THE CASE OF THE CUFF LINK KILLER

A Lovable Rogue Mystery

By

David Biagini

It was called the decade of greed. I called it the decade of style. It was the 1980s, a time of ugly excess and undisciplined capitalism, of avaricious acquisitions and unrepentant cupidity. But it was also the return of dressing for dinner, single-malt scotches, and a general embracing of le bon vie.

As the decade unfolded, I found myself embracing le bon vie in San Francisco, then a glimmering jewel set in the cast of the Pacific Ocean, a city filled with character and characters, pretenses and pretensions, humor and humanity. Well, at times it fell short of humanity. But that's where I came in.

I suppose there is some distinction in being murdered in one of the largest houses in San Francisco. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was attending a dinner party in honor of Ramon Gutierrez Pardo Sanchez the new head of the Peruvian Consulate General in The City. By the way, we locals refer to San Francisco as “The City” so that’s what I’ll call it from now on if you don’t mind. The party was being thrown in a twenty-four thousand square-foot private residential compound on Broadway Street in the Pacific Heights neighborhood. The compound was large enough to get lost in if you didn’t have a map. Oh, and in case you don’t know, Pacific Heights is one of the most expensive neighborhoods in The City.

Over two-dozen people had been invited to the party, mostly movers and shakers, and the place was shaking like a palm tree in a hurricane. A few members of the press had also been invited to insure proper coverage in the gossip columns. The City’s upper crust never missed a chance to let the world know of their good deeds. Tallam’s was catering the event and their staff were silently going about their jobs. Good caterers are only noticed when you want them to be noticed.

I attended the party wearing a dashing dark gray 6-in-2 double breasted suit made of Super 120s wool and crafted by my favorite Roman tailor. A white dress shirt, solid pale blue silk tie, and solid dark blue pocket square completed my look. Oh, and I was wearing black John Lobb oxford shoes that shined liked a Bugatti at the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance. Style, you either have it or you don’t, and if you have it, you have it all the time.

“Winston Churchill! How did you get invited to this bash?”

I turned to face Chappers Carrington, a bubbly socialite recently promoted to the upper echelons of The City’s party goers. His inclusion in the guest list for this bash was quite a feather in his cap. Well, he wasn’t exactly wearing a cap. Instead, he wore a navy blue bespoke single-breasted suit that by its cut looked as if it had been tailored on Savile Row. It was not a bad look. His light brown hair was slicked back over his coconut-shaped head. The last time I saw him he was attempting to grow a mustache. Fortunately, he had abandoned that endeavor.

“The same way you did,” I answered. “By being a bon vivant and a man of style and distinction.”

“Right you are!” Chappers said, enthusiastically patting my shoulder.

He grinned and looked around for a drink. A waiter from Tallam’s passed by with a drink tray and Chappers scooped a glass of vodka off of it. The waiter’s annoyed glance was like that of a cat receiving an unwanted petting. I believe the drink had been intended for someone else. The waiter, a tall man wearing small gaudy fake ruby earrings, hurried off before anyone else could poach a glass from his tray.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing earrings let alone cheap ones like that,” Chappers said, nodding toward the departing waiter. He poured the entire drink into his mouth. His face suddenly turned the color of smoldering ashes and he coughed like a dying steam engine.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He grabbed his throat and moved his head from side to side. My first thought was that he had been poisoned.

“Damn, that’s good vodka,” he said after recovering from the drink’s shock.

As it turned out, the vodka was only the first shock of the evening. Robert Gonzalez, another acquaintance of mine and another well-dressed bon vivant, suddenly shoved his way through the crowd. He was out of breath by the time he reached us. His face was as white as fresh milk.

“Robert, what is it?” I asked.

“In the bathroom,” he gasped, pointing behind him.

“What’s in the bathroom?” Chappers asked, his voice still a bit rough. “Besides a toilet.”

Robert looked at Chappers. Then he looked at me. It was a strange look. He took another deep breath.

“A body,” he said. “There’s a dead body in the bathroom.”

“Cheese and crackers!” the P. D. shouted. “Winston Churchill, what are you doing here? Can’t I investigate a murder without you turning up?”

