By damommy
It had been a horrible day for Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end). In fact, he couldn’t remember having a good day for quite some time now. Whenever he introduced himself, he always included the parenthetical line, for he was tired beyond belief of being called Pickens-Smythy.
It was exactly one year, three months, and four days since his marriage to Miss Arabella Frances Lassiter, the cosmetics heiress. From what Sinclair could see, she felt duty-bound to try all the products at once. He suspected she put her makeup on with a putty knife, and, if the grimace she called a smile got any wider, it would all crack and fall from her face.
Arabella looked down on her husband, both socially and physically. She came from old line money, while he had worked his way up through the ranks, so to speak. Also, at her height of five feet nine inches, she was already five inches taller than her husband. Putting on high heels, well, you do the math. Little did she know Sinclair knew the cosmetics empire had gone bankrupt, and there would be nothing left for her to inherit there.
She rang for the butler, who oddly is named Butler, but she calls him Buggles because she said you can’t have a butler named Butler. Waiting with the foot-long cigarette holder hanging from the corner of her mouth, she wondered just where her moron of a husband was hiding.
“You rang, Madam?” How could he sneak up on her like that? One could never hear him coming.
“Yes, Buggles. Do you know where the master is?”
“No, Madam,” he sniffed. “He left early this morning, saying he’d not be home for lunch. Is that all, Madam?”
Smarmy little snot, but he does lend a certain air to the estate. One must have a snotty butler to give prestige. Where is Sinclair?
Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end) was hiding in the tulip garden, thinking of his dilemma and contemplating what his next step would be. Nothing came to mind that he liked. With his little pudgy face frowning, he raked his fingers through non-existing hair. What was he to do? And why so many gardens? Tulip garden, rose garden, dahlia garden. Heaven forbid that flowers should be mixed!
He wanted nothing more than to go into his room and lie down, but he couldn’t do that since he’d told Butler, er, Buggles that he wouldn’t be home for lunch. If only he could ask Papa for advice. He refused to call him Pa-pa’ like Arabella did. She thought that made her sound upper class. It wasn’t looking good for Papa health-wise, but he had to keep that from Arabella. She’d be falling all over herself to win her father-in-law’s affection.
He knew Arabella only married him in hopes of his inheritance. It certainly wasn’t for his physique or bubbling personality. Sinclair knew he was dull. He even bored himself to death.
Maybe he could sneak past everyone to get to one of the seventeen bedrooms. No one would think of looking for him there, if they looked for him at all.
It was exactly twenty-seven minutes later when Sinclair settled himself in the farthest bedroom in the mansion. Rest first, plan later. Exactly three minutes later, he was fast asleep.
To be continued . . .
| Author Notes | My first try at telling an on-going story. |
By damommy
At exactly 3:42 a.m., Sinclair woke up with a plan in mind. He must send a note to his attorney, Silas P. Littleman, and set everything in motion. Ah, to paraphrase Wordsworth, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be in bed was very heaven!” With this in mind, he went back to sleep for the next four hours. He woke up to find his papa had passed away, and he was the only thing Sinclair cared about.
After he’d buried his father three days later, he went to his room, dressed in his best suit, and told Buggles to bring the car around. He’d drive himself to town to give the messenger time to get the note to Littleman. There’d be no problem as Sinclair was his most important client.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, Buggles, but I’ll want something to eat the moment I arrive. Expect me when you see me.” That will keep the old boy on his toes.
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Have a good day, Sir.”
One hour and seventeen minutes after he and Littleman shook hands in greeting, the deed was done. Arrangements had been made for him to have access to his money in a secret bank account under an assumed name. Littleman would handle all that for him. No, he had only to set everything in motion. When no one was watching, he vigorously rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Someone was in for a big surprise.
Ah, how good it is to have that settled, he thought. And Arabella will wish she’d been a better wife. Or at least, to have put on a good show. She won’t be having time to think about haute couture and such things she holds dear. She’ll be speechless. For a minute.
On his return home, everything went as normal. Arabella looked down her nose at Sinclair, Sinclair played the devoted husband, and Buggles stood by, arrogant as always. Good. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.
“Arabella, my dear, would you care to join me in the movie room? You could have your pick of what to watch.”
“Sinclair, you’re as hopeless as ever. We’ve been invited for cocktails at Hal and Clarissa’s. I knew you wouldn’t want to go, so I’ve made your excuses. Go watch your movie.” What luck to not seeing his grinning toad face for a few hours!
Well, that worked out nicely. He hadn’t forgotten about the invitation. He knew she would make excuses for him, and now he had an entire evening to himself to make his plans. While they were making fun of him, he enjoyed the thought that the laugh would be on them. At least, on Arabella.
He draped his suit bag over his arm, grabbed the small suitcase, and with his shaving kit tucked under his arm, went outside, and hid it all where he could easily get it later. It took all his control not to whistle as he went.
With his usual grace, he tripped over a tree root and fell flat on his face, so, sneaking back into the house, he quickly swiped a jar of Arabella’s make-up to hide the scratches on his face. As if she’d notice anything about him, but Buggles was a sly creature. Those beady pig eyes never missed anything he could turn to his advantage.
