Roger held up his laminated photo ID card from the British Museum as a bluff, and in an impressive display of chutzpah, he got us past the confused crowds and into the chilly lobby. I assumed they had to keep it icy-cold to prevent Elvis from melting into Margaret Thatcher.
The cold snapped me out of my funk. I was Wendy Darlin, Assistant Tomb Raider … in a building full of wax dummies. Okay, maybe assistant tomb raiding wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
While rubbing my bare arms to warm them, I spotted a tall, redheaded guy in a suit. It looked like the back of Angus’s head. I pointed him out to Roger. “Is that Angus? What’s he doing here?”
“Devil if I know, but he can get us on the fast track.” Roger shoved his way through the crowd toward his friend. I followed, wondering why a cop was in a tourist trap.
“Angus!” Roger called, waving to his friend.
I followed my guy’s lead, losing sight of the detective in the crowd.
“Excuse me,” he said to a lady in a fluorescent pink t-shirt and short shorts.
“No cutting in!” she snapped, stepping in with a full body-block. I approached her from behind and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned around, Roger slipped past, and I joined him. We repeated this routine twice, causing near riots. Dummies for dummies.
“Over here!” Roger shouted.
Angus turned in our direction. His face registered a combo of surprise and irritation when he saw us forging the crowd to get to him. His lips pulled back in a strained smile. “I got a lead on a wanted killer hiding in this building.” He looked around as if the criminal were nearby.
Roger clapped him on the back, “We’re here to look for the last Lost Boy under the Queen’s chair and anywhere else resembling a place she’d plant her bum.”
The detective raised one pale eyebrow, “Buckingham Palace wasn’t enough? I’ll get you in. Follow me.” He elbowed his way to the ticket booth, with Roger close behind. I held onto my archaeologist’s belt to avoid being separated in the throng.
Angus flashed his badge at the ticket clerk and then the security guard. We walked through the gates and into the eerie hall. It was semi-dark with muted spotlights on the mannequins. There was something ick about pale wax people looking one-off from celebrities and standing quite still. They creeped me out. I shivered, not just from the temperature.
We read the directory for the groupings… Sports Stars, Pop Stars, World Leaders, Hollywood Stars, and even Bollywood Stars. There was Royalty. We dashed ahead, with Angus dropping back. Roger was in the lead as we raced into the Royalty exhibit. He stopped short and I slammed into him. “Nuts!”
The Queen was standing, not sitting. There was no royal throne, no chair, not even a stool. She stood on the “Royal Balcony” dressed in white, wearing a crown. An Asian couple stood on either side of her as someone snapped a photo for them.
Roger slumped in a discouraged heap, while Angus pulled attitude. “This has been great fun, but I must get back to headquarters; some of us still have to work. I don’t see any killers here.” The detective disappeared into the darkness.
I looked around. “While we’re here, why not try the movie stars? Who’s Darcy’s favorite?”
“Colin Firth,” he said.
Roger answered way too quickly. He kept Darcy and her desires near his frontal lobe. If he never cared for her that way, then how did he know her so well?
We hunted and hunted, but no Colin Firth. A small sign said he was out on loan. “Maybe Darcy’s taken him, too.” I said.
Roger didn’t smile at my joke. He was nagging to leave when I spotted Johnny Depp’s figure. I tugged on my partner’s sleeve, and he followed me obligingly. Poor Johnny. He had a dull look to his eyes and his hair was lifeless. “Stand next to him,” I directed Roger. “I’ll use my camera phone to snap you together. I never realized… you’re so much better looking.”
The world-traveling, high-adventure, tomb-raider-rescuer blushed at the compliment.
I pretended to kiss the dummy Johnny just to bring Dr. Jolley back to earth.
“You’re making me jealous!” Roger laughed as he swooped me into his arms, pulling me behind a red curtain that draped the wall from ceiling to floor. “How about I take you? Right here, right now?”
Our passion overcame our worry and fatigue. We went into a deep Depp kiss with Roger sliding my dress up my thigh, when I heard a familiar voice.
“They were here a minute ago, Alg… I saw ‘em.” It was Nobby’s voice.
