“All I could do was cry. I felt so stupid. But she's been an angel. She gave me the name of a doctor here in Philadelphia she says, 'helped out' a lot of her college friends. She even called and made the appointment, and recommended this hotel, which is 'comfortable, but anonymous' like she said.
“I flew in last night. I told Cady the agency had a last-minute catalogue job for me.
“She looked so cold and strange when she took me to the airport. She knew I was lying. But at that point, I couldn't tell her anything. It's her half-brother's baby. And they haven't heard from him in weeks.
“Sybil says the abortion will be expensive because I'm more than three months along: a thousand dollars, which I had to get in cash. I've got it here under my pillow, which feels very weird, like I'm a criminal or something. Well, I guess I am.
“April 4
“Leroy's dead.
“My baby's not. I couldn't do it.
“I called Cady last night, because I couldn't stand the thought of maybe dying there on the operating table with the memory of that cold look in her eye when she said goodbye. I wasn't going to tell her anything. I wanted to hear her voice and talk about unimportant stuff and have things be regular again.
“But she was crying—sobbing—and all she could say was they got a call saying Leroy got exploded by a grenade. They only found a few pieces big enough to ship home for a funeral. She didn't invite me. Why should she?”
The words blurred again as Cady's eyes stung with tears at the memory—and at the horror she was afraid she was about to read.
“So this morning, I tried to go to the doctor. I had the wad of hundred-dollar bills stuffed into my bra, because I was scared of it getting stolen. But I was so nervous, I got there way too early, and nobody was there yet. I tried to kill time by walking around the block, but I was terrified, with all that money.
“I saw a bunch of little kids I thought were on their way to school, so I followed them, thinking a schoolyard would be a safe place to wait, but they went into this warehouse meeting hall instead. There were big 'Free Huey' posters in the window, and pictures of Eldridge Cleaver. None of the kids were white. Neither were the grown-ups. They were wearing sort of military uniforms, and looked at me really weird. They were feeding the kids hot oatmeal with jam stirred in, and talking about African history and Martin Luther King.
“But I guess they ran out of jam, and a tiny girl started to cry when they told her it was all gone.
“'It's not fair!' she said, with tears running out of big sad eyes, as she pointed at her friends at a table. 'They got lots, and I got nothin'.'
“The men in the uniforms kept staring at me, and this one big guy wearing a beret came over all pissed off and asked me what I thought I was doing there.
“Then—I can't believe I did this. I reached in my bra and pulled out the thousand dollars.
“'For jam,' I said, totally stupid. 'For the little girl. She needs jam.'
“A woman came over and stared at the money and then at me. 'Who are you?' she said.
“I ran outside. The couple ran after me. I flagged a taxi, but when I stopped to get in the cab, the woman caught up with me and grabbed my arm.
“'We don't want to hurt you, lady. We want to thank you. This is a lot of money. Are you in trouble?'
“So I told her my name. She looked at me funny. I couldn't tell if that meant she recognized me.
“She gave me this card that said, 'Tigress House/Shelter for Children of African Heritage/Camden, New Jersey/ Athena Jackson, MSW'
“Athena. What a great name.”
Cady stopped and slammed the notebook shut. Her nose sensed the intruder first—all those clouds of Chanel No.19.
“Cady, dearest. You look positively marvelous. You must give me the name of your surgeon.” Sybil D. D. had one of the phoniest voices around
She rushed in and gave Cady air kisses and a half-hug against her Hermes silk scarf.
“Reverend Cady Stanton—”
Sybil clutched a microphone in her other hand.
“How do you feel about the accusations that you and Princess Regina are part of a worldwide terrorist organization that is now in possession of a suitcase-sized nuclear bomb?”
Cady tried to smile as she found herself staring directly into the lens of a whirring video camera.
An ambush. Why hadn't she seen this coming?
Chapter 43—Regina: An American Princess
Regina lay in her white room waiting for Mikhail. He had been gone too long. She felt about to explode out of her skin.
