Clue: Heathermire Hall

Five-storied Heathermire Hall is the isolated, snow-swept mansion of Mr. Coda Krome, a professional blackmailer and traveler of the world. Wishing to acquaint himself with ten of his blackmailed victims, he forcibly invites them to the Hall for dinner. As the night begins, he is unable to anticipate a sudden, vicious snowstorm that chokes the building and severs its power. Nor can he foretell the passion of an anonymous guest who would, under the cover of darkness, take his life.

In a fashion akin to the classic Clue® board game, participants in this SB will each take up the role of one of the ten blackmailed suspects, each of which will have color-themed code names. The following character slots are originally listed with colors in their most basic form, but participants are encouraged to come up with something more creative (for example, Purple could be Mr. Plum, and Orange could be Mrs. Persimmon). There are five characters of each gender available.



Any one of these ten characters could be the murderer. Until the mystery is solved, I'll be the only one to know who it is.

There will be one other important character, the butler, whose perspective will be written by yours truly. Four NPCs (Mr. Krome, the cook, the maid, and a delivery man) will also make appearances before their untimely deaths. I like to call them NPCsWWCD: non-playable-characters-who-will-certainly-die.

As a fun side thing, while the plot progresses in this main thread, we’ll be playing a game of “Whodunnit” in the DT. Plenty of details about that will be posted in therein. If all goes as planned, the murderer of Mr. Krome will be narrowed down and guessed correctly in time for the actual SB to draw to its conclusion. Whoever guesses the murderer correctly on their first try might get a shiny badge!

Before submitting your CP, please remove all parentheses.

Spoiler

CodeSelect all

(We’re doing things a little bit backwards. In the gray box labeled “Character's Full Name,” write your character’s codename - that’s their color name [example: Mrs. Snow]. In the box labeled “Character Nickname,” write your character’s actual name [example: Phoebe William], a name that will be scarcely used, if at all, in the SB. Remember, whether they’re the murderer or not, your character is still a criminal, and when this is all over, they’ll likely still want to be anonymous.)
[b]Age[/b]: (between 20 and 60, por favor)
[b]Gender[/b]:
[b]Hometown[/b]: (or home country)
[b]Crime[/b]: (the thing that Mr. Krome blackmailed them for. Indicate too, if possible, how Mr. Krome found out about it. You can use one of the NPCs, like the maid or the cook, as someone who worked for your character before Mr. Krome, and passed the gossip along)
[b]Appearance[/b]: (a picture would be lovely)
[b]Personality[/b]:
[b]Interests and Occupations[/b]: (favorite hobbies, job, etc)
[b]Family[/b]: (are they up for love?)
[b]Other[/b]: (optional)


The Butler

He didn’t know what this party was about, but he could tell by the way Mr. Krome furrowed his eyebrows that it was something out of the ordinary. The great man was lounging in the sunroom on his gray wicker chair, puffing plaintively on a Brazilian cigar and from time to time glancing out the windowed walls at the tumbling rocky slope below him, flecked with dark clusters of forest. The butler paused at the open door, watching the cigar smoke critically as it rose up and up to the glass roof and slipped out an open skylight. He imagined that figments of nicotine and tar were sticking to the glass, and made a quick mental note to ask Elora to scrub it clean before the guests came.

“Weather forecasts says there’s a storm tonight, sir,” he said.

Mr. Krome cast a forlorn glance at the sky. “I highly doubt that.”

“I do too, but it says it’s one-hundred percent.”

“Weathermen lie just like the common man, Francisco. Tonight will be lovely - I expect we can go star-gazing on the lookout after dessert.”

The butler frowned, but discontinued his argument. He relieved Mr. Krome of his finished novel and empty coffee mug, and dropped the latter off in the upstairs kitchen and the former in the library downstairs. On his way to find Elora, he stopped suddenly at Mr. Krome’s library desk, aghast at the tumultuous state of the folders, papers, and old newspaper clippings cast about it, and with nothing better to do, set about arranging the clutter into neat piles. He first gathered the ten folders - each colored differently in a rather elementary manner - and then began sorting the clippings and papers, discovering quickly that the mess was an assemblage of margin-scribbled articles, pictures, and documents of ten different people.

“And who are you for?” he muttered, glancing over a grainy fifth grade class picture from a school in Alaska. He skimmed over the names, and found one that he recognized. “Ah - you go in the green folder, Mr. Charles Everton.”

“Incorrect, Francisco,” Mr. Krome said. “Everton is purple.”

The butler started and stood erect, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry, sir. I was trying to organize your desk.”

“No worries. I left it as such on purpose. I’d hoped you’d find it.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Did you read anything?”

“No, sir. Not really.”

“You ought to.” He bowed slightly in a gesture to the papers. “These people will be my guests this evening.”

“Oh.” The butler bit his lip, recalling a handful of the headlines he had skimmed over. “But, sir,” he said, “forgive me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that these people are... criminals.”

The corners of Mr. Krome’s mouth arched slightly. “So you did read some things,” he said. “My guests tonight are, indeed, a misfitted pack of wrongdoers.”

The butler frowned. “Why?”

Mr. Krome shrugged, and meandered leisurely along a row of novel-decked shelves. “I believe in second chances, I suppose.”

The butler, his hands still clasped behind his back, leaned over the desk and scanned the haphazard clippings with a more astute eye.

“But anyway,” Mr. Krome said, pivoting on his heel and walking to the desk, “the most important thing I need you to know are the names you will give our guests when they walk in the door.”

“Names? Why would I give them names?”

“They’re criminals, Francisco, and criminals like code names. Mr. Everton, for instance - tonight he’ll be Mr. Mauve.” He sifted through the papers, and lifted a picture of a thin woman with frizzy brown hair. “Here’s Dr. Canary, and… oh! Look, you got the color right on this one - Mr. Albane does, indeed, belong in the white folder. He’s Mr. Blanche.”

“Do I need to memorize these, sir?”

“Yes, of course. It won’t be too hard - there’s only ten. Here…” He removed from his pocket a freshly-creased folded note and handed it to the butler. “This should help.”

The butler pocketed the note. “Thank you. Is there anything else you need of me, sir?”

Mr. Krome waved a hand. “No. You’re excused.”

The butler glanced once more at the desk, and left.

He found Elora in the billiard room, polishing Mr. Krome’s glass cabinet of firearms.

“Do you know about the party tonight?” he whispered.

“The people who’re coming, you mean? Yes.”

“Did he tell you?”

She gently placed the six-shooter back on its pegs, and lifted a sheathed machete. “Of course.”

The butler furrowed his forehead and glanced at his reflection in the glass. His tie was tilted slightly; he fixed it.

“I knew one of them, y’know,” she said. “I thought she was a nice girl. Odd, but nice.”

“Yeah? Which one?” He took out the note from Mr. Krome.

“Miss Beck. I think Coda chose Blue for her.”

“What did she do?”

Elora closed her eyes and sighed. “It wasn’t good.”

The butler felt a knot in his stomach. He didn’t like the idea of spending a night in the Hall with ten criminals. He didn’t ask Elora for any more information about Miss Blue, anticipating that the knot would only be pulled tighter.

“Um, Mr. Krome was smoking in the sunroom again, and, uh…”

Elora looked at him.

“Sorry. Nevermind.” The butler shook his head and walked away. Particles of nicotine and tar were inconsequential to the prestige of the Hall, especially to the eyes of a maid who had six floors to clean, or to the ten felonious pairs of eyes who would be arriving in two hours.

The butler climbed the stairs to his quarters, where he would look over Mr. Krome's notes until he had the criminals and their colorful code names memorized.

Mr. Crow

He stared at his fingers, stretching closing them, repeatedly, as if to confirm they were his. They wrapped around the handle of his pistol, an index finger teasing the trigger.

“Sir?” a voice asked from the drivers’ seat, a faceless goon attached to it. “We’re here.”

Qoholeth avoided looking through the front window, preferring the window by his side. The forest towered over the scene, reaching out to touch the heavens. There was a small cloud in the distance, approaching in a languid sweep. “Do you have the snipers by the parameter?” Qoholeth said, finally turning to the drivers seat. He glimpsed the pale face sitting in the passenger seat beside the driver, and clutched the revolver again. “Maria? Vasquez? Hardy?”

