Young Writers Society

Marie Clare always enjoyed her coffee early in the morning brewed to perfection. Exactly two spoonfuls of sugar, a dash of cream, and a sprinkling of cinnamon always [s]tickled her fancy[/s].[I would use another phrase here.] She breathed in the deep scent of caffeine, closing her eyes for a moment. This routine was how she started every day. She would wake up, put on her satin skirt and white blouse, get into her Porsche convertible, and drive to work. Alice or something or other[This sounds awkward.], she wasn’t quite sure of the girl’s name, would have the cup prepared for her when she arrived at 8:01 sharp. She sat down at her desk, taking a pencil from her case. A large, white piece of paper was laid out before her. She took a sip and began to draw.
The bell above her door rang as she began to sketch the bottom of a skirt. She jumped, the graphite skittering across the paper. She crumpled the sketch angrily and looked pointedly at her assistant, whose name was, in fact, Andrea, not Alice. She was a small girl with a round face and wide brown eyes. Andrea jumped to attention, rising to answer the door. Her Jimmy Choo high heels clicked across the floor. She didn’t have the money to afford them, but borrowing them was one of the perks of working for such a highly esteemed designer.

“I told you that no one was to interrupt me as I worked,” Marie said, her eyes flashing angrily. “I have an order to fill for the Paris runway and I’m already behind. Take care of whoever it is and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Stand outside and don’t come back in until I’m finished. ”

The poor girl quaked, her voice trembling as she said, “Yes, of course, Ms. Clare, right away.” She shuffled toward the door and peered out of the crack. Her face was pale and she cursed her misfortune. Whoever was at the door had almost cost her her job.

“What is it?” Andrea said, her voice low, trying not to disturb the great fashion designer. “Ms. Clare is working right now.”

A woman with sleek black hair stood before her, her red glasses glinting in the morning sunlight. She arched her eyebrows at Andrea, taking in her malice-filled words along with her hideous outfit. A man with a large camera bag slung over his shoulder stepped in front of her. The woman’s toothpick thin figure disappeared behind his body. Upon seeing him, relief swept over Andrea as she remembered that Ms. Clare was due for a photo shoot with the newest of the spring fashion line, [s]today[/s].

Andrea recognized him immediately. It was Stu Drenner. He’d had the privilege of shooting most of Ms. Clare’s winter collection for VogueItalics or underline here. He was a good friend of Ms. Clare. Andrea held out her hand, her voice warm as she addressed him, “Mr. Drenner, how do you do?” The model let out a loud breath, but the pair ignored her. She toyed with the large rock around her fourth finger, staring at them impatiently.

He shook Andrea’s hand, his palm warm. “Quite fine Andrea, quite fine. We ready to get this show going?” he asked.

Andrea nodded and led the pair into the room. Ms. Clare glanced up at them, about to break into hysterics until she saw Stu’s face. The model’s eyes followed the designer with curiosity. “Stu,” Ms. Clare said, standing up and holding out her arms. “It’s been too long.” [s]Andrea had many nervous habits that she often indulged in when she was under pressure.[/s][Your next sentence tells us this] She bit her nails, watching the exchange carefully, making sure that Ms. Clare wasn’t about to break down.

“Indeed it has, Marie,” They embraced lightly and the designer turned to address the model.

“I’m Heather, it’s so nice to meet you Ms. Clare. I’m a huge fan of your work,” the model said.
Ms. Clare nodded, “Everyone is, my dear.” She looked Heather up and down, her gaze critical. “My following might not be too pleased when they see the cow that has come in to wear my clothes,” she said. Heather’s mouth opened, horrified. Andrea [s]had already began to shake[/s] shook--cut down on unnecessary words and gestured for Heather to follow her towards the door. Heather stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Stu, but I simply will not be able to fit my dresses around her waist.”

Mr. Drenner took Marie aside and praised her ability to make anyone fit into anything. She listened, absorbing the photographer’s commendations with a smile. “Oh, fine, oh fine, you’ve convinced me,” she said, waving him off. She turned and addressed Andrea, “We need you to get Millicent right now.” Andrea nodded and called the fitter directly on the phone.

