The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse: Books 1-3 (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Box Sets)

by Nic Saint

  Rick pondered this. Even though the notion of his sister naked gave him the willies, a brain the size of his, even though now slightly stirred—or even shaken—never ceased to fire on all cylinders. “You know? This may be the making of you, Bomer. Did you ever…produce this sex tape?”

  “No, we didn’t. I kept putting the thing off, finding the idea of the whole world watching my…well, you know what—”

  “Yes, I think I do,” said Rick, his sense of privacy easily rivaling Bomer’s. He too, wouldn’t like to see his thingummy on display for the whole world to see.

  “That was one of the reasons she was so pissed with me. She kept pushing me to make this tape, and I kept stalling and then when she caught me in your apartment, she thought I was cheating on her and that was the end of it.”

  “Then what are you fretting about? You and she are not an item anymore, so what do you care that someone stole those pictures?”

  This gave Bomer pause. It was an angle of the affair he hadn’t examined. Finally he said, “I guess you’re right.” His face lit up with sudden relief. “I don’t even have to tell her! That was what bothered me the most, you see. That I would have to fess up about having lost her precious pictures.”

  “Well, since you’re not engaged anymore, I doubt she will bother you again.”

  Bomer’s face clouded again. He’d thought of another thing. “What if the thieves decide to publish the pictures? Or, worse, decide to blackmail her?”

  “Either way, it won’t affect you,” thought Rick. “And besides, if they publish the pictures, Charlene will get exactly what she wanted. Same thing if they try to blackmail her. She’ll make sure she milks this thing for all it’s worth.”

  “Of course.” Bomer heaved a sigh of intense relief. “You’re right. It will be exactly what she wanted.”

  “That settled, there is something I need from you, buddy.”

  “Anything!”

  “Can I borrow your car? I’m late for a dinner date and I really can’t wait around for a taxi. It’s a case of some urgency.”

  By way of response, Bomer threw him the keys to his Porsche. “Knock yourself out, brother Rick. She’s all yours.”

  For once, Rick didn’t mind being called by that ridiculous nickname. The sound of those words had greatly appealed to him. ‘She’s all yours.’ He hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter 47

  As Rick steered Bomer’s Porsche into town, he passed Charlene’s Beemer. The two siblings awarded one another a brief glance, and then went on their merry way. There had long existed between them the kind of peace that existed between the USA and the USSR during the greater part of the cold war. Peaceful coexistence, some politician had once called it, and that was exactly how relations between Rick and Charlene could have been described.

  Rick didn’t care about Charlene, and did his best to avoid her, and Charlene gladly returned the favor.

  She expertly steered her car up the driveway to Casa di Vitae, where she hoped to find her father and confer with him about this great tragedy that had befallen her. She was a strong-willed independent girl, who was used to doing things her own way, but from time to time, when the great tragedies of life knocked her for a loop, she still found herself seeking daddy’s advice and shoulder to cry on. Contrary to Rick, Charlene had always greatly admired her father, and had remained on excellent terms even after he’d divorced her mother. In fact she’d opted to stay with him and hadn’t failed to inform the divorce court accordingly.

  The fact that Bomer was a louse and a scoundrel and a heartless nitwit should have been clear to her from the start, especially since he was a close friend of her stepbrother, but she still hadn’t expected him to be a louse of such enormous proportion. Even with the wedding coming up, he’d insisted on going back to his womanizing ways and had had the gall to use Rick’s place to set up dates with girls behind her back. The man was simply incorrigible.

  She drove up to the house and jerked the car to a screeching halt on the gravel drive. And that’s when she noticed a couple of men approaching from the beach. She recognized them as two of her father’s goons. Though she didn’t know their names—nor did she care—she did know they took care of some of the more unsavory little jobs a man in her father’s position sometimes required.

