07x21 - m*rder at the Stratley

Episode transcripts for the TV show, "Newhart". Aired: October 25, 1982, - May 21, 1990.*
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d*ck Loudon and wife Joanna relocate from New York City to a small town in Vermont, where they run the historic Stafford Inn.
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07x21 - m*rder at the Stratley

Post by bunniefuu »

- 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 off by mid-morning.

Total rainfall: about
two and a half inches.

Ow, make that three inches.

- Very impressive leg work.

- 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 d*ck Loudon.

- What is it?

- What, are you deaf?

I said I've got a package.

So I've got a package for
d*ck Loudon. Sign here.

Yeah, I've got to get home,
bolt 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?

'Course, it was his fault

that I bought that snow
blower last August.

Well...

- Oh... oh, it's here. Why...
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.

- Now if we can only figure out
what to do with all these books.

- You could stack them and
make a nice stand for the box.

- m*rder at the Stratley,
a d*ck Loudon mystery.

I didn't know you
were writing a novel.

- Well, I 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 this story takes place.

- So it's like the Stratford?

- No. No, not at
all. It's the Stratley.

I-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... 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.

- d*ck, I read m*rder
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's said that.

A-Actually, I'm
surprised you read it.

- Well, to be honest,
I just read the pages

about the beautiful
maid, Stephanella.

- Yeah, the rest is
just filler anyway. So...

- Maybe your next book should
include pictures of Stephanella.

I mean, words can
only say so much.

- Morning, honey.

- 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.

- d*ck, 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... with a fine-tooth comb.

You're bound to
find some similarities.

- And funny how the lead
character, the innkeeper,

just happens to be a
writer and talk show host.

- There is a world of difference
between a man named d*ck

and a man named Rick.

- Oh, good morning,
Joanna. My, you look beautiful.

- Well, thank you, Stephanie.

- d*ck, you know what would
have made your book even better?

- What's that?

- The character Johanna
just goes on and on and on.

Couldn't you have k*lled
her off on page one?

- Couldn't you have
k*lled Stephanella?

- He'd get too much hate mail.

- Besides, a-a great m*rder
mystery needs a butler

and a maid is as
good as a butler.

- Oh, really? Can
a butler do this?

- No, it didn't work for me.

- See?

- It's bad enough you
bludgeoned Johanna,

but then to dismember her
and drown her in the lake?

So you would be free to run away

with the voluptuous
man-hungry librarian.

- Which... which
part didn't you like?

- Morning, everybody.
Great book, d*ck.

But it left me a
little confused.

- How's that, George?

- How could Rick k*ll
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...
his name was... was Rick.

- Ah! Huh! 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.

H-He's known for his
sultry flamenco dancing

a-and his wild sexcapades.

- That's me. Don't you remember

what happened at Harley's wake?

- Morning.
- Don't morning me, d*ck Loudon.

What gall, describing
me as the town's

drunk and corrupt mayor.

- Chester, it was
just a fiction...

- I do admit I like an
occasional nip of sherry

when I listen to my
Arthur Thebla albums.

But this is an outrage.

- I, however, was deeply
moved and as the town librarian,

I've chosen m*rder
at the Stratley

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

- In... in the glass case
un-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 zinfandels.

- Sorry about page six.

- I guess you're right, d*ck.

It's just a fictional story
about people you made up.

- All right, all right,
have it your way.

I-It's true.

I'm a cold blooded k*ller,
I lust after Ms. Goddard

a-and George is a Bolivian
flamenco dancer. Okay!

- Oh, that Dickie
is mucho loco, no?

- Miss Goddard?

- I 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 d*ck.

Do you know when he'll be back?

- Well, 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 afraid you
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.

- Michael, 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.

- d*ck, come sing with us.
- Shut up, Michael.

I was out in the
rain for two hours

trying to...
trying to fix a flat,

and when I finally get
the lug nuts loosened,

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... on
a train to Albany.

Her mother's hip flared up.

Miss Goddard, what
are you doing here?

- d*ck, I'm perfectly 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.

- Hi, d*ck.

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're a couple
typos in the book.

- Okay, people, buddy
up and listen hard.

- Officer Shifflett.

- I'm looking for
one Joanna Loudon

aka mistress of the Stratley.

- The Stratford. She
is visiting her mother.

- I didn't know that.

- It seems an eyewitness,
my sharp-eyed offspring,

one Shelly Shifflett,

spotted your late model
Oldsmobile Cutlass

parked by Johnny Cake
Lake earlier this evening.

- That's not where
Joanna's mother lives.

- Of course not. I
was parked there.

I was... 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-I used it to wipe myself off

after Michael's
car splattered me.

