Pseudocide in Oceanside

Barnaby walked briskly through the chandelier lit hallway towards the kitchen where the shouting was coming from.

''I did not take it, I tell you! Why would I do this?'' protested Allard in his raspy old french accent.

''Never trust a french man, like my late father used to say, may God rest his soul. I should have listened. I demand that you empty your pockets immediately.'' She exclaimed. Astrid had never been fond of Allard, although she was very fond of his éclairs au chocolat.

Noticing Barnaby, Allard cried out ''Barnabé this woman has gone crazy! Tell her I do not steal the silverware''.

Barnaby tried to appease the situation ''May I suggest that we should all take a deep breath, and calm down. Allard, if you have nothing to hide... as I'm positive you do not... might I suggest that you open out your pockets to relieve Mrs Weinerman's con-''

Allard cut him off abruptly ''I am a man of my honneur. I don't need to do such a thing!''

''Because he is a liar! The family silver has the utmost emotional significance to me, and I shall not accept that even the smallest of spoons goes missing!''

-''That is it, I cannot live like this anymore. I quit! You are an horrible old cow! And you know what, I do not blame your husband for killing himself.''

As Allard stormed out of the room Astrid threw a whisk at him, cursing at him whilst Barnaby restrained her softly, but firmly. The chef could not take the heat and thus had gotten out of the kitchen.

Astrid had quite a temper. She then proceeded to burst into a fit of tears, crying on his comforting shoulder. It was hard to tell if she was genuinely upset or not. Barnaby had seen her cry in the same vein whenever she didn't get her own way. It was difficult enough working for her, never mind being married to her.

- As we know, What the chef had said, that Errol Weinerman commited suicide because of his failing business and his depression, is of course false. However, Errol had faked his own death by means of committing suicide, jumping off a cliff into the waters below, and theoretically drowning to his death, 12 miles south from their Oceanside mansion. Why? Well, in order to start a new life in Guatemala with the beautiful young Mireia, the Weinerman's maid, whom he was madly in love with. She was recently forced to leave the country for legal reasons and was also carrying his baby, obviously. To the untrained eye, it seemed totally plausible that he did in fact end his life. The evidence the police had pointed towards suicide. They used the latest cutting edge tracker technology, and triangulated his movements via his cell phone, tracing his last coordonates to the very cliff where he had supposedly jumped. Not to mention the suicide note, a bottle of his favorite whisky marked with his fingerprints was found on the crime scene and his personnal belongings that washed ashore, including his blooded coat with hand embroided initials on the collar, and the prescription anti-depressant pills. He had in fact never taken a single one. It was pseudocide that had been commited, not suicide. But our characters don't know that. -

By now she had stopped crying, she put on the usual show she always does, and ordered Barnaby to finish doing the dessert, adding ''And make it snappy, the Dinglewarts are waiting. I want them out my hair before Jeopardy! starts.'' as she left the room.

The Dinglewarts had gifted Astrid a pair of hand cut crystal sherry decanters since it was her drink of preference, they were french antiques and very expensive. She returned to her seat at the majestic mahogany dining table, unloading the whole debacle that had just occurred in the kitchen with Allard onto her guests. She was oblivious to the fact that they had heard the shouting, since the walls in her gated mansion were surprisingly thin, almost as if she hadn't been living there for the past seven years. She was somewhat of a local socialite, playing the game of using people, as they all did. Performing the fake charade that she always put on for company. The toothy smile, overly enthusiastic head nodding, the condescending remarks. It must have been tiring even for herself. Kurt had always been jealous of Errol, and desired Astrid. She was conventionally more attractive than his wife with her piggy nose and her grating voice. Their business was failing due to the fact that typewriters were in short demand amongst the public, and since he and Astrid were both now partners, he told her what she wanted to hear. He knew she could use the money although she was too proud to ask. He raised the topic.

''So errr Astrid, I've been meaning to talk to you about the business. I'm thinking of liquidating the assets of A-Z Typewriter Co. How would that make you feel? We all appreciate the hard work Errol had put into the company over the years, but with the current climate... You would obviously get half of whatever is left after, you know after we errr pay the suits.'' Kurt was in fact considering filing for bankruptcy.

The second the words left his mouth, she was always going to agree. But she couldn't appear too eager, in order to keep up appearances.

''Well I suppose. If you say it's for the best. I like to think it's what Errol would have wanted. He was such a generous man.'' As she wiped an invisible tear from the corner of her eye.

