by Nic Saint
Rick cleared his throat. It was time, he felt, to put a stop to this nonsense. “But how will we know the president is fibbing, sir? Or anyone else for that matter? Is Congress installing lie detectors?”
“Good God, Dawson, don’t you know anything? Vickar doesn’t need lie detectors when he’s got his human lie detector, does he?”
“Human lie detector, sir?”
The man produced an annoyed grunt. “When Congress passed the Vickar Bill, they appointed a human lie detector. This person is to sit in on all the meetings of Congress. If they catch a congressman or senator in a lie, they make a note of it, and a reprimand goes out.” He held up three fingers. “Three lies and you’re out. Congressmen and senators will see their mandate revoked—their careers effectively terminated. And that’s not all. When the president addresses Congress, the same goes for him.”
A human lie detector? Rick had to admit the old man had a very fertile imagination. “And who might this human lie detector be, sir?”
Roops frowned. “No one knows. Senator Job Vickar is keeping her under his hat for now. But I’ve heard rumors that she’s amazingly accurate.”
“She, sir? This human lie detector is a woman?”
The old man held up his hands. “From what I’ve heard she was born with an innate sense of truth. The inflection of a person’s voice, facial tics, body language… They tell me she’s never wrong. Which is why I told the president to nip this thing in the bud before it’s too late!”
“And how did the president react?”
“He laughed! Can you imagine? Thought it was a great joke!”
Rick had to suppress a sudden attack of the giggles himself. This was too funny! A human lie detector? You couldn’t make this stuff up!
Roops didn’t seem to think it was funny, though, for he made an irritated gesture. “She’s going to catch the president in a fib or two—or three—and then it’s game over for the entire circus up there on the Hill. She’s going to send them all home—the whole lot of them. And when there’s no one left, our government will collapse in a heap of recrimination, chaos, and disaster. And that will be the end of this great country of ours, Dawson. Mark my words.”
Rick didn’t merely mark these words—he scribbled them down. Inwardly he was still snickering, and already had a nice headline in mind. ‘President has Roops on the ropes.’
The interview went on for another half hour, and it soon dawned on Rick that the media tycoon’s big announcement was simply this: some mystery woman was going to destroy the political establishment, and it was up to responsible citizens like Roops and Rick to stop her. He promised the aged businessman he would take this responsibility very seriously indeed, but when he was riding Roops’s private elevator down to the lobby, he shook his head. He decided that this was one article he would never write. The simple truth was that Roops was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and if his words were committed to print, the old man would become the laughing stock of the entire country. He would talk to his editor and convince him this wasn’t a story worth telling. The Pinocchio Bill? Human lie detectors? Puh-lease!
And as he stepped from the building, he saw that his fiancée had tried to reach him. He listened to his voicemail and immediately forgot all about Murphy Roops and his mad ravings, his mood instantly plummeting to the depths. His best friend Bomer Calypso had just been arrested for fraud.
Chapter Three
Felicity Bell was on customer duty, womanning the counter at Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room, the Bell family’s flagship bakery on Lake Street. She’d only recently been instrumental in the capture and arrest of a gang of human stuffers—or rather, stuffers of humans—and was still adjusting to the more peaceful life of a small-town baker in Happy Bays, her beloved hometown.
Before taking down the evil stuffers, she’d been overseas, working as a ghost hunter in England. Stirring events had taken place at Castle Windermere in Shropshire. She and Alice and their respective fiancés Rick and Reece had occupied themselves with lending aid and comfort to a gang of recalcitrant ghosts to solve a particularly heinous murder. Here at Bell’s the only thing occupying her time were the demands of Bell’s regular customers, who all flocked to the store daily to worship at the altar of Pete Bell’s baking prowess, which took the form of bread, pastry, and other delicious assorted bakery goods.
