by Nic Saint
Moments later, the sweet whine of an ambulance approached, then switched off in front of the house. Two paramedics hopped out and hurried up to the front door. We met them in the hallway, and led them into the parlor, where they immediately began to work on Gran.
A stretcher was brought in, and Gran was placed on top of it. And as we moved with the stretcher and the paramedics, I saw that she was conscious again, her eyes roving until they found mine. “Lashanda…” she began, but then faltered, slipping into unconsciousness once more.
“Is she going to be all right?” asked Strel, on the verge of tears.
One of the paramedics, a blocky male with a blonde crewcut, nodded. “She seems to have suffered a collapse, but her vital signs are stable. Are you Mrs. Beadsmore’s relative?”
“We’re her granddaughters,” I said. “Can we ride with her to the hospital?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the man. “Trust me—we’ll take good care of your grandmother.”
And with these words, Gran was transferred to the ambulance, the door was closed and the vehicle moved away at a speedy clip, sirens blaring, and soon disappeared around the corner. Neighbors up and down the street had emerged from their houses, and were staring at us in wonder. A few of them walked over, to ask what was going on. Lucy Peanut, who lived right across the street, also came over. She was a good friend, and visibly worried. Others joined us on the stoop. My sisters and I hugged, tears now flowing freely.
This was the moment we’d all dreaded. Gran—our rock—the foundation on which we’d built our lives—was faltering, and would perhaps never be the same again.
“It’s those snakes,” said Strel between two sniffs.
“What snakes?” asked Lucy, a reedy woman with perpetually mournful expression.
“Someone has been putting snakes in our backyard,” I explained.
“And the house,” Stien added, blowing her nose in a Kleenex Lucy had handed her.
“Oh, my dear. Who would do such a terrible thing?”
“We have a pretty good idea,” I said. “And Gran couldn’t take the strain anymore.”
“I’m sure Cassie will be fine,” said Lucy consolingly. “She’s very strong. She’ll be right as rain in no time—just you wait and see.”
I watched as a small flock of neighbors stood discussing things amongst themselves on our sidewalk, and then the sound of a police siren rent the air, and I saw a Toyota Yaris pull up to the curb with squealing tires. Sam and Pierre got out and walked up to the house with purposeful steps, parting the crowd. They appeared as agitated as I was feeling.
“Wow. Amazing intuition,” said Strel. “They must have sensed something was wrong.”
“I asked the nice 911 lady to call them,” said Stien, dabbing the Kleenex at her eyes.
“What’s going on?” asked Sam. “What’s all this about Cassie?”
“Oh, Sam,” I said, my throat tight with unshed tears. I threw myself into his arms.
He enveloped me in an embrace—and then the dam burst and I cried my heart out.
Chapter 33
Stien showed the phone with the picture of the old lady to Sam and Pierre.
They looked at it blankly. “She looks like the Queen of England,” Sam finally said.
“I think she looks like Helen Hayes in that Herbie movie,” said Pierre. He smiled. “I loved those movies. I used to watch them all the time as a kid. Wonderful memories.”
“She’s the one!” I cried, tapping the phone. “She’s the one who put Gran in a coma!”
Sam appeared less than impressed. “The Queen of England put Cassie in a coma?”
“Helen Hayes,” Pierre corrected. “She was such a hoot in Herbie Rides Again.”
“Oh, will you shut up about Herbie already,” I snapped. “This woman has been terrorizing Gran—sending snakes into her garden. She’s the reason she’s in this terrible state. I want you to arrest her and question her and…” I flapped my arms. “Do something!”
Sam exchanged a glance with Pierre, then said, “We’ll look into it.”
Which was cop talk for: ‘We’ll do absolutely nothing but say we did.’
“Look, we’ve been watching Pretty Petals all morning,” Stien explained. “And this woman walked out of the store at eleven fifteen on the dot.” She took out a little notebook and shoved it in Sam’s face. “See? Eleven fifteen. I even wrote it down.”