If you’ve been following my exploits then you know that I refer to this particular San Francisco police detective as the “Polyester Detective”, or “P. D.” for short, because of his penchant for wearing ugly polyester suits. If you haven’t been following my exploits, don’t worry there’s still time to catch up. In the meantime, I will tell you that my previous encounters with him have been as up and down as the streets of San Francisco. Would this encounter be up or down? We shall see.

“It’s not intentional,” I said. “I was simply enjoying a nice party.”

“And I was enjoying a nice dinner,” he grumbled. He then looked around the room like a bloodhound onto a scent. “Where’s the body?” he barked.

“In that bathroom,” I said, pointing to a door down a hallway to his right.

He immediately marched toward it with a colleague in tow. I followed him; Robert and Chappers followed me.

“Which one of you found the body?” the P. D. asked.

“I did,” Robert mumbled. He leaned against a wall. His face had taken on the pale greenish tint of fresh guacamole. I thought he was going to be sick. I would have hated to see him soil his nice bespoke double-breasted suit. The P. D. looked at him the way a stockbroker looks at a dodgy stock.

“Are you going to be okay?” the P. D. asked.

Robert nodded and pulled himself together. He wiped the sweat from his face with a silk handkerchief and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair, strands of which had fallen over his forehead.

Larry Tomkins, another frequent party goer, pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers and joined us. He removed his tortoise shell spectacles, wiped the lenses clean with his silk handkerchief, and placed them back over his ears and nose.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Someone’s been murdered,” Chappers whispered back. His excitement rivaled that of a young boy about to receive a birthday present.

“Murdered?” Larry whispered.

“Well, someone’s dead. I guess we don’t know yet if he’s been murdered. Robert found the body.”

“You don’t say?” Larry whispered a bit louder.

“Tell me what happened,” the P. D. said to Robert. He wasn’t whispering.

“I went to use the facilities and when I opened the door, I saw the body,” Robert explained.

“Then what did you do?”

“I left and told my friends. Then Winston called you.”

The P. D. leaned over the body. It was the body of a young man. His collar was unbuttoned, and his tie was loose.

“It looks like he’s been strangled,” he said to his colleague. The marks around the victim’s neck were a dead giveaway.

“What’s that in his mouth?” I asked.

The P. D. turned around and stuck his face into mine.

“Mind your own business. This is a crime scene. Now scram!”

“Just trying to help,” I said.

“I think we have it under control,” the P. D. snapped. Was that sarcasm in his voice? If it was, I ignored it.

He then asked his colleague to remove the item from the victim’s mouth. His colleague, an older man who appeared to be near retirement, did as he was told and held the object up to the light. The sleeves of his awful brown polyester suit stretched and made a noise as if they were coming undone. I have always wondered if it was mandatory for San Francisco police detectives to wear polyester suits. But I digress…

“That’s a cuff link,” I said.

“A cuff link?” the P. D. said.

“Yes, it’s one of those things…”

“I know what a cuff link is!” the P. D. growled. “What was it doing in his mouth?”

“Perhaps the killer was trying to button his lips,” I said.

Chappers and Larry could not contain their laughter.

“Very funny,” the P. D. said. “Very, very funny. I’m glad you can laugh in front of a dead body.”

Chappers and Larry stopped laughing, blushed, and turned away.

“Now get out of here! All of you!”

“May I take a closer look at that cuff link before I go?” I asked.

The P. D. frowned but agreed. Our previous exploits together had given him a small amount of appreciation for my investigative skills. His colleague held the cuff link in front of my face to give me a better view. The P. D. watched me carefully.

“It’s a Mickey Mouse cuff link,” I said.

“What do you mean Micky Mouse?” the P. D. asked.

“There’s an image of Mickey Mouse on it,” I replied.

The P. D. grabbed the cuff link and examined it closely. His colleague grabbed it back and also examined it.

“It’s a Mickey Mouse cuff link alright,” his colleague agreed.

“So it is,” the P. D. said. He turned to me. “Now get out of here. Even though I don’t want to, I’m going to have talk to you later. You and your friends.”

I was sure he would. I turned and I was gone.

In case you don’t know, there is an “official” opera season opening gala and then there are the “unofficial” private parties thrown by The City’s upper crust. They claim to throw these parties to celebrate the start of the opera season, but the real reason is for them to show off their wealth. Despite their pretentiousness, they are usually good parties and if you are ever fortunate enough to be invited to one, I highly recommend you accept the invitation.

