Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies (2 page)

“Why don’t we begin at the beginning,
Ms.
Wendy Darlin.”

I already regretted my comment about
Ms.
and he was just getting started.

“How do you know this lady?” Stranger nodded his head at Tippy now wrapped in a black blanket and shivering like a new-born kitten. She sat on the trunk of a cruiser with Officer Friendly at her side. They hadn’t ambulanced her so the blood must not have been hers.

“
Ms.
Wendy Darlin, I asked you a question.”

“Hold on. I need to make
one
call,” I raised my hands to show I was no threat and then reached in my pocket for my cell.

“You are not under suspicion. No need to call your lawyer.”

“I’m calling my obstetrician.”

His eyebrows shot up in double humped arches. “Your obstetrician is your lawyer?”

“No. This has nothing to do with a lawyer. I want to let him know I’m running late. I’m pregnant.” I patted my flat belly.

“You don’t look pregnant,
Ms.
Wendy Darlin,” he snapped.

“Well, I am.”
I think
. “I have a five o’clock appointment with Doctor McKenna to confirm my condition. You can verify with his office. He stayed late… just for me. That’s why I’m here.”

He let me call McKenna’s office. The doctor was one of my mini-mansion clients. He promised to wait until six. My stomach clenched. I hate being late.

I fought back the nausea and told Stranger everything from the scream ’til his arrival, omitting my repartee with Mustache. He picked my brain for another ten minutes. I tried to ignore the wet slapping noises that accompanied the crime scene investigation as I answered his questions.

He just wanted the
Dragnet
facts, not my opinion. But even to a real estate broker and part-time tomb raider, it was obvious this crime was an attempted hold-up or carjacking, the intended victim a diminutive, bejeweled dame getting into her Mercedes in a nearly deserted parking garage. But I had to wonder where Tippy got the knife. She wasn’t strong enough to wrest it from the robber.

“Don’t leave town. I’ll call you tomorrow if I have any more questions,” Stranger said pocketing his notebook.

“You can always Skype me.”

His eyes became two amber slits. “Cut the lip,
Ms.
Wendy Darlin and don’t leave town,
Ms.
Wendy Darlin.” He spun a one-eighty and trudged about twenty feet to where the Pincher-faced detective waited. Pincher-face held Tippy’s white leather Gucci bag. It suited him.

I glanced at the cruiser where Tippy had been sitting. Officer Friendly was gone and Mustache was walking Tippy toward the unmarked Dodge Charger. Two good signs, she wasn’t being put in the caged back seat of a cruiser and she wasn’t handcuffed. I returned my attention to the detectives. Stranger and Pincher-face were engaged in an animated conversation I wasn’t able to accidentally overhear.

I heard Tippy yell my name. Mustache was trying to guide her into the backseat of the Charger. Tears dripped down her pale cheeks. “I have to give the police a statement. My attorney’s going to meet us there to speed things up.”

She evaded Mustache’s hand as he attempted to get her to sit down. “I’ll be done in no time. Meet me at Spellbound at eight-thirty.”

I didn’t know how she expected to get there that fast, attorney or no attorney, but it was a good place to unwind if she was late. And it still gave me plenty of time to go home and get cleaned up.

Mustache pushed her shoulder but she didn’t budge. His feet slipped out from under him. He started kicking Rockette-style, but a Rockette on an oil spill. He almost went down but managed to increase his pace until he regained his balance. He was panting harder than an English Bulldog on an August day when he finally came to a stop.

Tippy pointed at me like an Uncle Sam poster. “I need you! Don’t be late if you have hopes of ever being my broker again.”

She pushed the door to its widest opening, tapping Mustache on the shoulder in the process which sent him into another dancing frenzy. But this time it didn’t save him. He fell on his ass then bounced up. He muttered unintelligibly. Had I slipped into
Who Killed Roger Rabbit
and was now interacting with Toons?

Tippy slammed the door and stared straight ahead. Mustache continued to bounce around and mutter.

I smothered a laugh which sent my brain into the dizzy zone. I imagined my eyeballs knocking into each other as Wile E. Coyote’s often do—after the Roadrunner bests him yet again. I turned toward Stranger. “Can I get an officer to accompany me to my car? The dead guy might have a buddy lurking around.”

