The Maltese Meatloaf Mystery and Other Tales: A Phillip Bartlow Mystery

Copyright © 2014 Robert Oster.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2215-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2219-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/21/2014

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Maltese Meatloaf

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Epilogue

The California Honeymoon Caper

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

About The Author

THE MALTESE MEATLOAF

A Philip Bartlow Mystery

PROLOGUE

Eda City. There are hundreds of restaurants in this town… some small, some large… each sharing hidden secrets that refuse to be revealed to the hundreds of unsuspecting diners eager to enjoy a decent meal. This is a tale of one of these secrets.

CHAPTER ONE

The streets of Eda City were sloppy with floating rubbish; my footsteps were muffled by the drenching rain, making my trench coat feel like a lead shroud. My name is Philip Bartlow… Private Culinary Investigator. Do you want to know about my life tracking down rotten meals in Eda City? It’s a rotten business like any other business… except that… only the blood shows.

I was closing in on Ralph’s Cafe, famous for it’s Maltese cuisine. My client, Vanessa Von Shnutz had retained me to expose the overcooked meatloaf served in that dive on Footloos Street in the Hardtack Section of town. As I ambled, feet sloshing, closer to Ralph’s, my thoughts wandered back to my first encounter with that Von Shnutz dame:

Journal Entry for October 2, 1951

It was a late night; I was alone in my office when I heard a gentle knock on my door. In she walked. Walked is not the correct description of the way she seemed to float across the stained and worn carpeting toward my desk.

Mr. Bartlow?, she cooed. She was a tall willowy blonde with more curves than a sine wave and legs that seem to never end. Her full ruby red lips seemed to couch themselves into a come hither pout. I’d bet a dollar to a donut that many a man found the tiny beauty mark on the top edge of her left cheekbone hypnotizing… if they stared at it too long.

What can I do for you, doll?, I replied cooly.

My name is Vanessa Von Shnutz. I need you to find Chef Ralph Santiago and make him add more moisture to his meatloaf. The lives of hundreds of unsuspecting diners are at stake! She sobbed.

I looked up slowly and found myself staring straight into the face of an angel. I don’t usually make it a habit to butt into women’s affairs, doll face, but what’s this guy Santiago to you? I asked. It was worth the stare. She was trouble.

Don’t change your habits on my account. She replied.

She liked me. I could feel that. The way you feel when the cards are falling right for you, . . . with a nice little pile of blue and yellow chips in the middle of the table. Only what I didn’t know then was that I wasn’t playing her. She was playing me, . . . with a deck of marked cards… and the stakes weren’t any blue and yellow chips, . . . they were dynamite.

Okay, doll, I’ll take the case. I said, without thinking that I might be about to cross the line between employer and hired gun. But, what’s in it for me… besides the glory? I asked.

"Just money. You know what that is. The stuff you never have enough of. Little green things with George Washington’s picture that men slave for, commit crimes for, die for It’s the stuff that has caused more trouble in the world than anything else ever invented… simply because there’s too little of it." She cooed.

My fee is $25.00 a day plus expenses. I explained. She handed me five crisp one hundred dollar bills and said that that the case should be solved in less than a week. She insisted that l keep whatever’s leftover.

I had my lovely new client fill out a couple of pages of a standard client registration form. She asked me, What’s all this legal mumbo jumbo in small print at the bottom?

That’s for me to sign. I explained. "It’s a standard boiler plate confidentiality clause guaranteeing that I will not disclose any information about you that’s case related. I’ll be giving you the carbon copy.

I looked over the information she filled out on the form. I noticed that she listed her residence as The Grand Park Hotel. I thought, . . . maybe she was all right… and maybe Christmas comes in July.

I handed the carbon copy and a business card to Miss Von Shnutz. I told her to go home, lock the doors and wait for my phone call.

A half hour later I walked out of my office and locked the door.

I caught the blackjack right behind my ear. A black pool opened up at my feet. I dived in. It had no bottom.

