Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Regina watched the man hurry away. What she should have asked him was the location of the nearest bus stop. Since she didn't have the cash for a taxi, she was going to have to suffer the indignities of American public transportation.

  But after the day she'd had, indignity was something she was getting used to.

  She followed what seemed to be traffic noise to the corner and found herself on a major thoroughfare. Cars sped by. She saw no other pedestrians.

  But she saw a bus pull away from the curb a couple of blocks ahead; and if there was one bus, there would be another. She would ask the way to Orange County Hospital, and she would find Cady.

  Cady would be all right.

  She couldn't have been seriously hurt in a stupid accident meant for a foster sister she hadn't seen in years. The universe wasn't that senseless, was it?

  Regina kept moving, trying to think reasonable thoughts. Who could have cut that elevator cable? It had to be somebody who followed her from the Clinic. Somebody who saw her heading for that handicapped elevator. Maybe somebody disguised in one of the bear costumes?

  Or maybe the larcenous Fabiano Feinstein. His cab had been sitting there at the entrance to the Clinic a bit too conveniently, hadn't it?

  Or what about the Spoon? The girl certainly had the opportunity to sabotage that toilet tank, and she would have had plenty of time to sprint out to the parking lot while Regina made her crutch-assisted exit from the group therapy session.

  Or maybe it was one of the people on the Clinic staff. That awful woman who assigned the duties? She had assigned Regina to that spot in the kitchen right below the wall oven—and exactly that bathroom with the old-fashioned toilet tanks.

  But there was no more time to think. A bus pulled up to the stop a few yards ahead.

  “Wait! Oh, please, wait!” She waved her free hand at the driver.

  Slowly, miraculously, the bus came to a stop and waited. The woman driving the bus even stood to help her aboard.

  “Thank you so much,” Regina said. “I'm trying to reach Orange County Hospital. Am I going in the right direction?”

  The woman laughed. “Not even close, ma'am. But you can get a southbound bus at the racetrack—Hollywood Park. Three stops up.”

  She sat back down and pointed at the fare-collecting contraption beside her seat before grabbing the wheel.

  “Exact change, please.”

  Exact change. Regina opened her bag and grabbed for her wallet. She hoped there would be a quarter or two.

  But no. Her wallet. It was gone. Of course. She'd been mugged. There was nothing in her purse but some make-up and the empty bag from her airline peanuts.

  The bus was not moving. The other passengers stared coldly at her from their seats.

  “Exact change, ma'am,” the driver said again, her hand on the wheel.

  Regina tried to laugh.

  “I'm terribly afraid my wallet's been stolen.”

  The driver's movement was abrupt and swift. She pulled the lever that opened the bus door and stood up, her hand on Regina's elbow.

  “No exact change, no ride. Sorry, lady. I don't make the rules.”

  “But this is ridiculous. I can give you my watch, a ring…”

  But she couldn't. They were gone, too. Everything. All her jewelry. Still in the safe at the clinic.

  The driver yanked her down the steps like a criminal.

  With the whoosh and bang of the door, she was alone on the street.

  She had nothing; no credit cards; no passport; no money; no identification.

  The man from New Jersey had been right. The California weather was gone, too. An icy winter wind cut through her light silk jacket. In the shelter of a dumpster across the street, a bearded man drank from a paper bag, his eyes focused on her.

  A battered Chrysler pulled into the bus stop, sputtering with age and bad spark plugs. The clown-face of an overly made-up old woman peered at her. The automatic window slid down part way.

  “Goin' to the Park, Hon? Hop on in. That bus is slower than molasses, I swear.”

  Regina looked at the painted crone's face. Her lipstick glowed orange in the yellow beam of the streetlight. The car stank of old cigarette smoke.

  The man across the street with the bottle shouted. Another man, rounding the corner, joined him and, taking the paper bag, lifted it in a mocking toast to Regina.

  She got in the car.

  Chapter 15—Regina: California Dreams

  The woman driving the ancient car gave a mad cackle. Her car radio played too loud for conversation.

