MURDER by DEATH
by Lisa Polisar
April / March, 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?
Some of the guests have already arrived and have convened in the formal dining room. I’m sorry? What’s that now? What do you mean “which” dining room? I assure you my mansion has only one of course.
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 you to the other attendees of tonight’s festivities:
Ø Mr. Googel, my blind butler
Ø Mrs. Maddening, my mute cook
Ø Genevieve Champlaine, Senior Editor of the London Times
Ø Val O’Leary, owner of Oxford Books
Ø
Nicos Parapoulas, multi-millionaire and owner of Athens Cruise
lines
Ø Gigi Chandler, Board Chair of the British Museum
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.
*
The beautiful Miss Chandler pecks my cheek before being seated at the table. “I have several special surprises planned tonight to reward you all for your efforts in getting here,” I announce.
“Weather’s never been a deterrent to fun and games for me,” Nicos says, lighting a Cuban Cohiba cigar.
“I love the snow,” Genny comments, clapping her hands in a childlike fashion.
Val O’Leary shoots her a demonic look. “You have a chauffeur to cart you around everywhere, so how would you know?”
“Please. Allow me five minutes of civility so I can introduce a friend that I’ve invited from Paris.” I motion for my portly guest to enter the dining room. “Monsieur Guy Guitton.”
Monsieur Guitton removes his overflowing trench and fumbles with the button on his jacket before being seated. “Enchante,” he bows to Gigi and, quickly thereafter, Genny Champlaine.
Genny says, “Bon jour,” with a girlish snigger.
“Bon soir,” Gigi retorts in her signature boudoire-voice. Monsieur Guitton’s face flushes.
“Are you some sort of socio-political club?” Guitton inquires to me.
“I’ll answer that,” Val O’Leary pipes in. “No politics here and we’ve got the social skills of jungle animals. What we are is a book club, I’m happy to report. Every month, Lionel invites us to this obscene, ostentatious villa, the same lot of us each month, and we all introduce one book we’ve selected as part of our designated genre.”
Guitton lowers his spectacles, in an effort to size Val up. “And what is yours, Monsieur?”
“My book?” Val says.
“Genre.”
“Oh,” Val laughs nervously, looking round the table. “I report on new historical mysteries, Gigi’s got regionals or thrillers, Genny’s our English cozy mistress, and Nicos reports on seamy PI yarns.”
“Ha ha, not tonight, old chap!” Nicos stands, extinguishes his cigar in the ashtray on the sideboard and pours himself a glass of wine. “Got a surprise up my sleeve.”
“Wait a minute!” Genny wrinkles her pug nose. “You’re not allowed to switch genres without prior approval.”
Gigi abruptly exits into the foyer.
“Just for tonight my dear, but I came across the most eloquent woo-woo by—”
“Woo-woo, monsieur?” says Guitton.
“You know, paranormal, occultish or supernatural mysteries,” Nicos replies, pouring wine into everyone’s glass. “My selection, Restless Spirit by S.D. Tooley, is a splendid tale about a Native American police officer with psychic powers. In this story, she "sees" that the perpetrator in a 17-year-old rape-murder case is really innocent, and tries to clear him before his execution.”
“Thank you, Nicos. Now, for tonight’s dinner,” I begin, “I have flown in Chef Robin Sorcerer, recent graduate of California’s illustrious School of Culinary Arts in Pasadena. Now, let me tell you what he’s serving us tonight—”
“Sorcerer? So he’s a witch, then?” Nicos whispers.
“No, a warlock. That’s the proper name of a male witch,” Val replies.