A loud buzzing in my ears accompanied the bright flashes of swirling rainbow colored light which eventually faded until I could see the menacing face of Boston Bernie sneering down at me. I surmised that some time had passed as I was tied to a chair in what appeared to be an old cement manufacturing warehouse.

Wakie, wakie! Boston Bernie whispered in his sandpaper rough voice. I think now we got dis nosy bum’s attention. He said to the two goons on either side of him.

My head throbbed as if Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa were banging out paradiddles on my skull. Wha… what do you want with me Bernie? I managed to gasp.

Bernie looked at me disapprovingly and said, I just wanna let you know dat we’ll be fittin’ you for cement shoes if you continue to pry into Ralph Santiago’s business. So we’re gonna untie you and you can go on your way. If we catch ya talkin’ to dat Von Shnutz broad it’s gonna be curtains for ya! Now scram! With that, the two goons threw me off of a loading platform and onto the parking lot behind the large cement plant. I heard Boston Bernie’s voice, as if through a long metal tube, yelling to me, If I ever catch you around her again, they’ll have to pick you up with a sieve! I rolled onto my side and waited to get my sea legs before attempting to stand. What I saw at that moment explained a lot about the woman who got me into this mess. The sign at the top of the building read:

"Von Shnutz Industries—Commercial and Industrial Cement Manufacturers".

I managed to amble to the street and hailed a cab. I gave the cabby my office address hoping he wouldn’t be one of those talky Eda City cab drivers. I was wrong.

What happened to you buddy? Looks like you walked into one of Joe Louis’ knockout punches He said.

I could see from his license that his name was Damon Runster. Well, Damon I replied. "In my profession I’m the one who asks the questions. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary at the cement plant lately?"

Are you some kind of a copper, mister? Damon blurted.

Not quite my friend. I’m a private culinary detective. Right now I’m on a case that seems to be tied to the Von Shnutz family. Wadda you know? I asked.

Man, what a coincidence! Damon said with a toothy smile, although he was missing his right incisor. I used to be Old Man Von Shnutz’s chauffeur and bodyguard… that is until my boss, Quentin Von Shnutz died under strange circumstances.

And, what were those?, I wondered aloud.

Seems he was found dead at his dining room table. The coroner reported that the cause of death was suffocation. The autopsy indicated that a large hard lump of meatloaf was lodged in his throat. It was the cook’s day off and Mr. Von Shnutz enjoyed a late night snack of leftovers on Monday nights said Damon. But, I didn’t buy that story for a second!

"Why’s that, Damon? I queried.

Well, you see, Damon said in a near whisper. "It seems that prior to his death, Mr. Von Shnutz had signed over the entire business to Tony ‘The Tongue’ Prendergast.

CHAPTER TWO

Journal Entry for October 3, 1951

I awoke after a deep but restless sleep on the couch in my office waiting-room to a thunderous knock on the door. My wrist watch told me it was 6:30 AM and too early for Connie-Louise, my secretary, to be reporting for work. My gut told me it was early enough for trouble.

Open up Bartlow! I need to talk to you! bellowed the unmistakable voice of Detective Travis Pincus.

Still rubbing last night’s grime from my eyes, I opened the door. Lt. Pincus pushed his way in. You look like you had a rough night Bartlow. He said condescendingly. We have witnesses that saw Vanessa Von Shnutz enter your office building about 8:00 PM last night. We also believe that somehow you’re linked to two murders… not directly, but coincidently. He added.

How so Lieutenant? I asked. And, what two murders?"

Don’t play coy with me buster! Pincus yowled. That Van Shnutz’s father and the cabdriver that dropped you off here four hours ago; that’s who! I want you to come clean with everything you know about these killings.

Damon Runster was murdered? I promise you Lieutenant, I only learned about Quentin Von Shnutz’s accidental death from Runster last night. That’s it. How was Runster killed? I said.

Pincus lowered his voice and said, "Runster must have picked up a dissatisfied fare right after you left his cab. He was found slumped over the steering wheel with what looks like an ice pick hole in the back of his neck."

"Then you must know that Damon Runster was Quentin Von Shnutz’s chauffeur and bodyguard… at