I, Philibert Q. Winslow

By Michael Paulson

He's the top lawyer in Texas, but when his beautiful assistant is murdered, Philibert Q. Winslow becomes a suspect. Isn't it reasonable, the police argue, that his love for Gila might have turned to hatred as she continually showered her physical affections on others. Winslow is confindent in his ability to influence the courts--and he has Gila's fiance as an even better suspect, but the evidence against him seems strong. And there's plenty of evidence that Winslow desperately hopes will never see the light of day.

Recognizing that the police are more interested in a conviction than the truth, especially not in a truth that leaves him free, Winslow undertakes his own investigation. Oddly, though, witnesses seem to be an endangered species--dying almost as quickly as Winslow can find them. Although Winslow has taken Trevor as his client, could he actually be setting up a frame?

Author Michael Paulson mixes humor with hard-boiled mystery to deliver an entertaining and exciting mystery. Winslow is full of himself, delightfully arrogant, completely flawed, and extremely entertaining. Gila, the perfect woman in Winslow's eyes, is gradually revealed to be something less than perfect--but perhaps not as horrible as the police believe her to be.

I, PHILIBERT Q. WINSLOW is one of those reads that grabs you and sticks with you--I'm happy to recommend this one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Preece
• Release date: Sep 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781602152106

Michael Paulson

Michael Paulson lives in Austin, Texas and writes hard-boiled mysteries set in the streets of Austin and surrounding parts of Texas. Paulson grew up surrounded by crime and crime families and draws on his own background in creating the colorful characters and criminals who feature in his stories.

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I, Philibert Q. Winslow

Michael W. Paulson

Published by BooksForABuck.com at Smashwords

Copyright Michael W. Paulson, 2006-2012

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Chapter 1

Austin's newspapers reported rain and murder, that Sunday morning.

Throughout the heavens, clouds rumbled with black bereavement. Across the treetops, birds hung their heads in desolation. And in the gardens, flowers remained furled with forlorn. Even the newspaper in my hand sagged with sorrow. It was as if each and every thing mourned the unexpected passing of Gila Parker.

My sweet Gila, I murmured, staring at her front-page smile. No one loved you as I. No one understood you, as I. Least of all these parasitic panhandlers parading as the press. How dare the fourth estate let sexual innuendo play as truth upon the printed page? Sex-orgy precipitated event, indeed! I could understand such a claim if the victim had been that bigoted Texas bastard in the Whitehouse! But not Gila. She epitomized all that was grace and beauty.

A feeble tap upon my study door was followed by Bernard's quivering entrance. As rotund manservants went, he was unmatched in culinary cleverness and the innate ability to cower in complete submission: something I have always insisted upon in minions. As for his choice in wearing apparel, it was invariably within reproach: a black, swallow-tailed tuxedo complimented by an orange tie and green shirt, this accented with an ever-so-creaking pair of red patent-leather shoes. Despite his semi-sterling attributes, Bernard had a seepingly negative trait: the not-so-small-matter of unbridled perspiration--one not unlike the constant mucous ooze of a terrified salamander. Still, I would be at a loss without him.

You heard about Gila's murder, oh Human-humidifier?

Bernard's fuzzy dark head dipped solemnly. This morning's radio report, Sir. Tragic. Simply tragic.

Tragic, indeed. Naturally, the task of preserving her wondrous memory has fallen to me. Only I, Philibert Q. Winslow, offered Gila unconditional love while she was alive. And, now only I shall offer her perpetual adoration in death. It is the least I can do for Gila.

Bernard, in his usual flatteringly-devoted--albeit damp manner--exuded, As only your impeccable taste can, Sir.

I try, Bernard. You above all others know how hard I try. I set down the paper. Is my Champagne brunch ready?

He offered a shuddering spray of sweat before whispering, The police, Sir: a Lt. Carlisle Davis. He's at the front door.

I stood, not concealing my irritation. Police? Here? On a Sunday?

I then reached out, grabbed Bernard's soggy tie and wrenched its knot tight to his goiterous throat, tethering him within reach. What are servants for if not to endure an occasional strangling? Or the intermittent flog?

Has the President finally come out of the closet? Is an ice-storm raging across Hades? Has Queen Elizabeth admitted her affair with Lord Chesterton's Springer Spaniel?