The goon turned to him, pulling out a disposable phone. “Maria’s on the East, Vasquez is facing West and Hardy is hiding behind the forest,” the goon said, “The numbers are already on the phone.”

Qoholeth swiped the phone away from his employee, stashing it in his coat. He checked his pistol for the thirty-fifth time in counting, and stashed it in a hidden pocket of his briefcase. There was a Swiss army knife in the briefcase, as well as cyanide pills in a mint bottle—Plan C and D, respectively.

“I’ll call you in the afternoon,” Qoholeth closed his satchel, turning to the driver, “If I don’t, tell Maria I’ll meet her on Hardy’s side of the forest. If they don’t see me after more than two days, charge into the house. Inform Normandy that I might be dead, he’ll take over the operation.”

The driver nodded, somewhat dazed. The goon looked to the woman sitting beside him, then, before turning to his boss. “What do I do with the lady?”

Qoholeth scowled. “There’s a spare shovel in the trunk—find Hardy, he’ll help you bury her,” he opened the door, sliding out, “Don’t call me until I tell you to.”

The goon nodded, and Qoholeth slammed the door shut, watching the car drive away for a moment. He turned to the towering black spires of the Hall, the arched windows glaring down like the eyes of a foul beast, the air about it haunting despite its pristine condition. There was a Rottweiler somewhere near the gates, the intensity of its barks robbed by the passing wind.

He stretched his hands. Closed them, again.

…

“Mr. Crow?” the Butler (God knows if he had a name) asked, opening the door. “Ah. You’re early.”

Qoholeth—Crow coughed, staring at his watch. “One of my few virtues,” he said, walking in as the Butler made way, “Have any other men of virtue arrived?”

He could feel the Butler studying his briefcase, and he shot the servant a glare. “Uh, the Doctor’s arrived early, as well,” the Butler looked away, “Thirteen minutes earlier.”

Crow stashed his hands in his pockets. “And Coda?”

“Mr. Krome will meet with you shortly.”

He better. He considered the practicality of killing all of the guests after the deed had been done—or at the very least bribing them into silence—and decided it would be too risky. Criminals are capricious creatures.

He snapped out of his thoughts, finding the Butler standing beside him, the smaller man’s hand extended in unsolicited assistance. “Your luggage,” he said, “Sir.”

Crow scowled. “I’ll manage.”

The Butler’s smile was thin. “Unfortunately, that’s not why I asked.”

Crow clutched his hands slightly, holding back his urge to punch the man. Better a patient person than a warrior, he recited in his head, breathing in, one with self-control than one who takes a city. Crow relinquished his briefcase, crossing his arms as he watched the Butler pull out his shirts and medicine packets. The Butler fortunately ignored the Swiss knife and the mint bottle, but the pistol did not go unnoticed. “I’m sure that’s all you have.” Crow wasn’t sure if the Butler was making a statement or a question.

“Safety precautions,” Crow forced a smile. “My second virtue.”

The Butler returned the smile, though more earnest than anything. He ordered everything back into the briefcase, locking it closed. Plan A’s out. “Please,” The Butler picked up his luggage, “Let me show you the living room.”

The Butler brought him into a spacious, somewhat gaudy room, decked with carved mahogany walls, a bejewelled chandelier, a crackling fireplace made of cobblestone, granite floors and a velvet couch. There were five arched windows facing the East, carved oak cherubims holding the windowpanes up. It felt like something out of Solomon’s blueprints. “I’ll leave you two to your devices,” the Butler said, gesturing to the couch in front of the fireplace. “There’s a bell on the coffee table if you need me.”

Crow nodded, and just as quickly as he came, the Butler left. There was a woman standing by the arched windows, sipping a mug of hot something. Her hair was a mess of curls, her spectacles perched uncomfortably on her nose.

He sat down by the couch, watching her at a glance. Seeing as the Butler had taken his baggage, he only had the burn phone in his pocket to carry out the operation. “Is that coffee?”

The woman turned to him, her silhouette unimpressive. “Tea,” she said, meekly. “There’s some in the back, under the animal heads. If you’d like.”

Crow glanced over his shoulders. He stood up, striding towards the collection of hung up deers, bears, elks, and other generic mantelpieces. There was a small table with a porcelain kettle and cups, along with tea packets. There were also shot glasses, and a crystal flask of what looked like bourbon. “You aren’t taking advantage of the alcoholic options?”

The woman fell silent for a moment, before piping up, as if she just woke up from a dream. “Hm? Oh. I don’t have much reason for getting drunk,” she answered.

Crow scoffed. “Whatever reason you’re here,” he set up a shot glass, pouring the flask down, “is as good enough reason as any to get plastered.”

Dr. Vermillion

Gary Dungworth trudged through the muddy snow that lay upon the road going to Heathermire Hall. It was a large spacious building. He grumbled more and more the closer he got. He hated this Coda Krome and he hadn't even met him, but what was to be expected, he was being blackmailed. His face was in a tightly knitted scowl. He couldn’t see how his circumstances could get worse until it began to snow.

He had been kicked out of his taxi for scolding the driver on his cheerful disposition and his having to sing Christmas songs the whole way there. So he was forced to walk half of a mile to get to the very place he didn’t wish to be. He carried his two large suitcases carefully.

Snow fell upon his once neatly combed hair and seeped into his dress shoes. He obviously wasn’t prepared for having to walk. He grumbled and muttered under his breath, “I should just kill the man and get my troubles over with.” This thought and ones like it had occupied his mind the majority of the time since he had left his home. He was already thinking of ways it could be carried out. He could do it straight forward and just stab him, he would be surrounded by criminals that he expected would wish him dead as well. Or he could come up with an intricate plan. The first seemed more appealing.

The doctor was coming to the driveway after what seemed like an eternity. Arms sore he approached the door and was startled by a barking of some dog. “Shut up, you stupid dog!” he shouted. The dog quieted itself for a second before growling in reply.

Fed up with all of what had happened Dungworth knocked impatiently at the intricately carved door. If he weren’t so cold he would’ve taken time to observe the craftsmanship. The door was soon opened by a well-dressed and groomed Hispanic butler with dark hair. He spoke, “Welcome Dr. Vermillion, Your bag.”

Gary Dungworth or now in this house Dr. Vermillion handed the suitcases to the butler who then inspected them one at a time. The first contained clothing and a supply of medication that would somewhat help with Dr. Vermillion’s flamboyant personality.
The Butler opened the second to find a small typewriter and stacks of paper. He had always preferred a good old fashioned typewriter to a laptop computer.

Now permitted to fully enter Dr. Vermillion gaped at the beautiful entrance hall. The chandelier hung above and sent light spilling into the hall. An African looking mask hung on one wall and a painting by Van Gogh on the other. He almost forgot that the butler was there, until a slight cough came from his direction. He turned to see the butler who instructed him to follow him.

They entered a grand room, with reddish brown walls, a bejeweled chandelier, a fireplace crackled invitingly, and four other people sat on velvet couches and chairs. Arched windows faced the East. “Is there anything else I may do for you?”

“Yes I would enjoy a mug of hot chocolate.” Dr. Vermillion said this attempting to sound dignified. He then took a seat at one of the chairs closest to the fire. He lay back and put his feet up on the coffee table coolly. He took a look at the occupants of the room. An old man with Chinese like clothes sat across from him and talked to a woman with curly hair and glasses. There was one other a tall man with dark skin and a bald head. He wore a normal suit and tie but there were also several rings on his fingers and an amulet hung on a string around his neck. He held a book called The Call of Cthulhu.

Dr. Vermillion held out his hand and introduced himself “Hello,” He faltered. “My name is Dr. Vermillion.”

The man shook his hand and replied, “Professor Pecan.”

“How do you do?” Gary attempted at giving a smile but found it hard so gave up, “Is that a good book.” He gestured to the book in his hands.

“Yes, very. So you haven’t read it? If not I would recommend it full heartedly.”

Something seemed very off with this man and it made Vermillion’s skin crawl. He searched for something to say. But the Butler came in with his hot chocolate, “Here you go sir.” He smiled.

Dr. Vermillion sipped the creamy hot chocolate. Neither spoke, so they sat in silence and awaited their meeting with the hated Mr. Coda Krome.

