Butler Wren and the Wandering Finger
by Anthony Lukas
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Wren sat in his office opposite Mrs. Corinne Baxter, who was, Wren had decided, a distinctly odd kind of person.
He’d been sitting behind his desk for over half an hour while Mrs. Baxter had recited a litany of all the ills from which she was suffering as a result of her auto accident, each part of the tale punctuated with quite an array of facial expressions and voice characterizations running from a stage whisper — “I won’t tell you what it’s done to my sex life; it’s cut down on the use of certain positions,” she told him with a theatrical wink — to a whiny groan: “My lower back constantly aches, my neck feels like it’s in a vise,” rubbing the described body areas in an apparent attempt to gain some measure of relief.
Wren believed little of it, but he also realized he had been wrong. Mrs. Baxter wasn’t about the money, she was about the attention and the melodrama. Wren wondered about her life that a minor auto accident could seemingly become the center of it.
Mrs. Baxter was a woman of fiftyish years, less than medium height and over medium weight. Hair carefully coiffed, her too-much makeup just so, clothes tasteful. Large jewelry jangled and glinted in the light. She seemed certain that hers was the accident to end all accidents and that world affairs should just stop until her grievances had been resolved.
A long, involved description of the accident of the century — “I was sitting there and, suddenly, there was like this huge explosion!” — was accompanied by waving arms, furrowed brows, eyes pulled wide with shock and dismay, for what — as far as Wren could tell — was a fairly routine rear-ender accident at a stoplight.
Expensive repairs to Mrs. Baxter’s Mercedes, but it was a Mercedes, after all, where the cost of replacing a taillight could require a second mortgage.
Crystal sat behind Mrs. B, taking notes, making faces at Wren and sympathetic noises whenever Baxter turned to her while reciting her ills.
“Yes, yes, Corinne, I believe I understand everything now. A case of obvious liability and some damages. We shall proceed.” He went on to describe how they would proceed, with frequent asides about irrelevancies to get Baxter in a nice, chatty mood. When he was wrapping up, Baxter starting to gather her bungalow-sized purse and other accessories, and he said, “By the way, I see from your Facebook page that you know Phyllis Newcomb.”
“Phylii? Oh, yes a dear, dear friend. Known her and Jerome, well, I don’t care to say for how long.” She gave a coy look that seemed faintly silly on a fifty-something. She went on to give quite the biography of Phylii, going out of her way to demonstrate how she was in the know on all things Newcomb, and it was among all the dross that Wren had found his gem.
At some point Wren remarked that the Newcombs seemed a perfect couple, to which Mrs. Baxter nodded, in a slow and deliberate way. “Well, you know,” she said, measuring her words, “they are a happy couple. For the most part,” she had added with a whisper. It took only an inquisitively raised eyebrow by Wren to elicit, “Well, he keeps her on such a tight leash! Honestly, a man of his wealth, and he is so tightfisted. Controls all the household accounts himself and just gives her peanuts! Has her on an allowance for her personal needs. An allowance, for goodness sake!”
“Oh, dear,” Wren said, shaking his head sadly, trying to ignore Crystal, “has she no means of her own?”
“Well, she did have some, but I think it went poof!” said Corinne, waving her hands.
“Poof?”
“Yes, you know, in the recent economic mishap, that covid and stuff.”
Ah. Thousands dead, millions of jobs lost, trillions of dollars evaporated, deficits up the wazoo. And she calls it a “mishap,” thought Wren. All a matter of perspective, he supposed.
“Can’t say the last time she was able to buy a new Gucci. Can you imagine?” turning to Crystal, who had nodded with sad-eyed sympathy. “The poor thing.”
After Baxter left, Crystal said, “Well, that was quite the performance. What now?”
“We are now ready for the main event,” grinned Butler.
* * *
Some days later, Wren sat in his offices gazing at the aloof Mrs. Newcomb and confident Mr. Sage seated at the conference table. He would have to remind himself to spray their chairs later.
“Mrs. Newcomb, thank you for coming in today.” He was rewarded with the thin smile the elite give to their lessers. “I’m sure your counsel, Mr. Sle... ah, Sage, has explained the mechanics and significance of this deposition to you. Everything we say is being recorded by the reporter here to be transcribed later. You are under oath even though we are rather informally in my offices instead of a courtroom. Do you understand that?”
Again the wan smile and a nod.
“Answer out loud,“ said Wren curtly.
Eyes widened slightly at the affront. Good, thought Wren.
“Yes, of course, I understand,” Newcomb said. You common dunce was added by the tone of her voice.
“Then let us begin by going back to that day at Millie’s Diner.” Mrs. Newcomb’s answers were composed and somewhat bored. Had been there before several times, found the food somewhat entertaining — Arrogant snot, thought Wren — “Mindy and I decided to go there for an early dinner.”
“Mindy?”
“One of my dearest friends, Mindy Wentworth.”
“Friend?”asked Wren, an incredulous note to his voice, trying to imagine such a person. “So this Mindy is a witness to these events.”
“Of course,” cooed Newcomb.
Oh dear, thought Wren, she’s going to attempt to be clever.
“And where could one find this Ms. Wentworth?”
“Well,” drawled Newcomb, “I’m not sure. She and her hubby left just a bit ago for a two-year long world cruise.” She positively sparkled.
Wren couldn’t decide if he was more appalled by Newcomb or by people who could take two-year long cruises. “Pity,” he said. “So, tell us how you discovered the finger.”
“Well,” she paused, seemingly gathering her courage, “I was chatting with Mindy, you know, just kinda eating and talking and suddenly...” Newcomb stopped with a catch in her throat. Oh, good grief, thought Wren: a tear in her eye.
Sleaze leaned forward: “Do you need a moment?”
