MURDER by DEATH

                     by Lisa Polisar

November/December 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 (occasionally calls himself Jeeves)

Ø      Genevieve Champlaine, Editor of the London Times (nickname: “the
   whiner”)

Ø      Bull Dogger, a rodeo clown

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”)

We are somewhat of a book club, I suppose, of the absolute loftiest kind.  Set within an atmosphere of pernicious backstabbing and biting sarcasm, we (on occasion) manage to report on different kinds of mystery novels, and other times, well...let’s just say that last month’s discussion about “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” was particularly fitting. 

Tonight’s Guest Chef is none other than a real Texas cowboy who will treat us to authentic cowboy chuck wagon cuisine.  Sound divine?  Well don’t get too excited.  With four mentally unstable guests, a blind butler and a rodeo clown, I’m sure we’re in for some extraordinary madness.

*

“What in God’s name are you doing?” I ask Googel, who is staring vacantly into the dining room. 

From three feet behind, I hear the sound of breaking glass.   

“Googel?” I insist.  “What’s going on in there?” 

“I can’t tell for sure, sir, but I’m almost certain –” 

Three antique bone china plates crash onto the floor from the mantel.

 “-that there’s a cowboy twirling a lasso.” 

“In - the dining room???  Get him the hell out of there!”

 “You sir,” Googel shouts, extending a finger at the candlesticks on the table…

 Gigi and Genny, gasping in the doorway, swoop in like starving vultures:

            “Oh my God-”

            “Could it be-”

            “It’s… the Marlboro Man!”

            “The Lone Ranger!” 

“No it isn’t – he’s got no mask on.  And where’s Tonto?  I don’t see a horse.”           

“Idiot.  Tonto was the Indian.”   

The lasso grabs hold of the flower centerpiece on the table and propels it against the far wall. 

“Lionel,” Val begins, “are you aware that there’s a cowboy in your dining room?” 

Nicos (singing):  “I’ve got spuuuuuurs…that jingle jangle jing—” 

“Shut up!” 

“He’s got a gun in his hand!!” Nicos screams.  “Quick!  Down on the floor.”  He grabs Gigi around the waist and pulls her down on top of him. 

“Let go of me, you smarmy Mediterranean swine!”  She wriggles out of his grasp, cracks him one across the cheek and pulls herself to her feet.  “It’s just a toy for God’s sake.  Don’t be such a wussy.” 

            Here we go.  “WHAT did you call me?” 

The cowboy clomps over to her, his boots and spurs clicking on the marble floor.  “Actually, ma’am, this is a Colt .45.”  He smiles.  “Fully loaded.” 

“L-l-l-loaded?” 

The cowboy tips his hat and takes two steps toward her.  “You don’t have to worry, darlin’.  You’re always safe with a cowboy around.” 

Gigi swoons, as the cowboy leans down and kisses her hand. 

“Give me a break,” Val groans.  “His hat’s too big, his belt buckle’s the size of a…serving platter, and he probably bathes twice a year.” 

Genny: “Well that’s one up from you.  You only bathe when people stop inviting you to parties.” 

“No one actually INVITES him, dear,” Gigi whispers.  “He just sort of keeps appearing like one of those terrible skin rashes.” 

Val, disgusted, sits down at the table. 

“How’s your taxidermy venture going?  Bring any souvenirs with you this month?” Genny inquires. 

Val, grinning, pulls a stuffed opossum out of a rumpled bag and sets it on the table facing her.             

“Good Lord, what did you stuff it with?  Rotten meat?”  

“Ah, a mascot.  We need one of those,” Nicos says slamming his empty goblet on the table.  “We’ll call him…” 

“Him?  Why can’t it be a girl-opossum?  Is there an etiquette about naming dead rodents?” 

“Nigel!  That’s it.  Splendid name for a –” 

“Imbeciles,” I say.  “All of you, sit down and shut up.  It’s time to properly introduce our guest chef for this evening.” 

“I’m sure we can all see the broken china from his magic lasso.” 

“It’s a lariat.” 

“Lasso.” 

“Lariat!” 

