Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Yes. A foundation,” Tyrone went on. “To help addicts back in the neighborhood. I couldn't help Myrna. She'd rather turn tricks than take money from me.”

  The elevator gave a groan, but didn't move. Then, suddenly, crazily, it did—very fast.

  Moving down. Falling.

  “Tyrone!” Cady screamed, grabbing for him. For safety. For something.

  “Cady!”

  She heard a terrible thud. Then came pain.

  And the dark closed in.

  Chapter 10—Regina: The Pits

  Regina lay on cool, soft, sand, looking up at the deep-purple Mediterranean sky—the hot August night shooting with trailing, exploding stars. He emerged from the foam of the sea and came running down the shore, until he stood above her—her warrior lover—his damp, muscular chest glinting in the light from the distant campfire, his dark, chiseled face smiling down with the eagerness of youthful passion. Sinking to his knees, he touched her body gently, thick-lashed eyes soft with wanting her, curving lips arrogant with knowing how much she wanted him, too.

  His beautiful mouth came close to hers. She reached for him, hungry for him, starved for his love, but he pulled away, his face wrinkled in disgust.

  “Something stinks,” he said.

  She agreed. Something stank. Everything stank. Regina woke from the lovely dream of her long-ago soldier to a nose-assaulting barrage of human waste and disinfectant smells mixed with diesel fumes. And noise: a clatter of harsh voices and tinny radio music and unidentifiable crashes and bangs, each of which felt like a hammer blow to her head.

  Her bed had somehow been transported to an inner-city bus terminal in one of the more run-down quarters of Hell.

  Bed. What bed? She opened her eyes and saw she was lying on a cot that was one of many crowded against the walls of a dark, airless, dormitory-like room. At one end of the room, a door stood open to a noisy, brightly lit corridor where people milled about and shouts echoed above, blaring Latin-flavored radio music.

  Spanish. The voices were shouting in Spanish. Was she in Spain? Mexico?

  She tried to sit up, and felt pain in every inch of her body. Barbed wire around her legs. Large nails piercing her shoulders and ribs. Her head in a vise.

  It really was Hell. She was dead and damned to some cosmic, Frida Kahlo south-of-the-border torture chamber.

  Her stomach growled. She had never been so hungry. She sat up and concentrated on the hunger. And thirst. Did dead people feel thirst? Maybe she wasn't dead after all. Maybe she'd be better off if she were.

  But then, there it was, wafting in on the cold air that came from the corridor; a lovely, spicy aroma. From somewhere, layered between the smells of overused bathrooms and disease and women-in-desperate-need-of-hygiene-products, were the distinctly pleasant odors of cumin and garlic and onion.

  “Food!” Regina said out loud. “Somewhere, in this place, there is food.”

  “Yeah. Praise the Lord and pass the Pepto!” said a woman's rough voice from several beds down. “Welcome to the La Brea Pits. If you can keep down that woman's chili when you're going through detox, you should get a medal.”

  Detox. So that was it. They'd caught her and sent her back to the Clinic at Rancho Esperanza. But now, instead of the upscale, Old-Southwest buildings they kept for show, she'd been thrown into some hidden, underground, third world sort of hospital ward.

  Regina raised herself on her elbows and looked around the dismal, windowless room. So this was what they meant when they said you wouldn't be allowed to return to the Clinic if you walked out. Not the Clinic, but its evil twin.

  It was totally medieval. She wondered if Max knew about this “Plan B” part of the Clinic's program.

  She lowered her legs and sat on the edge of the bed. Her cast felt like a Buick hanging from her ankle. She looked around in the half-light for her crutches, which were nowhere in sight, but she could see her jacket carefully folded on a chair next to the bed, her Chanel bag tucked beneath it, and her lone Garfield slipper positioned neatly on the floor. She would have to return the slipper to the Spoon. She wondered if she'd be allowed to communicate with such “good” residents now that she was a returned escapee.

  She put on the slipper and the jacket, slung the chain of her purse over her shoulder and tried to smooth her disaster of a skirt. Supporting herself on the tubular metal frames on the beds that lined the wall, she walked toward the light in the corridor.