The terrible secret. She'd told it: the awful truth that no one could ever know. The thing that had isolated her from everyone she loved for all these years: from her mother, from Cady, from her husband and children. It was the secret that had left her in terror of blackmailers and prying journalists for so much of her life.
She'd told it to Mikhail Moskowitz; an admitted Russian spy she hardly knew. What had she been thinking?
She lay in the featureless white room with nothing but stacks of old Boy's Life magazines for company. She read about cool cookies to make for your Cub Scout den meeting and waited for the awfulness that was about to happen.
And awful things did happen to people who knew. She'd only told three people in the world about Leroy's baby: Arthur Fry, Athena Jackson, and Sybil. And now poor Artie and Ms. Jackson were both dead: Ms. Jackson hit by a stray bullet in a shoot-out between Panthers and Philadelphia police in 1976; Artie dead of AIDS seven years later.
Athena Jackson had been a good woman. Artie called her death an “assassination”, although he was into so many conspiracy theories in his last days that he thought Elvis and Karen Carpenter had been assassinated, too.
Sybil was never supposed to know. She had appeared at the door of the loft one day in early October of 1972, when Regina, hugely pregnant and miserable from the heat of the Indian summer day had answered the door.
The truth was there for everybody to see: not exactly camouflaged in a hideous cotton muumuu the size of a caterer's tent.
“I just got back from the dig in Lebanon and stopped by the agency, but they said you'd taken an extended leave of absence.” Sybil always had a way of barging in without looking exactly rude. “It took a bit of doing to track you down, but I had to apologize. Who knew the abortion doctor's office would be raided the day before your appointment? I am so sorry. I should have sent you to Puerto Rico.”
“Raided?” Regina hadn't cared about abortion doctors or Sybil's apologies. She simply wanted the woman to go away. A jet-setting archaeologist-socialite was the last person she could relate to at that point in her life.
Sybil looked down at Regina's huge belly.
“I feel so awful. Cady didn't tell me. Do you need anything? Clothes? Money? Let me write you a check. Oh, I do feel this is all my fault.”
Regina could only laugh. “I think that's biologically impossible, isn't it? And Cady doesn't know. No one does. If you tell anyone, I'll never forgive you.”
Then Athena Jackson showed up with some pre-adoption paperwork. Regina tried to politely usher Sybil out as she welcomed Athena, but Sybil followed them back into the room.
“So brave!” she kept saying. “Our Regina is so brave, isn't she?”
Ms. Jackson, all business, kept brushing Sybil off like a pesky insect until Sybil pulled a gilded Florentine leather checkbook out of her purse.
“Please. I want to donate something. In Regina's name, of course. You're both doing such good things here, and I feel so guilty.”
“Thank you so much.” Ms. Jackson didn't miss a beat. “Make it out to the Camden, New Jersey chapter of the Black Panther Party.”
Regina had tried to stop her, but Sybil dashed off the check, tossed it to Ms. Jackson, and swept out the door, blowing kisses.
“In Regina's name. Make sure the gift is recorded in my friend Regina's name.”
“Oh my. That woman is a very good friend.”
The ch
eck had been drawn for five thousand dollars.
After that, Regina had always considered Sybil an ally; a friend whose cold exterior hid a genuinely altruistic spirit, someone who could be trusted.
Until now. Could anyone find the child—not a child—she'd be a grown woman now—and if she took after her father's family, strong and smart. But who was strong enough to fight off an unknown assassin?
Where was Mikhail? Where was anybody? The whole building seemed horribly quiet. Regina looked around her bed for some kind of buzzer to call the nurse. She found a panel on the nightstand and pressed the largest button.
With an electronic beep, a panel in the wall across from the bed slid open, revealing a large-screen television. Deepak Chopra and Luciano Pavarotti were offering free tote bags to anyone who pledged over seventy five dollars to PBS.
She clicked another button on the panel, gasping as she was confronted with a picture of herself. It was one of her wedding photographs, the one that had graced the cover of Time that year; a favorite of Max's.
“An American Princess: 1948-1997” said a banner across the screen.
