Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  “Lew Alcindor?” Athena said. “Kareem? Your baby brother had a basketball signed by Kareem Abdul-Jabar before he changed his name? Do you know what that thing would be worth now?”

  “What would any of us be worth now, if things had been different that weekend?” Cady's mind drifted back in time.

  “Oh, my God, this is April 1968?” Athena said. “This is not going to be good.”

  Fatima cleared her throat noisily and resumed reading:

  “April 2

  “Guess what? I have a JOB. Screw school. I haven't been to classes for weeks anyway. I found out I'm good at something. I can make bread. Kneading dough is so far out. It's like working with clay—only better because it's so springy and you can punch the hell out of it and it only makes it better.

  “Leona showed me how last night. She said I could pretend the dough was Arthur.

  “It was pretty funny. Leona's always complaining about her 'Arthuritis', and Cady's so embarrassed by the way she mispronounces it that I didn't say anything. But last night after she was gone, and I was out in the kitchen with Leona, feeling useless, I made a joke about how I'm here because I've got Arthuritis, too.

  “I told her how I live with this guy Arthur Fry, who's a big pain who tells me I'm getting fat whenever I eat anything and treats me like I don't exist the rest of the time and always makes fun of my art projects which is why I'm flunking out of art school.

  “Leona gave me this big, floury hug, and then she said maybe it would help us both with our Arthuritis if I could knead the bread for a while. So she showed me how, and it was so fun.

  “And this morning, when we got up (at 5 a.m.!) Roy offered me a job. He said Leroy's going to college next fall, and they'll need somebody, and I could even live at their house if I didn't mind living in a colored neighborhood—it's funny how some black people still call themselves that—and he said he and Leona had talked it over, and they didn't think it sounded very wholesome for me to be living with that Arthur.

  “Wholesome. What a great word. That's so right. I am not whole-some with Arthur. I am in pieces. Here I could put myself back together. Maybe meet somebody else whole, too. A guy who likes girls. And pie. But won't dump me if I don't screw on the first date. Okay. I'm dreaming.

  “April 4

  “I am so exhausted. I've been up since 4 a.m. I'm used to 4 a.m., but from the other end—staying up all night. This is hard work, but I love the feeling. I love feeling healthy. I have not even thrown up once since I've been here, and I know I'm blowing up like a balloon, but I don't care.

  “Last night Leona taught me to make that Angel Pie. It has a meringue crust and whipped cream on top and about the richest chocolate inside that you ever tasted. I gave a piece to Leroy and he looked at me—all serious—and said, 'Is this the real thing' I nodded because I'd melted the chocolate myself.

  “Then he took a bite and called me a liar.

  “'I do not taste any angels in here,' he said, 'Not one crunchy little cherub.'

  “I said he was being stupid and this is food for angels.

  “'How do you know angels eat?' he said. I said because everybody gets hungry, sooner or later. So he took a big forkful of pie and put it in my mouth. 'Then you better eat up, Miss Angel,' he said.

  “Isn't that sweet? He's sexy and kind of cute, and he doesn't seem to mind I'm getting fat.

  “I'm going to be huge and happy and live in big floppy muumuus and not give a damn about anything but making the best bread and pies in the city of Boston.

  “Me. Imagine little Ringworm being the best.

  “Uh-oh. Leroy just walked into the kitchen. He looks so weird.

  “April 4—I think it's still April 4

  “Here I am on the goddam train going back to New York. Back to goddam Artie and Zig and Andy Warhol and Dr. Roberts and professors who hate my guts. I guess it's where I belong. Where else would I go? But I cannot throw up in that horrible train toilet. I just won't eat for the next three weeks.

  “So I guess Leroy saved my life.

  “What kind of idiot would kill Martin Luther King?

  “And what kind of morons trash their own neighborhood? I guess if I were black I might want to go out and make some trouble, too. But not for other black people. Right after Leroy walked in and told me about Dr. King, somebody smashed the bakery window.

  “I thought it was because they knew I was inside, but Leroy said they didn't know I was there yet, or we'd all be dead. So he sneaked me out with the laundry and drove me to the train station in the back of the panel truck. I could hear the shouts and the breaking glass all around, but I didn't even know how bad it was until he let me out.