When Arabella came home, she checked on the movie room, and not seeing Sinclair there, she assumed he’d gone to bed. Happily, she went to her room, removed the half ton of makeup, and after putting her jewelry away, got into her nightgown and went to bed.
When the hall grandfather clock chimed 3:00, Sinclair snuck down the back staircase and retrieved his stash from its hiding place. Now, to make the ten-minute walk to the river that bordered his land. So far, so good. He walked as fast as his short legs could carry him, all the while hoping he wasn’t discovered. No telling what would happen if Arabella caught him. It gave him the shivers just thinking about it. But Arabella would be ensconced under her down comforter with her earplugs and sleeping mask.
In the woods, he’d stashed a car no one knew about. Granted, it wasn’t the kind of car he usually drove, but he thought a clunker would be the last thing anyone would expect to see him in. He put the stack of clothes along with a pair of shoes and shaving kit in the trunk, and climbing up on the pillow he needed to see over the steering wheel, he took off. This time he did whistle, loud and long. He laughed at the thought that, in a few hours, there would be a grand brouhaha back at the mansion. I’d like to see the look on Arabella’s face after she’s seen Littleman.
Sinclair had gone, leaving no trace or clue to be found.
To be continued . . .
| Author Notes | Sinclair paraphrased this: Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven! - The Prelude by Wordsworth |
By damommy
Synopsis of Chapter Two: Sinclair has made his plans, and put them into action.
A massive manhunt was launched for the county’s most prominent citizen. The local constabulary, the estate staff, and local volunteers spread out in the search with no idea of where to look. The village people loved the pudgy little guy and secretly hoped he’d simply run away. Not a single soul would blame him.
They searched the house from rooftop to cellar, the outbuildings, and combed the woods by moving in grids, calling as they went. They dragged the lake and looked down the well. No sign of Sinclair. They hadn’t searched as far as the river. Arabella called off the search before they could. Hopefully the little gremlin has floated out to sea.
Everyone was exhausted after four days of hard searching, and interest had waned somewhat. It was decided that Sinclair was nowhere to be found.
“It’s been five days,” grumbled Arabella, “and I have no idea what to do next. I wonder if the shrimp had a will. Probably left everything to his goldfish.”
The following day, she stomped unannounced into Littleman’s office, and demanded to know how the present circumstances had left her. She could hardly believe her ears when it all came out.
Until a body was found or Sinclair came home, nothing could be done. There was only enough money left in the bank account to run the estate for two years, and little left over. Arabella was outraged! What could the twerp have done with all the money? The hairless wonder had hidden it! How will I survive? No new clothes, no parties, no trips to the hairdresser? What will all my friends think? Who would have thought he’d have the gumption to pull this off! Littleman thought he’d have to have her forcefully removed if she didn’t calm down.
It was time to hire a private investigator. It was obvious to her that he had planned all this out and left her high and dry. “I’ll find him,” she hissed. “He can’t hide forever.” She hired Gideon O’Malley, a retired policeman turned private detective. O’Malley could see right off she was going to be difficult.
As weeks turned into months, there was no sign of Sinclair. Now and then, someone mentioned his disappearance, but eventually that fizzled out.
Arabella hardly left the estate these days. She couldn’t bear the thought of society learning of her dire situation. Her posh friends could never know how limited her funds were or they would pity her while laughing behind their hands.
At first, everyone rallied around “poor Arabella” in her time of grief with condolences that fed her tremendous ego. “Oh, you poor dear!” “How brave you are.” “You’re such a strong woman.” All the while hoping she wouldn’t ask anything of them. What most were thinking, but didn’t say, was good for Sinclair. The men all said if it were them, it would have meant escaping or murder. How old Sinclair stuck it this long was a mystery to them.
As months passed and her temper flared without Sinclair to buffer her tantrums, most of the staff were gone, leaving only Buggles and Mrs. Kittle, the cook, two very cunning individuals.
“I say, Buggles, it’s been a fair bit of fun watching that stick in a dress trying to cope without the Master’s millions. Not much fun in buying the cheap cuts of meat, though. It’s hard to make a decent meal these days.”
“You do an admirable job, Mrs. Kittle. No one could do better.”
“Oh, I have my tricks of the trade, but there’s no pleasure in cooking these days, with just her shoving her food around the plate. Can’t gain an ounce, you know. She already looks like an escapee from a prison camp. Between you and me, Buggles, I save the best for us.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Mrs. Kittle, and it has not gone unappreciated.”
In the conservatory, Arabella drummed her claw-like fingers on the glass-top table as she listened to what O’Malley had found. He knew she wasn’t going to be happy with his news and prepared himself for the tirade.
“I haven’t found much, Mrs. Pickens-Smythe. There were some footprints along the riverbank, and I found tire prints coming out of the woods. After that, I’ve come up empty-handed, but I have a couple of hunches I’d like to explore.”
