All language subtitles for Murder, She Wrote S06E12 Good-Bye Charlie.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNIV

For all we know, this old
guy could be dead by now.

Too bad you can't prove it. As his
only relative, the fortune would go to you.

How many zeroes in fortune?

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

That unidentified corpse
is not Uncle Charlie.

It isn't? But it will be

as soon as we identify the body.

You're not the first people
to lay claim to John Doe.

You're not even the second.

He's right.

The shoe's too
small. It was murder.

Honey, this isn't going to
look good on your résumé.

Oh, hello.

You've caught me at the
tail end of my newest book.

I've been at it almost ten
hours a day for the past week

and I am sore from
my fingers to my back

and elsewhere.

You know, every time I start
a new novel, it's an adventure

and I really never know what
I'm gonna come up against.

Some are pure agony, like
having your wisdom teeth yanked

by a sadist with
a pair of pliers.

And others just flow from the
typewriter like sap from a maple tree.

That's the way it was
with Good-Bye Charlie.

I wish they were
all this much fun.

Our hero... Well,
now let me see,

is hero the right word
for Frank Albertson?

Maybe not.

I promise you,
he's not very heroic.

Actually, he's a lost soul looking
for one good shot at the brass ring.

The story opens on a spring
day in sunny Hollywood,

land of orange groves, movie
stars and private detectives.

Smile and say, "Cheating."

Lousy private eye!

Well, thank you, Mrs. Albertson.

When you brought me into the
bedroom I didn't expect anything like this.

Well, I hope you're
not disappointed.

Oh, no, no. I mean,

you've been absolutely incredible.
Really. You've made my day.

Sunny, I'm home!

Oh, hi, honey. We're in
the bedroom. Come on in.

Who are you? And what are you
doing with my Uncle Charlie's watch?

Honey, he was
just looking at it.

What happened to you?

Business. Who is this guy?

A lawyer.

Ray Fleischer. Rathbone,
Gilder and Hellman.

Lawyer?

Look, if you're gonna tell me I'm
gonna be sued, I was just doing my job.

Honey, just listen to him.

We are the executors of the estate
of the late Elizabeth Flack of Detroit.

She's left everything to one
Charles Kenneth Albertson.

Uncle Charlie? Why would
she do a thing like that?

Her will refers to
him as an old love.

I was just showing him some of
the stuff Uncle Charlie left behind.

And look...

The inscription on the back
of this old broken watch says,

"To Charlie with love
from Liz." It's proof.

Look at this picture of
Uncle Charlie in his sailor suit.

Well, the faces are
a little blurry, hon.

Read what it says on the back.

"Me and Liz, 1943."

I also showed Mr. Fleischer some of
the other stuff Uncle Charlie left behind.

The monogrammed money
clip, the expired library card,

the monogrammed cigar clipper,

and also Uncle
Charlie's Navy dog tags.

Sit down. Thank you.

Did you forget about the two-headed
nickel and the loaded dice?

Frank...

Mr. Albertson, I am convinced that
Charles Kenneth Albertson is your uncle.

Now I'd appreciate it very much if
you could tell me where I could find him.

I really don't know.

Look, the guy dropped in for a
weekend and stayed three years.

That's 36 months of eating my food,
drinking my beer, and wearing my shirts.

I got a little fed up. I gave him
100 bucks, put him on a bus.

How long ago was that?

I don't know. Two, maybe
two-and-a-half years.

We got a couple of
Christmas cards from him.

The last one had a
return address in Reno.

But when I sent him a card, it came
back stamped "Not known at this address."

Yeah. I mean, for all we know,
this old guy could be dead by now.

Too bad you can't prove it. As his
only relative, the fortune would go to you.

How many zeroes in fortune?

In this one, six.

Six?

Well... Hey, I mean, I
loved the old guy. Really.

But, I mean, if he's
dead, he's dead.

Who do I see?

Here's my card. Give me
a call in about five years.

