Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  I stared at the ceiling, debating this conundrum. There had to be some way we could pull it off. ‘Well, you can’t do it. Erol will be at the opening. He’ll recognize you straight away. Ayshe can’t do it. She’s pregnant, and I don’t want anything to happen to her. For the same reason, I don’t want Atila to get involved – he’s going to be a daddy soon. I wouldn’t want him to end up in prison because of all this. And Charlie…well, as much as I love him, I don’t know if he would be able to pull it off on his own.’

  ‘Yes, but Kaya and Erol will recognize you too.’

  ‘But it’s easier for a woman to disguise herself than a man.’ I turned to him. ‘And by the time we run into Erol, I’m hoping that I will have already drugged Kaya. Think about it: Ibrahim Kaya probably wouldn’t recognize me again, especially if I wear some sort of disguise. He wasn’t exactly paying attention to me before he got in the limo. I just need to get close enough to drug him somehow, and the only way to at least have a chance is to try and get in on the press interviews. If he’s doing interviews for two hours, he’ll be doing a lot of talking. And if he’s doing loads of talking, he’ll be thirsty and we can drug his drink.’

  Kalem shook his head. ‘And how are you going to disguise yourself? It’s not like we’re international espionage agents with stacks of different disguises. You can’t exactly wear your knickers over your head and hope for the best.’

  I shrugged. ‘I could wear a scarf around my hair and put sunglasses on. I’ll just look like an eccentric journalist for a flashy magazine. I already work for Just for Women, don’t forget.’ I gave him a grim smile. ‘Can you think of some other way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it looks like this is the only way then.’ I gnawed on my lip now instead.

  ‘And what about the wedding? We’re going to have to cancel it and leave. Go back to the rainy UK. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of our lives.’ He threw a hand in the air in a hopeless gesture.

  ‘And I’m never going to get my dress and lucky charm back.’ I sighed.

  ‘The only good thing is that we’ve still got each other.’

  I snuggled into his shoulder. Well, I hoped we’d still have each other. As long as we were both alive by the end of the day and not left to rot in a prison somewhere. ‘So, where did you put the boxes from the container with my clothes in? I need to try and find a suitable disguise.’ I jumped out of bed.

  ‘In the small bedroom.’

  ‘Right.’ I drew the curtains, suddenly energized with the thought of doing something proactive. ‘Oh! Look.’ I turned to Kalem and pointed out of the patio doors. ‘There’s a cat outside.’

  A small, ginger and white cat sat on the patio, staring at me with cute green eyes, its mouth moving in a meow shape.

  I slid the door open and bent down to stroke its head. ‘Hello. Where did you come from?’

  Meow.

  It wound its way around my legs, nudging me with its head. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Meeooooow.

  I took that as a yes.

  ‘Don’t feed the cat.’ Kalem sprang naked from the bed and pulled on a pair of boxers.

  ‘Why not? It’s hungry.’

  ‘If you feed it, we’ll just get more coming around.’

  I picked the cat up and kissed the top of its head. ‘But you’re hungry, aren’t you? Yes.’

  Meow, meow.

  ‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ I said as the cat nuzzled into my neck.

  ‘A sign about what?’ Kalem shook his head. ‘How can a cat turning up be a sign? There are hundreds of stray cats here. We can’t feed them all.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The Queen Cleopatra statue had a cat carved onto the base. You said that cats were lucky in Egyptian times. Maybe it’s a good sign that we’re going to save the statue. Yes, I think it’s a lucky cat.’

  ‘You’re nuts.’ He kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘It’s hungry. I’m going to see if there’s something in the kitchen for it.’ I put the cat down, and it trotted behind me.

  I flung open the cupboard doors. Hmm. Not a lot. Some coffee, a bottle of water, tea bags, and a bottle of wine. Because of our unexpected arrival at the house, the contents left a lot to be desired.

  I glanced down at the cat who looked up at me expectantly.

  Then I had a sudden thought. ‘Custard creams to the rescue!’ I padded back to the bedroom and rummaged around in my bag until I found the half eaten packet I’d had with me since the airplane. ‘Voila!’ Back to the kitchen to find a bowl and da-da, breakfast à la biscuit.

