“'Nobody home,' Mick says. He pulls a dust cover off a mahogany butler's cart full of bottles of liquor. 'The usual kennel club—and our scrumptious Gina-Regina.'
“'Scrumptious. Luscious and ripe. A plump purple plum.' Franz finally stops staring and goes back to his awful playing.
“I'm getting pretty irritated by now, especially after the 'plump' remark. 'Where are we?' I say. 'I want to go to the party in Chestnut Hill.'
“'Chestnut Hill? What has Chestnut Hill got that our hometown hasn't? Don't you like our little cottage? The materfamilias is in the south of France at this time of year, which is why the furniture is wearing its little white dresses. Perhaps we should undress it? Music, Maestro!'
“Franz plays a few bars of some raunchy jazz, and Mick pulls the cover off a couch, real slow. They're giggling like ten-year-olds
“'We're already late,' I say. 'Cady and Darius and the Sybils are all waiting.'
“'Darius and the Sybils—sounds like something out of Herodotus, doesn't it?' Mick laughs.
“'I wouldn't know,' says Franz. 'I flunked Greek, along with everything else at Princeton.'
“Mick has filled two glasses with ice from the butler's cart. 'What would Gina-Regina like?' Without waiting for an answer, he hands me a glass. 'Tanqueray and Bitter Lemon?'
“'What I'd like is to go to the party.' I'm fuming.
“'One drink; then we'll go,' he says. 'But it's considered déclassé to arrive at a party before eleven, you know.'
“I drink a little from the glass. The gin fumes are gross, but I like Bitter Lemon, so I get it down.
“Franz refills his drink and starts trying to play Liszt's Leibestraum No.3, which of course weirds me out because it's my Julliard audition piece.
“'It's also considered déclassé to play Liszt like a march by John Philip Sousa,' I say. You can't believe how bad this guy is.
“'Oooh! She got you there, cousin,' Mick says. 'His playing is abysmal, isn't it? Do you play, dearest Gina-Regina? Show him how it's done.'
“'Sorry. I've got to get to a party.' I gulp down the drink. 'Come on. I'm done.'
“'Not till you play us something. Not after what you said,' said Franz. 'You've wounded me, deeply.' He stands up and pulls out the bench for me to sit.
“Mick points to the bench.
“So I play their stupid piano. I don't know why. Maybe I'm trying to prove I'm better than them at something, even though I'm not a super-rich snot. Or maybe I'm making up for the audition, somehow. I'm actually playing really well, until about halfway through, when the notes start slipping away from me—one wrong chord, then another. My head is throbbing, and my stomach goes queasy and everything starts to spin and blur. It's like my nightmare—and these guys are the Nazis. I'm afraid to stop playing; afraid they'll do something terrible to me if I do. But I can't play. I keep making mistakes, and my neck won't hold my head up.
“Everything goes dark. I guess I pass out.
“When I come to, I'm lying in a huge bed and Mick is lying on top of me. I feel like I'm going to throw up.
“'You shouldn't have taken that drink if you can't hold your liquor,' Mick says. 'I must have put a half a pint in there.' He's sliding his hands under the bed covers and grabbing for my thigh. All he gets is a handful of fishnet tights, but the look on his face is scary.
“I try to push him away and tell him to stop. But the words come out sort of slushy. Then he starts his stupid humming again while he yanks at my tights, which are starting to slide down, taking my underpants with them. I keep trying to stop him, but my arms are weak and my stomach feels horrible.
“I try to keep from crying and say, 'Mick, you gotta take me to the party, now!'
“'Only if you stop calling me that,' he says. 'It sounds so—Irish.'
“It's like a cartoon light bulb clicks on in my head. 'You're not Mick! You're not Sybil's friend. You're not my date at all!'
“I see him grinning at me and in that minute, I know how a mouse feels when it's about to have its head bitten off by a cat—except I'm supposed to like the cat.
“Then he does it. He pushes his stupid thing in me and I scream with the pain and then—I swear I can't help it—I throw up all over him.
“'Stupid slut!' His face gets purple and he runs off to the bathroom. 'Girls who can't hold their liquor don't get invited back, you know.' I hear the roar of a shower.
