Young Writers Society

Christophe washed his face for the third time in a row. He had to face it, he wasn't going to look any more well than he did.
The neighbor woman was throwing a dinner party, it was only convenient that Him, Boston, and several other of the suspects were invited. It was a good opportunity to warm up to them.. perhaps tempt them with a little liquor.. loosen their tongues. But of course that was Bostons job, in fact Boston was going to have to cover for him quite a bit that night. Not only was Christophes head foggy and unreliable, but he was also underaged for such matters and highly doubted the 'adults' would want him around.
Despite this, he had a plan.
He would put on the most innocent childish act. Of one that was going to be sick. Excuse himself to the bathroom and take the opportunity to look for any discriminating evidence. After that in which he would excuse himself to go home, and investigate the outside of her and Jaques house for anything that could be held against her.
Hopefully all would be executed with minimal trouble, as Christophe wasn't sure of the mind state of the guests. Who knows what fanatics were attended not what dangers could go down. After all, there was a killer on the loose. And a very clever one at that.

Christophe strode out with his best possible shine. (Which was minimal at that point) and eyed his comrade.
"Boston tuck in your shirt, we are professionals."
He fumbled for the loose fabric, rolling his eyes at the child.
"Remember," Christophe reminded him, "We are still on the job but we do not wish for any of the other guests to know that. We hardly want them intimidated do we now?"
Boston grumbled something illegible.
"make sure you show them a good time now" Christophe concluded before picking the cover off his freshly dry-cleaned coat. It was obvious that Boston was showing contempt toward his younger companions constant bickering and instructions, but he had always complied and done his job well. Christophe trusted him with that, not to mention the fact that he could drive was ever so useful. Christophe filled his pockets with his last minute 'tools' and 'supplies' needed to thoroughly complete the job which included fingerprint papers and magnifying glasses among other things.
Let us hope for a fruitful and eventful night. He whispered to himself under his breath.

Casey

The crazy lady who lived next door to Jaqcue asked me, "You were his maid, correct?" She didn't let her answer. "I'm holding a memorial service tomorrow. Can you attend?"

"Why would you want me to come? I was only his maid. Besides, I wouldn't be able to even afford the clothes for such an occasion with a high class lady like you." I didn't want to alienate her as a potential employer, but I also didn't want to blow my savings on an outfit for a man I hated.

"Then perhaps I could hire you to serve for the occasion, and if you impress me you could gain a permanent position?"

I accepted. Such a sweet deal as that one was unlikely to come to a girl whose previous owner had died suddenly with no explanation. Besides, I was curious to know why she wanted me at her memorial so much. Perhaps just as another person who knew Jaqcue.

And here I am now at the memorial. She seems to have invited almost everyone who ever even spoke to Jaqcue. I catch sight of the delivery boy and flush, remembering a few days ago when he turned aside, ignoring me and the bulging bag. I had hurried to the river, weighted the thing and drowned the dog. When he got a chance to slip close to me, Belrose whispered in my ear, "You owe me one."

The detective boy started towards me, and I braced myself for a barrage of questions about exactly why I was here. He stopped, though, and turned to face the neighbor when she announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure you could make it to this event. A tragedy has befallen us all."

Norman Belrose

Norman turned and walked away from Jaqcue's maid, Casey. He quietly moved to the side of the room, away from the mingling guests. Norman leaned against the wall, a glass of apple cider in hand. He was never one for drink. The sweet taste of cider filled his mouth and slid easily down, the slight carbonation tickling the back of his throat. His eyes flicked over to the grandfather clock near the door. 6:00 pm.

His thoughts drifted back to the previous day and the run in with Casey. Their eyes had met for a brief moment. Her eyes were swollen with fear and shining with guilt. Her hand turned white as she gripped the knapsack bag tighter. A soft whimpering issued from within the cloth. Norman knew what was inside the bag: Jacque's dog. The dog had always greeted him with a wagging tail, but he new very well that the dog had constantly threatened Casey. If he stopped her, if he made a scene, there would be questions. Questions inquiring about his and Casey's relationship with Jacque. Norman despised the thought of having to face the pressure of questioning for a second time, so he dismissed Casey with a brisk nod.