Not that I am aware, Sir. Bernard choked, his tiny eyes bulging like hardboiled eggs.

Then how dare this heathen inflict such an intrusion upon my day of rest?

It's about Gila Parker, Sir! His walrus-like face was turning the color of an overripe plum.

I released my grip and mournfully wailed, Tell the desecrator to return tomorrow! I've been salivating for strawberry scones all morning.

Bernard loosened his tie, spewing out another spray of human dew. In his most pleading tone he whimpered, I attempted to turn him away, Sir. However, Lt. Davis insists upon speaking with you. Something about 'sitting on his dead ass during a murder investigation would not endear him to the polished brass monkeys at the top.'

Instinctively, my eyes darted to my own polished concerns: the oak parquet floor beneath Bernard's widely splayed legs. To my relief the expected puddles of perspiration were not yet evident. I curled a finger, drawing my servant's somewhat hesitant attention.

Are the scones out of the oven?

He nodded wetly. A toasty golden-brown.

Is the Champagne properly chilled?

He nodded wetly, again. A crisp forty-three degrees.

Then, I growled, tell the insolent bastard to return at a more convenient hour--preferably in the next millennium. As you know, I loved Gila heart and soul. But the woman's dead, for God's sake. And it isn't as if I ever saw her naked.

Bernard's immense bristling moustache quivered damply as he whispered, And if Lt. Davis declines, Sir?

As my faithful servant you are obliged to physically dismiss the intruder. Even at the risk of your own mundane lifeafter serving brunch, of course.

Bernard offered me his usual liquefied trembling before whining, He has a gun, Sir--the biggest I've ever seen!

I punctuated my displeasure over his obvious cowardice by rolling the newspaper into a bat, and thumping it soundly upon his cowering head. You spineless wimp. Just how yellow is that stripe down your pimpled back?

In cringing protest he exclaimed, My only thought was to avoid bloodshed upon your beloved parquet, Sir--particularly my own.

You're a craven coward, Bernard.

Only because I have an overwhelming desire to live, Sir.

My eyes focused upon my servant's oddly small feet, around which his transudational excretions now glistened. Polymer is the answer, Bernard. Only it can resist your infernal pollution.

And Lt. Davis, Sir?

I dropped the newspaper to my desk with a disgusted sigh. Since you refuse to die like a man, I have no alternative but to receive the infidel here in my usual magnanimous manner. After which, you will retire to the kitchen and prepare a fresh batch of scones--to be served immediately upon the Cretan's departure.

Bernard gave me his deepest minion bow, sending another shower of oily mist in all directions. Then he lumbered off, the jiggling folds of his receding backside reminding me of a constipated rhino waddling across the veldt in search of its favorite dung heap.

Thank God we live in a clothing-required society, I murmured. Then, my eyes drooped to a vagrant hair clinging to the lapel of my expensively tailored brown tweeds. Immediately, I brushed off the clinging trespasser. By its curly dark color, it was not mine own. Bernard, you mangy mongrel!

I unrolled the newspaper with a grieving moan and once more studied Gila's picture. Murder had a way of bestowing immortality, particularly upon the truly beautiful, such as she. Had Gila passed on through accident, illness or natural cause her memory would have quickly drifted into oblivion to all but me. A violent end guaranteed the woman of my dreams, perpetual remembrance--a thought that would offer solace in the years to come.

Sweet Gila.

I closed my eyes and let the last memories of her flash through my mind. It had been at Antoine's, one of our favorite bistros. We had dined heartily and then shared a bottle of claret. I had been unerringly witty. She had been articulative perfection. Together we had toasted the beauty of life, the beauty of love, the richness of our irrevocably linked souls. I could still feel the touch of her fingers upon my cheek. I could still smell the sweetness of her perfume. I could still hear...

Chapter 2

Footsteps drew me back to the present. Reluctantly I let her memory fade and opened my eyes to see a tall, handsome, dark-haired man enter my study. He was a fortyish, broad-shouldered wedge who moved with the spring-coil movements of a lion. His suit was off-the-rack seersucker. The color was navy, purposely designed to illicit submission in the unwary. His hair was coal-black, flecked with gray. And despite his maturity, he had retained the finely chiseled facial features of a young, tanned, Greek God. Exactly the type of individual I enviously detested.

Lt. Davis? I queried, in my most disinterested tone.

