Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  She wondered if aliens had ever heard of chocolate.

  “Are you with us, Jane?” said the green one with the man's voice. “You looked as if you were drifting off. Do you want to sleep more, or would you like breakfast?”

  Breakfast. They seemed to be reading her thoughts.

  “It doesn't have to be chocolate,” Regina said. “But food would be nice. People food, you know. If you have some.”

  The pink one let out a noise that sounded exactly like a human woman giggling.

  “You betcha. I know what you mean. Mickey said you'd been at some health spa. I went to one of those places once, and what they gave us to eat tasted like bark and twigs, I'll swear. I'll bet you'd like a nice Danish. We got in some fresh this morning from Solvang. You want cheese or lemon? The chimpanzee probably ate all the ollalieberry. He loves those.”

  “Oh, I'd die for a Danish! I mean…”

  Oh, dear; were they going to take her literally?

  They seemed to be leaving. At least for the moment. Solvang was the name of a Danish town near Santa Barbara. So, space aliens liked Danish pastries. No wonder people spotted a lot of UFOs around here.

  She was still awfully sleepy. She'd been given some kind of drug. She could feel it in the heaviness of her eyelids, and the way her mind drifted away from her, dreaming of the creature who had rescued her; so like Mikhail in his voice, in the way his strong arms had pulled her from the cliff's edge and carried her to the waiting ship. So like him that she hadn't resisted, in spite of the eerie, almost silent wind and piercing light beams that emanated from the dark craft. He hadn't been quite authentic, of course—the age had been wrong—so old, with all that gray in his hair, and the bit of a potbelly. But the smell had been right. His wonderful, familiar smell. How had they done that?

  “Did somebody order a cheese Danish?”

  She woke and saw him: Mikhail.

  Or someone so like Mikhail she couldn't help smiling. He set down a box on the table beside her and leaned down and kissed her sweetly and softly, as if he were caressing something delicate and fragile that might shatter in an instant. The kiss made her tingle all over. If he was an alien in disguise—or some sort of replication—he was heart-meltingly close to the real thing. Twenty-two years. She'd been longing for this man for twenty-two years.

  “They said you asked for real food. That is a good sign. How do you feel? Is there a lot of pain?”

  She tried to find words to ask him all the questions that were there in her head, but although her pain was considerably less than it had been earlier, her tongue felt thick and her lips were loose and uncooperative.

  “I am starving, too,” he said. “Jet lag always makes me hungry; so does two days of airplane food. They say the operation went very well.”

  “Operation?” Uh-oh. The aliens had been operating on her. Now she was going to find out the kinky part.

  “Repairing that foot. It had to be broken and reset, the job had been terribly botched, because the cast had never set properly. Your knees and hands had bruises and abrasions from the fall. That's probably why you were delirious—from all that pain. When I found you, you were actually trying to move in the wrong direction—toward the cliff instead of the road. Another foot or two and you would have been over the edge.”

  He smoothed her hair from her face and looked into her eyes.

  “But even in your delirium, you recognized me, my love. You held your arms up to me, and called my name. And you were so sweet when I carried you from the chopper.”

  He lifted her bandaged hand and kissed the skin of her wrist.

  “You kept worrying about me. Asking about my immigration status. 'Are you an alien?' you kept saying. 'I don't want you to be an alien'.”

  He leaned back and patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “So you will be happy to know I have my Green Card right here with my passport, renewed yesterday for my little jaunt to San Montinaro.”

  “You've been to San Montinaro?” Could he really be Mikhail? He'd been to see her family? “Is everyone all right? My boys? Do they still think I'm dead? I heard on the radio…”

  She stopped herself. Maybe she'd been delirious when she heard that too. Or crazy. Or maybe it had it been the aliens all along—the accidents and everything. She hoped Mikhail wasn't a hallucination, too. She reached for his hand. It felt solid and real. Human. She looked closely, it even had real fingernails—a bit grimy.