  Contrary to Rick, she approved of her father’s shady deals and the notoriously unscrupulous ways in which he conducted business. If you want to make an omelet, you need to break some legs, she had always felt, and if hiring these two thugs was the way to amassing great wealth, so be it.

  She stepped from the car and made her way to the front door, letting herself in with the key.

  Before she could step inside, the voice of Jerry arrested her and she rolled her eyes. “Daddy! Some people here to see you!” she hollered. When no response came, she frowned darkly. She was used to people being at her beck and call, and didn’t enjoy being made to wait for a response. “Daddy!”

  “He’s not there,” Jerry said, a little breathless.

  Instantly, Charlene snatched her iPhone from her purse. “Daddy? Where are you?” she demanded.

  She listened for a moment, then transferred her gaze to Jerry, who was gesturing at the phone. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

  “Boss? It’s Jerry. Yeah, I know, I know. But we’ve got it.” He darted a surreptitious glance at Charlene, then continued in a stage whisper, “We’ve got the goods! Yeah, the thing’s in the bag.”

  Whatever Jerry was discussing, her father’s response seemed to please him, for his weaselly face contorted into a hideous grimace. She deduced it was some species of smile, and eyed it with distaste.

  “Thanks, boss. Much appreciated.” He handed her back the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Charlene tossed her hair, then held the phone away from her ear. No way was she going to touch a phone that had been infected by this ghastly creature. “Daddy, when are you coming back? I need to talk to you.”

  “And I need to talk to you. Where are you?”

  “At the house.”

  She could have been mistaken, but did her father sound peeved? It couldn’t be. She was, after all, the apple of his eye, or so he always claimed.

  “I’ll be right down. Don’t go anywhere.”

  She assured him she wasn’t likely to head back out after she’d just driven all the way to Happy Bays when he abruptly disconnected without so much as an ‘I love you’ or ‘I’ll see you soon honey bunch.’ She frowned, and then became aware that the weasel was staring at her, licking his lips.

  “What do you want?”

  He handed her a laptop. She took it, staring disapprovingly at the ghastly thing. “Give this to your father, will you?” He gave her a hideous wink. “He knows all about it.” After uttering these words, he finally took off, along with the big brute who seemed to be his constant companion.

  She closed the door, carried the laptop into the house, and set it down on the table. Moments later, she was walking out onto the patio. She was feeling annoyed, not only with Bomer but also with her father. She didn’t enjoy people telling her what to do and when he’d issued his command that she stay put, she’d experienced that familiar twinge of rebellion that was as much a part of her personality as the domineering streak she’d inherited from her mother.

  She decided to go for a walk and made her way to the strip of beach. And she was passing Casa di Amore when she noticed something was going on there. Music drifted from the house, and she could see people milling about, drinks in hand and merrily prattling and having a ball. Curious, she set foot for the house. She loved parties, and always felt that any party where she wasn’t present wasn’t much of a party at all.

  Chapter 48

  Falcone stared dumbly at the woman pacing the floor before him. For the past hour she’d spoken extensively and spoken well on a topic on which she obviously held strong views. Several times now, he’d tried to interrupt her, and put in a word of his own, but she’
d simply silenced him with a cold look and continued her speech.

  The topic she had selected was one on which he held equally strong views, only his were diametrically opposed to hers. The topic was his son, Richard Dawson, or Rickie as she called him, and the way she spoke made it plain to the casual observer that she was enamored with the young scoundrel.

  The trouble had started when he’d asked her help in securing this infernal laptop of Rick’s, so that he could destroy it. She’d practically exploded and told him in no uncertain terms what she felt of fathers trying to sabotage their sons and sending a bunch of ill-mannered goons to hound them all across the country.

  Then she’d asked him if he was right in the head, which appeared to be a rhetorical question, for she’d answered it herself (no), then had added what she thought of him (a brutal beast), Rick (a wonderful man) and the goons he’d sent out (horrible monsters) who had apparently inserted themselves into her life by pretending to be NYPD detectives, a ruse which abruptly improved his own opinion of Jerry and Johnny.

