The Man Who Ate Parsley: Eight Mystery Stories Featuring Mcgregor the Magician

By Eric Foster Rhodes

Here are eight mystery stories involving professional magician and amateur detective
Griff McGregor. Come with him, his friends, and sometimes the clown magician
Boffo, as they work to solve some baffling crimes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462842889

Eric Foster Rhodes

Dr. Eric Foster Rhodes, along with being a business and labor consultant, educator, and author of mystery stories and novels, is also an amateur magician. When you see him, ask him about his mind reading act. Eric and wife Barbara now live on the banks of the Pithlachascotee River near the Gulf of Mexico

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Copyright © 2010 by Eric Foster Rhodes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

The Man Who Ate Parsley

In the Sky With Diamonds

Now You See It, Now You Don’t

At the Green Baize Tables

The Gifts Disappear

Near the Heart

Unlucky To Be Dead

Looking for Lynda

Acknowledgements

"The Gifts Disappear" originally appeared in Going Home for Christmas.

Near the Heart originally appeared in Et Cetera.

Introduction

I first performed magic shows in junior high school. Once teachers learned of my half-hour shows, they would request me for their classes, so they could get a break from teaching, while I was getting a break from studying.

I’m still performing on request, strictly as an amateur. But because of this interest and experience in magic, along with my writing of mysteries, I began plotting mystery stories to be solved by a professional magician, acting as an amateur detective.

I called him McGregor, and, for some stories, I gave him a volunteer assistant, comic magician Boffo. Then I put them in interesting, challenging, sometimes dangerous situations, and let them work their way out.

I set these adventures, like my other mysteries, in the early 1970’s, when mysteries had to be solved without today’s hi-tech computer programs, without DNA, without cell phones—but with intelligence and with the tools of the time.

Here are eight stories in which McGregor, and sometimes Boffo, are involved. I hope you enjoy them.

The Man Who Ate Parsley

Rising from his seat at the restaurant table, the heavy, balding man extended his hand toward the first of two people approaching from the sunlit entrance.

Mr. McGregor, he said in a strong, bass voice, I really appreciate your coming over. I’m Lieutenant Kranz. He looked past the tall, lean man as he shook his hand, his eyes showing curiosity about the second, paunchy man.

Griff McGregor smiled, wrinkles crinkling beside his eyes and mouth. Lieutenant, he said, I took the liberty of bringing my friend who is doing the TV special with me. He turned toward the man behind him. You’d know him if he were in his clown costume. This is Boffo.

Kranz’s eyes widened as he took his hand from McGregor’s and extended it to the rotund Boffo. Of course! Glad to meet you. I have seen you on the stage.

McGregor gestured toward the table and motioned for a waiter. They were isolated in the nearly empty restaurant. Let’s sit down, have a drink and hear the problem, Lieutenant. I’m interested to know more about the ‘baffling murder’ you mentioned on the phone, but we have to be back for rehearsal in an hour.

Kranz sank into his chair as the waiter arrived at the table. They ordered, Kranz a beer, McGregor and Boffo diet sodas. I can’t have a milk shake until Griff turns his back, laughed Boffo in his gravelly voice.

As the waiter moved away, Kranz said, This is the restaurant where it all happened. Damnedest unexplained murder I’ve seen in years—maybe ever. I hope you will be willing to talk to some of the people here after you’ve heard what I know. He paused. Which ain’t much, he concluded ruefully.

McGregor nodded slowly while Boffo studied Kranz with almost an absence of expression on his round face. Tell us what you know. It will be treated as confidential, McGregor said.

Kranz hitched his chair around and leaned his elbows on the table, stretching his tweed jacket at the shoulders. We know who did it. But we don’t know who he is or where his is.

You mean witnesses can identify the killer but don’t know his name?

Kranz nodded. He’s the man who ate parsley. He was in here many times.

Boffo laughed, a kind of volcanic rumbling. Nobody eats parsley!

McGregor smiled. Maybe you don’t Boffo, but plenty of people do. He focused his gaze on Kranz. But why would you characterize the person this way? It’s the first time I’ve ever heard parsley as an identifying factor, let alone the key element.

