Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 9
Raul schlepped my bag up four flights of increasingly narrow stairs, until we reached a tiny alcove at the top. Now he hunched forward, one hand clasped over his chest, his narrow ribs expanding and contracting on top of his round belly. He clamped his other hand onto his lower back.
I too paused for breath on the rickety staircase. “Screw the Diavolo card. I can’t believe my pick stuck me in the stupid attic. I wonder if Esmeralda is just making that shit up and she planned on putting me here the entire time. Are you okay?”
“Strong like bull, lady.”
“Maybe the bull needs to be put out to pasture. Frolic with cows. Relax. Not carry suitcases up steep flights of stairs anymore.”
“I am bigly sorry for Il Diavolo.” He rallied, sticking a skeleton key into the lock of a small door. He carried my bag inside, deposited it under a window, and bowed.
“Me too.” I pulled some Euros from my purse and offered them, but he shook his head and left the room.
I hoisted my bag onto a low, antique chest in the corner of the room, and pulled back the thick, white lace curtains hanging from the single window The sun was setting over Messina’s Old Town. I peered down the Basilica de Catedral in the near distance. It suffered damage in the 1908 earthquake and was bombed during World War II, but had rebuilt, and still tended to the needs of parishioners as well as tourists.
I imagined Nicholas standing on the cobblestone streets below, gazing up at my window, like Romeo calling up to Juliet. But then I remembered that story ended with a double suicide. I glanced over at the small single bed tucked under the eaves and decided it might be a more prudent course of action to take a nap. I threw myself onto it, wriggled under the covers, and sighed. The mattress was on the soft side but felt yummy, and I imagined the doughy arms of Esmeralda’s beloved auntie enveloping me in a warm hug. Zia Valentina might have left the building, but I suspected her spirit still lingered in the castle and its views, as well as its beds.
My thoughts turned to Nicholas and exhausted, my heavy eyes shut of their own accord, and my mind floated. Was my sexy, handsome prince still under palace arrest? Did he miss me yet? I did the math, adding the hours in my head that we’d been apart. It hadn’t even been a full day since I ran my hands through his thick, black hair, and traced his arm muscles with my fingers. Images of our time in the tub played in my mind. Warmth enveloped me, my cheeks felt hot, the steam misting above us, and I could practically feel Nicholas inside of me, his firm hand gripping my arm, his stern, stubby fingers pinching my cheek really, really hard…
Wait a minute.
He did not have stubby fingers. And, he didn’t usually pinch my cheeks. Okay. Fine. Not those cheeks.
An insistent voice penetrated my sleepy fog. “Rise and shine, Lucy!”
I popped one eye open and saw Esmeralda glaring down at me. “Five more minutes, please.” This totally explained the stubby fingers. I frowned, squeezed both eyes firmly shut, and refused to open them.
“You’ve been asleep for forty-five minutes. I say yes, you’ll simply demand another forty-five. You’re turning into a Tardy Tiara. Raul! Ayutami, por favor.”
“A big fat no on Raul. I’m up.” I groaned, feeling like death on toast, and crawled out of the bed.
“You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thank you. Give me my beauty rest and I’ll attempt to meet your standards.”
“Honestly, I don’t care what you look like. Just have your wits about you at the meeting. Get dressed. Wear something black. And this.” She tossed a hat onto my bed.
I picked it up and regarded it perplexed. “It’s a fedora. Who wears fedoras anymore?”
“It’s Fedora Night at The Casablanca Ristorante and Discoteca. Everyone wears fedoras or they’re kicked out of the club.”
“It sounds confusing. How will we recognize each other?”
“Your chapeau has a blue peacock feather. You’ll stand out. Shower. Get dressed. Wear the hat.”
* * *
We entered Casablanca at 9 p.m. sharp. The maître d’ led us through a dimly lit room. There were candles on the tables, candles glowing on wrought iron floor height candelabras, candles hanging on chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling. I hadn’t seen a fire hazard this big since I snuck cigarettes with three high school freshmen next to the stash of fireworks at a 4th of July party at the Indiana dunes.
Red leather booths lined the walls and black shiny four-top tables spread across the dark mahogany floors. The place was just starting to fill up and, as Esmeralda had stated, everyone—patrons, bartenders, waiters, and even busboys—was wearing fedoras.
“You weren’t kidding. They’re serious about the fedora thing.”
“It’s dress code on Fedora Night,” Esmeralda said.
We followed the host who led us to a semi-private room off the kitchen at the rear of the joint. We took our seats at a round wooden table as waiters dropped off carafes of wine and plates of colorful appetizers, the scents of garlic, butter, and even bacon wafting into the air.
“I’m starving,” Joan said, helping herself to a dish of tiny potatoes drizzled in orange sauce, then passing the platter.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Papas arrugatos,” Esmeralda said. “Potatoes seasoned with cumin, paprika, and bits of bacon. Those croquettes are filled with pork and vegetables.”
“Super yum,” Joan said, chewing a morsel. “Pass the prawns, please.”