Miss Moss

"Vroom, vroom," said the voice through her earphones as her black motorcycle sped past a got milk? billboard. The earphone wire dangled in the wind, her phone tucked away comfortably in her pocket. "The Green Arrow's bike roared in the night, leaving a trail of burnt rubber, smoking asphalt, and groaning criminals. He finally had a name."

Her long trenchcoat fluttered as she squeezed the handles of her bike, clouds enslaving the clear sky. Another billboard: this time for a hospital-themed casino.

"Malcolm Merlyn," the voice continued. The sky was no more. "To the Green Arrow this name meant very little, but to Oliver Queen, it was a unification of his two worlds. Suddenly all his nocturnal ventures and all his efforts to bring the city's criminals to justice merged with his home, with his family, with everything he knew and everything he was in the light of day."

Her green hair waved behind her helmetless head as she rode past yet another advertisement board, with Bill Murray, Bill Cosby and Bill Gates posing in front of a white background, the words "Know Your Bills" written underneath. She felt a drop of rain fall on her cheek. Lightning zapped behind her.

"His hood drawn, he…" She pulled the earphones away, the cheap fanfiction audiobook fading away. One last billboard: "we're all alone.", a crowd of people texting in public and never glancing away from their phones. She slowed down and noticed the barely-started rain turn to snow. She made a turn to the right.

It was quite a hefty mansion, but she didn't care to notice the details. Gates opened for her; she looped around a fountain in the front garden and stopped in front of the front door. A small white pellet bounced off her motorcycle. It was hailing.

The butler greeted her as soon as she turned off her bike. "Good evening, Miss Moss," he said. "It's a pleasure to have you."

"I'm sure it is," Miss Moss replied.

"May I park your vehicle?" a valet uttered from the side.

"Don't scratch it," she replied and tossed him the keys. He clumsily caught them and hobbled off.

She stood in front of the butler and spread her arms wide. "Aren't you gonna search me?"

The butler tried to conceal his anxiety. Poorly so. "That will not be necessary, Miss Moss. All the required precautions have been set in place. If you will follow me, now, you are expected?"

"Sure," she yawned. "Lead the way."

In the large billiard room sat and stood and even lay a multitude of various individuals, all either awkwardly conversing or equally awkwardly remaining in silence. She only noticed their shapes, their figures and their approximate distance from her. She did not linger on details; she was nervous and had more important things on mind than making friends.

"Miss Moss," the butler introduced her and left them on their own.

"My, my," a woman dressed in older clothes said. "Aren't you a badass?" she mocked.

"Threatened much?" Miss Moss hissed.

"As much as a horse would be threatened by a worm."

"At least I'm not wearing Boudica's pajamas," Moss replied as everyone stared in silence.

"At least I didn't dye my hair to match my codename."

Moss always wore it that way. She rolled her eyes. "No, but you could always get another wig."

The woman in old clothes laughed. "Ms. Zinnia," she said and extended her hand. Moss didn't take it.

"Not here to socialize."

Krome emerged from a door. "Glad to see you getting along," he said. "If you will join me for dinner, right this way?" he announced and disappeared through the same door, knowing everyone would follow.

"On second thought…" Moss said to Zinnia. "Billiards?"

The woman nodded. "Billiards."

| Dr. Canary

"If you will join me for dinner, right this way?"

Her pinky finger tapped once upon the attenuated mug, and through the thin glass she felt its concise vibration throb against the hollow of her palms. She held the mug with two hands; she did not know what to do with her left hand (it felt strange to let it hover next to her in the dense air of unease that dripped from the air like condensation) so she rested it over her dominant right hand, which was growing uncomfortable from the unusual heat her left hand seemed to be producing.

Mr. Krome swept his arm towards the doorway, a gesture that was muddled with sophistication. People began to stand, smoothing down the fronts of their dress clothes, and Dr. Canary attempted to do the same. She stood with little confidence with her left hand roughly swiping down the front of her rather itchy sweater dress, which more closely resembled an old rug than an article of clothing. She glanced about - most of the occupants of the room had already followed Mr. Krome out.

She stood in the now near empty room, her hands still wrapped in a vice-like grip upon her mug of bitter tea, glancing about her in a state of predicament because for the life of her, she did not know what to do with the now unwanted beverage. Her instincts told her to return it to the kitchen and then wash it in the sink but she did not know where the kitchen was. Her second thought was to place it next to the pot where she had gotten it from, but that seemed dirty. Finally, she turned to the small side table that had been next to the plush armchair she had been sitting in, ready to abandon it and quickly catch up with the strangers, when the slightly disdain but polite voice of the butler said to her, "I will take that off of your hands, Doctor Canary."

She turned to him. While she had been carefully thinking through how to dispose of the glass, she had actually been standing stock-still, staring into the depths of her half-sipped tea as if she were brainless. She blinked, nodded and muttered politely, then offered him the mug. He took it carefully, as if avoiding the taint of her fingers, and then said, "This way, please."

She followed him into the dining room where most of the seats were already taken. She felt the eyes of her fellow criminals on her as she slipped into the one closest to her and the door. Dr. Canary looked about her, surreptitiously eyeing the man sitting next to her, as she reached for the napkin folded delicately next to the wine glass of water.

As she pulled her arm back to fold the napkin onto her lap, her elbow bent a bit too much out, and down went the water, cascading over the lip of the dressed table and into the lap of the unsuspecting woman to her other side. The woman gasped, the wine glass rolled and clinked against Dr. Canary's plate, and the butler swooped in with a handkerchief in hand.

"What is wrong with you?" The woman exclaimed, her tangled and harshly bleached ponytail swinging to nearly slap the face of the person to her other side.

Dr. Canary blinked at her, somewhat offended. "Well, it was an accident."

The woman's face flushed, her hand gripping her fork a bit too harshly.

The butler offered the handkerchief. "'Miss Blue, would you like to go to the washroom? I can send in a maid to help you freshen up."

"No no, I'm fine." She snatched the square of fabric and aggressively rubbed at the specks of water on her clothing. "Just fine, fine, fine..."

Professor Pecan

The grey evening fit James's grey mood.

He pulled his jacket tight against the chill as he passed through the gate and followed the drive toward the manor. Small, early snowflakes had already begun to drift down from the thick cloud cover, and judging by the heavy air, he suspected there was plenty more to come. A curse to keep him here. In fact--

He stopped short, gravel skittering under his polished boots. Were those flutes on the wind? Ancient and keening, calling to Azathoth across the void.

No. No, it was just his imagination.

He continued on.

This Mr Krome was playing a dangerous game, inviting James here. He almost hadn't come--considered calling the man's bluff. Those students had taken their own lives... mostly. Too deep in the woods for prying eyes, too shrouded in otherworldly shadow to be sensed, too masked by the beat of dark wings to be heard. How could Mr Krome possibly have any evidence? But damn it all, there was that infinitesimal chance. James had to come. He had to be sure. But if the man didn't have enough of substance to make a solid accusation...

James fingered the band around his left middle finger. Bone carved with the symbols of Yogg-Sothoth, Knower of All.

He approached the front door. A large, thick-bodied Rottweiler eyed him as he passed, and he held its gaze. It started to growl, and he reached a hand out to soothe it, but as soon as he moved towards it, the dog cowered and scurried out of reach.

He straightened, with a tight-lipped frown, and turned to the door. A few solid raps, a moment's wait as footsteps sounded on the other side, and then the weathered face of a butler.

"Professor," the butler greeted. "Please come in." He stepped aside, allowing James to pass. "May I take your things?"

"Cheers." James cracked a polite grin as he handed over his single carry-on suitcase.

The butler lifted it onto a table and unzipped it. "Just a formality, you understand."

"Of course."

The other man rifled through James's things--a change of clothes, a toothbrush and razor, a few bound books--and was about to close it back up, when he paused. He picked up the black figurine tucked into a side pocket, carved out of an unidentifiable dark stone. "What's this?"

"Nothing of consequence," James said. "A personal trinket."

The butler inspected it, turning it around and over, as if it might contain some hidden device or trigger. There was nothing for him to find. Even if the butler had unwrapped the skin pouch of bones and candles buried at the bottom of the case, the average lay person was at no risk until the proper arrangements and incantations had been made.