  “Good afternoon,” said a large Hispanic-looking woman who was pushing a cart full of dirty plates past the doorway. “Just a minute, Ma'am. I'll get your crutch.”

  The large woman disappeared, leaving the cart. Regina leaned against the doorjamb staring at the half-finished plates of chili and cornbread. For the moment, she was alone in the corridor. Her stomach ached. Her mouth watered. On the top plate was a square of untouched, buttered cornbread.

  In an instant. Regina grabbed it and took a sweet, greasy bite. She couldn't remember ever tasting anything so good. She'd wolfed down the whole thing by the time the woman reappeared at the end of the hallway holding one familiar crutch. Regina brushed the crumbs from her lips, but there was no hiding her crime.

  She swallowed and tried to smile. “Delicious,” she said. “Much better than that trendy spa food they serve up there to the holy people.” She pointed up at where she assumed the showplace part of the Clinic was located.

  The woman laughed and gave her the crutch—only one, but it would have to do. “I'll have to tell Miss Ida Belle you think her food is better than heaven's. There's probably plenty more where that came from, if you want lunch. Most of our ladies don't feel the same way about Ida Belle's cooking, especially on chili day.”

  Regina ignored the odd remark about heaven. The woman pointed toward a noisy room at the other end of the corridor. “Where that came from” must be the dining room. That was all Regina needed to know at that moment.

  She limped into the noisy room filled with long tables where a few women were eating bowls of what looked like Jell-O, and others were clearing plates and carrying out large warming bins half-filled with food. A dark-skinned woman behind the counter saw Regina and greeted her with a big smile.

  “Did you miss lunch? You go sit down, girl. There's plenty left. I'll bring you a plate.”

  Regina sank gratefully into an empty chair at the end of one of the tables. The smiling woman brought her a tray with a plate heaped with chili and cornbread and coleslaw and a bowl of wiggling red Jell-O with little pink marshmallow hearts in it.

  This must be the charity ward of the Clinic. The women—no men were in evidence—were mostly people of color and the few white women seemed to be dressed as extras for a remake of The Grapes of Wrath.

  The lukewarm chili beans were submerged beneath an orange-colored oil slick and the coleslaw tasted as if it had been dressed with slightly rancid cake frosting, but Regina ate every bite. Even the Jell-O, which was surprisingly comforting. As her hunger began to abate, she looked around and saw nearly all her fellow diners were gone. A clock on the wall said nearly four o'clock, but Regina realized she had no idea of the day of the week.

  She crunched down on a pink candy heart. Oh, yes. Valentine's Day. It must be the fourteenth. Friday. Had she missed a day somehow?

  One lone diner; a young woman with the look of a terrified rodent was moving down the table toward her.

  “You the Princess?” she said. “The one they brought in yesterday?”

  Regina nodded politely. “Yes. I'm the princess of San Montinaro. But please, call me Regina.”

  “I'm a princess, too,” said the rat woman. “From a planet far, far away. That's why they keep abducting me—the aliens. They're looking for their rightful princess. But now I've passed all the tests, so they're coming to take me home.”

  “Home?” Regina tried to be polite. “And where is that, dear?”

  The woman's eyes darted around the room, as if she was afraid of being overheard.

  “Sant
a Barbara,” she whispered. “Didn't you hear it on the news last night? All those people who've been seeing the UFOs—up north of Santa Barbara? Everybody saw it. It's me they're looking for, 'cause that's where I'm from—Santa Barbara—I mean where I've been living. I used to be a bank officer, until they started abducting me. Of course where I'm really from is a planet in the Pleiades.”

  Regina smiled thinly and returned her attention to her plate. She found herself longing for Nigel and the Spoon. Or even Ms. Visigoth.

  She felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

  “The doctor's here, hon.” It was the smiling woman from the food line. “You want to come with me? We need the doctor to examine you. The paramedics that brought you in said they didn't think you had a concussion. Just dehydration and malnutrition. But we gotta make sure. We don't want you waking up dead tomorrow, now do we?”