This led to Kurt pouncing to her side to comfort her, offering her a packet of tissues from his suit pocket. He was like an overly-enthusiastic puppy with a stick, readily wanting to please it's owner. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. The thought of trying to rescue the business by himself sickened Kurt. He had always relied on Errol, or more accurately put, profited from him. He was a slimeball, lazy and he knew how to talk himself out of doing anything, and Astrid knew this. Meanwhile Barnaby did the best he could at finishing the elaborate crepes suzette, and trying not to burn down the house in the process. He was a butler afterall, not a chef. He had burned a crepe. As he went to throw it in the trash, there it was. The silver teaspoon was sat looking up at him. 'How on earth did it end up in there?' he wondered. He retrieved it and put it to one side, and continued preparing the crepes.

Later on in the evening once the Dinglewarts had left, Barnaby notified Astrid that he had found the missing silverspoon in the trash whilst she was sat watching TV with a glass of sherry. She snatched it from him and examined it under the light, ''Make sure you give it a real good clean'' as she threw it back into his hand. ''And check all the trash of the house, make sure there aren't any others in there.''

'Great' he sighed. He wasn't employed to do the cooking and wash the dishes, let alone rummage through trash. But there was no point reasoning with Mrs Weinerman. Once he had finished the last of the dishes, he set out collecting the trash from every room in the house, placing the bags out the back of the kitchen in a big pile. He popped in and out of their bedroom discreetly, but he couldn't help noticing their wedding picture was missing from the dresser, he didn't really think much more about it. He was embarrassed to be in the bedroom, he felt self-conscious about being too invasive. Once he had gathered them all, he stood bent over under the outside porchlight, searching through the trash in the mild night.

His mind wondered. He was thinking about Mr Weinerman. He had commited suicide only ten days after Mireia went back to Guatemala. He had noticed the way he looked at her. It was clear to Barnaby that they were seeing each other romantically, he wondered who else had noticed, the rest of the staff presumably, apart from Allard, the strange old french chef. To his knowledge, Astrid was oblivious, at that point of their marriage they didn't spend that much time alone together, apart from when they slept, and even then, Errol was often 'away on business'. But Astrid was so self-absorbed she didn't really think about anything else apart from her own interest. But Barnaby knew by the look in Errol's eye when he was with Mireia, there was more to it than just lust. He loved her. Barnaby theorised that maybe he had jumped off the cliff because he was heart broken. He was fond of Errol, he was always kind to the staff. He didn't believe that Errol was depressed. He had not once seen him take those pills.

Barnaby continued rummaging through the bins, moving from bag to bag, in a strange way it was a bit of a break, he didn't have to juggle one hundred and one things. The monotony of the task allowed him to think. He came across a whole array of junk, broken glass, old socks, a broken clock, empty soap bottles, a holiday brochure, disposable gloves, batteries, a punctured tennis ball, banana skins, mini whisky bottles like the ones you get at the airport, pencils, deodorant sprays, a fondu kit that had never been opened, a lot of used tissues, the plastic casing of a prepaid mobile device, but no silverware-- Wait a burner phone? Why would Astrid need a burner phone? For an affair? She was a widow by now, if there was another man Barnaby would almost definitely already have heard. She wasn't one for keeping secrets, she was a gossip. Perhaps the phone belonged to Errol. If he threw it in the trash can of his study then it wouldn't have been emptied by the new maid, since Astrid didn't want anyone touching anything in her late husband's prefered room, she wanted it preserved as the last time he used it, as people do when mourning. He had amassed debt and he liked gambling, it would be perceivable that he could need to make untraceable phone calls. He knew that Errol had a gambling habit, But just how bad was it? Did he get in trouble with the book makers? Or was he dipping his toe in the criminal underworld to try to get out of it. What if he had been murdered by the mob, and his death was made to look like suicide? No, it couldn't have, the suicide note was left inside on his desk, he had used his very own type writer and watermarked paper to do it on, they wouldn't go to all that effort when they would kill people in broad daylight. Unless whoever forgot it lived in the house of course... ''It couldn't be Astrid, could it?'' He caught his lips asking himself. She must have found out about Errol and Mireia. She could have easily typed out the note using his own typewriter. And if she did, she might have left her finger prints on the keys. But she had a rock solid alibi, so rock solid in fact Barnaby himself was with her. She was in the lounge playing bridge with some of the ladies from her book club. Also the police conducted an interview and had cleared her. No she didn't kill him herself. But it was in the realms of possibility that she had people 'dispose' of him, she could have been using the phone to communicate with the contract killer.

