All language subtitles for newhart_s07e21_murder_at_the_stratley

Don't sleep outside with your mouth open
tomorrow night, Joanna.

Why, are the neighbors complaining?

No, but the way my left knee aches, I
predict torrential rains moving in

tomorrow evening from the north,
continuing through the night, tapering

mid -morning.

Total rainfall about two and a half
inches.

Ow, make that three inches.

Very impressive legwork.

Well, I could be wrong.

My knee also predicted snow last August.

Still, I better get my tools and bolt
down the shutters.

Oh, damn.

Package for Dick Loudon.

What is it?

What are you, deaf?

I said I got a package.

a package for Dick Loudon. Sign here.

Yeah, I gotta get home.

Bold up the old shutters. Torrential
rain due tomorrow night.

Two and a half, maybe three inches.

How did you know that?

Well, didn't you notice the way that
your hired hand was limping?

Of course, it was his fault that I
bought that snowblower last August.

Well... Oh.

Oh, it's here. Why didn't you tell me?

Honey, you don't just tell someone a box
has arrived.

You break it to them in stages.

What's in it?

My new book.

Wow. I can use the box to store my drill
bits.

Well, if we can only figure out what to
do with all these books.

Well, you could stack them and make a
nice stand for the box.

Stratley, a Dick Loudon mystery. I
didn't know you were writing a novel.

didn't want to say anything just in case
it didn't turn out well, but now I

think it's safe to say it's just about
the greatest story ever told.

Well, the Bible's pretty good, too.

Yeah, but that was written by a lot of
different guys, George.

This is pure Loudon.

What's the Stratley?

Oh, that's a beautiful old New England
inn where the story takes place.

So it's like the Stratford?

No, not at all. It's the Stratford.

I made it up.

Sounds a lot like the Stratford,
especially the Strat part.

Well, it's completely different.

Of course it is.

Who's Johanna?

The innkeeper's wife.

Is she the hauntingly beautiful object
of desire?

Yeah, until page six when she gets
bludgeoned to death by a typewriter.

Dick, I read Murder at the Stratley last
night, and personally, I think it's the

greatest story ever told.

You know, you're not the first person
who said that.

Actually, I'm surprised you read it.

Well, to be honest, I just read the
pages about the beautiful maid,

Yeah, well, the rest is just filler
anyway, so... Maybe your next book

include pictures of Stefanella.

I mean, words can only say so much.

Morning, Ike. Don't morning me.

Not after you bludgeoned me like that.

She isn't you.

She's Johanna. There is no H in your
name.

Dick, it's me.

She's tall, she's blonde, she's from
Painesville, Ohio.

Well, of course, if you're going to go
over the book with a fine tooth comb,

then you're bound to find some
similarities.

And funny how the lead character, the
innkeeper, just happens to be a writer

talk show host.

There is a world of difference between a
man named Dick.

and a man named Rick.

Oh, good morning, Joanna.

Now you look beautiful.

Well, thank you, Stephanie.

Dick, you know what would have made your
book even better?

What's that?

The character, Joanna, just goes on and
on and on.

Couldn't you have killed her off on page
one?

Couldn't you have killed Stefanella?

He'd get too much hate mail.

Besides, a great murder mystery needs a
butler, and a maid is as good as a

butler. Oh, really?

Can a butler do this?

Not in work for me.

See?

It's bad enough you bludgeoned Johanna,
but then to dismember her and drown her

in the lake?

So you'd be free to run away with the
voluptuous, man -hungry librarian?

Which part didn't you like?

Morning, everybody.

Great book, Dick. But it left me a
little confused.

How's that, George? How could Rick kill
Johanna if he was spotted fishing

for mackerel in Caracas that same day by
14 seafaring Venezuelans?

He just looked.

Like Rick. But all the sailors called
him Rick.

Coincidentally, his name was Rick.

Now it seems so obvious.

Sorry about page six.

Thanks, George.

By the way, it was nice of you to
mention me.

You're not in my book, George. You can't
fool me. I'm Jorge, the Bolivian

handyman.

George, Jorge is a Bolivian Don Juan.

He's known for his sultry flamenco
dancing and his wild sexcapades. That's

Don't you remember what happened at
Harley's Wake?

Morning. Don't morning me, Dick Loudon.
But gall, describing me as the town's

drunken, corrupt mayor.

Chester, it was just a fiction. I do
admit I like an occasional nip of sherry

when I listen to my Arthur Fiedler
album.

But this is an outrage.

I, however, was deeply moved, and as the
town librarian, I've chosen Murder at

the Stratley to be displayed as the
library's book of the week.

In the glass case under the big lamp?

Wow.

However, there is one thing you'll want
to change for future editions.

My eyes are not limpid pools of emerald
green.

My limpid pools are azure blue.

At least you weren't bound and gagged
with a typewriter ribbon.

Well, let's go, Miss Goddard. I don't
want to be late for my wine -tasting

group. Today, we're sipping white
Zinfandel.

