Music.
Oh, hi. Clinton here. Welcome to my show, comedy4cast, episode 826,
if you're keeping track.
Brought to you by Zach, Charlotte, Amy, and my other amazing Patreon patrons.
Thank you. To become a patron yourself and helping me do what I do here,
go to patreon.com slash comedy4cast.
That's all one word with the number four. And here's the secret.
You'll even get episodes before everyone else. Shh.
But right now, it's time for another one of Detective Haartte's HeartStoppers.
Enjoy the show and learn a lot. I'll be back a bit later.
Oh, it's you. Back for more detective training, I see.
Well, you'd better let your brain know it's about to get a pretty intense workout.
To get my noggin in top shape, I like to start off each day with a little brain
teaser, like... Where did I put my keys?
Did I pay the electric bill? And why did I buy so many fedoras and trench coats?
I mean, sure, I look great in them, but they take up a lot of room in my closet.
But there's no time for mental gymnastics now. We need to get to today's case
from the files of me, Detective Haartte.
Two A's, two T's. Spell it right.
Say it right. This is one I like to call Death Became Her.
It all began when I was on my way to dinner at a new place in town called Zero Above.
It's a fancy place. A bit too fancy for my taste.
It's the kind of place where all the chairs match. And when they bring the bill
to the table, the pen they give you isn't one of those free ones from the bank.
Fancy indeed. I was going to catch up with what had been happening with Sheena
Perryman, the young woman who used to live across the hall from my office-slash-apartment-slash-don't-tell-anyone-I'm-using-my-office-as-my-apartment
before it went condo.
She had the good sense to move out of the building when the place went condo.
Did I mention the place went condo?
Because I'm not bitter at all about it.
But I digress. I was running a little late, so I decided to take a shortcut
through some side streets.
Rookie mistake. Because as I was passing by a rather modest two-story ranch
house, I heard a shot ring out.
It was followed moments later by a man rushing out the front door of the house.
I was a bit suspicious.
Because, fun fact, murderers often flee the scene of the crime.
But it turned out this was Chad Pilchard's, and it was his house.
Help! Help! My wife's been shot! You! You! Me? I have an alibi.
I was just doing a voiceover. No! I need you to call the police!
Oh, sorry. Not happening.
What? I don't carry a phone. I don't go in for all that high-tech wizardry.
Oh, I see. Well, I would just... I say give me one of those old-fashioned rotary
phones. Yes, I understand.
Something I can slam down on the thing you rest the receiver on.
What's that thing called? I don't know. I want... It's a hook. No, that can't be right.
Hey, where are you going? To find my phone.
Hang on, maybe I can help. I'm a detective.
The name's Haartte. Detective Haartte. Two A's, two... I was wasting my breath.
Chad had already gone into the house, and I had no choice. I had to go in after him.
I needed to use his phone to contact Miss Perryman to tell her I was going to be late.
The house was furnished in what you might call mid-century antique,
meaning this stuff was about 50 years out of style by the time the 1940s rolled around.
It was a grim reminder of the fickled fashion sense of the public. Where is it?
Where is it? While Chad was racing around looking for his phone,
I couldn't help noticing the body face down on the floor.
My gut told me it was Chad's wife.
You develop a sixth sense about this kind of thing. Crouching down next to the
body, I could see the blood-stained hole in the back of her blouse.
Ah! I found it! Great! So much for my finders fee
Hello? Yes, my wife's been shot by a robber I went on with my investigation.
I knew that if I could solve this case, the story would be the front page headline
of every newspaper in town.
Okay, Middling Fair only has one newspaper, but the point is still valid.
Yes, I understand. I reached down towards the body.
What are you doing? I mean, please, don't do that, Detective Haartte.
The police said we shouldn't touch the body.
Well, you specifically. They said you shouldn't touch the body.
Mess up just one of their million-dollar sting operations, and the cops never let you forget it.
Besides, I don't think I could bear to see Tilly's face.
All right, all right. Maybe I can find clues someplace else in the house. Mind if I look around?
No, go right ahead. I walked through a passageway into the next room,
which just happened to be the kitchen.
And then it hit me. I was getting hungry.
Hey, Chad, could I bother you for a snack?
What? I'm feeling a bit peckish. Oh, of course.
Chad opened up the icebox. Icebox? What am I, a hundred? He opened up the refrigerator.
The usual suspects inside. Milk, fruit, a takeout container from zero above,
and lots and lots of bottles of boysenberry-flavored water.