  Regina felt her neck go clammy. She was in a moving car wreck with an insane person.

  “California Dreams,” the woman said, turning down the radio. “To win in the tenth.”

  “You're going to Hollywood Park? The racetrack?”

  “California Dreams,” the woman said again, tossing a racing form at Regina. “Can't lose. I got the inside poop. Got a cigarette?”

  “Sorry. I don't smoke,” Regina said. “I quit when I was pregnant with my first baby. Toughest thing I ever did, though.”

  “Yeah, well, that's why you're fat. Me, I can still fit into the dress I wore to my high school prom. Can you believe that? A fifty-two year old grandma, and I've got the figure of a teenager.”

  And the face of a ninety-year old. Regina felt a pang of pity for the poor thing. L.A. was no place for grandmothers.

  “Listen!” the woman turned the radio back up. “Listen, did you hear about that princess who died?” She snorted happily. “Goes to show—money ain't everything, don't it?”

  The radio popped with static. All Regina could hear was the word “funeral”, and somebody talking about Andy Warhol.

  “What princess? One of the Windsors? Oh, poor Elizabeth!”

  “No. Not an English one—the American, the one who used to be such a knock-out. She's dead. Car crash.”

  The woman lit what was left of an old cigarette she'd fished out of the ashtray. The car filled with acrid smoke.

  “You're thinking of Princess Grace,” Regina said. “Do they have new evidence about that? There were always rumors…”

  “Kinda like Princess Grace.” The woman spoke with the cigarette clenched between her orange-spackled lips. “Except this one was alone and the body was, like… incinerated. They could only identify her by her jewelry. Reggie. That's the one. Princess Reggie.”

  “Princess Regina? Oh, no. I don't think so,” Regina tried not to laugh. “It must have been one of the Monaco Grimaldis. Princess Stephanie, maybe. She's always lived life at the edge.”

  “No. Not Stephanie. Regina. You know, the fat one. Who used to be a supermodel? I never thought much of her myself—all those druggy friends and that purple hair. She didn't have the class to be royalty, that's what I always thought.” The woman stubbed out her stinking cigarette. “But we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, now should we?”

  Regina's strained laugh turned into a cough as she wildly turned the dials on the decrepit old radio.

  “You're mistaken,” she said. “Or somebody is. I need to hear this ridiculous story. Isn't there an all-news station?”

  “We're here, Hon.” The woman pulled into a parking lot and turned off the engine.

  The radio went silent.

  Regina pulled herself out of the car and leaned on her crutch as she took gulps of the cold, but slightly fresher air. The woman was already halfway across the lot, taking off in a mincing, high-heeled trot.

  “I need to buy me some cigs before I place this bet,” she called out. “I'll meet you inside.”

  Regina stood still a moment, listening. There was a radio playing somewhere. She followed the sound. She had to hear whatever story it was that the silly woman had got so badly garbled.

  After the day she'd had, there were a great many things Regina was uncertain about, but the fact that she was alive was not one of them.

  A man was sitting alone in a pick-up truck, drinking from a vodka bottle, with hi
s radio playing country music. Regina crept along the passenger side of the truck, listening as a man's authoritative voice came on the radio announcing the six-thirty news report.

  Regina took a deep breath. Unfortunately, it turned into a cough. The noise caught the attention of the man in the truck.

  “Well, hel-lo, baby.” He leaned across the cab to leer at her. “Aren't you just what the doctor ordered? You wanna drink?” He held out the bottle.

  “No… no thanks.” Regina backed away. “I've got to run.”

  “Not so fast.” The man grabbed at the collar of her jacket. “Tits. You got nice tits.”

  “Sorry.” Regina tried to stay calm. “I have to place a bet. 'California Dreams' in the tenth. Can't lose.”

  “Piece of crap. 'California Dreams' is a loser. Come 'ere.”

  Regina heard the fragile Dolce and Gabbana silk rip as she yanked her jacket from the man's grip. With a kind of a skip and a pole-vault jump she managed to maneuver herself around the truck and slip behind a minivan before she heard the drunken creature slam his truck door open and stomp across the parking lot.