Sorry about page six.

I guess you're right, Dick. It's just a
fictional story about people you made

up.

All right, all right, have it your way.
It's true.

I'm a cold -blooded killer. I lust after
Miss Goddard, and George is a Bolivian

flamenco dancer.

Okay.

Oh, that Dick, he is mucho loco, no?

Haven't seen you at the library lately,
Stephanie.

Reading is fundamental, you know.

Not when you get by on your looks.

What are you doing here?

I was waiting for Dick. Do you know when
he'll be back?

Oh, I didn't know he was out. I've been
in my bubble bath all evening.

Perfect place to read.

It's pretty hard to read with cucumber
slices on your eyes.

Wow! It's raining kitties and cockers
out there.

Hi, Michael. Hi, Steph.

Hi. Miss Goddard?

Michael, you still owe late fines on
those Greek statue books.

I've been a little lonely.

I came by strictly as a friend, of
course, because I know how deathly

are of thunder and lightning.

You're the one who's afraid of thunder
and lightning.

Steph, don't try to pawn off your
neuroses on me.

Make it stop! Make it stop!

It's just thunder.

Mother used to say it was angels
kickboxing little girls who don't read.

Yeah, when you think of it like that,
it's not so scary.

Oh, that's childish.

Let's do what we used to do.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on
kittens.

Bright copper kettles and warm wooden
mittens.

Brown paper packages tied up with
strings.

Dick, come sing with us. These are a few
of my favorite things. Oh, shut up,

Michael.

I was out in the rain for two hours
trying to fix a flat, and when I finally

the lug nuts loose and some idiot drives
by and splashes mud all over me.

Oh, was that you?

I would have stopped, but it was
pouring.

Where's Joanna?

She's on a train to Albany. Her mother's
hip flared up. Miss Goddard, what are

you doing here?

Dick, I'm appropriately flattered by
your unbridled lust for me.

But you are a married man and the town
is talking.

Therefore, the flame in your heart must
be doused.

Consider it doused.

All right, Dick.

Did you go somewhere? I saw you putting
those two suitcases in the car, but I

never heard you leave.

That's odd.

In the book it says Jorge the handyman
had ears so sharp he could hear a pig

drop.

That's supposed to be pin drop.

There are a couple typos in the book.

Okay, people.

Buddy up and listen hard.

Officer Shifflett.

I'm looking for one Joanna Loudon.

A .K .A. Mistress of the Stratley.

The Stratford.

She's visiting her mother. I didn't know
that. It seems an eyewitness, my sharp

-eyed offspring, one... Shelly
Shifflett,

spotted your late model Oldsmobile
cutlets parked by Johnny Cake Lake

this evening.

That's not where Joanna's mother lives.

Of course not. I was parked there. I was
fixing a flat.

Nice try, Alibi Ike.

That story has more holes in it than...
I don't know.

Something with a lot of holes in it.

When I arrived on the scene, all I found
was... Exhibit A.

That's Joanna's sweater.

I mean, who else would wear something
like that?

How did it get by the lake?

It was in the trunk. It's an old
sweater. I used it to wipe myself off

Michael's car splattered me.

Funny, that's the same excuse Rick tried
to pawn off on the dim -witted sheriff

in your little literary potboiler.

Look, I told you before, Joanne is on a
train going to... Trains aren't running

due to the storm.

What?

If you ask me, the only choo -choo she's
on is pulling into St. Peter's Station.

What are you insinuating?

Toot, toot, tootsie, goodbye.

Dick, a murderer?

He couldn't murder anyone.

He's courteous.

Thank you, George. See?

He'll prove another wise.

I'm going to be all over you like
Chester on a bottle of Cabernet

Officer S., couldn't there be a
reasonable explanation why you would

by the lake and find her pull over by
the lake?

Such as?

Well, she could have been out washing
her clothes against rocks.

Or maybe she was streaking through town
as part of a sorority initiation.

I told you, she's on a train going to
Albany.

I'll call the station and they'll tell
you her train left.

The phone is dead.

Thomas Hill Bridge is out! Thomas Hill
Bridge is out!

So? I just thought you should know.

Thank you.

Then how did you get here? Well, I drove
across the river. It's only two inches

deep.

What's going on around here?

It seems Loudon went psycho and rubbed
out Joanna.

Oh, no.

She was so young and beautiful.

He didn't say me. Chester, he said
Joanna.

Why would I murder my wife? What
possible motive would I have?

Well, in the book, Rick killed Johanna
for insurance money so that he and the

librarian could escape to Yugoslavia for
a life of lively dancing and depravity.

You have insurance, Loudon? Of course.

Oh.

And if memory serves, at the library
jubilee, Miss Goddard did a mean hokey

pokey.

That's right. She could really shake it
all about.

I may be a librarian, but first and
foremost, I'm a woman.

This is insane. There's nothing going on
between Miss Goddard and me.

Then how do you explain her lively
dancing and your buying insurance?

