Essie led me through the wrought iron gates of Lady Gladys’ stately Ardsely Park mini Mansion. I headed toward the grand marble stairs but she redirected me.

“Nah darlin’, you go on through the back door looking like that,” she said.

Even in a jacket and tie I looked tired, broke and beat down. We went around back to the kitchen where Carl Bosier was seated at a table with his feet up and his puffy white chef hat pushed way back on his head. Bosier had been my gambling partner and cook at the Woodville School for colored children until last year, when he convinced Old Lady Gladys that he was a Moroccan prince who had been trained in the best restaurants in France.

“Rubie my man,” he greeted me with genuine cheer. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Lady Gladys’ huge kitchen was filled with shiny brass pots, fresh fruit and fine china serving pieces. It was a world away from the Woodville Colored School cafeteria.

“You’ve come a long way from slinging ham sandwiches Bosier,” I said.

Bosier chuckled. The only thing he could cook was dry ham sandwiches on cheap white bread, but he had convinced Lady Gladys that was the latest gourmet craze.

“They’re are all the rage on the French Riviera,” Bosier said. “All us Moroccan royalty love them with a little slice of American cheese.”

I shook my head. There are a thousand little black kids in West Savannah who cringe every time they see a cafeteria tray because of Bosier and his sloppy ham sandwiches.

“Do all Moroccan aristocrats have such down home accents,” I asked sarcastically.

Bosier clicked his teeth and looked at me out the corner of his eye.

“I’m from South Morocco,” he said.

We all burst out in thunderous laughter. We must have been really loud because we roused the ire of Lady Gladys’ busybody butler, Antwan Dupree Jenkins.

“Now y’all hush up,” Antwan fussed as he sashayed into the kitchen frowning and waving his long, wiry arms.

Antwan was immaculately dressed in a black tuxedo. He was six foot three but as skinny as a rail. His hair was processed and slicked down in neat shiny finger

waves. He wore a thin moustache and white gloves. He looked like a cross between a penguin and an exclamation point.

“You’re upsetting Miss Lady and she’s already in distress about the murder, which by the way Mr. Detective Man, you are supposed to be investigating. Miss Lady can’t handle all that sadness and pressure and I have no idea what she’s going to wear to the funeral. So get on in there and start detecting! And watch where you step ‘cause I don’t want you tracking blood and guts and cheap detective shoe print stains all over Miss Lady’s expensive, imported Persian rugs,” Jenkins said without stopping to take a breath.

He pointed a long skinny finger toward the hallway and I headed out to see why this rich lady had called me to investigate a murder and not the police. I could hear Lady Gladys’ sobs through the wood paneled walls. I could see a grey haired woman dressed in a silk evening gown and pearls. She was crouched down on the floor, looking down at the victim and screaming, “Who did this to you! How could they! My darling! My only love.”

Antwan, Essie and Bozier stopped in the doorway of the sitting room. Bozier took off his chef hat, held it over his heart and motioned for me to go forward.

“Um, ma’am, I mean Mrs. Lady Gladys. I’m the private detective. Detective Ruben Bernbaum,” I stuttered. “Is everything alright?”

Lady Gladys slowly turned toward me. Her black mascara was running down her pale, wrinkled cheeks and in her outstretched hands she held the murder victim - a stiff, cat. It’s yellow eyes were wide open and its tongue dangled from its gaping downturned mouth. It looked like it died choking on a hairball. A tuft of fluffy gray fur floated down from its carcass and landed on my shoe.

“My baby! Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth! Someone killed my kitty,” Lady Gladys moaned.

I turned around and looked at Jenkins, Essie and Bozier who were still standing at attention in the doorway.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “I’m going home.”

Lady Glady’s jumped to her feet, still holding the cat in her outstretched arms.

“No! No! Please don’t go. I need your help. Poor Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth needs justice and the police think this is a joke.”

I shook my head.

“Look, lady. It’s late and I’ve got things to do,” I said.

Essie shot me an icy look.

“Things like what,” she snapped. “Look here darlin’ Lady Gladys loved that cat and somebody did it in. You need to hear her out.”

I turned back to Lady Gladys. She held the cat inches from my nose and it made me sneeze. Cat hair blew everywhere. My pride told me to walk away, but I didn’t want to anger Essie and get tossed out of my place.

“Okay ma’am tell me what happened,” I said working hard to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

Lady Gladys took a deep breath, inhaling a mouthful of fur. She handed me the cat, sat down on a red velvet settee, wiped away her black tears and laid out the whole ridiculous story.

“Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth was my pride and joy. My one true friend and only companion. He was a gift from my late second husband P.H. Barnard. Everyone was jealous of the deep and meaningful bond we shared. So much so that their jealousy turned to hate. They hated the fact that Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth was so beautiful. They hated that he dined on the finest choice cuts of Chef Bozier’s imported Moroccan ham.”

I looked back at Bozier and he slid his chef hat over his face to conceal his laughter.

Lady Gladys continued.

“As everyone knows, I was a world renowned beauty. All five of my former husband's, God rest their souls, took me all over the world and left me businesses, land, houses and too much money to count. If I wasn’t throwing parties or entertaining my next husband, I was doting on my sweet kitty cat. For the last 25 years that cat has been my protector. He could spot a money grubbing phoney from a mile away. Anyone who meant to do me harm could expect to tangle with the claw of Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth. Only the rare few whose hearts were as pure as Mr. Gilbert Fanciworth could get past him. He kept the greedy gold diggers away and that’s why they hated him. That’s why they did this evil thing,” Lady Gladys broke down in tears again.

I wanted to roll my eyes, but the cat seemed to be staring up at me. I laid it down as gently as I could, took out a pad and pen and pretended to take notes.

“What do you want me to do,” I asked.

Lady Gladys looked up with a scowl.

“Find his murder you fool! I want him caught and I’m willing to go to any expense to see that low down dirty dog behind bars,” she shouted. “Essie has set up a room for you above the carriage house. You are to start your investigation and I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll pay you $50 a day and you can use my Bentley. Jenkins will be your driver.”

How could I refuse. $50 was more than I made in a month. I figured I’d live it up for a couple of weeks then figure out a way to break it to her that an old cat like that probably choked on all that hair, or one of Bozier’s nasty ham sandwiches.