  I stroked Ginger’s fur as she crunched on the gourmet dining like she was starving. Maybe it really was a sign. I hoped to God it was a good one.

  ****

  We still had a few hours to kill before the press conference. On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn’t use that phrase anymore. Correction: we still had a few hours to wait until the press conference, so we took a trip to Condomsville to check on Yasmin and Deniz.

  The same kind of note in Deniz’s scrawl greeted us on the floor outside their room.

  ‘Uh-oh.’ Kalem read it. ‘“Dear Maid, I am now conducting a survey for Cosmopolitan magazine about flavoured condoms. Do you have any other flavours available? I’m particularly interested in chilli, strawberry, and whisky flavours, but any other flavours will be carefully considered. I will have ten packets of chilli (medium to hot spiciness), five packets of strawberry (if no strawberry, any other fruit selection will be sufficient), and thirty packets of whisky flavour (preferably single malt). Thank you.”’

  ‘Do you think he’s got Alzheimer’s?’ I whispered. ‘I mean, I know he’s not exactly normal.’ I drew quotation marks in the air. ‘And I know I can’t exactly talk, but he’s acting even more weird than he usually does. Maybe the food poisoning has affected his brain. Can you get brain poisoning from eating dodgy fish? Do you think we should call someone? A neurologist or something?’

  ‘No, I think it’s just Dad being Dad.’ Kalem banged on the door. ‘Dad? Mum?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Kalem.’ Deniz opened the door looking flushed. He peered around us, checking the floor to see if the note was still there. ‘Hmm. Maid hasn’t been yet, then?’

  ‘Are you feeling any better yet?’ I asked as he followed us back inside.

  ‘Not bad. Still a bit squitty, though.’ He lay back on the magazine infested bed and crossed his legs, eyeballing me.

  ‘I feel a bit better. Just a bit of a rumble now.’ Yasmin rubbed her stomach. ‘What’s been going on with you all? Are you getting a bit of relaxation in before the wedding?’

  Kalem and I exchanged a furtive glance.

  ‘Yes!’ It came out a bit more high-pitched than intended.

  ‘I’m going to get a pec implant.’ Deniz picked up Cosmopolitan and pointed to an article with a picture of a twenty-something, fit looking guy with a six-pack, firm chest, and bleached teeth. ‘Look at this bloke. Look.’ He shook the magazine at us. ‘Look at his pecs. Fantastic!’

  Yasmin tutted at him. ‘For God’s sake. He’s about twelve. You’re seventy! You can’t have pecs that look like his.’

  Deniz looked a bit put out by this revelation. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Will you talk some sense into him?’ Yasmin shook her head at us. ‘I’m fed up with hearing about these bloody magazines giving him stupid ideas.’ She thought about that for a moment and rephrased it. ‘Well, more stupid than normal.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a bit of male plastic surgery? Women have it all the time. Look at her.’ Deniz picked up another glossy women’s mag with a picture of an aging actress who looked like she’d had the whole works done several times over. ‘See, if she has any more face lifts, she’ll be shaving.’ He let out a loud huff and changed the subject. ‘I’m going to apply to be an agony aunt.’ Deniz said. ‘I’ve been reading the problem page, and I think I can give some much better advice than them.’

  I seriously doubted it, but I smiled to humo
ur him.

  ‘Take this one, for example: “Dear Kelly,”’ he peered over the magazine. ‘That’s the agony aunt.’ He glanced back again, running his finger under the page as he read. ‘“I’m a thirty-something mother, and I’m concerned that my five-year old child is being taught bad habits in the classroom. When the nursery teacher reads Postman Pat, I don’t think it’s appropriate for them to mention the black and white cat. It’s very racist”. For God’s sake, the world’s gone mad!’ Deniz raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Right, here is what my reply would be: Dear Mother, get a grip! If you’re not allowed to be sexist, racist, or animalist these days, then a simple children’s book like Postman Pat and His Black and White Cat will turn into Postperson Pat and Its Spectrum Species! And then we come to the children’s game of hangman. Are we not allowed to say that anymore because we might upset people on death row? To hell with political correctness!’

  I didn’t think Deniz would be getting an agony aunt’s job any time soon.