Five years? Well, you
haven't heard from him in two

and he can't legally be
declared dead for seven. Sorry.

Wait. Wait a
second. Ray, listen...

Goodbye, good luck.

Goodbye. Thank you.

Lawyers.

Frank... Frank, what's so funny?

What was so funny,
at least to Frank's mind,

was the irony of the situation.

For three years he and Sunny
had supported this old moocher.

Now, suddenly, Charlie was rich

and they were facing
repossession and dispossession,

not to mention the loss of
Frank's one and only client

because of the way
he'd bungled the case.

Luckily, the client was
a forbearing woman

who decided to give
Frank another chance.

Hey, honey. Yeah.

Isn't that the guy
we saw yesterday?

I told you we should
have gone someplace else.

I'll kill him.

I don't get it.

Why should I be interested in some
poor guy who's been hit by a train?

Oh, surely you must be
able to think of one reason

why we both might
be interested in him?

Uncle Charlie? Uncle
Charlie. Yes! Yes!

Yes! Frank, Frank, Frank!

Stop it! What's the matter?

It's horrible! Poor
old Uncle Charlie!

Honey, that unidentified
corpse is not Uncle Charlie.

It isn't?

Honey, the body was found on a
railroad track outside of Huckabee, Nevada.

It's about 50
miles east of Reno.

You remember Reno, where Uncle
Charlie's last Christmas card was from?

Sun, it's not Charlie.

But it will be as soon
as we identify the body.

Oh, Frank, you
won't get away with it.

Somebody must know who
the person really is... Was.

John Doe has been
on ice for three days.

Not one person, not
a relative, a friend,

and a neighbor has come
forward to claim that body for burial.

If nobody claims it
by noon tomorrow,

it's gonna get dumped
into an unmarked grave.

But, if we claim it,

he's gonna get a funeral, and a
decent burial, and a tombstone.

With Uncle Charlie's name on it.

Honey, look, if Charlie
did drop dead out

there somewhere without
our knowing about it,

maybe he got planted in some
potter's field in an unmarked grave.

The stone we get for this poor sucker
will serve as a monument to Charlie.

He'd want it that way.

Coroner's Office.

No, this is his
assistant, Lon Ainsley.

Mr. Yamoto is out of
the office. Can I help you?

Yes, sir. I was
reading about this

poor John Doe fella,

and I got the crazy notion
he might be my brother Bubba.

You cannot make an
identification over the phone.

All right, sir, just
give me a yes or no.

John Doe... Rather
my brother Bubba,

he's got a tattoo of Betty
Boop on his right forearm.

It's hard to tell what was
on John Doe's forearm.

But there are no
tattoos anywhere else.

No tattoos, huh?

Well, what about a dueling
scar on his left cheek?

Let's just forget
about his face.

How old is your Bubba?

Oh, well, sir,
he's older than me

which, I would guess
would make him around 40?

Sorry. This man is old
enough to be your dada.

You have a resonance
in your voice that says

you're a tall, muscular
man, Mr. Ainsley.

I do try to take care of myself.

Now, is your missing
father a tall man?

He's on the short
side. About 5'6".

Now if it wasn't for the train,
what sort of shape would he be in?

Well, not so great, he's
on the paunchy side.

Very, very good! I think
we may have a match here.

Now give me one more particular.

I can't think of anything.

Well, there is something
about his right leg.

What exactly?

It's wooden.

And we were so close.

Well, I hope your daddy
turns up. Bye, now.

Bye.

Voilà. There you
have it. Meet John Doe.

These stats add up to
a delicious six zeroes.

Great.

Hey, by the way, how did you
come up with short and paunchy?

Do you have some sort of
second sight I don't know about?

No.

Actually, I was
describing Uncle Charlie.

Well, having pumped
the coroner's assistant

dry of every drop of pertinent
data on the unclaimed corpse,

Frank and Sunny
headed north to Nevada,

unaware that they
were about to lock horns

with Huckabee's unique
version of law and order.