Newcomb leaned slightly away with, “No, I’m all right,” and collected herself.
“I was just about to put some of that tamale pie into my mouth when I just happened to look down at the fork and” — again a breathy pause and a gathering of courage — “there was the finger right in with the ground beef. Another second and...” She put her hand to her mouth.
Wren paused a moment so the distraught Mrs. Newcomb could calm herself and Sage could relish his client’s performance. When she again sat ready, he said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Newcomb, I meant the first time you discovered the finger.”
A long pause.“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you not? I meant when you first found it in your garden or driveway, perhaps.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Newcomb with an indignant wave of a hand.
“Is it? Well, let us see. Do you know a Mr. Carlos Rodriguez?”
“No, I’m sure not,” with a bit of haughtiness.
“No, of course. Hardly seems a name that would be found in your circles, does it? Well, would it help you to recall if I told you that Mr. Rodriquez is a long-time resident of our fair city. Indeed, his family has resided in this city several generations longer than yours. Well, Mr. Rodriquez, his brother and sons own a landscaping business. Quite a fine reputation, I understand. Still nothing? Do you retain a landscaper for your home, Mrs. Newcomb? “
“Of course,” she snotted. “But I do not believe we retain this Mr. Rodriquez.”
“No, but your neighbors do. Have for years. Well, not too long ago Mr. Rodriquez was bedding a new lawn border for your neighbors and his son got a bit careless with the lawn trimmer. The long and short of it is, Mr. Rodriquez lost a bit of left hand forefinger. The very bit of finger in this case.“
Wren stopped and waited as The Sleaze protested, “How can you be sure it’s the same? This is a ploy.”
“Oh it’s a ploy all right, but not by me, I assure you.” said Wren. “No, some dogged investigation by an ace paralegal” — no use mentioning Herbert and his Fraud Squad quite yet — “and all was made crystal clear. A few interviews with neighbors, a list of their landscapers. It didn’t take long to locate Mr. Rodriquez and his partially missing digit. We simply matched the print from the finger with that of Mr. Rodriquez.”
Silence.
“Well,” huffed the Sleaze, a tinge of desperation to his voice, “that doesn’t prove my client put it in the chili. Why would she do such a thing, she’s wealthy, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, that puzzled me,” admitted Wren. “Mrs. Newcomb, you’ve been married for about ten years?”
A stony “Yes.”
“And prior to the happy day, did you not sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”
Again a frosty “Yes.”
“And,” asked Wren, “do I understand your husband has you on an allowance?” If looks could kill, Wren would have been dead.
* * *
“What?!” Linda said. She, perched on her bar stool. Wren, sagging a bit over the sides of his. She had walked the couple of blocks from the office, finding Wren in The Grill’s dark wood bar, already sipping a whiskey. She nodded to his, “A bit of the Dew, Linda?” and had ascended a stool while he ordered her an Irish, neat.
Linda lowered her voice, aware she had drawn a few stares. “Are you telling me this person arranged this whole case because she wanted more money to buy more expensive crap?”
“Yep,” said Wren. “Lost her own money, and hubby wasn’t loosening the purse strings. Couldn’t divorce him, because the pre-nup left her with comparatively little. So when the finger appeared, she felt she had found an easy way back to the land of Prada.”
Linda stemmed her outrage with a loud “Tsk!” and said, “I cannot imagine someone so self-absorbed, so callous as to threaten someone’s business like that. She admitted this in her deposition?”
“Oh, yeah. You know, the maroon didn’t seem a bit abashed at getting caught. She clearly thought herself the victim and entitled to the money. A self-absorbed, dim-witted leech on society. It was most satisfying to open the door and watch Herbert come swooping in like a hawk on its prey and slap his felony fraud arrest warrant on the conference table and announce, ‘You are under arrest, Succubus!’”
“Newcomb and Sage didn’t know what had hit them. And when Sage started to protest, Herbert leaned across the table, stared him right in the eye and growled, ‘And I’ve got my eye on you too, Counselor!’”
“In another play, is he?” said Linda.
“Yeah,” said Wren in a satisfied tone and took another sip.
“Greed, something for nothing, money to buy more junk,” said Linda, shaking her head. “Some people.”
“Well, more than some,” sighed Wren. “Anyway that’s why she had picked Sage. His reputation is for quick settlements. Dirty up the case as much as possible, scare the defendant, then make an offer to settle. Tried it with me right after the Produce hearing,” and he told Linda of his meeting with Sage.
“He certainly didn’t know Millie, did he?”
“No, just figured she would agree to anything to avoid the press. Most would have, but Millie...” He remembered Millie boiling down to him and slapping the lawsuit down in front of him. “Bless her.”
“And you, Butler,” said Linda. “Great job.”
Yeah, thought Butlerl he had done a good job. He sighed, relieved that that case was done.
“Well, to Millie and a successful end,” said Linda, raising her glass.
“Well,” said Butler, “not quite the end. Millie has retained us to sue the Newcombs for fraud, abuse of process and anything else we can think of.”
“Well now,” smiled Linda again raising her glass, “to—”
“One could almost feel sorry for Mr. Newcomb,” mused Wren.
“Really? In a sense he did create the environment for this. An allowance, for heaven’s sake. What would your lovely Rose do if you tried to put her on an allowance?”
“They’d never find my body. No, I mean all this was concocted by Mrs. Newcomb during the marriage, unbeknownst to her husband, but still during the marriage nonetheless. That means all that lovely community wealth is available for an award for Millie. Ah well,” said Butler picking up his glass, “I believe it all came from something unsavory anyway. Like real estate.”
“Now?” asked Linda
Butler nodded. “To Millie,” they said together to the click of glasses.
Copyright © 2024 by Anthony Lukas