When the butler was finished, he led James through to a warmly lit lounge populated by an unusual assortment of men and women.

"Help yourself to tea or coffee, Professor Pecan," the butler said before departing.

"Certainly," James--Professor Pecan--answered, even though the other had already left earshot. He selected a dark mug and poured hot water from a canister, then frowned at the tea selection. Colorful, individual packets, labeled with every herbal or floral flavor known to man. "Don't you Canadians have regular tea?" He eventually located a black tea, dipped it in his water a few times, and stole cream from beside the coffee.

"Welcome everyone," a deep voice said from a doorway. "Glad to see you getting along. If you will join me for dinner, right this way?"

Mr. Mauve

Charles Everton glanced over nervously at his bags in the passenger seat before turning his eyes back to the road as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His concerns only grew as he carefully navigated the winding road, passing fewer and fewer cars. Up ahead, he could see a motorcycle taking the turns fast. He wondered if the rider was going to the same place he was. If he or she was a criminal too.

As Charles turned into the long drive, he cleared his throat and let his muscles relax. Appearances were everything, and he had to appear as if everything was fine, as if all this were perfectly normal. A huge house appeared out of the darkness, a towering six floors that practically shouted "I'm rich!" Its exterior splendor struck Charles as being ironic when he thought of the reason why he had come. He parked the car and flipped down the mirror, starting as a photo fell out of it. He carefully placed it in the glove compartment without looking it. He had decided it would be best if he didn't drive his own car, and one of his friends had been only too happy to lend him this one.

In the mirror, he could see his own dark brown hair, nearly combed. He straightened his tie and flicked a speck of invisible dust from his shoulder before pushing up the mirror and stepping out of the small car. He pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder and picked up the larger suitcase full of necessary items.

As he advanced up the walkway, Charles heard a dog barking in the yard. He moved ever so slightly in the opposite direction. He wasn't opposed to dogs, but that one did not sound like a dog he wanted to encounter. He strode to the door with a confidence he didn't entirely feel, only to discover it already being opened before him by a well-dressed butler.

"Good evening!" Charles said jovially, a warm smile spreading across his face. Whether he meant it or not, it was very convincing.

The butler inclined his head and smiled a little stiffly, ignoring Charles's outstretched hand. He got the message: this wasn't friendly. "Welcome, Mr. Mauve. May I have your bags?" he asked politely, and Charles- Mr. Mauve- handed them over without protest, even when the butler opened them both up and thoroughly examined their contents. He was only able to stand calmly by because he knew exactly what the butler would see, no matter what might actually be inside those bags.

The butler finished his search and looked up with a brief smile. "Right this way, sir," he said, directing Charles into a large room where many people were already gathered. He looked around in awe at the many objects and wall hangings, including a few swords and tapestries. Just as unique as the grand hall were the people inside of it. He saw someone with green hair, a couple men in dark clothes, a woman with wild curls, and several others.

Spotting a woman alone on a couch, Mr. Mauve decided to join her so as not to seem socially awkward. She looked up as he approached and sat down. She had very pale hair, and she wore very fancy clothes lined with jewels. Mr. Mauve offered a hand and an open smile- it would do well to figure out who these people were.

"Hello," he said as the woman shook his hand, "I'm Mr. Mauve."

"Ms. Mercury," she replied.

In the brief silence that followed, Mr. Mauve searched for a safe question to ask. It would probably be best to avoid such subjects as names, childhood and past, reasons for coming here, and "What is your favorite color?" just sounded so absurd that Mr. Mauve forbid himself from ever asking that. In the end, he decided on a simple question of opinion: "What do you think of the artwork here?" He gestured to the far wall, upon which were displayed a number of famous paintings... were they real? He could easily imagine that they were in a house like this.

Ms. Mercury tilted her head to the side as she considered the paintings, and was just opening her mouth to reply when a door opened and everyone quieted. It was Mr. Krome.

Miss Blue

She sighed heavily. The evening was going slow and the air was tense. Mr. Krome had personally invited several other people, each with a different story and probably blackmailed into coming here, and she didn't know what to ask without getting in trouble. Renee bit inside her cheek. One false move and the whole world would fall.
The butler, who seemed distance but pleasingly kind, helped everyone to the table. He had even taken their luggage to the rooms. She didn't enjoy being told what to do or being pushed around, however, she didn't fight back and sat down. Renee looked around the room. It seemed likely that one of these people were the killers and honestly, that kind of made a thrill to the bleached blonde. Sure, one person in the room could kill the people, but in all honestly, you either kill someone or enjoy life knowing you're going to be killed.

Before dinner was even served, the people who were invited were welcome to reminisce with one another. Renee just decided to stay put, staying in her chair while using the spoon to reflect her image. Spoons had always been a fascination to the girl, how they can distort an image. As a child, she remembered, playing with spoons against pots and pans, then being told to be quiet from a family member of the sort. She sighed, setting the spoon down.

There was someone next to Miss Blue as she looked from the corner of her eye. She could only make out the green hair that stood out like a sore green thumb. Renee tried not to judge, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

"Your hair is a mess, by the way."

Renee felt her eyebrow twitch. Now, you're on my hitlist.

"Thanks," she answered coolly.

The woman next to her, chuckled shortly.

"What's up with your hair?" Renee asked. The woman sighed.

"I like the color green. At least, it's brushed. Plus, it matches my code name, I guess. Miss Moss."

Renee's eye widen. "Interesting. My name's Miss Blue."

Before Miss Miss could respond, the dinner bell was rang and Miss Blue moved but her seat was taken by a crazy haired doctor with even crazier glasses. Spilling water onto her clothes and acting dramatic over it. She hadn't thought she was being dramatic; just the sensation of water made her shiver. After the butler had offered Renee a place to clean up, she had sadly rejected it, dabbing a napkin to the wet cloth over and over again, staring intently at the women next to her.
Dinner had gone smoothly, in her opinion. Silence engulfing the table, forks and knives clinking against plates. The butler stood in the corner of the room, observing everyone with a slight frown. Renee didn't enjoy being watched while she ate. She sighed, slurping her soup, which felt nice against her throat.
As she finished her soup, the door opened with a loud thud. Everyone in the room was silent as a guy with grey hair walked in. Renee scowled, gripping the spoon in her hand. There was a slight tension in the room. She hadn't forgotten his name or face and by the looks of it (from the corner of her eye) everyone else didn't too.

"Good evening and welcome to Heathermine Hall."

Pierre Albane had been to numerous upper class dinners before - an unsurprising fact, given his former occupation - but never any with as diverse a collection of guests as the one he currently attended. Of the nine present, only three of their number, their gracious host included, looked the part; the others were clearly out of their element. Take the awkward Médecin Canary as an example: she had barely sat down before spilling a glass of water on the infuriated Mademoiselle Blue's lap. And then there was still the matter of the two missing guests.

"Will Mademoiselle Moss and Madame Zinnia not be joining us?" he asked, looking left to Monsieur Krome at the head of the table.

The blackmailer waved his hand dismissively. "Let them be, Mister Blanche. I am sure we-" he spread his hands to indicate everyone seated, "-shall provide sufficient company." The man smiled, and had it been a regular dinner, polite yet pretentious laughter would have followed. As it were, only the ever-accelerating wind outside obliged him. Realising this, Monsieur Krome cleared his throat and said, "Well, then, let us enjoy the food. Combine whatever you like, and if you need a different kind of plate or bowl, Francisco here will bring it to you."

Besides Pierre himself, those gathered helped themselves to whatever appealed to them the most. He preferred to wait a few seconds to avoid the confusion, but more importantly to note their choices. Not many realised that one's taste in food was extraordinarily revealing.

Médecin Canary, for example, illustrated her utter lack of creativity by selecting a boring quiche and some of the garden vegetable salad as her chosen meal. On the other end of the spectrum, Madame Mercury wished to emphasise her elegance, as she had done throughout the evening, by instead opting for the grilled Mediterranean salad with crumbled goat's cheese and pesto dressing. Mademoiselle Blue, however, was simply a disgrace. What Monsieur Krome wanted with her was beyond Pierre, for she treated a delicate lobster bisque as though it were a common bowl of pea soup. A woman like that had no place at a table meant for the refined.