I pulled an edge of the curtain and peeked. It was the deadly dodos.
“Bloody hell!” Nobby said as he stumbled over the velvet rope hung round the entrance to Angelina Jolie’s area.
“Oh bugs’ feet… that’s that cop friend of Dr. Jolley’s!” Algy said.
Peeking from our niche, I looked where he’d pointed in time to see Angus slip behind Helen Mirren. Weird, he’d said he was leaving.
“Here, get under the curtain with me,” Algy said to Nobby as he crawled under the opposite end of the very same drape where Roger and I were hiding.
I put my hand out in a “stay-still” motion at Roger. We froze, waiting to see what would happen.
Angus disappeared. I counted to one hundred, hoping the goofy thugs would exit first. They must have been counting also, because just as I hit ninety-nine, they slipped from behind the red velvet drape.
Crouching in a guilty duck-walk, their heads pivoting back and forth, they looked to be checking for the detective. “The copper’s gone,” Algy said, pulling a penknife from his pocket. “I’m going to leave my signature in the wax museum.” He moved on the figure of Johnny Depp and began to carve something in his neck.
“Could that be the murder weapon?” I whispered to Roger. I stepped from behind the curtain causing the goons to jump. Roger made a run for Algy, and I tripped Nobby who grabbed my ankle pulling me down.
“I saw you grab that woman!” Granddaddy Earl came out of nowhere. The octogenarian kicked Nobby in his wiggly bits and the big guy stayed down.
Roger had Algy by the scruff of his neck. “Knife’s too small. Not the murder weapon.” He folded it and passed it to Granddaddy who popped it in his pocket.
“What you got there, Dr. Jolley? Looks like a giant possum.”
“He might as well be a possum,” Roger dropped Algy who buckled as he hit the ground. “This is your last chance. Stop stalking us, or I’m coming after you.”
Nobby stumbled to his feet. The duo scuttled off into the darkness of the World Leaders exhibit, banging into Tony Blair and clobbering Margaret Thatcher.
“Imagine bumping into you again! What’re the odds? Those hooligans giving you trouble? Let me at ‘em. I been aching for a fight,” Granddaddy Earl said.
Birdie slipped her arm into his, grinning with a perfect set of dentures.
“You remember my bride, Birdie,” he gave her a squeeze. “We’ve been coming here every day since we landed in England. It’s our pilgrimage to the king… Elvis. Ya’ll seen him yet?”
After we paid homage to Elvis, Roger invited the honeymooners to join us for a cuppa.
We were sipping coffee with Granddaddy Earl and Birdie in a pub across from the wax museum and filling them in, a little, on the Algy – Nobby connection.
“Now I’m really impressed. That the kind of work you two do? Diggin’ up treasure. We wouldn’t mind helping you out. Give us a call if you need helpers.”
While Roger signaled for the check, I gazed out the window and saw the beat up yellow taxi with the orange door sitting at the curb. “That’s the guy who tried to kidnap me!”
The four of us raced out with the innkeeper hot on our tails, but the taxi did a wheelie and disappeared. We looked at each other and shrugged. Roger paid the tab, including a large tip. The innkeeper smiled, turned, and went back into the pub.
Granddaddy Earl scooped up his bride in an octogenarian squeeze, resulting in some crunching bones. “If you need us, we’re stayin’ at the
Ritz. We got us some lovin’ to do.”
Roger shot me a sarcastic look.
Chapter 33
It was just after one when we got back to Roger’s flat. He was in an edgy mood. I pushed the final wrong button when I suggested Darcy was behind all his problems. His attitude turned pissy. “You keep picking on that poor woman. She’s done nothing to you.”
We were exhausted, hot, cranky, and frustrated. I fed Hildy and Holly the last of the popcorn, picked up their poop-papers, and staggered into the guestroom. I wanted to be alone. Roger had become an itch I didn’t feel like scratching.
Fifteen minutes later, Roger stuck his head in the door. “I’m going to Darcy’s place to look for clues. I am worried about her. Usually she surfaces by now. Want to come?”
Just what I felt like doing. Watching Dr. Roger Jolley go through another woman’s drawers.
