Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil (11 page)

“Screw you! There was nothing ham-handed in finding out the last person to call Benny.”

The cranky detective returned. He pulled up a chair, elbows on the table. “What gets up my nose is that you could have lost that bloody call. Our guys were able to capture it. We can run it through voice analysis. If we get lucky, we might be able to get a match.”

The flashes of cameras and the comments from the crime scene operatives kept throwing me off as I filled in the details of Benny’s last night. By the time I’d gotten to the bit about dropping on Algy Green’s head, the coroner’s people were carrying Samuel’s body from the cellar. It finally got to be too much. I couldn’t breathe. Dashing out the back door, I ran into the sweltering garden escaping the smell of death.

“Stop!” Angus yelled after me.

The dizziness passed. I wandered to the garden bench where I’d sat with Benny only a few days earlier. And now he was dead. Was my archaeologist next on the killer’s list? I noticed two goose-size shapes huddled beside the gardener’s shed. Hildy and Holly must be terrified.

Chapter 28

R
oger came down the path, a deep furrow between his brows. He sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay.”

“How can it be okay? Every place we go death follows us… in the Caribbean and here in London. I’m worried about you. You’re a walking murder magnet.”

He looked at me as if I were a student failing to understand. “These murders haven’t been my fault. Like most Egyptian antiquities, the Lost Boys come with a curse.”

“Lovely. Brilliant. Perfect. Write it all off to a curse.”

“Some people are more prone to the suggestion of a curse.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as he squinted. Either he needed to brush or he was deep in thought.

I waited to see if he was going to open up.

Roger scratched his chin, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Maybe we could have saved him.”

I patted his hand. “It was already too late when I found you. Benny was dead that morning.”

“Dead because he knew where the Lost Boy is. I’m stumped. I have no idea where Darcy hid Thirteen. ‘Out in the open where the public can see it.’ What the Charles Dickens did she mean?” He hugged me tighter. It felt uncomfortable. There was too much death around us for me to enjoy his touch.

“We have to find the thirteenth Boy for Benny,” he said. “But I’m not a big fan of nursery rhymes. Can’t really recollect if the cow jumped over the moon or the moon slipped under the cow. Where’s the clue in Darcy’s riddle?”

“Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to visit the Queen. Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you do there? I frightened the little mouse under her chair,” I recited.

A shiver ran up my spine. “Roger, I think I know where the last Lost Boy is! It’s under the Queen’s chair.”

“Which Queen’s chair? You realize you’re in England. There are thousands of Queen’s chairs.”

“We’ll start at the top and work our way down. Buckingham Palace?” I smiled and let my weary head drop on his shoulder.

“I’ll see if Angus will excuse us. We’ll talk about the palace later. You must be exhausted. I’m knackered.” He lifted my head from its comfy position and stood.

“We can’t leave Hildy and Holly. They’ll starve to death. They can’t fly over the fence.”

“Those two walking foie gras, starve?”

“Or someone might serve them for Sunday dinner. We have to take them with us to your flat for now.”

“They’re birds. Dirty birds.”

Holly waddled up and placed her head in Roger’s lap, puppy-like. My Indiana Jones knuckled under, “Okay, but only for tonight until we can reach a no-kill animal control.”

I nodded, knowing we weren’t going to turn these two geese in anywhere. They had “feast” written all over their big grey bodies. Roger called for a black cab, while I hid Hildy and Holly until the taxi door was open. Then I appeared and scooted the geese into the taxi.

“Madame, I can’t transport those birds.”

“What birds?” I batted my eyes while Roger slipped him a wad of money. The driver looked at the cash and looked at geese. He pocketed the bills. “Just see that the birds that
aren’t
in the back seat don’t make a mess. And heads down!”

Keeping the goose heads down was a challenge. Hildy nipped at Roger as he tried to force her to sit on the floor. “Gentle,” I said stroking Holly’s head. My partner in fowl transportation got the hang of it. He stroked the goose’s noggin until she almost purred with pleasure.

Chapter 29

G
oose-herding is not for the faint of heart. Roger and I held them down on the taxi floor the entire way to his flat. Our reward was nipped fingers and shoes full of goose poop. With the windows up the taxi smelled like a barnyard.