  “I'm gonna get you now, baby,” he roared. “No fat bitch teases me.”

  She could hear the pounding of his cowboy boots on the asphalt as he lurched around the parking lot. She edged toward an ancient pick-up truck on the other side of the minivan. A rusty horse trailer was parked behind it.

  Vaulting with her crutch, Regina made her way to the trailer. The tailgate hung open. There was even some straw inside, and a pile of blankets. Tossing her crutch in first, she hitched herself up the ramp and burrowed into the straw, covering herself with a quilted blanket. The blanket stank of horse, but she hardly cared as her heart pounded in her throat.

  “Hey, where are you, Tits?” the drunk called out. “I'm gonna give you the best you ever had. Best you're ever gonna get, you crippled fat bitch.”

  Regina crawled under the straw, nearly choking on the dust and stench. She could only pray that he wouldn't look inside the trailer, where her crutch lay in full view of the parking lot light.

  Apparently, he didn't. A few minutes later, she heard noise blaring from the truck radio. Then a newscaster's voice…

  “A spokesperson for T. Power Magee says that the injured former Congresswoman will not be available for interviews for several weeks. The GBA network did not disclose whether her talk show will debut at a later date. Meanwhile, the whole world mourns the loss of Princess Regina of San Montinaro, the American Cinderella who was killed in a fiery car crash near her Alpine home late yesterday afternoon. The Vice President and Mrs. Gore have canceled their fund-raising tour to attend the funeral…” The station changed abruptly.

  The cigarette woman hadn't been hallucinating.

  “Baby! Hey, Tits!” shouted the drunken cowboy.

  Regina lay still and tried to make sense of all of it. Any of it.

  A dream. Maybe it was some sort of ridiculous, horrible dream. She would wake up soon. She burrowed deeper under the straw, trying to take calming breaths in spite of the barnyard stench.

  She would wake up at home in her bed, and telephone Cady.

  And Cady would be fine.

  She would be amused at Regina's odd fears about elevator accidents. She would laugh out loud at the story of Regina being pursued by an amorous drunken cowboy while listening to reports of her own demise, the way they used to laugh about stories of bad dates in high school

  Cady was a logical, rational human being. So was Regina. They lived in a logical, rational universe.

  Therefore, none of this could be happening.

  Sleep. She must sleep. The pills they'd given her at the Pits must be taking effect. She wrapped the blanket around her and imagined being snug and safe, surrounded by strong, protective arms.

  She imagined herself in the embrace of Mikhail, her Israeli soldier of long ago. Her mind caressed the memory; the steely muscles of his chest, the surprising silkiness of his dark, unruly hair, and the warmth of his brown skin, the sweet taste of the Greek ouzo on his lips.

  In the dark, all dreams were possible: safety, even love.

  Chapter 16—Cady: Lush Life

  Cady lay on downy pillows, listening to the ice-cool, heartbreaking jazz of John Coltrane.

  Maybe because of the blindness heightening her other senses, or maybe because of Tyrone's state-of-the art sound system, she felt she was listening to—really hearing—Coltrane's music for the first time. How a man so drugged could have composed those cerebral, abstract rhythms, and how all that razor-toothed pain could have cut through the opiates that numbed Coltrane's short life, was something she couldn't comprehend.

  There were lots of things she couldn't comprehend right now:

  Regina's death. Her supernatural goodbye note. The blindness. Tyrone.

  Blindness, death; these things were in the hands of God.

  But why had she put herself here, on these pillows, in the hands of a man she knew to be as godless and egotistical as any man alive? And why was he all she could think about—that and how empty the room felt without him?

  Tyrone was being so kind, so honorable, so respectful. How could she help respecting him back? No. She had to be honest. Respect is something that goes on in your head. These feelings were going on in her body—and in her soul.

  He had a meeting, but he'd be back by lunchtime. She'd been checking the time on the TV's talking clock every five minutes. What kind of a fool was she being? She was nearly fifty years old. A woman of God. She knew better.