Norman turned his attention back towards the neighbor woman who had begun the memorial service.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a tragedy has befallen us. Our beloved acquaintance, friend, and colleague has recently passed. To begin the service I would like to ask for anyone willing to give their personal experience and testimony of their relationship, time, or moment with Jacque. Thank you." She awkwardly slid away from the head of the room, avoiding her moment to speak passing it to any willing mourners.

Norman checked his watch again and beat his foot against the thickly carpeted floor.

"Good evening, Norman."

Norman jumped at the voice that had suddenly materialized beside him. He turned to see Detective Boston leaning against the wall next to him, a glass of swirling red wine in one hand.

"Good evening." Hold your tongue, Norman, he is not with you or against you. He will ruin your future.

"Are you going to speak?" Boston asked.

"Not planning on it."

"It seems too soon to have a service."

"Doesn't really seem that's your decision." Norman bit his lip, cursing himself silently for his response.

"I guess you are right." Boston showed no sign of anger towards Norman's response and took another deep sip from his wine.

Claude Innocente

The night was young, and Claude’s glass was half full. The culture had halted. Antibodies were coming together, banding against the bacteria as it grew. This breakthrough was more than an event to celebrate. This was an event to drown over, which is exactly what he intended to do at the memorial dinner.

Once he might have blanched at the thought of getting drunk beyond control, but that was a different time, and a different Claude. Now it was a better time, and transitively, a better Claude. Living as Jacque, in Jacque’s home for the past few weeks, he was changing, becoming more confident, less restrictive than his former awkward self. Claude found himself improving greatly and becoming Jacque by standing in the spot he once stood. With incredible discretion and computational thinking, maybe soon he would even become better than Jacque was. This thought gave him goose-bumps.

He had only said “of course” five times in the last three days. That in itself was astounding.

Despite the fact that he lived right next door to the party, he still showed up late. Fashionably late, as an American may say, but he had a reason for it. There were some… things… he needed to take care of before he showed up.

He fixed the collar of his tux, which was rented from downtown—he wouldn’t stoop so low as to rip the clothes off a dead man’s body as he would to occupy his home—and rapped on the door. Hearing no answer, he rang the bell, and after a few seconds, Elaine ran over and leaned against the doorframe as she opened it, blocking his path.

“You missed my speech, hon,” she said, “so you better get inside. The party is still just starting.”

But as he attempted to enter the manor, a scream was heard and the two rushed into the house, leaving the door agape in their wake. Elaine’s rush was out of seeming concern. Claude’s was merely to keep up.

When they entered the foyer, after running through some large, richly adorned hallways and up a staircase, the two came across the whole crowd gathered in front of the second-floor fireplace. Dr. Carina Durand, one of Jacques biggest competitors and former prodigy, stood crying from shock, having just arrived as well, and was trembling as everyone questioned her and she struggled to make words.

“The butler- he’s in the bathroom…”

The kid inspector, who was in attendance for who knows what reason, ran to her and had to reach up to grab her shoulders. “What about the butler, Dr. Durand? What about him?”

“So much blood…” She sobbed. “He’s dead!”

The room erupted in a fury, but Claude only adopted mock surprise, not finding the strength in him to become excited. At this point, he just wanted a drink. Of course.

