MURDER by DEATH
by Lisa Polisar
July/August 2003
Good evening, and thank you for taking an interest in New Mystery Reader magazine. My name is Lionel Twain and I will be your host for tonight’s dinner. Please, do sit down. May I bring you a glass of Port?
I have four regular guests for my monthly dinner parties, all of whom share the characteristics of a prestigious occupation, unconventionally flamboyant wealth, and an uncommon lust for two things: books … and murder. With that in mind, let me introduce the inmates, ah, I mean guests:
Ø Mr. Googel, my blind butler (sometimes calls himself Jeeves)
Ø Mrs. Maddening, my mute cook
Ø Genevieve Champlaine, Editor of the London Times (nickname: “the whiner”)
Ø Val O’Leary, owner of Oxford Books (a/k/a “pompous windbag”)
Ø Nicos Parapoulas, multi-millionaire and owner of Athens Cruise lines (boozer)
Ø Gigi Chandler, Board Chair of the British Museum (“lipstick goddess”)
I’m sorry, what was that? Oh, the purpose of this dinner, you ask? Well, we are somewhat of a book club, I suppose, of the absolute loftiest kind. Set within an atmosphere of pernicious backstabbing, witty commentary and biting sarcasm, we manage to report on different kinds of mystery novels fresh to the buying market.
Just to bring you up to speed, I subjected my guests to a devilish prank in the last issue, where a body was hanging from the upstairs rafters. I offered a sum of $50,000 to whomever could guess the victim’s identity and then, devilishly, I… changed my mind! So now, alas, they’re all harboring ill will and bad energy, through which they’re polluting the sensitive karma of the estate. To hell with all of them, I say!
*
It’s a hot night in July and my guests all arrive wearing scant clothing – the men in linen pants and unbuttoned oxford cloth shirts, Gigi Chandler in a breezy yellow sundress who scorns at Genny Champlaine. They cross each other in the foyer like two Serengeti lions. It’s going to be a LONG night.
“I dare say it’s ninety degrees out. What’ve you got on under there? Your pajamas?” Gigi says to Genny, and now Genny’s about to cry. Welcome to kindergarten.
Genny’s eyes scream down the cropped length of Gigi’s dress. “I believe in dressing properly at a dinner party is all.” (Yawns) “It’s called good breeding. You wouldn’t know about that.”
“I rather thought ‘breeding’ was … for dogs.” Gigi shoves past her toward the dining room, throws open the grand doors, and releases a classic, horror movie scream. How do women learn to do that??
The other guests freeze, gawking at Mr. Googel dangling from the chain on the ceiling fan. Slowly, I walk toward the table, just as one of his shoes collides with the solid silver candle sticks. One of them falls to the floor and tumbles out to the foyer at Miss Champlaine’s feet. Genny collapses in the arms of Val O’Leary.
“What a gentleman,” Gigi says, lighting one of her vulgar cigarettes.
“Somebody’s got to take the bloak down I suppose,” Val hollers from behind the net of Genny’s wig. “Lionel? Do the honors?”
So here I am standing directly under my suicidal, swirling butler, wondering why I didn’t commit myself to an institution long before this. “Mr. Googel?” I call up to him.
“Yss srr?” he manages with the chain across his throat.
“Might I ask why you’ve chosen this particular method with which to amuse yourself?”
“Gtt—me--dwwn, you bstard!”
“Mister Googel, I’m your employer and will not be spok—”
“Out of the way, you impotent toad.” Val shoves me aside and bungles himself atop the Irish linens in his soiled shoes. “Nicos, help me. Lift his feet and I’ll drag the chain over his head. The poor sod.”
Genny-the-whiner regains consciousness and stands, holding onto the end table. “Who would have done a thing like that? Do you think it was…suicide?”
Gigi, in her bored-Contessa voice: “Well Lionel did it, of course. After last month’s stunt, I wouldn’t put any prank past him.” She chomps on her cigarette some more. “He’s terribly bored, you know. All that money and no one to share it with. All he’s got, I do believe, are his useless old books, and us!”