I understand you folks drove all
the way up from L.A. last night.

That's right. Frank Albertson,
Sheriff. This is my wife, Sunny.

Something wrong?

It's his back.

We had to sleep in our
car, Frank had the front.

Yeah. Bucket seats with
the stick-shift in the middle.

We were going to stay at
a motel, but it was closed.

Yeah. Old Roscoe believes
in early to bed, early to rise.

Says anybody sneaking
into town late at night

is up to no good.
Have a seat, folks.

Well, your...

Your identification
was first-rate.

Not much I can tell
you about the accident.

John Doe was
pretty badly mangled.

The force of the train knocked him
right out of his shoes. They were...

They were found beside the body.

If it's any consolation
to you, it was quick.

Can you think of any reason
why your uncle would have been

near the railroad track
here in Huckabee?

Yes, Sheriff, I can.

I don't know how many times
Uncle Charlie used to tell us about

the Great Depression
of the 1930s.

He was out of work.
Couldn't get a job.

And like so many of the
other unemployed at the time,

Uncle Charlie became a hobo.

He traveled across the country in
empty boxcars, living off the land

and sometimes even stealing.

Mostly chickens,

which he cooked over a
spit in some hobo forest.

Jungle.

Then you're saying that he got
killed trying to hop on that freight train?

He went back to
his old way of life.

But he just couldn't cut it.

Do you know of any reason why he
didn't have any identification on him?

Well, what does a
hobo need with a wallet?

His pockets were empty.

A man usually has
something in his pockets.

Are we almost finished?

Yeah, that'll do it for me.

Unless, of course, you
wanna view the remains.

No! No! No...

I think we'd prefer to remember
Uncle Charlie the way we saw him last.

In one piece.

Yeah.

Oh, but listen, if it's okay, we would
like to arrange for a decent burial

right here in town.

Normally, that would
be the procedure.

But you see, there's
a flag on this play.

You're not the first people
to lay claim to John Doe.

You're not even the second.

You're the third.

What are we going to do now?

Guess you'll have
to take a number.

Oh! Oh, Sunny, that is so good.

Oh, yeah, right there.
Oh, don't stop! Oh...

Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.

Maybe we should just
forget it and go home.

Oh, now that would not be fair to
the memory of Uncle Charlie, hon.

I mean, the man spent
three long years living with us.

At no time did he ever
say forget it and go home.

He didn't have a home.

I know. And if we can't pay the
rent, we're not gonna have one, either.

Oh, that is the
spot. That... Yes.

You know, honey, it's just that

if it was only one other
person identifying the body,

I would say, "Yeah, okay, we gave
it our best shot, let's hit the trail."

But two other people making
different identifications?

Uh-uh. Only one of those
people can be telling the truth.

Which means the odds
are both of them are lying.

And we aren't?

Listen, hon, would you roll me
over and get me a shirt, please.

What are you gonna do now?

Oh, well, first, I'm
gonna try to get up.

And then, I'm gonna
go look for a man

whose name I read upside
down on the Sheriff s desk.

Hi.

Say, I was told I could find
a Mr. Bart Mahoney in here.

Yeah, well, that depends
on who wants to find him.

Mr. Mahoney.

I think this'll explain it.

Yeah, let's see.

Private eye, huh?
Frank Albertson.

Well, what can we do for you?

What do you know about
a man called John Doe

who got himself hit by a train?

Well, I do know that it
rearranged him pretty good.

What are you drinking?

Beer. Just beer.
Beer. Hey, Jake.

Draw one for my friend here.

Mr. Mahoney, according to my
information, you identified the body.

Well, that's right. His
name was Roper Bailey.

Everyone here knew old Roper,
right guys? You all know old Roper?

Yeah, except for you.

Roper was a devoted
father and a sole-provider

for his grieving daughter,
Marcia Mae, my client.

