Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies (16 page)

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.

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.”

“Don’t fall asleep! You are here to guard the mummy. I’m counting on you.”

He stood and stretched almost touching the ceiling. “I’m your man!” He jutted his hip and wiggled his boob-less top. I noticed his falsies were stacked on top of each other on the coffee table.

Locking the door behind me I set the alarm. I climbed into his Escalade and tinkered with the seat until I could touch the pedals. Off to get one cranky archaeologist. I shivered when I imagined his fury. But what else could I have done? Grant’s goons or the Semaphores, one side or the other would have rendered the mummy mute or moot.

The sun had a head start on what looked to be another broiling Florida day. Roger stood in front of the courthouse looking like a homeless Indiana Jones. I imagined him with a sign “Will work for antiquities.”

I tapped the horn, did a U-turn and waved out the window. “Your chariot awaits, oh jailbird.” He pulled the door open and slung his body into the front passenger seat. No hello. No kiss. He smelled like a smoky locker room. “Let’s get back to the mummy quick! Who’s guarding it?”

“Kit.”

“Perfect. A drag queen.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. That drag queen kept both the gangs of Miami at bay with the twist of his wrist. Did you get your Amicus?”

“No. But I got my ass kissed.”

“You didn’t get…?”

“No! Bad joke. I was just verbally abused and fined. I’d rather not talk about it. Show me the mummy!”

He buckled up suddenly realizing where he was. “Why are you driving Kit’s car?”

“I haven’t had a chance to pick up Goldie. The dealership has her.”

“Sorry. I forgot. We’ll get her later.”

I headed toward the causeway and my beachfront condo.

“You’re headed in the wrong direction. Take South Miami Avenue,” he growled. Boy one night in jail and he’d turned into Snake Plissken. I wondered if he’d picked up any jailhouse tats last night. He frowned as I continued toward the beaches.

“I said take South Miami Avenue,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

That icky feeling that you get when you’re pulled over by a traffic cop set in along with a patch of panic. I looped back on East Flagler and headed south to the site, my mind buzzing like a bumblebee on diet pills. How do you tell the man you love that you’ve moved his mummy?

“Can’t you drive any faster?”

Maybe it wasn’t too late to trade him for Johnny Depp.

Normal people passed us on their way to their normal jobs with normal stress. I envied them for two seconds. In reality I wouldn’t swap places with those cubicle desk jockeys for a Vera Wang wardrobe. I’d become an adrenalin junkie.

“Err… there’s something you should know,” I said, sounding like a kid expecting a reprimand.

“Wendy!” his perfect teeth were clenched so tight I couldn’t slip a toothpick between them. “Is the mummy safe?”

“Yes. Of course!”

“Is the mummy in our control?”

“Completely.”

“Is the mummy in the chamber?”

“Define chamber.”

“Wendy!” He punched his fist against the passenger window.

With the blinker on I cruised to the right edge of the bridge. Roger’s eyes spun nasty little knives at me. Men! They sure could get testy. Putting the car in PARK I rested my left arm on the steering wheel and prepared to ‘splain’ myself. We were over the midpoint of the Miami River, the Bates Hotel site with its yellow accident tape was visible on the left river bank, a healthy drop down from the overpass where we sat.

I turned to look at my lover, now pissed off passenger. “Last night Grant’s goons and the Semaphores were moving on the site. I had no police protection, I couldn’t reach you…”

Glancing over Roger’s shoulder, I spotted Tippy’s pale pink thirty-nine foot cigarette boat “Daddy’s Girl” floating like a prissy cork in the river bobbing toward the Metro tracks overpass. I leaned around Roger and squinted against the morning sun.

“Is that Gary Grant in that cigarette? Because I’m one-hundred and ten percent sure that’s Tippy Henman next to him.”

Roger turned to look and nodded. He opened the window. “What they hell are they doing together? Drive onto the riverfront. Let’s get a closer look.”

I pulled off South Miami and onto Southeast Fifth. We rolled silently toward the overpass where the pinkish boat dipped against the seawall. Gary had one arm around Tippy and the other hand filling a champagne glass. They were celebrating something.

“Strange combination of canoodlers,” Roger mumbled.

I gasped when I saw what was coming. Sunlight flashed off the champagne bottle as Gary Grant brought it crunching down on the back of Tippy’s head. It was only the wobble of the boat that prevented it from being a dead-on blow. She staggered back. He glanced around, and pushed her over the side of the boat. Tippy went under like a rock.

Careening off the exit and skating along the river seawall, I skidded to a stop, cut the engine, and leaped from the Escalade.

Roger was two steps ahead of me. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled at Gary who did a perfect imitation of a killer deer caught in the headlights. The little creep backed up and revved the boat engine. I prayed Tippy was free of the props as I dove in clothes and all. Roger kicked off his shoes and followed me into the river.

It wasn’t until I heard him splash that I remembered I can’t swim
and
I panic when I get my face wet. Using every ounce of my Silva Mind Control training I convinced myself I was a Weeki Wachee mermaid. With my cheeks puffed like a chipmunk I flailed my arms until I had my hands on the unconscious Tippy. I held her head above water and did some kicking thingie I remembered from swimming lesson number one hundred and one.

The sound of pummeling and cursing came from the bow of the boat. Roger was struggling to board “Daddy’s Girl.” Gary swung a metal pole imitating a Highlander in battle. Roger ducked and re-ducked. He always was a good ducker.

I was about out of Mind Control tips and ready to follow Hic into the great beyond. The seawall seemed to be moving further away. Where was Mrs. MacGuffin? I had a few arrangements to make before the river current took me out to sea riding on Tippy’s body. Now that would make a great headline.
Local real estate broker found floating in gulfstream aboard dead client.

Something large and white and fiber-glassy banged against my shoulder. It wasn’t a manatee and was too slick for a shark. It was a Boston Whaler bouncing at my side. A pleasant male voice said something but with my ears full of water I couldn’t make out the words.

Strong hands popped Tippy from my death grip and lifted her into the boat. From where I was drowning it appeared that her eyes opened and then closed. Thank God she was alive. A hollow thud followed as her body dropped into the hull.

The hands reached out for me and not a second too soon. I went down, fought to come up trying that treading water thing swim instructors keep lying about. The human body was not meant to float unless thoroughly deceased. Of that I am very sure.

Someone pulled me into the whaler. Gentle gray eyes and a twinkly smile went with the muscles that went with the arms. There was something familiar about him. When our eyes met, I was stunned and nearly toppled back in to the water.

When I revived I was sitting on a plastic cushion on the boat. Tippy lay prone on the floor of the whaler, our rescuer pumping her chest. Her eyes fluttered, she caught me looking at her and closed them. With a smile on her face she turned and vomited river water on the deck. Faker.