  “I gave him my address and asked him to have Leona send my suitcase, and he looked so angry that I thought he was going to hit me. Then he told me—my stuff was gone. The house got broken into and everything inside got stolen or trashed: the TV, the stereo, everything.

  “He hugged me and I felt tears on his face.

  “They'd even broken into his brother's room, he said. They took little Sinclair's basketball that was signed by Lew Alcindor. I thought of how proud and happy the kid was with that basketball, and I started crying, too.

  “Red eyes. No make-up. About ten extra pounds. I do not even want to think about how awful I'm going to look walking back into the loft.”

  Fatima stopped and sniffled.

  Cady wept too: for Leroy, dead in Vietnam so soon after; for Mama with her 'Arthuritis' that turned out to be bone cancer; for Regina, for Sinclair—and for Dr. King and his dream—for all that long-ago, unhealable grief.

  A helicopter roared near the window again.

  Helen the nurse whimpered.

  “Maybe it's Power's lawyer.” Fatima bounced from the bed. “He said he told him to get in here any way he could.”

  “Oh, please,” Cady prayed, dabbing at her eyes with tissue. “Lord, send us some reinforcements.”

  “You get away from that window LadyFat,” Athena said. “Those lawyers can take care of their ownselves. It's up to us to take care of Reverend Cady. I mean it. Close that blind.”

  Cady dried her eyes and opened them and…saw.

  She saw light streaming in a window. And the silhouette of a woman; plump, like her mother. And the person with her looked like Leroy—her brother Leroy; not in his uniform going off to die, but in a flowing African robe, wearing a little hat, bald as an egg.

  Leroy. Mama. The light.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said out loud. “Please no. It's not my time. I still have to help Flo. Sweet Jesus, don't take me now.”

  Chapter 34—Cady: Family Values

  The light went out, as suddenly as it had appeared. Cady fell back against her pillows in the now-familiar dark.

  “Reverend?” Athena's voice came from where Leroy's ghost had been. “Reverend? Are you okay? We need you, girlfriend. We're not going to let the Lord take you home yet.”

  Cady sighed with a mixture of relief and apprehension. A hallucination. Dr. Lillian had warned her that could happen with a head injury. Or was it the diet medication? Didn't she say brain damage was one of the side effects of the drug?

  “Quiet.” Helen's voice was sharp. “She must be quiet and still. Reverend Stanton. You must be calm. Here. I give you another pill.”

  Cady felt the capsule drop into her palm, but hesitated to put it in her mouth.

  “There she is,” Fatima said, “Your secretary's on TV, Reverend Cady. They're showing her picture now on this Christian channel. It's the only channel not showing Jamal's ugly butt. Hey, that is one old lady. How does anybody think she could do all the stuff they say?”

  The sound came up on the TV.

  Poor Flo. Cady prayed again for the woman who had been as much a mother as a secretary to her these last ten years. How could a seventy-two-year-old, former DAR president, whose forefathers had fought at Lexington and Bunker Hill, be accused of this crime? It was so ridiculous. So horrible.

  Bambi Light
ener's voice came on.

  “Florence Adams, alleged international terrorist, whose name is being linked to the string of assassinations attributed to the mysterious 'Queen of Clubs' has now been charged with the poisoning murder of actress Tina Davis at the San Montinaro airport.”

  Maybe the whole world was on dangerous diet medication and their brains had all been fried. Cady prayed for God to still her anger as she hid the pills beneath her pillow and listened to Bambi's cheerful voice bounce on;

  “Is Florence Adams the 'Queen of Clubs'? The most elusive terrorist since Carlos 'the Jackal'? The Queen of Clubs is known to leave her signature playing card on the bodies of her victims, and a deck of cards was found on Tina Davis's body.

  “Why was Adams here in Los Angeles for the past month? If there is any truth to the rumors that Princess Regina was here, preparing to dedicate her life to Jesus and the Reverend Greeley's ministry, was Adams lying in wait for her? It is known that she infiltrated the staff of Reverend Cady Stanton. She may also be responsible for the accident that injured the former Congresswoman at the Cathedral last week”

  Cady would not have believed this could get more preposterous, but it just had.