“As I say,” glowering, “tonight’s Menu To Die For includes the following:
Wine California New World Viognier
Appetizers Dungeness crab salad with fresh black truffle, lemon-scallion vinaigrette, cucumber and micro greens
Soup Cauliflower and Coconut soup
Salad Seasonal vegetables and tofu roasted with garlic and garden fresh herbs served with saffron scented quinoa and a light wine and apple reduction
Entrée Roasted eggplant and goat cheese "caponata" filo turnover, served with porcini-roasted tomato sauce, white beans and vegetable ragout (vegetarian)
Dessert Sour cream cheesecake with apricot and
pomegranate
sauce
Coffee Hawaiian Kona
Googel stumbles into the dining room with a tray and neat assortment of five small plates, with all guests suitably poised for disaster as he feels around the table for the place settings.
Nicos stares suspiciously at the appetizer. “What the bloody hell is that?”
“Looks like a work of art,” Genny comments.
Nicos studies the contents carefully. “Where’s the meat?”
“Crab, crab, for God’s sake,” Genny barks. “Dungeness crab, $32.50 a pound. What do you think that is? Spoiled brat,” she adds under her breath.
“Shellfish. Clearly not meat.” Nicos picks up his wine glass. “And what about this?” he sniffs the bouquet and gulps another few sips. “Midori! That’s it. It tastes like that melon liqueur.” Sips it again. “Oh lord, I can barely get it down. And I expected to be half crocked by now.”
“You were half crocked before you got here.” Val rolls his eyes.
“I’ll just ask the chef for another wine,” I wearily suggest. “Googel? Mr. Googel?”
Out of nowhere, Googel appears at my right side. “It’s Jeeves, sir,” he replies in his most irritating ‘butler’ voice.
“What?”
“My name, sir.”
“What about it?”
“Jeeves.”
“Since when?”
“Oh,” dreamily, “there was a time when I was a very young boy that I idolized a-”
“Stop it, you feckless, smooth-brain. Fetch us something palatable from the wine cellar, and be discreet about it. I don’t want Chef Warlock,” snickers chain around the table, “er, Chef Sorcerer, to take note of our rebuff.”
“What rebuff?” Chef Sorcerer demands from the doorway, donning a bright purple silk pantsuit and garish orange scarf fluffed round his neck.
“Oh no no,” I reply, “I said enough. There is splendidly enough of everything.”
The chef raises a brow, clangs the appetizer plates on Googel’s tray and replaces them with the salad course. “And where is the lovely Miss Gigi?” he asks me.
“Snooping about the upper floors under the guise of searching for a powder room.” Suddenly, I hear, (or sense?) a rumbling under the table. Something both hard and soft bristles the inside of my pant leg. All ten eyes are glaring down, as if to penetrate the wood of the table.
“Oh!” Genny shrieks. “Great Scot, that felt like a—”
“What in God’s name is ---” Val says.
“Bad monkey, bad!” Chef Sorcerer plants his fists on his hips and bends down to look under the table. “Lorraine, Lorraine, come out of Miss Champlaine’s dress this instant, or no spaghettio's before bed.”
Genny jumps and screams, Val’s eyes are golf balls and Nicos, cackling himself into convulsions, wipes tears from his squinted eyes. “I say, Lionel, a warlock chef with a pet monkey named Lorraine. These dinners are getting more and more like the Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
“Get that filthy animal out of here at once,” I command to the chef.
Nicos, still convulsing with his head on the table. “…you invite a drag queen and his prop monkey as the chef…” laughing still, “and…”
“I beg your pardon!” Chef Sorcerer moves to Nicos’s chair.
“No offense,” Nicos manages, but the sight of the Chef with Lorraine parroted on his shoulder reels him back into hysterics.
Both disappear into the kitchen, and Googel and Mrs. Maddening return to clear the salad. Googel clanks Genny’s dish on the edge of the table and the tiny bits of fruit and greens cascade onto the oriental carpet. In the ensuing, momentary silence, we all hear a heart-stopping scream come from upstairs.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!”
“It’s Gigi. Quick! Someone find her.” Genny scrambles out of her chair and Gigi appears in the doorway, panting.
“There’s – a – body – hanging from the rafters in the hall. A body, Lionel! What is the meaning of this?” Gigi exclaims.
