The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7) (19 page)

“What did the lawyers say?” Charlene wanted to know. Her perfect features were marred by a worried frown, her long blond hair tied back into a ponytail. This arrest reflected badly on her as well, and on her father Chazz Falcone.

Grover shot up his hands. “Diddly! The same gibberish Baldemar’s been feeding us for the last hour. Something about him using company funds to secretly launch a campaign to destabilize the country. They seem to think Baldemar is some kind of terrorist!”

For the first time, Charlene and Grover laughed, albeit weakly. The thought that Bomer was a terrorist seemed to amuse them. It irked Bomer to some extent. He was pretty sure that if someone told him how it was done, he could definitely be a terrorist. And if that someone pointed him in the right direction, he could even carry out some sort of attack. Not that he wanted to. What was the point of blowing stuff up? Didn’t they have to be rebuilt? Such a waste of time and money. Terrorists really had no clue how things worked in the real world. Contrary to Bomer Calypso, who knew perfectly well. And since what he needed right now was a drink, he rose.

“Where are you going?” his father asked.

“I need a drink,” he explained. “Maybe even two.”

He proceeded toward the side table and poured himself a stiff one, then offered to extend the courtesy to his present company. Charlene refused, but Grover and the future Mrs. Grover accepted, so he mixed them both a Scotch on the rocks. He was glad to discover this was one other thing he was good at. He might not be a terrorist—or a helper of vicars named Bill—but he could mix a mean drink. He handed one to his father and walked over to the new woman in Dad’s life, who sat studying a calligraphy book on the settee. He placed the drink in her hand, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

He liked her, this future new stepmother of his. She was a beautiful woman of about the same age as his father and had a certain sweetness that most women he knew conspicuously lacked. From the first moment his father had introduced Regina Havilland, he’d taken a liking to her, and her smile only served to increase these warm feelings. His father and Charlene had done nothing but make disparaging remarks, much the same way the FBI had done, and this woman was the only one who seemed genuinely concerned about his plight.

But then his father cried out, “I’m asking you a question!”

He looked up. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Are you sure you’ve never met this Vickar?”

He groaned. It was the same question the feds had kept harping on about. He decided to tell his father the same thing he’d told them. “Absolutely. The last time I met a clergyman was when Ricky interviewed Bishop Tutu and asked me to tag along to carry his camera. Funny fellow, that Tutu. He—”

“Not vicar. Vickar!” his father cried irately.

“I don’t think so. Ricky kept calling him
Bishop
Tutu. I would have noticed if he called him
Vicar
Tutu. Funny fellow, this Tutu. He—”

But the story about how funny Bishop Tutu was fell on deaf ears. For Bomer’s father made a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. He looked as if he was about to implode. Then he cried, “Vickar! Vickar! Vickar! Vickar!”

“If you say so,” Bomer said dubiously, wondering why people called
him
dumb.

“Senator Job Vickar has apparently received substantial sums of money that have been traced back to your company account,” Charlene explained, taking over from Grover, who stood gasping for breath after his recent outburst. She tried to look patient, but it didn’t become her. Charlene was not a naturally patient woman. “So let’s go over this again. Have you or haven’t you been in touch with this Vickar?”

Bomer swigged back his drink. This was worse than his tête-à-tête with the feds that morning. “Not only don’t I know this vicar but I sure as heck didn’t send him any money.” He spread his arms. “Why would I donate money to a church I’m not even a member of? That doesn’t make any sense!”

It was exactly what he’d told those FBI guys, and like them, both his father and Charlene produced groans of exasperation. The only one not groaning was his future stepmother, who produced a light laugh instead. He turned to her, as did Grover and Charlene, and her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Sorry,” she said in that melodious voice of hers. “I just think it’s funny that Bomer seems to think he’s funding a church, while y’all think he’s funding a politician. There seems to be some kind of communication breakdown here.”

“There’s a breakdown alright” grumbled Grover, clutching his brow. “
I’m
breaking down if this whole thing doesn’t get cleared up. Our lawyers are telling me the entire company will be dragged through the mud if we can’t give an explanation to the press. Problem is, the FBI have told us not to reveal anything Bomer discussed with them.” He wheeled on Bomer. “So don’t you go blabbing, you hear? It will only add to our trouble if you do!”

This part Bomer had understood very well. The feds had repeated it more than once. “Oh, no,” he said therefore. “Of course not. My lips are sealed.”

“You haven’t talked about this to a single person?” Grover asked.

“Not a single one,” he replied indignantly.

“That’s good,” said his father. “At least you did something right.”

“In fact when I talked to Ricky and told him what happened I also told him not to tell anyone.” He smiled widely. “And you know reporters. They’re not at liberty to reveal anything their sources tell them. He did mention his Pulitzer, though I fail to see what a pipe organ has got to do with anything.”

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