Sam took the notebook and read, “’Nice old lady. Looks like Queen Elizabeth.’”
“Or Helen Hayes,” Pierre muttered.
“So?” Sam asked. “An old lady walks into a flower shop. What’s the big deal?”
“I sent the picture to Gran,” Stien said patiently. “And she collapsed.”
“Which means she’s the one!” I cried, not as patient as Stien.
The neighbors, still gathered on the sidewalk, looked up at my outburst, then went right on talking about the weather, the state of the world, and the latest scandal involving the governor. It was obvious that in the grand scheme of things, Gran being taken to the hospital hadn’t really rocked their world the way it had rocked ours.
“This lady shopped at Pretty Petals,” said Sam, his patience also wearing thin. “You sent her picture to Cassie for reasons that are beyond my comprehension. Cassie had a dizzy spell and now you want me to arrest this woman? Why? Because she looks like the Queen of England?”
“Helen Hayes,” Pierre interjected, then shut up when Sam cut him an icy look.
“You don’t understand,” I began.
“I already told you we’d look into it,” Sam cut me off. “And we’ll look into it. Now please remain calm and try not to start accusing innocent old ladies of crimes they did not commit.” He placed a cooling hand on his brow. “Look, Pierre and I have enough on our plate with this Slasher business right now—maybe you can cut us some slack here, okay?”
“About that Slasher business,” Strel said. “We cracked the case, Sam.”
Sam looked skeptical. “You cracked the case.”
“We did. It’s our guests! Either one of them or all of them banding together.”
“Your guests. The crazy prince, nutty Pharma Guy and that Belgian singer.”
“Sure. Can’t you see? The Slasher started slashing when they came to town. And listen to this.” She gave Sam a conspiratorial look. “All three of them have motive.” In a few words, she proceeded to give him a rundown on the men’s pasts. “So you see? They did it!”
Sam heaved a tired groan. “Look, a lot of folks have suffered abuse at the hands of their parents or some relative. They don’t all start slashing people up in later life. I think you’ll find that your prince, Pharma King and what’s-his-face are perfectly innocent.” When Strel started to protest loudly, he held up a hand. “But we’ll look into it. Won’t we, Pierre?”
“We’ll look into it,” Pierre agreed. “Just like we’ll look into Helen Hayes.”
While Strel tried to use her charms to convince Pierre to put his money where his mouth was, and Stien talked to Lucy Peanut about Gran, Sam drew me out of earshot.
He lowered his voice. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Edie, but the newspapers are speculating that you and your sisters might be the Slasher. Pure drivel, of course.”
“Yeah, we heard about that,” I told him. “Renée dropped by the store.”
“Now listen to me carefully,” he said, his expression gentle. “Don’t you listen to a word those vultures are saying, you hear? I know you’re innocent and I’m going to catch the bastard who’s responsible for these murders.”
I gave him a wan smile. “Thanks, Sam. That means a lot to me.” I wouldn’t be able to stand it if Sam thought I was even remotely capable of such horrendous things.
“Sure. No one with half a brain would think for a second you’re the Slasher,” he said. And to show me he meant it, he took me in his arms, and for the next minute or so kissed me in a way that briefly wiped Gran’s predicament and this S
lasher business from my mind.
“You believe us about the old lady, don’t you, Sam?” I asked finally as I placed my hands on his chest, fingers splayed.
He placed his hands over mine and gave me a smile. “Like I said. I’ll look—”
“—into it.”
Well, maybe he would.
Chapter 34
Sam and Pierre had just left, and our neighbors had drifted back to their respective dwellings, when an Uber drew up in front of the house, and Helmut, Jerome and Fonzie poured out. The three men appeared in high spirits, and when they saw us they produced an inspired yell that wouldn’t have been out of place during Friday Night Football.
They walked up, and it soon became clear their exuberance was alcohol-fueled.
