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The Cinderella Caper by Herschel Cozine
I'm sure that most everyone has heard about Cinderella. We have read how she was merely a chargirl, mistreated by her wicked stepmother and three stepsisters. We know how she charmed the prince and eventually became his wife. Poppycock!
Before you pass me off as some crank who has no romance in his soul, let me give you a few facts.
My name is Osgood––Nathaniel P Osgood III to be precise. I'm a private investigator, and I had the privilege, if that is the word, of working on the Cinderella case. I know what kind of a person she is. I know how she passed herself off as a poor mistreated waif while she gallivanted around the countryside preying on princes and unsuspecting nobility.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's begin, as they say, at the beginning.
"The Cinderella Caper" first came to my attention on a Monday morning late in the spring. A Royal Ball had been held the night before at the palace of old King Gordon (now deceased), and his lovely wife, Madlyn (ditto). Not being one to read the society pages, I wasn't aware of the fuss that had ensued at the ball. No one I knew had been invited to the bash, and I had no particular interest in the affair myself.
I was sitting behind my desk drinking a cup of coffee and fighting off the effects of a hard weekend when the door to my office opened. A man dressed in a frilly lace shirt, green knickers and buckle shoes stepped in and bowed from the waist. Not being tutored in the ways of the upper crust, I could only stare at the spectacle he presented and wonder what masquerade party he had come from. Before I could say anything, the man spoke.
"You are a private detective?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, nodding to the sign on the door which said exactly that. "What can I do for you?"
"I am a page in the court of King Gordon and his lovely wife, Madlyn," the man said. "His Majesty would like to engage your services."
"The king wants to hire me?" I asked incredulously.
The page nodded as only a page can nod.
"Why?"
"I am not at liberty to say," the page said. "But His Royal Highness is most eager to see you. He would be grateful if you would come with me at this time." He bowed again. It was a trait that I discovered was common among pages, and one I came to dislike intensely. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "King Gordon will pay you handsomely for your time."
Not being one to keep royalty waiting, especially the type of royalty who is willing to pay me handsomely, I took my tunic from the rack and threw it over my shoulders. With a bow of my own, I stepped back and gestured to the page.
"After you."
We rode to the castle in a carriage drawn by a team of six horses, only one of which was white, thus putting to rest another myth. I suppose it is a matter of economics, but a little disappointing.
The bridge over the moat lowered slowly, and we clattered across, coming to a stop in front of a huge oak door. The footman hopped to the ground and opened the carriage door. The page stepped out and I followed. I looked up at the massive structure with its high walls, multicolored windows and turrets. So this is where the taxpayers' dollars go, I thought with an envious sigh.
The giant doors were opened by two soldiers clad in breastplates and holding spears. We went through a series of corridors, finally stopping at another set of doors, almost as large as the ones at the gate. The page pulled at a cord off to one side and I could hear a bell chime from the other side of the doors.
Slowly the doors opened to reveal a large windowed room with two thrones at the far end. A man and a woman sat on the thrones looking as though they would rather be somewhere else.
The page approached the throne, removed his hat and bowed deeply. "Your Highness," he said to the king. "May I present Detective Osgood." He turned to me, swept his arm in a courtly gesture, and withdrew.
The king nodded his regal head and beckoned for me to step forward. I did so, ending with an awkward bow.
"At your service, your Highness," I said.
"Let's dispense with the formalities and get down to business," he said. Nodding to his wife, he continued. "Maddie and I have a problem here that requires the skills of a good private eye."
"Last night, as you may know, we had a ball. All of the single girls in the kingdom were invited." He jerked a thumb toward a door behind him. "It was a party for Junior, our only child. Heaven knows he'll never find a girl by himself. And this party...." He slapped his hand on his knee and snorted. "But that's not important."
Queen Madlyn leaned forward. "What my husband is trying to tell you is that our son has fallen in love with one of the girls who attended last night. A lovely young lady."
"Bah!" the king snorted. "She's a phony. That's why you're here, Oswald."
"Osgood," I corrected. "You say she's a phony. Why?"
King Gordon waved an impatient hand. "Why? I'll tell you why," he roared. "This young lady appears from out of nowhere in a coach that would make ours look like a haywagon. She's dressed to kill in clothes that not even Maddie and I, with all of our royal wealth, can afford. She gives some cockamamie story about a fairy godmother giving her these duds. Giving, mind you." He made a face and grunted loudly. "She dances with Junior all evening. Then, at the stroke of midnight she races out of here mumbling something about her coach turning into a pumpkin." The king sat back and groaned. "I find it all a bit too much to swallow."
"Can you give me a description of her?" I asked.
"I'll do better than that," he said. He reached into the folds of his robe and extracted a piece of paper. "The royal artist sketched her as she danced last night," he said, handing me the paper.