And while Felicity doled out freshly baked bear claws, cherry pie, cronuts, pastry hearts, cream puffs, croissants, cinnamon rolls, cream horns, éclairs, and macarons, she kept a keen eye on her smartphone. Propped up against the cash register, the bulky device sat tuned to the New York Chronicle, which had dedicated a ‘Breaking News’ page to the Bomer Calypso case.
Bomer was perhaps not the most intelligent young man Felicity had ever met, but he was definitely one of the nicest, and she could hardly believe he would be involved in something as pernicious as embezzlement. The Calypsos were pretty loaded, so it seemed hardly likely he would feel the need to dip into the company kitty. If young men like Bomer Calypso needed money, they simply got on the horn with dear old dad and the liquidity issue was quickly solved to the young man’s satisfaction.
She wiped the sorrowful expression from her face as a couple approached the counter. A busty young woman with flaming red curly hair, Felicity wasn’t usually one to present a picture of woe and distress, and the difference with her customary joie-de-vivre must have shown in her round face, for Caroline Loosely, one of Bell’s regulars, instantly did a double take.
“Fee, honey!” she exclaimed. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
Felicity groaned inwardly. Caroline, or Lady Caroline as she liked to be called, belonged to Happy Bays’s rich set, and was a notorious tattletale. With her wrinkled old prune face she could have been Yoda’s mother, and she had the ghastly habit of applying bright red lipstick well beyond her thin lips’ natural boundaries. Like a kid who hasn’t learned to color between the lines.
Felicity set her teeth and vowed to keep it casual.
“Everything’s fine,” she said with what she hoped was a pleasant smile. She eyed the cinnamon rolls Caroline had selected. “Shall I wrap that up for you?”
“A baggie will do,” Caroline said with an airy wave of a mummified hand. “We’ll eat it on the way, won’t we, Havelock?” Without waiting for her husband’s reply, she went on, “We like to take our morning walk along the beach—nibbling at our favorite treat. Picking away like little birdies!”
She cackled with laughter, and Felicity did her best to produce a smile. Apparently she failed, for Caroline shook her head in dismay. “You do look mighty peaky, dear. Doesn’t she look mighty peaky, Havelock?” Without warning, she suddenly reached out, and dug her bony fingers into Felicity’s plump cheeks, giving her face a vigorous shake. “Now where’s that healthy pallor, huh?” she exclaimed. “Where’s that pretty blush?”
Suddenly feeling sorry for the fate of rag dolls, Felicity removed her face from Caroline’s iron grip. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said, trying to keep the indignation from her voice. She would have added she wasn’t three anymore, but since customers were always king, she refrained from doing so.
Caroline dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is it that young man’s arrest? Your fiancé’s best friend? Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
Felicity gulped. “How—how did you know about that?” she asked, genuinely surprised. She knew that Caroline was usually well-informed, but this uncanny knack for reading her mind bordered on the supernatural.
Caroline lifted her penciled eyebrows into two squiggly lines. “It is my duty to know, Fee. I am Happy Bays’s emotional ambassador, after all.”
Felicity blinked. “Wait, what?”
Caroline smiled proudly, bearing a set of lipstick-stained dentures. “Oh, haven’t you heard? Mayor MacDonald has appointed me emotional ambassador of this fine old hamlet of ours.” She clasped a hand to her chest. “It is with pride in my heart that I take up the ta
sk of making sure the good people of Happy Bays are as happy as clams. I have a psychologist’s degree, you know, so I’m perfectly qualified. Now let me see what I can do for you.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Felicity protested, but the woman was already digging into her Louis Vuitton clutch. She produced a small booklet and handed it to Felicity.
“This is your emotional diary,” she explained. “Every day you will write down how you feel, then read the motivational quotes at the bottom of the page out loud.” She smiled winningly. “I picked them out myself, and they’re sure to bring the roses back to those cherubic cheeks of yours, Felicity Bell.”
Felicity stared at the small booklet hesitatingly. “Oh… kay.”
“Havelock’s been on the diary for a week now, and he’s feeling much, much better. Isn’t that right, Havelock?”