"A bowl for the pasta," Monsieur Crow commanded, holding out his plate for the butler to take.

Now there was a man worth observing. Clearly used to having his instructions obeyed, Monsieur Crow must be in a position of authority in his daily life. Of course, one didn't need to look at his food to determine that. No, what his choice - red wine braised beef and mushroom ragout with the paperdelle pasta on top - reflected, was that he enjoyed a hearty meal and cared little for pretences. If Pierre had to work on anyone during his stay at the mansion, it would be Monsier Crow.

Passing along the bowl of mashed potato to the professor on his right, Pierre deemed his companions satisfied enough with their food to get his own. He had already made his decision, so putting everything on his plate would take little time.

As he placed a napkin on his lap, the others engaged in a stiff exchange of pleasantries. The man on his left apparently didn't want to eat in silence, so he turned to Pierre and said, "I don't believe we have officially met, Mister Blanche. Doctor Vermillion."

"Enchanté." He shook the man's hand. "You aren't a médecin - ah, a medical doctor - like Mademoiselle Canary, I presume?"

The man grinned lopsidedly. "What gave it away?"

Pierre smiled bemusedly. "Everything. If I may venture a guess, I would say you are a doctor of..." A slight frown appeared on his brow. While thinking, he tucked in.

"Having difficulty guessing?" Vermillion joked.

"I am having difficulty choosing an option, for there are many," Pierre explained. "You wear a suit, which automatically discounts the natural sciences. Yet you can't be a doctor of law or commerce, as no such person would ever be caught dead eating a dish as rustic as English style pork sausages with mashed potato and apple sauce - not that rustic is at all bad. I might have said engineer, but your skin shows little signs of sunlight, so it must be a career you can pursue indoors. I suspect an artistic direction, but I am not sure which. Literature, perhaps?"

The doctor seemed impressed. "Close, but not quite. Art."

Pierre raised his eyebrows. "C'est magnifique! We must talk some more after dinner."

Vermillion nodded in agreement. "Speaking of dinner, what are you having? I'm happy with what I have, but I'll admit, that looks fantastic."

He smiled. "I am having a pan fried salmon fillet with tomato, cabbage, beet, and carrot, spaghetti, and a white wine and mushroom sauce." He looked past the doctor to Monsieur Krome. Getting the host's attention, he said, "My compliments to the chef!"

"Huh, that sounds great too."

Pierre held out his glass so the butler could pour him some champagne - the genuine product, not some knock-off sparkling wine - and said, "I admire art in all its forms. Cooking is no exception."

Once everyone had finished, the butler set to work clearing the table. Pierre was surprised to see Monsieur Crow hadn't touched the beef, eating only the mushrooms and pasta. Hmm, a vegetarian. He mentally conceded defeat and made a note to reconsider everything he had thought he knew about the man.

Soon, dessert was served. Their options were more limited that time, though they were by no means scarce. Unlike the main courses, which had been set with the matching foodstuffs next to each other for ease of access (and to clue in those less aware of gourmet dining what worked well together), the desserts were scattered across the table so that they might truly indulge their sweet tooth as they liked. A large cheese platter sat in the middle of the table, a bowl of strawberries on the one side and a baked cheesecake on the other. Accompanying confectionery included chocolate mousse, almond tuiles, and various ice creams. Jugs of berry coulis also stood at the ends of the table.

Pierre was disppointed to see few adventurous souls, most of the other guests defaulting to vanilla ice cream, cheese cake, and chocolate mousse. Madame Mercury of course chose the strawberries and insisted on having cream, while Monsier Crow restricted himself to a few pieces of cheese. Besides himself and Monsieur Krome, nobody paid any attention to the deliciously crispy tuiles.

Seeing his guests satiated, their host tapped a spoon against his wine glass and rose. "If everyone is satisfied, please follow me to the billiards room. Hot beverages will be served there, but if you still desire something on the table, feel free to take it with you. Please, this way."

From the second Marion had seen the man in tall black hat and coat following her, the wild hunter instincts kicked in and she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to escape. She set off, walking calmly at first and looking back every so often to see if she still had company. And he was. The tall man kept walking at the same pace, walking in a rhythm equal to her own. As she ducked around a sharp corner, a smart idea crossed her mind.
Running through the lines of the grove might be difficult if one isn’t barefoot and wearing loose clothing. Surely the man trying to follow her through the deep mud pits wouldn’t risk ruining his clothing.

Plans continued crossing her mind as she ran down the narrow, older rows of the citrus grove, trying to get back to her gun in the barn. Suddenly the man stopped in the middle of the path and called out to her, “Please Marion, stop running, you know how terrible I am at this.”

Quickly she turned back to answer him, “You really should excercise more often, Father Rowland. If you were fit, you would be of better use to this spy ring.”

The man in the hat continued standing by, waiting for her to finish her speech before coming up with his own retort.
“Well maybe the Church doesn’t want me to use my spare hours as a private detective.”
“Oh come on now, James, did you ever have faith in God?”
“Of course I did, why would I have joined the priesthood?”
“Let me put it this way. When was the last time you sunk into one of your pits of depression and cursed at God while throwing rocks up at the sky?”
“Three weeks ago.”
She glared at him and sighed and started back up the path.

While this conversation rested in silence, they continued up to the big house where a car was waiting for another adventure to begin. An older black gentleman with wiry gray hair sat outside an old Cadillac, holding a newspaper in one hand and a glass of something in the other, looking very disappointed in Mary’s arrival time. His equally mad wife stormed out of the house, chasing a chicken with a long broom. She hurried down the steps and ran out to the car.
“Gerald, get up,” she yelled while swinging the same broom at him. “And no drinking.”
“Is there a problem Mrs. Jones?”
“No problem as long as you’re alright with your driver being drunk.”
“It’ll be a change and speaking of that I should change before leaving.”

She headed inside and thought of the mysterious letter and instructions she had received the day before and wondered if she should have killed Krome while she had the chance. From her bathroom window, she looked out to see Rowlands talking to the Jones, probably worried about something stupid she was going to do. He didn’t know the full extent of her trip and the blackmailer, so he had enough of a right to be worried.

The black dress laid on the bed looked awfully hot but decided the mountain home of the unknown Mr. Krome, would most likely be cold itself. Within thirty minutes the car had set off, containing Ms. Zinnia and her companions: Jones the slightly drunk but crack shot, ex-ranger sniper and Father James Rowlands, a priest who never had a strong faith and dealt with it by being a private detective during the week.

In the car they discussed a back-up to which Zinnia would contribute pieces to at the exact times. The weather up through the mountains was horrible and several times Rowland noted his disgust about the deathly weather conditions. After finally arriving at the house, Zinnia was met with another obstacle, guard dogs. As her companions shied away from the creatures, she drug a small case behind her and slipped a few small biscuits out of her pocket. She continued up the path and said a small good-bye as entering the next stage of the adventure.

A young butler stood in front of her and without any introduction, took her coat and suitcase, and began searching him.
“You folks around here, aren’t much for secrecy are you?”
What sounded like a joke in her mind, disturbed the young man from his work of making sure she didn’t have an arsenal in the small case and confused him for a moment. After several more seconds of awkward silence, he approached her saying, “Did you mean that as a joke?”
“Unfortunately yes but I executed it very poorly.”
“Oh. I’ll send your cases up to your room and you can join the others in the living room.”
His gloved hand gestured to large double wooden doors and Zinnia set off across the hall.

The room she had entered was filled with several guests, all in peculiar get-ups such as her own, everyone trying to hide their true selves behind clothing. Considered the company in the room, she started towards an older gentlemen with grayed hair and an Oriental suit.

“Your costume is among the plainer ones at this party but it’s still a costume all the same. Black is a very nice color though.”
She extended her hand to introduce herself and luckily the man in black took it. For a moment he stood, trying to find the right alias, before finally speaking in a rather soft voice.
“I’m Mr. Crow and you are?”
“Zinnia.”
“Is that a given name or…?”
“My name is a flower and you are a bird, my last name is as real as yours is.”
“That’s a rather good point, would you care for a bit of tea? Or our host has provided stronger poisons as well.” He noted this last part as swirling an ice cube around in the crystal liquor glass of his own hand.
“Tea would be nice. I don’t trust liquor in the house of my enemies.”