And would your client happen to be the
railroad or the train that ran him down?

You're gonna sue, right?

Well, let me put it to you
this way. That signal light was

out of order at the
nearest crossing

when Roper decided
to take a shortcut home.

I mean, now how was he to
know that there was a freight train

roaring down the
track behind him, huh?

The light was only part of
that signal. There was a bell.

Did I fail to mention
Roper was deaf?

He lost his hearing when
he was a rodeo performer.

Some ornery bull went and just
tossed him, went right on his head.

Boy, it sounds like all
your bases are covered.

Well, you see, by not replacing
that signal light at the crossing,

the railroad as good as
murdered that fine man.

That hardworking, that decent and loving
daddy of that tragic little orphan girl,

Marcia Mae Bailey.

John Doe's face is gone and
most of his body is torn up, too.

Now how is little Marcia Mae
gonna prove that that's her daddy?

Well, now, don't you think
if a child says it's her daddy,

a jury of honest, decent folks with honest,
decent feelings is gonna call her a liar?

Son, you sure got a warped
view of our legal system.

Damn!

Frank, what's wrong?
Didn't you find him?

Yeah, I found him.

Bart Mahoney, the local
shyster. The man's a toad.

Calm down. It's not that bad.

Yes, it is. The man's
trying to steal our stiff!

Poor baby. You need a nap.

No, I don't. You weren't there.
You didn't hear what he said.

He's got this client
and he's going to...

Wrong number.

Mr. Albertson? Sheriff Ten Eyck.

Hello, Sheriff.

I just got a call
from Bart Mahoney.

He said you met
him a little while ago.

I bumped into him, yes.

Yeah, well, he's kind
of peeved about that.

Said you told him you
worked for the railroad.

I gave him my card.

Yeah, but you didn't tell him
you were laying claim to John Doe.

He didn't ask.
Look, Sheriff, if...

You come on down to my
office in about ten minutes.

I want you to meet a little
lady that might be a kin of yours.

I just thought it was
time that the two of you

and Tilly Bascomb
here got together.

Why, Sheriff?

Well, with you claiming that
John Doe is your Uncle Charlie,

Ms. Bascomb claiming
it's her husband...

That would make
her your Aunt Tilly.

Do you happen to have a picture of
your Uncle Charlie by any chance?

I have.

Do you still have
that snapshot of Mort?

This is Uncle Charlie.

And this is Mort.

That's not Uncle Charlie.

I can't tell anything from this.

It's so blurred the sailor
doesn't even have any features.

Neither did John Doe.

That didn't keep you
from swearing it was Mort.

Well, it just has to be.

My husband has insomnia.

Many a night he took long walks so
that he could make himself sleep better.

On the railroad tracks?

Well, why not?

They're not far from our house.

It's quiet and peaceful there.

Safer, too.

Easier to spot rattlesnakes when they
crawl out of the brush onto the tracks.

Oh, yuck!

Ms. Bascomb, what
was your husband doing

hopscotching rattlers in the moonlight
without any I.D. in his pockets?

Well, I'm sure that he had his
wallet when he left the house.

I have no idea
what happened to it.

Unless the train's velocity
whipped it out of his pocket.

Yeah. Well, then it's
still probably there.

Sheriff, I suggest we organize a search
party to comb that area of the tracks.

My deputy's gone over that
ground, he didn't find anything.

Why would you wanna
search for her husband's wallet?

Well, I believe John
Doe is my Uncle Charlie.

But if he's not, I'd like to find out
the truth so I can get on with my life.

If that's all right
with you, Sheriff?

Well, it would be,

except I only got two
deputies available.

And we spent a lot of
hours out there the first time.

Hey, does Huckabee have a
pony league baseball team?

Sure does.

My son-in-law is the coach.

Think they might like to
make a few extra bucks?

What kid wouldn't?

I'll have them
turn out at sun up.

Stop! What?

I'm sure I saw
something slither.

