Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Somewhere in the pit lay the box of large trash bags. We could body bag the mummy and slip it into Kit’s car then pretend we were calling it a night.

  Dropping my voice to a whisper I said, “Kit do your best to keep them away until Mace and I get into the pit. We’re going to loosen that mummy and take it to my place.”

  “As long as I’m back in time for my next show.” On cue, he stood to his full height, kicked out his right hip, and began fussing with his platinum wig, and checking his makeup in the Escalade’s side mirror. He was at his drag-queeniest best.

  Mace slipped into the pit. For a Tallahassee lassie she seemed not to be particular about being in a cavity in the ground with a dead body, albeit a long-time dead body. She must really be a political activist.

  My side vibrated. Caller ID said it was Roger. “They’ve got me in a holding cell. I’m afraid I became a bit testy when they wouldn’t produce one judge. All of a sudden the courthouse was empty. Bull.”

  His voice was hoarse. I feared he had gotten more than a bit testy.

  “I’m in overnight for contempt of court, filed without a judge! Can you believe it?” he growled. “Come and get me in the morning.”

  “After eight? Bail money?”

  “More like nine. Right now no bail.” I could hear him release a blow of frustration. “One of the bailiffs is a member of the Tribe. He says the Semaphores are on their way to the site to fill in the dig as they know the state is going to defy them. Gary Grant is leading a counter-faction. He’s got developer mercenaries with him. Do whatever you have to do to protect that mummy!”

  “How do you know about developer mercenaries?”

  He hung up.

  Roger said to do whatever I had to do to protect the mummy. I casually kicked the pink raincoats into the pit and dropped down after them joining Mace in the dig. Kit was prancing above ground in a music-less performance of Hello Dolly.

  Mace’s eyes followed me as I clambered past her, grabbing the Walgreens bag of nail and hair tools, I released the ropes that held the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang elevator. The platform squeaked down in an uneasy fall lodging against a rough edge that looked suspiciously like the cavern Roger mentioned. I stepped out on a two-foot wide ledge. The elevator squealed back up and returned with Mace. She was one game chick. You have to love those activists.

  A corner of the mummy was visible. Standing side by side on the ledge we reached into the niche and whittled with the nail files, cosmetic brushes, and our bare hands. Eww… the top of a head appeared. I tugged on it hoping it wouldn’t pop off. The shoulders presented. It was like delivering a baby. A baby with… damn… holes in the cloth wrappings. I stepped away tumbling from the ledge and twisted my back. Something popped in my vertebrae. It hurt like hell.

  Mace held the mummy’s feet and pivoted the body to line up with the elevator platform. I was in agony but somehow I managed to brace the mummy on the ledge. “Call Kit,” I told her. “We need another pair of hands.”

  She squeaked up the elevator to the main cavern and called, “Psst, Kit!”

  I imagined he’d have to work on getting his clingy lamé dress up and over his long legs, then wobbling on gold heels at the top of the drop off point. I wondered if the gangs of Miami would charge the dig once Kit dropped out of sight.

  Mace elevatored back to my side and together we carefully hoisted the mummy free of the airless chamber and off the narrow ledge. She held the feet and I had the holey head. I felt the clock ticking down as the ancient body was exposed to the salty moist air. My nerves turned me into an all-thumbs klutz while my new partner slipped the mummy’s feet into a clear trash bag. I pulled it up over the mummy’s head, and flipped on the battery-operated hairdryer moving the control to super-high.

  We squeezed the bag with our hands, squashing out as much air as we could.

  The soft crackle of the mummy’s bindings sent chills down my back. The heat from the dryer liquefied my synthetic nails melting me to the top of the gooey plastic bag. Gummy strings dangled from my fingertips as I pried them away from the mummy bag. Roger’s mummy was sealed nice and tight. I hoped he would be pleased once he calmed down. I braced my feet and pulled the body onto the elevator platform.

  Mace remained on the ledge and held the mummy steady on the board with her fingertips and standing on her tippy-toes as I ascended with the corpse. I worked the ropes and pulleys and made it up into the main cavern without banging my passenger to bits.

  I sent the elevator down for Mace and she joined us in the cavern.

