Honey and Leonard

by Mark Paul Smith

  What was happening to her? Gretchen was feeling alone and filled with guilt. No doubt, her theft from Uncle Leonard's fortune would soon be discovered. She would be exposed and ruined. She might even go to jail.

  The phone rang again. She couldn't answer it. She knew it was Adam Wolf. She didn't care. She ran upstairs in a full panic and threw herself onto her unmade bed, sobbing in fear and frustration. She grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey hidden behind her bed frame. There was less than a good gulp left. She swilled it down and threw the bottle against the wall. It made a dent in the drywall but didn't shatter the glass. She buried her head in the pillow and wished she could suffocate herself to death.

  Why did Honey have to come along and ruin everything?

  In less than a minute, Gretchen stopped crying and pulled her head out of the pillow. It was as if she had seen from an overhead camera how pathetic she looked. She got up and dusted herself off emotionally.

  Come on, girl. He's still your uncle and she's still breaking the law. This game is far from over.

  Sixteen

  HONEY WOKE UP alone in a private white room. At first, she thought it was a cheap hotel. But there were no windows and no furniture except for the single bed in which she had been sleeping. The only light in the room came from indirect fixtures in the high ceiling that emitted a dim gloom. She struggled to a sitting position and immediately became so dizzy she had to lie down again.

  She tried to remember where she was and how she got there. Her mind was sluggish. The world felt fuzzy and out of focus. Thoughts were developing in slow motion. She held up her right arm and studied the palm of her hand. A blurred memory eventually came into focus. Someone in a white uniform was sticking a needle into her arm. Looking up the inside of her arm, she could see the bruise where the needle entered.

  It must have been a sedative.

  Falling back to sleep, Honey slipped into a troubling dream. It was the dream she always had when she was worried about something. In the dream, she was in the newsroom of her high school paper and couldn't remember the story she had been assigned to write. The old Underwood typewriter was no help at all, and her editor kept asking if she could meet the deadline. She didn't want to ask anybody what story she was on for fear of looking like an idiot. It was her dream of confusion; like her mind could not get itself into gear. Finally, someone slammed a door in the back of the room.

  She awoke with a start and was once again confused by her surroundings. There was no color in the room. Something told her it was time to get up. A sense of dread began to fill her. She sat up in bed, more slowly this time, and tried to collect her thoughts. She noticed what looked to be a camera in the upper corner to the right of a single door in the center of the wall. She waved half-heartedly and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She was wearing a gray, cotton nightgown with nothing underneath. Instinctively, she pulled the bed sheet over her exposed legs.

  Looking over the edge of the bed, Honey could see her feet were nearly a foot above the floor. It felt like a long way down. She looked around the room and took several deep breaths. There was no alternative. She slid slowly off the bed to the cold, tiled floor. The shock to her bare feet brought another vague vision into her consciousness. She was looking down on Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. The image was so vivid it made her lean back up against the bed. The urge to jump came and left as fast as the memory itself.

  "Is anybody there?" Honey said, waving once more at the camera. "I'm up, but I'm not sure I can walk. Where am I?"

  The camera provided not so much as a blink in response.

  Honey decided to walk to the door. It was only a few steps from the bed, but the distance seemed much further because of her wobbly condition. She wondered about the Eiffel Tower vision before proceeding. Then the entire scene came into recollection. She and Leonard were on top of the Tower, marveling at the majesty of Paris and feeling swept away by the romance of it all. She felt herself swooning in his arms and then falling through his arms as she passed out and hit the deck hard. I must have had another heart event.

  The mental fog descended on her again, and she had to refocus her efforts at reaching the door. She put her hands over her head and stretched. She moved her arms in circles to get her circulation going. She faced the bed and used it to support a few shallow knee bends. Finally, she turned back to the camera and said, "Here I come, ready or not."

  Honey felt quite drunk as she staggered to the door. She was grateful for the support once she grabbed the single doorknob. It wouldn't turn, either clockwise or counter clockwise. Honey put all her weight into the effort. She shook the doorknob for all she was worth. It took a whole lot of shaking before she realized the obvious. The door was locked.

  There was no locking mechanism on her side of the door. It was locked from the outside. She was a prisoner.

  "Oh, no you don't," she shook her fist at the camera. "You can't keep me in here. I'm an American citizen. I know my rights. You need to let me out of here right now."

  Once again, the camera had no reaction.

  Honey felt herself beginning to cry and then held back the tears. She had never been locked up beyond the occasional bathroom door malfunction. The cold fear of her circumstance kept her from crying. She had no idea why she was being held or who was holding her. She had done nothing wrong.

  The truth hit her like a glove-smack in the face, challenging a duel.

  Oh, my goodness, I've been arrested. They caught me when I passed out. What about Leonard? Where is Leonard?

  Honey started banging on the door. She didn't care about the camera anymore. She wanted someone to answer the door and to answer her questions. "Open this door right now," she yelled. "You can't keep me in here alone. I need medical attention. I'm having another heart attack."