- Funny, that's the same
excuse Rick tried to pawn off

on the dimwitted sheriff in
your little literary potboiler.

- Look, I-I told you before.
Joanna's on a train going...

- 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.

- d*ck, a m*rder*r? He
couldn't m*rder anyone.

He's courteous.

- Thank you, George.
- See?

- 'Til proven otherwise,
I'm going to be all over you

like Chester on a bottle
of cabernet sauvignon.

- Officer S., couldn't there
be a reasonable explanation

why you would
pull over by the lake

and find her
pullover 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-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 m*rder my wife?

What... what possible
motive would I have?

- Well, in the book,

Rick k*lled 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.

- Uh-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... 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,
d*ck, and I'm sure

you were just
joking this morning

when you told Joanna that
you lusted after Miss Goddard.

- d*ck, 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, Bluebeard?

- There isn't any cold one.

- 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, d*ck.

- 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 chapter eight, when
the dimwitted sheriff

found the sweater
by the lake, he said,

"What's that up
the road... a head?"

- That was another typo.

It's supposed to say, "What's
that up the road ahead?"

- 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 m*rder.

Nobody touch anything.

We're going to
reconstruct the crime.

- I'll get the m*rder w*apon.

- I'll get the refreshments.
Anyone for cocoa? Hands.

- I'm not feeding you people.

- A m*rder*r and a lousy host.

- Here it is.

- Sinister looking, isn't it?

- Now we need
someone to play Joanna,

the defenseless victim,

and someone to play
d*ck, the demented k*ller.

Ms. Vanderkellen, 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 the demented k*ller.

- 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 d*ck, the demented k*ller.

- How about you, d*ck?

- Not even for a laugh.

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

I'll play d*ck, the
demented k*ller.

- George, remind me to fire you.

- As librarian and the
town's best oral reader,

I'll quote some appropriate
passages from the book.

"Rick moved ever so quietly,

"creeping up behind
his innocent wife,

"with 30 pounds
of metal and ribbon.

"Slowly, he lifted the
lethal hunt-and-pecker

"and bringing it
down in a swift swat,

"he hit her hard.

"He hit her real, real hard.

"So hard seagulls
screamed in another village."

- Ah... blood.

- Yuck.

- Oh, mama.

Explain this one, Rick.

- I-I can't.

- I'm sure there must
be a bazillion reasons

why there's blood
on that pillow.

- Sure. Maybe Joanna
was piercing her ears.

- Sure, she could be doing that.

- You don't own
a pitbull, do you?

- d*ck, where did
that blood come from?

- I don't know.

- You have the
right to remain silent.

- Wait... wait a minute.

Doesn't a criminal
usually commit the crime

and then write the book?

- Correctomundo, unless d*ck
had bludgeoned in the past.

- d*ck, you've never been
married before, have you?

- Yeah George, 19 times,

and I k*lled each and
every one of them.

And I'm glad, I tell you.

I'm glad.

Oh Dear! We're in the dark

with a m*rder*r,
and he's got a g*n.

- A g*n?
- Oh, no.

I don't have a g*n.

Well, he's got a typewriter.

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

What was that?

d*ck.

It sounded like Joanna.

Is that you, honey?

I'm going to k*ll you, d*ck.

Merciful heavens, 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.

- What the hell, Joanna?
Your hair looks like hell!

She's back from
the lake to k*ll us all.

- Freeze, zombie.

- Michael.
- Steph.

Sorry, force of habit.

- Yeah, me too.

- What are you people doing?

- Well, we thought
d*ck m*rder*d you

and threw your
lifeless body in the lake.

- Thank God she's alive, d*ck.

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, d*ck,
thanks for your concern.

I hadn't even gotten
up to the ticket window

when you were burning
rubber out of the parking lot.

- Well, you know,
I mean, you know,

it was starting to sprinkle.

- Oh, shut up, d*ck.

It's bad enough I
had to walk home,

but then some idiot
in a Toyota screaming,

"Thomas Hill Bridge is out"
splashed mud all over me.

- Oh, dear.

- Well, you may have squeaked
by on this one, Loudon...

but at dawn's next cr*ck
I'll at Johnny Cake Lake,

trolling for those
19 other stiffs.

- Wait a minute.

If there's no m*rder, what
about the plasma on the pillow?

- I'm not cleaning it up.

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

- Oh, that would really
hit the spot right now.

Anybody for
Clamato juice? Hands.

- Nobody is drinking anything.
Get... get... get out of here.

- He may not be a m*rder*r,
but he's still a lousy host.

- I'm sorry, the next
time I m*rder my wife,

I'll... I'll order
a-a deli platter.

- The next time you
m*rder your wife?

What do you mean, the next
time you m*rder 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.
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