And we're just backing out of the garage when smack! there comes the garage door, swinging down on Hali's Bug. Inga's holding it down while she looks through the opening, so Hali rolls her window down and yells, “Out of my way, Inga, I'm coming through!”
“You, Hali! You're the ringleader! I should've known!”
The ringleader? I couldn't believe my ears. Like we're a band of robbers, out to lift the silver.
Hali revved up the motor and let out the clutch, calling, “Out of the way, Inga!”
Inga tried, but even her hoeing muscles couldn't keep a lid on the Mighty Bug. Hali let out the clutch and rammed right into the door, tearing it out of Inga's grasp.
Does that stop the Pitchfork Mummy? No way. She picks up her oversized fork and jab! jab! jab! she tries stabbing right through the moving tires. And while she's jabbing, she's crying, “You think you can get away? Over…my… dead… body!”
Hali must've figured, Why not? She's wrapped and ready, let's get her a coffin! because she practically plowed her over, peeling out of there.
And even after we were out of her reach, even after we were down the drive and out onto the street, Inga kept on coming, waving that pitchfork in the air, crying, “Come back! Come back, you hear me? Come back!”
Hali watches her in the rearview mirror and shakes her head. “Auntie Inga.” She throws me a look in the mirror and mutters, “And you think you've got trouble with your relatives.”
When we were a safe distance from the house, Hali says, “Okay. Marissa here tried to explain to me what's going on, but to tell you the truth, it sounded a little … how do we say… crazy?”
I'm leaning forward between the front seats, nodding. “That about sums it up.”
“Well, could you take it from the top? Sloooowly?” She comes to a complete halt at a stop sign and says, “And why are we going out to Venice?”
“Because … because … we've got to go to a restaurant there.”
“A restaurant? Look, I don't have my wallet and I'm shoeless, so I don't know that this is something we should be doing, Burdock.” She frowns at me and says, “Does this restaurant have a name?”
I can see her right foot pressing down on the brake pedal. Nothing but toe rings. I cringe and say, “Trouvet's?”
“Are you serious? There's no way they're gonna let me in!”
“Hali,” I say, shaking her seat, “floor it! There's no time for this!”
She gives it the gun and says, “Okay, okay—I'm flyin'!” She grinds into second gear and says, “Now tell it to me from the top. Something about cancer and reincarnation?” She shakes her head. “You girls are so lucky you got me, 'cause anyone else would've had you wrapped in little white jackets by now.”
I didn't know how she'd react to hearing about Max. In one day he'd gone from employer to father, and now I was going to break it to her that he was dying and a murderer? A hammer to the head might've been less painful.
But what choice did I have? I needed her to get me to Trouvet's, fast, and I knew that if I stalled, she would, too.
So I told her. I started at the beginning, because I knew it just wouldn't make sense to her if I started at the end. And after I'd explained about all my mother's lies, all about me wanting to get her contract and figuring out that Max had a secret room, and after I'd confessed about stealing Max's key and escaping from Inga through the window, I told her about what we'd found in the secret room—about the open phone book and hitting Redial; about the dresses and what we'd discovered behind them. And when I got to the part about opening the sarcophagus, Hali's green eyes were cranked wide open and all she could say was “Tell me this isn't going where I think it's going.”
“She's in there, Hali. She's been, uh… mummified.”
“Are you sure it's her and not one of his … you know… collector's pieces?”
“There's a little music box inside with her name on it.”
“Oh, god. This is too sick. He's had her in there all these years?”
“Twenty-five, to be exact, and why that matters is, that's how old Dominique Windsor is.”
She squints at me. “Again?”
So I explain to her about the death day/birthday and tell her some of the things he'd said at LeBrandi's service. And when I'm all done, she just sits there, hands clamped to the wheel, eyes straight ahead, her Bug whining along at eighty miles an hour. I whisper, “He says it's their destiny to be together. He called her Claire when he proposed. He says your mom doesn't understand the ‘concept of Claire.’ Hali, the concept of Claire is that her soul is recycled— reincarnated—ongoing. And he thinks Claire has come back to him as Dominique Windsor.”