  The look on Kit’s face matched his expression the first time he spotted a Laura Ashley dress. He put his hand on his chest, gulped, and straightened his stance. Reluctantly, he stretched out his hands to accept the corpse.

  I cut him a weak smile. “You can do it.”

  Adept at dancing with lightweight bodies Kit held the mummy against his chest as Mace and I double-bagged from the other direction. I limped around the bagged mummy in agony. I must have slipped a disk down in the pit. Biting the inside of my cheek to fight the pain in my back I mumbled, “’ink runcoats.”

  My two person street team understood and wrapped the mummy in the pink fluorescent raincoats. Kit settled the rain-coated mummy around his neck. It resembled a stiff shawl and clashed horribly with this gold lamé gown. He rose from the pit, a giant Barbie doll wearing a mummy shawl.

  A collective gasp from Gary’s mercenaries and the Semaphore tribesmen rose over the drone of traffic on South Miami Avenue. The apparition was enough to refreeze them into inaction.

  The tailgate of the Escalade popped open with a fob click and Kit secured the pink-coated mummy inside. He slipped into the driver’s seat, skirt riding up his lanky legs, started the engine, and slowly rolled off the site.

  “See you at the drag club!” I yelled hoping to throw the tribesmen and Grant’s mercenaries off the scent. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Detective Stranger but that could be a trick of the lights.

  Mace’s car, a black Honda CRX, was parked in a gap between the streetlights on Southeast Fifth. I eased in, trying not to set off a new wave of back pain. I checked the side mirror and watched silhouettes tentatively creep onto the site like vultures approaching carrion on a country road.

  I checked the mirror for tails every second as we followed the Escalade to my place. Kit kept just a smidge under the speed limit. It would be a stretch to explain to a traffic cop a mummy in pink in the back of the SUV. We arrived in less than twenty minutes. I struggled out of the car and pressed the code on the garage door. It rolled up and Kit rolled in.

  I deactivated the security system, cleared a space on the workbench against the back wall, and amped up the dehumidifier. Kit and Mace eased the mummy to the counter. I’d had enough holey heads to last me for the night.

  I would have invited Mace in for a glass of wine and a bite to eat but a long hot shower had my name on it. The holey spots had to be scrubbed from my body immediately and my collection of restaurant leftovers weren’t enough to share.

  “Thanks, Mace. I really appreciate your help,” I said shooting her my warmest, under the circumstances, smile. “Not too many dames would touch a mummy for a friend let alone a stranger. You’re a pretty strong woman.”

  She ran her fingers through her silky red hair. “All female agents at Pure Politics are put through Marine Corps boot camp. Comes in handy working undercover, you never know when a politician is going to put the moves on you.”

  She glanced around my garage. “Your place looks pretty secure with that little guard at the toll booth and a security system.”

  I nodded. “The mummy will be safe until Roger can sort this out.”

  “No gun? Huh?” She shook her head. “Be careful until Roger returns.”

  I walked her to her car and saw her safely in with the doors locked. She waved and cruised down the community road toward the main street.

  As I returned to the garage, Kit backed onto the driveway. I p
unched in the code and lowered the door with fresh reservations on my mind. I always seem to do the wrong thing where Roger is concerned. He’d be pissed, and not in the British way, if he thought I’d pushed the panic button and foolishly moved the mummy. But it was the best solution. Grant’s mercenaries wouldn’t have been able to stop the Semaphores if they’d decided it was time to fill in the dig. It would have been a bloody battle between opposing factions with the poor mummy in the middle.

  Kit leaned out the car window and checked his watch. “Oh Mildred! It’s almost ten. I’ve got to be at the Queen’s Croquet like yesterday. He flipped down the lighted makeup mirror. My face is a mess! I’ve got a second Carol Channing wig in my dressing room, but… Oh nuts!” His hands shook. I patted his arm. I wasn’t about to lean in and hug him with mumminess all over me.

  “You are coming back? Right? I need you to help me guard the mummy until I can pick up Roger.”

  “Wendy, have I ever let you down? I’ll be back at two-ish.”