“Mil, we got an emergency. We need you to come in,” Andrea whispered over the line.

Millicent’s voice crackled over through the receiver, “Right now?” she asked. “This is supposed to be my day off.

“Mil, she’ll kill me if you don’t get over here now,” Andrea said, her voice strained.

“Not if I kill her first,” Millicent grumbled. After a pause, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right over.” Andrea hung up the phone, taking a deep breath. My life is hanging by such a short thread, she thought.

Within minutes, the fitter had arrived and she began making the adjustments to Heather’s evening gown. Ms. Clare stood on the side, pacing around the model, taking small sips of her lukewarm coffee. Her assistant hurried behind her, hovering over the designer’s shoulder in case she needed anything. Mr. Drenner began to amuse himself with snapping photographs. Once in a while he would oblige Millicent by holding her pincushion while she picked up the dress’s hem.

The doorbell rang again, jolting everyone up. Andrea shot a nervous glance at Ms. Clare’s face before running to the door. A man in a blue uniform with a baseball cap stood just inside the doorway. A [s]fed-ex[/s] mail truck was parked just outside the door.

“I have a package that needs to be signed by a Ms. Clare?” he said, looking down at his clipboard.
Andrea shot him an earnest look, “I can sign it out-” she began, but was interrupted.

“Come in, come in,” Ms. Clare said, ushering him inside. Andrea looked as though she was about to melt into the floor, but she stepped aside, allowing the man to pass. “I would like to sign for it. You never know if it’s some big magazine offering me a spread for my designer line.” Andrea nodded and the man walked toward Ms. Clare.

He handed the designer the pen and she began to sign her name. “It’s dead,” she said.

The fed-ex man shook his head. “Sorry about that, do you have an extra?”

Ms. Clare nodded. “Andrea?”

“Yes, right away, Ma’am” she said. She shuffled through the drawers at her desk. Ms. Clare rolled her eyes.

“Why must you always be so inadequate?” she said, shoving her coffee cup into the man’s hands and walking toward her desk. She produced a fountain pen within minutes seconds? and signed for the package. With that, the man exited and the room returned to the fitting.

Ms. Clare took a sip of her coffee, her gaze hard. Andrea returned to her side, wary of the woman’s anger. This wasn’t the first time Andrea had been an absolute failure. Ms. Clare walked toward the model, when something sharp pricked her in her calf.

“What was that?” she hissed, looking down. Color rose in Millicent’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to prick you, your leg was just in the way,” the fitter mumbled. Ms Clare sniffed.

“People don’t do things by accident. Everyone has a reason, a motive,” she said, turning away. Little did she know that she was completely right in the most twisted way.

The Investigation.

Inspector Jennings was far from happy.[s] He was actually quite the opposite.[/s] He’d had a late night after some genius had decided [s]to blow up[/s] [arson is only fire, I suggest using "set ablaze" or something similar] a convenience store in the downtown area. Arson was his least favorite of all murders. [Arson is not a murder, but a fire without murder. Besides, most fires are accidents, so how would he know its murder already? There needs to be some sort of connection.] This, however, couldn’t get any worst. The moment he stepped out of his police car, he wished he was back in his house buried somewhere under his covers. The site of the murder was a studio of the most famous designer in all of NYC. [I think there needs to be an explanation that this site isn't the arson site]Claustrophobia set in as a crowd of newscasters and reporters promptly surrounded him. Too bad I left my gun at home, I could really use it right about now, he thought. [These thoughts are jumbled.]Instead he held up his hand in a kind of I surrender pose and pushed through the crowd.

He raced to the safety of the caution tape, and after strapping on a pair of gloves and shoe covers, made his way into the house. The scene before him was quite neat. Not that most murder scenes are otherwise, but it just looked very strange, there wasn’t so much as a broken pot. Still, he took a deep breath and approached the police officer that headed the investigation.

“Carl,” he said, “fill me in.”

The officer nodded. “All right, so we got one dead body, four witnesses, a pristine apartment, no viable murder weapon, and a lot of thread. I have decided, though,” the officer said, “that aquamarine is not my color. Too bright for fall.”