I unfolded it and studied the sketch. The girl was a vision. She had wide innocent eyes, a full mouth parted in a slight smile, and a pert nose that had a hint of freckles. With upswept hair topped with a diamond crown, the young lady bore a striking resemblance to Lesley Ann Warren.
"Very nice," I said. "May I have this?"
"Keep it," the king replied. "I don't care if I ever see it again."
"I would like to speak with Jun-...the prince, if I may," I said.
King Gordon sat back and laughed without humor. "The little twit is out scouring the kingdom with that stupid slipper, trying it on every girl he sees. When he finds the girl it fits, he will have found his ‘true love,' or so he thinks."
I laughed. "There must be hundreds of girls with the same size foot in the kingdom. Wouldn't he recognize the young lady? Surely he must have seen her face."
I nodded. The king pulled a cord by his side and the page appeared, bowing and scraping. Sensing that the audience was over, I bowed and retreated to the door.
Trying to find a potential princess in the circles I knew was much like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. However, in this instance I got lucky.
I had been hitting the bars and nightspots in the area for almost a week, flashing her picture and asking if anyone had ever seen her. No dice. I was about to give up, figuring she was an out of town girl, when I showed it to a hotel clerk on the edge of the kingdom. He recognized her immediately.
"Yeah," he said, eyeing me suspiciously. "I know her." He glared at the picture, then at me.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Don't know for sure. I only know the name she put on the register." He fumbled through the files on his desk and took out a card. He slid it across the counter to me. "What I do know is that she skipped out on her hotel bill."
I grunted sympathetically and picked up the card. It was filled out in a feminine hand. The name that appeared on the top was, "Ella, Cinder." Obviously a phony, and I was willing to bet the address was phony as well. I shoved the card back at the clerk. "Can you tell me anything about her? Was she traveling alone? Luggage?"
"She was alone as far as I know. A couple of pieces of luggage." He opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out a business card. "I found this in her room after she skipped out. Don't know if it means anything." He handed me the card.
It was from a carriage rental service in the kingdom down the road. I thanked the clerk, slipped him a five for his troubles, and left.
The Neverland Carriage Rental Agency was an unimposing structure that sat back off the road in a grove of trees. But the array of carriages was impressive. There appeared to be a carriage to fit every budget. Big ones, small ones, ornate gilded coaches; even a one-horse open sleigh for more informal events.
I approached the counter and introduced myself to the man behind it. Pulling Cinderella's picture from my pocket, I handed it to him.
"Ever seen this woman before?"
He studied it for a minute, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I remember this one. A real looker. Dressed to the teeth. She rented our Sunday Special, complete with footman and driver. Paid for it in cash. In advance."
"When?" I asked.
"A week ago Sunday," the man said. "Wanted the coach for the evening, but said she'd return it shortly after midnight. She did, too." He scratched his head. "Something funny about her, though."
"What?" I said.
"Well, she said she needed a driver who knew his way around the area. She was afraid she might be followed and wanted someone who could lose anybody who tried. So I gave the job to Fred. He's my oldest and best driver. Knows the kingdom like the back of his hand."
"I see," I murmured. "Is Fred around? I'd like to speak with him."
"Sure thing," the man said. "I'll get him for you." He disappeared through a door in the rear. A few minutes later a middle aged man came through the same door. He looked me up and down a few times, then nodded.
"You wanted to see me, mister?" he asked.
"You're Fred?"
"That's right."
I handed him Cinderella's picture. "You were a driver for this woman about a week ago, remember?"
He smiled. "Sure do," he said. "I'll never forget that one. A beauty, isn't she?"
I nodded. "Where did you take her?"
"She went to the Royal Ball for the king's kid at the Palace." He eyed the picture appreciatively. "I'll bet she was the talk of the party."
Little did he know, I thought. "When did she leave this shindig?"
"Just about midnight," he said. "I remember, because the old clock practically knocked me out of my seat when it started clanging the hour."
"Did she seem upset?" I asked. "Was she alone?"
He licked his lips and said nothing. His hand twitched slightly. I held out a five. He took it and stuffed it in his pocket.
"Well, sir," he said. "It's like this. She came tearing out of the castle like the devil himself was after her. About halfway down the steps she loses her shoe, but doesn't even bother to pick it up. She just jumps in the carriage and yells for me to get out of there as fast as I can."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I did exactly what she said. I grabbed my whip, put it to the horses, and took off."
"Where?"
He looked to my hand again. I gave him another five, which quickly followed the route of the first one.
"After we were out of sight of the castle, and she was satisfied that no one was following us, she told me to drive her to a road just west of here, about a mile or so." He indicated the direction with a jerk of his head.
"Go on," I said.
"When we got there, she jumped out of the carriage and ran over to a small coach hidden behind a clump of trees. She got in and rode off." He grinned. "She sure knew how to handle those horses."
"Can you give me a description of the coach?"
"Nothing much to describe," he said. "Just a common everyday horse-drawn carriage. Two horses. Brown, I think. But it was hard to tell in the dark."
