Even the Butler Was Poor (2 page)

"Ah, here it is. Turmeric." He clutched up the small bottle.

What was next?

"One dessert spoonful of ground coriander or a handful of picked green coriander leaves.

"Too late to trek out into the coriander fields to pick some tonight, old chap," he added in a clipped British Raj accent. "Better locate the bottled stuff. Righto, here she is."

The door chimes sounded suddenly and unexpectedly.

According to the bright brass clock over the handsome new stove, the time was just 8:15. A good fifteen minutes before his dinner date was due to show up. She was usually late besides, and you always heard her driving her Mercedes in.

"Even so." Shedding the apron he went sprinting out of the kitchen and up the side staircase to the bathroom in the master bedroom. He grabbed the new aftershave, Jungleman, and slapped some on his cheeks. For good measure he tried a little in each armpit.

Back down the stairs, two steps at a time.

After brushing at his hair with his palm, Ben tried a few smiles out, settling for one that mingled surprise, sedate lust, and a bit of country squire. He yanked the wide, white front door open.

"No, nope, not having any," he said when he saw who was standing out there on his welcome mat. "Shoo, go away, scram, begone." He slammed the door shut.

Pounding started. "C'mon, Ben. This is important."

Scowling, he opened the door an inch. "Mister Ben, him just leave for expedition to find the headwaters of the Orinoco, missy. Everybody in servant quarters gottum black plague, except me. I got blue plague with polka dots and moon—"

"This is serious," H.J. Mavity told him. "I have to talk to you."

"You had your chance."

"Look, just because we've been divorced for two years doesn't mean we—"

"Three years."

"Two and a half exactly. The point now is—"

"Three. See, this is just exactly how it was during our ten turbulent years of marriage, H.J. You were always arguing."

"I don't consider it arguing to state the simple fact that we've been divorced for exactly two and a half years," she said. "I didn't track you here, though, to debate the—"

"All you ever did during the bleak decade we were together was argue and sleep around."

She held up a forefinger.

"That's the wrong finger," he said.

"I mean one."

"What? You only slept with one guy at a time? Well, I suppose that's a bless—"

"I mean I was unfaithful to you exactly once, Ben. Whether you care to . . . what's that awful odor? Did your cat die?"

"My new aftershave. A very sultry sort of—"

"I admit, sure, I did sleep with Guapo Garcia while you and I were married, but that was only because you—"

"Guapo Garcia. Right, it's all coming back to me now. You always made me a cuckold with guys with silly names."

"Guapo Garcia isn't a silly name for an actor, especially for an actor who happened to be starring in television show called
Manhattan Eye
at the time."

"No more time for nostalgia, you have to depart. I'm expecting a—"

"There I was, with one pitiful little affair. You on the other hand, Ben, were out cross-pollinating most of New England. You're the only man I know who went through his midlife crisis at the age of twenty-eight. I think you started philandering while I was paying off the minister who—"

"I never philandered, not once. You simply got the demented notion that every time I had lunch with an agent or some lady from an ad agency who was interested in hiring me for voice work, I was actually in the sheets. Whereas I was really just furthering my career, struggling to earn enough to—"

"Can you afford to live in this new place, by the way?"

"I've been earning $200,000 a year since we parted three years ago. I'm just about the hottest voice man in—"

"Buying or renting?"

"Buying."

H.J. shrugged. "It's pink."

"I intend to repaint. Okay, it's been nice to see you again after all these years. Now scoot off my doorstep."

"I have a problem."

"Take it up with one of your many suitors. I am no longer—"

"If I didn't have to come here to see you, I wouldn't have," his ex-wife informed him. "The thing is, Ben, there's a show business angle to this murder, a comedy angle I think. Since you know a lot about comedy routines and old jokes."

"Murder?"

She nodded. "Could I maybe come inside? Is the house pink inside, too?"

He backed away, opening the door wider. "Mostly white," he answered. "What murder?"

She walked into a big living room off the hall. After glancing briefly around, she settled in a low, black armchair. "This room almost shows taste."

"That is another less than admirable habit of yours," he told her, stalking into the room. "You start a conversation and then drift off into—"

"Okay, I'm sorry. It isn't every night my date falls dead in the Eastport Mall."

"How was he killed?"

"I don't know. But judging from all the blood and everything— well, he maybe was knifed or just beaten to death. Tortured, too."

Ben lowered himself slowly onto his white sofa. "What did the police say?"

"How should I know? I got the heck out of there as soon as he hit the tiles."

He watched her for a few seconds. "You left the love of your life lying dead in the middle of a shopping plaza and just walked away?"

"He's not exactly somebody I'm all that fond of," H.J. explained. "What I mean is—well, I did date him quite a bit a few months ago and then only infrequently. Back before I realized what a schmuck he was, I loaned him some money."

"How much?"

"A goodly sum."

"In round numbers, H.J.?"

She coughed into her hand. "Well, $5,000."

"Where'd you get that kind of—"

"I've been doing damn well since we divorced, too." She folded her arms under her breasts. "I usually don't go around loaning it out, though, but he said these loan sharks were going to break his legs or worse if—"

"Obviously they did more than break his legs," he said. "As I understand commerce in this country, most loan sharks are connected with the Mafia. So maybe the best thing for you to do is forget all about this . . . what's his name anyway?"

"Rick Dell. And he implied—"

"That's even better than Guapo Garcia."

"It isn't his real name."