“God help me then,” I reply. “And don’t flatter yourself. I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
Googel, panting and coughing, is lowered to the table by Nicos and Val. “The chef did it, sir. And while we’re on the subject, might I ask why you hired a common urban hoodlum to serve us dinner?”
“Common, yes, and supremely urban. Hoodlum, well, that remains to be seen. He’s –
“He tried to kill me, sir. You did see me a moment ago hanging from the chandelier?”
Mrs. Maddening, my deaf cook, arrives with a clean tablecloth, wet towels, and smelling salts for Mr. Googel. She shoves them up his nostrils without him knowing.
“Ohh! Yes yes, thank you.” Coughs convulsively. “I’m awake, Mrs. Maddening, and that’ll be all I’ll be smelling for the rest of my life, no doubt.”
*
After the table is reset and Googel’s regained his frightfully few faculties, my guests are seated at the table like polar bears waiting for a baby seal.
Val O’Leary pulls something large and slimy out of a plastic bag at his feet, and slaps it on the table. “Well this is what I’ve been doing. No books lately – just taxidermy.”
Genny leans forward holding her nose. “Is that …a fish?”
“Well it’s not barking, love.”
“So we’ve ruled out dog then, I should think,” Gigi replies to Nicos.
“Right. What about dead dog?”
“I don’t see any ears. To be a dog, it must have ears. And a tail. I don’t see that either.”
“I’ll tell you what I see – a…a…” Genny struggles. “Slut and a schmoozer.”
Gigi lights another cigarette. “My dear, MUST you be such a bore?”
“Better than a…whore!” Val and Nicos smile snicker at the retort.
Now Gigi turns to me. “What, pray tell, are you serving tonight, Lionel? You know it’s the only reason why we come here – I don’t pretend to actually like you.”
I wipe imaginary tears from my eyes. “Sticks and stones will…oh, go straight to hell.”
“Already there, baby!”
Googel arrives, all fresh and clean in the doorway. “May I present to you tonight’s special chef, imported all the way from glamorous Manhattan…Mr. Roach Bender.”
“Sounds like an English pub joke.”
“Or a mob underboss.”
“Yo,” Roach says, addressing everyone. "Chatty bunch, aren’t you?” Roach wipes his nose on his jacket sleeve.
Nicos bursts out laughing. “I can only guess that we’re all collectively admiring your attire, sir. Is the fabric on your satin bowling jacket… imported or domestic?”
“Hey, I might not have all the visible accoutrements of wealth, sir,” (all eyes on him now) “but I’ll bet I gross more in a month than any one of you.” He points to each person as he says this.
Googel clears his throat to explain. “Mr. Bender is a, er, mobile cylindrical beef restauranteur.”
The room gets quiet as the guests consider this. Gigi, puffing on her perpetual cigarette, blows a flume of smoke in the air over our heads. “A hot dog vendor?? Good lord, Lionel, you’ve stooped to an all time low.”
“And beef?” Val starts in. “What’s beef got to do with hotdogs? I thought they were made from moose lips and discarded medical waste.”
“Look, I might not have a penthouse with six servants, but I’ll bet I serve the tastiest hot dogs you’ve ever had. And to address David Letterman’s constant concern, all the rats in my hotdog cart do wear hairnets. Company policy.” Roach straightens his shirt out and stands up straight at the head of the table.
“David whom???” Genny whispers.
Val looks over. “Did he say rats and hairnets in the same sentence?”
“A joke.” Roach sighs and plops into the only empty chair.
Genny examines one of the hotdogs with the tines of her fork. “What kind of cretin would consume such a vulgar thing?”
Gigi smiles and winks at Val.
“Don’t answer that,” he says quickly. “Please, I beg you.”
Roach smiles. “They’ll be served with sauerkraut, Vidalia onions, Dijon mustard, German baked beans, and Belgian beer.”
“Did someone say beer?” Nicos bellows from the end of the table, already on martini #4.
“Circulate enough of it and we won’t care WHAT the rest tastes like.”
“Idiots,” mumbles Roach.
*
“While we’re waiting for the…ah…” I begin, struggling to form my mouth around the words ‘hot dog.’