“How do we hold them when we open the car door?” Roger asked.

“You have any popcorn on you?”

“Bloody hell, Wendy! This was your bright idea.”

I started humming the tune Samuel was dancing to. My version was weak and lacked the cymbals, but I kept it up. Roger joined me. I nodded to show him I was petting Holly. He began to stroke Hildy. The geese settled in. The elderly cabbie was laughing so hard he ran a red light.

When we got to Roger’s flat, he had to fight Hildy to reach into his pocket for cab fare. “Now what? How do we get them out of the car?”

“Use your jacket to cover Hildy’s eyes,” I said as I pulled off my t-shirt and tied it round Holly’s head. I was fresh out of goose head covers. My black slacks were covered in white and grey feathers. Quite a fashion statement.

The geese weighed over twenty pounds each, but it wasn’t the weight, it was the wiggling that was the challenge. Lugging them up the stairs with their heads covered, I could feel the terror in their silence. I would have laughed but Roger was not enjoying the adventure.

Roger sat Hildy on the landing and wedged her between his legs while he struggled to reach his door key. I managed a quick prayer the goose wouldn’t bite him in his special place.

We burst into the flat, a flurry of feathers and droppings. The birds slid across the polished oak floors struggling to gain traction with their big yellow feet.

“Don’t sit on my sofa. Please?” Roger said.

He was right. I was a stinky mess. He was in the same condition.

“These birds are your idea. There’s a big package of copy paper on my desk. Start covering everything. And keep them off my bed.”

It took me two hours to cover every surface with letter size paper. Every time one of the geese flapped its wings, papers went flying.

“How’s the popcorn situation?” I asked.

“There should be a jumbo jar in the pantry. Have at it. I’m showering, then I’ll be at my desk. Enjoy your geese.”

He sounded crabby. What’s the big deal? A couple of birds for a couple of days.

I grabbed a blanket and threw it on the floor in front of the pantry. Hildy and Holly waddled over to inspect their new nest. At the sound of the popping corn, they danced in circles on the kitchen floor. While they were eating, I went to check on Roger. He was asleep at his desk.

“Wake up,” I nudged him. “I’m going to take a shower then curl up in the guestroom, since there’s a door to hide behind. Hildy and Holly are eating popcorn right now. You might want to keep an eye on them.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Angus has us set up to visit Buckingham Palace in the morning. He has connections with their security.”

“Great! I have a good feeling about this.”

***

When I finished showering, I put on shortie pajamas and ran a brush through my wet hair. Now to check on the flock. Roger was asleep on his bed, his arm draped over the edge. Hildy and Holly were asleep on the floor at his side. He must have carried them up to the loft. It was too high for them to reach.

I crept into the guestroom and closed the door.

Chapter 30

J
ust after nine on Tuesday morning, Roger and I stood outside 51 Buckingham Gate, a five-star hotel across from the palace. Angus had agreed to get us in and behind the scenes. The detective was running late.

My archaeologist squeezed my hand. “Do you mind if I kiss you in a public place?”

“I’d mind if you kissed me in a private place with all these people watching.”

He was still laughing when Angus strode toward us. He wore a dark blue suit; his hair glinted like copper in the sunlight. “Ready? Just keep a level head. No Yank theatrics,” he cut his eyes to me. “There are seven-hundred and seventy-five rooms in Buckingham Palace, but we’ll have access to only a handful of private rooms and the few rooms open to the public.”

“Thank goodness your screwball girlfriend gave us some parameters,” I said to Roger. “Under the Queen’s chair in public view. Here we go.”

We walked to the largest guard booth where Ian York, a pleasant looking older man with a delightful upper-crust accent, greeted us. The guys all shook hands, each avoiding my extended palm. Our IDs were scanned by security and returned to us. Following Ian into the palace, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the sentries in their nifty uniforms and huge black hats. I envied the discipline they showed… no way could I stand so perfectly still… I’d think about my itchy nose or potty breaks.

Inside, the security was more subtle. The guards wore dark uniforms and no hats. It didn’t appear they were armed. No one made eye contact, despite my smiling and nodding.

I leaned into Roger’s ear, “Why won’t Englishmen shake a lady’s hand? Do you guys think it’s ungentlemanly?”