I feel my right eye begin to twitch.  “Let me remind you TODDLERS that I’ve got a loaded shotgun in the closet.  Now… may I present a real Texas cowboy – Trigger Lewis.  He’ll be preparing an authentic cowboy range-supper for us tonight.” 

“Howdy,” says Trigger, tipping his hat to both women. 

Val and Nicos sit back and fold their arms.  “Real cowboy?” Val says.  “How do we know?” 

Trigger sits at the far end of the table.  “Well, golly.  What kind of proof do you need?” 

Val stands and walks closer to him, squints his eyes, sniffs the air, and looks under the table.  “You got spurs on?” 

“Yessir.  And I reckon they jingle just fine, too.”  Trigger winks at Gigi, whose tongue is hanging out of her mouth. 

“How about boots?  And not those sissy boots that are all shiny and new but –” 

Gigi raises her hand.  “Ohhhhh, yes.  He’s got spurs, boots, hat, chaps, and a gun.  God help me.”  She fans herself with her napkin.   

“Quick,” Nicos says, “pour ice water down her shirt, or she might just burst into flames.” 

“Well, I’ll excuse myself then and finish preparing supper.”  Trigger Lewis walks off very slowly toward the hallway.  Gigi follows his every move with her eyes, leaning her head down lower and lower toward the table as he vanishes around the corner.   

Nicos is staring angrily at his drink.  “Would you mind getting your hair out of my vodka tonic?  I’m sure there’re enough chemicals in that mop to start an explosion.” 

“Bite me.”  

I laugh and slap my hands together.  “Ah, the fun begins!”

*

I hear Googel clomp down the hall and open the front door a crack.  “Yes?” Googel says.  “Yes, sir.  Indeed, sir, do come in.”  When I glance back, Googel’s standing in the doorway with a rodeo clown.  “May I present tonight’s special guest, Mr. Bull Dogger,” he announces. 

Four mouths hang open and you could hear a pin drop on the marble floor.  Then come the shrieks of laughter.  

“A circus clown?” 

“Is he a trapeze artist?” 

“For God’s sake does he LOOK like one?  He’s got a red rubber nose.” 

Mr. Dogger slinks into the dining room, looks around at the furnishings and rolls his eyes.  “Anyone wanna play bull?” 

Gigi leaps out of her chair.  “I do I do!!” 

Good God, not THIS again.   

            “Hey Trigger, where’s your horse?” Bull Dogger yells into the kitchen.  Chef Trigger Lewis emerges with flour on his hands.   

            Gigi jumps to his side.  “What are you making in there?” she whispers. 

            “Rocky mountain oysters,” Trigger replies. 

            “Oh I LOVE seafood!!” 

            Trigger and Bull Dogger exchange dubious glances.  “Roy’s just out back.” 

            “Roy??” Gigi shrieks.  “That’s your horse???”  

            Val shakes his head.  “A cowboy named Trigger and a horse named Roy.” 

“You know, this whole scene has a rather alarming resemblance to Saturday Night Live.” 

            “My parents had a sense of humor,” Trigger replies.  

            “Either that or they were lobotomized…”  Gigi elbows Val in the ribs.         

Googel seats Mr. Dogger beside Ms. Champlaine.  “May I use your facilities first?” he says.  Googel shows him down the hall. 

            “What about playing bull???” Gigi whines.  “I wanna be the matador this time.”

 Trigger Lewis returns with a large tray in his hands.  “Dinner is served,” Googel announces. 

“Lemme guess, Beef Jerky and whiskey?” 

Nicos stands at the helm.  “Who can name this week’s fiction bestsellers?” 

Gigi sneers.  “You don’t actually think we reduce ourselves to newspapers, do you?” 

Trigger Lewis sets plates of food in front of each guest.  Val stares down at it.  “You mean to tell me I drove forty miles for franks and beans?  Bloody hell!” 

“You’ve already eaten twice your body weight today,” Gigi notes. 

Nicos: “Blowfly by Patricia Cornwell…”

Genny: “The Da Vinci Code’s still on there, isn’t it?  CNN just did a special on it.  Glad I’m not reading THOSE emails this morning.  And that hot new Grisham release Bleachers, which I’m positively DYING to read.”