“Where the beer??” Nicos banging on the table now. “I-want-my-beer. I-want-my-beer!!”
Val motions to Gigi. “Quick! Take off your blouse.”
“What???”
“Alright, just… unbutton it a bit, then. It’ll pacify Nicos.”
“I think he’s been pacifying himself all afternoon,” she replies, gesturing toward the empty bottle of Boodles gin on the sideboard. “Any more of that and he’ll be rolled out on a stretcher.”
Nicos stumbles out of the room and returns with a stack of books. “Here.” He trips on his own feet and knocks over a bottle of wine on the table. (I swear I’ll never use my mother’s Irish linen again with this pack of wild dogs.) “Pass these around,” he demands, shoving them in everyone’s lap. “It’s a lovely mystery by Nina Killham, and at the same time, a hilarious culinary spoof called…(starts giggling to himself) How To…Cook…A Tart!!!” (laughs uncontrollably now, falls on floor banging his fist on the hard wood planks.) “The book came out last month and was published by Bloomsbury USA.”
“I’m tired of books lately,” Genny moans. “I’ve been spending my free time watching old Dracula movies.”
“God, help us,” Gigi whispers. “Why do you even come here then?”
“Have you got anything but sarcasm to offer tonight, dear? Or are you going to entertain us after all by removing your clothing?”
*
Chef Roach Bender emerges from the kitchen pushing a grotesque little cart with steam pouring out the sides.
“Family style, now. Pass all the plates down here, and I’ll, you know, load y’up.”
Nicos, the drunken sailor, raises his hand.
Roach nods. “Yes sir, the Aussie chap in the back.”
“That’s GREEK! Idiot," he mumbles. "I’d like to know how you came to have that gap between your two front teeth. Perhaps you were dropped on your head in the delivery room?”
“Or maybe why his pants are nearly pulled down and his undergarments precede them.”
Roach ignores the jibes and loads each plate with two hot dogs and sauerkraut.
“Yo, Googel, where’s that beer?” he says.
Googel arrives in the dining room with a loaded pitcher of dark, frothy brew and five old fashioned beer steins. Even more wobbly than usual, Nicos jumps up and takes the pitcher from him and starts drinking directly out of it.
“You savage, stop it!” The whiner again.
“Are those the ones from the upstairs bedroom, Lionel?” Gigi queries. “I do hope you washed them.”
Nicos swishes his head left and right. “Why do I smell blood?”
“It’s your brains draining out your ears again,” Val suggests.
“I feel like I’m on the set of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” I comment, slurping down three gulps of beer for fortification. I immediately feel like vomiting. But then, suddenly, I get an idea. “That’s it – I’ve found our book trivia for the evening.”
“Cuckoo’s Nest is not a mystery. Doesn’t fall within our theme.”
“The theme is books and murder, Gigi. Murder, remember? Bromden kills McMurphy after his lobotomy? So…” I’m thinking as I’m talking, “tonight’s prize is…Mr. Googel, come here, please.”
Googel appears in the south entrance of the dining room. “Yes sir?”
“How much money is in the safe currently?”
Googel glances round the table before answering. “The safe, sir? Enough, I venture, for whatever you have in mind.”
“Good. I shall give five thousand dollars to whomever can answer a series of questions about One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I’ll ask the questions and whomever gets the most of them right wins the prize.”
Gigi coughs. “Cuckoo’s Nest. How fitting.”
“Googel, go and get the money and put the cash on the table. Otherwise these vultures will never play. Ready or not??”
They all moan and hide their eyes.
“All right, we’ll start with the original year of publication.”
“1963,” Val hollers, touching the dead fish on the table.
Nicos jumps up. “Wrong – the original edition was 1962.”
“How would you know that? You were likely in a rehab clinic then.”
“Correct, Nicos, 1962. That’s one for you. How about the original publisher?”
“Signet!!” Val says slapping his hand on the table.
Nicos, grinning, “Wrong again, fat boy! Viking was the original publisher. Viking New York.”
“That’s two for Nicos, and just one question to go.” I feel sweat beading on their collective foreheads. “What gave Kesey the idea for this novel?”