Then my eyes fell to his hands. Their width was massive, the knuckles flattened from hard use. Reluctantly, I understood Bernard's hesitation to action--not that I approved of his spineless behavior. Still, it was more difficult to fault my servant, knowing he had been confronted by an adversary whose daily life obviously included a healthy dose of unbridled violence.

Philibert Q. Winslow? Davis countered in a voice low enough to make it abundantly clear he had no testicular shortcomings.

Indeed. I strode over, one hand extended.

Unsmiling, he accepted my offering with a vice-like grip that made me wince in pain.

As Davis held me fast he demanded, What does the 'Q' stand for, Winslow?

Quintessential, of course. I extricated my bruised fingers from his crushing paw before adding, A family name, as it were. Then I forced my most complimentary smile and remarked, My servant thinks you're an extremely dangerous man, Lieutenant. You absolutely terrified poor Bernard. I like that in my visitors. Won't you sit down?

Davis ignored my request. I hope you don't mind my coming on Sunday. We find the first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation the most crucial.

I shrugged, noting that his eyes had fixated themselves upon the seventeenth century French clock atop my desk. You collect time-pieces, Lt. Davis? I returned to the soothing softness of my lambskin swivel chair. "That one's solid silver. A Pendule sur gaine, circa 1690. A pendulum clock, for those ignorant of French. The movement was created by Isaac Thuret. André-Charles Boulle manufactured the case--not his design, however. Still a wonder for the eye. Regardless, much too expensive for any honest civil servant."

I had purposely stressed 'honest,' hoping to illicit a telling response. He let my jibe pass, his eyes still studying the shimmering antique.

A gift from Gila, I continued. You, no doubt, saw its mate upon the fireplace mantle in her apartment--hence the familiarity. Again, I waited for a response. Upon getting none I added, The morning newspaper touted her murder as if it should be part of the next Olympiad. From my prospective it was absolutely appalling.

Again I waited, again no response. You have come with information regarding the investigation?

I've come with questions, Winslow. His gray eyes turned toward me then, burning suspiciously. Lots of questions.

Shall we begin with the famous hot-light interrogation? I teased. Or do you prefer rubber hoses? My personal joy is sodium pentothal; the after-buzz makes me absolutely giddy.

His jaw muscles rippled. I understand Gila Parker worked for you.

My executive assistant. I pointed to one of the brown leather Harvard chairs facing the desk, giving my eyebrows a suggestive arch. I simply cannot speak with someone staring down at me. After which I thrust forward my famous petulant pout before adding, It's my inferiority complex.

He glanced at the floor. Then he slid the toe of one cheap, black shoe across the spotted parquet.

Pay no attention to the wet. There is a twit I must wring out, upon your exodus. Er, the newspaper was not clear as to who discovered Gila's body. Her cleaning lady, I presume?

Anonymous tip brought me to the scene. The source was a second-story man by the name of Richard Booker. He claims to have found the sliding-glass door on her patio open, went in to grab anything and everything. When he discovered her corpse he made a quick, empty-handed exit.

I suppose one must accept any help that is offered, I muttered. Still, would it not be likely that your tipster was also her killer?

He wagged his head. A patrol car picked Booker up an hour after the killing. He was coming out of another building lugging a television. Naturally, he wanted to cut a deal to avoid prosecution. After some questioning, he admitted he'd called in the homicide.

But, how can you be so positive that this light-fingered louse did not kill Gila?

Davis smiled, giving me a good look at his even white teeth. Intuition. I have a sixth sense when it comes to murder.

I took aim at the pompous ass. Not unlike Bernard growing balder each year with the falling of autumn leaves, I'm sure.

Without taking note of my less than subtle jibe, he settled his muscular frame in the chair I had indicated, earlier. After which, he leaned back, extracted a mangled pack of cigarettes from a pocket and sloughed an unfiltered individual from it. He stuffed that between his thin lips before bringing a wear-weary Zippo to life.

Deadly habit, I said. But one of your class has so little for which to live.

Again, my verbal shot went wide of his sensitivities.

He blew smoke toward the ceiling. You and Gila Parker were lovers, Winslow.

My mouth gaped with embarrassment over such a presumptive remark. How dare he assume that Gila and I would simply wallow in mindless lower-class passion, like two minks in heat? It isn't as if I had gotten her drunk in a feeble attempt at seduction, although I had given such a transgression serious consideration on numerous occasions.