Nicholas
The party's momentum was slow and boring. Still Nicholas kept taking off his glasses to clean them. He was nervous, though he had no reason to be. This was a night to remember a dear friends who's life has ended. He dusted of his coat that attracted the slightest speck of fuzz flying around. He was lucky that his suit had been delivered today, it would have been an inconvenience to rent one. Have thought he stood around for long enough, he moved for a drink. Though in his quick movement he ran into Miss Elaine.
"Excuse me Madame, I was not watching where I was going." Nicholas said quickly. She didn't seem to care for his apology.
"Who are you, were you invited?" The words leaving her lips lightly.
"I, umm, invitation? Was this not open to any who wished to mourn for the death?" Nicholas stated nervously, cleaning his glasses again. She simply moved past him, probably finding someone else to strike a conversation with.
Sighing as he picked up a crystal glass, he scanned the room. Here was everyone that had known Jacque. He thought this only because no one would be a fool not to attend. Of course while an investigation everyone attempted to make themselves seem suspicious.
The glass he had been holding slipped from his grasp, as a scream resonated through the building. Rushing to the sound he found Dr. Durand crying from shock.
"The butler- he's in the bathroom…"
Nicholas moved to the door opening it slightly. The sight was somewhat disturbing, though the doctor stepped in anyways. Pulling a rubber glove from his inside pocket, quickly putting it on. He moved beside the body and searched for a pulse. The body gave no warmth to Nicholas' touch. The butler had been dead for awhile. Turning he saw the door had been open and a few peer in behind him.
"Cause of death?"
Turning back towards the body he saw severe wounds. Though he quickly looked the body over.
"I would assume someone attacked him with a knife. Though this is only a quick observation. I say he died shortly after we got here maybe before." Nicholas took off the glove and disposed of them, then cleaned his glasses. The room was silent.

Christophe

Everyone present in the house had all gathered in the lounge. Boston stood guarding one door, his back into the interior. Elaine was near the kitchen entrance, shaking slightly in her spot. Christophe stood up on the back of the lounge-chair, calling the attention of the adults in the room.
"Attention all!" He proclaimed. "There has been a murder of Madame Elaine's poor butler, and one of us, in this very room, is the culprit. We have no knowledge of this persons motives, intentions, nor sick mind in the matter, but it very clearly has got something to do with Jaques."
"The probability that this murderer and Jaques murderer are the same person is high." Called Boston from across the room.
"Oui, oui." Christophe tapped his foot on Elaines fancy embroidered cushion. Her nose twitched at this, but she said nothing.
"We must ask you all to remain here seated until we are able to contact our department." He turned to Elaine. "Older lady, where is your téléphone?"
"How dare...." The woman started, her face growing pink, but she was interrupted by Boston.
"Monsieur Chrisophe, I found it." Boston picked up the delicate hook from the spinning circle of the wall telephone. The bell chirped.
"Wait." Christopher held up his hand. "It might we wise to hold off the call for twenty minutes. The murderer could be expecting this." He swung around to face the chemist, Nicholas.
"You, Monsieur. Come with me to investigate the crime scene. Boston hold the room. Do not let anyone make any funny moves."
Christophe let his eyes scope the faces of every person present. He settled his gaze on Claude for a small while before snapping away to the others.
"Murderer. I'm watching you."

Christophe and Nicholas marched up toward the bathroom. The chemist had done well in handling the intial scene of the murder, so he would be useful to have again. He was sure that this rackety old chemist was not the murderer, and so he was sure he would be safe. The man would also be familiar in cleanliness and would be able to handle the evidence well.
Christophe took a facecloth and wrapped it around his hands, then turned the victims head to the side.
"Open wound. Brutal. Monsieur, if you please, you said it was a knife wound, so could you go back and search the area for a potential murder weapon." The man gulped and nodded, not letting his eyes rest on the body.
Christophe dropped the victims head and walked back to the doorway. He pushed the door forward, swinging it closed.
There, just above the pristine white doorknob was a small smudge. A fingerprint of what appeared to be... lipstick.
Magenta lipstick. Someone with that or such had been in the bathroom recently. But would a woman so carelessly wipe her lips on her fingers? It was either that, or perhaps someone else had been in contact with her lips. The crowd below would show a clear match to who the gloss belonged to, but were they the murderer, or did they just happen into this room at an unfortunate time?