“I look down and I can see blood; my own blood on the sheets. I climb out of the bed in spite of the fact the room is spinning around like crazy. At least my stomach feels better after being sick. I'm trying to find my shoes and purse, while his words sit there in my brain, 'don't get invited back.'
“That means he's done this before. He gets girls drunk and rapes them. And the girls come back. It's too awful to think about. My shoes are nowhere, but I find my purse on the floor, grab it and run for the door.
“But somebody's knocking on it. I'm trapped.
“'Cousin dear,' says Franz. 'You're not having the party without me, are you? It's your fault we've only got one girl. You'll have to share. Open up.'
“Share. My neck goes cold. I curse Helen Gurley Brown and all the Sybils. But that gives me an idea. 'You want a girl of your own, Franz? I'll get you lots of girls.' I open the door and grab his arm. 'You gotta come with me', I say, all friendly. 'I know so many girls—all crazy to lose their virginity. Come on. Hurry up. The dorms will be locked soon.'
“He drives his big brown Mercedes at about 90 miles an hour weaving all over the road, but he finally squeals to a stop outside Cardigan Arch.
“I say something like, 'You stay here. I'll get the girls,' and open the car door and hit the ground running.
“And can you believe it? When I get inside, Sybil D-D is there, fuming. 'Where the hell were you?' she says. 'Poor Mick! You've shattered the man. First his car broke down, and then you stood him up. He was the only one at the party without a date. It was a terrible ordeal for him.'
“A terrible ordeal. She really said that.”
“Well, shoot,” Fatima said.
Cady could hear the rapid flipping of pages.
“The rest is blank. There's nothing else in the whole damned diary.”
“Reverend Cady, you're going to have to sit up straighter, or I'm going to end up pulling this braid out by the roots,” Athena said. “So what happened? Did they ever catch those rapists?”
Cady sat up. She'd been feeling guilt press down on her like a weight as she dug into her memory, wondering how she could have been so oblivious; so unavailable at a time when Regina needed her so much.
Darius, politics, classes, sex, learning about Early Greek Philosophy and birth control pills and how to dress for tea. Why had they become so much more important than her sister's pain?
“What about the shoe?” Fatima said. “Didn't you say one of those lowlifes showed up the next day with her shoe?
“Not one of them,” Cady said. “The other guy—Mikhail, her real date. We thought she stood him up on purpose and went home with those creepy guys because they were rich. Darius even had me believing she must have been prejudiced against foreign students.
“I don't know where he found it—maybe it fell out of that creep's car—but the next day a gorgeous man with a sexy accent showed up at the dorm with one purple Capezio flat. Come to think of it, that could have been the man Regina saw at the desk, the one she said looked like Dr. Zhivago. There he was; the prince looking for Cinderella. Except Regina was already gone and…”
Cady felt even guiltier.
“And we laughed. Isn't that awful? We had no idea what she'd been through, of course. But you see, it was the longest, skinniest shoe you ever saw. I think Regina wore a size twelve or something. The Sybils left it in my room. I remember it kind of looked like a purple canoe. Darius kept saying you could fit the whole Princeton crew team in there.”
“Excuse me, Reverend, but your Darius sounds like kind of a fool.” Athena gave Cady's head a yank. “Calling othe
r people prejudiced and then putting them down for the size of their feet.”
“I guess he was. But I was a bigger one. Let me tell you ladies, the most foolish one was definitely me.”
Chapter 30—Cady: The Queen of Clubs
Cady's mind was heavy with recriminations as Athena went back to her braiding.
All Cady could think about was Regina's terrible Lantern Night ordeal, and how afterward, she'd given up the piano and eating—the two things that gave her the most pleasure—and nobody had thought to suspect some cause other than willful rebellion.
Fatima was looking through the box, trying to find the next diary.
But Cady worried she was wasting time with all this nostalgia. She still hadn't heard from Flo.
“What's the situation with the phone?” she asked Fatima, “Is anybody downstairs taking my messages?”
