Bird of the Gods

Chapter Sixteen

"Finally, it has happened to me, right in front of my face, and I just cannot hide it," lip-synched Hushush Sweet Harlot, flouncing down the chartered minibus' aisle, shaking her butt and waving her lace-gowned arms with abandon. Royal San Francisco's Rainbow Tours special California Christmas package was cruising down Highway 1, on its way to Hearst Castle, which was all decked out in Christmas finery like a gorgeous, multimillion dollar Gothic fantasy fever dream.

Two buses, appropriately named Priscilla and Drusilla - each topped with a giant, green glitter-encrusted elf slipper with a working jingle bell - carried a full entourage of LGBTQIA+ passengers, including two bears with their four children, a choir of drag queens called The Holiday Ho-ho-hoes, a team of Literary Lesbian Librarians and a motorized wheelchair bowling group, Squeals on Wheels, led by a Dowager Empress with her musclebound attendant. It also included Conrad's friend Rory and his husband Hank, who'd managed to wrangle Fiona and Conrad a spot in this happy group. Unfortunately for Conrad, he was subbing for a member of the Ho-Ho-hoes who'd fallen ill with Covid.

It was all Fiona could do to not burst out laughing. If you looked closely, you could see strands of red hair peeking out from under Harlot's blond wig. She had her own tresses tightly packed under a skull cap that had been painted to look as if she had a military crew. She checked her purse again and saw the golden key they'd found on San Juan Island. It made her question – not for the first time – Jackson's sanity. Yes, classic treasure hunts could be traced as far back as 1873, with Heinrich Schliemann's discovery of Troy. But this back-and-forth globetrotting is for the birds...or, she wryly thought, one bird in particular.

Fiona heard the music change as a sweaty Harlot plopped into the seat next to her. Someone must have handed him a red bandanna, because he mopped his brow after removing his blond teased-to-death wig. She'd known Conrad was a flirt, but his dance moves suggested he'd studied somewhere.

The man in question caught her appraising gaze, eyebrows slightly raised. He gulped in some cool Pacific air, blowing in from the open bus windows. "What? Was I that bad?" he asked.

"Honestly?" Fiona replied, "I didn't know you had it in you! Where did you learn those moves?"

"When my sister Siobhan was little, she really wanted to take ballet classes. But she was scared to dance in front of strangers, so my mother paid for both of us to attend. I was her moral support." (I can't believe I'm telling her this, Conrad thought.) "It took a year and a half for her to get rid of her fear. I learned a few moves. I dance a mean Texas two-step."

A mechanical whirring came from behind them, along with a bike horn that played "Reveille." Empress Eggnog placed a blue veined be-ringed hand on Conrad's arm, saying in a whiskey and cigarettes voice: "You were passable, sweetheart. Your shapely bottom bouncing saved the song. But the art of lip-synching demands one thing, and one thing only." She pushed her granny glasses down the bridge of her long Roman nose. She batted her false eyelashes. She sighed, and brought her face closer.

"What? What is it?" groaned Conrad with a dramatic flourish.

"LOIN DA WOIDS, YA IDJUT!" she growled, and smiled sweetly at Fiona. "See you later, dearie." The mechanized throne-cum-wheelchair whirred backwards. Conrad glanced at Fiona. Her hand was covering her mouth in an obviously desperate attempt to hold back laughter. He was about to comment when Fiona pointed past his left shoulder.

Standing in the aisle was the Empress' attendant, wearing a Santa Hat that was pinned to his Grecian black curls and wearing a T-Shirt that formerly said 'Saint Nick is Coming!" That is, until someone had altered the 'N' to look like a 'D.' The Sainted one followed Fiona's gaze and shrugged his shoulders, saying "She likes to play her tricks."