Jennings tried to smile at Carl’s joke. “I’ll interview everyone first, then scout around to see if I can find any clues. Make sure to get everyone’s fingerprints.”

Carl nodded and Inspector Jennings surveyed the scene. A woman wearing a satin skirt and white blouse lay in the middle of the floor. Her eyes were opened in surprise, blood dripping slowly out of her mouth. A quick flutter of movement from the corner of the room caught his eye, and he looked up to see that a small, mousy girl and a larger blonde whispering together in the corner. His eyes narrowed. My first suspects, he thought and sidled over to them.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, and the pair immediately ceased their talking. “Names, please.”

“Millicent Godling,” the blonde replied.

“Andrea Sanchez,” the smaller one said.

“I’m going to need to ask you some questions about what happened to Ms. Clare,” he said. They both nodded. “Let’s start out with an easy one, then,” he said. “Were you both here when she died?”
Andrea nodded, her voice quivering as she spoke, tears threatening to pour down from her eyes. “Yes, I’m Ms. Clare’s personal assistant.”

“Oh,” he said, writing it down in his little book. “So you do all the shit work for Ms. C.”

“I beg your pardon?” Andrea said, her eyes wide. He waved off his own comment and returned to his questions. You can get meaner later, he thought to himself.

“So, want to tell me what happened?” he asked, directing his calculating gaze at Andrea. If he could get anyone to break down and confess, she would be the first to crack.

She nodded, sniffling. “Well, we had just started our fitting. Millicent was busy fixing the edges of Heather’s dress, the model over there,” she pointed at Heather’s stick figure. Ms. Clare was walking around the edges. I was at her side the entire time as was her friend Mr. Denner. He’s the photographer. A package from fed-ex arrived; she didn’t open it, just left it on the desk over there. All of a sudden, she just collapsed. We thought she had a heart attack or something. I mean she wasn’t that old, but she just dropped dead. It was awful!” The girl began to sob uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking. The inspector rolled his eyes. Emotion, he thought, why are people so emotional.

Millicent had nodded along the entire time as Andrea had told the story. The inspector turned to her, taking in her appearance. His eyes were immediately directed to her wrist. “Mind if I borrow your pincushion? This was the one you were using when Ms. C dropped dead, yes?” he asked. Millicent started, but then handed over the red piece of material. Inspector Jennings dropped it into his bag and turning to them said, “My friend, Officer Carl McCoy will take it from here.”

With that, he nodded to Carl who approached to collect any fingerprints and other statements they could make. The inspector began to walk about the room, taking note of the desks on all sides. He made sure to note the package they were talking about. He picked it up and put it in one of the evidence bags. His team of forensic specialists had already begun taking away evidence to be analyzed in the labs. But he knew his sharp eye could catch more than what they saw. He stopped in front of a massive writing desk, his eyes zooming in on a particular specimen.

He removed a small vial from the pocket of his trench coat and approached the desk. From what the girls had told him, it sounded like poison had done the woman in. A coffee cup, still half-full with brown liquid, sat on the corner of the desk. Jennings poured the liquid into the vial, and capped it, filling out the date and time. [Isn't this the job of the forensic scientists? I don't think anyone else is supposed to collect the evidence, even the detectives.] He gave it to a forensic scientist before heading over to the body himself.
The woman had to be a little past middle age. She looked perfectly healthy, her body toned and muscular from what he could tell. Definitely not the physical appearance of a heart attack. He scoured her sweater, something catching his attention just outside the button. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the nearest kit, and pulled what looked to be the tip of a fingernail from out of the fabric.

“Does anyone here bite their nails?” he said and the room went quiet. Andrea turned red and she slowly raised her hand. “Thank you,” he said and documented the nail and the owner in a small parcel. He returned to the body.

“Find anything?” an anxious voice came from behind him.

Annoyed, Jennings turned around coming face to face with the photographer. “I can’t discuss ongoing investigation,” he said simply.