Kranz shrugged his massive shoulders. Well, after the killer shot the victim and left the restaurant, all the waiters and the night manager said the same thing. The killer was the guy who ate parsley. They all described him in other ways, but they all said that.

Seeing that McGregor was not going to comment, Kranz continued. You can get any of them you want to corroborate that. I hope you’ll hear something I didn’t. He paused. Because, even with all the identifying witnesses, he did walk out and has never been seen again. If we can’t get some other leads to what he does or where he’s from, we’re absolutely stuck. And I don’t like it and the captain doesn’t like it, not to mention the people here.

McGregor let his eyes traverse the restaurant. Although he and his companions had seemed isolated, he now saw that three waiters and a waitress watched them from one end of the bar. The cashier, seated by the register, also had her eyes focused on them.

The bartender leaned on the bar, looking in McGregor’s direction. And the two other lone diners, a man and a woman, seated at widely separated tables, both had their heads turned toward Lt. Kranz, Boffo and McGregor.

Laughing softly, McGregor said, We’re the center of attention. They must all know you, Lieutenant, since I’m sure Boffo and I are only celebrities when we’re introduced or are in our magicians’ regalia on stage. He turned to Kranz. Are they all witnesses?

Kranz nodded. I asked everybody who was here that night to be in the restaurant. They’re all here but the dead man and the killer. Since it’s before the dinner hour, some of them came especially for you.

Boffo’s eyes narrowed. So you were pretty sure we’d want to help on the case, huh, Lieutenant?

Kranz snorted. I had no idea you were coming, Boffo. As a friend of McGregor you’re welcome. He paused. But I know a couple of people who’ve been helped by McGregor’s special talents. He sees things and thinks in ways most others don’t. And maybe that’s what we need.

Boffo laughed. You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve been amazed many times by his reasoning out solutions to problems—lots of them crimes. It can’t just be because he’s a magician. He looked with admiration at McGregor. But he does invent his own tricks, which most of us don’t. So he’d be an original thinker even if he didn’t solve crimes.

McGregor shifted in a show of embarrassment. Well Lieutenant, we’ll try. If we do learn anything, be assured you and your department will get the credit.

Kranz nodded. I’ve heard that part, too. He looked around the room. You willing to talk to them now? We’ve agreed to keep other customers out til you’re through with them.

McGregor and Boffo both looked at their watches simultaneously. McGregor shrugged and said, Boffo, would you call the studio and ask the director to rehearse the band and the jugglers and singers for the next hour. He smiled wryly. I hope that doesn’t earn us a bad reputation for future shows, Lieutenant. We have to earn a living too.

As Boffo rose to go to the phone, Kranz said, We knew it was now or never, Griff. You’ll be back on the other coast day after tomorrow. When McGregor smiled, Kranz added, in some relief, And if you do help us get somewhere, I’ll see that it adds to your reputation, credit be damned. I want this killer.

Sipping the last of his soda, McGregor said, Okay, tell me briefly but fully the facts as you know them, then I’ll talk to the others.

Kranz drained his beer glass. On the night of the twelfth, about 8:50, with most of the dinner crowd gone, this diner gets up from his table (he was alone), goes over to a table near the cashier, pulls an automatic pistol out of his coat, and shoots the owner three times. He then just goes out the front door. Before anybody can react enough to look outside, he’s gone. That was ten day ago. Since then, nothing.

McGregor watched Kranz intently. Boffo rejoined them, and McGregor turned his eyes to the clown magician who merely nodded, and McGregor’s eyes returned to the police officer. Go on, he said. Tell me about the killer.

Kranz slid his glass back and forth on the table top. Well, we interviewed everybody you see here. They all said they recognized the guy, even the two diners, and they all said, he’s the guy who eats parsley.

Boffo groaned, and McGregor said, Surely that’s not the only description. Let’s hear the rest.

Okay, Kranz nodded. He was an older guy, kind of heavyset, gray or white hair, depending on who you talk to, gray or white mustache, fairly prominent nose. Glasses. Caucasian.