  I was alone with an illegal mummy and no backup. What would Olivia Benson do? Take a hot sudsy shower with her gun on the soap shelf. I had no weapon, but I feared would soon be in a lot of hot water with Roger.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I limped through the front door, activated the security system, and hobbled to the bathroom, my back hurting more now that I could focus on me. Stabbing pains shot down my thigh and up my spine. I opened the medicine cabinet and gagged down two aspirin.

  The warm shower eased my muscles. Lather, rinse. Lather, rinse. Wipe out the holey contact. I rubbed a lavender loofa into the sore spots and the knots fell away.

  I heard what sounded like a squealing violin. I shut off the shower and listened. Plumbing problem? I turned the water back on adjusting the showerhead. The violin returned, high-pitched and off key. A shadowy form appeared through the shower curtain. My heart pounding, I backed against the tile wall and prayed the loofa would intimidate my intruder. The silhouette disappeared. I turned off the water and made ready to rumble. The thought of naked wrestling exhausted me.

  “Whoever you are, get ready! I’m armed.” Yeah, armed with a left and right arm.

  I stepped from the shower into the steamy bathroom. No lurkers. Bracing myself over the sink I checked out my face to see if I still looked human. Swiping the mirror haze I spotted a shadowy image over my shoulder. I spun around holding my toothbrush as a weapon.

  “Don’t move! I’ve got you covered!” I stabbed the fog with my Colgate medium brush.

  A ghostly chuckle blew through the mist. Mrs. MacGuffin hadn’t changed from her housedress and apron. She wore a pleased smile as she stepped toward me.

  “Put down the toothbrush, sweetie. I’ve come to tell you Hic is on his way.” She placed her withered hand on my arm. “Now’s the time for you to call the Nashville police so they can find his shell. When the new Hic comes to you with the password, help him to establish himself as his own rightful heir.” She reached through the steam and touched the safe deposit key around my neck. “Then you shall be free from your promise.”

  I felt the tension drain from my body like water from a leaky pitcher. There would be no need to come up with a tall tale for Roger to explain my mad dash to Nashville in the middle of playing mummy Monopoly.

  Mrs. MacGuffin blended into the fog, disappearing as quietly as she had arrived.

  What a day. Along with being a real estate broker and a trainee tomb rescuer, I had become a ghost whisperer. I flexed my legs. Could they carry me to the kitchen?

  The last of the leftovers called from the fridge. I staggered through the hall, peeked in the garage to verify the mummy hadn’t walked off, and then set about feeding my aching bones. But first a call to the Nashville police.

  “My name is Wendy Darlin. I’m a friend of Alfred Hiccup.”

  The female voice was all southern kindness as I spewed out my concern for Hic, carefully avoiding a flat-out lie.

  “We’ll send a squad car to the Thornhill Hotel right now. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” I hung up feeling the finality of the loss of my old mentor. It was show time. I imagined them lifting the shell of his body from the rocking chair, placing it on a gurney, and wheeling it to the morgue.

  Then the stalling would begin… delaying until the transmigrated Hic showed up with his password, ready to reclaim his fortune. If this turned out to be a flight of an old man’s fantasy I might find myself behind bars for fraud.

  I nuked the leftover steak and pasta, washing it down with a tumbler of red wine to keep me awake. I sat on the sofa to wait for Kit, the alcohol from the Cabernet coursing through my veins, energizing me. The wine plus the presence of a thousand-year-old mummy in my garage kept me awake but I felt myself slipping into a much needed sleep.

  My cell phone chirped its Pink Panther ring jarring me from a rather nice doze I’d fallen into. It took a minute to remember the many things this call could be about. I put the pillow over my head and hid from the incoming news. There was no way to duck it. If Roger were in trouble at the jailhouse I needed to be there.

  The voice carried a deep-south accent. “This is officer Christy of the Nashville police. I’m sorry to tell you but we found your friend, Alfred Hiccup, deceased of natural causes,” she paused.

  I sighed as befit the news. “Where is he?”

  “His body is in the county morgue. Does he have a family?” Officer Christy asked.

  “I’m the closest thing he has to family. May I have a day or two to make arrangements?”

  “You can reach me at this number. Please don’t take too long.”