“We will continue with our coverage of the mystery surrounding the death of the beloved princess of San Montinaro after these messages.”
Beloved. The announcer called her beloved. That was nice. She clicked the button again. A crowd was gathered outside the iron gates of some Hollywood director's mansion. Two handsome black men stood at the gate, immobile as the guards at Buckingham palace, refusing to say a word as reporters repeatedly asked questions about what was going on inside. Apparently nothing. Boring.
Changing channels, she heard the lugubrious strains of the San Montinaro national anthem.
“This was the scene at last Friday's royal funeral,” the announcer said.
Regina felt odd watching the sad parade of overcoated, chilly-looking mourners marching between the snowdrifts behind the iris-decorated coffin that was supposed to be hers. The irises were nice. Somebody had remembered her favorite flower. Probably Tarquino, the poor dear. He and Max Jr. marched behind their impossibly stoic father, looking more uncomfortable than tragic. As if to make up for the family's lack of emotional display, the palace staff behind them looked impossibly teary and bereft. Titiana was weeping copiously.
Regina had never seen Titiana cry, even when her own mother died. If she didn't know better, she'd say Titiana was feeling no real grief at all.
She changed the channel again. It wasn't easy to see her family in pain, especially the boys. She hoped she'd be able to tell them the truth soon.
On the shopping channel, someone was offering a commemorative plate picturing her purple-haired image from her first Warhol movie.
She clicked again on the Hollywood mansion where umbrellas glistened under the lights as hapless reporters endured the onset of a winter drizzle. She was about to leave them in their misery when the perfectly-lipsticked smile of Sybil D-D appeared in the foreground.
Sybil spoke into a microphone as she approached the stone-faced guards.
“This is Sybil Diaz-Dreyfuss. I'm reporting live from Power Magee's Beverly Hills estate. Now that Reverend Cady Stanton has recovered from the accident that temporarily blinded her, she has agreed to give me an exclusive interview concerning the charges that she and Power Magee conspired…”
Regina felt a wave of relief. Sybil wasn't off spying for the bad guys, whoever they were; she was on TV. What's more, Cady was all right. Temporarily blinded. Temporary. That had to mean she was seeing now. And living with that sexy Power Magee. What a delightful development. If Cady had found a man; especially a man like that, maybe she would be over the uptight church lady stuff. Maybe Regina could finally tell her the truth about the baby.
The door to her room banged open.
“Do not watch that nonsense, Regina, please.” Mikhail tossed a large satchel on the bed and rushed to the TV. “I did not know there was a television. I distinctly asked the doctor for no television. These people have created a huge drama from nothing. Cady Stanton and Power Magee were never supposed to be involved. It is all stories. Pure fiction. Please pay no attention.”
He pounded on the frame around the screen.
“How do you shut this damned thing off? Oh, my God, how did that woman get there?”
“I'm sorry. I was trying to call the nurse, and I hit the wrong button. I didn't know I was breaking the rules. There.” Regina clicked off the remote.
She had no idea he was so anti-TV. Maybe it was just as well they hadn't connected all those years ago. At least Max let her watch TV. She sighed as the screen went dark.
“No!” Mikhail seemed more upset than before. “Turn it back. I must see this. That was Sybil. I'll swear it! How did she get to Los Angeles so fast? I just saw her in San Montinaro. I do not know what damage she can do with all those reporters around, but I do not like it.”
But before Regina could hit the remote, someone pounded heavily on the door.
“Mickey!” It sounded like the nurse from Minnesota. “He's here. He's coming up the drive. You're going to have to get your girlfriend out. Now!”
Chapter 44—Regina: A Pair of Kings
Mikhail opened the door to the nurse.
“He is here?” he said. “The boss? He cannot be. He just got into LAX.”
The nurse gave an exasperated sigh.
