IT WASN’T THE BUTLER

It was past 8 o’clock when Beverly Winston rose from her soft, luxurious bed, and walked to the windows. She looked out, as she usually did, onto the view from the 20th floor of the Tribute building in San Francisco. It was a glorious view, and one she adored.

She’d inherited several million dollars as well as this penthouse, when her beloved dad died a year ago. She’d redecorated a few months ago, and now she was thrilled each time she walked into the apartment. It was filled with antiques and several decorator items she herself had found and purchased.

She was especially fond of the four paintings that hung in the living room, all four of which she’d purchased from Sotheby’s for a million dollars for the four. She felt truly wealthy when she looked at those paintings, all four of which were considered masterworks.

Dressing for a lunchtime meeting with the local TV station anchor, when the famous woman wanted to get Bev’s opinions on the paintings and on some things Bev had been involved in lately, she donned a glamorous suit.

She found herself debating whether to take a quick vacation over the upcoming four-day weekend, or to stay in the City and do the rounds of the clubs with Katy and Madeline, her two best friends.

The suit she wore, a lemon-colored linen De Laurentis ensemble, was chic and flattered her, but she couldn’t help but feel like a yellow fruit – a banana, or a grapefruit. She debated changing into something else before leaving, but wasn’t really sure what. So she decided to call her friend, Maddie Fields. Maddie would help her decide what color to change into, as well as whether to go to Memphis this weekend, or stay and do the rounds of the clubs. Maddie was not only a good friend, but someone who really knew just about everything about the City.

Sitting at the small kitchen table while Sheila, her cook/housekeeper, set out the small breakfast and coffee, Bev took out her cell phone and dialed Maddie’s number.

“Hey, honey,” she heard when Maddie answered, “how’re you doin’?”

“Doin’ just fine, Madeline. I just have a question for you. I’m meeting with the anchor of that TV show, ‘Who’s on Top?’ and I’m not sure what to wear. You’re always so well-dressed, and I knew you’d know what would flatter me under the TV lights.”

“Blue!” Maddie exclaimed. “You need to wear your royal blue suit with that darling blue print shirt. I know just the one. Then your navy four-inch heels and a navy clutch. Are your nails done? What about makeup?”

Oh, it was so good to talk to someone who knew exactly what one should wear,. Bev sipped her coffee and finished her omelet while she thought over Maddie’s suggestions. Her friend had also advised her to go ahead and fly to Memphis for the long weekend. And she’d advised her, too, on what to wear and where to go in Tennessee.

After breakfast and changing into the blue ensemble, Bev headed to the living room to gather her notes for the interview. But as she walked into the room, she had a feeling that there was something wrong. Then she saw a shoe on the floor beside the forest green chaise.

That was definitely wrong. Venturing further into the room, she saw the pants-covered leg attached to the shoe, and then another leg, and finally realized she was looking at her butler, lying on the floor behind the chaise.

“OMG, Davis! What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

She reached down to shake her butler’s shoulder. It felt cold, and she stood blinking at the man, wondering what to do about it. I must call the police, she thought. But I won’t get to my interview if I have to answer a bunch of questions. But I have to call the police, there’s no two ways about it.

***

“What?? He’s been murdered?”

Her question was aimed at the investigating detective who arrived a half hour after she called. Beverly was irritated at the length of time it was taking to “collect evidence,” and whatever.

He had introduced himself as Calvin Epson, and he was apparently a seasoned detective, but Bev was not impressed.

“Of course he wasn’t murdered!” she exclaimed. “He’s my butler! Who would want to murder a butler?”

“How long has he been lying there?” Detective Epson asked after a moment of thought. “What time did you see him last?”

“Just last night after dessert,” she said. “We said goodnight, and he went to his suite. I stayed up to finish a book. I guess it was about 9 when he went to bed.”

‘And when did you go to bed?” the detective asked, a bit snidely, Beverly thought.

“It must have been nearly midnight,” she said. “There were no visitors after that, and I slept right through the night; I didn’t hear a thing. Of course, our suites are at least forty feet apart, and my rooms are more than twenty feet from the living room. Do you think Davis let someone in, and whoever it was killed him?”

“I don’t think anything yet,” the detective said. “But I will need to speak to the rest of your staff. Has anyone left this morning?”

Several forensic people were still milling about in the room, and Bev was hoping they were all about to leave. I’ve missed my interview, she told herself, but this suit is as lovely as Maddie said it would be. Absently, her thoughts went on: I think I’ll go shopping after they take Davis’s body away.

Ooh, she thought. It’s awful to think that Davis is just “a body” now. He was our butler for as long as I can remember. She herself was 19, and she knew he was 53. Her father had hired him a month after she was born. Thinking about that, she realized she didn’t even know if he had family somewhere.

He’s always lived in the penthouse, and I don’t remember seeing any photos of his family – although, come to think of it, I’ve never been in his suite, so I wouldn’t have seen photos if he has them.

I hope that detective Epsom, or Epson, or whatever, knows what he’s doing. I’m pretty sure the police will catch the killer. But as she thought this, Bev wondered if she wasn’t just telling herself that so she wouldn’t have to think about going after the killer herself. That had been on her mind since the detective said Davis had been murdered.

But I can’t solve this! I’m no detective! That Calvin Epson will surely find the killer. But didn’t he seem a bit suspicious of me? Maybe he thinks I’m a suspect.

It’s true that, apparently, no one else seems to have had the opportunity, even if no one had a motive, and the forensics people don’t seem to have found a weapon. In the mysteries I’ve read, a killer must have at least one of the three – motive, opportunity, or weapon.

***

After mulling all those thoughts over on her way to the Westgate Mall, she decided to call Katy Mills and ask her to lunch so she could talk it over with someone neutral. Katy would be neutral, of course, as she was a brainiac who always knew the answers to life’s questions.

“Well, Katy, should I try to find Davis’s killer? Or should I just depend on that odious detective who considers me a suspect. ME!”

Katy considered the question for a moment while she finished her Monte Carlo sandwich. Then she nodded, ready to give her opinion.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” she said. “If you start asking questions, or looking into Davis’s past, it would probably be a mistake. It could put you in danger. Someone killed your butler! So if you start acting like a private eye, you could put yourself in the spotlight. And that could be dangerous. So that’s what I think.”

Knowing that Katy had used her intellect to work out the answer to Bev’s question, she sat back and considered how much weight she should give to it. Would I really be in danger? she asked herself. Yes, probably. Okay, I’m not going to do anything but wait for the police to solve the murder.

And that would be that, she told herself as she and her friend headed off to Union Square.