Murder Most Merry

BELIEVING IN SANTA – Ron Goulart

As it turned out. he didn’t get a chance to murder anybody. He did make an impressive comeback, revitalizing his faltering career and saying goodbye to most of his financial worries. But in spite of all that, there are times when Oscar Sayler feels sad about not having been able to knock off his former wife.

Twenty-five years ago Oscar had been loved by millions of children. Well, actually, they adored his dummy, Screwy Santa, but they tolerated Oscar. For several seasons his early morning kid show was the most popular in the country, outpulling Captain Kangaroo and all the other competition. Multitudes of kids, and their parents, doted on Oscar’s comic version of Santa Claus and tried to live by the show’s perennial closing line—”Gang, try to act like it was Christmas every day!”

For the past decade and more, though, Oscar hadn’t been doing all that well. In early December of last year, when he got the fateful phone call from the New York talent agency, he was scraping by on the $25, 000 a year he earned from the one commercial voice job he’d been able to come up with lately. Oscar lived alone in a one-bedroom condo in a never-finished complex in New Beckford, Connecticut. He was fifty-five—well, fifty-seven actually— and he didn’t look all that awful.

Since he’d given up drinking, his face was no longer especially puffy and it had lost that lobsterish tinge. His hair, which was nearly all his own, still had a nice luster to it. There was, really, no reason why he couldn’t appear on television again.

When the agent called him at a few minutes after four p.m. on a bleak, chill Monday afternoon, Oscar was flat on his back in his small tan living room. He’d vowed to complete two dozen situps every day.

He crawled over to the phone on the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Is your son there?”

Oscar pulled himself up onto the sofa arm. resting the phone on his knees. “Don’t have a son. My daughter, however, is the noted television actress Tish Sale, who stars in the Intensive Care soap opera, and hasn’t set foot across dear old Dad’s threshold for three, possibly four—”

“Spare me,” requested the youthful, nasal voice. “You must be Oscar Sayler then. You sounded so old that I mistook you for your father.”

“Nope, my dad sounded like this—’How about a little nip after dinner, my boy?’ Much more throaty and with a quaver. Who the hell are you, by the way?”

“Vince Mxyzptlk. I’m with Mimi Warnicker & Associates, the crackerjack talent agency.”

“Oops.” Oscar sat on a cushion and straightened up. “That’s a powerful outfit.”

“You bet your ass it is,” agreed the young agent. “You’re not represented at the moment, are you?”

“No, because I find I can get all the acting jobs I want without—”

“C’mon, Oscar, old buddy, you ain’t exactly rolling in work right now,” cut in Vince disdainfully. “In fact, your only gig is doing the voice of the infected toe in those godawful Dr. Frankel’s Foot Balm radio spots.” He made a scornful noise.

“I do a very convincing itching toe, Vince. Fact is, there’s talk of—”

“Listen. I can get you tons of work. Talk shows, commercials, lectures, TV parts, eventually some plum movie work. But first you—”

“How exactly are—”

“But first you have got to win your way back into the hearts and minds of the public.”

“Just how do I accomplish that, Vince?”

“You just have to sit there with that lamebrained dummy on your knee.”

“Screwy Santa? Hell, nobody’s been interested in him for years.”

“Let me do the talking for a bit, okay? Here’s what’s under way,” continued the agent. “Have a Good Day, USA!, which has just become the top morning talk and news show, is planning a six-minute nostalgia segment for this Friday. The theme is ‘Whatever happened to our favorite kids’ shows?’ Something they calculate’ll have a tremendous appeal for the Boomers and Busters who make up their pea-brained audience. So far they’ve signed that old duffer who used to be Captain Buckeroo and—”

“Kangaroo.”

“Oscar, are you more interested in heckling me than in making an impressive comeback? Would you prefer to go on living in squalor in that rural crackerbox, to voice tripe for Dr. Frankel throughout the few remaining years of your shabby life?”

