Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond

Chapter 11

Isat on a rickety, plywood throne painted purple and gold, and decorated with enough carnations to stuff ten thousand Mother’s Day bouquets. A wooden splinter poked my behind, threatening to pierce my peacock blue gown and the thermal underwear I wore because Mr. Philips wouldn’t allow me to wear a winter coat on top of the I Heart Fredonia float.

We were behind the scenes crammed up against the eight floats in front of us, forty-one floats behind us, the marching band I’d heard earlier, a few peddlers with frankincense and myrrh retail carts featuring fine soaps and lotions, several jugglers, a guy on stilts, and four sets of three Kings wearing long, flowing robes. One Wisemen trio even harmonized the famed Epiphany hymn As With Gladness Men of Old.

“I don’t understand why the ladies can wear winter coats but I can’t.” I shivered, and pulled the matching blue Pashmina tighter around my shoulders.

“Because today of all days Lucille, you must look like an attractive princess, not a dowager queen.” He pinned my shawl with a rhinestone brooch. “You need to be the epitome of style and grace. Let Michael Perris of Knottingwood lust after all that you represent: access to the throne, ceremony, and royalty, that which is earned—not stolen—through cheap tricks, or by consorting with like-minded criminals in powerful positions.

“Who are we to talk? Technically, we stole a piano.”

“We borrowed a piano, Lucy. We had the instrument tuned, polished, and sent an anonymous check to the Messina Piano Players Society Scholarship Fund.” He affixed the tiara to my head.

I patted the crown. “How much is this thing worth?”

“A quarter of a million euros.”

“Oh my God!

“Stop fussing.” He batted my hand away, poking a few clips and bobby pins into my hairdo. I winced.

Joan, who was standing next to me typing numbers into an expense report on her iPad, asked, “Is it prudent for Lucy to wear such an expensive piece of jewelry into a crowded street festival?”

I envied her red woolen coat and the pretty red, silk dress that fanned out at the bottom. She was even wearing boots that looked suspiciously like dressy, comfortable Uggs, while I was stuck in high-heeled pumps. Everyone who’s known me for longer than five minutes knows I hate heels.

“No,” he said. “A petty hooligan could jump on the float, rip the jewelry from her head, and abscond with it in seconds. I exaggerated. It’s worth two euros.”

“Five euros. It’s one of my decoy tiaras,” Esmeralda said. “I bought it online at Royally Trashed dot com. It’s a bargain basement for cheap, imitation, glittery trinkets. Even a petty thief would have to be three quarters blind to believe their bling was real. But it comes in handy on occasions such as this.”

“It’s not going to make my skin turn green, is it?”

“St. Patrick’s Day is only a few months away,” Joan said.

“Stop!”

“She’s just multi-tasking,” Zola said.

“The Three Kings Festa and Processional will circle the Basilica Catedral and make its way throughout town. The parade will probably take a few hours,” Esmeralda said. “Has everyone visited the loo? I was informed by parade officials that Porta Potties are stationed on streets adjacent to the parade route. But it’s not going to be easy to get you on the ground, let alone push your way through the crowds should someone need to go pee.”

“Yes,” Joan, Zola and Captain Sam said.

“Dutifully noted,” Mr. Philips chimed in.

“Da,” Raul added, staring down at his phone.

“That’s ‘yes’ in Russian,” Esmeralda explained. “Best not to run the Russian and English apps at the same time, although that scenario seems to be happening frequently these days.”

“Yes.” I stumbled back onto the throne as the float lurched forward. “What are we supposed to be doing exactly during this event?”

“You, Lucy, sit tall and regal, and wave to the crowds,” Esmeralda said. “Captain Sam will keep a watchful eye for Knottingwood from the back of the float.” She pointed to gold spray-painted boxes with glued on rhinestones filled with wrapped goodies. “Zola, Joan, and I will throw these Friedricksburg chocolates and individually wrapped cheese samples into the adoring crowds from these royal coffers.”

“I hope that didn’t put us back a pretty pence,” Joan said.

Esmeralda shook her head. “They were BOGO. Besides, they matched the cheap tiara. I know they’re tacky, but I couldn’t resist.”

“Keep that candy near by,” I said, staring out at the sizeable crowd waiting ahead of us at the start of the parade route. “The troops appear restless. What happens if we spot the asshat?”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Esmeralda said, and beckoned to Captain Sam. “It’s time.”

He walked toward us, opened a small attaché revealing silk bags, and passed them to us.

I opened mine and pulled out the contents. “What’s this?” I looked at the plastic covered Q-Tip kit.

“DNA cheek swab,” Esmeralda said. “If anyone gets close to Michael Charles Perris, use the swab, preferably on the inside of his mouth, then stick it back in its protective case. Turn the lock valve on top to preserve the sample’s integrity and the chain of custody. Each of you has a DNA cheek swab kit.”

“How am I going to get inside his mouth?” Joan asked. “It’s not like I’m his dental hygienist.”

“Ask him if he’s up to date on his taxes,” Zola said.

“Perfect!” Joan said. “When his jaw drops open I’ll jab the swab inside.”

“And then run,” Mr. Philips said. “I’ve grown quite fond of you over the years, Joan. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to you.”

“That’s so nice of you, Mr. Philips. Ditto.”

“What’s this?” I held up a silver pen.

“A Mont Flanc.” Captain took it from me, lifted Esmeralda’s hand, and drew a heart on it before she could pull away. She tsk-tsk-ed him.

“It’s a lovely shade of blue,” Mr. Philips said. “Use it for autographs.”

“It also does double duty as a piercing high beam light,” Captain Sam said. “Hold down the clicker at the end of the pen to activate the light.”

I did. The light shone into Mr. Philips’ face. He stumbled and caught himself on an arm of the throne. “Sorry!”

“We’re not authorized to kill anyone on this mission,” Esmeralda said. “But when shone directly into a person’s eyes this, pinpoint beam can stun them, create a temporary migraine-like headache, and even blur their vision.”

“What’s this?” I pulled out a mini silver flask engraved with the letters “L.S.A.” “Just a little something I did on my own pence,” Joan said. “I wanted the inaugural Ladies In Spying mission to be christened with our signature good luck charm. Everyone—uncork your flasks.”

Mr. Philips sniffed the bottle and smiled. “I know what this is.”

Esmeralda unscrewed the top. “Oh, Joanie, you shouldn’t have.”

I brought the silver container to my face and inhaled. The unmistakable scent of Prince Harry’s Reserve traveled up my nose and infused my brain. “It’s lovely, Joan.”

“Raise flasks,” Joan said and we followed her lead. “Esmeralda, you are CO of L.S.A. Do the honors, please.”

“Here’s to the true royals, the ladies who love them, and the honest men who champion them. Now go forth and take no prisoners, bitches!”

We clicked flasks, and slugged back our shots.

When gunshots rang out and I ducked.

“Saluti!” Esmeralda said. “Let the festival of the Three Kings begin!”