Aachoo Voo, Private Eye: 07/24/21

Aachoo Voo, Private Eye

Episode 18

The King of Things and The Butler That Didn't Do It

It was trying to rain, then it did, then it stopped. It was frustrating. I wondered if I should take my umbrella but I didn't so I got drenched and ran back to my apartment and grabbed it just in time for it to stop raining so I was stuck carrying the darned thing with me all day long. The sun was bright and shiny by the time I got to my new convertible parked on the lot of The King of Things Collectibles and Curiosities Shop. Terry Wayne Elliottt was the owner of the place and a part-time pal of mine. He let me park there for free and yes, he spelled his last name with three ts. He was eccentric to the core but was an interesting character with his wild mop of curly brown hair and coyote blue eyes. He was a teller of tall and short tales and a songwriter of unique and humorous songs. You never knew if he was making things up or relating reality but he always threw in a million details to make everything convincing and he never, ever forgot anything! Not even what he wore to school on a Friday in second grade one June or what his school teacher's cousin's unmarried daughter's first and only boyfriend's name was.

It was Earnest. (The boyfriend's name was Earnest.) And he went to Canada after graduation and got run over by a herd of moose and died calling Becky's name. (The unmarried daughter's name.) I didn't know Becky or Earnest of course and really didn't care but T Wayne (I called him T Wayne just to irritate him) insisted on recalling all of the gory and strangely funny details of these people's lives as he did with everyone he had ever met. I could only wonder concerning the stories he told about me. I knew he did, complete with sound effects and the same cartoon vocalizations he did for everybody. Everyone was a looney tune by the time he got through mimicking them. He was a maker of new stuff and a restorer of old stuff and his large shop was crammed with everything from broken radios to Egyptian mummies.

When I got to my car I bent to take off the galoshes I had put on when it looked like rain and to my shock realized I hadn't put on any shoes! I was standing there dressed in a very nice suit, hat, gloves and red lipstick because I was due shortly to see a very wealthy and well respected Fifth Avenue client (I knew this because she told me) that had just found her butler dead of a gunshot wound in the butler's pantry. It did not appear to be a suicide so the butler couldn't have done it. (Sorry, I just couldn't resist.) The lady was in a panic and insisted that I come and look things over before she called the cops. I was trying to dress to impress as most women do and there I was with no matching shoes, no shoes at all!

Just at that moment, Mr. Elliottt pulled into the lot and parked in his private parking place that had a sign that said Unless Your Car Is Invisible Do Not Park Here and sat there looking at me in my finery and bare feet. He grinned and shook his head and said "And what catastrophe has befallen you this fine morning, Miss Voo?" He said it like it was a usual and familiar regular occurrence and of course it was in my life so I just shrugged and smiled, "I seem to have lost my slippers, Sir and I'm going to be late to the ball." "Never fear, Terrence Waynewrite is here!" he said, referring to himself as Terrence Waynewrite as he often did. I think it gave him a sense of grandeur and respectability or something and detracted from the fact that most people just called him a "junk man." He hopped out of his old new car, opened the trunk and nodded at a bunch of shoe boxes that he had just acquired at an estate sale. Along with a dinosaur bone and one of Dorothy Lamour's jungle girl wigs. And a broken Cuckoo clock missing it's cuckoo.

"I think I have just what you need!" And he certainly did. Beautiful expensive red shoes that fit me perfectly. He had bought twelve pairs for six dollars even though they looked to be worth hundreds. But that was what he was good at: Wheeling and dealing. He was a master mind at it or just plain danged lucky. I gave him a hug and thanked him profusely and drove away in a mad rush to get to my appointment. He waved at me and shouted "Now, I want those shoes back when you get through with them! I didn't say you could have them!" The jerk!

When I arrived at the tastefully appointed Fifth Avenue penthouse which resembled more of a luxurious mansion than an apartment, I was ushered inside by a weeping maid drying her eyes on a pretty lace apron and led into a drawing room that was big enough to land a plane in. There were drawings all over the walls, most of which had been "drawn" by very famous "drawers" as MiMi Voo called painters. A virtual art museum. Sitting on a plum colored velvet sofa was a somewhat large, well dressed older woman who looked me over and gave me a small wry approving smile. "How do you do...Miss...Voo, is it?" "Yes Ma'am." I answered quietly, meeting her eyes. "It's a french name." (I didn't know if that was true or not, I just made it up on the spur of the moment in sudden panic.) She nodded and motioned for me to take a seat.

