Saturday Evening
Alfred found himself whistling as he knotted his tie. He still could not believe that Jessica Fletcher had agreed to his impulsive invitation the previous afternoon. To be honest, he was not quite sure who was more surprised: himself, that she had accepted with what seemed like genuine pleasure, or his employer, Bruce Wayne, when Alfred informed him that he would have to fend for himself that evening.
Alfred managed to secure dinner reservations at one of his favorite Italian restaurants as well as good seats for the Gotham Symphony's "Pops" series. His only problem had been remembering to do everything in his own name instead of Bruce's. Perhaps Dick was right – maybe he really should get out more.
He pulled on his jacket and gave himself a final inspection in the mirror, making sure everything was just as it should be. He nodded in satisfaction, and in a moment of whimsy, saluted the cheerful reflection before him.
Going downstairs, he was unsurprised to see Bruce waiting for him. His ostensible employer had an unusual expression on his face, part concern and part pique.
"How much do you know about this Jessica Fletcher?"
Ah, Bat-paranoia – Alfred realized he should have been prepared for this reaction.
"You mean, aside from her being a famous author, whose picture is on the back cover of each of her books, and who has a large and growing fan club?"
Bruce snorted. "Yes, aside from that. What's she doing in Gotham City?"
"According to both her and Miss Barbara, she is in town to do a book signing and to visit some friends. In fact, Miss Barbara saw her earlier yesterday to get her autograph."
"Barbara reads that sort of stuff?" Bruce asked somewhat disdainfully.
"They are very good mysteries, Master Bruce," he chided. "Barbara first began reading them when she still worked as a librarian. She shared them with me because they are written more in the British style than in the American detective genre. I quite enjoy them."
"And you're going out with her."
"Yes. I'm sorry if you find it suspicious that someone would wish to go out for an evening with me, sir."
Bruce ducked his head shamefacedly. "It's not that, Alfred! I just … worry."
"I know," Alfred replied gently. "Everything's going to be all right." He then smiled. "But not if I keep the lady waiting! I must be going."
Bruce gave Alfred one of his half-smiles and walked him out the door to the garage. The smile became an outright grin when he saw the car Alfred was going to take: a black 1957 Jaguar XK140 coupe.
"It's about time you had a good occasion to take that car out! I've been tempted to steal it for a few joy rides myself."
"I suppose the car cannot help being a corrupting influence, considering its previous owner," Alfred replied with a smile, remembering the first time he saw it – on one of the Batmobile's cameras, being driven by Catwoman as she tried to escape. Even though the Batmobile was one of the most advanced vehicles ever built, and the Jaguar was almost fifty years old, Catwoman would have gotten away if not for Batman's greater driving skill. Alfred had been captivated; the car's lines were almost sensuously curved, conveying both power and elegance. When the car came up in a subsequent police auction, Alfred knew he had to buy it. Despite Bruce's teasing, he did drive it periodically. It just was not the sort of car one drove to buy groceries. He hoped Jessica would not think it too ostentatious.
Brad Ellington took a deep breath, stiffened his spine, and opened the elaborate entry door. A quick glance at the alarm panel on the wall confirmed that no one had set the alarm for the evening. Good. Faint sounds of piano music filtered out into the hallway from the music room, and Ellington walked toward the sound. Tchaikovsky. The old man was pretending to be Van Cliburn again. He winced as the pianist hit an extremely sour note. Blessed silence followed.
Ellington supposed he could not put off the moment any further. He opened the door, walked into the music room, and saw his uncle seated at the grand piano staring at the music in front of him. Montgomery Taylor looked up at the intrusion and smiled.
Ellington did not smile back but instead pulled out a gun. Taylor gasped in shock and lurched to his feet. Before he could say anything, Ellington took aim and fired. Taylor collapsed onto the floor. Brad watched to be sure his aim had been accurate, and after a few minutes, Taylor became still. Brad felt along the old man's neck for a pulse; there was none. Time to work.
His uncle never used electric blankets, but Brad knew some were kept upstairs in case a guest ever needed one. After digging it out of the linen closet, he wrapped a trash bag around his uncle's torso, and then covered the body with the blanket and turned it on. That taken care of, he began to set his stage.
He entered his uncle's office and began throwing things about. He made sure to open up the desk drawer where his uncle's gun was usually kept. From the office, he walked toward the back of the house, occasionally pulling pictures off the wall as he went until he had a large stack. When he reached the french doors leading out into the back yard, he pulled a rasp and a chisel out of his coat pocket and began working on the bolt on the door. With some effort, he made the lock appear to have been jimmied from the outside. Walking back inside, he stared at some of the paintings, trying to decide which ones to pull down next. He really wanted to take the Monet – it was certainly one of the most valuable paintings in the collection. But he knew the frame was fussy; if he took it down, it would take forever to put it back up. It just wasn't worth the trouble. The Cassatt piece, on the other hand …
Someone knocked on the front door.