Mr. Drenner nodded. “Look, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please let me know. She was one of the greatest friends I ever had. The little I can do is help you find her murderer,” he said. Jennings nodded, having half a mind to tell him to get out of his way. However, he decided it was better to question the suspect now. [I'm not sure they would let all the suspects remain at the scene of the crime. Then again, I'm not completely familiar with police procedure.]

“So what were you doing here?” the inspector asked.

Mr. Drenner shrugged, “I just got back from a photo shoot in the Amazon when Marie called me. She needed me and my camera within the week, so I came by with Heather. Although Marie didn’t like my model, I convinced her to do the shoot anyway. [Do photographers have their own models?] You’ve probably heard the rest.”

Inspector Jennings took a step forward, the sound of cracking glass crunching beneath his foot. He grimaced and looked down. Damaging evidence had never been a good thing in his book. The inspector looked down, picking up a pair of mangled glasses.

“I was looking for those,” Heather approached him. “Those were three-hundred dollar frames. I better be compensated for them,” she said, looking him up and down.

“How can you even see, then?” the inspector asked, taking the shards and placing them in an evidence bag.

She rolled her eyes. “The lenses aren’t real. Just for show,” she said. Inspector Jennings blew out a puff of air. He never truly understood fashion. Give him a pair of jeans and a collared shirt and he’d be set for life.

He turned back to Mr. Drenner. “Does Ms. Clare have any enemies to speak of?”

Mr. Drenner blew out a long exhalation of air. “Enemies. She’s got a whole list. She’s a fashion tycoon with a fickle sense of what she likes. Very few people truly enjoyed her company.”

“You count yourself as one of them?”

“I appreciated her artistic insight. She was a genius when it came to fabric. Her work always shone in front of my camera,” Mr. Drenner said.

The inspector glanced at the camera, staring at the black contraption with new found curiosity. “Were you taking pictures during the time of Ms. Clare’s death?”

He nodded. “I was taking a couple shots of the top of the dress and the general surroundings, trying to get a good angle,” he said.

The inspector nodded, smiling. “I’m going to need to confiscate the camera for evidence,” he said. Mr. Drenner nodded, handing it over.

“It’s all yours,” he said.

After scouring the scene once more, Inspector Jennings found himself in need of coffee. Crime work without caffeine would be a hard burden. So after clearing the body to be released to the mortician; Inspector Jennings went to the nearest Dunkin Donuts and ordered a double shot espresso. He was just about to take a sip, when his pager buzzed. He rolled his eyes, glancing down at the black device. It was the mortician. The body was ready. I guess I won’t be able to enjoy my coffee, after all. He sighed. Grabbing a cup holder, he jumped back into his car. Some days, coffee was never meant to be drunk.

He reached the mortuary as fast as he could, busting through the doors and startling Pete, the doctor on duty. He nodded at the man and approached the body. “I’ve got a hot case and I need you to fill me in. What did she die of?” he asked, his voice curt. [That is very quick for a body to be processed.]

Pete paused before answering. “She didn’t have a heart attack, that’s for sure. From the discoloration of her skin, it looks like she was poisoned.”

Jennings nodded, thinking back to the coffee. “I thought as much. Ingested?”

“That’s my best bet. But we won’t know until we get the full tox reports back.”

“Was it fast acting?”

“Definitely, this stuff had to be administered within two minutes of her death. You can tell by the blood vessels in her eyes. This stuff hit hard and fast.”

Jennings paused to think it over. Andrea had access to the coffee early, but it didn’t sound like she had been anywhere near it otherwise. It had been in the woman’s hand the entire time. Maybe someone else took it. He flipped out his cell phone. “Hey Carl. Yeah, I need you to take the coffee cup back to the lab and fingerprint it. Run any unknown prints through the database.”

“I’ll see you later, Doc. Let me know when those test results come in,” Jennings said and flew out the door. This case was a lot hotter than he first thought.

* * *

“Miles Jamison,” he said to himself staring at the computer screen in front of him. A picture of the fed-ex was enlarged before him.

“It’s a perfect match to the prints on the cup. We have the fingerprints in the database because they require him for that kind of job,” Carl said.

