by Sandra Hill
She was sitting in the back seat with the gun moll. Her ankles and wrists were restrained with Bolgheri ties she’d learned were from Alvarez’s cherished collection.
Any thoughts Cynthia might have entertained about escaping at a rest stop or restaurant were quickly squashed. Naomi made her relieve herself in the woods along the roadside. And they all ate the god-awful fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches that Ruth had packed for Elmer, washed down with Perrier from the miniature limo fridge. Cynthia was thinking about starting on the half-full bottle of Scotch real soon, especially if Elmer didn’t stop puffing on his smelly cigar and singing along in his horribly off-key voice the lyrics to every bloody Elvis song ever recorded.
Four hours after leaving Prince Ferrama’s office, Cynthia got her first view of Prince Ferrama’s palace. The Catskills Castle was not what she’d expected.
After a harrowing drive up a narrow five-mile access road through almost impenetrable, overgrown forests, Elmer finally maneuvered the vehicle into a clearing dominated by a massive crumbling mansion complete with towers and turrets, even a broken-down drawbridge over a muddy moat. A castle it might have been in another lifetime. Now it was just a sad, collapsing mass of stone.
That wasn’t quite true. One side of the castle was completely restored. Its stonework had been sandblasted and repointed, the leaded windows replaced.
Cynthia stepped forward, braced on one crutch, to examine this strange phenomenon. She noticed another bizarre thing. Sand. Lots of white sand. And banana trees. Huge, fake banana trees.
Half a dozen guard dogs patrolled the area—though who would be interested in trespassing here, Cynthia couldn’t imagine. The dogs were the sorriest-looking mutts she’d ever seen. Pit bulls, they were not. Geriatric candidates, maybe.
When she voiced that opinion aloud, Elmer gave her a wounded, blinking look and informed her, “They ain’t no thin’ but hound dogs, darlin’. Ain’t you never seen a purebred Southern red dog, cryin’ all the time?”
The only dogs Cynthia was familiar with sizzled on pushcarts on the city streets.
“Well, what do you think of my…our castle?” Naomi asked, her face softening for the first time as she gazed at the deplorable heap of rock. Her expression could only be described as one of love. Or obsession.
“It’s…it’s interesting.”
Naomi’s lips thinned at the perceived insult as her eyes bored into Cynthia and her fingers tightened on the gun.
“I can see that it must have been magnificent at one time,” Cynthia backtracked.
“And it will be again,” Naomi asserted. “I’m going to restore every one of its one hundred and three rooms. And the gardens. And the pool. And the stables.”
One hundred and three rooms? Incredible! “But that would take a fortune,” Cynthia blurted out before she had a chance to bite her tongue. She sensed, too late, that Naomi wouldn’t want to hear any criticism of her beloved castle.
“Right. The fortune I’m going to gain once the Ferrama stock goes public. Provided, of course, that nothing and no one interferes with the success of that venture.” The look of determination on Naomi’s face bordered on the fanatical, sort of like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Except that Naomi’s obsession was with a piece of rock, while Glenn Close’s had been with a piece of c…well, Michael Douglas. Cynthia began to reassess her opinion of the woman. Earlier she’d thought Naomi was dangerous because she was half-baked. Now she feared that Naomi might do anything, even kill a hard-nosed stock trader, to achieve her goals. Cynthia would have to be very, very careful.
As Naomi prodded her forward toward the castle entrance, Cynthia asked, “Where does the prince fit into this whole scheme?”
“Screw the prince,” Naomi said.
Yep, I’ll second that.
“He’s all part of the TCB,” Elmer hinted in contradiction.
Screw the TCB, too.
Dusk began to settle over the mountains as the four of them trudged carefully, single file, over the rotting drawbridge. Just then, a million bats swooped out of the upper towers like black sheets fluttering on the wind, which set the hounds to wailing in long, doleful bellows.
It was not a pretty sight or sound.
What kind of castle was this, anyhow? And who was Prince Peter Ferrama if this was the best he could do for a palace?
Something is hinky in this kinky kingdom.
And where, pray tell, is the royal fink?
