A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8)

by Nic Saint

  “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…”

  “Doing the horizontal mambo?”

  Chazz groaned. “Please, Father. Don’t even go there. It’s just that I’m insanely jealous when it comes to Regina. The thought of her and that old slob…”

  “You mean your very good friend Grover.”

  “I need to make sure there’s nothing going on between those two.”

  “Between Grover and his fiancée, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Terrence sighed. What a mess. Give a man a finger and he’ll take an arm. “Why don’t you tell Regina her future husband has some kind of disease?”

  “You mean like the flu?”

  Terrence pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, not like the flu. Like syphilis. Or gonorrhea. Something really nasty, if you catch my drift. Something that will put a damper on those pre-wedding coital tendencies.”

  A gasp came from the other compartment. “That’s genius! Pure genius!”

  “I aim to please,” Terrence grumbled. Then, before Chazz could come up with more objections, he quickly launched into his usual spiel, rounding up the session by telling the billionaire that five Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers would do the trick. He considered giving the billionaire some choice Bible verses about adultery to read but decided this would only confuse the issue by sending a mixed message, and he sent the man away with a final blessing.

  He watched the tubby tycoon skip along the church nave with a marked spring in his step and grinned. At least one member of his flock would sleep easy tonight. And wasn’t that the whole purpose of what he was trying to do here? Make people happy? Relieve their spiritual suffering? There was no arguing with the fact that Chazz Falcone was a happier man now than when he’d stumbled into Saint-Michael’s, looking like something the cat dragged in.

  And with a cheery whistle, Father Gherkin set foot in the direction of his sacristy. He had a sermon to write, the topic of which had just popped into his head. It had something to do with a camel and a needle, and the thought that neither Chazz Falcone nor Grover Calypso would ever enter heaven was balm on his own burdened soul. Loopholes, indeed. Pshaw!

  Chapter 5

  Pedestrian and vehicular traffic had subsided, and Park Avenue was almost devoid of the hustle and bustle of the early morning rush hour. It was now midmorning, and people were stepping out of the office for a Caramel Macchiato at their local Starbucks or to have a smoke. The last thing on Bomer Calypso’s mind right now were either of those. Staring down at the street below from the confines of his father’s thirtieth-floor condo, he pressed his forehead against the window pane and enjoyed the cooling sensation.

  He’d just been sprung from 26 Federal Plaza, the FBI’s New York digs, and still reeled from the peculiar treatment he’d endured at the hands of the nation’s finest.

  A young man with floppy butter-colored hair, good looks and not an ounce of intelligence, Baldemar ‘Bomer’ Calypso had never been arrested before. Well, except that one time when he released a pig in Columbia University’s President’s House. Unfortunately, the president had been home at the time of the incident, had tripped over the squealing beast and fallen on his face, causing him quite some embarrassment at next day’s commencement address, where his swollen nose had captured the students’ imagination to such an extent his speech was rendered inaudible because of all the catcalls.

  Bomer’s good friend Rick Dawson had warned him that time, but then Rick had always been the more sensible of the two friends. For Rick studying had been about good grades and following in the footsteps of the greats. For Bomer life at Columbia had been one long party before his father locked him up in one of CalypsoCo’s executive suites and threw away the key. But now that he was an executive, with the fancy car and the high-rise office and the private secretary, he found that he didn’t hate it as much he’d anticipated.

  True, he had to show up at the office every day, but since his father was still running CalypsoCo, and considered Bomer a broken reed when it came to the actual day-to-day management of the thing, people pretty much left him to his own devices. Mostly he played Candy Crush all day. Or Donkey Kong.

  And then, of course, married life had slowed him down to some extent. Ever since marrying Charlene Falcone his party days were a thing of the past. In fact, now that he came to think of it, Charlene appeared to share Grover’s career compulsive disorder, always pushing him to outdo himself.

  Well, he’d made it clear from the start that he didn’t want a career. He simply wanted the good life his father had always worked for so that his son could sit back and enjoy. Why make money if his father had already done all that? Why change a winning formula? For all his life his father had worked and slaved and amassed a fortune in the process, while Bomer had skated through life. It was the natural order of things, so why rock the boat now?

  He turned to face the room and saw that Charlene and Grover were still pacing furiously. Grover’s new fiancée was also present, which irked Bomer to some extent. His father and Charlene had staged this ‘intervention’, much to Bomer’s embarrassment, and he disliked strangers being present at what he correctly surmised was not his finest hour.

  The only person he did want present was Ricky, but the reporter had an editorial meeting to attend. They’d had a long call, though, and Rick had vowed his unwavering support for his beleaguered old friend.

  Bomer’s mind, such as it was, wandered back to what had taken place at the office. He’d booted up his computer as usual and had instantly gone to work checking out the latest Jaguar model. The one they’d presented at the International Auto Show last April. And he’d just picked a winner when a bunch of guys he’d never met had charged in. They all looked alike: close-cropped sandy hair, charcoal suits, no-nonsense expressions on their faces.