"Would you like some tea?" But before I could reply, she let out a sound between a sob and a groan and said, "Oh, I forgot! Dinkle has gone and gotten himself murdered! In the butler's pantry of all places! But then I suppose one could say that the butler's pantry is an appropriate place for a butler to die in as he spent a great deal of time there. Butlering and playing his banjo and awaiting my bell and so forth." She kept rambling for some seven minutes but I had tuned her out and was watching the ever changing emotions on the maid's face. "Beatrice, would you bring us some tea, please, since Mr. Dinkle is indisposed....I mean...dead....I mean.. oh, dear!!!! Whatever shall we do without Mr. Dinkle? Oh, dear, oh, dear!"

The maid fled the room while my potential client reclined herself and put a white handkerchief over her pale face. I wandered about the room wondering if I really wanted to accept this case and if the boys downtown were going to try to bring me in on this one when I hadn't even seen the victim yet and had never met anyone named Dinkle in my whole life. But I supposed they eventually would at some point. It seemed to be mandatory and expected. I cleared my throat. "Ma'am, where is the victim located, if you don't mind?" She fluttered the hankie and moaned "Oh, do get Beatrice to show you to the pantry when she brings in the tea. I can't bear to see him again like that. And the banjo...! Oh, it's terrible! Oh, dear!" "Who found him?" I quickly asked while I had the opportunity. "Well, Beatrice did, of course. This morning at seven. I wasn't up yet and she came screaming, waking up the entire household and..."

"How many people live here, Ma'am?" "Oh, there are several of us here! Nelson and David. Monica and Swan. Oh, and by the way, I'm Mrs. Rockefeather. I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself, did I?" "Did you say Rockefeller?" I asked, surprised. How had I missed that? Had I just heard Fifth Avenue and not even gotten the lady's name? Oh, dear, indeed! "No. Miss...Voo, is it? It's Rockefeather, Mrs. Shadrach Rockefeather. He's dead of course, like Mr. Dinkle....." and she trailed off in moans and tears as the maid entered with the silver tea set and proceeded to serve us both.

After the scones and tea which proved to be delightful, I was taken to a room off the main kitchen area by another maid who remained nameless. She wore a haughty expression and kept mumbling under her breath but I could never make out what she mumbled. She opened a door for me and stood back out of sight while I entered the partitioned room. In the first half, there were several shelves full of tea sets and trays and various and sundry accoutrements for the proper butler. (I realize that I say sundry a lot but I rather like that word and will probably continue to use it.) Off to the back there were pipes and books and a small chair in one nook along with a radio and a pair of reading glasses resting on an open book titled "Everything I Learned About Being a Proper Butler I learned From a Proper Butler." The pages were well worn and turned at the corner and diligently studied, I surmised.

To the left of the chair splayed out on an ancient but un-frayed rug lay the body of Mr. Dinkle and to his left laid a smashed up banjo. There was a small neat hole precisely in the center of his pristine white pocket handkerchief. It hardly looked like a bullet hole and you wouldn't think it was except for the puddle of red stuff that had pooled around him from the back. He had a decidedly surprised look on his face, one white gloved hand stuck up in front of him as though in protest of an intrusion and there was a cup of spilled tea overturned on the lap of the chair. I was sure that he would have been very disapproving of that. This had been his little domain, his getaway off the main and proper butler's pantry and it was immaculate. I felt like I wanted to apologize to him for the mess the killer had made of his haven.

I looked at the angles, smelled the odor of cordite still permeating the air, and silently surveyed everything I thought I ought. There was no gun to be found in the room and no suicide note. There was a half-eaten scone and the beginnings of a letter that had drifted off behind the chair that said: My Dear Mrs....and that was all. I didn't know if it was to a wife or his employer or a fan letter to Joan Crawford. There was a certificate of some kind on the wall given in appreciation to a Mr. Butler Q. Dinkle. His first name was Butler?! A butler named Butler?! Or was that a title? I didn't understand the smashed banjo. Had it happened before or afterwards? He hadn't fallen upon it. He had no head injuries. Yet the banjo had been destroyed. And who would have wanted to destroy a poor old proper family butler? What had he possibly done to bring about such a demise? "I'm sorry, old fella." I whispered and backed out of the room quietly only to crash into the nameless, haughty maid who screeched and scurried away.