“Okay, but his name is Captain Kangaroo, not—”

“Attend to me, Oscar. I assured Liz, who’s putting this segment together, that I’d dig you up, wipe off the cobwebs, and have you there bright and early Friday. Can you drag yourself into Manhattan and meet me at the Consolidated Broadcasting headquarters building on Fifty-third no later than six a.m.?”

“Sure, that’s no problem.”

“Most importantly, can you bring that dimwitted dummy?”

Without more than a fraction of a second of hesitation Oscar answered. “Of course, yeah, absolutely.” It didn’t seem the right time to tell Mxyzptlk that his former wife, who currently loathed him and had ousted him eleven long years ago from the mansion they once shared, had retained custody of the only existing Screwy Santa dummy in the world. “We’ll both see you on Friday, Vince.”

It commenced snowing at dusk, a paltry, low-budget snow that didn’t look as though it was up to blanketing the condo-complex grounds and masking its raw ugliness.

Glancing at his wristwatch once more. Oscar punched out his daughter’s New York City number.

After four rings there came a twanging noise. “Merry Christmas,” said Tish in her sexiest voice. “I’m not able to come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you real soon.”

Oscar had been working all afternoon on the voice he was going to use. A mixture of paternal warmth and serious illness. “Patricia, my dear,” he began, getting the quaver just about perfect, “this is your dad. Something quite serious has come up and I’d like very much to speak to you, my only child, in the hope that—”

“Holy Jesus,” observed his daughter, coming onto the line. “What was that old television show you used to tell me about when I was little? Where they gave the contestants the gong for a rotten perf—”

“The Amateur Hour. Now. kid, I need—”

“Consider yourself gonged. Pop.”

“Okay, all right, I overdid it a mite,” he admitted. “Yet I do have a serious problem.”

“My time is sort of limited, Dad. I’m getting ready for a date. You should’ve phoned me earlier.”

“I assumed you were taping Intensive Care.”

She sighed. “Didn’t you tell me you watched my soap faithfully?”

“I do, kid. It’s on my must-see list every day.”

“I’ve been in a coma for two weeks. So I don’t have to show up at—”

“Sorry to hear that. Anything serious?”

“Near-fatal car crash. We killed that asshole, Walt Truett, thank God.”

“But you’ll survive?”

“Sure, with only a touch of amnesia.”

Oscar asked, “When are you due to come out of your stupor?”

“Next Thursday.”

“I’ll start watching, I swear,” he promised his daughter. “Now, as to the purpose of this call.”

“It’s Mom, isn’t it?”

“Well, not exactly, kid.” He filled her in about the offer from the talent agency and the upcoming appearance on Have a Good Day, USA! “This will revive my career.”

“You think so? A couple of early morning minutes with a pack of over-the-hill doofers?”

“It’s a shot. The only snag is—well, kid, they insist that I bring Screwy along.”

“Obviously. You guys are a team.”

“And your dear mother has custody of him.”

Tish said, “She’s not going to loan him to you.”

“She might, if you were to—”

“Nope, she won’t. A few months ago, when I noticed him up on a shelf in the mud room, I suggested that—”

“She keeps the most beloved dummy in America in the mud room?”

“In a shoe box,” she answered. “And, Dad, Screwy Santa hasn’t been beloved for a couple of decades now.”

“I know, neither have I,” he said ruefully. “But, damn it, he helped pay for that mansion.”

“Her romantic novels are paying for things now. Did you notice that Kiss Me, My Pirate was number two on the Times—”

“I extract the book section from the Sunday paper with surgical gloves and toss it immediately into the trash unopened. To make certain I never see so much as a mention of that slop she cranks out or, worse, a publicity photo of her mottled countenance.”

“Let’s get back to the point. I suggested to her back then that she return Screwy Santa to you.”

“And?”

“You don’t want to hear what she said,” his daughter assured him. “It had, among other things, to do with Hell freezing over. But can’t you dig up another dummy by Friday?”

“Impossible, that’s the only one extant. We lost the backup copy during that ill-fated nostalgia tour through the Midwest years ago.”