The unofficial party that I had been invited to was being held at a mansion on Broadway Street just a few blocks away from the previous party. I had learned from the P. D. that the murder victim from that party had been an up-and-coming banker named Jules Stein and that he had indeed been strangled as the P. D. had first surmised. The Mickey Mouse cuff link was the only clue and it wasn’t getting the P. D. very far in his investigation.

But that was his problem, not mine. I had a party to attend. My chauffeur, James, drove me to the bash in what in my opinion is the world’s most beautiful automobile: a 1963 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud III. If you've been following my exploits, then you know how I obtained it. If you haven’t been following them, shame on you. But I’ll tell you anyway. When the previous owner’s limousine business fell upon hard times, he got the insurance money and I got the Rolls. An equitable arrangement all around, don’t you think?

This party was going to be another modest affair of around forty people. The caterers had been instructed to dress as famous opera characters in order to set the proper mood. I recognized one of the waiters as the man with the earrings who had served us our drinks at the party for the new Peruvian Consulate General. He was now dressed as Mephistopheles from Charles Gounod’s opera Faust. He poured each of us a glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac and Chappers and I clinked our glasses together in a hearty toast. It was not a bad way to usher in the new season.

Chappers wore the same blue bespoke suit he had worn to the previous party. If he is to retain his place in the first tier of party goers, he’s going to have to expand his wardrobe. I wore a navy-blue single-breasted suit with Cifonelli shoulders. The cut of the shoulders should give you a hint as to who tailored it. My feet were clad in dark maroon buckled shoes from John Lobb. I hope you’re taking notes.

Robert and Larry had also been invited to the party, but they had not yet arrived. I wondered if Robert would have the stomach to attend another bash after having discovered a dead body during the previous one, but he displayed his true gentlemanly qualities and not only did he arrive but he arrived with a stunning brunette who clung to his arm the way a sloth clings to a tree. He introduced her as Maria, and she slithered like a sinful serpent with every step she took. She took several steps and joined us in the living room. We gathered in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that was larger than the screens in most motion picture theaters. Under the windows were dark wood floors; in the corner a large marble fireplace. In fact, each room in the mansion appeared to have its own marble fireplace. But I digress…

“Can I have a drink?” Maria asked with a slight accent, tossing her head back. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders like a waterfall and landed on a white evening gown that had been painted onto her skin. The front of the gown dipped lower than the Grand Canyon.

“What a view!” Chappers said. I assumed he was referring to The City.

Before us were post card views of the San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Pacific Heights neighborhood. The sun had recently set but it was not yet completely dark and with the absence of coastal fog The City’s lights sparkled like lights on a Christmas tree. It was rather stunning.

“Of course, you can have a drink,” Robert said to Maria. He motioned for a waiter and Mephistopheles began his journey toward us.

“Where is the bathroom?” Maria asked. “I need to freshen up after the drive here.”

“I believe it’s down that hallway,” I said, pointing to the far end of the room.

“You know what I drink,” she said to Robert as Mephistopheles arrived. “Please order for me.”

She smiled and lightly brushed my shoulder as she left for the bathroom. In my opinion, she didn’t look as if she needed much freshening up. Larry arrived as she was leaving. He watched her slither away.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Maria, my girlfriend,” Robert answered.

“I approve,” Larry said. He grinned and playfully punched Robert’s shoulder. He then began talking about the 49ers. He didn’t get the chance to talk about them for long. A woman’s scream reverberated throughout the house. It was Maria. She came stumbling toward us looking as if she had seen thirteen ghosts.

“Maria!” Robert ran to her.

She collapsed into his arms. It took two cognacs to revive her.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Robert asked her.

“A woman is dead. In the bathroom.” Maria passed out again. It took another cognac to revive her. But by that time, I had already called the police.

“Cheese and crackers!” the P. D. roared. “Not you again!” He looked the way one looks when ants are discovered in the sugar jar. “Get out of my way. I’ll talk to you later.” He jabbed his finger into my chest before heading to the crime scene.

I tagged along even though I was fairly certain my presence would irritate him. Chappers and Larry followed me. Robert stayed behind with Maria and attempted to keep her conscious while there was still some cognac left.

“It looks like another strangling,” the P. D. said to his colleague.