Did it rattle? I don't think so.

Well, when it
rattles, let me know.

Look, here's a
good place to start.

Shine the light in here.

All right.

First the monogrammed
cigar clipper.

They want proof,

we'll give them proof.

Well, having salted
the railroad tracks

with Uncle Charlie's last
few remaining possessions,

Frank approached the following morning's
search with ill-concealed enthusiasm.

His joy was short-lived.

The Huckabee Hornets had
problems hitting the curve ball,

and the fastball, and they weren't
all that good at judging pop-ups.

They were definitely not very
good at finding the obvious.

How come she doesn't sweat?

Tilly.

You shouldn't be
out in this heat.

Let me take you
back to the office.

I wanna stay.

They're looking
for Mort's wallet.

Yeah, well, they should
have found that days ago.

Who's the man with
Mrs. Bascomb, Sheriff?

That's her cousin, Jerry Wilbur.

Works for her husband's
microchip company.

Matter of fact, he's been running
it ever since Mort disappeared.

Ed, I object to this
high-handed, unauthorized

trampling of the
scene of the crime.

Yeah. What crime is that?

Well,

the railroad's gross negligence in
the untimely death of Roper Bailey.

Roper Bailey? That old drunk?

Oh, wait a second
now, that dead old drunk.

Just zip it up, Bart. You
ain't talking to no jury now.

I authorized this search.

Mr. Mahoney, hi. So
glad you could make it.

Where is your client?

Oh, wow!

Bart! Why do I have to sit in that
refrigerator freezing my butt off?

Morning, Marcia Mae.

So that's poor, tragic little Marcia Mae
who's gonna make a jury weep, huh?

Damn it!

I told you to wait in the car!

Hey, Sheriff, I found
something over here.

Hey, we found something!

They found Mort's
wallet. Sheriff, look at this.

I found something, too, Sheriff!

How many wallets
did they find out there?

This is what we got, sir.

It's too bad all those
kids handled all that stuff.

Now we can't get
any clear finger prints.

There's an inscription in the watch
that says, "To Charlie with love from Liz."

Mmm-hmm.

"C.K.A."

"C.K.A."

"Charles Kenneth Albertson."

Uncle Charlie.

I was just wondering how
many things I had in my pocket

with my initials on them.

The answer is none.

Well, you know, Uncle Charlie was
having a lot of trouble with his memory.

And I guess he felt it
needed to be primed a bit.

Uh-huh.

So, all of this stuff just flew out of
his pockets when the train hit him.

Well, what other
explanation is there?

See, my deputies searched
up and down that track

right after the body
was discovered,

and they didn't
find diddley-squat.

Well, you know how kids
are, they never miss a thing.

Their eyes are so sharp and
they're so close to the ground.

Look, Sheriff, I don't
mean to hurry you,

but we are getting just a bit
concerned about the fact that

Uncle Charlie has
not been buried yet.

All right.

Take this over to Jack
Yamoto, he's the coroner.

He'll give you a
proper death certificate

and he'll turn over
your uncle to you.

Thank you, Sheriff.
Thank you for all your help.

Appreciate it.

Uncle Charlie thanks you, too.

The first thing you have
to do is get rid of that car.

It's a ghastly color.

It's a detective's car,
honey, nondescript.

What are you gonna buy with
the inheritance? A brown Ferrari?

No, a red one. 'Cause
I'm out of the business.

Mr. and Mrs. Albertson?

Yes, we are.

The Coroner's expecting you. He
had to step out for just a moment.

You may wait in his office.

Oh, you're Mr. Ainsley.

Well, yes. How did you know?

I'm good with names.

Stick around and
she'll guess your weight.

Excuse me.

I'm sorry. I heard his voice and that's
the first thing that popped into my head.

We are too close
to screw it up now.

What if he recognized my voice?

He didn't. He just
thinks you're weird.

And so do I.

Hey, look.

That's Junior. He died 100
years ago out in the desert.

