Laurel and Hardy Murders by Marvin Kaye Page A

time to prepare,” O. J. said, “we’d like to find out if anyone contemplates going.”
    There was a good show of hands. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Frank Butler all evening, but I was sure he meant to attend.
    “Wonder where the old buzzard is,” I said to Hilary.
    “Who knows? Maybe his Packard died in the swamps of New Jersey.”
    Butler didn’t show until the dais portion of the banquet was nearly over. By then, Dangerfield had done a few, too few, hilarious minutes, and Chuck performed a pantomime based on the idea that Bob Cummings’s eternal youthfulness might be the result of fantastically intricate prosthetic devices. Bob and Ray did their classic interview with the cranberry grower and the chat with the Komodo Dragon authority. Then Ray reached down and accepted the plaque which Mel Fawkes had nearly broken as he tripped carrying it to the dais. As prior recipients of the Sons comedy achievement award, the team had agreed to present the current one to Jack Black.
    The old man made a few gracious remarks on behalf of himself and the absent Billy White. When he was done, Natie mounted the dais and began calling off numbers for the annual auction. Just then, I saw a large figure in a white suit enter at the back of the room. It was Frank Butler. He was carrying a big package wrapped in brown paper, treating it delicately.
    “Who ever told him he should wear white?” Hilary said. “He looks like a pregnant light bulb.”
    Butler saw us and approached. “Hey, boy, how the hell you doin’?” He pumped my hand in his free mitt, started to reach over to Hilary, thought better of it and yanked his hand back.
    “Where’ve you been?” I asked. “The meal’s already over.”
    “It’s all right, I ate on the road. Hadda chase all over Philly to find exactly what I wanted.”
    He patted the package.
    “What’s inside?”
    “Shh.” Butler shook his head. “You’ll see.” Chuckling, he waddled off in the direction of the head table.

D URING THE BREAK WHILE they were rearranging the seats for the platform show, Hilary told me she was enjoying herself and wanted to join the Sons of the Desert.
    I ignored the statement. “Hilary,” I said, “you’ve got to see the club’s library. They’ve got a limited edition of Percy Mackaye’s Hamlet .”
    That was enough to divert her. It was a book she’d been vainly trying to acquire for the better part of a decade. I took her to the trophy room/library in the recess beyond the bar. When she saw the huge boxed Bond Wheelwright tome, she gasped, delighted.
    “I didn’t know it would be so big ! May I look at it, hold it?” A little girl anxious to play with someone else’s toys.
    I waved to Hal, who was running around passing out bar chits to guests. “Is it all right to handle the books, Hal?”
    “As long as you don’t get ’em dirty and put ’em back.” He zoomed off on another errand, narrowly avoiding a belly-whop when his toe snagged the cord of an electric wire.
    “That,” said Hilary, “is the clumsiest man I ever met.”
    I agreed.
    For the next few minutes, Hilary occupied herself caressing the rare book. I wasn’t so sure I should have distracted her. I knew damn well it’d be worse for me, the longer I delayed telling her she couldn’t join the Sons.
    “ Take your seats. The show’s about to start .”
    The tables were pushed aside, and the chairs, arranged in neat rows, commanded both stage and the screen behind the dais. Ushers drafted from the general membership passed out programs.
    There were nine items listed on the itinerary, starting with a “magic lantern show” and a “surprise” by Hal Fawkes and continuing through the skit, Wayne Poe, a singer, a magician, Sandy Sable’s comedy act, and, next to last, Al Kilgore doing a couple of music-hall songs in honor of Stan’s early days on the London variety circuit. The final thing, as always, was to be a Laurel and Hardy film, this time, as O. J. had told us,