Gigi and Genny exchange grimaces.
“He was insane?”
“His father was an Indian?”
All’s quiet for a few heavenly seconds. “Damned if I know,” Val says. “I never win anything.”
Nicos sips the last of his umpteenth gin and tonic, stretches out in his chair and puts his feet up on the table. “He worked there,” he answers, smugly.
“Where?” I say.
“That VA hospital in Menlo Park, California. He was paid as a volunteer experimental subject, taking mind altering drugs and reporting on their effects.”
I wink at Googel and gesture for him to hand the bundle of money to Nicos.
“I know, let’s play a Cuckoo’s Nest game. I’ll play Big Nurse!” Gigi hollers, bouncing in her chair.
Genny Champlaine cocks her head and smirks. “You can’t be. You’re obviously one of the patients.”
“So you in a little white uniform then? Come on. Your legs are like ham hocks and your arms’d barely fit through the sleeves.”
“Excuse me??” Genny throws down her napkin. “Because I’m not a svelt ninety pounds like you? You’ve got the figure of a thirteen year old boy, and you look as if your face has endured a painful liposuction blunder.”
“Ladies, la-dies…” Nicos stands, wavers, and slumps his considerable torso on the table. With his face lying sideways on the tablecloth, a sick smile envelops his lips.
“Bickering like this is highly unbecoming,” Val says. “Both of you!”
Nicos, moaning now. “Nothing a good old fashioned fight couldn’t fix, though. What say we put up odds?
“I’m game for anything,” Gigi replies.
“Well God, woman, that’s old news.”
“You mean…” Nicos sits up suddenly, “a real live… cat-fight?”
All six of our eyes, including myself, Nicos and Val, are glued to the women in breathless anticipation. Gigi, ever so slowly, gets up and walks calmly toward Genny. She leans down, and slips an arm around Genny’s shoulder. Val wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.
“I’m sorry, dear. I’ve had a frightful week is all,” she says. Genny touches her hand and smiles.
“Rats!” Val shakes his head.
“Blast! I nearly thought for a minute…”
I finally interrupt. “Eat your frankfurters, now, like good little boys and girls. My book this month is a delightful, psychological suspense by Nicci French called Land of the Living.”
With her mouth grotesquely full, Genny jumps in. “Yes, I’ve been hearing about that one.”
“Val? You’re not eating?” I say.
Gigi wrinkles a brow. “Don’t be absurd. He’s never missed a –”
“I don’t eat things like rounded meat blobs.”
“Said the man holding a dead fish,” Gigi says.
Nicos, who has already consumed one of the frankfurters and every bite of the sauerkraut, sits back in his chair with his stomach distended. “I feel ill.”
“So do I,” Genny adds, rubbing her stomach.
“No doubt,” Val says. “So Mr. Roach, can you describe precisely the type of medical waste used in the construction of these meaty monstrosities?”
“All beef, sir, and I don’t much appreciate the sarcasm.”
“Well you’re in the wrong place then, I venture,” Gigi says.
“You make them yourself?” Val’s leaning forward now, and with his nose pressed close to his plate, sniffs the contents. “Smells like bloody Drano if you ask me.” Turns to Nicos now, who after uttering an “ooohhhh” slumps sideways off the chair and onto the floor. Twice in one night – a world’s record.
“Shall we assume that he’s dead then?” Gigi asks. “I think it’s in everybody’s best int—” but her voice stops when the invisible sickness overtakes her. She, too, ends up crumpled in a pile on the floor. Mr. Googel, with his vacuous glare, blinks at me and manages to communicate something. But what? Run for your life?? The chef really is a killer??? And just as I realize his telepathic message, I remember that I’ve taken three bites of the mystery-meat blobs and my stomach has become a butter churn. Good God…the butler’s outsmarted us all!!!!!
*
* * * * *
So until next time, I remain your host, Lionel Twain.
Blind, us humans, to bleak and folly
Escape our fate by the devil’s breath
Live tales of dread and fear unholy
But escape not a Murder …by Death.
Adieu!