Captain Sam, accompanied by a handsome man in his thirties with auburn hair, joined our party, taking seats across from Esmeralda. I wasn’t on the market, but the new guy filled out his casual shirt and pants nicely. He wore a black fedora with a black band etched with a pencil thin red stripe. “He looks awfully familiar,” I whispered to Joan, who had reached for her margarita. Her hand now frozen in mid-air as she stared at the guy. “Are you okay?”
“That’s Prince Alexander of Greece,” she whispered.
“He’s cute. Are you okay?” I patted her hand. “Maybe you need to drink something? When in doubt, hydrate.”
She drew the beverage to her trembling lips, sipped, and whispered, “I had a crush on him forever, until I realized he didn’t bat for my team. I’m still star struck.”
“So glad you could make it, Captain Sam. And you as well, Your Highness.” Esmeralda bowed her head. “You grace us with your presence.”
“Call me Alex. I ordered a round for the table. Hope you don’t mind.”
A waiter lined up shot glasses on the table in front of us, dropped coffee beans into them, then poured from a bottle of Sambuca.
“I was already in town for the Three Kings Festa. I’ll be throwing candy from the top of the Greece Has it All float tomorrow. I ran into Sam at a local watering hole. He mentioned you could use the back up.” Alex nodded at the waiter who lit a long match, then touched it to the top of each glass. The drinks erupted in flames. “Here’s to putting out the fire of liars, cheats, and greedy scoundrels.”
“Saluti!” I said.
Prince Alex pinched out the flame on his glass and raised it. “Hair on your chest!” He threw his head back, downed his shot, and we followed his lead.
“Not if I can help it,” Esmeralda said.
“Hearty!” Zola said, wincing.
I hacked and fanned my face. “A bean went down the wrong pipe.”
“I’ve never met my contact but I assumed he’d introduce himself. He’s not here and we can’t wait forever. We’ll start without him.” Esmeralda opened her valise and passed a stack of white linen envelopes to Joan. “Everyone gets an envelope. Inside you’ll find photographs of the players involved, pertinent information, maps, timetables, and your all-access pass to tomorrow’s Three Kings Festa.”
“I see Knottingwood’s slimy, bland face,” Joan said, staring at his photo. “I’d like to fine him for every falsehood he’s told, report him to the lie police, or even better, the fibbers’ franchise tax board.”
“He has a lazy eye, I think he wears a hair piece, and uses a curling iron to style it. But his picture rings no bells,” Prince Alex said. “Strange, because I’ve been on the royal circuit for almost thirty years, and at the end of the day it’s a pretty small group.”
“Interesting,” Captain Sam said.
Zola pulled out a pocket magnifying glass and held it up to his photo. “Has anyone identified the medallion dangling from his neck?”
“What are you talking about?” Esmeralda asked.
Zola passed the magnifying glass to Esmeralda and tapped the picture. “There. It’s small, poking out from his shirt. I’d lay odds that the pendant has historical significance. It’s probably a tag indicating he belongs to a secret group or is affiliated with a club.”
Esmeralda leaned in and squinted.
“A club of thieves,” Joan said.
“An order of anarchists,” Esmeralda said. “His skinny, white chest is as bald as a billiard ball. I wonder what product he uses.”
“A society of asshats,” I said. “Can I get another one of those shots? The coffee beans totally perked me up.”
“Let’s make that a round for the table.” Esmeralda signaled the waiter, who sprinted over and poured more shots. “I picked you for the inaugural L.S.A. mission for specific reasons. Joan’s job is to keep track of every pence and grease appropriate palms. Zola will use her knowledge of history to hone in on and hunt down clues. Captain Sam’s in charge of coordinating bodyguards, transportation, top-level security clearance with national as well as international agencies, and will be our liaison to the outside world.
“What do you do?” Joan asked.
“That should be perfectly obvious.”
“Other than procuring the swank accommodations at the castle,” Zola said, “It’s not.”
“I pull strings behind the scenes. More importantly, I will be fabulous, and let everyone think that once again, the ‘Ladies’ are simply on va-cay, jaunting off to exotic locations, or even refurbishing my dear, departed Zia’s crumbling castle. And we will do all of this in a short amount of time. This is a limited mission to find Michael Charles Perris of Knottingwood, swab the inside of his sweaty cheek, get a confession out of him, and end this threat to the royal Fredonia throne once and for all.”
“Here, here!” Captain Sam said, as we tossed back our shots.
I raised my hand. “One quick question. Why did you drag me out of the bathtub and make me come with you? What’s the speciality that I bring to this party? The magical pixie dust that I sprinkle onto the mix that no one else here can add?”
“You’re the bait for Knottingwood,” Esmeralda said.
“Why?”
“Because he covets the throne.”
“I don’t occupy the royal seat.”
“I beg to differ. I dragged you off one under house arrest at the palace. Who better to divert Michael Charles Perris’s attention than the woman that both Princes of Fredonia are in love with?”