  She told him he should be ashamed of himself for conducting a business which would have made Don Corleone and Al Capone wince, and for failing to see that Rick was a better man than he was. Finally, she urged him to reconcile with the boy and make the necessary changes to his business plan, modeling himself after the likes of Andrew Carnegie, John Pierpont Morgan or Henry Ford. In other words, a captain of industry who sparked admiration in his peers and employees alike, and who would go do down in history as one of the greats, rather than the crook he obviously was.

  After a few more well-chosen remarks, Falcone stopped trying to arrest the attention of this formidable woman and simply sat back and let her words roll over him. To his dismay, he had to admit she was touching something he’d long since forgotten he possessed: his heart.

  As it was, he’d always attempted to make hay while the sun shone, and even when it didn’t continue to build his fortune to the detriment of anyone who stood in his way.

  As she spoke eloquently about his legacy and the example he should set for future generations, he found himself moved to the core by the picture she painted of a Chazz Falcone, remembered not for the wrongs he had done, but for the rights. She envisioned a Falcone Museum, a Falcone Library, a Falcone Hall, and even a Falcone Trust, which would enable impoverished children to attend university and carve out a future for themselves.

  He wiped away a tear as she told him about the statues people would erect in his name, and how he could be a force for good if only he chose to be.

  He had contemplated his legacy before, and he now saw that what this woman wanted was exactly what he wanted too. The convergence, when it finally came, had him sobbing freely, and the effect was overwhelming.

  She handed him a handkerchief, her gaze softening and he knew he had but one wish: that this woman would become his bride.

  From being seated on the couch to dropping down on one knee was but the work of a moment, and then he was muttering the immortal words that every woman likes to hear.

  “Felicity Bell, will you marry me?”

  Though his eyes were misty with unshed tears, he could detect that his words hadn’t provoked the right response. Instead of looking exulted, like his previous five wives had done, she looked dismayed and horrified. Feeling there was something wrong with this picture, he decided to repeat the question, figuring she hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “Felicity Bell, will you be my bride?”

  “Not a chance in hell!” a voice suddenly thundered from the doorway.

  Looking up, he perceived their little band of two had been joined by two more. A smallish woman he didn’t recognize…and his son Rick.

  Rick, walking up to him with long strides, jerked him to his feet. “If anyone is going to marry Felicity, it is me. Me, dammit!”

  Falcone, having run the gamut of emotions today, wasn’t equal to this sudden twist in the narrative. The fact that he wasn’t a frequent viewer of soap operas had something to do with this. If he was, he would have been prepared. Now, he played the part of the jilted lover without conviction, like an actor fibbing his lines.

  “But I’m going to marry her,” he stammered.

  “No, I’m going to marry her!” Rick insisted.

  “No, I—”

  “Maybe we should ask the lady herself,” the smallish woman suggested.

  Both men looked up, and Falcone had to admit she had a point. He directed a pleading look at Felicity. Ever since his second marriage, he hadn’t felt this strongly about the issue. After the powerful speech she’d given, he felt that fate had brought them together, and he felt certain she would feel the same way.

  Great was his dismay therefore, when she shook her head. “I don’t want to marry you, Mr. Falcone.”

  “Why the hell not?” he challenged.

  She shrugged. “Because I’m in love with another man.”

  “What’s love got to do with it!” he cried, unaware he was plagiarizing Tina Turner.

  “Love’s got everything to do with it,” she said softly. “Love’s the only reason two people should get married in the first place.”

  There, she had lost him, Falcone admitted. Most of his marriages hadn’t been conducted out of love rather than because they had furthered his career. It was the same reason he felt so strongly about Charlene marrying Bomer. Bringing two vast fortunes together this way would herald in a new era for both the Falcone and Calypso families.

  “What is my father doing here?” Rick demanded. He, too, seemed perturbed.