The woman’s body was face-up on the floor. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her purse was still on the vanity. The P. D. rummaged through it and removed a wallet. Inside the wallet was the woman’s driving license.

“Carol Tandy,” the P. D. said.

I took a closer look at the body.

“Yes, that is Carol Tandy,” I said. I hadn’t immediately recognized her. Her face was a bit puffier than it had been the last time I saw her. “She’s Arnie Tandy’s wife.”

“Arnie Tandy the financier?” Larry asked.

“Yes,” I said.

The P. D. turned toward us the way Frankenstein’s monster turned toward the townsfolk.

“What are you doing here?” the P. D. roared. “Don’t you have any respect for crime scenes?”

“Detective, after all we’ve been through together, I thought you would cut me a little bit of slack.”

“I’d like to cut you into something,” he mumbled.

His colleague chuckled. He wore the same brown polyester suit he had worn to the previous murder. In case you must know, his suit jacket sleeves hadn’t fallen off. At least not yet. And the P. D.’s apparel? Please don’t ask. All I’ll say is that he had reached a new sartorial low.

“Go find this Arnie Tandy guy,” the P. D. said to a uniformed officer.

The young uniformed officer’s confused look was like that of a country boy getting his first look at the big city. Perhaps, he was.

“Larry, would you help him find Arnie. The officer may not recognize him.”

Larry nodded and led the officer through the crowd of onlookers. The P. D. looked at me. Was that a small amount of gratitude in his eyes? If it was, I enjoyed it. I then pointed at Mrs. Tandy.

“There’s something in her mouth,” I said.

His colleague reached down and pulled the object from the woman’s mouth.

“It looks like another cuff link,” he said.

“Let me see that!” The P. D. snatched the cuff link from his colleague’s fingers. “Looks like diamonds,” he said.

I leaned forward for a better look. If those were real diamonds, then I was Benito Mussolini.

“Those are cheap, gaudy, fakes,” I said. “That cuff link is something you would buy in a toy store.”

“You don’t say?” the P. D. said.

“He’s right,” Chappers added. “That’s a worthless trinket.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” the P. D. growled. “Now get out of here and let us do our job.”

We left the crime scene and attempted to console Robert and Maria, but it was hopeless. Not enough cognac remained for that.

“We should go,” Robert said.

“I’m sure the police will want to talk to both of you,” I said. “You had better stay.”

Robert nodded and carried Maria to stuffed armchair. The P. D. knew how to find me, so I saw no reason to remain. I said my goodbyes and I was gone.

Somehow, James knew I was ready to leave, and he had the Rolls waiting in front of the house. In case you don’t know, James is much more than simply a driver. He can fly airplanes and knows how to handle himself in combat. And when The City’s upper crust ask me to get them out of trouble, he has a few other skills that are quite useful.

“Two parties, two murders,” I said to James.

“And most likely, one killer,” he said.

“Most likely,” I agreed. “The first victim was a young banker and the second was the wife of a successful financier. Could money be the motive?”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“And the cufflinks in their mouths are clearly messages. The killer is making a statement.”

“No doubt, sir.”

I watched the sailboats bobbing on the Bay. I was staying, uninvited, in a cozy four-thousand square-foot house in The City’s Seacliff neighborhood, a neighborhood known for its stunning views of the mouth of the San Francisco Bay. The house had been built in the early 1920s and featured cinematic views of the Golden Gate Bridge. Because I had arrived in a Rolls Royce, the neighbors assumed I was house sitting. They assumed wrong. Before you raise your eyebrows, let me tell you that someone had to look after of this architectural jewel while the owners were away and there was no one better suited to that task than me. Don’t you agree?

“The cuff links must have significance,” I mused. “So must the fact that they are cheap trinkets.”

“Perhaps they are metaphors for shutting up his victims,” James said. “Buttoning their lips so to speak.

“I cracked a joke about that at the crime scene.”

“Did you, sir?” Was that disapproval in his voice? If it was, I ignored it.

“A few people laughed at it,” I said.

“No doubt, sir.”

“Anyway, it will be up to the P. D. to work out the meaning of the cuff links. I have another party to attend.”

The “Fundraiser Of The Year” award was awarded to the philanthropist in The City who was able to coax the most charitable donations out of his or her fellow upper crusters. The party was a congratulatory pat on their own backs, but it did result in financial assistance for some people who really needed it, so I won’t be overly critical.