She kept staring straight ahead, the speedometer needle pushing past eighty-five.
“Hali, he killed LeBrandi by mistake—he meant to kill my mother. And the reason he's doing this is because he's got cancer; he's dying. And if he dies and she lives, he'll lose her again. But if he kills her, he'll start their souls over again. Together.”
Marissa whispers, “But wouldn't he have to kill himself then, too? Cancer can take years!”
“Maybe he was going to. Maybe he is going to.” I lean in a little farther and say, “Hali, are you all right? You're going awfully fast.”
She jogged around a car in the fast lane like it was standing still. “I'm just trying to get you there.”
“Then you believe me? You believe it?”
“Oh, it's crazy, but in my heart I know you're right. All my life I've heard him say, ‘In my next life …’ Even I say it. I just never knew he believed it like this.” She barreled along in silence for a while; then suddenly we're scooting across three lanes at once, taking an off-ramp. “I think we should call the police. I'd use my cell phone, but it's back at home with my shoes and my wallet.”
“I want to call the police, too, but first can we get to my mother?”
“We're almost there.”
So we're whipping through the streets of Venice, going against traffic, honking and swerving and in general acting like the Getaway Girls, when Hali spots a police car at an intersection. And she starts to slow down, but suddenly she grins and says, “Who needs a phone?” She lays on the horn, blasts into the intersection, and spins that Bug around in a complete three-sixty, right in front of the cop.
Well, heigh-de-ho and away we go, with a Venice squad car in hot pursuit. Hali whips down the street, saying, “I bet that boy's on the radio, callin' all cars!” Then she zips into the red zone in front of a long arched awning, screeches to a stop, and says, “Out-out-out! I'll catch up with you later.”
There are sirens in the distance, all right, and as we shoot out of the Bug and up Trouvet's red-carpet walk-way, I look over my shoulder, and there's Hali, with her hands in the air, being confronted by two policemen.
Now, if you come from a town like Santa Martina and you're dropped at a place like Trouvet's, you can't help but feel like, well, like pigeon poop on a parasol. But we managed to get past the doorman—probably because he was so busy checking out the commotion Hali was causing that he just whooshed the door open without thinking—and in we went.
But then I felt like a pigeon inside a parasol. I tried not to flutter around too much, but it seemed like everyone was looking at us. The entry area was pretty big, with large, Roman-looking pillars all around. To the left people were getting or checking their coats; through some pillars to the right was the bar area, purring with laughter and voices; and straight ahead was a podium.
The podium was like a big oak roadblock, and the heavy gold rope that stretched from it to a brass O-ring in a Roman pillar conveyed way more than any PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign could. It said HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, BUDDY and WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? and MILK DRINKERS GO HOME, all in one simple swoop of gold velvet.
Behind the podium, checking his seating charts, signaling his staff with finger snaps and commanding waves, was the tuxedoed maître d'. And maybe I should've just gone up and asked to be let in,
but I could tell he wasn't in the mood to listen. Not at less than six bucks a syllable, anyway.
So we put our noses up and our chins out and tried to look adequately snotty as we ducked behind a pillar to make a plan.
Marissa says, “Sammy, maybe we should rethink this. Obviously nobody's being murdered here. Maybe we just let our imagination, you know, get away from us?”
I look her straight in the eye. “The coffin, Marissa. Remember the coffin. Did you imagine the mummy?”
“No, but look, Sammy. Nothing's going to happen here! This is a public place.”
Now, ever since we'd whisked through the door, I'd had the same feeling. And to tell you the truth, I was kind of embarrassed. I mean, I was so sure my mother's life was in danger that I'd put everyone else in danger, trying to save her: us, rattling along in Hali's Bug at ninety miles an hour; Hali, out there getting ticketed or arrested, or who knows what; even Inga. Crazy Inga. Pitchfork or not, we could've really hurt her.
Marissa points across the way and whispers, “I think you can see down into the restaurant from there. You want to try and spot her?”
