Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“I don’t ask much,” she said to Kincaid in the limo on the way to the auditorium. Desmond Wicklow had gone to the affair in another car with studio executives who believed So Much for the Few was going to win an Oscar.

The butler was staring through the window at L.A. traffic. It frightened and depressed him. So did Margo’s assignment. “I’m not sure I can do this thing.”

“I only ask people to do what I know they can. That way, I avoid being refused. Which I hate.”

“You’re quite sure he wants to kill you.”

“I told you, darling. I got it straight from Lucy Jellicoe. Desmond Wicklow has had this thing for me since before he wrote his book. He used to take me to a place on the Brighton Road called The Green Man. Corky found out about it.” Margo put on a mournful face. “You thought the Spitfire hitting that cliff was an accident?”

“I and everyone else.”

“It was suicide. My husband’s way of telling me and Desmond, ‘Take that!’ ”

“Horrible.”

“Ghoulish. Look at the way Wicklow profited from the tragedy.”

“I see your point.”

“All the time he was writing his book, he was having his way with me. Said I was his muse.”

“The swine.”

“He’s been after me to marry him. But I don’t love him, Charles. I love you.”

“Oh Lord.”

“I told Desmond. You should have seen his face. He said the famous words.”

“If I can’t have you, nobody will.”

“The male mantra.” Margo Fletcher took Kincaid’s hand. “And he hinted he’ll take care of you while he’s at it.”

There were great goings on before, during, and after the Academy Awards ceremonies. Charles Kincaid, with Margo Fletcher on his arm, found a microphone stuck in his face.

The reporter: “It’s a great night for Hollywood, sir.”

“Everyone seems quite jolly.”

“You sound like one of the British contingent.”

“Oh no, I’m just the butler.”

“The butler? Then you did it!”

“Not yet. I’m not sure I can. How did you find out?”

When the nominations were called for best screenplay based on a published work, Desmond Wicklow, who had adapted his own book, got to his feet as soon as his name was read and began approaching the stage. Desmond had made a discovery in America. It was Tennessee sour-mash whiskey and he was determined to drink as much of it as he could. He was off to a good start.

“God bless him,” Margo whispered in the shocked silence. “He’s reached a new level in irrational behavior.”

Desmond made his way up the carpeted steps and onto the stage while the presenters watched, fascinated. The inebriated author bore down on them, his crimson, sweaty face a mask of acquisitiveness as he said, “Don’t just stand there. Give me my Oscar.”

Now the audience, including the remaining four nominees, began to understand the moment. The applause and shouting was worthy of a sports event, which was appropriate because one of the presenters was “Slam” Duncan, star of the National Basketball Association. The other was Chucky-Joe Partridge. Chucky-Joe had become a Tinseltown icon two years ago by writing, directing, and acting in a film called Down and Out in Pismo Beach. Not only did he bring in his movie at a cost of a hundred thousand dollars, he won the Oscar for best screenplay.

These two stars, who were far from sober themselves, recognized an erratic brother-under-the-skin when they saw one. They embraced Wicklow from either side, turned him to the camera, and kissed him on both cheeks. It made a sensational photograph dominating the front page of the tabloids in the morning. “Limey Scribe Loses It,” said one headline.

This was true. Seated by security men, not sure where he was or what was happening, Wicklow and the world heard the award announced for, and saw it handed to, somebody else.

After the ceremony, at the largest and most lavish of the annual blowouts, Slam Duncan told reporters, “Ye dinna have to ridicule the wee mon. He only did what I do on the basketball floor, made a bloody fool of himself. It’s no fair, is it. I get millions and he got nowt.”

Duncan was telling the truth. The lone Scotsman in the NBA, he often appeared in a kilt and a bearskin hat. The direct descendant of Celtic monsters, he was permitted his eccentricities because he was eight feet tall. From this height, he was able to cruise close to the backboard and throw the ball down into the hoop. “Did ye see that?” he would yell. “Nowt but net!”

Chucky-Joe Partridge wore his tuxedo with white tennis shoes and no shirt. This allowed his chest tattoos to show clearly. “The South Shall Rise Again,” read one of them. Another said, “Will Drink Beer for Food.”

These two, aware, as are all those who toil in Hollywood, that publicity is everything, saw in Desmond Wicklow a free ticket to front-page photos. They filled his dance card, so to speak, at this party and at the smaller one they went to in the wee small hours. “Our duty,” Chucky-Joe intoned more than once, “is to make sure this sweet old guy doesn’t crawl away someplace and get sober.”