Before Stranger could say
No, Ms. Wendy Darlin
, Officer Friendly’s voice came from behind me. “I’ll take care of it, Detective Stranger.”

Officer Friendly and I walked down the ramp to my Jag with my eyeballs knocking and stomach heaving.

Don’t barf. Don’t barf.

I stayed on Officer Friendly’s left so his right hand was free to grab for his gun. I was glad he volunteered. Not only did he have an air of competence and reliability but also he was a cutie with sandy hair, big muscles, and bright green eyes. About twenty-seven, he was way too young for me—not to mention I had my true love, the world famous archeologist and sometimes most annoying man on the planet, Roger Jolley—but adorable enough to be a distraction as we checked out Goldie II, my Jag.

The car stood alone, unmolested. The backseat was empty. I popped the trunk and the hood. No stowaways and no apparent vandalism. He inspected under the dash and under the chassis. No bombs and no bad guys.

The motor fired up immediately, assuring me I could make it home. Officer Friendly nodded, waved, and stepped away. Goldie’s soft leather interior embraced me. I felt my body dissolve. My body? My obstetrician appointment!

I jumped out of Goldie and ran to catch up with him. I batted my eyelashes like a drag queen on a hot date. “Pretty please, could you walk me to my doctor’s office?”

“Sure.” He smiled. Nice teeth.

He spoke into this shoulder radio and we were off to the medical center. Walking out of the garage we were almost run over by a medical examiner’s van closely followed by a tow truck. What was the rush? I was pretty sure the guy with the knife in him wasn’t going to run off, nor was Tippy’s Mercedes.

In the few minutes it took to hoof it to the building that held my future, I learned Officer Friendly was unattached and straight. Hmmm, whom could I fix him up with?

The lobby was quiet except for a few clattering heels and squeaky rubber nurses shoes as straggling workers headed into the weekend. The elevator was waiting for us and zipped us nonstop to the ninth floor.

Outside Doctor McKenna’s office, we crossed paths with his receptionist making her get-away. “Door’s open and Doctor’s waiting for you.” She eyeballed the young cop then grinned and gave me a sly thumbs-up. I wanted to say, “He’s not the father,” but bit my tongue.

I shook Officer Friendly’s hand. “Thanks so much. I’ll be okay from here.”

“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” His green eyes were so concerned I thought about adopting him. My maternal instincts were in overdrive. Another pregnancy symptom.

Part of me wanted him to wait but I was tired of acting like some kind of scaredy-cat wimpy broad. I smiled. “I’ll be fine. If the robber had a partner, he’ll be long gone by the time I get out of here.”

Officer Friendly went to the elevator and I pushed on Doctor McKenna’s door, feeling like I was entering a portal to a different life. He was waiting with his nurse. She looked put-upon and as tightly wound as the pile of hair on the top of her head, obviously pissed about my incursion into her weekend. The last day of the workweek turns manic workers into manic I’m-off-for-two-days lemmings ready to follow the leader into mandated leisure fun.

Doctor McKenna stepped out of the exam room. Nurse McNasty handed me a paper jacket and a piece of paper equivalent to an oversized Kleenex and told me to strip as if I didn’t already know the drill. I’d been a female for a number of years.

Naked, except for the little paper jacket designed to fit short Martians with fat arms and no torsos, I mounted the table and put my feet in the stirrups. I tossed the piece of paper between my legs. I hoped whoever designed these examination tables was burning in hell with his legs gaped open. Absolutely nothing was private from your toes to your molars. I imagined an auctioneer’s voice calling out my features and drawbacks as I lay on exhibition. “What will you bid for this fine low-mileage specimen? Do I hear…”

Doctor McKenna entered the room, sat on a low stool, put his head between my legs, and mumbled. He was in the driver’s seat with his hands in the ten and two positions on my stirrup-legs. Wacky from crime-scene adrenalin and hormones, my
Looney Tunes
imagination kicked in and a visual of the doctor driving the exam table up I-95 at ninety miles an hour with me on it popped into my head. I covered my mouth with my fingers to smother a nervous giggle.

The smell of antiseptic on my hand threw me into a tsunami of nausea. I needed to sit up fast, but with McKenna in my crotch I was screwed, so to speak. I turned to my right and caught sight of the nurse leaning near the door with a lemon-sucking expression on her face. I briefly wondered if I could reach her if I hurled then swallowed it.