“Where have you guys been?” asked Stien a little disdainfully. An absolute teetotaler, Stien usually takes a dim view of alcohol and its many enthusiastic fans.
“The Poisoned Oyster!” Helmut cried, pumping the air with his fist.
“The gay club?” Strel asked. Of course she would know. In her pursuance of a singing career Strel had tried out at every club in town, and now knew them all. Though in this case I’d also heard about the Poisoned Oyster. It was a club Erick and Flavio Moreskin liked to frequent, and so did their accountant, a man we’d had dealings with in the recent past.
“We had such a great time,” intimated Jerome. His eyes were shiny, and I had the impression he was quickly moving further and further away from his Mega-Pharma suit. “Erick and Flavio told me about this wonderful place, so I decided to check it out.”
“And since he didn’t want to go alone, he invited me and Helmut along,” Fonzie explained. His round face was flushed, his hair mussed, and his clothes rumpled and smelling of cigarettes and booze. “And it was so great! There were a lot of men dressed as women—or women dressed as men—singing ABBA and Barbra Streisand! A real slice of Americana.”
“Something to tell your family about,” I said with faux cheer.
“Oh, you bet I will. I took lots and lots of pictures. One of the drag queens took a fancy to me. She—or he—I’m confused—took me backstage and introduced me to her—or his—friends—male or female or both.” He laughed loudly. “Only in America is such a thing possible! I already posted the pictures on my Instagram—do you want to see?”
Without waiting for a response, he started scrolling through his Instagram, which now displayed pictures of the Khameit king-in-waiting while he whooped it up with men in drag, a fun time clearly being had by all. I wondered what his father would think about all of this. I had a strong suspicion he’d demand Fonzie take the next private jet back to Khameit.
“Edie!” Strel suddenly hissed in my ear.
“Huh?”
“Let’s talk to these guys now that they’re sauced to the gills!”
She was right. While under the influence of alcohol and the boundary-pushing presence of the Poisoned Oyster’s drag queens, they might tell us stuff they would under normal circumstances be coy to discuss. “I’ll talk to Fonzie. You take Helmut and Stien Jerome. Meeting in the parlor in one hour. Go!”
So we took the three men into the house, and while Stien invited Jerome for a stroll in the garden, and Strel took Helmut up to her room “to practice,” I sat down with Fonzie in the kitchen—his favorite place and mine.
“When the Uber entered Nightingale Street we passed an ambulance,” said Fonzie as he scoured the kitchen for something edible. “One of your neighbors fell ill?”
I realized we hadn’t told the three men about Gran yet. “Actually it was Cassie,” I told the prince, who looked up sharply, his weak chin trembling and his jaw dropping at the news.
“Cassie? Something happened to Cassie?”
“She had a dizzy spell,” I said, deciding not to go into too much detail.
“Oh, dear. Again?” He plunked down on a stool. “This can’t be happening. Cassie has come to mean so, so much to me. She’s like my American mother now. Will she be all right?”
“She’ll be fine,” I assured him. The moment we caught up with Lashanda and beat the living crap out of her. Then I fixed him with my sweetest smile. “Fonzie. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It’s perhaps a personal question, so I hope you don’t mind.”
“Shoot,” he said, a little injudiciously perhaps. “My life is an open book, Edie.”
I took a deep breath, and plunged right in. “What is your opinion on the Slasher?”
Chapter 35
Not even an hour later I met with Strel and Stien in the parlor. Stien and I sat down on the neatly upholstered sofa while Strel took Gran’s favorite armchair. Light slanted in through the stained-glass windows, depicting maternity scenes. Fallon Safflower had been a trained midwife, and a lot of the decorations in the house reflected her sacred heritage.
The parlor was actually Gran’s favorite room in the house—the one she used to host friends and guests. It had been decorated according to her taste, with satin floral wallpaper, overstuffed chairs and dark oak furniture. Every available surface carried pictures of her family—a framed portrait of our parents having pride of place on the wall behind us.