  Bambi went on. “In an exclusive interview with GBA, earlier this afternoon, Albert Sneed, Reverend Stanton's publicity manager, had this to say…'We always had suspicions that Florence Adams was not a part of the GBA family. I often thought she might be trying to sabotage the network's efforts to launch her boss into a successful career in television. Now that we know she was secretly working for Power Magee and his anti-family terrorist agenda.'“

  “What?” Fatima gave an explosive laugh. “Power's a anti-family terrorist? What planet are these Bozos from?”

  Bambi spoke again. “Reverend Stanton still cannot be reached for comment concerning her secretary's arrest, or the mysteries surrounding the death of her former friend and foster sister, Princess Regina of San Montinaro.

  “However, seven years ago, when asked about the princess at a Christian Coalition rally in Boston, Reverend Stanton had this to say: 'Although I consider Regina part of my “family” she and I hold very different views on almost everything. Especially on the subject of the state-sanctioned murder of the unborn.'“

  Cady winced. Had she really sounded that self-righteous?

  “We cannot confirm reports that Reverend Stanton is being held against her will by the terrorist group allegedly controlled by pornography mogul, T. Power Magee.”

  Fatima snorted again.

  “The GBA network denies all rumors that Reverend Stanton has become the live-in lover of pornographer Power Magee. Former Congresswoman Cady Stanton, who is an ordained minister in the Baptist faith…”

  Cady was acutely aware of Fatima's presence at the foot of her bed as she heard that awful phrase, “live-in lover.”

  “Oh, Fatima dear, I hope you know that…”

  “Turn it off.” Athena spoke with military authority as her hands stopped braiding. “That is one hundred percent bullhockey on that TV. I feel like my head is gonna explode, and nobody even knocked me upside the head with an elevator.”

  The television clicked off.

  “Reverend Cady, you gotta keep calm.” Fatima said. “Remember. Calm. That's what Power said. We don't need to listen to that garbage.”

  “Why don't you read some more, LadyFat?” Athena said. “I'll go get us some sodas. I'm almost done here. Doesn't Miss Cady look fine?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Helen. “You look years younger, Reverend. So pretty. Very glamorous. Mr. McGee will be impressed.”

  “Mr. Magee?” Cady's embarrassment deepened. “Please, all of you. I have no feelings for Mr. Magee; other than friendship, of course. I know he's spoken for. Please, Helen, everything we heard on that television is lies—all of it. Athena offered to do my hair so it would be easier to care for, not to impress Tyrone, for goodness sake. Yes, Fatima, do read some more.”

  “I would, but the rest of this book is blank.” Fatima noisily flipped through pages. “Except for some doodles and stuff. It looks like maybe she was sketching some fashion designs here, and—hey! Here's a letter. Not opened. It was mailed and then stamped 'Return to Sender'. Should I open it?”

  A letter. Could this be was the mysterious thing that Flo's burglars were looking for?

  “Yes, please.”

  Cady prayed it would have a clue—the key to all this insanity.

  She heard the envelope tear.

  “It's written January 19, 1969, to somebody named 'Caterpillar'. Signed 'Ringworm', but the writing looks like Regina's in this same purple marker she drew the pictures in. Do you want me to read it, Reverend?”

  Cady felt her body stiffen. That January had marked a crisis point in her life. During that month's break between her last two semesters at Bryn Mawr, she'd seen her whole carefully mapped future as lawyer, wife, and mother crash and burn.

  She shivered, as scenes from that painful time flashed through her mind—the cold, dark New Jersey apartment where she lay alone, bleeding from the toxic illegal abortion Darius had insisted on. And Darius's face—no, he was Abdullah then—changed not just in name but in his soul by the anger that sprang from Dr. King's murder.

  Her brain echoed with his heart-tearing, unforgivable words:

  “You're not part of the solution anymore, woman. You're the problem. You got yourself pregnant and now you're lying around feeling sorry for yourself because you've got you a few cramps and you're getting fat. The movement has no place for whiners. You disgust me.”

  Disgust. He'd said that.