  “You are still quite dead in San Montinaro—and everywhere else, I am afraid,” he said, kissing her own fingertips where they poked out of the bandages. “You had an impressive funeral. But I thought we had better wait to resurrect you until we can be sure you're safe from more murder attempts.”

  “Murder attempts? So they weren't accidents!” Relief flooded through the fuzz of her anesthetized brain. “Did you tell Max? Max thinks…”

  Mikhail laughed. “I am afraid I was not invited to any royal audiences. Besides, I did not have much time for visiting. I was busy stealing a small nuclear bomb.”

  “A bomb? In San Montinaro?”

  Now he was the one sounding crazy.

  “Not any more, darling. Everything should return to normal soon.”

  He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

  She smiled back. He must be speaking in some kind of code. Probably because of the aliens. Or maybe he was pretending to work for them. He was a professional spy, wasn't he?

  “How soon… until I can be alive again?” she whispered. “Do the…” What should she call the aliens who ran this ship? “Um, our hosts, do they know who I am?”

  “No. And do not worry,” he patted her hand. “You are fine here for the time being. No place safer. Nowhere on earth is more paparazzi-proof, and no one knows you are here. You are Jane Doe even to your doctors. But the problem is that at the moment, my employer does not know, either. He is off getting a Grammy award or becoming an African tribesman this week, and I would rather have things solved by the time he gets back. Negative publicity is not his favorite thing. And I really do need the job.”

  “You're not a spy anymore?”

  “No. I am a security guard for a pop star. But hey, the pay is better and so are the hours. And I will not be called back to headquarters to get chewed out by the brass and have to leave the woman I love, ever, ever again.” He leaned down to kiss her.

  The kiss was soft and dreamy and sweet as chocolate.

  “Is that what happened all those years ago?” she said. “Why you dumped me, without even leaving a note? You were called back to Tel Aviv?”

  He gave a weird laugh. “Not exactly Tel Aviv. That is what people were supposed to believe, of course. But I did leave a note—with Sybil. Did she not give it to you?”

  “No, I never got a note. What do you mean not exactly Tel Aviv? Ottawa? You don't expect me to believe that maple leaf thing—who did you work for, the CIA?”

  “You are getting warmer. Another large evil empire, recently deceased. What are you saying—Sybil never gave you the letter? She never told you anything—about how I was recalled? We worked out a perfectly good cover. Why did she not tell you? That was just playing into their hands.”

  Mikhail had a far-away look in his eyes as if he were watching a movie in his head.

  “She delivered you to those people, knowing I would not detonate the bomb as long as you were on board that yacht. All she had to do was give you the note—or tell you where I was waiting to meet you.”

  His eyes had gone quite wild.

  “Dear God!” he said. “She must have been working for them, Regina. She was protecting them from the bomb. Sybil has to be a double agent.”

  “You were going to meet me? I hope you didn't wait long…”

  How sweet. She pictured him waiting endlessly in some Greek taverna, thinking she'd dumped him. How very sweet and sad. Except the part about the bomb.

  “What do you mean? There was a bomb on Max's yacht? You were going to nuke the yacht?”


  Mikhail laughed. “No. It was just a conventional bomb, but enough to blow up the arms dealers and their cargo before they reached the Middle East. They had been selling to the rebels in Afghanistan, but they had a better offer from Hammas, which is why both the KGB and Mossad were involved.”

  “Wait!” Regina's brain was too drugged to follow. “Who is 'them'? The KGB? You're saying Sybil D-D is a KGB agent?”

  “No, love.” He laughed “I am the KGB agent—or I used to be. Sybil is with Mossad. Or that is what we thought. But now…” He had that movie-in-his head look again as he grasped her hand. “I am beginning to think Sybil may be a free-lance operative. An operative working for the forces who have been trying to kill you.”

  “Oh, my God! The aliens! It was the aliens all along! How do we get out of here?”

  She froze when she heard a knock at the door. The aliens.

  “Mickey?” said the pink alien. Somehow she had a human female face now. “You've got a phone call from Moscow. They say it's urgent.”