This year’s event was being held in a mansion in Presidio Heights, the most expensive neighborhood in The City. The house had been built around 1900 in the style of a French chateau. Yes, all of these huge houses had been built in the early 1900s. That’s what wealthy people did back then. Why? I don’t know. Over twenty-thousand square feet of house seems a bit much to me unless you are royalty. Perhaps they thought they were. But I digress…

James rolled the Rolls to a dignified stop in front of the house’s massive sand colored façade. He silently slid from behind the steering wheel and opened my door all in one fluid motion. Good chauffeur, that James. A private security guard the shape and size of a rugby player descended the grand staircase in front of the house. His suit stretched over his muscles as he checked my credentials. They don’t just let anyone into these parties.

“Winston Churchill?” he said with a puzzled expression.

“No relation,” I muttered.

He looked at me, then at the Rolls, then at James.

“Take the stairs to my left,” he said.

He watched me as I took the stairs to his left. James drove off to wait for me wherever it is that he goes off to when he goes off to wait for me. The security guard continued to watch me as I ascended the stone steps. I nodded to him then entered the house. A twenty-two thousand square foot house is large enough to have its own ballroom. It may even have its own atmosphere. But I digress…

It didn’t take long for me to find the center of the party. It was in the house’s grand ballroom, a ballroom that reminded me of the elegant ballroom aboard the Queen Mary. Yes, it really was that elegant. A wet bar the size of those found in small saloons protruded from a wall. The curved and circular furniture in hues of blue and dark pink would have at one time been considered modern but by now were simply well on their way to becoming retro-modern. The black mirrored walls gave the place an intimate feeling if a room the size of Rhode Island could ever be considered intimate.

I approached the bar and was greeted by Mephistopheles, the waiter who had served us at the opera party. In case you don’t know, the proper attire for a bartender at an occasion such as this one is a white shirt, black tie, and black slacks. He wore a white shirt and black slacks but a red tie. The tie matched those hideous red earrings of his. Now, I could appreciate his color coordination but not his color choice. There was no excuse for not wearing a black tie. I hoped his bartending skills were better than his sartorial flair. They were. He served me a nice Gautier cognac that made up for his fashion faux pas.

“We seem to be seeing a lot of each other these days,” Chappers said, leaning over slightly to catch the scent of my cognac. “I’ll take one of those,” he said to the bartender.

“Let’s hope there’s a bit less drama this time.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Do you think Robert will attend this bash? I mean, twice struck…”

“I was a bit surprised to see him at the last one.”

“As was I,” Chappers said. “Do you know if the police are close to finding the murderer?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to stay out of their investigation, but I think they’re stumped.”

“I don’t blame you for staying out of it. That detective is an atrocious dresser. I wouldn’t want to be caught dead with him.” Chappers rolled his eyes and they rolled like bowling balls rolling down a hardwood lane.

“Don’t let his lack of sartorial flair fool you,” I said. “Behind those hideous polyester suits is a first-rate crime solver.”

Chappers nodded and sipped his cognac. As it turns out, we were wrong about Robert. He arrived sans Maria. Larry arrived at nearly the same time and they both approached us.

“Robert, it’s good to see you,” I said. “How is Maria? That was a terrible shock she had.”

“She’s reluctant to attend another party with me,” he sighed.

“After all that has happened, we didn’t think you would attend tonight’s bash,” Chappers said. “It’s awfully big of you to be here. Quite commendable actually.”

“Lightning can’t strike thrice, can it?” Robert asked.

“Of course not,” Larry said. “Let’s get a drink.”

Larry led Robert to the bar; Chappers remained with me. William S. Tillers, a retired tycoon who had founded quite a few banks during his time as The City’s top financial dog, ambled toward us like a newborn duck. A sharp white dress shirt peaked out from his exquisitely tailored blue sport coat. The shirt was tucked into tan slacks that were as sleek as a 1939 Type 165 Delahaye. Not quite the formal attire called for by such an event as the “Fundraiser Of The Year” but at his age he was able to get away with dressing the way he wanted to. His bank account may have also contributed to his ability to break sartorial rules.

“Winston Churchill,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been?”

“At parties mostly,” I said. “And I’ve had a few exploits in between.”

“I don’t get to attend many parties these days,” he said. “Not many exploits, either,” he winked. “Too many damn health issues. Take my advice and stay young. Now where’s the bathroom?”