“Another prank by our dear host, I should think,” Val suggests with a wry face.
“Not a prank, Val, a riddle. Whomever can guess the identity of the dead woman upstairs will get,” I pull a wad of bills from my coat and fan them, “$50,000.”
“Oh please, don’t waste our time,” Val replies. “We’re all filthy rich. Why should we care about a mere trifle?”
“50,000 a trifle?” Genny snaps. “Even you aren’t that rich.”
“Maybe, Miss Champlaine, not everyone here is as rich as we think.”
“You mean someone’s…an imposter? I love it,” Nicos says.
“But how long do we get to establish identity?” Val says. “I mean, who comes to dinner parties with a fingerprinting kit and crime lab?”
I recline in my chair. “You shouldn’t need any of that. Make your observations, and each guest will report the identity of the victim next month before dinner starts.”
“Next month?” Val barks. “She’ll begin to smell a bit ripe, don’t you think?”
“I’ve arranged everything with the police,” I reply.
“Rather maudlin, Lionel, even for you.”
“He’s so full of himself,” Nicos affirms to Val.
“Full of something, all right.”
Genny pours a glass of wine for Gigi, who sneers at me from the other end of the table. “Drink this, and let me tell you about a wonderful cozy mystery, dear,” she says. “Murder on Monday by Ann Purser. It’s about a nosy English maid who assists the police in a murder investigation.”
Chef Sorcerer, cum Lorraine, enters to serve the entrée.
Nicos stands to inspect the contents, throws down his napkin, and marches over to me. The crystal vase on the sideboard jiggles under his weight and heft. “I demand to know why there’s no meat served at this dinner. Have you lost all your money, perhaps? Aha,” he turns to the guests. “I’ll venture that Lionel’s the millionaire-poster!”
“Oh shut up and eat,” Gigi moans, layering another coat of fiery lipstick. Guitton winks at her from across the table.
“Eat what? Why, there’s nothing but, but,” Nicos mashes his large finger obscenely around the plate, “eggplant, mushroom.” He suddenly swirls toward Chef Sorcerer and leans down toward Lorraine perched on his shoulder.
“Yes,” Val says slowly, “I was thinking it myself.”
Genny’s eyes widen. “Don’t be absurd. No one actually eats monkey.”
“I beg to differ,” Guy Guitton pipes in. “In India, I’ve eaten curried monkey stir fry, and the Chinese are enduring fans of live monkey brains.”
Nicos clangs his fork down on the porcelain plate. “I won’t eat it. Bloody freak food if you ask me.”
“Carnival food,” Val adds. “A hard working man should be able to look forward to a big, juicy steak and baked potato.”
“Work?” Gigi shrieks. “You’re never worked a day in your life!”
“No? What do you think I do all day?”
“Lounge in your silk pajamas… watching your maid polish the silverware.”
“And his ex-wives playing croquet on the lawn.” Laughter rolls out of Nicos again.
“Yes, yes, have your fun at my expense,” Val concedes. “How about I contribute my book before I strangle you all one by one. The Pillow of Lady Wisteria by Laura Joh Rowland is a delightful 17th century Japanese mystery, published by Minotaur. When the shogun's heir is murdered, Sano Ichiro is called upon to find the culprit.”
“Googel?” I yell.
“It’s Jeeves, sir.”
“Whatever, damn you. Bring in the dessert before we have pandemonium here.”
“I believe we’ve already got that.”
Then Googel and I watch as all the guests shuffle upstairs, armed with pens and notebooks to investigate the fake corpse I’ve had the audacity to rig up on the second floor rafters. And here I find myself again, alone in my dining room, my guests scurrying about the upstairs floors like rats searching for cheese, wondering if a single of one of them is expecting the best prank of all.
Another scream, this time a man’s, echoes from the second floor in full chorus.
* * * * *
So I do thank you for joining us this evening for our little monthly chat on books… and murder. And then, until next time, I am 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!