  “Men!” she said as Mikhail rushed out of the room. “He hasn't even given you your breakfast.”

  The alien opened the box on the table to reveal three buttery-looking pastries.

  Hunger took over. Regina bit into the round of flaky pastry and sweet, custardy filling. She looked up at the girl alien, smiling so sweetly, and wondered if she was about to be whisked off to a distant galaxy and if this could be her last earthly meal.

  After swallowing, she decided to risk a question. At least she would find out what planet these creatures were from that could take human form at will and seemed to be friendly with the KGB.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I wonder… if you could tell me where you're from?”

  “Minnesota. People out here always ask me that. They seem to think the Midwest is a different galaxy. Now you should sleep some more, Hon.” She fluffed Regina's pillow. “Oh, whoops. I'm not sterile—with the mask and surgical gloves and all, but it doesn't matter, really. The boss is so nervous about germs that he has a lot of crazy rules about medical staff wearing surgical gear—he keeps medical staff on call full time. Not that I mind. Great hours, and it sure beats the heck out of mid-western weather, eh?”

  As Regina watched the person from Minnesota go out the door, she felt like saying; no, she didn't know. She didn't know anything at all—except that the pastry was delicious and she was—very probably—not being abducted by aliens, after all.

  She started to drift into sleep, when a thought—either from her dreaming or her waking self—pulled her from her drugged state: Cady.

  She'd heard on the TV; on the radio, too, that Cady had been in an accident. An accident that had left her blind.

  She had to find out. She couldn't bear it if one more time she'd failed the only real family she had.

  Mikhail burst into the room, looking as if he'd been reading her thoughts.

  “Something's wrong?” she said.

  “I am not sure. The bomb is safely home, but the thieves want it back. I am not surprised at that. At least they do not seem to know you are here, or even that you are alive. But they have threatened to kill someone else, if I do not give the bomb back in twenty four hours.”

  His face looked strange.

  “They have sent one of the world's most dangerous assassins to kidnap and kill someone—someone I do not think exists. After all, you only have two children; two sons, right?”

  Regina felt a terrible chill.

  “My sons? They're going to hurt my boys? No! The children have already had to go through this funeral business.”

  “No,” said Mikhail. “The princes are too valuable to them. No, the person they have threatened is your daughter.”

  Her daughter. Regina's mind came into clear, sharp focus. How could anybody know? “I did have a baby before I met Max; a daughter. But…nobody knew. Well, only four people even knew at the time; and they're all dead—except Sybil D-D.”

  “Sybil Diaz-Dreyfuss—she knew about this? Where is the child? What is her name?” Mikhail sounded out of breath—almost frightened.

  Regina tried to soothe him.

  “I never saw the child or knew who adopted her, so I'm sure Sybil doesn't either. All she knows is that I got pregnant and couldn't go through with an abortion. Really, Mikhail, Sybil may be a spy, but I don't think she'd hurt me or my family. We're friends.”

  Mikhail's face was scary. “Regina, Sybil is very much not your friend. We have to find your daughter before she does.”

  Chapter 41—Cady: Bluebeard

  Cady couldn't reach Tyrone. Or Darius. Presumably they were both en route to San Montinaro. She left messages at the airport for them both to call her. All she could do was pray they were safe. Worry for them, for Flo, and for Regina—if by some miracle she was still alive—filled her thoughts.

  She paced the upstairs hallway of Tyrone's movie-star mansion. She didn't want to return to the confines of her bedroom, which now seemed like an over-luxurious cage. The opulence of Tyrone's house, obvious to her even in sightlessness, felt overwhelming now. The polished mahogany railings and paneling; marble floors; lush forests of potted palms and orchids; walls covered with African carvings, weavings and animal pelts, dazzled too much for comfort.

  Athena and Fatima were cleaning up from dinner. They'd insisted she rest and let them work. She had to admit she was grateful. She needed the time alone; time to think and pray, time to give thanks for her restored sight and ask God what she should do next.

