Murder Most Merry (54 page)

“Okay, but his name is Captain Kangaroo, not—”

“Attend to me, Oscar. I assured Liz, who’s putting this segment together, that I’d dig you up, wipe off the cobwebs, and have you there bright and early Friday. Can you drag yourself into Manhattan and meet me at the Consolidated Broadcasting headquarters building on Fifty-third no later than six a.m.?”

“Sure, that’s no problem.”

“Most importantly, can you bring that dimwitted dummy?”

Without more than a fraction of a second of hesitation Oscar answered. “Of course, yeah, absolutely.” It didn’t seem the right time to tell Mxyzptlk that his former wife, who currently loathed him and had ousted him eleven long years ago from the mansion they once shared, had retained custody of the only existing Screwy Santa dummy in the world. “We’ll both see you on Friday, Vince.”

It commenced snowing at dusk, a paltry, low-budget snow that didn’t look as though it was up to blanketing the condo-complex grounds and masking its raw ugliness.

Glancing at his wristwatch once more. Oscar punched out his daughter’s New York City number.

After four rings there came a twanging noise. “Merry Christmas,” said Tish in her sexiest voice. “I’m not able to come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you real soon.”

Oscar had been working all afternoon on the voice he was going to use. A mixture of paternal warmth and serious illness. “Patricia, my dear,” he began, getting the quaver just about perfect, “this is your dad. Something quite serious has come up and I’d like very much to speak to you, my only child, in the hope that—”

“Holy Jesus,” observed his daughter, coming onto the line. “What was that old television show you used to tell me about when I was little? Where they gave the contestants the gong for a rotten perf—”

“
The Amateur Hour
. Now. kid, I need—”

“Consider yourself gonged. Pop.”

“Okay, all right, I overdid it a mite,” he admitted. “Yet I do have a serious problem.”

“My time is sort of limited, Dad. I’m getting ready for a date. You should’ve phoned me earlier.”

“I assumed you were taping
Intensive Care
.”

She sighed. “Didn’t you tell me you watched my soap faithfully?”

“I do, kid. It’s on my must-see list every day.”

“I’ve been in a coma for two weeks. So I don’t have to show up at—”

“Sorry to hear that. Anything serious?”

“Near-fatal car crash. We killed that asshole, Walt Truett, thank God.”

“But you’ll survive?”

“Sure, with only a touch of amnesia.”

Oscar asked, “When are you due to come out of your stupor?”

“Next Thursday.”

“I’ll start watching, I swear,” he promised his daughter. “Now, as to the purpose of this call.”

“It’s Mom, isn’t it?”

“Well, not exactly, kid.” He filled her in about the offer from the talent agency and the upcoming appearance on
Have a Good Day, USA
! “This will revive my career.”

“You think so? A couple of early morning minutes with a pack of over-the-hill doofers?”

“It’s a shot. The only snag is—well, kid, they insist that I bring Screwy along.”

“Obviously. You guys are a team.”

“And your dear mother has custody of him.”

Tish said, “She’s not going to loan him to you.”

“She might, if you were to—”

“Nope, she won’t. A few months ago, when I noticed him up on a shelf in the mud room, I suggested that—”

“She keeps the most beloved dummy in America in the mud room?”

“In a shoe box,” she answered. “And, Dad, Screwy Santa hasn’t been beloved for a couple of decades now.”

“I know, neither have I,” he said ruefully. “But, damn it, he helped pay for that mansion.”

“Her romantic novels are paying for things now. Did you notice that
Kiss Me, My Pirate
was number two on the
Times
—”

“I extract the book section from the Sunday paper with surgical gloves and toss it immediately into the trash unopened. To make certain I never see so much as a mention of that slop she cranks out or, worse, a publicity photo of her mottled countenance.”

“Let’s get back to the point. I suggested to her back then that she return Screwy Santa to you.”

“And?”

“You don’t want to hear what she said,” his daughter assured him. “It had, among other things, to do with Hell freezing over. But can’t you dig up another dummy by Friday?”

“Impossible, that’s the only one extant. We lost the backup copy during that ill-fated nostalgia tour through the Midwest years ago.”

“Couldn’t you carve another, since you built the others?”

“Kid, I may’ve fudged the truth a bit when I used to recount Screwy’s history to you.” he said. “In reality, the dummies were built by a prop man at the old WWAG-TV studios. And he, alas, is long in his grave.”

“This is very disillusioning,” Tish complained. “One of the few things I still admired about you, Dad, was your woodcarving ability.”

“Listen, couldn’t you call Mitzi and tell her that I’m expiring, that I want to be reunited with my dummy for one last time before I go on to glory?”

“She’d burst out laughing if I told her you were about to kick off. Dad. And probably dance a little jig.”

“Okay, suppose we make a business deal with her? Offer the old shrew, say, fifteen percent of the take.”

“What take?
Have a Good Day, USA!
pays scale. I know. I did one last year to plug my abortion on
Intensive Care.”

“You looked terrific on that broadcast.”

“You didn’t even see it.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No, and you admitted as much at the time.”

“Well, back to my immediate problem.”

“Why don’t you use one of the old Screwy Santa dolls? They look a lot like the dummy.”

“Except they don’t have movable mouths.”

“It’d be better than nothing. I can loan you mine,” she offered. “It’s stuffed away in a closet.”

“No. kid, I really have to have the real dummy.”

“Afraid there’s nothing I can do. I mean, if I so much as mention that you need Screwy Santa, Mom’s liable to take an axe to him.”

“Well, thanks anyway for listening to an old man’s woes and—”

“Here comes the gong again,” his daughter said. “Anyhow. I have to go put on some clothes. Bye.”