“No. You scare the shit out of us,” he whispered.

I swallowed a chuckle.

“We’re headed for the throne room,” Ian said. We stepped across the threshold into the Grand Hall and up the curving marble stairs of the Grand Staircase. I was glad I’d worn flats as the stone floor was polished to a slippery sheen. I was wearing my black crepe Donna Karen dress and white pearls. I hoped I looked the part of a proper palace visitor.

The Green Drawing Room stood at the entrance to the Throne Room. The four of us walked through in respectful silence. This was the room that held the Queen’s official chair. It was dominated by an arch supported by a pair of winged figures of victory holding garlands above the throne. Angus said, “You two stay here. I’ll walk up with Ian. If it’s there, I’ll let you know.”

We spun around at the sound of clomping boots and a voice that sounded like an old vinyl record yelling, “Wendy! What are you doing here girl?”

I groaned.

It was Granddaddy Earl.

He was a head shorter than me and might break one hundred pounds after a big meal. His eyeballs moved independently of each other, but carried identical bags. A perfectly matched set of horse-size dentures dominated his face. His head looked different. He’d replaced his muskrat-hide toupee with what appeared to be mink. It sat high on his skull and swirled from a pompadour ending in a ducktail. He looked like the world’s oldest rock ‘n roll singer trying for a comeback in his black jeans and t-shirt that read,
I ♥ London.

He picked me up and twirled me around. The little hillbilly was small but powerful. “What in holy goat’s name is this? A dadgum reunion? It’s the good doctor… Jolley? Right?” He smacked Roger in the back, sending him into a short stumble.

“What the f—?” Roger said. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

“It’s sure a small world!” Granddaddy Earl said.

“Must be the global warming,” Roger muttered.

The old codger scanned the rest of our group. “I thought that was you, Wendy girl, when ya‘ll walked on by us. Let me introduce you to my bride.”

Earl yanked the arm of the skinny, grey-haired lady standing next to him. He pulled her forward and stuffed her in my face. “This here is Birdie. We were married last week. We’re on our honeymoon. Birdie used to waitress at the Possum’s Paw. Birdie, this is that young lady I told you about. The one what risked her life to save my grandson Joseph. She’s good people.”

Granddaddy Earl was the grandfather of Charlie Hook and the patriarch of the Hook clan. The last time I saw him, he had washed his hands of Charlie and had taken the rest of the family back to their goat farm in Georgia.

I shook my head trying to sort out the surreal from the preposterous. “How could you…?”

“Afford this here luxury trip, you’re asking. That’s the best part. I showed those smartass young’uns of mine. I got me a computer, and I learned myself how to do that eBay stuff. Then I took my entire collection of Elvis memorabilia and sold the lot.”

Ian pressed his earpiece, whispering for security backup. I squinched my face trying to tell him it was okay. Roger shot me a look that said please don’t mess this up.

Granddaddy Earl was doing his best imitation of a human pinball bouncing off the five of us as four of us stood there dumbstruck. “Here’s the funnest part. I done sold my entire Elvis collection to Charlie.”

Oh dear. He’s gone senile. I put my hand on his arm and spoke slowly. “Granddaddy Earl, Charlie’s gone. He passed on.”

“Not that Charlie!” he said, pointing downward. “This Charlie!” he said, moving his arms as if taking in the whole palace. “Prince Charlie bought the entire collection, including the picture of praying Elvis painted on black velvet. When I told him about our nuptials, he invited Birdie and me to visit him on our honeymoon. He’s waiting for us downstairs. I just had to grab you and give you a kiss for old-time’s sake.”

Three guards had arrived and reached out to nab Earl and Birdie. He yanked free. “Tell Charlie we’re on our way.”

“Wendy, here’s a tip if you’re doing the tourist thing. The Elvis at the wax museum… he don’t look so good. He looks more like a dead Elvis. We took some pictures with Birdie kissing him for the folks back home. It ain’t gonna fool anybody, but it’s sure worth seein’. They got a whole thing on movie stars and rock singers—”

Birdie tugged on his arm. “Big Earl?”

“I’m coming, honey-buns,” he waved us off and followed the guards down the marble stairs.

Roger and I exchanged glazed looks.