  Figuring they were some of the managers his father sometimes wanted him to meet, he’d welcomed them with outstretched hands. But then the first guy had announced he was, in fact, an FBI agent, and had produced some species of badge. And before he realized what was going on, they were goose-stepping him along the hallway to the elevators. And as they were riding down, he’d politely asked, “Say, fellas. Could you tell me where we’re going?”

  He had the vague idea they needed him for something. Perhaps some special assignment. Like when the government enlists civilians because the Autobots have landed, or the Avengers are facing their most deadly foe. Not that he knew what they needed him for. He didn’t possess any special talent that he was aware of. He wasn’t a world-class hacker or highly skilled at close combat. He couldn’t sing, dance, act, paint, write, cook… In fact, when he thought about it, there wasn’t all that much that he was good at. Except Candy Crush. And spending money. When it came to spending money, he was up there with the Roman Abramoviches and David Siegels of this world.

  So he’d piped up again, “Say, listen. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  But the men had kept a dignified silence. And once outside he’d been shoved into a black GMC SUV, and whisked away to Federal Plaza.

  There, seated in a very small room with two very large men, they’d accused him of the crime of embezzlement. Of dipping into CalypsoCo funds for his own personal benefit. He’d surprised them with a big laugh, which they’d met with stony-faced silence. “Well, of course I dip into the CalypsoCo funds. My name is Calypso. Co and I dip into those funds all day long to our heart’s content. That’s the whole point of having your name on the shingle.”

  Then things had gotten really weird. They’d asked him about Vicar Bill. According to the feds, he was secretly funding the guy. But since he only very infrequently went to church—weddings and funerals, mainly—and he personally didn’t know any vicars, called Bill or otherwise, he told them they were barki
ng up the wrong Calypso.

  The conclusion had been that he was playing games, which had surprised him—how did they know about his Candy Crush addiction?—and then they’d escorted him to a small room which could not be opened from the inside, where he’d remained until Charlene had been kind enough to bail him out.

  He plunked down on the sofa now. Watching both his father and his wife pacing the floor made him vicariously tired. “Say, Dad, why don’t Charlene and I head on home? I really don’t feel like going back to the office after what happened.”

  Grover, a smallish man with a bearded bulbous head, silenced his son with a cold look. “This is serious, Baldemar, and I implore you not to crack jokes at a time like this.”

  Jokes? All he said was that he wanted to go home. What was so funny about that?

  “What did the lawyers say?” Charlene wanted to know. Her perfect features were marred by a worried frown, her long blond hair tied back into a ponytail. This arrest reflected badly on her as well, and on her father Chazz Falcone.

  Grover shot up his hands. “Diddly! The same gibberish Baldemar’s been feeding us for the last hour. Something about him using company funds to secretly launch a campaign to destabilize the country. They seem to think Baldemar is some kind of terrorist!”

  For the first time, Charlene and Grover laughed, albeit weakly. The thought that Bomer was a terrorist seemed to amuse them. It irked Bomer to some extent. He was pretty sure that if someone told him how it was done, he could definitely be a terrorist. And if that someone pointed him in the right direction, he could even carry out some sort of attack. Not that he wanted to. What was the point of blowing stuff up? Didn’t they have to be rebuilt? Such a waste of time and money. Terrorists really had no clue how things worked in the real world. Contrary to Bomer Calypso, who knew perfectly well. And since what he needed right now was a drink, he rose.

  “Where are you going?” his father asked.

  “I need a drink,” he explained. “Maybe even two.”

  He proceeded toward the side table and poured himself a stiff one, then offered to extend the courtesy to his present company. Charlene refused, but Grover and the future Mrs. Grover accepted, so he mixed them both a Scotch on the rocks. He was glad to discover this was one other thing he was good at. He might not be a terrorist—or a helper of vicars named Bill—but he could mix a mean drink. He handed one to his father and walked over to the new woman in Dad’s life, who sat studying a calligraphy book on the settee. He placed the drink in her hand, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

  He liked her, this future new stepmother of his. She was a beautiful woman of about the same age as his father and had a certain sweetness that most women he knew conspicuously lacked. From the first moment his father had introduced Regina Havilland, he’d taken a liking to her, and her smile only served to increase these warm feelings. His father and Charlene had done nothing but make disparaging remarks, much the same way the FBI had done, and this woman was the only one who seemed genuinely concerned about his plight.

  But then his father cried out, “I’m asking you a question!”

  He looked up. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “Are you sure you’ve never met this Vickar?”

  He groaned. It was the same question the feds had kept harping on about. He decided to tell his father the same thing he’d told them. “Absolutely. The last time I met a clergyman was when Ricky interviewed Bishop Tutu and asked me to tag along to carry his camera. Funny fellow, that Tutu. He—”

  “Not vicar. Vickar!” his father cried irately.

  “I don’t think so. Ricky kept calling him Bishop Tutu. I would have noticed if he called him Vicar Tutu. Funny fellow, this Tutu. He—”

  But the story about how funny Bishop Tutu was fell on deaf ears. For Bomer’s father made a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. He looked as if he was about to implode. Then he cried, “Vickar! Vickar! Vickar! Vickar!”