“Not now,” Fatima said. “Lupe's probably left by now, Jamal, the driver, has his own place over the garage, and Kareem and Lucas are watching the gate. Nobody's here but that nurse of yours. The machine's on. You want me to go check it?”
“I'd appreciate it,” Cady said. “And let's turn up the ringer on this one, okay? I need to be available to people. Not just Flo. I've got a career to think about.” She felt the side of the phone for a lever.
“No! Reverend, you do not want to do that!” Fatima said.
But the phone was already ringing. Cady picked it up and heard Fatima's I-told-you-so laugh as she ran down the stairs.
“Cady?” said a voice on the phone. “Cady Stanton? Dear, is that really you? I've been trying to get though for days.”
It was a familiar voice; but one Cady hadn't heard in decades. She felt an eerie chill.
“It's me, dear. Sybil D-D. I'm Sybil D-D Vanderbilt Brown Andropopolis now, of course. You probably read in the Alumnae Bulletin about my wedding at the dig on Mount Olympus.”
Sybil gave her old irritating forced laugh.
“I do hope I wasn't premature in my item about you and Power Magee, but it's so nice to be able to report positive news, isn't it? I don't suppose you catch my column out there in California?”
Column. Sybil D-D had a society column in one of the New York papers. Dear Lord. Had she printed something about a romance with Tyrone? Fatima was an amazingly forgiving girlfriend.
“I was hoping you could give me the inside skinny,” Sybil said. “It would be such a coup for me, and I could put the best spin on it—just what you want the public to know.”
Cady tried to decide what to say. Sybil had probably heard some rumor about the blindness. Tyrone must have gone to some trouble to keep it from the press, but if her eyesight wasn't going to return, she was going to have to talk about it sooner or later. But she didn't owe Sybil anything. She could stonewall a while longer.
“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sybil, but Power Magee and I are simply old friends. We grew up together. Mr. Magee and his…” She paused, trying to decide how much to reveal about Fatima. “Power Magee and his household have been very gracious in allowing me to stay here to recuperate from the accident.”
Sybil laughed, a bit more genuinely this time.
“Cady, dear, I don't care about that right now, although I do want all the details if there's going to be a wedding. I'm calling about Florence Adams, of course. Isn't she your secretary? That's what the wire story is saying. If you've fired her, I'll print that. It certainly would help. Having an international terrorist on the payroll doesn't exactly make good press, does it?
Cady sat straight up in the bed.
“Hey!” Athena let go of a braid.
“International terrorist?” Cady laughed out the words. “My Flo? Sybil, dear, somebody's having a joke at your expense. Florence Adams is a seventy-two-year-old retired schoolteacher. The only people she's ever terrorized are students who tried to make her believe the dog ate their homework.”
“I know a blanket denial seems like the easiest route,” said Sybil, apparently unfazed. “But I recognized Florence in that photo right away. I heard her speak at the DAR convention in Boston last year. Who knew she was this terrorist they call the Queen of Clubs? I know it's painful, Cady, but it's better to get the truth out now when you can put your own spin on it than to let the tabloids take it totally out of control.”
Sybil had apparently lost her mind as well as her dignity when she'd married that Greek billionaire.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Sybil. But thanks for your concern.”
As she felt for the phone cradle on the nightstand, Cady could still hear Sybil's voice.
“It's right there on CNN, Cady. Even in that awful passport photo, I'd know her anywhere…”
Athena took the phone and Sybil was silenced with a click.
The phone rang again immediately.
“Hello?” Athena said. “No, Reverend Stanton is not available. Who am I? I'm her hairdresser. Who are you, hon?” She laughed. “Sure you are. And I'm Mrs. Hillary goddam Clinton.” She slammed the phone down again. “I'm gonna turn this thing off again, okay? Because I am never going to finish your hair this way. That was some nut case claiming to be the wife of the Vice President of the United States.”
Fatima's shoes clattered as she ran back up the stairs.
“Turn on the TV!” she said. “This Florence Adams friend of yours seems to have got herself in one hell of a mess.”
Chapter 31—Cady: International Terrorists
Cady listened to the voice of Katy Couric on the television.