Hello, I'm Jack Yamoto.
Hey, Jack, Frank Albertson.

And my wife, Sunny.
Glad to meet you.

And I have this from
the Sheriff for you.

Okay, please, be seated.

Thank you.

No, no, not you. I want
you seated at my desk.

I've got some documents
for your signature here.

Okay.

Now, sign each of these
here, here, and here.

You got it.

That's one down.

Why do I feel like I'm
buying a car, Jack?

That's good.

Thank you, Mr. Albertson.

Oh! Here's a card for the Bright
Haven Mortuary and Cemetery.

They'll treat you right. Mention my name
and they'll give you a deal on a coffin.

You can also get
a bargain plot, too,

if you don't mind the
sunny side of a hill.

Oh, Uncle Charlie
loved to lay out.

Oh, he'll be laid out
for a good long time.

Here's a copy of the death certificate
for Charles Kenneth Albertson.

I'll have the mortuary arranged for
the picking up of the remains. And...

Do you want flowers?

No, thank you.

But Uncle Charlie had
an allergy. So, no flowers...

In a hurry, are
you, Mr. Albertson?

Well, yes, Sheriff, we
have a funeral to arrange.

Just after you left my
office, I got a phone call from

Sheriff Walldecker
over in Dry Flats.

His deputy brought
in a vagrant last night.

Seems that this vagrant had found
a very expensive-looking wallet,

about $200 in it.

A wallet? Mmm-hmm.

Says he found it by the
railroad track near Huckabee

right after the accident.

The fella's name in the
wallet was Mort Bascomb.

We know that 'cause he had his
name on his driver's license and about

a dozen credit cards.

See, what I don't
understand now, sir,

is if John Doe is Mort Bascomb,

how is it your Uncle Charlie's
belongings are scattered

all over the
landscape out there?

Would you turn around, sir?

Appreciate it.

Honey, this isn't going to
look good on your résumé.

Wait, don't I even
get to call a lawyer?

Well, there ain't
but one in town.

Bart Mahoney? Yeah.

Well, you can call
him if you want to.

Strikes me as a
conflict of interest.

Look, Sheriff, you've gotta
believe me, this is flim-flam. That...

That wallet was
planted. Is that so?

Yeah.

Well, whose word are you gonna take,
mine or some wallet-stealing vagrant's?

Supper's at 6:00.

We're having pork chops, mashed
potatoes, rice pudding for dessert.

Hey, wait a minute! Sheriff...

I know my rights!

Hi. I'm Al Capone.

You can't have my shoes.

Well, you can't
have mine, either.

You wanna shake on
that, or wait for contracts?

You're a wise guy, ain't you?

Yeah, when I'm
nervous or scared.

Right now I'm both.

Hell, kid. I won't hurt
you. I'm Clarence.

Hi. Frank.

You said you was Al.

It's an alias.

Why are you stuffing
paper into your shoes?

They're too big.

What would you stuff in them?

What would you do if
they were too small?

Then I wouldn't be able
to wear them, would I?

What a dummy!

A dumb dummy!

Dummy!

Hey! Hey, Sheriff!

Run that by me again.

I said, if he was knocked out of
his shoes and dragged by the train,

the shoes would be 100 yards
down the track, not laying beside him.

They were left there to make it
look like he was walking on the tracks.

And then he was probably dumped on
the tracks just before the train was due.

That train comes through about
the same time every night, doesn't it?

Yeah, but... Okay,

that's when the killer noticed that
John Doe was in his stocking feet.

So he took off his own shoes,

intending to put them
on John Doe's feet,

but the shoes were too small.

He couldn't jam John
Doe's feet into them.

But the victim
had to have shoes.

That's when he decided to
move back from the tracks

and just let the train
rumble over poor John Doe.

And then after the train was gone,
he left the shoes with the torn-up body.

Thanks.

He's right.

The shoe's too
small. It was murder.

