“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.”