Don't try to deny it, he continued.

I contemplated lashing Davis unmercifully with a retort that would have left him emotionally scarred for life. However, through my massive reserves of inner strength, I maintained enough dignity to offer a less than feeble, Let us agree that she and I were verbal intimates. And leave your dirty little remarks for someone else.

His thick black eyebrows knitted disbelievingly, then returned cigarette pack and lighter to their places. You're telling me there was nothing sexual between you and that hunk of hot female flesh?

I toyed with the idea of attempting an explanation of my complex relationship with Gila. I decided its intricacies would merely bewilder Davis's obvious lack of social sophistication. His idea of romance undoubtedly included ropes, whips and chains--something I could not tolerate -- unless used tastefully with appropriately applied lubricating jell.

I don't expect you to understand this, Lieutenant, I said, wearily. Nevertheless, I shall make the attempt. My feelings for Gila Parker, and hers for me, went far beyond mere physical interaction. We are soul-mates. My future passing will merely act as a joyous reunion upon the other side. As for the sweaty humpty-dumpy, we left it to those of simple-minded lower-class morality such as yourself.

A smile tugged at the corners of his wide mouth. Something in the pipeline, concerning your death? He sounded hopeful.

It was my turn to wag a head, although the word 'pipeline' was new to my study walls. I am in the pink of health.

Another cloud of smoke erupted from his lungs. All that soft young stuff around the office and you weren't getting any. I'll bet you were frantic from morning 'til night.

My fingertips touched as elbows found chair-rests. He had emphasized 'young' as if it held some significance. Neither Gila nor I ever felt that our age disparity negated our mutual feelings. However the Lieutenant's insinuation irritated me.

I take no issue with part of your assessment, Lieutenant as crudely as you put it, I said. In fact, I would place Gila among the most beautiful of all women to have ever lived.

His gaze continued, unflinching. Not if you'd seen her laid out on a slab with one eyeball missing and her brains blown out the back of her head.

My stomach lurched at that imagery. However I managed to retain a modicum of control with a bleating, If you're attempting to shock me, Lieutenant!

He snorted with insolence. Just trying to collect information, Winslow. How would you describe your relationship with Gila Parker--soul-mates and celibacy, aside?

My impatience with the Cretan was bubbling like puss in a sullied wound. And under such circumstances, attack was the only logical recourse. So, I quickly thrust at him, Gila and I agreed that a beautiful relationship such as ours far transcended the grab and grope scenario you and other low-lives are most intimate.

My accurately aimed verbal salvo caused Davis to cross his legs and flick the ash from his cigarette upon my prized, albeit damp, parquet. Bernard would pay for allowing this arrogant ass to rape my private sanctuary. Forty lashes from my favorite cane, at the very least--fifty if he scorches the scones.

Meaning she wasn't satisfied with your limp offering and wanted hot action from a young man, he growled, deflecting my vocalization's rapier point.

Except for the soft crackle of burning tobacco as he drew on his cigarette, the room fell silent. Shallow men, physically motivated men such as Davis, had been all too common in Gila's life. Probing fingers! Sweating bodies! Mindless, animal lust! It was not her fault, of course. A beauty such as she invariably drew the attention of the Neanderthals among the male sex. For the life of me I could not comprehend how such as they could capture Gila's interest, intellect being far superior to brawn. And yet they did. Again and again, they did.

No doubt, you have been speaking with Trevor Morris, I said. I am certain Sweet Trevor has his own theories on who murdered Gila, purposely pointing you in my direction.

His gaze never wavered. You and he don't get along?

I could strangle the gavoting gumball while dining a la carte laws permitting, of course.

We've not yet taken his statement. Morris is apparently out of town, no answer at his apartment. But we'll hook up with him soon enough. What's he do for a living?

Import-export, or so he claims. I recall Gila mentioning that Trevor flies between here and Sao Paulo, Brazil quite often. But I would not put much faith in that as a definition of his professional pursuits. Trevor's travels usually mean seeking new opportunities with wealthy women. You see, he has quite a flare with lonely ladies.

Were there other men in Gila Parker's life? Besides you and Morris.