  With that, she stumbled into the camera view and pretended to be collapsing in a medical emergency. The floor was cold. It brought back another fleeting memory. She and Leonard were sitting on the deck of The Sinbad with Luther Patrick, reading Jack Crumbo's interview, notifying the world that Honey and Leonard were still alive. Honey could see the new picture of her in the Tribune. She was pleased they finally had a shot that didn't make her look too old.

  She faded back out of cogent thought. Her memory was coming in and out like a weak radio signal. She was still on the cold floor waiting for someone to open the door.

  No one came, and then no one came some more.

  Maybe the camera isn't working.

  The floor finally became too uncomfortable. Honey got on her knees and slowly rose to her feet. The struggle left her lightheaded again as she climbed into bed. It was so much softer than the floor. She faded out and slept for another hour.

  When she awakened, the fear of being held prisoner was beginning to give way to her need to urinate.

  Honey got up on her knees and peered over the top of the headboard. She noticed a small door in the rear of the room, which she had not previously spotted. She was feeling more like herself as she slipped down to the floor. She walked to the door and was pleased to find it unlocked. She was even more pleased to see it was a bathroom with a shower stall and a toilet that looked like it had been waiting for her for some time. She hit the light switch and searched the ceiling for cameras. Sure enough, there was another camera above the door facing the toilet.

  "Have you no decency?" she muttered as she raised her gown to sit down on what proved to be an icy cold, metal seat. There would be no stopping her answering the call of nature.

  As she was finishing in the bathroom, Honey heard the door to her main room open. Someone walked in and quickly crossed the room to knock firmly on the bathroom door.

  "No one is in here," Honey said.

  The door to the bathroom opened as Honey was standing up. She found herself face to face with a sternly attractive French policewoman who quickly revealed herself to be fluent in English. "Honey Waldrop, I am Officer Claire Lebeau. I am your liaison officer while y
ou are here at the hospital for observation."

  "Am I under arrest?" Honey asked.

  "Yes, you are."

  "What are the charges?"

  "You are being held on a warrant from the United States for violating a no-contact order regarding Leonard Atkins. I believe you know quite well why you are being held."

  "Where were you when I was collapsing on the floor?"

  "I don't know anything about that. All I know is the alarm sounds when the bathroom door opens."

  "I didn't hear any alarm."

  "Of course not," Lebeau nearly smiled.

  "Would you mind terribly if we continue this conversation outside of the bathroom. What do you call it in French?"

  "We say toilettes," Lebeau said as she allowed Honey out.

  "Everything sounds so perfect when you say it in French," Honey said, turning on the charm and grateful to have human company. "It almost always seems to rhyme."

  "I am pleased to see you up and about," Lebeau said. "We thought you were dying on the Tower, but it turns out to be not so serious."

  "You know who I am?" Honey asked.

  With that, the sternness came out of Lebeau's voice like she was letting down her hair from its tight bun on the back of her head. She sounded like a music fan talking to a rock star when she said, "Oh, yes, I know who you are. You are the one and only Honey of Honey and Leonard fame. You are the talk of the town, of all France, of all Europe, of the world."

  Officer Lebeau forced herself to regain composure as she added, "Even so, you are my prisoner for now. I will try my best to make your stay as pleasant as possible. In fact, I am authorized to take you to dinner whenever you are able."

  "What time is it?"

  "It's 10:30 p.m., Oct. 19, 1992."

  "Oh, my goodness, I've lost two days. How can that happen? Where am I?"

  "You are in a lockdown room in a hospital in Paris. You spent one day in intensive care and then you were brought here once your condition stabilized."

  "I'm still feeling a little groggy, but come to think of it, I would love to eat something. I am hungry. But first, I have to get dressed."

  "Come with me," Lebeau said. "I have everything you need in a room across the hall."

  "Wait," Honey said, grabbing Lebeau's arm as they were about to walk out of the room. "Tell me about Leonard. Is he good?"

  "He is very worried about you," Lebeau said. "He wasn't happy at all when we told him you were under arrest. He made such a scene he almost got arrested himself. He rode in the ambulance from the Tower with you. He had a fit at the hospital when they took you away without him. He tried to run up to your room even though he had no idea what room you were in. There was a man with him who helped us get him under control."

  "Was that a British gentleman named Maxwell?"

  "Yes, now that you mention it, I believe that was his name. He walked Leonard out of the hospital like he was placing him under arrest. He used just enough force to get the job done. Leonard seemed to listen to him."

  "Oh my dear goodness," Honey said. "Leonard will not do well with any of this. He needs me more than any of you can understand. I keep him on a steady course. He looks to me for cues on what to do and how to act. He won't be in his right mind without me."

  "We can't think about that right now," Lebeau said, walking Honey across the hall. "We've got to get you dressed and off to dinner. We won't be in the main dining hall. We'll have our own private space. You'll be pleasantly surprised by the food here. It's not at all like hospital food."

  Lebeau handed Honey a black and white prison jumpsuit.

  "You've got to be kidding," Honey said. "And look, white socks and black sandals to match. Is this the latest fashion in Paris?"

  "I'm sorry."

  Honey slipped into the prison outfit and went into the bathroom to check herself out in the mirror.

  "Oh, my stars, I look 100 years old," Honey said. "It looks like they've been trying to kill me."