Chapter Four
“Welcome to my world…” Elmer serenaded Cynthia later in a husky Elvis croon, then immediately amended, “…ah, our world.” He threw his arms wide to encompass her new “home” for the next three weeks.
Naomi and Ruth had gone off briefly to do whatever needed to be done when establishing residence as the sole inhabitants of a hundred-and-three-room castle. Cynthia was being held in one of the forty-eight bedrooms of the castle, many of which were named after early twentieth-century moguls who’d visited the mansion built by zillionaire railroad financier Henry Fowler.
“There’s the Rockefeller Suite, the Gould, the Morgan, the Vanderbilt, the Stuyvesant…” Elmer explained with pride, like a tour guide. “Your…uh, domain is called the Frick Suite.”
“How appropriate! But dontcha think the Frick ’n’ Frack would be closer to the mark, considering the circumstances.”
Elmer tsk-ed his disapproval of her sarcasm. “We gave you the best room in the castle.”
Cynthia glanced around the huge chamber, impressed despite herself. The odd thing was that only one wall of the suite, a combination bedroom-sitting room, had been restored, just as only one side of the castle’s exterior had been refurbished. Antique wallpaper so finely detailed it resembled silk damask, a beautiful Aubusson carpet in a delicate floral pattern, fine embroidered bed hangings, gilt mirrors and original oil paintings in the landscape style of the Hudson River artists: all these decorated the room, but just the one side. The remainder of the huge room sported faded, peeling wall murals, a smoke-stained, ornately carved walnut fireplace, bare inlaid wood floors and battered Empire furniture.
The same was true of the rest of the palace, or as much of it as she’d seen thus far. The entryway was spectacular, with its Italian marble floors, Doric columns, intricate ceiling plaster-work, bronze chandelier dripping a dazzling spray of crystal pendants and wide mahogany staircase, but the parlors and hallways were a mess. The castle appeared almost like a movie set…a facade.
But Cynthia didn’t have time to think about that now. After a harrowing ride up the ancient clanking elevator to the sixth floor, not to mention Naomi shooting at a pigeon that had dared to roost in one of the hall sconces, her nerves were totally frayed.
And she had had enough of Elmer’s rock ’n’ roll nonsense, too. The twit was still singing, “Welcome to my world,” accompanied by a laughable one-knee swivel gyration.
“The only world you’re going to be in, Elmer, is prison…once I get out of here,” Cynthia declared. She was sitting on the end of a high, canopied bed that could be reached only by climbing up three steps. “Kidnapping. Assault. Arms violation. Extortion. Yep, you’re going to be doing hard time till your blue suede turns moldy, buster.”
“I’ve done a little jailhouse rock in my early days, darlin’,” Elmer admitted, unconcerned, as he checked out his pompadour in a mirror. He paid particular attention to the stray lock, which he arranged over his forehead, muttering something about needing to buy more gel. “Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“Go…get…me…some…clothes,” she ordered, trying a different approach. She was wearing only her chemise and panties and a stretch blue suede headband wrapped twice around her one ankle. Elmer had lent her the headband from his Graceland memorabilia collection. The rest of her clothing had been removed to prevent her escape.
Not that she could escape anyhow. Reasoning that she couldn’t hold a gun over Cynthia twenty-four hours a day, Naomi had whipped out an electri
c drill.
“Oh, my God!” Cynthia had shrieked. “You’re a female Freddie Kruger. You’re going to drill me to death.”
Naomi had cocked her head in confusion, then let out a hoot of laughter. “You must have a corn on your brain, too.” Naomi had proceeded to make quick work of installing a retractable dog chain on the wall, with one end attached to a locked chain dog collar wrapped three times around Cynthia’s headband-padded ankle.
“No can do,” Elmer insisted, pulling her back to the present and her demand for clothing. “Naomi’s right. Nothing personal, darlin’, but a hardheaded woman like you would be out that door like a great ball of fire.”
