“You can’t just whip up another batch?”
“The formula went down with The Sea Monoceros in the Arctic years ago. That’s why I need you. Dad made a deal with Lady Chin-Chin who owns Cathay Salvage to raise it. With what we collected today I’ve got the five million up-front money she demanded. She’s on site waiting for it right now, barges, diving bell, and all.”
As Bullock wondered whether Lady Chin-Chin got her name because she was convivial or because she was overweight, something occurred to him. Gesturing around with his chin he asked, “If The Sea Monoceros sank, what’s this?”
“A plywood mock-up,” laughed Billy. “Dad built it here inside his RV to intimidate his friends in high places when he got them here for a little pituitary work. That dive back there was part of the drill. It’s where the road goes under the railway tracks.” As if on cue, The Sea Monoceros made a sharp turn and came to a stop. “We’re home,” he said. “Quick, pretend you’re asleep. And moan a bit. The crew could turn mean if they learn the formula’s run out. Dad promised them twenty-five years’ worth for serving him for ten. That ten years runs out at midnight.”
“Now take the fog-making machine back to the rental place,” ordered Billy as the sailors set Bullock and the gurney down on the cellar floor. “We’ll meet back here tonight for your payoff.” The crew pounded back up the steps to the outside.
“We’d better get these straps off me,” ordered Bullock.
Billy pulled the string on an overhead bulb, sending a ball of light bouncing around the cellar. “First the grand tour,” he said, reaching down to release a lock so he could turn the top of the gurney any way he wished. “Here’s where Dad tried to reconstruct the formula.” He pointed Bullock toward the workbench with its flasks, coils, and test tubes. “The peacock broth was easy. It was the seventeen rare herbs and spices he never got right again.”
Billy turned the gurney again. “And over there in the corner’s the old coal bin. Listen. Hear that noise? We’ve got rats. But more about them later. Notice the thick stone walls. You could scream your lungs out and never be heard.” The effect of Billy’s evil laughter was weakened somewhat when his voice broke and trailed off reedily. “Hey,” he shouted, spinning the gurney hard, “great idea for a Canadian game show. Spin the Mountie.”
Bullock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Was that it? Did Billy mean to transport him like this to some tundra outpost and use him as a rallying point for Northern malcontents, Anglophone and Francophone extremists, members of the dreaded Front Populate Sociopathique, hopheads from United Empire Loyalist assassin squads? Was he to be some hellish Wheel of Fortune with a beautiful Indian maiden in lavish wampum posting letters of the alphabet up on a board until they spelled out slogans like “Don’t Trust Anyone Below the Tree Line” guaranteed to send the crowd off on some holy war, a jihad against civilized Canada?
When the gurney stopped spinning, Bullock opened his eyes again. Billy was up on a chair, taking bundles of bank notes from a hiding place among the rafters and stuffing them into a duffel bag.
“I’ll give it to you straight,” he said. “Lady Chin-Chin’s people scare the hell out of me. Dad had them over to the house once with me watching through the banister up to the second floor. Talk about your tough customers. We had your refugees from the slums of Glasgow, your China Sea mutineers, even a father-son team of renegade Inuits exiled from their people for cannibal leanings. That crew did a real job on the beer and pizza, let me tell you.
“Hey, sure, I’ve got Dad’s evil laugh down pretty good. But sometimes, like you just heard, my voice goes squeaky on me. Try facing down a slew of China Sea mutineers with a laugh like that. But a Mountie could ramrod the whole outfit real easy. We’ll do thirdsies on the profits from the formula, you, me, and Lady Chin-Chin. My Dad’s thing was a big power trip. When he said jump, he wanted the whole world to jump. Me? Hey, I’m just a kid. All I want is whatever I want, whenever I want it. A thirdsy’s plenty for me.” Billy jumped down from the chair. “Is it a deal?”
“What if I say no?” asked Bullock.
“Then you get left down here with a brick of sharp cheddar up your tunic and rats for playmates. Like I said, scream all you want. As for Billy Athanatos, he’ll just take this five million and walk. Maybe he’ll take a world cruise on The Love Boat.”
For just a moment Bullock imagined himself a renegade Mountie whipping the salvage crew into shape with his bare fists, master of the ice-caked deck of the salvage barge, the brim of his Stetson warped every which way and his tunic in tatters, his chest bare to the arctic air as he traded curse for curse, blow for blow, with a dozen China Sea pirates, while the young Inuit cannibal chewed on his left biceps, the oldster tried to gum his ear off, and Lady Chin-Chin — the convivial one — toasted him with champagne through her stateroom porthole.
Afterwards, to make amends, he’d use his thirdsy to reward do-gooders. “Dear Mr. Jones, I read in the Banff Bugle of your recent rescue of a child from a burning building. Enclosed find some Blue Bread of Happiness. Enjoy. Keep up the good work. There’s plenty more where that came from. Yours truly, a Secret Benefactor.”
“Well, what’s it going to be?” demanded Billy. “Dad keeps a seaplane in a secret hangar across the river in Hull. Say the word and we’re on our way.”
Suddenly, out of the coal-bin darkness, an old woman’s voice said, “Hands up and back against the wall, Billy. Or I’ll blow a hole in you big enough for Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians to march through, flags flying.”
Billy raised his hands and peered into the darkness. “It’s Miss Bright, our old housekeeper,” he whispered. Bullock lifted his astonished head, for he had recognized her voice, too.
But it was Stella who stepped out of the coal bin with a silver revolver in her fist. Smiling at their confusion, she said, “Sybil Bright was all smoke and mirrors. And makeup, tinted contact lenses, and a major in dramatic arts. But she got me the housekeeper’s job and a chance to hunt for the money. Though I never found anything except the fact that Billy here was living in the attic. Until now, that is. Thanks to you, Bullock.”
“But the ashes,” protested Bullock.
“My gluttonous great-grandmother who, the story goes, died of overeating something called Prunes Jubilee. Her urn sat on the mantel there for years.”
Blast, thought Bullock, imagining how a woman’s hundred-and-fifty-year-old ashes had been garbled into the ashes of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old woman as the message trudged from Forensics to headquarters to his locker door.
“I figured spontaneous combustion might hold your interest in case the Blue Bread of Happiness scam didn’t,” said Stella with a smile.
“Hey, the stuff’s no scam,” shouted Billy. “And spontaneous combustion’s no joke. It killed Dad.”
“Dream on, kid,” said Stella. “One night I sneaked back here to make another try for the money and found your dad behind the drapes. He came out in his stocking feet, smoking like a chimney. When I threatened to kill him unless he gave me the money, he coughed and reached out, you know, like he was trying to take the gun out of my hand. I hate it when men do that. Okay, maybe he was only going for an ashtray. Anyway, I buried him in the yard. Afterwards I decided Billy here would spook easy and go for the stash if I brought in a Mountie. Like the one I read about who loses ransoms in snowstorms.” She wagged the pistol. “And speaking of stash, hand it over.”