“Dying?  Don’t tease us like that, dear.”

Genny turns sharply toward Gigi.  “You know, you seem to get more foul every time I see you.  How about laying a bit of duct tape over your lips for once????”

Val and Nicos widen their eyes with boyish interest.  “Ca-a-a-a-a-t fight?  Come on ladies, we got close last month, didn’t we?  How about it then?  Five minutes is all we’d need.  Tell you what,” Val rubs his hands together, “you don’t even need to take off ALL your clothes.”

“That’s right,” Nicos adds, “just a small dose of screeching, squealing, slapping and scratching would do, following by touching of course.”

Gigi throws down her napkin.  “You know, there are decent, socially acceptable ways of satisfying pent-up sexual urges, you two.  It’s called D-A-T-I-N-G.  Why don’t you try it sometime?”

“Dating?” Genny barks.  “Just look at them.  They’d have to pay for it and, well, Nicos is far too cheap and Val wouldn’t know the first place to look.”

“For a hooker???  Don’t think I’ve never gone down that road.  Insolent tart.”

I clink my fork on the edge of my crystal glass for attention.  “Just noting how quickly our conversation has degraded this month.  Speaking of cowboys –”

“-I didn’t know we were.”

“I read a fantastic cowboy article in the New York Times called Ranching 101: Hey Dude, Where’s my Herd.”

Trigger nods at me.  “I read that too.  It’s about a dude ranch for city slickers,” scanning the table, “like y’all, I reckon.”

Nicos: “A cowboy that reads the Times?  Next you’ll be telling us you read The New Yorker.”

Val turns to him.  “I’ll have you know, dear boy, that cowboys were the sociologists of the barren plains.  Self-educated, yes, but they were poets, philosophers, songwriters…”

Gigi: “Where’d you hear that, fatty?  Rehab?  Stick to what you know you best –drinking and freeloading.”

The doorbell rings.

“Answer the door, Googel,” I say.

“It’s the police, sir.”

“What the devil for?”

“I didn’t do it,” Val says.

Trigger Lewis clomps back into the dining room with his spurs on.  “Reckon on account of the dead rodeo clown in your foyer.”

“What?????  The rodeo clown’s dead????”

“We didn’t get to play bull.”

“No more Bull Dog.”

“Now it’s Dead Dog.”

“Have some respect, would you?”  

*

            Back in the dining room, the guests start shoveling down their beans, corn bread and chipped beef, seemingly unaffected by the corpse in the foyer.  Googel’s annoying the police inspector by his favorite “Who’s on First” routine and Trigger Lewis is in the corner of the dining room playing the harmonica.

            Nicos, setting his fork down, stands and starts pacing.  “Who was alone with him?”

            “Who?”

            “The rodeo clown!  We were all sitting at the table when it happened.”

            Val scorned.  “How’d you know that?  Someone could have whacked him in the kitchen and dragged his body into the foyer.”

            “What about poison?” Gig said in her sensuous voice.  “The most sheepish of all M.O.’s.”

            “I don’t believe he ate or drank anything dear,” I comment. 

            “Who on earth would kill a rodeo clown?” Genny pipes in.  “I mean, really.  A drug smuggler, sure.  Mobster, loan shark, prostitute…”

            Val scratches his head.  “So you’re saying the profession of rodeo clown is not sufficiently glamorous to inspire something as sexy as … murder?”

            “Precisely.”  She slaps her hand on the table.  “Cowboys, well, certainly.”  Gigi glances at Trigger.  “Some more than others.”

            “Much obliged, ma’am, but I didn’t kill the rodeo clown if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

            Nicos, topping off his cocktail with the last of the gin, swigs the entire glass in one gulp.  “What about Googel?”

            “Highly unlikely,” I say.  “I was watching him the whole time.”

            “Where is he now?”

            I stare into the foyer but don’t see him.  “He was there just a second ago, with the pol—” but an alarming image stops my flow of speech as I move cautiously into the foyer.

            The police inspector is lying dead in the foyer beside the rodeo clown, and now Googel’s nowhere in sight!

            The butler did it?  Please!

* * * * *

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!

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