  She had so many questions; how to warn Tyrone; how to use the new information about Prince Max and Titiana to help Flo; how to find the truth about Regina's death and how to resolve the confusion in her soul that came from Athena and Fatima and their sinful, but obviously genuine love.

  Cady had spent dinner trying to hide her discomfort, but she knew the women sensed it. She'd compensated by smiling and eating too much. But now her heavy stomach was paying the price. She would give anything to be able to walk outdoors, but the media siege still raged outside the gates.

  She tried to walk off the fullness and worry, pacing down a long hallway, and then another, until she came to a door that opened on a narrow wooden staircase. The small stairwell had a comfortable, attic-y smell that reminded her of home. She climbed the stairs. An attic would be quiet and safe and free of distractions—a simple place for a few moments of prayer.

  But she felt a twinge of apprehension as she reached the cavernous room above. Lit only by the weak light of a half-moon that shone through a skylight in the beamed ceiling, the room was full of ominous shapes looming from the shadows. The sharp odor of chemical solvents filled her nostrils.

  Her fingers found a round dimmer switch on the wall. Her days of blindness had taught her hands to see in a way she never would have learned otherwise. God bestowed gifts, even in adversity.

  Track lighting glowed dimly, then brighter.

  But what she saw froze her where she stood. She couldn't even scream.

  Before her was a woman's head, hanging from the wall—a head with a horribly familiar face.

  It was her own.

  She twirled around, unable to breathe. She was not alone in the room. In a far corner, she saw a crowd of women huddled together, frozen in fear. Or cold. They were completely naked.

  She hit the dimmer button, hard.

  Relief flooded through her as sudden light beamed on the scene.

  Sculptures: the women were life-sized wooden statues. Cady laughed out loud. Tyrone apparently had a hobby; he liked to carve wood.

  And what would he carve but naked women? She studied the grouping in the corner. The work was executed well, in an African- influenced style. The figures were big but graceful, beautiful in their own way; big breasted, heavy-thighed fertility goddesses. They were everywhere, from small desk-sized statuettes to the life-sized grouping in the corner. The head on the wall was the only female bust, but several busts with male faces lay on a table, in various stages of completion
.

  Now she surveyed the whole room. Unlike the rest of the house, it was covered by a thin layer of dust, and the furniture was simple and functional. An old hot plate sat on a battered wooden table, supporting a carafe of crusty, molded coffee. The only hint of luxury was a random pile of Moroccan pillows in one corner, in front a kind of shrine—an altar-like wooden case, topped by framed photographs and paintings of public figures, a bust of Muhammad Ali, and another of the young Nelson Mandela.

  She walked to the case, feeling a bit of apprehension and guilt as she prepared to peer into what were obviously some of Tyrone's most precious secrets. A light glowed from inside the velvet-lined case. She could see the burnished glint of highly polished wood.

  She looked down, and let out an involuntary gasp. She had to check twice to believe what she saw: a violin—her own violin. Inside Tyrone's shrine was her Daddy's phony old Stradivarius.

  The collector—the crazy person who had paid a quarter of a million dollars for her worthless violin—it was Tyrone.

  Why?

  She glanced at the photographs. One was of herself at President Bush's Inaugural Ball, dancing with Ronald Reagan; a silly picture, with the former president's face convulsed in laughter and her own backside looking huge in the gold Bob Mackie gown she should not have worn after she put on all that weight during the campaign. But her face looked pretty as she glanced over her shoulder at the photographer—pretty, proud; almost regal and remarkably like the face across the room—the face of the woman's head hanging on the wall.

  “Reverend Cady?” Fatima's voice called from downstairs. “I got news. There's all kinds of stuff coming down. Hey, nobody better be up in Power's studio. He don't let anybody up in that attic. Not even the cleaners. That's his private place. If anything up there gets messed with, I am gonna be in so much trouble.”

  Cady rushed down the stairs.

  “News? What news? About Flo? Is she all right?”

  Fatima stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a flowered apron over her leather pants and bustier. She looked like Aunt Jemima on her way to a leather bar.