  Lebeau handed her a small, clear-plastic bag, "I'm not authorized to give you this, but I'm giving it to you anyway. It's a makeup survival kit."

  Honey's eyes lit up as she opened up the bag and held up a lipstick identified by a single rose. "Oh, my, you are so fancy."

  "Lancome-L'Absolu Rouge."

  "Unbelievable. I've read about this for years. Funny, I had to go to prison in a Paris hospital before actually trying it."

  "I knew you would need it," Lebeau said. "I mean, I knew you would want it."

  "You were right the first time," Honey laughed as she explored the contents of the makeup kit. "I'll be careful to keep it light. That way you won't get into trouble. No one will know the difference. They'll think I'm a natural beauty. Of course, that used to be true. I never used a lot of makeup."

  "I know," Lebeau said. "I've read so much about you and seen so many photos of you as a young woman that I almost feel like I know you. You and Leonard have had quite an impact on France. The photographers are everywhere around the hospital. We've never had such a security issue. I'd hate to have somebody get a picture of you not looking your best."

  "So, let me ask you something," Honey said. "Why all the fuss about Honey and Leonard? We really don't understand it at all."

  Lebeau looked at Honey like she would have to think about that question before answering. Her brow furrowed for a moment and then she responded, "It's because you're in love. And because you are older . . . what do you call it? Senior citizens."

  "We're certainly not the only seniors in love," Honey said.

  "No, no," Lebeau agreed. "But most of the pictures we see are people having their fiftieth wedding anniversary and they never look to be very happy. You and Leonard give the world hope that love never has to grow old."

  "Don't look now," Honey said as she concentrated on her eyeliner, "but I'm getting older every time I look in the mirror."

  "You are young. Only young lovers run from the law to elope and get married."

  Honey turned away from the mirror to look at Lebeau. "Who said anything about getting married?"

  "I read that you were getting married to help with your legal problems."

  "Hmm," Honey murmured as she returned to the mirror. "I hadn't thought about that. Maybe it would help fight the guardianship that Gretchen is trying to get over Leonard. Yes, it probably would. I'm not sure how or why, but it makes sense that a wife would have more say-so in court than a girlfriend. I think you're on to something there, Miss Lebeau. May I call you Claire?"

  "Yes, please do. But not when anyone else is around."

  "Of course not. It will be our little secret. Like the makeup."

  "Yes, and now we have a secret strategy too."

  "What's that?" Honey asked.

  "For you and Leonard to marry. It would be such a smart thing to do right now. I must tell you, I am studying law when I'm not working."

  "Oh, so you're not just your everyday matchmaker?"

  Lebeau frowned, afraid Honey was mocking her.

  "Now, dear, I'm just teasing," Honey said. "But aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  "I'm in jail," Honey laughed as she pointed to her black and white jump suit. "It's tough to get married when you're in prison."

  "You won't be in jail for long."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "What have you done wrong, really? Was anybody killed? Was anybody robbed?"

  "They are suggesting I tried to poison Leonard."

  "That doesn't make sense," Lebeau said. "If you wanted his money, you would have gotten him to marry you and make a new will before you killed him."

  "You really have thought this thing all the way through, haven't you?" Honey said.

  Lebeau smiled, and Honey noticed for the first time what a beautiful young woman she was. "Oh, look at that smile. You look like Sophia Loren when you smile like that. You don't want to be an attorney. You need to be a model or an actress."

  "No, I don't want to be another pretty
face. When I grow up, I want to be just like you," Lebeau teased.

  "Why would you want to be like me?"

  "I want to be in love. Really in love. Not just caught up in the heat of the moment. I want to find the man of my dreams and run away from everything."

  "Oh, my dear girl," Honey said. "Does my life look that romantic to you? Love isn't running away. Love doesn't solve your problems. Love is caring about someone else more than yourself."

  "How does it feel to be with Leonard?"

  Honey gathered her thoughts in the mirror before answering. For the first time, she realized these questions would be coming at her from a thousand different angles.

  I don't look half bad with the makeup on, even in my prison suit. But do I look like an expert on love?

  Before leaving The Sinbad, she and Leonard had talked extensively with Luther Patrick and Dr. Laughlin about not giving interviews. "Number one, it will hurt your case," Luther had said. "And number two, we've got a book deal in the works for you."

  "Claire, you don't have a man in your life, do you?" Honey tried to turn the conversational table.

  "I thought I did."

  "He cheated on you?"

  "Of course. That's what men do, isn't it?"

  "I'm so sorry. Did he break your heart?"

  "Not really. He was never going to be my Leonard. I've never had that. I want to know what it's like to really be in love."

  "All right, then. Let's answer the burning question. What is being in love? Let me begin by saying I am no expert. I can only testify from personal experience. I don't know where to start except to say that, being with Leonard, our whole is greater than the sum of our parts. There is goodness to the two of us being a couple that we could never achieve on our own. I felt that the first time we were together. We were made for each other. We completed each other.

  "Being in love makes you feel like you're part of something bigger than yourself. It does sweep you off your feet. It sweeps you out of the room and out the door and down the street.