“He made it out of the airport in record time because nobody was there from the media. They're all in Beverly Hills covering this Reverend Cady Stanton thing. Do you believe it? I always thought she was such a family values kind of lady. And Princess Regina, imagine…”
“Bull!” Mikhail roared. “It is all lies and bullsh…”
“My goodness. That's hardly the way to talk around ladies, Mr. Mouse.” The nurse ran off down the hallway.
Mikhail slammed the door and turned to Regina with an odd smile.
“My love, it is time to—as Moses said to the Israelites—get the flock out of here. My boss is on his way home, two days early. I suppose his nose fell off again. Here.”
He opened up the satchel.
“Put this on. I think we can travel safely in these clothes. We must disappear before anybody suspects who you are or the boss will be furious. You cannot blame him. The man cannot afford any more negative media right now.”
Mikhail reached into the satchel and tossed her something made of buttery white leather decorated with sequins.
“Mr. Mouse? You told them your name is Mickey Mouse?” Regina couldn't help giggling.
“No, I told him my name is Mikhail Moskovitz. It is the boss who gave me the nickname. This whole place is in a kind of perpetual-childhood time warp, you know.”
“Do you mean the ranch, or the whole state?”
“Actually, I meant the whole country.”
He nodded at the TV, where a cameraman in a Tweety Bird baseball cap was following Sybil through the iron gates into the estate. Mikhail snorted as he reached into the satchel again and tossed her a pair of huge aviator sunglasses and something hairy that looked like a wig.
She stood, still a little wobbly from drugs and surgery, but the outfit he had given her was some sort of jumpsuit that required stepping into. At least her new cast supported her weight and seemed to be designed for walking.
She zipped up the jumpsuit and pulled in her belly. Luckily an attached big-buckled belt had a kind of girdle effect and counteracted the sausage-casing look of the white leather. She'd always thought jumpsuits were tacky on anyone not actively involved in the repair or manufacture of automobiles, but she knew better than to argue with Mikhail now.
“Idiots!” Mikhail yelled at the TV as he stepped out of his Levis. His butt still had a great shape and his long legs were maybe even a bit more muscular. She felt a twinge of desire as she watched him pull on a pair of form-fitting black leather pants.
“Boys with toys,” he said. “Where are their brains?”
“What's wrong?”
The TV still
showed the gates of Power Magee's house. Sybil was not in evidence. Regina didn't know why Mikhail was so upset. The woman might be a spy, but she had no reason to hurt Cady, and after all, they were both Bryn Mawr.
She turned away, looking for some sort of mirror as she put on the awful wig. It looked like a man's wig left over from the height of the blow-dried 70's.
“They are sending in the goddamn SWAT team, Regina! Turn up the sound, will you?”
As Regina pushed the volume button, she could see a commotion in the crowd of reporters. Just as Mikhail said, military-looking, equipment-laden troops were climbing out of a large truck parked behind the first phalanx of camera crews.
A crowd of reporters followed a tall, androgynous black person wearing a cap with the logo of a security company, who pushed through the crowd. The person in the cap appeared to be someone of importance who waved microphones away like so many flies.
The TV sound picked up a few words as cameras surrounded the gate to the house.
“Jamal! Kareem! You gotta open up. It's me. Athena!” The person took off the cap and coat and rattled the gate.
Now Regina could see was a woman; a tall, stunning woman dressed in a dramatically draped outfit of traditional African fabric. Her head was completely bald. The look was surprising, but it worked.
Two of the heavily equipped policemen darted from behind a camera bank and reached for the woman's arm.
“Ma'am, please state your business. No one is allowed inside.”
The woman turned and stared at the policeman as if he were a species of insect. Then she turned and faced the camera, grabbing a microphone from one of the reporters.
“Yes, I will state my business, Mr. Policeman.” She peered into the camera.
“Who am I talking to, NBC? Well, I'm talking to everybody. Come around, all of you, ABC, CBS, CNN, LMNOP, whoever the hell you folks are, you all come around and listen up. I will tell you who I am and then this fine police officer —”
She turned and gave a big smile to the uniformed man.
“Smile for the cameras, hon—maybe you can tell us why I can't go back into the place I been all day long.”
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 100