The two sat down on a couch across from another guest and talked about nothing in particular while waiting for their host to arrive. Subjects ranged from history to the current snowstorm as more guests piled in, waiting impatiently for the great game to begin. In the middle of the stream of visitors, a green haired girl came in, nearly insulted Zinnia (but to note it wouldn’t have happened if previous taunting hadn’t occurred) and challenged her to a game of billiards.

Zinnia stood glancing at the young girl in front of year, not much younger than herself, thinking over the possible scenarios of the pool game she had just accepted to play. She didn’t know how much the green haired lady but she doubted it was any less than her own knowledge.

“So were you thinking pool or some other style of playing, miss?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Well I only know how to play 8-ball because my pool education ended at age 15,” pausing for a moment to grab her handbag before starting for the door and continuing,”so that is what we will play. Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to get out of this god awful dress if I’m going to be playing pool.”

And with that she slipped out the door, petticoats and all, tall black boots clicking against the stone floor. Miss Moss or whatever her name was, turned to see Zinnia exiting, waited for the click of the heels to make it far enough away, and walked over to the liquor cabinet. The fine, crystal bottles were neatly arranged and barely touched despite the many guests that had arrived. Poison must not have crossed her mind for a second but Zinnia still standing silently in the hall, for some reason feared this possible deadly event.
So quite loudly she shouted around the corner, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” before slipping off to the bathroom to get rid of the god awful dress and hide a few weapons.

The restroom was thankfully labeled as such and also luckily had an into the wall medicine cabinet. Mario-Zinnia slipped off the few petticoats she had opted to wear with this dress and took a pen knife from her purse. One slit down the side revealed a small pistol in between the many layers of ruffles along with a waterproof bag lined in the back, a few small knives and strips of tape. As she worked at hiding the weapons, she thought about everything she had to do to get here and ways to get back out of it.

Upon exiting the washroom, she some guests cross the hall to the dining room while the girl who had challenged her to a game, still sat in the billiards room, waiting for the round to start. Her dress was now several inches longer and free of most of the petticoats. The small band of knives remained strapped to her thigh but besides that, she was left weaponless.

“You remember how to play yet, old lady?”
“Doubtful but I might as well give it a try.”
“Well then let the games begin.”

They played to the sound of the balls rolling across the table for an hour or so before noticing a large bang of the dining room doors and started to the hall. The players were about tied and left their sticks on the table, rushing into the open hallway, not knowing what they were about to confront.

The Butler

Mr. Krome smiled, nodded, and closed the dining room doors abruptly in the butler’s face. Sounds from the billiard room drifted through the cracks, accentuated by the host’s jovial exclamations.

Francisco, for the moment relieved of his duties, sighed and turned to glance over the spoils of the dining room table. His fists were balled. He was tense. And whenever he's tense, the butler’s OCD is most difficult to contain.

He accepted the first impulse that came to mind because no one was in the room and because he hoped that giving in would smooth his furrowed brow and unclench his sweaty hands. He dashed to the farthest wall and untied each of the five window curtains. Then in backwards order he tied them back up again. All the while he was careful to step only on the gray tiles, and once when he stepped over a line he pivoted on his heel and started the row of windows all over again.

Outside there was a bleak smear of blue where the sun had last departed, but otherwise the sky was stormy and gray. A light, steady snowfall had commenced. The white-washed silhouettes of swaying cypress trees that lined the dreary outlook point told of increasingly vicious winds.

Biting his lip, the butler untied the curtains and let them drape over the frosty windows for good. He didn’t feel any more satisfied but he did find that he had an appetite. Casting a guilty look at the double doors, he bent over the dining table and plucked a crispy almond tuile from a practically untouched platter. He felt the least rebellious choosing something of which was plentiful, and even though he wasn’t a fan of almonds, the small dessert was delicious.

One of the doors opened and Mr. Krome leaned inside. Francisco smiled, dusting his hands off and looking what he hoped to be quite normal.

“All this food will go to waste, Francisco,” Mr. Krome said. “Help yourself, if you haven’t already. Meanwhile, would you please bring Heathcliff inside? The weatherman seemed to have told the truth.”

The butler waited for the door to close and then hurriedly helped himself to a thin slice of cheesecake. Surprisingly, he didn’t enjoy it as much.

He exited the dining room and strode down the great hall to the main entrance, stopping by the coatrack to fetch the dog leash and casually avoiding the cracks in the floor as he went.

His shoulders were more relaxed because he felt that the worst was over. The main event of the evening, dinner, was passed, with only one unfortunate guest having gotten her dress wet. All in all, the night had gone swimmingly. The sober guests would depart soon and the drunk ones would bunk for the night and leave by tomorrow afternoon. He hadn’t observed the characteristics for any of the latter case during dinner, and hopefully the billiard games would be tame enough to keep it that way. Mr. Krome was too classy for beer pong, anyway.

But when the butler opened the grand doors and stepped into the howling dark menace of a terrible snowstorm, he realized that all guests, drunk or not, would be staying the night. He felt his stomach drop in dread.

Heathcliff’s bark was nearly drowned out by the winds. He strained against his frost-bitten chain, eager to be rescued from the cold. “Poor, poor doggy,” the butler said, leaning down to snap the leash onto Heathcliff’s collar. “Let’s go inside, alright? I’ll make a nice warm fire for you.”

The butler and the dog, both a bit wet from the melted snow clinging to them, marched up to the second floor and entered Heathcliff’s room. Still trembling in cold, the dog immediately sought his red velvet blanket. The butler cranked up the gas in the fireplace and prepared a dish of chicken and rice, which he placed on the hearth. Heathcliff left his blanket to eat, and after giving him a good pat or two, the butler slipped out of the room.

As he was making his way down the grand staircase, the butler decided he would first check in on the billiard room and see if his assistance was needed, and then proceed to the kitchen and help Gloria clean up the leftover food.

He was only halfway down when Heathermire Hall was suddenly yanked of its power, and everything was immediately swathed in darkness. The butler nearly tripped down the rest of the stairs but he just barely caught himself on the handrail. The wood creaked. The house was silent. It was waiting, holding its breath and closing its eyes.

Then the butler heard the gunshot, and Mr. Krome was no more.

Being stranded in a manor without power during a frightful blizzard would be terrifying for anyone, oui? Well, then being standed in such a manor along with ten other criminals should have been nothing short of petrifying. After all, at least one had to be a murderer, though there were likely more. Oddly enough, that was not the case at all.

After Monsieur Krome had led his guests to the billiard room and explained several ways to play, he stepped back and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The professor had seemed equally disinterested in the suggested source of entertainment, so he attempted to strike a conversation with their host. Pierre had subtly been observing said conversation while maintaining one of his own with Vermillion, so he immediately noticed when something Pecan had said upset the host and prompted him to leave.

In hindsight, Pierre's next action was entirely foolish and far from his usual inconspicuous behaviour: seeing Krome leave the room, he had abruptly excused himself and followed the man. He had not even reached the doorway when the lights fizzled and died. A powering-down sound echoed through the building.

Pierre had frozen in his tracks, uncertain of what to do. The very reason he had wanted to follow Monsieur Krome in the first place was to learn how much of his past the Canadian knew, but doing so during a blackout was unwise, for nothing about creeping through silent halls was discreet. Still, standing around in the middle of an entrance to a room full of criminals was even less wise, so he had tentatively stepped out into the hallway, cringing as his footsteps caused the wood to creak. Sweating profusely, he had continued down the hall to the library, guessing that was their host's intended destination.

A gunshot resounded through the manor shortly thereafter.

Completely robbed of his composure, Pierre had returned to the billiards room as quickly and quietly as he possibly could. He wouldn't want anyone to catch him outside and think him the murderer.

"There is nothing to fear, everyone," Pecan had announced after Pierre had stealthily re-entered the room. "I have a candle and a lighter on me, so all will be revealed in a moment." An ominous choice of words, emphasised by being the second sentence spoken after that dreadful sound.

True to his word, a flame appeared in the corner next to the bar, illuminating the professor's calm face. Pierre, who had conveniently returned to the exact spot on which he'd been standing just before the power was lost, turned around as the butler sped past them.