Voice? McGregor asked.

Kind of loud. The only time he talked was when he was asking the waiters about food. Since he was loud, they thought he might be deaf. So they talked loud back to him.

What do we know about the victim?

Kranz nodded again. Nice guy according to the employees. Bought the place from the widow of the previous owner about three years ago. Most of the staff were already here. Since they liked him, they stayed.

Married? Family?

Kranz shook his head. Widower. About 45. No kids. Came here from upstate.

Girlfriends? McGregor asked.

As far as the staff can tell us, he dates some girls, but they don’t know them. A couple of women showed up at the funeral.

No family at the funeral?

Again Kranz shook his head. Just people from the restaurant, the two women, some loyal customers.

McGregor and Boffo continued to stare at Kranz, who added, You don’t just shoot a restaurant owner one night without a reason. It has to have something to do with him—some grudge the killer had.

Boffo snorted. He could have thought the owner was palming off bad parsley. Or he could have been a hit man.

Kranz frowned. But why would he show himself here night after night, and make himself conspicuous? Did he just decide on the twelfth to kill the guy?

McGregor checked his watch. Let’s talk to the people so they don’t feel stood up. Bring them over one at a time in any order you choose, Lieutenant. And you might ask our waiter for a refill on our sodas.

Kranz left the table and moved toward the people at the bar. The restaurant seemed to hang in a solemn hush. Kranz spoke to a waiter, then approached one of the diners, who followed him to McGregor’s table.

Kranz introduced the elderly lady as Mrs. Coleman. McGregor and Boffo rose politely until she was seated. Mrs. Coleman, McGregor said, Thank you for coming to help us. How long have you been a patron of this restaurant?

The thin, gray-haired woman frowned slightly. I’ve lived in this neighborhood about ten years. I’ve been coming here more the last five, since my husband died. She paused. It was a horrifying thing, the owner being shot, Mr. McGregor. If I can help, I want to.

McGregor nodded. Thank you. Would you say you have dinner here—twice a week, or how often?

Usually three times. They’re nice here, and it gets me out of the house.

Had you seen the killer before the night of the shooting?

Mrs. Coleman widened her eyes. Oh, yes. Several times.

How long ago did you begin seeing him?

She bent her head in thought. Perhaps three months.

Did you ever see him outside of the restaurant?

She shook her head slowly. No, not that I remember. He usually left here before I did. I like to linger over my meal. I’m one of the last here most nights.

McGregor nodded. Please describe the killer for me, Mrs. Coleman.

She narrowed her eyes in concentration. Average height for a man, on the heavy side, dressed nicely in conservative suits, dark blue and gray, had gray hair and mustache, and he ate parsley.

Why do you remember that, Mrs. Coleman? Don’t you eat parsley?

She smiled. Well, I might chew on some sometimes, but I don’t wave it around and say ‘Parsley, good for your liver,’ and then gulp it down.

Boffo cringed. Ugh, he said. Can’t stand the stuff. It’s for decoration. Eating it is like eating the panties on a lamb chop.

Or the paper with fish en papillote, eh Boffo, McGregor laughed. To the lady, he said, I nibble on my parsley too, Mrs. Coleman. But I don’t wave it around and I’m not sure it’s good for the liver.

One by one, the two magicians interviewed the others—the male diner (a less frequent patron), the waiters, bartender, and cashier. Each described the killer in very similar terms, including his method of eating parsley. None had seen him in other places outside the restaurant.

When he had thanked the last witness, McGregor sat with Boffo and stared out into the late afternoon sunlight. Kranz edged diffidently toward the table. Ready to talk about it, Griff?

McGregor indicated a chair for Kranz, and continued staring into space. Very interesting, he said slowly. Any ideas, Boffo?

Well, the rotund man said in his rasping voice, If I were to wave parsley around on stage and declaim about my liver, it would be for purposes of misdirection. Basic magic. But why?

McGregor nodded. Very good, Boffo. It has to be a type of misdirection. But it’s something a little more and different.