Arabella sniffed. “I’ll give you two weeks and no more. I expected more from you, but this job may be beyond your capabilities. I know how you people operate. You sit in your car for days on end and hope the ‘subject’ happens by, but when he doesn’t, you’re quick to hold out your hand for money. Get out, and don’t come back until you have something!”
O’Malley gathered his coat and hat from Buggles and left as quickly as possible. He’d seen her kind before, women who married some poor sap for their money, but he’d never seen one quite like this one. How had that man stood living with this woman? If I find out he’s just done a runner, I’ll not say a word and wish the poor man good luck.
To be continued . . .
By damommy
Synopsis of Chapter Three: There’s been no trace found of Sinclair, and Arabella hired a private detective. The servants are treating themselves to the best food.
| Author Notes | The newsboy cap, newsie cap or baker boy hat (British) is a casual-wear cap similar in style to the flat cap. Eight-paneled ca |
By damommy
Synopsis of Chapter Four: Sinclair found his wished-for village on a remote north Atlantic island, and changed him name. He hopes if anyone looks for him, they will focus on the tropics. He wondered how Arabella was faring, and if they thought she’d killed him.
It was uncanny that Sinclair had that thought because at that very moment, the detective assigned to the case, Lt. Peter Runyan, was having the same thought. His annoying way of coming at people over and over when least expected earned him the nickname “The Gnat” among his colleagues. That, and the way he had of shooting questions from all directions. To a “person of interest,” he appeared to be totally lost at his job until he was ready to strike, but if you looked up the word “tenacious” in the dictionary, you’d find his picture there.
With her lack of concern, Runyan began wondering if Arabella had done the poor sap in, but there wasn’t even the smallest sign of murder or mayhem anywhere. He shivered at the thought. The case had gone cold for months, but Runyan had one of his famous feelings and reopened it. He went to interview the wife, not knowing what he was in for. But he soon found out.
When questioned, Arabella had no good answers and her alibi was worthless as no one knew when exactly Sinclair was last seen.
“The last I saw of him,” explained Arabella, “was when I left to go the party at the Hal and Clarissa’s, the Winchesters. When I came home, I assumed he’d gone to bed.”
“Well, Mrs. P., asking around the people who knew you, it seems you never had anything but ridicule for your husband. With a lack of a solid alibi, I have to consider you did away with him.”
“How dare you, you bubble-headed buffoon. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. You’re a bitter woman who doesn’t seem to care about her husband. What do you think happened to him?”
“How should I know,” she screamed. “I hardly noticed the little doofus unless I tripped over him. What are you doing? Get your hands off me, you oaf!”
“Mrs. Pickens-Smythe, I’m charging you with suspicion of murder. Handcuff her, Sergeant, and put her in the car.” Handcuffs weren’t really needed. A bread twist tie would have sufficed on those skinny wrists.
The commotion brought Buggles and Mrs. Kittle to see what on earth was taking place, and they arrived in time to see Madam being led off by two uniformed policemen. They grinned at each other, thinking it was time to party! And party they did.
“Have some more turkey, Mr. Buggles, and help yourself to the dressing. We have enough here for two or three days. Wait ‘til you see dessert!”
“I’m sure it will be a delight, Mrs. Kittle. Here, let me pour you another class of champagne. Or would you like something else? There are a number of very good wines we could have.”
“Champagne’s fine for now, Mr. Buggles. Do you think Her Royal Highness killed the Master?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her, my dear, but I don’t think she has the brains to pull it off. We’d better get things tidied up before she gets back, if she gets back. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if they kept her a while? If she’s charged, I wonder how long it would take for her to make bail?”
“Can they convict her without a body?”
“Sometimes they can. Especially if they have enough circumstantial evidence. We’ll have to wait and see. Just in case they do, we’d better be thinking about what will become of us.”
While they were worrying about their future, Arabella couldn’t make bail, and was beside herself with rage.
Detective Lieutenant Runyon went about his way to build a case. If she killed him, she did a pretty neat job of it. None of his clothes are missing, and his wallet and keys are on his nightstand. Sinclair had been very careful to choose clothes that wouldn’t be noticed gone, and had documentation of the things he’d need for identification, in his new name.
Keeping to herself all this time turned out to be a good thing. No one would know where she was. Unless! Oh, no, if this gets in the newspapers, I’ll hang myself. Where is Sinclair when I need him? Surely, he’s seen the headlines about his disappearance. When I get my hands on him!!!! But . . . what if he’s dead? Wouldn’t he have been found by now?
“I want to make that phone call now.” She dials the number, tapping her foot while it’s ringing.
“Littleman! I’m in jail and I need you to get me out. I have no money to make bail.”
“In jail? Mrs. P., what are the charges against you?”
“Suspicion of murder. They can’t find Sinclair and are assuming I killed him! If you have any idea where he is, now is the time to tell it. But get me out of here!”
“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I can put you in touch with one. Let me make a call, and I’ll have someone there as soon as possible.”
I hadn’t foreseen this, thought Littleman. Attorney-client privilege cannot be violated, but I can get her out in the meantime, and Sinclair will have to know. He must come back and clear things up.
To be continued.
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