Leave it to the working-castes to focus upon a murder's sexuality. Was it not heinous enough that she died by another's unfeeling hand? And what point could there possibly be in dredging up the details of the woman's romantic history? Unless this villainous vagrant was attempting to titillate his own vile senses at the expense of Gila's pure memory. No doubt, he assumes I have nudie photos of her. Or sex-films, flagrante delicto. Admittedly, I had done several imaginative porno sketches of Gila. But these were for personal use only.

She and I never discussed such matters, Lieutenant, I said, snippily. Gila was not only my most valued employee, but my dearest friend. As such the frequency of her sexual encounters, the cost of condoms, and the never ending preferred sexual-position debate, were always excluded during our times together as a matter of good taste. Something completely foreign to you, I am certain. Consequently, with the exception of the not yet late and equally unlamented Trevor Morris, I have been blissfully ignorant of her paramours. Now, if you have nothing further

Meaning he and others got action you'd kill for.

A raging flame descended upon my cheeks. Meaning, our relationship did not require it you ludicrous lout. After quickly recoiling my fangs I asked, May I assume by this visit, you have concluded Gila's killer is a man? Perhaps a foolish romantic, not unlike myself?

A man, yes. And you are a suspect, Winslow.

Sweat dotted my countenance. "And you are here to arrest me? A high falsetto lilt erupted from a terror-tightened throat. If so, I must warn you that I am not without political prowess. And as the most famous criminal attorney in the State of Texas, probably the entire nation, accusing me of murder is tantamount to calling Mother Theresa a harlot, or the President an honest man. The repercussions of which will undoubtedly castrate your career."

He smirked. I'm a little abrupt under pressure. Probably why I'll never make Captain. Let's agree that I'm here to ask questions and to hear your answers. After which, he remarked, Gila Parker recently inherited a large sum of money, slightly over half a million. In her will, she left all that loot to you. I found that odd, Winslow.

My eyes went dreamy at the mention of money. That sweet child. Then I realized the implication and leaned across my desk in dispute. You're assuming I killed Gila for a paltry pittance? I have amassed over one-hundred times that amount, you insignificant snail.

There's nothing so sweet as another's desert, Winslow.

His unwaveringly cold stare caused more droplets of perspiration to form upon my prime-suspect face. Come again?

An old Irish saying. Tell me about Gila's relationship with Trevor Morris.

I settled back before making a vague gesture punctuated by another lilt of nervous mirth. So, you have also painted that dimwitted dallier as Gila's killer. Well, I must say he better fits the familiar frame. However I doubt Trevor has the intestinal fortitude for the act. In fact, he has the courage of a crippled rabbit when confronted by a hunting nit.

Davis briefly raised one hand before curling its forefinger. A flex on the trigger is all the guts it took.

You're forgetting motive, Lieutenant. Trevor was in love with Gila. Not the adoring love that she and I felt for one another, of course. But love of the animalist sort that you and your ilk most easily relate. Regardless, why in God's name would he shoot the object of his affection?

Rejection does not set easy with a certain kind of man, Winslow, particularly if it comes from a sexual tease.

Sexual tease, I roared. Gila? I jumped to my feet. Slander, I assert most emphatically. She was invariably a woman of impeccable social grace. I shall bring immediate suit against you and this city if you so much as whisper that claims, again. Sexual tease, indeed.

Davis's face remained impassive. Sit down, Winslow.

I immediately did. Not out of fear, of course. But merely as a way to express my cooperation with this Cretanous crud.

Let's take a different tact before we both lose focus, he said. I'm working on the premise that whoever killed Gila Parker knew her intimately.

I leaned forward. Intimate? Based upon what evidence, pray tell? Photos? Videos? Audio? I have an entertainment room that is fully equipped if you'd care to have me scrutinize it.

His dark head wagged a negative. There was no sign of forced entry. And the apartment lights were off when Gila was shot.

His explanation bewildered me. I am not familiar with the psychological theory linking dimmed lights to murderous intimates, Lieutenant. Jung? Freud? Or, Madonna?

My brilliant wit passed over his head yet again. Not unexpectedly, this time.

Coupled with the time of death being in the wee hours of the morning, he droned on, in his deeply official voice, I can only conclude her killer had a key. Or, she let him in. Either way Gila knew him.

I crossed my arms. "That is absurd. Any attorney of experience would quickly dispel such a theory as childish conjecture. Murder by intimate. Gila was assassinated by a psychotic souse, probably