant lay at Roger’s feet tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey. “Call the cops,” the world’s greatest archaeologist yelled falling short of beating his chest like a lowland gorilla.

  “Police are on their way,” our host yelled as he brought the whaler to the seawall. I fell bac
k on the cushions fighting to catch my breath and closed my eyes to wait for the cops.

  Sirens wailed by land and sea. I opened my eyes. Tippy sat across from me, a blanket wrapped around her scrawny body. This time the blood in her platinum hair had to be hers. She held an icepack to her head. Roger remained in his conquering hero pose standing over Grant until the police took the lobbyist into custody.

  Our savior vanished before I could thank him. I found two beach towels tucked near the whaler’s console and handed one to Roger. I dried the stinky river water from my face and hair, but my silk outfit clung to my body like hotdog casing.

  It was near noon by the time the police and the Coast Guard had taken our statements. I explained the rescue but couldn’t describe the guy who’d saved both Tippy and me. I couldn’t recall what he was wearing only that he was young and had nice eyes. The officer quizzing me pocketed his notebook with a shake of his head.

  “I’m sorry but I’m drawing a total blank. It must be the shock.”

  The police manhandled Gary Grant into the squad car, his hands in cuffs.

  He screamed for a lawyer even as a plainclothes officer gathered the broken pieces of the champagne bottle in a plastic evidence bag. All his lobbyist friends in Tallahassee weren’t going to save his murderous butt.

  I was curious why Tippy went cruising with the shifty dude.

  Roger and I trotted to the EMT truck where Tippy moaned as a medic checked the crack on her skull informing her she was on her way for an MRI.

  She clutched at me, her fingers digging into my hands. “Gary promised to chaperone my project and keep it out of the state’s hands. We came to celebrate our new partnership with a champagne breakfast at the site.”

  I exchanged glances with Roger. He shook his head in disgust.

  “Did you sign an agreement?” I asked the dingbat.

  “Last night.” Head down she began to whimper.

  “Signed under duress. Invalid.” I said.

  “Add attempted murder,” Roger threw in his two cents.

  I scanned the assembled collection of law officers and emergency personnel. No sign of Detective Stranger. I’d been tripping over him for days and now that the crime was wrapping up he chose to drop out of sight. There must be a gummy bear sale at Target.

  Roger shot me another stink eye, dropping his voice to a whisper, “This is how you protect my mummy?”

  “I did the best I could. Mace and Kit helped me.”

  “Mace?”

  “The redhead from Tallahassee.”

  “You let a stranger touch my mummy.”

  Tempting as that line was I let it slide.

  Tippy looked like a child on the gurney as the EMTs lifted her into the truck. I brushed aside the attentions of the female emergency dudette. Aside from a rapidly shrinking blue silk ensemble causing me to move like a robot, my only concern was the location of the holey mummy.

  Confession is supposed to be good for soul but I didn’t feel cleansed after I told Roger we’d stashed the mummy in my garage. I held my hands over my ears and waited until he calmed down. I reminded him it was temperature and humidity controlled for Goldie’s sake but even that didn’t placate him. He’s unbearable when he gets his panties in a wad.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It took close to thirty minutes to get to my condo. The lights were on but the place had an eerie aura. I put the key in the lock noticing the alarm wasn’t on. I called out to Kit. No response. Was he merely sleeping soundly or something worse?

  Roger and I made our way through the foyer to the living room. The sofa was vacant. The condo had that too quiet feeling. I tiptoed past the refrigerator and turned the deadbolt lock on the garage door. Flipping the light switch my eyes shot to the workbench. Mummy-less!

  It couldn’t be. I ran to the bench in the futile hope the mummy had rolled off and onto the floor. I looked beneath and behind although there was only a three-inch gap between the bench and the wall.

  My right shoe released from the floor with a smack sounding. Something sticky glopped on my sole. My left shoe made the same tacky sucking noise. Blood?

  “Look away,” I said to Roger.

  “Is it my mummy?”

  “Might be blood.”

  He backed away and leaned against the workbench.

  I lifted my right shoe toward the overheard light. A purple gummy bear stuck to the bottom. My other shoe carried two gummy bears, one red and one green.

  Roger leaned forward his hand shielding his eyes.

  “Not blood. Gummy bears. Detective Stranger is addicted to them.” I grabbed Roger’s shoulders and shook him. “Stranger must be the mummy thief! He dropped these when he stole the mummy.”

  Roger pulled free of my grip. “Makes no sense,” he leaned back with a sigh. “Kyzer Saucy travels the world stealing mummies. How would a Miami cop get time off for jet setting?”