“Aaargh! I’m chained to a wall. I’m on crutches. By the time that elevator got to the first floor, you three would be on me like gangbusters. Your guard dogs would tear me to smithereens, or lick me to death, if I managed to get that far. Incidentally, do they ever shut up? And—”
“The moon is none the worse for the dog barking at her,” Elmer broke in with what sounded a whole heck of a lot like one of Grandma’s proverbs.
She glared at him for interrupting her tirade, which she resumed. “Furthermore, I don’t know how to drive a limo…assuming I were able to wrest the car keys from you. And hobbling down a dark road in the middle of nowhere is not my idea of fun.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “So, get my damn clothes.”
Elmer shook his head, still studying his reflection in the mirror. “Do you think I should let my sideburns grow longer?”
Cynthia told him what he should do with his sideburns, explicitly.
Elmer winced. “You’ll be thankin’ me for this one day…once you open up your suspicious mind to the gift I’m givin’ you.”
“Thank you? Thank you? You are two strings short of a guitar. This reminds me of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Yep, I’ve landed smack dab in the middle of Three Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Then she stilled. “What gift?”
“Prince Charming.” Elmer beamed at her, waiting for her to express her gratitude, no doubt. When she didn’t, he stepped up to the bed and sat down next to her. His short legs looked comical on the high bed, his boots barely reaching the floor.
“You’re going to give me a prince? For a gift?”
Elmer nodded enthusiastically.
“Who? Jack Nicholson?” she scoffed.
“Of course not. Jack may be a prince in Hollywood, but he’s not the type of prince I have in mind for you.”
“Oh, no! Please don’t tell me that Prince Ferrama is the gift.”
A speaking blush flooded Elmer’s face.
“I knew it! That louse Ferrama is behind this whole caper.”
“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.” He glanced furtively toward the closed door before confiding, “Naomi and Ruth think we shanghaied you because of your picketing and threats of a lawsuit. But I got the orders to help you long before that, honey.”
Oh, God! He really is nuts.
“In a way, you could say I’m family.” Those momentous words were accompanied by a wink that seemed to contain some hidden message. “Your grandma—God bless her soul, the sweet angel!—put in a special request for you.”
Nuttier than a Snickers bar. “My grandma put in a special request for a prince…for me?” she asked incredulously. The jerk apparently didn’t know that her grandmother had died ten years ago. “Who are you?”
“I’m your fairy godfather, Cindy.” He flashed a silly lopsided grin at her.
Walnuts, pecans, almonds, pistachios…I’ve landed in a peanut patch. “My name is Cynthia, not Cindy.” Why she homed in on that irrelevant detail, ignoring his other, more ludicrous pronouncement, she had no idea. Maybe her corn really was moving to her brain.
“Where I come from, we like to refer to you as Cindy…for Cinderella.”
She groaned. Maybe all that peanut butter has clogged his brain. “And where might that be…the land of fairies? You did say you were my fairy godfather. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Some people do call us fairies,” he said, “but—”
She thought of something. “Fairies? You’re a fairy? I thought you and Ruth were…well, involved.”
Elmer make a harrumphing sound. “Not that kind of fairy.”
“Look, whether you’re a fairy or a guardian angel or a gay leprechaun doesn’t matter to me.”
Elmer straightened, insulted. “Are you saying I’m short?”
“Aaargh! I don’t care if you’re Tinkerbell.” She took several deep breaths to calm down, then tried again. “I refuse to be anyone’s Cinderella. I gave up believing in glass slippers and pumpkin coaches long ago.”
“That’s just what your grandma said: The wee lass has lost her dreams.”
“Dreams? I’ve realized all my dreams, thank you very much. I’m one of the most successful women on Wall Street. Put that in your fairy pipe and smoke it, Elvis.”
“Elmer,” he corrected.
“Elmer…Elvis…the Big Bopper…whatever.” She threw up her hands in disgust. “And stop bringing up my grandma. She’s dead. Do you hear me? Dead.” Tears welled in her eyes and she fought to suppress the lump in her throat. Damn, she still missed that wily old lady, even after all these years.
“I know your grandma’s dead, Cindy,” he said softly. “And she’s worried about you. That’s why she wants you to have your prince. I’m here to help you get your dreams back.”