He patted my kneecap in a fatherly way as he stood up “You can get dressed. I’ll see you in my office.”

Released from the stirrups I was flooded by anticipation, due dates, baby’s names, and designer maternity clothes. I threw on my undies, black slacks and tunic and wobbled into the doctor’s private office.

Doctor McKenna sat behind his huge walnut desk, his hands in a prayerful position. A glow from the overhead light bounced off his scalp through his comb-over. He took off his wireframe glasses and leaned forward.

“Wendy, you’re not pregnant.”

Of course I was pregnant. What did he know? “I want a second opinion.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Don’t waste your time. You are
positively
not pregnant.”

“What about the vertigo?” I asked.

Doctor McKenna looked at me like I’d failed sex education. “Vertigo is not a symptom of pregnancy. Not by itself.”

“But I peed on the stick and it came up
yes
… I think.” Had the excitement blurred my vision?

“Regardless, no baby is in there.” He stood, walked around his desk and helped me to my feet. I left his office and stomped past Nurse McNasty who sat at the receptionist’s desk glaring at me. How humiliating to not be pregnant after five on Friday.

Holding back tears I made my way to the elevator. Roger and I had just finished our third archaeological case in less than a year and I was shopping for an obstetrician, my emotions a mix of joy and
oh shit.

I recalled the look on Roger’s face when I told him I was preggers based on my symptoms of dizziness, nausea, food cravings, and the results of my home pregnancy test. I was shaken, not stirred. But Roger was so happy. The buttons on his safari jacket popped. My focus switched from tomb to womb that afternoon.

Now, there was no little Roger on the way. All my symptoms were due to extreme dehydration from our Cairo caper. I was in a fog of loss
and
relief as I strode across the street and into the parking garage.

Six forty-five and the garage was empty. “Hello! Miami PD?”

No response. Even the echo had gone home. How could the crime scene investigators and medical examiner’s people have finished so quickly? Were they afflicted with the leave-work-as-early-as-possible-on-Friday syndrome also? I regretted not accepting Officer Friendly’s offer to wait for me.

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in nine-one-one but didn’t hit send. What did I have to report? Woman delusional about pregnancy now hallucinating about monsters in shadowy garage.

If Goldie was where I left her she would be on the next level. Faster to walk the ramp than go to the stairwell in the corner. The staccato sound of my heels on the concrete again reminded me of gunfire. A gust of wind lifted empty potato chip bags, hamburger wrappers, and crumpled napkins. Litterers should burn in hell next to the bastard that designed the gyno examination table. I was not in a good mood.

I reached the next level and spotted Goldie. She hadn’t moved an inch. What a relief to see her, my home on wheels. I bleeped the fob and she returned my greeting. I settled inside no longer able to hold back my tears.

Not that the dead body wasn’t a biggie but my mind was on Roger. It wasn’t as if we discussed getting pregnant. I wasn’t sure I was able to conceive. He was so thrilled by the news. He had no family. His baby brother was kidnapped when Roger was nine. His mom and dad were gone. The baby would have been his family.

I sucked in a deep breath to help me gather my emotions. I saw the miniature Roger in tiny brown wingtips toddle off in a wishful cloud. At forty-two my biological clock was slip-sliding to a halt. If not preggers why did I crave Häagen-Dazs mango ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? There were five containers in the freezer at home calling to me.

My cell phone rang as I put the car in reverse. Without checking caller ID, I blurted, “Roger?”

“Who the hell is Roger?” The voice sounded like a geriatric obscene caller.

“Wendy, I need you!” The Uncle Sam poster flashed into my mind again. The second time I was needed today. Maybe this time it wouldn’t involve a corpse.

It was my old mentor, Alfred Hiccup. And I mean old. Hic rasped on, “I have two weeks left to exist in this husk, no longer a body, just a husk. I’ve made my final arrangements. You’re the only person on this side I can trust, beside MacGuffin.”

At ninety-six, Hic’s mind went on frequent flights of fancy. He was positive that after his demise he would return to life via reincarnation, transmigration, or a Greyhound Bus. He refused to sell any of his collection of once luxury, now decrepit, hotels. Purchased for ten cents on the dollar in the nineteen-fifties, Hic’s forty-plus hotels scattered from Maine to Florida were good for only one thing… Halloween Horror Nights.