So that's what we do, and sure enough, there's a great view of the restaurant from about a half level up. The ceiling in the dining area is very high, and it's dripping with chandeliers, and the tables are all laid out in heavy white linens and crystal, separated from each other by white marble pillars topped with plants. Ferns, ivy, big droopy crawly plants.
And smack-dab in the middle of all these tables and crystal and big droopy crawly plants is my mother. I grab Marissa's arm and point. “There! There she is!”
Marissa smiles and says, “See? She's fine.” Then she grabs my arm and points. “Over there! Isn't that Jason Stone? It is! And look! There's Suzette Andron! Wow! Sammy! Over there! Ohmygod, it's Cole Canyon!”
Now, while Marissa's going goo-goo over some guy whose name sounds like a mining town, I'm watching my mother. And at first I'm relieved because, well, there she is, sitting at a table out in public, doing just fine. Their dinner plates look mostly empty, and she's holding a glass of wine a few inches off the table, her head moving from side to side as she's listening to Max.
But then my heart stops because I realize that she's wearing the Honeymoon Jewels.
Max lifts his wineglass and waits until my mother lifts hers. They make some kind of toast, although my mother seems pretty wobbly about it. Her glass barely comes out, but she does take a sip. And when she takes another, he lifts his again and downs what's left in it.
And I'm starting to get mad at my mother, because what does she think she's doing, toasting and drinking wine with those jewels on, anyway?
And then her glass drops. Just clink! it falls right out of her hand and disappears onto the floor. Max reaches across the table and grabs her hand, and he's looking into her eyes, talking to her. Her head's still moving, but it's not nodding in conversation, it's kind of rolling around slowly. Like she's having trouble holding it up.
Now, I know society has rules about things. You don't climb over walls and jump into restaurants. Especially not in a pouffy dress so you flash the world your underwear. But in emergencies, well, sometimes you have to break the rules.
This was one of those times. Definitely one of those times. My mother wasn't drunk. She was drugged. And when I figured out what was going on, I cried, “Nooooo!” and went flying over the banister into the restaurant.
The couple I landed, well, on, must've thought I was a teenage terrorist, because they fell away shrieking while I got my balance and charged for my mother. And the second I get to my mother's table, I grab Max by his coat front and say, “What did you give her?”
He looks at me and smiles, his head wobbling like it's held up by jelly. Then he rasps, “Don't try to stop us. It is our destiny!”
“What did you give her?”
“It's too late! This time I have made no mistakes. This time I showed the gods proper ceremony!” He looks to the ceiling and rasps, “Osiris! Horus! Hathor! Sobek, Anubis, Thoth! Surely you are now pleased!”
I yell, “Call nine-one-one! Somebody, please! CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Then I grab my mother by her shoulders and shake. “Mom! Hang on! Please hang on!”
Her eyelids are halfway down as she slurs, “He thinks … I'm… Claire … he thinks …”
“Mom! Wake up! Mom, he's poisoned you…. Mom!”
By now I'm surrounded by people trying to figure out what's going on. And as I see Max's face contort into a grotesque smile and his head start to wobble all around, all I can think is that it's too late— no ambulance could possibly get there in time.
So I yank my mother's head back and try to get her to throw up by putting the end of her spoon down her throat. She gags and coughs, but nothing comes up.
The maître d' shoves through the crowd, saying, “What is going on here?”
Then I remember. Coffee. Coffee and salt.
So I charge through the people gathered around and find a cup of coffee on somebody else's table. I whip back to my mother's table, screw off the saltshaker top, and dump the contents in. I stir and test the temperature. Too hot. Way too hot.
So I scoop out a few chunks of ice from my mother's water glass, put them in the coffee, and stir.
The maître d' is trying to talk to Max, but he's just sitting there with that stupid, grotesque grin on his face, slurring, “You cannot change … our destiny….”
I put my arm around my mother, hold her head steady, and say, “Drink. Mom, you've got to drink this. Max poisoned you!”
She looks at me, her eyes dull and closing.