  “Perhaps he accumulated a lot of personal days?”

  Roger glared at me.

  “Let’s check the rest of my place!” My heart said a little prayer on Kit’s behalf.

  My condo is small and it didn’t take us long to tear it apart. The last room we hit was the guest bath. The door was locked. Strange. Roger slammed his shoulder into the white panel and it burst open.

  The room stunk of male sweat and sugar. The pink raincoats covered a body-sized heap in the tub. Oh please don’t be Kit. My vision was blurred by tears, and my hands shook as I peeled back the raincoats.

  Detective Farley Stranger lay in a heap, his grease-stained coat swirled over his belly.

  Roger slammed into my already injured back. I teetered at the edge of the tub.

  “Is he alive?” he asked.

  I felt Stranger’s rubbery neck and found a pulse. I also found a business card tucked in his sweaty shirt collar. With my index finger and thumb I extricated the soggy paper. Black ink on gray paper it read, Marnie’s International Funerals. You clip ’em. We ship ’em.

  Roger grabbed the card from my hand. “A body transporter! That’s how Kyzer Saucy smuggles the mummies!”

  I took the card back and flipped it over. Tiny hand-printed letters sliced at my heart. I have Kit. Will trade him for Roger Jolley.

  Roger read the notation. “The airport. Now.”

  It was the spaces between his words that worried me.

  I propped Stranger up in the tub and smacked his face to rouse him. His bloodshot eyes drooped open, and the pupils rolled into place like messages in a Magic 8 Ball. I threw my demand at him before he could think. “Call your office. We need to know where they load bodies for funerals on private jets. Where in Miami International Airport are those hangers located?”

  He stared unblinking, his complexion a perfect match for my pale green bathroom walls. Rummaging in his pocket he plucked his phone, pushed a button with his fat bruised thumb and repeated my request.

  Stranger clicked off and looked from me to Roger and back. “Where am I? How’d you guys get here?”

  “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

  He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I followed the mummy.”

  He fell back in the tub hitting his head with a thunk, and conking out. Either Saucy drugged him or he was in a gummy bear diabetic coma.

  His phone bleeped. I grabbed it. “Detective Stranger can’t speak right now. Whatcha’ got for us?” I asked in rapid fire before the voice on the other end could question my identity.

  A moment of hesitation and then the voice on the line shared. “There’s a body shipping service at the north side of the airport. Come in off Airport Expressway. No visible markings on the building but long boxes in and long boxes out. It’s a white hanger with a tan metal roof about four-thousand square feet.”

  I clicked off and tried to revive Stranger. Whatever it was that took him down he was not coming back. I punched in nine-one-one on his phone. “Officer down. Possible gummy bear over dose.”

  The operator hesitated, “
Is this Wendy Darlin?”

  You know you’re having a bad week when nine-one-one recognizes your voice. I wedged a rolled up towel behind Stranger’s head and scribbled a note for the EMTs, Come on in. Victim in guest bathtub.

  Roger and I fought our way out the bathroom door and raced through the living room. Wedging the note in the front door, I closed it gently without locking it. Jangling the keys for Kit’s car, I motioned Roger to the passenger side mainly because he’s a lousy driver.

  Mashing the gas pedal to the floor, my wet silk slacks now shrunk to a second skin, they formed a grip around my thighs tighter than the super-small sized Spanx.

  We arrived at the airport so fast I must have performed a Star Trek teleport. My best buddy was the tradeoff for my lover. What would Spock do?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The scorching Miami sun reflected off the dozens of private hangers, each one glaring white with a tint of color. This was really a needle in a haystack. I tried to sense Kit’s presence through our BFF connection. Slowly so as to not miss a clue I tooled the Escalade up and down the tarmac covering acres of airplane hangers.

  Cruising around the corner of a building the size of Costco but with no cars in the lot, I spotted a smaller building with a tan roof. It looked about the right size. A Lear jet more like a baby airliner sat fifty yards from the building. The name Marnie was written in swirling black and gold letters on its tail.

  “Bingo,” Roger said. “Kyzer Saucy!”

  I swung the Escalade in front of the jet blocking its escape, not that it appeared ready for takeoff. The door was open and the steps were down.

  Roger leaped from the car.

  “Careful! He’s bound to be armed.” I yelled as I threw the keys under the car seat for safekeeping. I joined Roger sandwiched against the plane’s hull out of range in case anyone on board was packing a gun, a probable one-hundred-percent sure thing.

  “Kit!” I called leaning from the shelter of the hull.

  No response.

  “We’re coming in! Don’t shoot we’re unarmed!” Roger said.