Yeah, that Mahoney's
a blow-hard.

Always was, even in high school.

Yeah, I noticed when
I was in here before

you had trouble keeping a straight
face when he was spouting off.

Yeah. I been thinking about getting
me a pair of earplugs and sticking them in

every time I see Mahoney
walk through that door.

Yeah, you really turned off when
he started talking about Roper Bailey.

He's little Marcia Mae's
missing daddy, right?

Yeah, Roper's Marcia's daddy.

All that stuff about

Roper Bailey being
Marcia Mae's sole provider...

That's USDA, prime bull.

Marcia Mae's been
providing for herself

since she was 16 years
old with no problem.

Mahoney know about that?

Who do you think pays her rent?

Bart Mahoney, that's who.
And her grocery bill, too.

See, bartending ain't all I do.

I got me a little grocery store,

and Marcia Mae, she does
all her food shopping there.

See, she lives right
across the street.

You know, she never
pulls her blinds down.

That girl's some piece of work.

I'll bet. So, she does her
food shopping at your store.

Yeah. She always
buys the same stuff.

She buys diet soda for herself,
she buys Mexican beer for her daddy.

She buys chewing gum for herself,
she buys chewing tobacco for her daddy.

You know, it's been five days
since they found old John Doe

out on the tracks.

Mr. Bart Mahoney,
big-brain lawyer,

well, he's saying

that John Doe is none other
than Roper Bailey hisself.

That is purely bogus.

You know that for a fact?

What I know is that Marcia Mae
come into my food store yesterday.

You wanna guess what she bought?

Mexican beer and
chewing tobacco.

Son, you win the worm in the
bottom of the bottle of tequila.

I was in the store this morning
and saw her make the purchases.

This is the receipt.

Today's date, along with
a list of what she bought,

including Mexican beer
and chewing tobacco,

and Marcia Mae's signature
and charge number.

Uh-huh.

I'll tell you what this proves.

If we find Roper Bailey
in Marcia Mae's attic

with a six-pack and a spittoon,

she didn't have no
reason to kill John Doe.

See, I don't think
Mahoney thought up

his scheme to defraud
the insurance company

until he read that
story in the newspaper

and realized, "Hey,
nobody's claiming John Doe."

Could be.

He arrived the same day you did.

Which leaves the widow Bascomb.

Yeah, but why?

Maybe they weren't getting along

and she would have
lost too much to a divorce.

You did say something
about a micro-chip company...

Yeah.

A small company, large
government contracts.

And now Tilly gets it all.

With her cousin, Jerry,
the hunk, in charge.

Who is it?

Sheriff Ten Eyck, ma'am.

Like to ask you a
couple of questions.

You get out! Get out of here!

What? What?

What is this, a police state?

You just can't barge
into a lady's bedroom.

Looks like Jerry's
a kissing cousin.

At the very least.

Now you just listen to me,
before I get a little bit testy.

I wanna talk to you about
your husband's murder.

Just whose idea was it?

I told you we wouldn't get away
with this! Didn't I tell you that?

You idiot!

Well, I didn't kill anybody.
I didn't kill anybody!

He killed him! He
killed my husband.

Excuse me, ma'am, would
you mind... Appreciate it.

Didn't you hear me?

He killed Mort!

Yes, ma'am, I heard you.

And you know what, he
buried him in the backyard!

Oh, God!

That's Mort Bascomb all right.

But, Frank, if that's Mort,
then who's John Doe?

According to Tilly's
confession, 27 pages,

the longest I've ever seen,

she talked her second cousin,
once-removed, Jerry Wilbur,

into killing Mort so they
could take over his business.

They didn't decide to
get married until a lot later.

But the trouble is,
she had told people

that Mort was on
a business trip.

She couldn't very well dig
him up with three .38's in him.

So they decided to
claim your John Doe

as Mort so that Tilly
could go public as a widow.

And after a decent interval,
she'd be able to remarry.