  And he'd taken his disgust off with little sex-kitten LaTeesha to plan their revolution and let Cady lie there, delirious, for five days, while her womb rotted away in her ever-swelling belly, her body dying from the inside out from the piece of their own dead baby left by the butcher abortionist—five days, while he and his junior-terrorist bimbo with her great big Afro and little tiny titties refused to take Cady to the hospital until she was nearly dead herself and doomed to a life of childlessness.

  “Reverend Cady? You want me to read the letter or what?” Fatima's girlish voice brought her back to reality.

  “Sure, go ahead. Read it.”

  “Dear Caterpillar,

  “Your Mom gave me the number where you and Abdullah are staying in New Jersey, but the girl who answers says you don't talk to white people anymore. I told her I'm not regular white people. I'm family.

  “'You white, you ain't family,' she said. Then she hung up on me.

  “Please answer this. I've got to talk to somebody normal. Everything here is so crazy. I mean, it should be great. I've signed with Charlotte Ford, and I'm going to make a ton of money, and I just got paid for a big Vogue shoot, but Arthur made me give him all the money and he spent it on Black Beauties and grass and 'luudes for him and Zig.

  “But he says he bought the drugs for me, because I'm going to have to stay on speed if I'm going to be skinny enough to be a Ford model, and all the girls say the Beauties are the best. They say I'm stupid to turn down a good deal on them, especially now Dr. Roberts got busted and we can't get his 'vitamin' shots anymore.

  “But the real problem is I've stopped getting my period, and it's kind of scary. Everybody says I must be pregnant, but unless it's the Second Coming, I don't think so, because Arthur and I still don't have sex. Except one time when he gave me a bunch of downers and stuff and I guess he put some kind of a Mars bar in my crotch and took pictures. I don't even remember, but Ziggy told me, and he was there and swears there was no sex. Arthur says I'm uncool to get uptight about it, and he's totally proud of the pictures, which he calls 'Her One Faith-full Love.' They are so gross.

  “I keep throwing up, even though I don't do it on purpose anymore. Which is why everybody thinks I'm pregnant, I guess. The only thing I can keep down is baby food. Strained plums and tapioca is all I've eaten since before Christmas. I didn't go home for the holidays because Mother went to Amsterdam to visit h
er sisters, but I guess you knew that.

  “I hope you get this and your family is okay. You know I think they're far out. I hope Sinclair got the basketball for Christmas and thank Leroy for his card. I was so surprised to hear from him. I'm glad he liked my Cosmo cover.

  “Love, Ringworm”

  “Dear Lord,” Cady said, “Poor Regina. I never could understand why she wanted to get into all those drugs. God forgive me, but I hope Artie Fry is doing his time in Hell for that. It's one thing to sink into the gutter yourself, but it's another to drag a sweet child with you.”

  She had a flash of a memory, of trying to reach Regina by phone when she was beginning to figure out the abortion had gone wrong, calling for help and getting none—only Artie shouting over too-loud rock and roll,

  “How are you, Cady-Two-Shoes? Regina can't be reached. She's suffering from terminal purpleness. Even her puke is purple.”

  Cady had hung up in disgust, never thinking he was talking about Regina actually being ill. She must have been vomiting those plums and tapioca.

  But Abdullah was even worse, if he'd refused to give Cady the letter…

  “What's the address on the envelope?” she asked Fatima. “An address in New Jersey? If Abdullah sent that back while I was in the hospital…”

  “Your boyfriend? He would have done that?” said Athena.

  She heard a commotion and the bedroom door burst open.

  “Lady Fatima, ma'am?” said a young man's voice. “I know I got orders not to let anybody in, but I got no control here. This dude says Power sent him. He landed his helicopter on top of the pool house, and Jamal told me some lawyer was gonna be coming by.”

  “Hello, ladies.” A deep, cultured man's voice interrupted. “Hello, Miss Cady. You are looking lovelier than ever.”

  Cady's body went rigid. It was a voice she would know anywhere, even though she hadn't heard it since that terrible day in Newark nearly thirty years ago. It was a voice she would remember until the day the Lord returns to judge the whole of creation.