“So this guy had access to the cup. He could have slipped in the poison right then and there,” Jennings shook his head. “Bring him in. I want to talk to him.”

The inspector walked back to his office as Carl ran off to find a phone. All units would be searching for the suspect within minutes. Jennings sat down in his chair, leaning his head back on the cushion. He took a deep breath and rolled toward the desk. He was just about to start on the mountain of paperwork that sat piled in front of him when a manila envelope caught his eye. He grasped it and read the address. It was the fed-ex package to Ms. Clare. He slid open the flap and pulled out the papers. His eyes widened as he scanned the papers. His cell phone rang and he was brought back to Earth just in time to answer it.

“Jennings,” he said curtly.

“Hi, Inspector, it’s Pete. I got the test results back. She definitely did not ingest the poison,” he said.

The inspector nodded, satisfied. “Was it injected?”

There was silence on the other end. “Damn you’re good,” Pete finally said.

“No,” Jennings replied. “Just lucky.” [Huh? If it wasn't ingested how else would it be taken in? And why was he lucky? It seems like this line was meant to be a good conclusion to the section, but it doesn't quite fit.

The Finale

Inspector Jennings was happy this morning. Far from what he had been during the nightmare of the previous week. There was a bounce in his step and a smile on his face when he arrived at the nearest vendor he could find and purchased the newspaper. It was supposed to be a good story. He flipped the flimsy papers to the second pamphlet and sat down on the nearest park bench to read. His eyes landed on the title and he couldn’t help smiling. This was going to be good.

Murder She Drew

[I think you need italics for the article.]After Ms. Clare, the well known fashion mogul was found dead in her apartment, most people were afraid that the stylish industry was going to come to a screeching halt. The main inspector on the case, who wishes to remain anonymous [I'm not sure inspectors are allowed to be anonymous.], was allowed to release the nature of the murder to the press this past Sunday. Hopefully, all stylists will be able to get some rest tonight.

After arresting multiple suspects including Miles Jamison, Millicent Godling, and Heather Forray, the police finally nabbed the villain. Millicent commented on what led up to the capture, “Looks like my pincushion gave it away,” she said. Let’s just say Ms. Clare pushed a bit too many pins than she should have. [I liked this line in a cheesy sort of way.]

Investigators stated that Ms. Clare was pricked with a small pin, which had been previously tipped with a poison native to the Amazon. She was not the intended victim, however. Ms. Forray was the one who was supposed to be lying on a cold metal slab in a mortician’s basement. “I was shocked after learning the truth. I couldn’t believe that I almost died,” she said after finding out that the dart was meant for her.

Ms. Forray was the future fiancée of noted fashion photographer, Stu Drenner. All was revealed in a tell-tale envelope delivered to the house minutes before the murder. In the documents, Mr. Drenner pledged his love for the fashion designer, Ms. Clare, and at the end stated that he had found another way to end his and Heather’s engagement. The pins, which were unknowingly used by Ms. Godling, were meant to prick the leg of the model and send her to her death. Instead, Ms. Clare’s skin was broken and she passed on not knowing why she had been so unjustly murdered. Ironic since most celebrities are assassinated with a purpose.

Ms. Godling’s pincushion did in fact give away the secret. Partial glass fragments were found all over the material. At first, it was thought to be shards of Ms. Forray’s glasses, but it turns out that you have to see the whole picture first. Mr. Drenner’s camera lens had been chipped and when he slipped the poisoned pin into the cushion, glass fragments as fine as dust left trace amounts all over the pin, material, and of course, Ms. Clare. [That's a bit of a stretch.]

Mr. Drenner’s lawyers were unavailable for comment. Yet again, another mystery has been solved by the elusive and mysterious investigator. Mr. Drenner may have written the murder, but Ms. Clare drew her own death. Just one slip of the pencil and fate knocked on her door.
Inspector Jennings nodded, satisfied and slipped the paper under his jacket. He rose his coffee cup to his lips and paused. He had a lot of enemies too and he wouldn’t want to find any poison in his own coffee. He chucked the cup into the trash and made his way through the park. He would have to find something to replace caffeine.