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Clue: Heathermire Hall



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Sun Feb 05, 2017 10:54 pm
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Megrim says...



Professor Pecan

After the meal, James found no interest in billiards, nor Mr Krome's patronizing explanation of the game. He had bigger things on his mind--such as determining the extent of Krome's leverage over him. The man had to be bluffing.

"Have you been to Britain, Mr Krome?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Krome grinned, eyes sparkling with challenge. "I make it a habit to visit every few years. Cambridge has such a beautiful campus."

James narrowed his eyes. "Yes, very beautiful. Though I spend most of my time in libraries and lecture halls, I'm afraid."

"Interesting you should say that. It's what I'd expect, with England's famously bright, sunny weather. Yet one of your colleagues mentioned you have a surprising affinity for the outdoors." Krome lowered his voice. "What was his name? Professor Westin?"

James stiffened, sucking a breath through clenched teeth. What a tosser. "Westin has a fanciful imagination. It's one of his... charms." He fingered the bone-ring of Yogg-Sothoth. "I have an imagination, as well--and I imagine that loose tongues have a tendency to stir dark portents. Unnamable evils that lurk in wait for the fool who would disturb them." He leaned in. "Unless one of their servants slipped a knife between that fool's ribs, to make sure such a thing never happened."

Krome stepped back, face twisting into an angry scowl. "You're insane, you know that? You should be in a padded cell."

Krome pushed past him, bristling with irritation. James smirked at himself for the minor victory. If only the bloody butler hadn't confiscated half his things to be "sent to his room," he would have more to back up the threat. As it was, he had to satisfy himself with the fact that he'd managed to so easily rattle their host. A celebratory cup of tea was in order.

He was mid-way through a second round of tea when the lights flashed and dimmed. Worried chatter broke out around him. He hurriedly set the hot mug down, spilled it all over his hand, and cursed. Chaos broke out--voices, movement. Then a gunshot.

Fumbling through the darkness, he finally oriented himself enough to dry his hand on his coat and pull his lighter from his pocket. "There is nothing to fear, everyone." He flicked the lighter on, a clear, tiny flame in the vastness of the dark manor. "I have a candle and a lighter on me, so all will be revealed in a moment." He lit the candle with the lighter, passed it to the closest person, and set about lighting the decorative candles littered about the room. Everyone was draining to library, where a few angry words were exchanged.

James was one of the last to arrive. The others crowded around the bloody corpse of Mr Krome, and staring at the rainbow of files arrayed on the desk.

"Professor Pecan, you can go next."

James didn't hesitate. He stepped forward--with a quiet apology to Ms Mercury for reaching around--and snatched the brown folder from the others. Time to see if that wanker had had a leg to stand on. He drifted to the back of the crowd as he flipped through the pages, and the air deflated from his lungs.

Photos. A lot of them. The students, the altar. The circle of bones and fire. How? How could he have gotten these?

He flipped the folder closed, clenched his jaw, and lifted his candle to the edge. Flame caught, ate away the corner, spread up the page. He watched it curl and darken the edges, then tossed it into the fireplace with the rest of them.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe.

That's when he caught sight of a figure on the mantle. A porcelain ballerina, set on a sky blue base--one side of which looked more worn than the other. James stepped up to it and tried to pick it up, but instead, the ballerina tipped over, fastened to the mantle. A clunk sounded beside him, and a section of the brick gave way from the wall. He squatted down, candle shining a ray of warm yellow light down the short tunnel. A crawlspace between the library and billiard room. Interesting.

"What's that you've found?" asked a voice with a light South American accent.

James glanced over his shoulder. Dr Vermillion approached, arms crossed--the one who'd asked after Lovecraft earlier. Hadn't he called himself a novelist at some point this evening? He should have recognized such a classic literary work, unless he was some kind of hack. But no matter. He had a familiar bookish air, with his several-day stubble, his bright red suit jacket, and rumpled undershirt, and James took an immediate liking to him.

"A crawlspace, it seems." He stood up, pressing a hand to his back with a groan. "A man of my age shouldn't be bending down investigating tiny spaces like that. I think if I bend down again, I might not be able to stand back up. Maybe you should have a look--you're young and strapping." He paused, realizing that what he'd intended as a compliment toward physical ability sounded rather more like a come-on. "Well, perhaps not as young and strapping as some of the others, but the most available at the moment."