Havelock Loosely, who’d kept in the background, as was his habit, now reluctantly stepped to the fore. He was a stout man in his early seventies, his veined and ruddy features betraying a fondness for drink, his bushy brows, furry ears and wooly nostrils a lack of faith in the usefulness of tweezers.
“I have been using the diary,” he mumbled reluctantly. “And I find it…” he huffed and puffed for a moment, choosing his words carefully, then coughed out, “I find the concept quite interesting. Myes. Very interesting.”
Caroline tapped Felicity’s booklet smartly. “Mind that you don’t skip a day now.” Then she tapped Felicity’s nose. “And don’t think I won’t check. Next week you’ll hand me your diary, and if I find so much as a single empty page, I’m going to have to award you minus points for lack of cooperation.”
“Minus points?”
“Of course! The mayor didn’t merely appoint me emotional ambassador. He also appointed me emotional guard. I have the authority to write out tickets for lack of cooperation.” She straightened her spine, looking quite self-important now. “With the tourist season approaching fast, it is simply essential that our town present the picture of a happy, peppy community.”
Felicity turned the diary over in her hands. She hadn’t owned one of these since elementary school. “What happens when you write out a ticket?”
Caroline’s thin lips curled up into a grin. “Why, you pay the fine, of course.”
And after admonishing Felicity once again not to “leave a single page unwritten”, Happy Bays’s first-ever ‘emotional ambassador’ swept from the shop, her husband in tow.
And just when Felicity was tossing the small diary into a drawer, deciding she had no time for this nonsense, Havelock hurried in again. Quickly stepping up to the counter, he grumbled emphatically, “Don’t do it, Fee! Don’t write a single letter in that infernal diary, you hear?! She reads it all!”
“Oh, I don’t plan to,” she said, eyeing the man with surprise.
He flashed a quick smile and patted her cheek. “Good girl.”
Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he stalked off again, and as the door closed behind him, Felicity could see him hold up his wallet and yell, “Found it, honey! Left it on the counter!”
She felt for the guy. If the Guinness World Records had a category for Henpecked Husbands, Havelock Loosely would win it standing on his henpecked head.
But then she promptly forgot all about Caroline Loosely and her silly diary when a ‘This Just In!’ update flashed on the New York Chronicle site. Bomer had just been released from jail. His wife Charlene, Rick’s sister, had paid the one million dollar bail sum, and the young man had walked free.
Felicity heaved a sigh of relief, picked up her phone and started texting a message to Ricky. She looked up when Alice stepped into the store, looking uncharacteristically downcast.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, immediately placing her phone down.
“It’s Uncle Mickey,” the petite blonde said moodily, her green eyes uncharacteristically solemn and her pixie face scrunched up in a somber grimace. “He’s been arrested.”
Chapter Four
Father Terrence Gherkin made himself comfortable in the confessional, adjusting his robes. Through the grille, he could hear his penitent’s heavy breathing. Chazz Falcone was a faithful parishioner, and in this, his hour of need, the priest was only too glad to supply spiritual balm to a wounded soul.
Father Gherkin had presided over Saint-Michael’s Church, located on the outskirts of Manhattan, for over thirty years now. In his late fifties, the good father looked more like a crook than a clergyman. With his hooded eyes, boxer’s nose, stocky build and weirdly elongated face, he could have made a living robbing banks and sticking up people with no trouble at all.
Chazz had been a member of his flock for years, and Father Gherkin had helped him through some pretty rough patches. Like when his beloved Pomeranian Spot had gone missing and ended up dead. It was Father Gherkin who’d convinced Chazz not to rain down hellfire on the perpetrators but find it in his heart to forgive and forget. Chazz had accepted this sage advice and had moved on, transferring his great love for the canine species to a new pup, christening this one Spot 2 in commemoration of Spot 1.
But now a new crisis had befallen the orange-haired tycoon.
When Chazz called him, Terrence had instantly wiped his schedule, and now listened intently to Chazz’s labored breathing, a sure sign of the man’s spiritual distress.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the stricken real estate mogul opened the proceedings.