"Don't just stand there," Monsieur Crow had ordered, his barely visible face turning to the room's occupants. "Follow him!"

Pierre had stepped out of the way, allowing the man to exit first before gazing at the others as well, silently asking, "Are you coming?" before heading to the library too.

The two men found the butler standing with ashen face and lantern in hand before the corpse of their blackmailer. And that was why Pierre found himself not petrified, but elated.

The other guests arrived in no particular order, some of them armed with candles which the professor had no doubt lighted for them. Nobody seemed to know what to say. Well, nobody save one.

"Good riddance."

All eyes turned to Mademoiselle Blue. The butler spun around and gave her such a look of hatred, words would fail to convey its intensity.

"Show some respect, girl," Crow scolded. "The man just died."

And in a rather crass way too, Pierre mentally added. Wherever the spirit of Monsieur Krome found itself, it was probably outraged.

"So? Besides the staff, none of us are sad to see him dead. The killer did us all a favour."

"You sound awfully proud," the butler seethed.

"But she isn't wrong," Mademoiselle Moss said nonchalantly.

"If you lot would stop babbling," Crow interjected, "we could address a more pressing matter." He pointedly looked at the desk.

The ten coloured folders that lay on the tabletop had not missed Pierre's attention, but he was glad somebody else had highlighted its presence. Putting two and two together, he deduced they must have been the motivation for their deceased host's sudden departure. He must somehow have forgotten to hide them and wanted to remedy the matter. How fortunate that he had been stopped in time.

"If the rest of you simply plan on looking at the evidence that could have you sent to prison," Madame Zinnia said angrily, "at least get out of my way."

She forcibly cleared a path to the desk and snatched the orange folder. The butler made to block her way, but Crow caught his arm.

"If you don't plan on meeting the same fate as your former master," he threatened, "I suggest you let us take what's ours." He adressed the rest of the group. "One at a time, take your folder and head to the lounge. The professor will light the way. Once we're all there, we can individually burn the evidence. Professor Pecan, you can go next."

The academic didn't need to be told twice. Pierre waited until only his and Monsieur Crow's folders remained before stepping forward, taking both and handing the man his due.

"Thank you." They left the butler behind, but Pierre heard Crow double back to warn him, "Should there be any other documents on us, I recommend you dispose of it. Or better yet, find it and bring it to us. If any of it lands in the possession of the authorities, we'll know where to find you, Francisco."

Content not to linger in the authoritative man's presence, Pierre joined the other guests in the lounge. Doctor Vermillion shot him a suspicious look; it was clear who he thought had committed the act. Pierre broke eye contact and instead took a seat next to Madame Mercury, being careful not to glimpse anything in her open folder.

She hastily closed it anyway and displayed a fake smile, attempting to mask her irritation. "I don't know about you, Mister Blanche, but I think the evening was a roaring success."

Pierre - Blanche, as he still hadn't yet grown accustomed to calling himself, given the evening's developments - made himself comfortable. "Indeed, the future seems bright."

She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her champagne. (Somebody had clearly found the liquor again.) "If you plan on saying anything along the lines of 'a ray of hope' or 'a silver lining', spare me. The only thing I find less amusing than puns is flirting."

"Then I simply must compliment you on your sky blue eyes."

The madame audibly sighed and rose. Her glass in one hand and her steely folder in the other, she replied, "You couldn't even get the colour right. They're hazel."

As she walked away, Blanche chuckled. "A colour characterised by changing appearance in different light intensities, cherie."

A figure stooped down at the fire place and tossed in a purple folder. As the flames greedily licked at the pages, he made for Blanche's couch. "She has quite the sunny disposition, that one," he joked, glancing at Madame Mercury, who had initiated a conversation with Doctor Vermillion.

"And such charm too."

Monsieur Mauve chuckled politely. Seeing the folder next to Blanche, he asked, "Aren't you eager to be rid of that?"

"I have yet to inspect its contents. Regardless, I prefer to learn from my mistakes."

Mauve nodded. "And considering the rainbow gathered here, quite a few were made indeed."

"The greatest of which is the late Monsieur Krome's," Blanche agreed. "A storm rages outside, yet he had invited one to his manor long before the weather itself had turned dire."

"Very true." The man sipped his coffee. "You know, I admire Miss Blue for her courage."

"Oh? You don't think being so outspoken was an error on her behalf?"

Monsieur Mauve shrugged. "My tongue must tell the anger of mine heart, or else my heart, concealing it, will break."

Blanche clapped softly in his palm. "The Taming of the Shrew. Well said."

When his companion smiled and drank some more of his coffee, Blanche took the opportunity to study the contents of his folder. He didn't get very far before he was posed a question.

"You don't mind if I ask you a question about art, do you? I overheard you and the doctor talk about it earlier."

Blanche happily closed the folder. "Not at all, monsieur. Go ahead."

Mauve smiled and jokingly said, "Tres bien!" drawing a genuine laugh from the older man. "So, what do you think of this place's art?"

Mr. Crow

A man can die but once; we owe God a death.

Oddly enough, that was the first thing that came to mind after seeing Krome's body, spread on the study floor, a bullet in his head. Nothing from Proverbs. Nothing from Joshua. Not even Psalm or the vision of David running from his own son came to mind--it was Shakespeare, a play he was barely aware of, a play that wouldn't even have been noticed if it wasn't for his sister.

Michal.

"You aren't joining us in the lounge," the irritable woman he had admonished said. It was a forced event, rather out of respect rather than actual contempt--he had the strange habit of forced solemnity, even without his sister around to tell him not to smile. He was sure if he was a less conflicted individual he'd more than happily gloat. "You ought to be burning something. Whatever it is you do."

Crow frowned. He clutched at his file on the desk, rifling through it to see how far the rabbit hole went. He saw his sisters' name. He saw his late mothers name. He saw a picture of Columbus, and nearly all of the orphanage children bios. Every employee, every recent tragedy he was related to--

Except for one.

But Krome wouldn't know about that. It was too soon after the blackmail. Crow grabbed the candle from the desk and threw the files back onto the desk, not too worried the woman might look at it. He might not be on the Earth for long enough to worry about another blackmail incident. “I’m trying to figure out,” Crow looked down at the dead Krome, hanging a wax candle over the corpse. Inspecting the wound. “if this was one of mine.”

The windows on the other end of the room were all unbroken, that fact remained clear enough. Two of them were half-way opened, but the storm that entered through them was vicious, and it gave him even less confidence that Vasquez (no matter how good of a shot she was) could’ve possibly got a clean shot. “What do you mean,” the woman from before asked, “’one of yours’?”

Crow kneeled down on the body, touching the bullet wound lightly. The candle wasn’t bright enough to make it clear, but it seemed as if it was shot in close range. “I have snipers in the parameter,” he confessed, without much hassle, “They were supposed to kill Krome, though I have my doubts that they did.”

Miss Blue seemed surprised. “You wanted to kill Krome?”

He glanced up at her. “Your point?”

She glared at him, before shaking her head. “And to think you were mad at me for being happy about his death.”

Crow chuckled, sardonically. “You don’t have a gun by you, do you?”

Miss Blue stared. “No. Why would you think that?”

“It’s a close range shot. One of us did it, directly, and since you seemed the happiest it seemed as if you would’ve been the most likely suspect,” he said. He thought about what he had said, carefully analyzing the woman. Suddenly, she seemed—familiar. “Though, I admit that was a dumb question to ask. You look more like…”

Miss Blue looked at him, nervously, before crossing her arms. “What?”

A knife person, he wanted to say. Michal reprimanded him in his head, though, so without much thought, he said, “Well, you’re a little too lovely to be murderous.”

“Excuse me?”

Crow considered his words, not finding much wrong with them, even after heavy thought. He coughed. “Apologies,” he said, taking that the woman may have been a more modern feminist, “I didn’t mean to insinuate that beauty can’t be deadly. Though I admit, you don’t look the type to--”

The defence seemed to only make Miss Blue even redder, though, and it seemed her eyes emitted rays of heat, burning through the atmosphere. He groaned, deeming the effort fruitless. He would never understand the more sentimental types. “Never mind.” He shooed the woman away, lifting himself, “Go. There are documents to be rid of.”