“Again, our top story. There is still no comment from the former Congresswoman about the arrest of her secretary by the San Montinaro police,”
“No comment? Comment about what?” Cady said.
Athena shushed her as Ms. Couric went on.
“Florence Adams, an aide to the Reverend Cady Stanton, was arrested several hours ago at the San Montinaro airport. Police say she was attempting to board a plane after checking in a suitcase containing a nuclear explosive device. There is speculation among international law enforcement authorities that Miss Adams may be the mysterious “Queen of Clubs”; the terrorist-for-hire who has been linked to dozens of assassinations all over the globe.
“Her traveling companion, American actress Tina Davis, was found dead, apparently of self-inflicted poison, several hours before the arrest.”
“Traveling companion? The girl just sat next to her in the airport!” Cady couldn't believe how they just made this stuff up.
The TV Katy Couric kept talking.
“The connection between Miss Adams, a seventy-two-year-old African American from Boston, Massachusetts, and Miss Davis, the thirty-four-year-old former TV star and confessed cocaine addict from Los Angeles is not immediately known. It is also not known if this conspiracy has anything to do with the accident that killed Princess Regina of San Montinaro, whose funeral was held yesterday.”
“Conspiracy? Are they all insane?” Cady wanted to jump up and shake some sense into somebody, but still the TV played on.
“The San Montinaro police say they are now investigating the possibility of foul play in the death of the Princess that has so devastated this tiny nation.”
“Fatima…” Cady tried to keep her voice steady. “If you aren't too busy for the rest of the weekend, what do you say we fly over to San Montinaro?”
“Are you serious?” Fatima said, “You want me to go with you—to Europe?'
“Somebody needs to rescue Flo, and I think it's got to be me—and I'll need you to shepherd me around. You, too, Athena, if you can. But while I call LAX, I suggest you put in a call to Washington and apologize to Tipper Gore. I assume there's another phone line?”
“There's three,” Fatima said. “Come on Athena, we're going to Europe, girl!”
“Really?” Athena's voice lost its sassiness. “That really was Mrs. Gore?”
“Considering the circumstances, I'm pretty sure it was.”
The two women rushed out of the room, chatter
ing about what to pack.
Florence Adams was only a name on TV to them—not a lovely, gracious lady who was being subjected to God-knew-what-horrors.
Now Cady needed to focus and set priorities. Job one was getting Flo out of jail. Later she could worry about Tipper and Tina Davis and this story that wouldn't go away about Regina being murdered.
She'd abandoned Regina that long ago Lantern Night. She couldn't abandon Flo now. The one thing she knew as fact was that Flo had nothing to do with any of this nonsense.
But why on earth did they connect Flo with a bomb?
And what killed Tina Davis?
And how was a blind woman going to deal with the logistics of travel in a foreign country?
“What is going on here?” The nurse stomped in with anger in her voice. “Reverend, those two just informed me that you think you are going to Europe. You should think again. I have orders you are not to leave this room, and you are not going anywhere as long as I am on duty. I could lose my job.”
“I have orders too. But they come from a Higher Power.” Cady rose from the bed, knowing she could intimidate almost anyone when she stood at her full height of five foot ten and a half.
But as soon as both feet hit the cool tile of the floor, her head started to spin. She felt the nurse's arms around her as she sank slowly back into the bed.
“You heard me, Reverend Stanton. You're not going anywhere.”
“Oh, my God, it's Lupe!” Athena rushed back into the room. “On the TV!”
The television sound grew louder.
“My name Guadalupe Lourdes Rosanna Reyes,” said Lupe's sweet, singsong voice from the television.
“You've come from Power Magee's Beverly Hills compound, Mrs. Reyes,” a man said. “Can you tell us if Reverend Cady Stanton is inside? Why is she refusing to give a statement to the press?”
“No English. Espanol. I cook,” Lupe said.
“Is Power Magee involved in Florence Adams' terrorist organization?” said another voice. “Is there a black separatist group being housed in the compound?”
“No English,” Lupe said again with marvelous fake incomprehension. “I cook.”
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 92