“Couldn’t you carve another, since you built the others?”

“Kid, I may’ve fudged the truth a bit when I used to recount Screwy’s history to you.” he said. “In reality, the dummies were built by a prop man at the old WWAG-TV studios. And he, alas, is long in his grave.”

“This is very disillusioning,” Tish complained. “One of the few things I still admired about you, Dad, was your woodcarving ability.”

“Listen, couldn’t you call Mitzi and tell her that I’m expiring, that I want to be reunited with my dummy for one last time before I go on to glory?”

“She’d burst out laughing if I told her you were about to kick off. Dad. And probably dance a little jig.”

“Okay, suppose we make a business deal with her? Offer the old shrew, say, fifteen percent of the take.”

“What take? Have a Good Day, USA! pays scale. I know. I did one last year to plug my abortion on Intensive Care.”

“You looked terrific on that broadcast.”

“You didn’t even see it.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No, and you admitted as much at the time.”

“Well, back to my immediate problem.”

“Why don’t you use one of the old Screwy Santa dolls? They look a lot like the dummy.”

“Except they don’t have movable mouths.”

“It’d be better than nothing. I can loan you mine,” she offered. “It’s stuffed away in a closet.”

“No. kid, I really have to have the real dummy.”

“Afraid there’s nothing I can do. I mean, if I so much as mention that you need Screwy Santa, Mom’s liable to take an axe to him.”

“Well, thanks anyway for listening to an old man’s woes and—”

“Here comes the gong again,” his daughter said. “Anyhow. I have to go put on some clothes. Bye.”

After hanging up, he stayed on the sofa and brooded. After about ten minutes he said aloud, “I’ll have to outwit Mitzi.”

The snow improved the next morning, giving a Christmas-card gloss to the usually dismal view from his small living room window.

At ten a.m. he put the first phase of his latest plan into operation. He phoned his former wife’s mansion over in Westport.

“Residence of Mitzi Sunsett Sayler,” answered a crisp female voice.

“Yes, how are you?” inquired Oscar in a drawling, slightly British accent. “Ogden Brokenshire here.”

“Yes?”

“Ogden Brokenshire of the Broadcasting Hall of Fame. Have I the honor of addressing the esteemed novelist Mitzi Sunsett Sayler herself?”

“Of course not, Mr. Brokenshire. I’m Clarissa Dempster, Mrs. Sayler’s secretary.”

“I see, my dear. Well, perhaps I can explain my mission to you, child, and you can explain the situation to your employer.”

“That depends on—”

“We would like to enshrine Screwy Santa.”

“Enshrine whom?”

“The ingenious dummy that Mrs. Sayler’s one-time husband used in the days when he brought joy and gladness to the hearts of—”

“Oh, that thing,” said the secretary. “My parents, wisely, never allowed me to watch that dreadful show when I was a child.”

“Nonetheless, dear child, our board has voted, unanimously I might add, to place Screwy Santa on permanent display in the museum.”

“Hold on a moment. I’ll speak to Mrs. Sayler.” The secretary went away.

In less than two minutes Mitzi started talking. “Who is this ?”

“Good morning, I’m Ogden Brokenshire. As I was explaining to your able secretary, my dear Mrs. Sayler, I’m an executive with the Broadcasting Hall of—”

“You haven’t improved at all, you no-talent cheesehead.”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“Oscar, love, you never could do a believable Brit.”

“I don’t happen to be British, dear lady. The fact that I was educated in Boston sometimes gives people that impression.”

“Forget it, Oscar,” advised his erstwhile wife. “I don’t know why you want to get your clammy hands on that wooden dornick, but you’ll never have him. And, dear heart, if you ever try to communicate with me again—in whatever wretched voice—I’ll sic the law on you.” She, rather gently, hung up on him.

“Looks like,” decided Oscar, “I’m going to need a new plan.”

He kept working on plans for nearly an hour, pacing his small living room, muttering, pausing now and then to gaze out at the falling snow.