But how did Mort's wallet
get next to the railroad tracks?

Well, Jerry put it there so
my deputies would find it

and I would take it that

Mort was John Doe.

But the bum found it first.

Well, son,

looks like you're
the only claimant left.

You know, about that, Sheriff...

Well, the fact is, I'm sick
and tired of all this business

so if you want him,
you can have him.

We can?

Honey, did you hear that?

We can have Uncle Charlie.

I still have some
strong doubts about that,

but you did give
the best description.

And it'll save the county
the expense of a burial.

So, I'm gonna give you back this
death certificate I took away from you.

I suggest a brief ceremony
and a quick departure.

Be sure and shut the
door on your way out.

Hello, house.

I am going to bed and
sleeping for a week.

And you, young lady,
are more than welcome

to join me as long as you promise
not to touch me for the next 168 hours.

Mmm-hmm.

Call the lawyer first.

Oh, honey, it's Detroit.
It's too late. He won't be up.

I know, but leave a
message on his machine.

And tell him Uncle
Charlie had a lovely funeral.

All right.

Uncle Charlie!

If I knew you were gonna make a
fuss like that, I wouldn't have come back,

I'm looking for
my stuff I left here.

My gold watch, my cigar
clipper, my lucky dice,

my dog tags.

Where the hell have you
been? We gave you up for dead.

Oh, yeah?

Hey, I still got a few
good years left in me.

I gotta use the john.

That's funny. That's funny.

Yeah, that's funny.

But Uncle Charlie
is dead. He's...

I have the death certificate
right here. No, Frank.

But you can't kill a man
twice. That's all I'm saying,

is no one would ever know.

You're not serious?

No, of course I'm not serious.

But who would ever know?

Charlie, baby, I'm back.

Oh, hello.

You must be Francis and Sandra.

I'm Doreen, Charlie's wife.

Well, I see you've
met the little woman.

Ain't she a pip?

The Porsche is all
gassed and ready to go.

Porsche?

Yeah, if we take the limo,
we'll have to take the chauffeur.

And who needs him
on a honeymoon?

Say, did I tell you kids that
I came into some money?

Show them the rock,
sweetheart. Look at that.

If you think that's big, you
ought to see my lavaliere.

It's the darnedest thing.

An old girlfriend of mine in
Detroit died and left me millions.

Now I don't see how me and
Doreen's gonna spend it all,

but we're sure gonna try.

We're on our way to Las Vegas.

Of course. Where else?

I just come by to
tell you kids that

you don't have to worry about
old Uncle Charlie anymore.

Goodbye, Frank.

Nice seeing you again.

And, Frank, you
look a little peaked.

Try not to work
so hard, all right?

Hurry, Charlie, we'll
miss Wayne Newton.

Oh, who could miss
that guy, he's terrific.

Isn't he wonderful?

Uncle Charlie and Aunt Doreen.

Who would have known?

Epilogue.

With Charlie on his way
to Vegas with Doreen,

and Mort Bascomb
disinterred from Tilly's backyard,

and Roper Bailey back
drinking Mexican beer,

a nagging question
keeps coming to mind.

Who was the John Doe
found by the railroad tracks,

and more to the
point, who killed him?

Well, the pieces
all fell into place

about three days later when an
ad appeared in local newspapers

all over the country.

"Reward Offered.
$100,000 for information

"regarding the whereabouts
of Jason T. Rucker,

"President of Santa
Carmela Savings and Loan,

"who disappeared on June 4th,

"one day prior to a scheduled
audit by state banking officials.

"Rucker is 66 years old,
"Rucker is 66 years old,

"gray-haired, heavyset..."
"gray-haired, heavyset, about five-ten,

"last seen wearing
a brown windbreaker,

"tan slacks and
white oxford shoes.

"Also wanted for questioning is
the man Rucker was last seen with

"identified as a
freight-train hopping hobo

"named Clarence Dobkin."