Barnaby set out on a mission, scanning through the garbage frantically, double checking the trash to find anything that might indicate foul play. He needed answers. Astrid would never have let Errol get away with it if he had been unloyal to her, although it was rather suspicious how she flirted with her tennis coach. She was deluded, double standards were the norm. He was visibly distraught after Mireia had gone, drinking heavily and arguing with Kurt and Astrid, which was unlike him, he usually let her walk all over him, the poor man. Until suddenly he appeared more content, appeased, the difference was night and day.

- As we know, the reason being for this change in behavior is that Errol had put the wheels in motion for his pseudocide, after finding out about a way he could disappear and start a new life with his lover. The pills were provided to him alongside the prescription to make it seem more credible. Barnaby's endeavor was therefore in vain. -

He found an empty bottle of prescription pills. What if Astrid started grinding them up putting them in his coffee. It would explain the sudden change in his behaviour. Wearing him down, making him more suggestable perhaps. He was less present around the house before his disappearance. But he seemed normal enough to Barnaby. Maybe the shards of glass were from the frame of the missing wedding day picture, that she had smashed in anger, before composing herself and formulating a plan to have her husband killed.

- As we know, the picture had just been used for the funeral, and not yet been put back in it's rightful place, but Barnaby was so engulfed in his theory, looking for the evidence to prove it. -

Barnaby went through the hall, passing Pursula the Weinerman's house cat who was trotting towards the garbage pile out the back. Passing the kitchen, he remembered a comment Allard had made jokingly with the gardener a couple of days prior: ''If she did do it, she would find a way where he looks bad and everyone gives her attention.'' She had gotten a lot of presents, after all she did enjoy the limelight. Maybe Allard knew something that he did not, or maybe he just had the same suspicions. He entered the study, wondering if he could spot anything that might validate his concern. He looked in the drawers on the desk, there was a folder of bank statements, he flicked through the most recent ones looking to find something extraordinary in the accounts, whilst being as discrete as can be, although Astrid had fallen asleep on the couch, he could never be too careful. Nothing. He went to put it back where he found it, but noticed a blank piece of paper underneath. He turned it over. It was a bank transferral from the company A-Z Typewriter Co. to a Mexican account, no business name, for 8700 dollars. It looked dubious. He put the folder back and closed the drawer, not knowing how to process the snippet of information.

- As we know, Errol Weinerman was in fact alive and well, presumably in Guatemala by now he was sat on a private beach enjoying his new life with Mireia and a pina colada thanks to the money that he had wired over via false accounts from his personal stash and cash stolen from the company's accounts. -

He scanned the room, looking for hairs on the carpet, books out of place, marks on the window. Still, nothing. He looked at the large picture frame on the wall, it was a black and white photograph of an early 20^th century highstreet, in some small town. Did he dare move it. Of course hoping to discover a safe in the wall. It seemed wrong. Although he had already been through drawers and observed every object from top to bottom, he hadn't physically displaced anything heavy, he couldn't exactly explain his way out if he got caught red handed. But the overwhelming urge to find out the truth was irresistible, he had to scratch the itch of his curiosity. He lifted the large frame off the wall unhooking it, arms fully stretched, grasping each side of the frame, delicately putting it down against the wall. There it was in typical fashion, the safe, door ajar. Cautiously, he opened it. The hinge creaked loudly though Barnaby was too encapsulated by the thrill to notice. The vault was empty.

'If Errol had actually commited suicide, why on Earth would he need to withdraw money? And a lot of it pressumably, it made no sense. Someone had broken into the safe. Errol couldn't have killed himself! I was right! Astrid must have taken the money from the safe, since she couldn't have had any substantial capital due to them being in debt, and you would have to pay a large amount of cash to get someone erased. She then forgot to close it properly, or wasn't aware, the incompetant fool. It might have been the cartel.' They were all over the news at the time, the peak of their activity. Whoever it was potentially, this confirmed his fear, Astrid had him killed. He closed the safe and lifted up the heavy picture frame in his hands.

''Freeze!'' A woman's voice screeched, followed directly by a shotgun cocking.

He dropped the frame down in shock, fearing that Astrid was looking for an excuse to kill him since he had discovered her secret. (As we know he hadn't.) Turned, facing her, arms out flailing in front of him, protecting his eyes from the flashlight, paralysed by fear. But Astrid was also scared, and slightly drunk. Barnaby spooked her. Mistaken for an intruder. BANG!