“Listen carefully, you lunkhead, because I’m only going to say this once. In the real world, a girl’s got to make her own dreams come true. And today’s woman knows Prince Charming doesn’t exist. That’s a fairy tale that’s been fed to generations of females. By men. To subjugate women.”
Elmer gazed at her sadly. “Is it not a lonesome thing, lassie, to grow old without a mate?”
“I’m not old. I’m only thirty.”
“Autumn days come quickly, like the running of the hound on the moors.”
“I am only thirty years old,” she repeated.
“And a beautiful thirty years old you are, too.”
“Don’t try to soft-soap me, you buzzard. Soft words butter no parnsips.”
“Ah, but they won’t harden the heart of the cabbage, either.” He beamed, finishing the old Irish saying for her.
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. He was continually quoting Grandma’s favorite proverbs. Could he possibly be telling the truth about being a fairy or Elvis reincarnated? No, there were dozens of those Irish proverb books on the market. Heck, some of the witty sayings were even on coffee mugs. Elmer had probably seen them there.
“I do not want a man…prince or otherwise,” she said emphatically. “So forget the matchmaker business. I’m not interested.”
“But surely every women wants to find her soulmate. Even you, who have lost your dreams. Admit it, lassie; it’s a lonesome washing that has no man’s shirt in it.”
Cynthia glared, disbelieving, at the thick-headed fool. “If any man thinks I’m going to do his laundry, he’s got another think coming.”
“It was just a figure of speech, Cindy.”
“Aaargh! Figure this. No man! No prince! No gift! No Cinderella! No fairies! I…am…not…interested.”
“There, there.” Elmer patted her hand. “He—the big godfather—was right in answering your grandma’s prayers.”
The dumbbell must have a head like a sieve. He didn’t register a single thing I said.
“You need a fairy godfather real bad. Your heart’s just cryin’ out for a sprinkle of magic dust.”
“Godfather?” Cynthia said tentatively. Why did Elmer keep harping on godfathers? “Oh, boy! I get it now. You’re with the Mafia, aren’t you? I’ve heard rumors that the Mafia is infiltrating Wall Street, but I never really believed it. What family are you with…Gotti, Gambino, Capone, Luciano—”
“Presley.”
“Huh? I never heard of Presley in association with the Mafia. Is that a Nashville branch?”
“Geez! I’m not with
any gang family, although there is the Memphis Mafia, of course…Elvis’s old bodyguards. Unless…unless you consider seraphim a family.”
Her body slumped with exhaustion, the events of the long day finally catching up with her. “My life is going to hell in a handbasket. First I get a corn. Then I lose my job. Now I’m to be rescued by a fairy godfather guardian angel.”
“You do understand.” Elmer puffed out his chest with satisfaction and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “But I have to correct one little thing you said. I’m a fairy, not an angel. There is a difference.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that you’re a fairy reincarnated as Elvis? Come on!”
“Just think about it, darlin’. Fairies love music more than anything in the world. Elvis was the king of rock ’n’ roll, the best music ever created.”
“But why me?” Cynthia couldn’t believe she’d actually asked the question, as if she gave credence to Elmer’s ridiculous story.
“God had a plan for you, even before your grandma prodded him to get on with it. The corn was just the first step in the plan.”
Cynthia started to laugh hysterically. Between laughs, she choked out, “God…I mean, the big godfather…gave me a corn…as sort of a celestial spur to make me believe in fairy tales again?”
“Exactly.”
When she finally wiped the last tear from her eye, Cynthia cocked her head at the unsmiling show-biz caricature. “So where are your wings?” she asked derisively, suddenly frightened by Elmer’s penetrating eyes, which seemed to see too much.
At first, he didn’t answer. Then he relaxed and bobbed his eyebrows at her. “Why do you think Elvis wore a cape all the time?”
“She’s vanished. Pouf. Gone like the wind,” Dick told P.T. two days later, sinking down into a chair before his office desk.
“Gone like a shark, you mean,” P.T. concluded with a grimace. “She’s just circling the body, waiting for the perfect moment to attack….”
“…when we let our guard down,” Dick finished.