As he departed stage right, Robert and Larry returned with their drinks.

“Say, wasn’t that William S. Tillers?” Robert asked.

“Indeed, it was,” I said.

“I need to talk to him. Where did he go?”

“To the bathroom.”

“I’ll be right back,” Robert said, and he also exited stage right.

“What does he want with William S. Tillers?” Chappers asked. “I didn’t think those two revolved in the same circle.”

“Beats me,” Larry said. “Maybe Robert wants to start revolving in the same circle.”

“That’s a pretty exclusive circle,” Chappers said. “What’s Robert up to?”

I shrugged. Larry began talking about the 49ers, but once again he didn’t have very long to talk about them.

“Winston! Winston!” Robert bowled over people on his way toward us. His eyes were as wide as streetlights.

“Winston, it’s happened again,” he pointed behind him.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“William S. Tillers is dead! He’s in the bathroom and he’s dead!”

Lightning had struck a third time.

“Cheese and crackers!” the P. D. roared. “Not another one!”

His hideous green polyester suit reminded me of a stale salad. He stuck his finger into my shoulder as if I was responsible for the murders.

“Can’t you go anywhere without leaving dead bodies behind you?” he yelled.

“It’s not my fault,” I said. “I’m simply a party goer.”

“There’s nothing simple about you,” he grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom. “Another strangling,” he said to his colleague.

I peeked into the bathroom and saw the body of William S. Tillers leaning back on the stool. Something shimmered in his mouth.

“Is that another cuff link?” I asked.

“What are you doing here?” the P. D. grumbled. “Haven’t I ordered you to stay away from crime scenes?”

“I don’t think you actually ordered me to stay away. You more or less hinted at it.”

“Well, now I’m ordering you. Stay away!”

His colleague groaned slightly as he bent over and reached into William S. Tillers’ mouth. He wobbled a bit and the sleeves of his polyester suit stretched but thankfully didn’t rip.

“Yup, it’s another cuff link,” he said, holding it up for us to see.

“What’s that on it?” the P. D. asked.

“Superman,” I said.

“What?” The P. D. looked at me the way a dog catcher looks at a mad dog.

“There’s a Superman logo on the cuff link,” I said.

“He’s right,” his colleague chuckled. “That’s Superman’s logo. Superman was always my favorite.”

“Gimme that.” The P. D. snatched the cuff link from his colleague and looked it over the way a jeweler looks over a hot stone.

“Very tacky,” Chappers added.

The P. D. sneered at Chappers.

“Get out of here! All of you! Or I’ll have you all arrested. But don’t go too far, I’ll need to talk to each one of you later.”

Under the circumstances, we left the bathroom. James was conveniently waiting outside with the Rolls. He opened my door and I slid into the sumptuous leather back seat. He closed the door, slid behind the steering wheel, and we were gone.

“We have a serial killer on our hands,” I said to James.

“It would appear so, sir.”

“And my guess is that it won’t be long before the P. D. begins to suspect either Robert, Larry, or Chappers. I don’t think he would suspect me, but one never knows.”

“One does not, sir.”

I shot James a sideways glance. Was that sarcasm in his voice? If it was, I ignored it.

“The four of us attended each of the three parties. That’s bound to raise his suspicions.”

“Couldn’t someone else have also attended all three parties?” James asked.

He poured me a properly chilled Bass Ale and I thought about his question for a minute. Each party’s guest lists seemed to be exclusive except for me, Chappers, Robert, and Larry. Then the answer came to me.

“The caterers,” I said. “I believe Tallam’s catered all three events. Perhaps you could verify that. And while you’re at it, check up on one of their employees who wears imitation ruby earrings. I saw him at all three parties.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve checked the guest lists from all three parties and you four are the only people who attended all three of them,” the P. D. stated.

He had gathered us together for questioning and he was laying out his case. Instead of holding the proceedings in some dingy room in the Hall Of Justice, I had convinced him to conduct them, at my expense, in a private dining room in Bimbo’s 365 Club in The City’s North Beach neighborhood. You’ll soon see why I did that. I had also arranged for Tallam’s to cater our lunch. The waiter who had been dressed as Mephistopheles at the opera gala was our server. His cheap earrings sparkled like fool’s gold and his plastic watch was etched with a Grateful Dead emblem.