I found my way back to the drawing room and Mrs. Rockefeather who had been joined now by the aforementioned Nelson, David, Monica and Swan. They stared at me like I had four eyes and Mrs. Rockefeather sat up and said, "Now Children, let me introduce you to Miss...uh.. Voo, is it? Yes, Miss Voo, who has come highly recommended to me by my good friend, Mrs. Devonshire Davenport." (Oh, good lord no! Not that lunatic!) And I nodded at each of them as they glanced at me then averted their eyes. They were all middle aged and unattractive individuals but finely dressed and surrounded with an air of old money and privilege. The La Di Da Hoity Toity crowd I so despised. The old woman seemed almost normal compared to her spoiled offspring.

But then I was informed that she was the step-mother and not the actual producer of these spawn of Belial. That explained things. It soon became clear also that they hated their step-mother with thinly disguised passion. So I immediately took her side and began interrogating the lot of them with renewed interest. In a matter of minutes they hated me twice as much as they hated her. Though Nelson kept giving me winks and looks that made me feel soiled and solidified his position as the Dirty Old Man of the family. He tried to come close but I kept my distance. I wished MiMi was there to put the fear of God in him. I tried to be tough but there was no competition with her. She could make Teddy Roosevelt un-CHARGE in retreat!

"Do you think it was a burglar, Miss.. uh.. Voo?" Mrs. Rockefeather finally asked above the din her step-monsters were making over in the corner. "No, Ma'am." I said decidedly. "There's no evidence of that whatsoever. It was an inside job. Someone in this very room did it." Which was a major mistake on my part for the room grew eerily silent and the level of hatred took the form of a tidal wave and swept over me like a hurricane. Mrs. Rockefeather gasped and pretended to faint though she couldn't quite pull it off and began to sob "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Whatever shall I do?" "Call the police, ma'am." I said crossing the room. "And whatever you do, do Not mention my name! I'll call you later and tell you what I know." (I didn't know nothing.) I glanced back to see her sprawled half on and half off the plum sofa with the hankie covering her distraught face and sighed. Then I hurried out of that place as fast as my newly shod feet could carry me, leaving Mrs. Shadrach Rockefeather to her own fate, something I would forever regret.

I took off my borrowed shoes and slipped them inside the door of The King of Things Shop and crept up the way to my apartment building wearing my galoshes and still carrying my red umbrella. I had carried the stupid thing around all day with me, even to Mrs. Rockefeather's apartment. But I had left my purse in the front seat of the car! I remembered setting the umbrella down to drink my tea and had forgotten about it but someone had thrust it at me after I'd hurried away down the hallway and across the foyer. But who was it? I didn't know! Was it a maid or a family member? My back had been turned as I'd made my exit and the umbrella had been pushed out of the half closed door and I'd grabbed it and ran. And luckily for me because it began to sprinkle before I got to the front entrance of LeFevre Arms and home. It wasn't until later while I was putting it away that I noticed the very wet stain on my very red umbrella. Redder than the rest of the red and undoubtedly blood. Curses! Foiled again! I wrapped it in a towel and put it in the closet until I could think clearly upon the matter. I was too tired and too damp to deal with it just then.

The next day brought both good and bad news to my doorstep. I was making coffee and feeding all the beasties when Lance knocked softly on the side door that I invariably forgot to lock and slipped in beaming and bearing gifts. "Hello, Beautiful!" he smiled, "How's my favorite girl?" I raised an eyebrow at him and handed him a plate of eggs and bacon but he set it aside and pulled me into his arms. "Long time no see." I murmured as he kissed my neck and tried to un-belt my pink bathrobe. "No, no, no!" I warned and pulled away. "God knows where those hands have been!" I set two plates of food down on the small dinette table and hurried to pour two mugs of coffee. "Get the paper, will ya?" I ordered sweetly and he went to the front door obediently and came back carrying the morning paper and the pair of slightly used red shoes. He gave me a look and handed them over. Stuck inside one shoe was a note from Terrence/T Wayne Elliottt that said... I was only KIDDING! You can have them! haha. The darling! Wonderful! Then I opened the paper and gasped in horror. MATRIARCH OF ROCKEFEATHER FAMILY STABBED BY UNKNOWN OBJECT DIES AT AGE 80. Then I dropped to the floor in a perfectly graceful faint that Mrs. Rockefeather would have been proud of.