  She spoke in the rhythm of the street, but had a lovely, gracious smile.

  “I'm Ida Belle Macy,” she added. “I'm a deacon over at the Gospel Fire Salvation Church. Sober eight years. If you can believe it, I was a resident here once. Now I'm the program director, church coordinator, substitute cook and general busybody. Call me Miss Ida Belle. Everybody does.”

  Regina rose. “Of course.” She offered her hand. “I enjoyed your chili, Miss Macy. Yes, I'd like to see the doctor. Is he the young man who set my foot?”

  “No, hon, you're going to see Dr. Jambalaya. Your foot was already like that when the ambulance picked you up. Reverend Greeley's people have your other crutch, by the way. They're going to send it over tonight. Unless you need to go to the county hospital.”

  Dr. Jambalaya. Miss Ida Belle—where had she heard that name before? Gospel Fire Salvation Church. So William Faulkner.

  The Clinic seemed to have got their venues mixed up. Whatever they thought they were doing by sending her down to “the Pits”, they had gone too far.

  Chapter 11—Regina: Sober Christian Women

  In spite of her anger at the Clinic, Regina allowed Miss Ida Belle to help her to the office of the doctor with the improbable name.

  They made their way out of the dining room and down a corridor to a room full of silent women transfixed by the flickering screen of a grainy-pictured television set.

  “Wait here,” Miss Ida Belle said. “You'll be called when the doctor is ready for you.”

  All the chairs and couches were occupied by the zombie-like creatures mesmerized by the TV. Regina leaned against the wall and tried to watch. Television was so mindless these days.

  “More on the royal funeral at five o'clock,” the TV talking head was saying. “In local news, the accident at the Silver Cathedral that left two celebrities seriously injured has Orange County churchgoers jittery. Here is Bambi Lightener at the Cathedral offices in Anaheim.”

  The camera shifted to a well-coiffed blonde who looked fiercely into the camera.

  “Tell me, Reverend Greeley,” she said. “Do you suspect foul play in the elevator accident today?”

  “Yes, Bambi,” said the Reverend Greeley, whose silver bouffant hairdo considerably upstaged the blonde's. “Yes, I do suspect foul play. My security men say the elevator cable appeared to be cut, although the police have not verified that.”

  “Do you think it's a coincidence that the victims of today's crash were African-American? Could this incident be linked to the burning of black churches in the Southeast?”

  “I wouldn't rule it out, Bambi.” The Reverend Elmo gave a slimy smile. “But I can tell the good Christians out there that we are going to fight this evil with all the strength of our prayers and faith. Any donations your viewers would like to send to aid repair of our beautiful cathedral would be gratefully accepted. In fact, here is Gladly the angel bear to give you the address to send your love offerings.”

  “The doctor will see you now, ma'am.” A woman in a pink lab coat nodded at Regina.

  Regina followed as she listened to Reverend Elmo's voice echo down the corridor.

  “We will pray,” he said. “We will pray for those poor sinners who would desecrate our holy cathedral, just as we will pray for the speedy recovery of Reverend Cady Stanton and Mr. Power Magee. God loves and forgives us all”

  “Reverend Cady Stanton?” Regina turned back toward the TV. “My God! Something's happened to Cady!”

  She tried to make her way back into the room, but a hand clamped hard on her forearm.

  “You'll come with me ma'am. Now,” said Pink Coat.

  But Regina stood her ground, straining to hear the TV voice, trying to make sense of the words.

  “Can we watch something besides this damn Christian channel?” somebody said. “I want to hear about those UFOs”

  “If you don't come voluntarily, I'll have to get a nurse,” Pink Coat said.

  “Please wait,” Regina said. “I need to hear this. Cady's hurt. Isn't that what the man just said?”

  Pink Coat bustled off down the hall.

  “Reverend Cady Stanton. The Congresswoman,” said a black woman sitting on the couch. “Some racist tried to assassinate her. And Mr. Power Magee. I think that's a little more important than a bunch of crazy white folks seeing space ships.” She nudged a small dark woman sitting next to her. “The police are calling it an accident, but Reverend Greeley says somebody cut that cable in the elevator; the handicapped elevator, for God's sake. You're not safe anywhere anymore. Not even in church.”