“So what?” Chappers said. “What does that mean?”

“It means one of you is a murderer,” the P. D. snapped.

“Preposterous,” Chappers replied. He sat back in his chair with all the disgust of a cheap politician.

“And you,” the P. D. said, pointing to Robert. “Found each body.”

“His girlfriend actually found the second body,” I reminded him.

The P. D. felt like bopping me a good one, but he held back, probably because there were other people in the room. Instead, he stared at me the way Bela Lugosi used stared at virgin necks.

“Mr. Gonzalez, you were connected to the discovery of each body,” the P. D. corrected himself. “Is that better?” he asked me. Was that once again sarcasm in his voice? If it was, I once again ignored it.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Robert stammered. “Why would I do that?”

“He was with us the whole time,” Larry said. “He couldn’t have done it.”

“Not all of the time,” the P. D. said. “You didn’t go to the little boy’s room with him, did you?”

“Well, no,” Larry answered.

“Therefore, he wasn’t with you all of the time,” the P. D. continued. “You weren’t with him when he found the first and third bodies. And you certainly weren’t with his lady friend when she discovered the second body.”

“No, I guess you’re right.” Larry shook his head. He removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses.

“So, Mr. Gonzalez could have followed the victims into the bathroom and strangled them.”

“Except for the second victim,” I said.

“His lady friend did that,” the P. D. retorted. “She was in cahoots with him. She followed Mrs. Tandy to the bathroom and killed her. It all makes sense.”

The P. D. sat back in his chair with all the arrogance of a conquering emperor.

“Why would I kill those people?” Robert said. “I didn’t even know them.”

“I’m sure you had a reason and I’m sure I’ll find it,” the P. D. boasted.

Chappers shot me a sideways glance. The P. D. noticed it.

“What?” the P. D. said.

If you’ve been following my exploits, then you know the P. D. is much sharper than his clothes would suggest. If you haven’t been following them, well…

“What do you mean?” I asked the P. D. even though I knew exactly what he was getting at.

“I saw the look Mr. Carrington gave you. You two know something. What is it?”

Chappers looked down at the table and attempted to disappear. His attempt was unsuccessful.

“What is it?” the P. D. repeated, raising his voice and rising from the table. He would have throttled Chappers if he could have.

Chappers looked at me and then up at the P. D.

“Well, Robert told us he needed to speak with William S. Tillers, and he followed him to the bathroom.”

“We thought that was odd,” Larry added.

“Larry, how can you say that?” Robert said. His eyes drooped like worn out curtains.

“You were pretty keen on talking to William S. Tillers,” Larry explained. “Then the next we know he’s dead.”

“It does look bad for you,” Chappers added.

“Ha!” the P. D. shouted. He once again pointed to Robert. “That proves it! You and your girlfriend killed those people.”

“No!” Robert protested. He rose from his chair. The P. D.’s scowl made him quickly sit back down. “I didn’t do it!” He then glared at Chappers and Larry. Et tu, Brute?

“I have to agree with Robert,” I calmly said. A true gentleman always remains calm in such situations. “He and his girlfriend did not kill those people. But I know who did.”

The P. D. deflated faster than a popped balloon.

“Oh, no, here we go again,” he muttered, sitting back into his chair.

“The four of us may have been the only guests who attended all three parties, but we weren’t the only four people who attended them all.”

“What do you mean?” the P. D. asked.

“Tallam’s catered all three bashes,” I said. “One of the catering staff could easily have killed those people.”

The P. D. looked like a kid who had just been informed that there’s no Santa Claus. It was not a good look for him. Mephistopheles dropped a plate and attempted to make his way back to the kitchen. The shattering plate made Robert jump like a jack-in-the-box.

“I think you should stay here,” I said to the Mephistopheles.

“Why?” he said, bending down to pick up a broken piece.

“Because I’m interested in your cheap imitation ruby earrings and your Grateful Dead watch,” I said.

“Why?” he repeated.

“Yes, why?” the P. D. asked. He looked like a stumped game show contestant.

“Because the cuff links found in the victim’s mouths were cheap, gaudy, cartoonish trinkets.”

The P. D. nodded his agreement.

“Like the cheap, gaudy, cartoonish earrings and watch you are wearing,” I said to Mephistopheles. “You seem to like cheap and gaudy things.”