  ****

  At one-thirty, after carefully applying my disguise, Charlie and I were at the hotel, ready and waiting for our plan to begin. Charlie wanted to come along as backup, although I wasn’t too sure exactly what that would entail. At the moment, he had my camera around his neck to make him look more like my assistant. Kalem was waiting in the car – head down, with a baseball cap on, the peak pulled low over his face, just in case the evil Erol Hussein spotted him.

  The place was already wall-to-wall bodies: reporters, guests, and hundreds of staff putting the finishing touches to the outside stage – ferrying drinks around, and setting up the seating arrangement for the concert. And somewhere amidst all of it were Ferret Face and Missing Link.

  ‘You actually look quite nice in that getup. Very fifties film-starish,’ Charlie said to me.

  I glanced at myself in a boutique window as we descended down the central stairs and walked towards the spa. Actually, I did look pretty good. I had a black and gold scarf covering my hair, tied in a stylish side-knot at the back of my neck, and a huge pair of dark sunglasses. All topped off with a stylish beige lipstick called Nearly Nude. A complete contrast from the other evening I’d been here.

  ‘Hello!’ I breezed into the spa area, giving a huge smile to the spa manager behind the desk. ‘Do you remember me?’

  She furrowed her eyebrows for a minute.

  Hmm, this was good. She didn’t recognize me either. I lifted up my dark glasses and a spark of recognition ignited on her face.

  She clapped her hands together again. ‘Of course! Just for Women magazine! Have you come to do some more research for the article?’

  I leaned my elbows on the reception desk, giving her a little conspiratorial smile. ‘Well, actually, there’s been a slight mix-up, I’m afraid. Just for Women magazine doesn’t appear to be on the list for the private interviews with Ibrahim Kaya that start at three.’

  She gasped. ‘No? That’s terrible. Right, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure you get your interview for the magazine. We can’t have a little administrative malfunction affecting our spa story, can we?’ She rushed around to my side of the desk. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and get your pass and make sure you’re number one on the interviewing list.’ She waved a hand at the comfy looking gold sofas. ‘Have a seat or help yourself to a drink at the juice bar while you’re waiting. I won’t be a moment.’ And she’d gone. Out the door as fast as her little white spa flip-flops would allow.

  ‘So far, so good,’ I whispered to Charlie. ‘You’ve got the sleeping tablets, haven’t you?’

  He patted the cigar tin in his pocket. ‘Check. All ground up and ready to go if the opportunity arises.’

  I felt in my black trouser pocket for my tin for the hundredth time and patted it as well. ‘Me too. Whoever gets the opportunity first will stick it in Kaya’s drink. Two should be plenty to knock him out for at least sixteen hours, but I’ve added an extra one just in case.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘And then that should be it. We’ll just hang around to make sure he doesn’t show up at the concert, and then the opportunity to assassinate him and steal the statue will be over.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Stop saying that!’ I hissed.

  ‘Ch…OK. If you’re not alive for me tell you later, I think you’re very brave.’ He patted my hand.

  ‘Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better. Not!’ Any bravery I did have had suddenly packed its bags and deserted me at the very mention of its name.

  I heard a scurrying flippy floppy sound behind me, and the spa manager appeared, looking flustered.

  ‘Here you are.’ She handed us a couple of press tags with Just for Women on them. ‘The interviews will be in the cocktail lounge. Mr. Kaya prefers an informal setting. If you go there just before three, you’ll be first on the list.’

  The cocktail bar! All the better for drugging people’s drinks in.

  ‘Thank you so much. I’ll make sure your spa gets a two-page centre spread.’ I gave her a grateful smile, and we hustled out the door.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Two. We’ve got an hour. Let’s go down to the stage and see if they’ve got the statue in place yet.’

  We weaved our way through the crowds and down the corridor to the outside pool area. As we walked along the side of it, I had the skin-crawling feeling that somewhere, in one of the bedrooms overlooking, Ferret Face’s ferrety little eyes could see us.

  I shivered, even though the relentless summer sun was high in the sky. No, I couldn’t let myself think about him.

  We descended the steps at the end of the pool area, down to the restaurants and bars overlooking the stage. The stage bar to the right was doing a roaring trade with all the reporters, photographers, and guests, but I wasn’t interested in them.