“I’ll pass. I have to call my office and other things…” I couldn’t think of a better excuse. “Check the girls before you leave.” I rolled over and faced the view of the Thames. He closed the door.
Half awake, I was drifting in and out of sleep on the guest bed, staring at the river through an open window. Darcy’s words floated in on a fishy dream. “I was part of the team of archaeologists that cleaned the mosaic in front of the main altar.” She was way too specific. Roger said she liked her games. Riddle me this you Botox Babe…
I lay on my right side, not my best thinking side. I flipped to the left and wrapped my right leg around the body-size pillow, pretending it was my Indiana Jones. If only he’d controlled Darcy, he might have gotten lucky. It was a squandered opportunity.
Weak from having trudged in the heat all day, my tired mind wandered back to Miami and the real world. I had to call the office and check on my agents. They were self-sufficient, but they needed to know I was available for deal rescues and commission squabbles. “I’ll call later,” I mumbled as I slipped into a dreamy sleep.
An hour later, I woke up a bit more refreshed. I stumbled out of bed calling for Roger. He was gone. There was a note on the kitchen table. A key lay on top of the note.
The locks are positively changed. You shouldn’t have to worry about Darcy. If I find any clues at her place, I’ll call you. How about dinner at eight? If you need me before then, I’ll be at the museum. Call my cell. Play nice with the other kids. No kicking or biting. R.
Believe it or not… I do love you.
I plopped back on the bed. Rolling over, I stared out at the Thames, at boats and barges and ships that pass in the day. “I’ve been to London to visit the Queen…” I mumbled.
Then it hit like a bolt of sunshine. The bitch told me where it was! She said she was invited to observe the cleaning of the Cosmati tiles. She was there, on the medieval floor in front of the High Altar in Westminster Abbey where William and Kate were married! There had to be a queen’s chair near the altar. I resolved to check it out alone, on the slim chance that I was wrong. Roger would relish the opportunity to mock my intuition.
I leaped from the bed and, ever the klutz, twisted my ankle. I limped to the kitchen. This might be a long afternoon requiring a hearty snack. Food had become a substitute for sex. Raiding Roger’s pantry confirmed his Britishness. Marmite and kippered herrings. Yuck. Foraging further, I carbon dated and binned anything older than five years. My archaeologist must be living alone. No woman would have ignored those expiration dates.
I fried a couple of eggs, nuked a slice of ham, and toasted two slabs of bread, slathering them with butter and cream cheese. Rich dark coffee with just a touch of heavy cream and I was ready to take on the Abbey.
After a quick shower, I tugged on my black jeans, a burgundy camisole, and a loopy crocheted ribbon top in black. I grabbed my purse and tucked Roger’s key into the coin section. There was a pen next to his note. I scribbled a quickie… I’ve gone to the Abbey to visit the Queen. I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant, but it felt as if I were on the right track.
Dashing down the stairs, I hesitated as I opened the front door. Just because Darcy had fallen through some crack didn’t mean she wasn’t lurking about ready to take me out in fit of jealousy. I entertained the thought of wearing a sign… I HAVE NOT SLEPT WITH ROGER JOLLEY… yet.
I looked right then left. Dashed across the street and hailed a big black cab that, by virtue of its color, was guaranteed to be licensed. I’d only just recently seen the posters cautioning “An Unlicensed Cab is merely a Stranger’s Car.” Wish I would have known that safety tip last week. I wouldn’t have ruined my Katherine Hepburn tea dress leaping like a circus acrobat from a kidnapper’s taxi.
Chapter 34
Thirty minutes later, I stepped through the huge doorway of Westminster Abbey, into the foyer jammed with tourists, and on to the nave. A rush of cool, damp air hit me like a kiss from the grave. The cathedral ceilings rose light and high and spacious, falling just short of touching heaven.
I raced around the tomb of the Unknown Warrior, surrounded by crimson Flanders poppies, then gave a nod Sir Winston Churchill’s memorial. The sunlight coming through the painted glass of the great west window cast dancing beams of color on the pale marble floors.
My legs shook as I approached the south choir aisle. The black and white checkered marble floors of the choir could have been from Alice in Wonderland. I worked my way to the exquisite High Altar and stood still for a minute, trying to catch my breath in the face of such beauty.