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Wed Feb 15, 2017 3:08 pm
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Brigadier says...



Ms. Zinnia

As she watched the blackmailer lay silent and dead on the living room floor, Zinnia thought back to the short time she had known this man and the passionate hatred that had nearly fueled her to kill him, upon their last meeting. But instead of resting on the mistakes of the past, she decided to approach the man in purple, whom she had spotted several times across the room. He seemed to be in a similar state of mourning to her own, not really sad that he was gone but uneasy that the murderer was in this room. While crossing the floor, Zinnia realized she should learn the names of these criminals but calling them by their respective rainbow variety color coding was much easier. In the back of her head, a little voice cried out “That’s Mr. Mauve” but she dismissed the thought, as that name didn’t sound right.

Instead she stuck out her hand to introduce herself and said, “Good evening. I’m Ms. Zinnia and you are?” Unfortunately, this simple line of dialogue spooked the young-ish man in purple, who jumped back a few feet. After a moment of silence and her hand still held out, the man in purple composed himself and swept a lock of hair, away from his eyes. He had one of the clear crystal glasses filled with an unknown liquor in his hand and set it down to shake hers.

“So sorry. My name is Mauve.”

As she felt his hand, the palms were smooth and fingertips barely existent. Her thoughts came back again to the professions of her companions, he’s either a forger or a safecracker.
Another tense moment of silence set in while the two picked up their drinks and searched for something to say. Zinnia had an important matter on her mind (a rather odd one) and was waiting for a smoother way to say it, to slip into her mind.
Instead she blurted out, “Mauve, I have approached you for a rather serious matter pertaining to the backup drives.”

A look of questions crossed his face, the look she would soon grow tired of, and in the most surprising whisper she had ever heard, a question squeaked out.
“What backup drives?”

Now her mind flipped to, what the heck is he doing, was that supposed to be secretive or something, but instead she continued with the prior route of knowledge.

“Do you really expect an extremely thorough man like Krome to not have at least one backup drive? There’s probably a massive computer room somewhere and I intend on first searching for and then destroying it.”

The purple man stood silently, assessing his options once more as Zinnia sipped the teeny bit of cold tea remaining. Finally he spoke with his decision and didn’t surprise her at all this time, when answering with,
“I think I will join you on your little mission. What do you need me to do?”
She hesitated for a millisecond before giving out instructions.
“Wait five minutes, casually finish your drink and join me at the landing of the basement stairs.”


As swiftly as she entered the room, she left it and headed for the main hallway. Zinnia looked back once more at the living room filled with saddened house workers and happy criminals. She found the mood hanging over these rooms too bright and cheery for the occasion, no matter how much she had despised the man. Once more she glanced and went off to the other half of the house. She made a quick stop in the small bathroom to remove her now necessary weapons before slipping upstairs to change.

One of the bedroom doors she passed by was swinging open, propelled by the breeze coming in through an ancient wooden window. The room had been tossed and someone had made a rather amateur try at putting it back together. She would have investigated further but looking down at a small gold watch reminded her of the mission. The rooms were all marked with colored hangers on the delicate brass door knobs. She twisted carefully, almost waiting for a trip wire or a click, so she had enough time to get away. There was none.

Never can be too careful, the voice in the back of her head said once again.
Immediately she slipped over to the suitcase and searched for the sky blue jeans she had packed, along with an orange polo and the green windbreaker her tools were wrapped in. She felt in the pocket of the jacket to find the lucky clover lighter, a souvenir of past adventures. Flicking her wrist to check the time, Zinnia realized only 30 seconds of her five minutes remained and she rushed out of the room. A wild thought sprung to her mind as she climbed the banister and slid down backwards, much to the chagrin of Mauve.

“Could you please manage to not kill yourself in my company and lead them to believe I killed you?”
Instead of answering him she laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because the only thing a forger likes to get on his hands is ink, not blood.”
They walked from one staircase to another and Mauve asked another obvious question.
“How did you know?”
“Well first darling, that right there just confirmed it. Also, your palms are scrubbed clean and no fingerprints to boot. The only cons I know to do that are safecrackers and forgers. You however have slight ink stains on the edges of your sleeves, pointing more towards forger.”