"Which direction did she go?"
"West," Fred replied.
"Anything else you can tell me about her?" I asked.
He shook his head. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he grinned. "She left something in the carriage, though. May be helpful."
"May I see it?"
Fred scratched his head thoughtfully. "I don't know. I don't want to cause any trouble."
I held out another five. He started to reach for it, then pulled his hand back. I sighed, dug into my pocket and added another five. He lifted them gingerly and folded them into his pocket. "Be right back," he said.
He was gone a few minutes, then reappeared carrying a shoe. It was a beautiful piece of work, made entirely of glass, with delicate bows and flowers etched in it. Just above the heel was a tiny inscription. I held it up to the light and read it out loud.
"Sebastian Glass Works."
Fred looked at the slipper admiringly, then turned to me. "What do you make of it?"
"Could be of some use," I said, hiding the excitement I felt. Thanking Fred, I left, twenty dollars poorer but a glass slipper away from cracking the case.
It took a little doing, but I finally located Sebastian Glass Works in a little principality several miles away. I opened the door to a tinkle of a little glass bell. An old man was leaning over a table, torch in one hand and a glass rod in the other. He looked up as I entered, set the torch aside and rose to greet me.
"May I help you?"
I placed the glass slipper on the counter in front of him. "Recognize this?" I said.
The old man nodded. "Certainly," he said. "This is one of my finest creations. Where did you get it?"
"That's not important," I replied. "Can you tell me who you sold it to?"
The man nodded again. "Of course. I have only one customer for this. And she buys several pairs each year." He chuckled. "Fragile, you know. She breaks them all of the time."
The old man curled his brow into a questioning frown. "Is she in some kind of trouble?" he asked.
"Could be," I said. "I think you'd be wise to tell me what you know."
He pondered for a moment, then straightened and rubbed his hands together nervously. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Her name is Penelope Mitchell. She lives around the corner, on Palace Drive. Third house on the right."
I thanked him and stepped out into the bright morning light. I walked the short distance to her house, climbed the brick steps to the front door, and knocked gently.
Penelope Mitchell, aka "Cinderella," and no doubt a whole lot of other names, opened the door herself. She was a mess, with tousled hair, and mascara smudged eyes that squinted into the glare of the morning.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested," she said and started to close the door. I put my foot in it, something I had wanted to do since I had heard the expression when I was a kid.
"Penelope Mitchell?" I asked.
"Yeah?"
"Or is it ‘Cinderella'?"
Her eyes widened. She started to say something, but I cut her off. "I know all about your little scam," I said. "Now let's cut the games and talk."
She studied me for a long moment, then shrugged and stepped back. I brushed past her into the house.
"How did you find me?" she said.
"You got careless," I said, tossing the slipper on the sofa. "You left this in the coach."
She picked it up, looked at it accusingly, then dropped it again. "I lost the other one during the getaway," she said. "What good is one without the mate?" She laughed without humor and sat down.
"King Gordon hired me to bring you back," I said.
"I'd rather die," she said.
I shrugged. "That's up to you," I said, "but don't you think you're overreacting?"
She looked at me pleadingly. "Look, mister, you have no idea what it would be like if I had to face that kid of his again." She crossed over to me and took me by the shoulders. "You should have seen the little creep. He was all over me, pawing and slobbering." She dropped her hands to her side and made a face.
I felt a surge of sympathy for the lady. But I had my orders from the king himself. "I'm sorry," I said.
She twisted a ring off her finger and thrust it into my hand. "Here's the ring I filched from Dribble-Face." She nodded toward the back room. "The rest of the loot is in there. You can have it all. Just give me a break and look the other way for a minute or two. I'll take a powder. You get the goods, and everybody's happy."
I thought about it for a few minutes. If Junior was as bad as she said, I could never live with myself for dragging her back to him. After all, the punishment should fit the crime.
I turned to her and gave her my tough guy look. "Let's have the stuff," I said. "And don't hold anything back or I'll track you down and––"
She didn't let me finish. Throwing her arms around me, she kissed me. Suddenly I realized why Junior was running through the kingdom with that silly shoe. Maybe his marbles weren't as chipped as I had been led to believe.
I left Penelope's house with a sackful of goodies and a warm feeling that lasted all the way back to the castle.
King Gordon was so glad to get the loot back that he offered to make me a knight. I refused gracefully, accepted my fee along with a generous bonus, and returned to my humble practice with a sense of accomplishment that is rare in my chosen profession.
Junior, meanwhile, found a girl whose foot fit the slipper, took her back to the castle and married her, never once suspecting she was not the real McCoy. As for Cinderella, alias Penelope Mitchell, she moved to another kingdom and took up with seven little men who dealt in diamonds. You probably know her by a different name. But that's another story for another time.
THE END
Herschel Cozine © 2007 |