I scooted down on the floor, sitting on my purse near the first of the five steps that lead to the pale red, green, and brown Cosmati tiles at the foot of the altar. Visitors are not allowed to go further, but Darcy with her credentials could have. As I stared at the High Altar, a red-gowned marshal approached me. “Can I help you, miss?”
“May I just sit here for a bit and meditate?”
The man smiled, nodded, and walked away, his crimson robe swooshing behind him.
This was a moment in my life I would always remember. Looking up at the towering cathedral ceiling, I imagined I heard heavenly music in my mind.
I got up, grabbed my purse, and walked round the altar to the tiny enclosed chapel of St. Edward the Confessor. There stood the ancient throne on which sovereigns had been crowned since the very beginning of Britain.
As I leaned down a bit too far, I almost lost my balance. There was something in the darkness under the chair. Tipping further, I fell on the stone floor, my eyes never leaving the shadowy form. If Roger had not shown me the twelve Lost Boys in their jewel-encrusted forms, if I had not seen them before, I would not have recognized Thirteen.
A laugh born of joy caught in my chest and forced its way to the surface. I covered my mouth with my hands. There it was. And if I dared reach for the throne, all the alarms in the Abbey would sound. Chaos would ensue. I’d be carried off by the police. And the last Lost Boy would probably be stolen again.
I walked to the Poet’s Corner on legs that trembled like a new-born lamb. I pretended to look at the grave plaques while kicking the plotting side of my brain into high gear. I needed help.
Roger should be the one to recover the last Shadow. I walked out into the street to call him. His phone rang and rang. He must have laid it down. Finally, someone picked up but said nothing at first. Darcy popped into my mind; I tossed that thought aside like a pair of skinny jeans.
A man’s voice came through faintly, “Dr. Jolley is away from his phone. This is his clerk, would you like to leave a message?”
I hesitated. Roger never mentioned having a clerk, but then again, he didn’t share a whole lot of information. Maybe it was a graduate student. The distant voice seemed vaguely familiar. I decided to leave a cautious message. “Tell him it is under the Queen’s chair. And tell him to call me as soon as possible.” I clicked off.
Before I could move, a nasty cloth that smelled like a doctor’s office was slapped over my mouth. I struggled against it and the big hard hand that forced it to my nose. A bag was pulled over my head. I scr
atched at the air. Powerful arms lifted me into an ashtray… no, a car… it just smelled like an ashtray. The engine started and I conked out.
Chapter 35
I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but when I awoke I really had to pee. My wrists were bound in front of me with plastic strips cutting into my flesh. The strips weren’t real Flex-Cuffs. They were more like flimsy garbage bag ties. The room was moving round me. When it finally slowed, I focused on the face of Dame Judi Dench and then a second Dame Judi. It was enough to make me forget about my bladder. There were two kidnappers with me, both wearing masks. One Judi wore a pinstripe brown suit and was at least fifty pounds overweight; the other wore khaki shorts and had skinny knees like a baby elephant and ears to match.
I jumped to my feet shrieking at them. “Algy Green, I’d recognize you anywhere! And Nobby Seemore? Idiots! Take off the masks! Let me go you fools.” I was looking at a matched set of morons. I rubbed my face. “I must have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my forehead, or are you all members of some eccentric kidnappers’ cult?”
Algy walked toward me with his hands on his hips. “Keep it down. Nobby may look like a side of beef, but he can be lethal. So just watch your mouth, missy!”
They took off their masks, powder fluming from both heads.
“Is that hair thing genetic?” I asked as I nodded at the clouds around their noggins.
“No… it’s just talcum powder.”
Nobby grabbed me and pushed me back into the wooden kitchen chair.
“We’re experienced at interrogation and will torture you if we have to. If you want to leave here with all your fingernails, you’ll tell us what you know about the Lost Boy.
“My fingernails are acrylic. They pop off.”
The kidnappers looked at each other. “We’ll think of something else. I’m warning you Nobby’s a sociopath.” Algy nodded his head at the tub of lard trying to look dangerous.
Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil Page 10
