“Pull over, Sidney,” said Betty. “I think this is it.”
“I hope so, Miss,” said Sidney. “My hemorrhoids doth protest too much, methinks.”
“They doth?” said Betty.
“It’s Shakespeare,” said Sidney. “I learned it from an Englishman actor I had in my cab one night. He was rehearsin’ in the back seat. Said he was practicing his Omelette.”
“Omelette?” said Betty. “He was practicin’ his omelette in the back seat? That don’t make no kind of sense, Sidney. You can’t talk a good omelette. You need farm fresh eggs, some cheese and butter - and not no margarine, neither - a good fry pan and an appetite. All the talkin’ in the world ain’t gonna put an omelette on the table.”
“I could be wrong,” said Sidney. “I’m thinkin’ the actor doth drink too much, too. Either that, or he was lispin’. ‘Cause ‘doth’ don’t roll off the tongue too natural. And I’m usually a pretty good talker. At least that’s what people are all the time tellin’ me.”
“Methinks you’re nuts, Sidney,” said Betty. “And a little sweety. But I gotta go now and talk to this Worthington fella. I need to find out a few things before Craven gets in over his big head and I’m left without a boss who never finished his first case. All because he got himself dead. And if I’m gonna be a widow, I wanna ring first.”
“That almost made sense,” said Sidney. “Good luck, kid.”
“Will ya wait for me, Sidney? I won’t be long. And I‘ll pay ya soon as I can.”
“I will wait for you till the cows come home from Guacamole, little sister,” said Sidney. “Because, if you’re not gettin’ paid for doin’ your job, then neither am I. And be careful with that Worthington guy. I read about him in the papers. He’s an old horn-dog from way back.”
“Well, if he puts his horn anywhere near me,” said Betty, “he’ll be whizzin’ out both his ears.”
As Betty made her way up the lawn, she noticed Mr. Worthington eyeing her from the patio. An old man in pajamas and robe. Sunning in his lounge chair.
Looks harmless enough to me, thought Betty.
“Are you Mr. Worthington?”
“I am,” said the old financier. ”And who might you be?”
After volleying a few barbs, and getting his hand slapped only a few times, Mr. Worthington climbed into his wheelchair and invited Betty in for tea.
“Please have a seat on the sofa,” said Mr. Worthington. “My butler will be with you in a moment. I need to change out of these pajamas, and into something more, um, more suitable.”
“More suitable better mean a shirt and tie, mister,” said Betty. “And pants, too!”
“Ah,” said Mr. Worthington. “I think I’m gonna like you, Miss Fletcher.”
“I hope you mean like a boy likes his dog,” said Betty. “‘Cause that’s the only kinda likin’ you’re gettin’ outta, mister smoothie.”
When Mr. Worthington left the room, his butler Randolph, entered with a tea tray.
“Tea is served, Miss Fletcher,” said Randolph.
“Say,” said Betty. “How’d ya know my name?”
“Mr. Worthington, of course,” said Randolph.
“Moments before he plunged down the elevator shaft.”
“Elevator shaft!” said Betty.
“Milk and sugar?” said Randolph.