Would you like a cup of yogurt? And yogurt.
I forgot to mention the yogurt. As long as it isn't too much past its expiration date. Take it from me.
Six months is way too long.
I'm not sure. How about some flavored water instead? We have plenty of it.
My wife loves, I mean, loved Boysenberry.
Got tired of it, huh? What? By the way, I think I found out how the murderer got into your house.
Your back door is open. Oh, of course.
Oh, Tilly, she never locks. I mean, never did lock it. Another habit she got tired of?
No, no. She trained our dog. Mr.
Carpet Scooter, to push on the handle to let himself out. Sure,
I know it sounds like a tall tale, but right then, Mr.
Carpet Scooter came walking in the door, got up on his hind legs,
and shoved the door closed.
But don't be too impressed by it. We still can't get him to mow the lawn.
Well, he sure seems thirsty, Chad.
What makes you say that? Look at him. He's lapping up all that pink water right
by your shoes, even though his doggy dish of water is right over there.
Oh, it's Boysenberry. I think Tilly got him addicted to it.
Stop that, Mr. Carpet Scooter. Don't be too hard on him. That dog just helped me solve this case.
Did you figure it out? All the clues are there. You just have to put all the pieces together.
And don't spend too much time working on just the border because I'm giving
you seven seconds to solve this crime.
Time's up. Let's see how you did. Oh, by the way, by this point in the story, the police had arrived.
I was butting heads with my old nemesis, Sergeant Wilkins.
We can take it from here, Hart. This is obviously an open and shut case.
You don't have to tell me.
Clearly, Tilly Pilchards was murdered by the dog.
You know, Hart, I'd ask you what color the sky is in your world,
but it's obviously always foggy.
Come on, once a dog is smart enough to open and close doors by itself,
it's only a short walkies to rebelling against its human overlords.
Haartte. You don't fool me, Mr. Carpet Scooter. Check your records, Wilkins.
His first name is probably Caesar, and he's planning on making this a planet of pooches.
Well, I happen to like my Statue of Liberty where it is, unburied and on an
island that belongs to New York, but is surrounded by water that belongs to New Jersey.
It's complicated and confusing, But that's what freedom is all about.
Haartte. Now put the cuffs on him, Wilkins.
That is, if you were smart enough to bring cuffs small enough for those cute little doggy paws.
Haartte, I keep telling you, you have to go to the grocery store to get the kind of gummies you want.
Tilly Pilchards was murdered by her husband. Don't be ridiculous,
Wilkins. Where's your proof? Did you find the gun?
Were his prints on it? Or were they teeny tiny doggy prints?
There wasn't any gun because nobody shot Tilly Pilchards. There wasn't even
an exit wound in the body.
Maybe the bullet was having a bad day.
Pilchards was killed by a knife made out of frozen liquid.
There were drops of boysenberry-flavored water all around the wound.
We found the mold for the knife in the trash.
And Mr. Pilchards was dripping boysenberry water out of his clothes.
He was probably going to throw the knife away outside, but panicked and put
it in his pocket when you happened to be there. Fiddle-dee-dee and fall-dee-raw!
How do you explain the gunshot I heard? Chad Pilchard played that sound on his stereo system.
You're grasping at straws, Wilkins. How did you arrive at that wild conclusion?
Do you see the display on the receiver? Do you see what it says?
Track one, Gunshot. This whole murder to collect insurance money was so poorly
thought through that only an idiot would have fallen for it.
You know, the kind of person who would ruin a year-long million-dollar sting operation.
All right, boys, take him away.
What about you? Did you get it right? Or did you go along with that lame ice knife story?
Oh, and one more thing. I never got word to Sheena Perryman that I was going to be late to dinner.
Very late. And she was a little miffed about it. So, to make up for it, I brought her a present.
When the doggy revolution happens, I need as many people and canines on my side as possible.
But you, you should worry about more important things. Like coming back next
time for another case from the files of Detective Haartte.
Two A's. Two T's. Spell it right. Say it right.
Good dog.
I certainly hope that leveled up your detective skills. But if not,
Detective Haartte wanted me to tell you something.
Uh, no refunds. Speaking of no, no AI was used in the creation of this episode.
Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with that.
Original voices, as well as story and music, by me, Clinton Alvord.
Copyright 2025 All rights reserved In our next episode Danny Hillcrest wants
to get you Ready for summer At least when it comes to movies. But for now,
that's it We're done, done, done, done, done Bye-bye.