After hanging up, he stayed on the sofa and brooded. After about ten minutes he said aloud, “I’ll have to outwit Mitzi.”

The snow improved the next morning, giving a Christmas-card gloss to the usually dismal view from his small living room window.

At ten a.m. he put the first phase of his latest plan into operation. He phoned his former wife’s mansion over in Westport.

“Residence of Mitzi Sunsett Sayler,” answered a crisp female voice.

“Yes, how are you?” inquired Oscar in a drawling, slightly British accent. “Ogden Brokenshire here.”

“Yes?”

“Ogden Brokenshire of the Broadcasting Hall of Fame. Have I the honor of addressing the esteemed novelist Mitzi Sunsett Sayler herself?”

“Of course not, Mr. Brokenshire. I’m Clarissa Dempster, Mrs. Sayler’s secretary.”

“I see, my dear. Well, perhaps I can explain my mission to you, child, and you can explain the situation to your employer.”

“That depends on—”

“We would like to enshrine Screwy Santa.”

“Enshrine whom?”

“The ingenious dummy that Mrs. Sayler’s one-time husband used in the days when he brought joy and gladness to the hearts of—”

“Oh, that thing,” said the secretary. “My parents, wisely, never allowed me to watch that dreadful show when I was a child.”

“Nonetheless, dear child, our board has voted, unanimously I might add, to place Screwy Santa on permanent display in the museum.”

“Hold on a moment. I’ll speak to Mrs. Sayler.” The secretary went away.

In less than two minutes Mitzi started talking. “Who is this ?”

“Good morning, I’m Ogden Brokenshire. As I was explaining to your able secretary, my dear Mrs. Sayler, I’m an executive with the Broadcasting Hall of—”

“You haven’t improved at all, you no-talent cheesehead.”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“Oscar, love, you never could do a believable Brit.”

“I don’t happen to be British, dear lady. The fact that I was educated in Boston sometimes gives people that impression.”

“Forget it, Oscar,” advised his erstwhile wife. “I don’t know why you want to get your clammy hands on that wooden dornick, but you’ll never have him. And, dear heart, if you ever try to communicate with me again—in whatever wretched voice—I’ll sic the law on you.” She, rather gently, hung up on him.

“Looks like,” decided Oscar, “I’m going to need a new plan.”

He kept working on plans for nearly an hour, pacing his small living room, muttering, pausing now and then to gaze out at the falling snow.

Then the phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“We have hit a slight snag,” announced Vince Mxyzptlk.

“Don’t they want me?”

“Sure they want you, old buddy. Hell, they’re prowling the lofty corridors at Consolidated crying out for you,” said the youthful agent. “In fact, they can’t wait until Friday.”

“What do you mean—do they want me to do a separate segment on my

own?”

“Not exactly. But Liz,
and
her boss, are very anxious to see you tomorrow.”

Frowning. Oscar nodded. “An audition, huh?”

“Sort of. yeah,” admitted the agent. “It has nothing, really, to do with you. But when one of their scouts unearthed the clunk who used to be Mr. Slimjim on that
Mr. Slimjim & Baby Gumdrop
turkey, he turned out to weigh three hundred pounds now and possess not a single tooth. So, as you can understand. Oscar, they want to see and hear all these wonderful stars of yesteryear in advance.”

“Tomorrow?”

“At three p.m. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not exactly, but I—”

“I’m getting a lot of interest in you. Once you do well on Friday, the jobs will start rolling in.”

“I understand, it’s only—”

“I needn’t remind you. Oscar, that a lot of talents in your present position would kill for this opportunity.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed. “See you tomorrow.”

He had a great new plan worked out by three that afternoon. But he had to wait until after dark to get going on it.

Dressed in dark clothes, Oscar slipped quietly out of his apartment and into the lean-to that passed for a garage. As usual, none of the roads in the sparsely inhabited complex had been plowed. The snow was soft, though, and not too high, and Oscar was able to drive down to the plowed lanes and byways of New Beckford without any serious delays.

He drove over to nearby Westport and parked in the lot behind Borneo’s. There were only a few spaces left and he could see that the restaurant-bar was packed with people. The food and drink at Borneo’s was just passable, but it sat only a half mile over the hill from Mitzi’s mansion.

As he was crossing the lot a fire engine went hooting by. headed downhill.

Borneo himself was behind the bar. “Evening, Oscar.”

He managed to elbow his way up to a narrow spot at the ebony bar. “The usual.”

Borneo scratched at his stomach through the fabric of his bright tropical shirt. “Refresh my memory.”

“Club soda, alas.”

“Coming up.”

Outside in the snowy night another fire engine went roaring by, followed by what sounded like a couple of police cars.

Oscar hoped all this activity wouldn’t foul up his plan. So far everything was going well. People were seeing him, he was establishing an alibi. In another ten or fifteen minutes he’d go back to the john. Then he’d slip out the side door.

Once in the open, he’d make his way down to the mansion. Being careful, of course, that no one noticed him sneaking off.

Mitzi, being a skinflint, and in spite of her great wealth, had never bothered to put in a new alarm system. The original setup was still in place, and he knew how to disarm that.

Okay, once he got inside, after making certain that she was alone, he’d ... well, he’d use the length of pipe he dug up in the garage this afternoon.

Once Mitzi was dead and done for. he’d gather up enough jewels and valuables to make it look like the usual burglary. Then he’d rescue Screwy Santa from the mud room and get the hell away.

Back here at the parking lot he’d stash the loot in his car, slip unobtrusively back into the place, and tell Borneo he’d had a sudden touch of stomach flu and had to stay back in the bathroom a few minutes.