Gee, I don't know, Chester. Ann Miller
likes to dance. You think I'm taking her

to Yugoslavia?

Why don't you tell us?

I'm on your side, Dick, and I'm sure you
were just joking this morning when you

told Joanna that you lusted after Miss
Goddard.

Dick, you said that?

Well, yes, but... Jorge should know.

Remember, he can hear a pig drop.

Question. Can you have a case if you
can't conjure up a corpse?

Answer. Beats me.

Where'd you pop the cold one blue beard?

There isn't any cold ones.

I remember.

It's at the bottom of Johnny Cake Lake.

That would explain the two suitcases.

He cut her in half and dumped her in the
lake.

Sorry, Dick. Wait. The book clearly says
he cut her into three pieces.

If there were only two suitcases,
where's the third piece?

And what's the third piece?

I remember.

It's her head.

Ew.

In Chakri.

When the dim -witted sheriff found the
sweater by the lake, he said, what's

up the road?

A head?

There was another typo. It's supposed to
say, what's that up the road? A head.

Sure.

Blame the proofreader.

I'm not blaming anybody. No crime has
been committed here. Maybe not in your

sicko world.

But in our town, you still need a permit
to murder.

Nobody touch anything. We're going to
reconstruct the crime.

I'll get the murder weapon.

I'll get the refreshment. Anyone for
cocoa?

Hands. I'm not feeding you people.

A murderer and a lousy host.

Here it is.

Oh.

Sinister looking, isn't it?

Now we need someone to play Joanna, the
defenseless victim, and someone to play

Dick, the demented killer.

Miss Vanderkillen, how would you like to
be Joanna?

Not even for a laugh.

And I should disqualify myself. I have
more than a nodding acquaintance with

demented killer.

Okay.

We'll all just imagine Joanna sitting on
the sofa.

My, she looks so pretty.

Radiant.

What a bunch of imbeciles.

We still need someone to play Dick, the
demented killer. How about you, Dick?

Not even for a laugh.

Don't worry. I'll prove your innocence.

I'll play Dick, the demented killer.

George, remind me to fire you.

As librarian and the town's best oral
reader, I'll quote some appropriate

passages from the book.

ever so quietly, creeping up behind his
innocent wife with 30 pounds of metal

and ribbon.

Slowly, he lifted the lethal hunting
pecker and bringing it down in a swift

swat, he hit her hard.

He hit her real, real hard.

So hard, Seagull screamed in another
village.

Blood!

this one, Rick?

I can't.

I'm sure there must be a bazillion
reasons why there's blood on that

Sure. Maybe Joanna was piercing her
ears.

You don't own a pit bull, do you?

Dick, where did that blood come from?

I don't know.

You have the right to remain silent.

Wait a minute.

Doesn't a criminal usually commit the
crime and then write the book?

Correctamundo.

Unless Dick had bludgeoned in the past.

Dick, you've never been married before,
have you?

Yeah, George, 19 times.

And I killed each and every one of them.
And I'm glad, I tell you. I'm glad.

And he's got a gun.

A gun?

I don't have a gun.

Well, he's got a typewriter.

He's bludgeoned before, he'll bludgeon
again.

Dick?

He sounded like Joanna.

Is that you, honey?

I'm gonna kill you, Dick.

Merciful heaven, it's the ghost of
Joanna.

And she's out for... blood.

Quick, anyone got a candle? I do. You
never know when you're going to stumble

across a birthday cake.

Anyone got a match? I do.

I love a match. Oh, your hair looks like
hell.

Keep back from the lake to kill us all.

Freeze,

zombie.

Stan, sorry, force of habit.

Yeah, me too.

What are you people doing?

Well, we thought Dick murdered you and
threw your lifeless body in the lake.

Thank God she's alive, Dick. I couldn't
picture you in the big house as a boy

toy.

I want you all to get out of my inn.

And by the way, Dick, thanks for your
concern.

I hadn't even gotten up to the ticket
window when you were burning rubber out

the parking lot.

Well, you know, I mean, you know, it's
starting to sprinkle. Oh, shut up, Dick.

Bad enough I had to walk home, but then
some idiot in a Toyota screaming, Thomas

Hill Bridge is out, splash mud all over
you.

Oh, Dick.

Well, you may have squeaked by on this
one, Loudon, but at dawn's next

crack, I'll be at Johnny Cake Lake.

Trolling for those 19 other steps.

Wait a minute.

If there's no murder, what about the
plasma on the pillow?

I'm not cleaning it up.

That's not blood. That's Clamato juice.

Ooh, that really hit the spot right now.
Anybody for Clamato juice? Hands!

Nobody is drinking anything.

Just get out of here.

He may not be a murderer, but he's still
a lousy host.

I'm sorry, the next time I murder my
wife, I'll order a deli platter.

The next time you murder your wife? What
do you mean, the next time you murder

your wife? Honey, it's been a long, long
night.

Well, that was fun. What do you want to
do tomorrow night?

Get the hell out of here!

Meow.