  Perhaps wisely, Felicity changed the subject. “You didn’t show up for our date.”

  “I can explain that,” said the pint-sized blonde. “I found him just now, hovering on the doorstep. Turns out he’d been assaulted, his laptop stolen, and lying unconscious for the better part of an hour!”

  “Dear God!” cried Felicity, visibly dismayed. She raced over to where Rick stood and took him in her arms, pressing him to her bosom.

  Falcone watched the scene with censure. How anyone could feel sorry for his son was beyond him.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” Rick said softly, closing his arms around her. “I thought I’d lose your respect.”

  “What nonsense,” Felicity murmured. “I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you hit me with that can of baked beans.”

  And before Falcone’s goggle-eyed stare, she kissed that blasted son of his.

  Chapter 49

  Felicity was greatly relieved that Rick, in spite of his recent predicament, seemed unharmed. When she kissed him, he fervently returned the kiss, which told her that her initial instinct to throw herself into his arms had been right.

  “Oh, Rick,” she murmured brokenly.

  “I’m sorry I was late for dinner,” he said, nuzzling her cheek. “I was unconscious at the time.”

  It was a good excuse in her book, and as she went under for the third time, she became vaguely aware that their tryst was being observed by a third party. Alice had discreetly removed herself from the scene and was feeding the six cats in the kitchen but as she looked up, she found Rick’s father still staring at them, goggle-eyed. It was not a pretty sight.

  “What’s all this?” he cried.

  “This is the man I love,” Felicity said.

  “But, but, but—”

  “Stop butting in, Dad,” Rick returned peevishly. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  Felicity felt that this was the time to make good on the promise to herself that if she ever met Rick’s father she would try to negotiate a truce between the two men. It wouldn’t do, she felt, to marry a man at perpetual war with his own flesh and blood. What if she and Rick decided to have kids? Would it be fair to deprive them of their grandfather? Or their grandfather of them? She decided that the work she’d begun with the father must now continue with the son.

  “Rick, darling,” she said, placing her hands on his chest. “I think it’s time to bury the hatchet and
find it in your heart to forgive your dad.”

  Now Rick was the one whose eyes goggled precipitously at the end of their stalks. “What?” he cried. “After everything that old buzzard has done? No way!” Then, perceiving this was the woman he intended to marry, he repeated, softer this time, “No way, honey.”

  A sudden bleating noise rose up. Both Rick and Felicity turned and found it came from the old buzzard in question.

  “Rick,” Falcone said in a tremulous voice. “Rickie.”

  A strong shudder ran through Rick’s frame. It was the first time in years his father had called him Rickie and it affected him powerfully.

  “I’ve been listening to Felicity’s views on the subject, and I must admit that even though I was doubtful at first, I now see that she was right.” He heaved a deep sigh, obviously in the throes of some powerful emotion. “I’m sorry, son.”

  “Sorry for what?” Rick said, though wavering still not convinced.

  Falcone wrung his hands. “I’m sorry for everything! I’m sorry for getting you fired from the New York Chronicle. I’m sorry for stealing your laptop.”

  “What? You stole my laptop?”

  “Well, not technically. Jerry and Johnny did.”

  “Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew,” Rick said through gritted teeth. That bump on his head was still throbbing and he felt the resentment keenly.

  “Felicity has made me see the light, son. I’ve been too focused on collecting money and lost track of the important things in life. Things like…” He gulped. “Family. And…love.”

  Rick glared at the man. Years of resentment can’t be erased with a few simple words of contrition. What was more, he didn’t believe a word his father was saying. A man like Chazz Falcone doesn’t change in the blink of an eye. “Prove it,” he spat. “Give me back my laptop.”

  Falcone seemed to waver but then nodded. “I’ll get it for you, Rickie. Just give me a minute.”

  He moved away and took out his phone. While he was talking, silence reigned in the room for a few brief moments, then Felicity gave speech.