  It was a done deal. The Alfred Hiccup was officially dead. Now to keep the will hidden until Hic returned as Alex.

  “Oh, Hic. You really left me in a pickle.” I punched the pillow beating it into a pocket. I fought sleep but it came at me with both fists and knocked me out.

  Knees to my lips in a fetal position on the sofa, I knee-jerked, kicking myself in the mouth when a light tap sounded on the door. Two minutes to two. I checked the peephole. It was Kit still in drag with a fresh Carol Channing wig and an emerald green sequined cocktail dress and green feathered boa. Relief sucked the adrenalin out of me and I collapsed in his arms the sequins digging at my chest.

  “My hero.” I hugged him. “Come in. Thank the saints you’re here. Now I can get some sleep. There’s a half bottle of wine and tons of mango ice cream in the freezer. Help yourself.”

  “Sorry for the outfit.”

  “That’s okay. You look like my drag champion.”

  “You misunderstood. I’m sorry for the outfit. It’s one of my best and not designed for guarding mummies.”

  Kit sprawled on the couch. I zigzagged to my bedroom on rubber knees, holding my injured back. Gingerly, I dropped my aching bones on my bed, pulled the quilt, and went to sleep.

  The early morning sun cut through my bedroom blinds jarring me awake. I felt as if I’d been used as the ball in a Super Bowl game. It was hard to say what part of me ached the most as I made my way through the kitchen to check on my houseguest, the dead one in cool storage. I opened the door between the kitchen and the garage. The mummy rested under the pink raincoats the top of his holey head visible enough to gross me out. I closed the door with a tiny click.

  Kit snored softly on the sofa, large bare feet dangling over the end, arm over his face, gown clinging to an un-godly morning erection. A giant roach sat on his chin. I flicked it with the lid from an empty quart of Häagen-Dazs that lay on the coffee table. The roach didn’t budge. On closer inspection it turned out to be a thick band of false eyelashes. I picked it off his face and placed it on his handbag.

  Poor guy needed his sleep after doing double-time at the nightclub and mummy moving for me. The smell of coffee would wake him so I nobly delayed my caffeine fix. I went to my spare bedroom and booted my computer. When the Google search bar came up I typed in Hackensack.

&nb
sp; My search revealed it was a city in New Jersey and the frequent butt of comedians’ jokes. I Googled after-life and came up with dozens of interesting sites, bookmarking them all. I Googled Kyzer Saucy, the snarky response in the search bar read no such person. I gave up and went to my bedroom.

  Pulling on a pair of blue silk-blend trousers and a matching lightweight silk knit top, I slipped into my Zappos bargain ballet flats. Next to brown, Roger’s favorite color was blue. The blue outfit a deliberate choice as I had ‘splainin’ to do regarding the mummy and it couldn’t hurt to kick up my appeal quotient a notch. I spent ten minutes working on my makeup, aiming for that fine line between pretty and pathetic and coming up with pretty pathetic.

  Holding my aching back I minced into the kitchen to wake up the Keurig. I took an armchair across from Kit’s prone form and waited for the aroma of the French Market coffee to work its magic. Two minutes later he was rubbing his eyes and sniffing the air. He reminded me of a Standard Poodle, long legs, tousled hair and worried eyes. He sat up leaning back against the seat and rubbing his neck. I remained silent until I was sure he’d gathered his senses and remembered where he was.

  “Can I borrow your car? Goldie’s at the dealership, I have to pick up Roger at the courthouse. There’s still some mango ice cream left in the fridge.” The ice cream was a sorry reminder of my false pregnancy.

  Groggy, he glanced at the kitchen then toward the front door. “Mango ice cream,” he said in a zombie trance.

  “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back in an hour. Expect Roger to be a hysterical weenie when he finds out the mummy has been moved. I suggest once he gets here, you split like the slit in your gown. By the way, that shade of green suits you.”

  “You think?” He woke up at the sound of a compliment, and adjusted the drape of the fabric over his knees, then accepted the coffee from me.

  He sipped, swallowed, and smiled. “Don’t hurry on my account. Last night the show received two encores. I’m pooped. I doubt if Mick Jagger could wake me.”