Marissa pushes through to me and says, “I called nine-one-one. An ambulance is on the way!”
“It'll never get here in time!” I put the cup up to my mother's mouth and start pouring. “Drink!” I shake her and cry, “DRINK!”
She does. And you can tell it tastes terrible, but I pour it in anyway and clamp her mouth closed until she swallows. Then I do it again. And again. And in the middle of her choking down salty coffee, Max crashes to the floor.
A few people scream. One shouts, “We need a doctor! Anyone here a doctor?” but no one volunteers. And everyone around seems to move in closer so they can gawk at Max, sprawled out on the floor.
Me, I'm busy holding my mother together, drowning her with coffee, when all of a sudden she pushes me away. Her eyes open wide, she licks her lips a few times while she pants like crazy, and then presto! Up it all comes—coffee, salt, dinner, wine. It is one ugly, chunky mixture, and it shoots everywhere.
And while the maître d' is grossing out at the state of his barfed-on suit and celebrities of the world are retreating to their own unpolluted corners for safety, my mother— who thinks it's impolite to burp or bleed or pass a little public gas—is on her knees on the floor of the fanciest restaurant known to man, puking her guts out.
TWENTY-THREE
It was Marissa who got my mother to the hospital in time. Well, her talking did, anyway. While I was concentrating on Beauty and the Barf, she was out convincing Hali's police force that we couldn't wait for an ambulance— that one of them had to take my mother to the hospital or they'd be held liable for “apathetic indifference to an imperiled citizen.”
Apparently they all looked at her like What? but it must've made them nervous, because when Hali offered to blaze a trail to the hospital, one of them decided the Imperiled Citizen could ride with him.
Trouvet's let us borrow one of their silver-plated ice buckets as a receptacle, no problem—they wanted us out of there. So we hauled my mother out of the restaurant, and Marissa and I held her together in the back of a police car while we squealed through the streets of Venice. It was a lot like riding with Hali, only this time the wailing sirens were above us instead of behind us.
Marissa and I spent the night at the hospital, waiting. And at first when they were rushing around, poking my mother with needles and hooking up tubes and IVs and stuff, they shooed us out and made us wait in a
little room down the hall. Then some police came in and cross-examined us about everything, and then another set of police investigators showed up and made us tell them everything again. But finally, after what seemed like forever, they let us see her.
She was asleep. Sound asleep. And even though they told me that her heart was stabilized and that she was holding her own, I was worried. What if she went into a coma? What if she stopped breathing or her heart gave out in the middle of the night? I wanted to wake her up and keep her awake all night. All week. Just to make sure.
But they showed me the heart monitor and told me it would sound an alarm if something happened and for me not to worry.
Obviously their moms are sturdy, sensible, non-swooning creatures. What could they possibly know about mine?
So I stayed right next to her, watching her sleep while Marissa curled up in a chair, and after a while the nurse came in and told us it was way past visiting hours and that we'd have to go.
Go? Like there was anywhere for us to go. We didn't have a place to stay, we hadn't seen Hali since the restaurant, and besides, I didn't want to go anywhere. I wanted to stay right there and watch her breathe.
The nurse said, “You'd at least be more comfortable in the waiting room. There's usually a free couch or two….”
Marissa got up, but I whispered, “Can't I stay? Please?”
“I'm sorry, dear, it's against the rules.”
I could feel the tears burn their way into my eyes. I tried to tell myself that I was just exhausted—that a snooze on the waiting-room couch would probably be a good idea.
But those tears wouldn't blink back into their ducts. And I wasn't just tired—I was afraid. Bit by bit I'd been losing her. To acting, to Hollywood, to her alter ego, Dominique, to Max … And now here she was, lying in a hospital bed with tubes dripping and monitors bleeping, and in my heart there was a panic that I'd lose the rest of her.
Maybe forever.
“Please? She's … she's … you know… my mother.”
Marissa whispered to the nurse, “She's been through a lot. I'll go down to the waiting room, but let her stay. Just a little while?”
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy Page 18