“So? What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“Well, I talked to Jerome about his childhood,” Stien began. “He was remarkably open about it. The thing is—I didn’t get a killer vibe from him. He says he’s forgiven his father and has even visited him in prison on more than one occasion.”
“And do you believe him?” asked Strel, who seemed annoyed that her theory would be so easily invalidated.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He says he’s made peace with his past, and with his dad—who’s now sober after having entered the twelve-step program.”
“What about the Slasher?”
“He disapproves. Wholeheartedly. Says violence is never the answer. He has an unwavering trust in the justice system and feels that victims of abuse shouldn’t take the law into their own hands and exact revenge but file charges and get their day in court.”
Strel rolled her eyes. “I struck out with Helmut, too. His father died a few years ago, but just before he blew out his last breath Helmut says he visited him in the hospital and forgave him. They had a teary moment when his dad asked him and Helmut’s mom for forgiveness. Helmut teared up just talking about it. Though the copious amounts of alcohol he knocked back at the Poisoned Oyster might have had something to do with that.”
“And the Slasher?” I asked.
“He’s not a fan. In fact when I told him the Slasher seems to be on some kind of revenge rampage, he said that this is what causes civilizations to ultimately break down and crumble into terror and chaos. In Belgium they would never allow this sort of thing.”
I snorted. “As if we’re so happy about it.”
“He did ask me if we’re involved. The Uber driver told them that we’re the Slasher, and it made Helmut wonder if perhaps he chose the wrong Airbnb to stay at.”
“Nice. Soon everyone will think we’re the Slasher,” I said, shaking my head.
“What about Fonzie?” asked Stien. “Could he be the Slasher?”
“No way,” I said, staring down at my nails. I had to resist the urge to chew my cuticles, the way I often did when I was upset. “Though he did tell me he thinks we have a very original way of dealing with crime in America. He seems to think the Slasher is like Kick-Ass.”
Stien frowned. “The vigilante would-be superhero teenager?”
“Yeah. He was surprised when I told him Kick-Ass was just a comic book character and not an actual masked avenger. He thought all comic book characters were based on real people. So he figured the Slasher was just another teenager taking the law into his own hands and roaming the streets doling out his particular brand of extreme justice.”
“So Fonzie is a fan, huh?”
“Fonzie is most definitely a fan.” I frowned. “He did tell me a personal story about his sister suffering at the hands of her boyf
riend, also a prince but belonging to a different family. This happened a couple of years ago, when Fonzie was a kid. The incident involved his favorite sister, and the way he told it the guy must have done a real number on her.”
“What happened?” asked Strel.
“She ended up in the hospital.”
“And the boyfriend?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Guess.”
“Don’t tell me. The firing squad?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. They don’t need vigilante justice in Khameit. Which leads me to believe Fonzie wouldn’t go around chopping people up over here, either. Anyone hurt a member of his family, they end up in front of the firing squad. Anyone break the law? Firing squad.”
“But this isn’t about breaking the law, is it?” asked Stien. “This is about men behaving badly—and escaping justice because it’s their word against that of the women they hurt.”
I smiled. “That’s what puzzled Fonzie. He says that when women file charges against men in Khameit, the men usually confess pretty quickly.”
“And why is that?”
“It would appear they have ways of making them talk.”
Strel gulped. “I’m not sure I would like to live in Khameit.”
“I don’t think Fonzie did it,” I said in conclusion. “Who needs vigilante justice when you’re the king of your country, and the firing squad dungeon is always open for business?”
Suddenly, I noticed a change in the light. It was almost as if a cloud had shifted in front of the sun, but when I looked up, I saw it was more than that. The polished wood floorboards looked chipped, in several spots the satin wallpaper had started peeling, and the couch on which we were sitting now looked old and worn.
“What’s going on?” asked Strel, also taking notice of the strange phenomenon.
As if on cue, one of the colored glass panes depicting Fallon Safflower cracked from side to side, and next thing we knew the whole room was falling apart before our very eyes.