Then the phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“We have hit a slight snag,” announced Vince Mxyzptlk.

“Don’t they want me?”

“Sure they want you, old buddy. Hell, they’re prowling the lofty corridors at Consolidated crying out for you,” said the youthful agent. “In fact, they can’t wait until Friday.”

“What do you mean—do they want me to do a separate segment on my

own?”

“Not exactly. But Liz, and her boss, are very anxious to see you tomorrow.”

Frowning. Oscar nodded. “An audition, huh?”

“Sort of. yeah,” admitted the agent. “It has nothing, really, to do with you. But when one of their scouts unearthed the clunk who used to be Mr. Slimjim on that Mr. Slimjim & Baby Gumdrop turkey, he turned out to weigh three hundred pounds now and possess not a single tooth. So, as you can understand. Oscar, they want to see and hear all these wonderful stars of yesteryear in advance.”

“Tomorrow?”

“At three p.m. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not exactly, but I—”

“I’m getting a lot of interest in you. Once you do well on Friday, the jobs will start rolling in.”

“I understand, it’s only—”

“I needn’t remind you. Oscar, that a lot of talents in your present position would kill for this opportunity.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed. “See you tomorrow.”

He had a great new plan worked out by three that afternoon. But he had to wait until after dark to get going on it.

Dressed in dark clothes, Oscar slipped quietly out of his apartment and into the lean-to that passed for a garage. As usual, none of the roads in the sparsely inhabited complex had been plowed. The snow was soft, though, and not too high, and Oscar was able to drive down to the plowed lanes and byways of New Beckford without any serious delays.

He drove over to nearby Westport and parked in the lot behind Borneo’s. There were only a few spaces left and he could see that the restaurant-bar was packed with people. The food and drink at Borneo’s was just passable, but it sat only a half mile over the hill from Mitzi’s mansion.

As he was crossing the lot a fire engine went hooting by. headed downhill.

Borneo himself was behind the bar. “Evening, Oscar.”

He managed to elbow his way up to a narrow spot at the ebony bar. “The usual.”

Borneo scratched at his stomach through the fabric of his bright tropical shirt. “Refresh my memory.”

“Club soda, alas.”

“Coming up.”

Outside in the snowy night another fire engine went roaring by, followed by what sounded like a couple of police cars.

Oscar hoped all this activity wouldn’t foul up his plan. So far everything was going well. People were seeing him, he was establishing an alibi. In another ten or fifteen minutes he’d go back to the john. Then he’d slip out the side door.

Once in the open, he’d make his way down to the mansion. Being careful, of course, that no one noticed him sneaking off.

Mitzi, being a skinflint, and in spite of her great wealth, had never bothered to put in a new alarm system. The original setup was still in place, and he knew how to disarm that.

Okay, once he got inside, after making certain that she was alone, he’d ... well, he’d use the length of pipe he dug up in the garage this afternoon.

Once Mitzi was dead and done for. he’d gather up enough jewels and valuables to make it look like the usual burglary. Then he’d rescue Screwy Santa from the mud room and get the hell away.

Back here at the parking lot he’d stash the loot in his car, slip unobtrusively back into the place, and tell Borneo he’d had a sudden touch of stomach flu and had to stay back in the bathroom a few minutes.

It wasn’t exactly foolproof, but it ought to work. He’d own Screwy again and Mitzi would be gone from his life.

He chuckled at the thought. Yeah, the idea of killing her off had come to him this afternoon and he’d taken to it immediately.

Tish might be a little suspicious about how he came by the dummy. He’d tell her something along the lines that he’d found the heirs of the old defunct prop man at the last minute and. gosh, they had a spare Screwy Santa. He’d always been a gifted liar and conning his daughter wouldn’t be all that difficult.

“Don’t worry about that now,” he told himself.

“How’s that?” inquired Borneo, setting a glass of sparkling water down in front of him.

“Nothing, I was just—”

“That must be some fire.” Borneo paused to listen as yet another truck went howling by out in the night.