"It isn't anybody's real name."

H.J. said, "Ben, will you sit absolutely still and just simply listen to me for awhile, please?"

"Sure, okay. Except I'm expecting my date to arrive at any—"

"Just sit and listen. Rick phoned me this afternoon, told me he was certain to have my money for me by tonight. He sounded very elated and pleased with himself."

"And he arranged to meet you at that new mall to pay you?"

"He said we could have a quick dinner there and then he'd hand over the money, yes."

"Was he dead when you got there?"

"Nope, but he was dying. He came down an up escalator. He looked really terrible and then he fell down. I knew right off he was dead, from the way he looked lying there."

"Did he, do you know, have your money with him?"

"He told me he didn't."

"Then maybe the guy got jumped in the parking lot, mugged and—"

"Not that parking lot, Ben. They have all kinds of security people prowling it."

He leaned back in his chair. "What else did Rick Dell tell you before he died?"

She said, "Now we're getting to the reason I came to you. I guess we've always had different opinions about your career. But you are, more or less, in show business and you do know quite a lot about comedy and jokes and the—"

"Wait now." He held up a hand. "Did this guy give you some kind of dying message?"

"That's what you could call it I suppose," she admitted, nodding. "See, I'm pretty certain he wanted me to have my money. He was trying to tell me where he'd hidden it." She crossed her legs, brushed at a speck on the knee of her jeans. "But he was uneasy about all the people, shoppers and all, who were gathering around. He tried to tell me, but he passed the information on in a way that only I would understand."

"So?"

She spread her hands wide. "I didn't understand him."

"But you think I would?"

"Rick was a comedian, not a very good one. He played small clubs— what are known technically as toilets—in Connecticut, New Jersey and, sometimes, in Manhattan. He was forever telling me old jokes, awful stories he claimed were classics. I never paid much attention to them, tuning him out whenever—"

"Yep, I'm aware of the gift you have for not listening."

"I'm afraid poor Rick thought I'd paid more attention to him than I did," she said. "The clue he passed on to me is, I'm near certain, part of one of those old jokes he used to tell me."

"He couldn't have just said, 'I hid the dough in my old boots.' Life, the world, everything would be much simpler if people didn't try to get cute—"

"He was dying after all, Ben, which probably affects your judgment. You have to allow people to be a little dippy when they're—"

"Okay, what exactly did he say to you?"

She rested her hands on her knees. "Ninety-nine clop clop."

"Beg pardon?"

"Well, his dying words were ninety-nine clop clop," she said, a bit forlornly. "I know that's right, because I asked him to repeat it."

"Of course you did." He stood up. "Remind me to die alone in some remote spot."

"Well?" She made a vague urging motion with her right hand. "Ninety-nine clop clop."

"It rings a vague bell, H.J." He shook his head, frowning. "But I'm not getting anything definite. Maybe if I—"

"Isn't it part of a joke, a punchline or—"

"Probably it is an old joke," he agreed. "In fact, I'm pretty certain it is. Suppose I think this over and phone you after my dinner date is over and maybe—"

"It'll be dawn by then. I don't want to wait all night while you frolic with some—"

"Hey, when clients consult Sherlock Holmes or Charlie Chan, they have to put up with the detective's little eccentricities."

"Charlie Chan never kept a client cooling her heels while he hopped in the sack with some bimbo."

"Which is why he ended up a bitter, aphoristic old man. Now then, you scoot on home so I—"

From outside came a combination of unnerving sounds.

A rattling skid, a screech of brakes, a thumping smash. "That must be Candy." Ben ran for the front door.

"Candy? That's her name? Candy?"

"Everybody can't have initials. Did you leave your car in the driveway?"

"As opposed to what—parking it atop your gazebo? Of course I . . . Oh, shit." She ran to the door after him, and looked out into the night.

"Candy tends to hit things that are left in the driveway."

"So I see."

S
he was sitting, forlornly, in the least comfortable chair in the small parlor of her small cottage, staring vaguely in the direction of the television screen.

A voice inside the set announced, "We'll be back to tonight's Multimillion Dollar Movie,
Philo Vance's Secret
, after these messages."

A portly, jovial man of about fifty appeared on the screen. He was attired as a very correct butler and holding a fish up in one white-gloved hand. "Chumley here. For another bit of chitchat about My Man Chumley Fish & Chips, don't you know."

The door chimes, a bit out of tune, sounded.

H.J. stood up and used the remote control box that she realized she was holding in her left hand to kill the set. Stepping around an upended chair and over a scatter of paperbacks, she went out into the small narrow hallway.

Not opening the door, she called out, "Identify yourself."

"Hell, I've forgotten the password. It's been three years."

"Oh, Ben." She unhooked the chain, unlocked the door, tugged it open. "I was hoping it was you. C'mon in, please."

"Maybe I ought to wait until your cleaning lady shows up." He came into the hall, stooped and righted a toppled floor lamp.

"It's worse in the parlor," she said, motioning him to follow. "Well, actually it's worst of all in my damn studio. They squirted about six tubes of paint all over the floor. When I saw that, I decided to postpone cleaning up for a spell."

Ben paused on the threshold of the parlor, taking in the overturned furniture, the emptied bookshelves, the pulled out drawers, and scattered papers. "I wasn't expecting this much chaos from what you said over the phone I—"

"What I was attempting to do was sound calm. But it's obvious somebody thoroughly searched my place while I was out at the mall and then visiting you."