Mephistopheles dropped the broken piece of plate that he had picked up and it broke into smaller pieces.

“Hey, you can’t pin this on me!” he shouted. “I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not a crime to wear earrings.”

“No, it’s not,” the P. D. said. “But it’s a crime to kill someone. Go on,” he said to me.

“Now let’s consider the victims,” I said. “All three had connections to banking or finance, correct?”

“Yes,” the P. D. said.

“James discovered that our waiter recently applied for some loans so he could start his own catering business. Unfortunately, he was repeatedly turned down. He had quite an altercation with the last banker who refused to lend him money. And guess who that banker was?”

“Jules Stein?” the P. D. answered.

“Correct. In fact, our waiter was arrested for assault. You really should read your department’s police reports,” I said to the P. D.

The P. D. glared at me and simmered like hot chili.

“Our waiter had a motive and he had the opportunity,” I continued. “He had a grudge against anyone connected with finance and he worked at each of the events. He’s your man.”

Mephistopheles tried to exit stage right, but he slipped on pieces of the broken plate and fell to the floor. The P. D. moved with an agility I had never before seen and subdued his new prime suspect.

“All of those people were cheap, gaudy fakes,” Mephistopheles yelled. “They deserved what they got for taking advantage of people like me. They deserved to die with cheap baubles in their stinking mouths. That kid Jules was a Mickey Mouse banker, so he got a Mickey Mouse cufflink in his mouth. But I couldn’t stop there, not when there were so many other people who deserved to pay for their behavior. Carol Tandy was a phony like her husband, so she got phony diamonds. And William S. Tillers? He thought he was Superman, but he wasn’t. I took care of him and I didn’t need any kryptonite.”

The P. D. lifted Mephistopheles to his feet and several uniformed officers helped cart him away.

“I say, Winston, that was quite brilliant reasoning,” Chappers said. “How did you figure it out?”

“It was all about style,” I said. “You either have it or you don’t, and if you have it, you have it all the time. Our waiter has no style and it caught up with him.”

“Here, here!” Larry said, lifting his glass.

Robert sighed and sat back in his chair. It had been quite a start to the party season for him. I suppose it had been quite a start for all of us. We toasted “style” and I took my leave. James had already arrived with the Rolls and he slid from behind the steering wheel and opened my door all in one fluid motion. Good chauffeur, that James.

“I assume all was concluded satisfactorily, sir?” he asked.

“Indeed, it was. Mephistopheles’ cuff links are now handcuffs.”

“Very good, sir.”

He closed my door, slid behind the steering wheel, and tilted his head back toward me.

“Home, James.”

THE END

Witty and unpredictable cozy mysteries.

If you like your mystery cocktails shaken with the sharp similes of Raymond Chandler and stirred with the sly wit of P. G. Wodehouse, you’ll love The Lovable Rogue Mysteries.

Cozy mysteries set in 1980s San Francisco featuring the world’s most stylish detective.

Featured Products

The Lovable Rogue Mysteries

The Polo Mallet Murders

Murder is the New Black

Clothes Make the Corpse

Watch the award-winning short film “Who Would Murder A Tailor?” based on Clothes Make the Corpse.

Free mystery short story!

Join my Patreon community.

Meet the Author

David Biagini had a happy childhood, does not have a drinking problem, and has never made up stories about his past. But he has made up stories. Many of them.

He also appreciates fine clothes. Style, not fashion. His father was a tailor and designer; it rubbed off on him. He was raised to be a gentleman, and remains one to this day. Honor, loyalty, and compassion.

He doesn't exactly remember when he decided to combine mystery stories with men’s style. However, it most likely happened in a coffee house in San Francisco’s Italian-flavored North Beach District.

Known for his poetic prose and murderous mysteries, The Lovable Rogue Mysteries takes readers on a jaunty journey through the criminal world of 1980s San Francisco.

It’s been quite a journey from his birthplace in a small Midwestern town to writing mystery stories set in 1980s San Francisco. In case you don’t know, he also wrote and directed an award-winning short film, “Who Would Murder a Tailor?” based on one of the Lovable Rogue stories.

The Lovable Rogue Mysteries

theroguemystries@gmail.com

THE CASE OF THE CUFF LINK KILLER

A Lovable Rogue Mystery

By

David Biagini