“This is simply dreadful!”
Mrs. Agnes Victoria Mugilicuddy blanched under a thick layer of rouge. Her oversized
beach hat, adorned with plastic grapes and lemons, perched askew atop her pink-hued
quaff.
Barlow, her graying manservant, placed a hand on her pointy elbow to steady her.
“Indeed, Madam. I’ll call the police.”
“The police? Why, Barlow, think of the scandal! Imagine what Imogene Rumbottom,
that busy-body who writes the Society Column, will say in her muck-raking rag
when she discovers the Viscount de Pouissant dead on my foyer floor.”
“I understand, Madam. Will you be solving this murder yourself, then?”
“I have no other choice, Barlow! Though I’m a simple dowager of advancing
years and high social standing, my feisty determination and keen eye for detail
will no doubt flush out this dastardly murderer. Where is Miss Foo-Foo, the Mystery
Cat?”
“She’s in her litter box, burying some evidence.”
“Miss Foo-Foo!” Agnes’s voice had the pitch and timbre of an
opera soprano. “Come immediately and help Mumsy solve this heinous crime!”
Miss Foo-Foo trotted into the foyer, her pendulous belly dragging along the oriental
rug. Bits of smoked salmon clung to her whiskers.
“Barlow!” Agnes commanded, clapping her liver-spotted hands together.
Barlow bent down and picked up the cat. He was five years Mrs. Agnes’s
senior, and his back cracked liked kindling with the weight of Miss Foo-Foo.
Agnes patted the cat on the head as Barlow held it. Miss Foo-Foo purred, a sound
not unlike a belch.
“We have a mystery to solve, my dearest puss-puss. If we’re to catch
the scoudrel, we must be quick of mind and fleet of foot. Barlow!”
“Yes, Madam?”
“Fetch the Mystery Kit!”
“Right away, Madam.”
Barlow turned on his heels.
“Barlow!”
Barlow turned back.
“Yes, Madam?”
“First release Miss Foo-Foo.”
“Of course, Madam.”
Barlow bent at the waist, his spine making Rice Krispie sounds. Miss Foo-Foo
padded over to Agnes and allowed herself to be patted on the head.
Straightening up was a painful affair, but Barlow managed without a grunt. He
nodded at Mrs. Agnes and left the room.
“To think,” Agnes mused, “only ten minutes ago the Viscount
was sipping tawny port and regaling us with ribald tales of the gooseberry industry.
Just a waste, Miss Foo-Foo.”
Agnes’s eyes remained dry, but she removed a handkerchief from the side
pocket on her jacket and dabbed at them nonetheless.
Barlow returned lugging a satchel, its black leather cracked with age. He undid
the tarnished clasps and held it open for Mrs. Agnes. She removed a large, Sherlock
Holmes-style magnifying glass.
“The first order of business is to establish the cause of death.” Mrs.
Agnes spoke to the cat, not to Barlow. “It’s merely a hunch, but
I’m compelled to suggest that perhaps the lovely port the Viscount had
been sipping may have been tampered with.”
“An interesting hypothesis, Madam, but perhaps instead it has something
to do with that letter opener?”
“The letter opener, Barlow?”
“The one sticking in the Viscount’s chest, Madam.”
Agnes squinted one heavily mascaraed eye and peered through the glass with the
other.
“Miss Foo-Foo, your hunch proved incorrect. The poor, dear Viscount appears
to be impaled through the heart with some kind of silver object. But what can
it be, puss-puss?”
“A letter opener, Madam?”
“Could it be a knife, Miss Foo-Foo? Perchance some rapscallion gained entry
to the den though the window, intent on robbing the rich Viscount? Perhaps a
fight ensued, resulting in the bloodthirsty criminal tragically ending the Viscount’s
life with this vaguely Freudian symbol of male power?”
Barlow peered at the body.
“It appears to be the letter opener you bought me for my anniversary, Madam.
The gift you presented to me for fifty years of loyal service.”
“Miss Foo-Foo!” Agnes bent over the fallen Viscount and lightly touched
the handle of the protruding object. “Why, this is no knife! It’s
Barlow’s letter opener! I can see the engraving.”
“‘How lucky you must feel to have served me for so many years.’” Barlow
intoned.
“This changes everything!” Mrs. Agnes placed the magnifying glass
back into the satchel, her gnarled fingers latching onto a tin of fingerprint
powder. “Some heathen must have stolen Barlow’s lovely gift–”
“Sterling silver plated,” Barlow said.
“–with the intent to frame our loyal manservant! Barlow!”
“Yes, Madam?”
“Open this tin so I must dust the offending weapon!”
“Yes, Madam.”
Mrs. Agnes used the tiny brush to liberally apply a basecoat of powder to the
letter opener’s handle.
“Why, look, puss-puss! There’s nary a print to be found! The handle
has been wiped clean!”
“Perhaps the murderer wore gloves, Madam?” Barlow reached for the
powder tin with a gloved-hand.
“Or perhaps, Miss Foo-Foo, the killer wore gloves! This fiend is no mere
street malcontent. This seems premeditated, the result of a careful and calculating
plot. But why the Viscount?”
“Perhaps he was a witness, Madam? To another murder?”
Mrs. Agnes squinted at her manservant.
“That’s daft, Barlow. Even for a lowly servant such as yourself.
Do you see another victim in this room?”
“Indeed I do, Madam.”
Barlow removed the cheese grater from his vest pocket, a gift from Mrs. Agnes
for his forty year anniversary, and spent forty minutes grating off the old dowager’s
face.
The old bat still had some life left in her after that, so he worked on her a
bit with his thirtieth-year-anniversary nutcracker, his twentieth-year-anniversary
potato peeler, and finally the fireplace poker, which wasn’t a gift, but
was handy.
When she finally expired, he flipped the gory side face-down and spent a leisurely
hour violating her corpse–something he couldn’t have managed if she
were alive and yapping. Sated, Barlow stood on creaky knees and picked up the
bored Miss Foo-Foo.
“You have a date with the microwave, puss-puss. And then I’m the
sole heir to Madam’s fortune.”
Miss Foo-Foo purred, making a sound like a belch.
Three minutes and thirteen seconds later, she made a different kind of sound.
More like a pop.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When he is not busy promoting and touring, JA KONRATH imparts his
wisdom and sense of humour to his legions of fans and new writers
on his blog and website.
His latest book RUSTY NAIL, the third book in the Jack Daniels series,
will
be available for purchase on July 6, 2006 and can be pre-ordered at Amazon.com.
"A Fistful of Cozy" was previously published in the Autumn
2004 issue of SHOTS
Magazine.
Return to Summer 2006 Table of Contents
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