  “Coltrane? But I put in all those classical CDs for you: the Beethoven string quartets, the Berlioz… I must have left Coltrane in the carousel by mistake.”

  Tyrone had come into the room, quiet as a cat.

  Cady hoped that nurse had done something not too ugly with her hair.

  “You were so into high-brow music when we were kids,” Tyrone said.

  “You mean dead white male music?” Cady's voice came out sharper than she meant. “I'm surprised you have anything so politically incorrect in the house.”

  “If white guys can listen to Coltrane, I guess I can listen to late Beethoven quartets. Besides, classical music's a fine tool for intimidating Hollywood riffraff.”

  The bed moved as he sat on the side, close enough so she could feel his body heat.

  “If it hadn't been for you, Miss Cadillac,” he said—she didn't even mind that name coming from him, somehow. “I never would have known Bach from Bebop. You—and your Daddy's Stradivarius violin.”

  “My poor Daddy's phony Stradivarius.” Cady laughed. “Did you know that thing turned out to be made in Germany in 1910—not even worth two hundred bucks? But, you know, when I was growing up, I believed that thing was a real Stradivarius, and that kept me going. Believing in that violin was what made me practice, practice, practice like in the old joke. I was going to play Carnegie Hall someday. I had to be worthy of my Daddy's legacy.”

  Her Daddy—the father she'd never known—war hero Sergeant Henry Stanton, blown to patriotic glory in the snows of North Korea; a myth as phony as his fiddle. But she had loved that myth—loved it as she'd never loved a real, live man.

  Okay—except maybe one.

  “Yeah,” Tyrone said. “You made everybody in the building crazy with that practice, practice, practice. I don't think I ever listen to 'Air on a G string' without hearing those mistakes you used to stop on—over and over.”

  “Yeah. I made a lot of mistakes. I didn't even know how to say Carnegie Hall. I called it 'Carnaby Hall'. You can imagine how much fun Regina made of me for that. But you don't worry so much about mistakes when you know you got yourself a Stradivarius violin.”

  “I guess I thought you were pretty stuck up in those days, Miss Cadillac.”

  Tyrone brushed her hair from her face, his hand as cool and smooth as the riff coming off Coltrane's sax.

  “I said so to Myrna, but she told me we were lucky to have such a high class friend. She was right, too.�
��

  He was close enough for her to smell the mint on his breath. Fresh mouthwash. Was that for her?

  “Lupe scored us some righteous prawns for lunch.” The mint drifted away. “Big as lobsters. She's a major fan of yours.” Tyrone laughed. “You know you're paying the help too much when they start voting Republican.”

  She felt the bed jiggle as he rose to his feet.

  “It's the party of Abraham Lincoln, Mister billionaire liberal.”

  But she didn't really have the energy to fight with him. In fact, all the energy she had was working to keep herself from reaching for him and shouting to him and God and everybody what she was feeling—what she hadn't felt in so many years.

  And had been so sure she'd never feel again.

  “Prawns?” She changed the subject. “Sounds mighty fine.”

  Somehow she was starving, in spite of the two pastries she'd put away at breakfast. And here she was getting no exercise to burn it off. She'd have to talk to Dr. Lillian about getting some more of the diet pills.

  She sank back into the pillows and Coltrane's “Lush Life”.

  Chapter 17—Cady: Church Lady

  A few minutes later, Dr. Lillian arrived. She seemed upbeat, but Cady couldn't help hearing the phoniness in her complicated reassurances punctuated with phrases like “Hope for the best” and “The power of positive thinking”.

  But on the subject of the latest diet wonder drug, Dr. Lillian's response was anything but cheery.

  Cady heard a quick intake of breath, then silence.

  “You want what, Reverend?” The doctor sounded angry.

  Cady repeated that she'd left her prescription for the diet pills at the hotel and she had no idea where they'd been packed away, so could she have another?

  “I'm trying to save your life, and you want me to prescribe a drug that ought to be against the law?”

  Cady stiffened. She'd put a lot of time and money into this diet.

  “But I've worked so hard to get thin. I don't want to…”