Note: This story includes characters that I introduced here and here.
The sign on my door says, “J.P. Worthett, Private Investigations.” Last month I had three clients and they all stiffed me on their bills. Today I don’t have any clients so I figure I’m losing less money. I pulled the bottle of bourbon from my desk drawer and poured a shot to celebrate. Just then the door creaked open.
In bounced a blustery brute bearing a meat cleaver. I started to reach for my gun when I remembered I hocked it to replenish my supply of bourbon. So I reached for my shot glass instead. “Worthett,” he bellowed, “I am Chef Keillor. You must help me!”
I sipped the bourbon. “Easy there, big fella. Of course I’ll help you. Whose chef did you kill?” I focused on his eyes — as much as I could focus on anything — and resisted the urge to stare at the cleaver as he waved it about.
He appeared confused. “No,” he said, “my name is Chef Keillor. I kill no one, but they say I do!”
Suddenly there was commotion behind him and four beauties burst in all babbling at once.
“I guess it can’t hurt to ask if –”
“– helped us so much before –”
“– the best investigator in the whole –”
“– I’m hungry!”
Pearl and her daughters Amber, Opal, and Ruby crowded in. Women of my dreams. Sort of. I pulled myself to a standing position. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Worthett!” they chorused. I wonder if they practice that?
“You know the killer chef I take it?” I dropped back into my chair.
“I kill no one!” Keillor insisted, but the way he waved that cleaver around I figure he might have chopped someone to pieces and not even noticed.
Pearl took charge. Thankfully, she also took the cleaver away from the chef. “Worthett, we want to hire you to clear the name of our good friend here, Chef Keillor.”
She placed the cleaver on my desk and I quickly transferred it to inside the top drawer. Then I took another sip of bourbon, just to settle my nerves. Beautiful women always unsettle my nerves.
“Who did he kill? I asked, and as Keillor opened his mouth to protest his innocence yet again I halted him with an upraised hand. “Cool it there, Cookie. If the lovely Pearl here is going to pay the bill I want to hear her version of the story first. Then we’ll throw yours at the wall and see what sticks.” Opal giggled and her sisters elbowed her in the ribs to quiet her. I turned my attention back to Pearl.
“Thank you,” Pearl proffered a tight-lipped smile. “No one actually died, but there were a considerable number of cases of rather severe intestinal distress the day after our dinner party last week.” So this is as much for your reputation as it is for the chef’s. “Chef Keillor catered the affair for us and now some of our guests are insinuating that he poisoned them.” This time she stopped the open-mouthed Keillor with a touch on his sleeve. “Which, of course, is nonsense. He can hardly build up his business if he kills all his clients.”
Don’t I know it! My P.I. career got off to a rocky start. “Who was at this dinner party?”
“Oh, everyone in our social circle. Luna Callander and her daughters, April, May, and June. Kay Butler and her daughters, Bee-bee, Cee-cee, and Dee-dee. My girls’ fiancés, of course, Thomas, Richard, and Harold. Did I mention this was a triple engagement party? My babies are all getting married!” Opal giggled again and all three of the younger women blushed.
“Congratulations, Ma’am,” I said to Pearl. “And best wishes to each of you,” I winked at the girls inspiring another blush. “I’m sure the lucky gentlemen must all be quite special.” I turned to Keillor. “What was on the menu, chef?”
I thought the buttons on his shirt, already under considerable strain, were going to pop off as he swelled with pride. “My specialty, red herring surprise.”
My gut told me that was no clue. Also that it was glad I wasn’t at that dinner. “And you say everyone got sick the next day?”
He deflated like a falling soufflé. “Sadly, it seems so. But it couldn’t have been my food. It’s my specialty.”
I thought he was going to cry right there in front of us. I can’t stand to see a grown man cry, so I remained seated and sipped my bourbon. “What day was your shindig?” I asked Pearl. I refrained from opining that my invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. We all know I’ve never been part of their social circle.
“Friday. We all missed the downtown gallery opening on Saturday.”
Something clicked. I rooted through the wastebasket for last week’s newspapers. Finally, a reason to be glad I couldn’t afford a cleaning service. I found the society page I was looking for and held it up for the crowd in my office to see. “Not everyone was too sick to attend the gallery opening, it seems.” There was a communal gasp and then they all started talking at once.
“Of all the nerve –”
“– get my hands on those strumpets –”
“– knew they were jealous –”
“– can we eat now?”
I stood and raised my hands. “Hold on, now, hold on.” When they quieted I sat and downed the rest of my bourbon. “This isn’t iron-clad proof. I’ll be glad to look into this further for you.” In the newspaper photo the fresh-faced femme fatales Bee-bee, Cee-cee, and Dee-dee smiled up at us. “Still,” I concluded, “I think we can be pretty sure… the Butlers did it.”
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