“Just lay it out for me, buddy. Hold nothing back,” Terrence encouraged.
“The thing is… I covet another man’s fiancée, Father.”
“Is that a fact?”
It didn’t surprise Terrence one bit. These one percenters were always getting into some kind of trouble. If they didn’t collapse the world’s monetary system by playing monopoly with subprime mortgages, they were trying to buy the presidency so they could play king of the world. Chasing other fat cats’ fiancées was simply par for the course for these bozos.
“And who’s the lucky lady?” he asked, settling back. He was frankly disappointed. He’d thought Chazz’s spiritual emergency would be more profound.
“My best friend’s fiancée, Father,” the billionaire confessed ruefully.
This surprised Terrence. As far as he knew, Chazz didn’t have any friends. “You gotta name for me?”
“Regina Havilland.”
The name rang a bell. “Oh, right, right. Isn’t she Grover Calypso’s betrothed?”
“She is,” said Chazz with a sigh. “In the autumn of his life, Grover has managed to find love again.”
“Isn’t the guy your age?”
“He’s older. Much older,” Chazz snapped.
“Sure he is,” Terrence mumbled. Then, louder, “Tell me all, buddy.”
“Regina Havilland was the first girl I ever loved, Father.”
“Aren’t they all?” Terrence muttered.
“I was a stalwart young man of twenty when she walked into my life, the daughter of a New York shipping merchant. I was still amassing my fortune back then, determined to put my mark on the world of real estate. We had a torrid affair that lasted until her father found out about us. To put a stop to the affair, old man Havilland relocated his family to China, and I never saw Regina again. Until I got Grover’s wedding invitation. Imagine my distress.”
“I’m imagining.”
“And the worst part is, she still has feelings for me, Father.”
“You’re right. That is pretty bad.”
“When she caught sight of me, I could see it in her eyes.”
“She cried, huh?”
“It was love, Father. The look of pure and unadulterated love.”
“Oh, that one.”
“But our love is not to be, Father. She’s an engaged woman now, and Grover is my best friend. If we got involved, I’d be breaking his heart.”
“And he’d be breaking your face,” Terrence commented.
“There’s that,” the billionaire rasped unhappily.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I have no idea! She wants me, and I want her—it’s that simple. But now that Grover’s son is in trouble he needs my friendship more than ever.”
“Oh, right. The embezzlement thing.”
“Yeah. The embezzlement thing.”
For a moment, silence reigned in the confessional, while Terrence reflected on that age-old adage that money doesn’t make you happy. He counted more than one billionaire amongst his flock, and Job himself couldn’t hold a candle to them when it came to whining and grouching.
“You know what you could do?” the priest finally said.
“No, what?” Chazz replied hopefully.
“You could talk to Grover. If he’s your friend, he’ll understand.” Terrence could hear his penitent deflate like a balloon on the other side of the grille, and he shook his head, feeling sorry for the rich guy. “Or you could have an affair with this woman behind your buddy’s back,” he offered.
Instantly, Chazz perked up. “I like that. I like that a lot. But…”
“But what?”
“Is it kosher?”
“What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t the good book say ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife’?”
Terrence shrugged. “Grover Calypso ain’t your neighbor, is he?”
“Well, no. He’s on Park Avenue, and I’m on Fifth.”
“So?”
Chazz surprised him with a fruity chuckle. “This is why you’re my favorite confessor, Father. You think like me. You always find the loopholes!”
Terrence winced. Finding loopholes in the Bible wasn’t exactly in his job description. But he was a firm believer in the practical approach. And if his advice helped alleviate Chazz’s spiritual distress, that was a clear win in his book. “Just make sure Grover doesn’t find out,” he added as a bonus.
“There is one snag,” Chazz said.
Oh, God. “There is?”
“I really love this woman, Father.”
“So you told me. And?”
“And I simply can’t stand the thought of her and Grover…”