  “The handicapped elevator? At the Silver Cathedral?” Regina heard her voice come out too loud. That was the elevator she had been about to walk into when Cady arrived.

  And now, it seemed, poor Cady had walked into it instead, with horrible results.

  “That was meant to be me! The elevator. Didn't he say the cable was cut?”

  This was one accident that couldn't be blamed on some subconscious death wish.

  “Cady! I have to see her. Did they say what hospital?” Regina wobbled on her crutch as Pink Coat reappeared, looking even angrier.

  “Orange County Hospital,” the couch woman said. “They showed them getting in the ambulance. Power Magee had a bloody nose. Reverend Cady looked even worse. They say she might be blind.”

  Blind? It was too stupid. Too horrible.

  “What's going on here?” Miss Ida Belle came bustling down the hall with a red-faced woman in white.

  “You have to come with us now, Princess,” said Miss Ida Belle.

  “Ma'am, you've got to calm down.” Red-face handed Regina a fluted paper cup containing two yellow pills.

  Max. This had to be his doing, but why? How could he do this to her—and to Cady? Regina swallowed the pills obediently while her mind raced.

  Miss Ida Belle laid a beefy hand on Regina's shoulder as Pink Coat and the red-faced woman grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the room.

  “Will you please let go? This is important.” Regina tried to speak calmly. “I was there, you see. At the Cathedral—when it happened. Or just before. I was right there at that elevator. It was my accident. Only it wasn't an accident, was it?”

  Ida Belle stopped smiling and tightened her grip on Regina's arm.

  “You're coming with us. Now!”

  The three women half-dragged and half-carried Regina and her crutch to a small office and sat her down on a blue plastic chair. A very small, black-haired man, his skin a deep brown against his white medical coat, stood behind a desk looking at the contents of a manila file-folder. Miss Ida Belle and the others spoke in whispers.

  The man took a sort of flashlight from his pocket and approached Regina. He shone the light in her eyes as he spoke in heavily accented English.

  “I am Dr. Jambala,” he said. “And you are—Princess Regina? This is the name you are called?”

  “My title is Princess Regina de Saxi-Cadenti di San Montinaro i Castelghiacciolo. But Princess Regina is what people usually call me. I much prefer it to Princess Reggie.”

  Regina was relieved to see intelligence in the doctor's brown
eyes as his gaze met hers.

  “Jambala?” she added. “Thank goodness.” She relaxed and gave him a smile. “So much better than Jambalaya. That sounds like something with crayfish in it, doesn't it? And okra. I never have been able to deal with okra. Awful, slimy stuff.”

  She would have to humor him until she could get away from these officious staff people and find out more about what had happened to Cady.

  “Jambala is Indian is it? Or Pakistani?”

  “I was born in Sri Lanka,” the doctor said, noting something on a piece of paper. “Now, do you know who is president of the United States?”

  Regina sighed with annoyance. She didn't have time for this.

  “I'm sure it's very admirable if you want to become an American citizen, but the library does have little booklets you can study. I really do have to get back to the television program. I need to find out about Cady Stanton. She was in an accident this afternoon, and she's been hurt. Maybe blinded. The awful part is that I'm afraid it was all my fault, my accident—and of course they're not accidents at all, are they?”

  “I told you,” Red-face said. “Cathedral security said this woman tried to attack Reverend Stanton with one of her crutches before she collapsed. They assumed she was a drunk and sent her to us, because she had our flyer in her purse.”

  She looked smugly at the other women.

  “But you heard her, Ida Belle. She just confessed to causing that accident. We've got to call the police.”

  Miss Ida Belle looked at Regina's cast.

  “You expect me to believe she cut an elevator cable with that on her foot?”

  “Not necessarily by herself,” Red-face said, “But these church burners—she's exactly the kind of decoy they'd send in isn't she? Who'd suspect?”

  Fear flashed across Ida Belle's face.

  “The church burnings? You think it's some kind of conspiracy? And she's…who do I call, the FBI?”