Miss Blue seemed ready to launch into a verbal tirade, but luckily for him she went without much fight, taking the documents with her. A sense of faint acquaintance lingered, still, and he swore he had known her. He swore, he’d seen those eyes.

He looked about the study, examining the rainbow of book colours, all arranged alphabetically (no doubt by Francisco). Zinnia must’ve done it, he decided. He was initially surprised to see the woman there, thinking it may have been a figment of his imagination. But there she was, in all her vintage glory, and he couldn’t tell if he was pleasantly surprised or utterly horrified. If it was Zinnia looking over his shoulders, he’d burn the documents where they were, damn the luxuriously carved desk. He was lucky—she hadn’t figured out his face yet. But with Krome out of the way and the storm blocking view, it would be easy for her to…

Criminals were capricious creatures. He’d have to befriend one of them at some point, at least to protect himself from her. The closest he had to a reasonable weapon was a Swiss knife, and though he could smuggle something from Krome’s artillery, whatever Zinnia had under those petticoats would easily beat anything he could steal.

He wished he could go back home.

He longed for the sunny days and the blue skies that eternally hailed over St. Mary’s Home for Boys and Girls, and his sisters’ canary voice, and Columbus’ odd puns. He wasn’t a rich man. Everything he took wasn’t his, and he knew it. He couldn’t buy a ticket to heaven, even if it existed. He hoped it existed. For his sisters’ sake, he did.

Purely out of curiosity, he stared at the corpse below him, reaching down to search his pockets. There was a key in his left jacket pocket, too small for a door, strangely shaped. Crow mulled over the key, before turning to the desk. “Sly bastard.”

He slid in and turned the key to each drawer, until he found one that worked at the very bottom of the left leg. It was small, and the moment he opened it, it was clear that it wasn’t meant to hold anything—there was a button, there, instead.

“Sly,” Crow hissed to himself, “Bastard.”

Punching the button caused the study to grumble, two bookcases sliding open to reveal a chamber. A dark chamber. Crow heard footsteps approach the study, one voice (vaguely sounding like Blanche) screaming: “What’s going on?”

Crow didn’t care to inform them—they’ll find out the way he does. He grabbed the candle and walked, cautiously, into the chamber, the light barely illuminating the outline of what looked like a fireplace. Reaching down and shuffling through logs, Crow carefully nudged the candle in, starting a flame. Soon, it burned further, and the whole chamber burst into life.

And thus, all that lay inside.

"Five hundred words?" Miss Moss furrowed her brow and took another sip of the champagne.

"Five hundred spoken words without being an asshole," Dr Canary said. "I bet you can't do it."

Raindrops occasionally rattled against the windows – or perhaps it was hail – which made Mr. Krome's home all the more cozy to be in. Cozy was a strange thing to call a mansion, but being inside of it gave off a feeling like it was much smaller than it looked on the outside. Miss Moss folded her arms.

"You're right," she replied. "I can't. We friends yet?" She produced a sarcastic smile and moved away with her plate into the corner. She couldn't help herself but enjoy the food: it was better than anything she could afford on the day-to-day, so she thought to make the most of the situation and at least take advantage of Krome's superficial generosity.

It was all going too formally. Too well. Too civilized. Until someone decided to be generous back, and gift Krome a nice package of lead straight through his forehead.

The guests were seemingly rattled by the sound of the gunshot, but it was clear that on the inside the hardened criminals all plotted and planned to further their agendas even then.

Miss Moss waited for a few more people to show up before she strolled to the scene. She didn't care to hear their opinions on it; her eyes were fixed on one thought and one thought only. "Which one of you bright kids killed him?" she asked.

"Good riddance," one of the women spoke.

"Show some respect, girl," someone scolded. "The man just died."

"So?" the woman spoke some more. "Besides the staff, none of us are sad to see him dead. The killer did us all a favor."

"You sound awfully proud," the butler uttered.

"But she isn't wrong," Moss said.

"If you lot would stop babbling…" some guy spoke. Moss didn't care what the idiot had to say. She grabbed the butler by the arm and pulled him back to the billiard room.

"Where is it?" she sternly asked, grinding her teeth.

"Where's what?" the butler replied.

"The tape, sunny. The evidence. If you pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about, I will kill you with those fancy sky-blue napkins you set up for us at dinner. Understand?" The butler nodded. "Good. Now, where is it?"

"I don't know," the butler explained.

"You're lying."

"I promise you, Miss Moss, Mr. Krome would never renounce control of a situation by telling his servants such dangerous details."

"Is that why you were headed to the secret server room?" Professor Pecan emerged from behind a door. "Because you don't know? I noticed you linger before the entrance. Were you waiting for us to leave so you could disappear?"

The butler paused for a short moment, a frightened look on his face for an even shorter one. Then a rainbow of emotions showed on his face, as if he didn't know how to react. "How… lucky of you to find it… Professor," he finally said. He was sweating.

"Move it," Pecan ordered the butler, who followed him into the hallway.

Moss grabbed a candle. A dim ray of light contrasted the darkness of the outage, lighting her way. She knew exactly where she was going: to get her motorcycle, get out of this stupid mansion and get her brother out of the country. She opened every door she could until she found the enormous garage. Her bike was there, but the keys weren't. She ran to the wall and scoured the empty plastic shelves for them, but they were nowhere to be found.

She finally stopped and turned: there was a lone refrigerator sitting there, right against the wall in the middle of the garage. Nothing around it. Nothing in the garage besides a few cars, clean empty shelves and a fridge. The only thing that broke the neatness was a broken padlock, randomly tossed onto one of the shelves. Thus instead of with a padlock, the fridge's handle was tied in an untieable knot of a thick rope to keep intruders out. She wanted to leave: just hotwire her bike and ride away at full speed. But she didn't. She lowered her candle's flame beneath the rope, and slowly burned at it, watching the tiny strands break one by one.

The rope fell down, covering her foot. She kicked it away and twisted the fridge handle. Just like any fridge, a light turned on as soon as she opened it, but this light was far more blinding than a regular old fridge light. It was almost blinding, especially in the near-darkness. For a moment she was dazed, but as her eyes adjusted she noticed the entrance to a hidden passageway. "Cool," she uttered. The passage bent into a corner several meters in, and from behind the corner emerged a familiar face.

"Dr Canary!" Moss spoke in surprise. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"You remembered my name."

"Codename. And it wasn't intentional." Moss cleared her throat. "What are you doing here?"

"I went through a secret door and came out here. What are you doing here?"

She couldn't allow anyone to know that she was running, let alone what her means of transportation would be. Not until she was safe and far away. "Same. I was actually following this trail…"

"Yeah," Canary said. "I was following a Shakespeare quote."

"What was it?"

"'If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.'"

"Where'd you see it?"

"A book. What trail were you following?"

Miss Moss cleared her throat. "Umm, there was this oil stain, and then another a bit down the hall, and then another, and they led me here, to the garage, where many oil stains are and can be found."

"What a sticky situation to be in…" Canary squinted. She clearly could see through the lie. "So…"

"So," Moss interrupted, "are you alone?"

Dr Canary smiled. "And if I was?"

"Then, we could stop pretending." They both stared at each other. Canary's hand twitched. The handle of a knife stuck out of the side of her pants. "We can stop pretending… that we don’t like each other." She smirked at Canary. "What do you say we go someplace more… private?"

"More private than an empty garage?"

Moss stepped closer. "I was thinking somewhere we can sit down. Somewhere we can… lie down?"

Canary smiled and raised her brows. "Lot of cars in here. Lot of backseats," she said and winked.

"Got the keys to any?" the green-haired woman asked.

"Sure," she answered with a smile and reached for her pocket. Only her hand moved past her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the knife handle. She pulled it out, and with surgical precision slashed at Miss Moss, cutting through her trench coat sleeve and into her upper arm.

Moss expected the second slash, and blocked the knife attack before the pain of the first cut even hit her. She twisted Canary's wrist till she dropped the blade, but the retro-clad woman pushed her away. Miss Moss stumbled, but didn't fall, and ran in the darkness towards the inside of Krome's mansion. She couldn't tell if Canary flew at her tail.

When she found her way back to the crime scene, she heard a hard rumbling in the walls. Nothing was right here.