  In front of the stage, an area was cordoned off. The only people inside the cordon were four hefty looking private security guards, all with handguns strapped to their sides. They were arranged in a square, and in the centre of them was a display case, draped in a deep purple velvet cover.

  ‘Hmm. They look manly.’ Charlie raised an appreciative eyebrow.

  My eyes focused on the port behind the stage. Eight speedboats, five yachts, and three sailboats. One of them would be used as the getaway boat, and I was guessing it was one of the speedboats.

  ‘We could tamper with the speedboats, do something to their engines, or something, so they can’t escape afterwards,’ I suggested.

  ‘Do you know anything about boat engines?’

  ‘No, I don’t even know anything about car engines. Do you?’

  ‘Nope. Wouldn’t have a clue how to tamper with the engine. And anyway, someone would see us. The place is crawling with people.’

  ‘So probably not an option. We’ll have to go with our original plan then and…’ I had a sudden brain wave, remembering something in the article from the plane about Kaya that might actually help us. I headed towards the bar. ‘Come on, I need a stiff drink before we interview Kaya.’

  ‘Coffee, or something stronger?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Coffee with something stronger in it.’ I ordered a double Irish coffee and stared at the guards, desperately hoping the whisky would stop my hands from trembling.

  ****

  An efficient looking woman with an earpiece and a clipboard stood guard outside the entrance to the dimly lit cocktail bar. She perused the list and glanced up at the queue of salivating journalists. ‘Just for Women magazine, please.’

  Oh, shit. This was it. It was now or never. But, oh, this was hopeless. I didn’t have a clue how a journalist was supposed to act. Visions flashed into my mind of newsreaders on the BBC with ramrod straight backs and posh, plummy accents. Should I put on a posh accent and look like I had a poker up my arse, or should I be myself? Would he be able to guess I was a fake?

  OK, God, I know I don’t pray very often – well, only when I want something really badly, bu
t this isn’t really for me, so maybe you can just see it in you to do one tiny little miracle for me. Please, please, please, God, couldn’t you just arrange for Ibrahim Kaya to be struck down by a sudden stomach bug. Or better still, make Ferret Face and Co. have simultaneous heart attacks or something? Please? Can you hear me? Can you work a miracle for me?

  ‘Just for Women magazine? Are you here?’ Miss Clipboard raised her voice again.

  Damn. No miracle in sight.

  ‘Here!’ I shouted, making my way up to the entrance.

  ‘Right. You only have a fifteen minute slot,’ she said to me, then looked at Charlie. ‘Are you the photographer?’

  Charlie waved his camera at her. ‘Yes, darling.’

  Fucky fuck. Only fifteen minutes. We had to do this right. A squeezing pressure clamped itself around my skull and wouldn’t let go.

  She moved aside to let us through.

  Ibrahim Kaya sat on a deep black sofa, arm sprawled along the back, legs crossed. He wore a dark grey suit, pale pink shirt, and a purple tie. In front of him was a hand-carved wooden table with an empty Turkish coffee cup and a full glass of water on it.

  Osman’s mum’s coffee cup predictions sprang into my mind again. I shook my head, trying to clear the visions away.

  He gave us a relaxed smile as we headed towards him before standing to greet us. ‘Hello. Please sit.’ He shook our hands and indicated I should sit next to him.

  Charlie sat on the other side of me, fiddling with the camera. I silently prayed that he could pull this off with me.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Mr. Kaya. I’m Helen from Just for Women magazine.’ I decided to go for a slightly posh accent and my best newsreader-style smile, trying to ignore the dull, throbbing ache that banged away behind my right eye. ‘I must apologize for not taking off my sunglasses, but I’ve got a terrible eye infection at the moment, and they’re a bit sensitive to the light.’

  ‘Well, OK, fire away then.’ He reached over and took a sip of water.

  I wanted to grab hold of him and shake him. Tell him what was really going on and try one last time to make him listen to me. Should I tell him about the plot? Yes, of course I should. But then I had a flashback of getting arrested again. It wasn’t likely he would believe anything I had to say. It hadn’t exactly worked out the first time, and since I was one of the few people who knew what was really going on, getting arrested wouldn’t help anything. My ramrod back slumped slightly. No, there was nothing else for it. I’d just have to go with plan B.