  “If you say so,” Bomer said dubiously, wondering why people called him dumb.

  “Senator Job Vickar has apparently received substantial sums of money that have been traced back to your company account,” Charlene explained, taking over from Grover, who stood gasping for breath after his recent outburst. She tried to look patient, but it didn’t become her. Charlene was not a naturally patient woman. “So let’s go over this again. Have you or haven’t you been in touch with this Vickar?”

  Bomer swigged back his drink. This was worse than his tête-à-tête with the feds that morning. “Not only don’t I know this vicar but I sure as heck didn’t send him any money.” He spread his arms. “Why would I donate money to a church I’m not even a member of? That doesn’t make any sense!”

  It was exactly what he’d told those FBI guys, and like them, both his father and Charlene produced groans of exasperation. The only one not groaning was his future stepmother, who produced a light laugh instead. He turned to her, as did Grover and Charlene, and her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Sorry,” she said in that melodious voice of hers. “I just think it’s funny that Bomer seems to think he’s funding a church, while y’all think he’s funding a politician. There seems to be some kind of communication breakdown here.”

  “There’s a breakdown alright” grumbled Grover, clutching his brow. “I’m breaking down if this whole thing doesn’t get cleared up. Our lawyers are telling me the entire company will be dragged through the mud if we can’t give an explanation to the press. Problem is, the FBI have told us not to reveal anything Bomer discussed with them.” He wheeled on Bomer. “So don’t you go blabbing, you hear? It will only add to our trouble if you do!”

  This part Bomer had understood very well. The feds had repeated it more than once. “Oh, no,” he said therefore. “Of course not. My lips are sealed.”

  “You haven’t talked about this to a single person?” Grover asked.

  “Not a single one,” he replied indignantly.

  “That’s good,” said his father. “At least you did something right.”

  “In fact when I talked to Ricky and told him what happened I also told him not to tell anyone.” He smiled widely. “And you know reporters. They’re not at liberty to reveal anything their sources tell them. He did mention his Pulitzer, though I fail to see what a pipe organ has got to do with anything.”

  Chapter 6

  “Arrested? Why? What did he do?”

  Alice sagged a little. She and Fee had taken their customary booth by the window, while Fee’s mom had taken up position behind the counter. This was a task usually awarded to her cousins, but Busby and Bancroft were still in Los Angeles, trying to make it big in the world of the jet set, respectively as personal trainer and stylist to Tinseltown’s frequent highfliers.

  “It’s the alcohol that did him in,” she said.

  Fee slung a hand before her mouth. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me he’s taken to drink!”

  “Well, no, he hasn’t, really. At least I don’t think so.”

  “But then why did your father arrest him?”

  “He’s been selling booze. Illegally. Without a license, I mean.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Fee seemed disappointed. She’d probably expected Uncle Mickey had gone over to the dark side, mopping up the stuff like a vacuum cleaner and making a perfect spectacle of himself in public. Problem was that Happy Bays, not a town known for its gun nuts, was all gunned out, which presented gun store owners like Uncle Mickey with a problem. Every gun nut who was legally permitted to own his or her own peashooter at this point did. In other words, business had been excruciatingly slow of late. So Uncle Mickey had come up with the great idea of supplementing his income by selling the one article guaranteed to fly off the shelves: hard liquor.

  And since he was on a roll he’d decided to add some extra profit to his moth-riddled pockets by avoiding to pay liquor tax. The idea had proved a big hit with the locals, and money had started rolling in by the bucketload.

  For Alice, too, it had pro
ved lucrative, as Uncle Mickey had given her a very generous commission. Not that she enjoyed going through life as a purveyor of liquor, but she didn’t have much of a choice. It was either that or quit her job, and she couldn’t very well afford to be out of work at this point.

  She and Fee had recently gotten involved with a guy called Brian Rutherford, who ran a big corporation out of New York, and in his spare time liked helping ghosts. But the ghost hunting business was slow at the moment, and no new assignments had been forthcoming for a while now.

  And to make matters worse, Alice’s second job, as a mortician’s assistant at her Uncle Charlie’s funeral parlor, was on a downward slope as well.

  “My dad’s gone and boarded up Mick’s Pick,” she lamented, “so I’m down to one job, and even that seems to be going nowhere. Uncle Charlie’s even given me the week off.” She spread her arms. “What’s going on in this town? Nobody’s buying guns, and nobody’s dying!”

  “Most people would consider that a good thing,” Fee pointed out.

  She took a bite from her chocolate croissant, and Alice followed her example.

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  Alice shrugged. “Find another job, I guess.”

  “What about Reece?”

  “What about him?” She knew what Fee meant, though. Reece was a bona fide movie star and could easily take care of her. If she wanted to, she’d never have to work again. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She’d been independent ever since leaving the parental nest and was proud of the fact.

  Fee said she understood. She was the same way. Even though Rick was making great coin lately, she refused to be a kept woman.

  “You should come and work here,” Fee finally suggested. “I mean, with Busby and Bancroft gone we could sure use an extra hand. And when Mom and Dad retire, you could come in full-time. We could even be partners.”