Oscar sipped the club soda, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the dark bar top. He’d make his move in about five minutes.

The phone behind the bar rang and Borneo caught it up. “Borneo’s. Huh? Channel eight? Okay.” Hanging up, he switched channels on the large television set mounted above the mirror.

And there was Mitzi, glowering out of the screen. Wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and not enough makeup, she was being interviewed by a slim black newswoman and gesturing at the mansion that was blazing behind her up across the wide night lawn.

“Good God,” muttered Oscar.

“That’s just downhill from us,” observed Borneo.

“Yeah, I know.”

The entire sprawling house was going up in flames.

“What exactly happened, Mrs. Sayler?” the reporter asked her.

“It was that goddamn cheesehead.”

“Which cheesehead would that be?”

“Screwy Santa, that abominable dummy.”

“I’m not certain that I quite under—”

“Aw, you’re too damn young. Everybody is these days. I always knew that dornick would do me in eventually.”

“You mean this was arson?”

“I mean, dear heart, that I decided to cremate that loathsome lump of wood. I took him and his shoebox, carried them into the living room, and tossed him into the fireplace.”

Oscar pressed both hands to his chest. “There goes my comeback.”

Mitzi continued, “Then... I don’t know. His stupid beard seemed to explode... flames came shooting out of the fireplace. They hit the drapes and those caught fire... then the damn furniture started to go.” She shook her head angrily. “Now the whole shebang is ablaze.” Looking directly into the camera, she added, “If you’re out there watching, Oscar...” She gave him the finger.

Borneo raised his shaggy eyebrows high. “Hey, is she talking to you, Oscar?”

“I’m not in the mood for conversation just now.” Abandoning his club soda, he walked out into the night.

His daughter phoned a few minutes shy of midnight. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m way beyond worry, kid.”

“When I caught the report about Mom’s mansion on the news, I figured you’d assume that Screwy Santa was gone.”

“Certainly I assumed that. There was Mitzi. fatter than ever, hollering for all the world to hear that my poor hapless creation was the cause of the whole blinking conflagration.”

“It was a ringer, Dad.”

“Eh?”

“I dropped by to visit Mom this afternoon and when she went away to yell at Clarissa, I substituted my old Screwy Santa doll for your dummy,” explained Tish. “In a way, I may be responsible for that dreadful fire. The doll’s a lot more flammable than—”

“No, there was some parent flap at the time, but we proved beyond a doubt that the dolls were perfectly safe if—”

“I have your dummy here in my apartment.”

“You’ve really got Screwy?”

“Yes, he’s sitting on my bed right this minute,” she assured her father. “It’s lucky I went out there when I did and saved him before Mom got going on her plan to destroy the little guy. Why did you go and telephone her and make it crystal clear that you were in desperate need of him? That was dippy, since it inspired her to destroy him.”

“I didn’t call her as myself. But somehow she penetrated my—”

“That’s because, trust me, you do a terrible British voice. When do you need him?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I thought you weren’t doing the show until Friday.”

“Well, and keep this to yourself, kid, there’s a possibility they’ll devote a separate seg all to me.”

“That would be great.”

“So can I pick him up tomorrow?”

“Sure, come by around one and I’ll take you to lunch.”

“Can’t make lunch, because I have some people to see while I’m in the Apple. But I’ll pop in, give you a paternal hug, and grab Screwy Santa,” he said. “Thanks. You’re a perfect daughter.”

“Perfect for you, I guess. Bye.”

Everything worked out well for Oscar. He did, in fact, do a segment of his own, which ran nearly four minutes, on Have a Good Day, USA! And Vince Mxyzptlk was able to get him an impressive batch of other jobs. At the moment there’s also the possibility of a new kid show for Oscar and Screwy Santa on cable.

Oscar was able to leave his forlorn condo for a three-bedroom colonial in Brimstone, Connecticut, last month.

While he was packing, he came across the length of pipe he’d intended to use on Mitzi. He slapped it across the palm of his hand a few times, and, sighing, tossed it into a carton.