They descended down the second staircase to the basement and once reaching the bottom, the conversation resumed.

“That’s a real Sherlock act there but would you mind telling me about this secret search? What the heck are we even looking for down here?”
“Possibly two things. One, we are looking for signs of this home was really badly constructed. Or…”
She trailed off while pulling out two pairs of gloves and handing one to the purple man. He slid them on and didn’t wait for her to continue.
“Or what?”
“Or there’s a series of secret passageways throughout this house.”

The look of disbelief crossed his face again and it was starting to quite tire Zinnia. He feigned innocence on what she had been saying, as if he had absolutely no clue about security systems or breaking and entering. Each of these looks lead to her sighing for quite awhile until he returned to a more natural, straight stance and face.

“I know this because the floors are slightly uneven in the main hall and the wall in the bathroom is hollow. In the upstairs bedrooms, there is a set of wall sconces slightly off center, which I originally attributed to the weather disturbances but now I think it’s a trigger wire.”

She could hear a sigh starting to come from behind her so she just advanced along the wall and looked for more evidence of false construction. She padded against each wall until coming to a different section of the basement which enclosed the wine cellar. Zinnia skimmed the racks until finding a few bottles sealed with oddly colored wax, colors coordinating to each of the criminals. Followed by Mauve, they pulled the bottles off the racks and found them to be empty but still sealed.

“Well this is certainly odd and I’ve dealt with many things in my lifetime dear lady.”
“There’s something in here attached to the bottoms of the corks. It looks like there’s a thumb drive glued to the base of each one. Hand me that corkscrew from the wall.”

She pulled a swiss army knife from the windbreaker and make quick work of scraping off the wax and removing the drive.

“This one is green and I’d bet this entire collection all of Miss Moss’s secrets are on it. Quick, help me open up the rest of the bottles.”
“Why can’t we just smash them?”
“Because we’re trying to be secretive Mauve.”
She shoved the flash drives hurriedly into her pocket and continued searching the walls for a passageway before coming to a large fireplace.
“I really hope he wasn’t this cliche.”

They felt around for a loose brick and tried every wall hanging item, before eventually coming up empty. Zinnia took the lucky clover lighter from her pocket and held it up to the bricks, a last hope that maybe there was something inscribed on them. She searched for a few moments while Mauve stood by slightly panicking and mumbling something about dying in a basement with a thief. Finally she stood up and shouted at him,
“If you’re just going to stand there, you better do something useful. Find me a torch, some rags, and a bottle of wine.”
“Well now you’re thinking about alcohol.”
A mean glare crossed across her face, as the full hatred of wasting time crossed across her mind.
“Get it. And while you’re searching for it, maybe you can find a sunny state of mind.”
“What was it one of Shakespeare's characters said? ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ Bet you think you’re a combination of all three.”
“I’m sure stuck up forger snobs like yourself who have never really gotten their hands dirty, love people like Shakespeare. But didn’t he also mumble crap like, ‘I would give all my fame for a pot ale and safety.’ I know a lot more people who would take a better liking to that quote than some more sophisticated ones.”

Mauve walked off for a moment , gathering up the needed supplies, and returned with a smirk on his face.
“I know who you are.”
“Everybody at this party knows who I am.”
“No who you really are. You are the Tortoise.”
“Oh god not that codename.”
“I was wondering what happened to Hare, hadn’t heard any chatter about him for a long while. Figured he got his last big score and retired off to some tropical island. But he’s dead, isn’t he?”

Zinnia stood silent and then took the supplies that had been sat at her feet. She wrapped the rags around a broomstick and cracked open the bottle of wine against the fireplace. Then she handed the torch to Mauve and took the lucky clover lighter from her pocket. One click and the thing was blazing. Once again she took the torch from Mauve and threw it into the fireplace, where it flickered for a bit before going out.

“Why did you go through all the trouble for that?”
“Shh.”

Her head tilted to a nearby side panel and there was a slight click. She pointed at the now appearing door and said, “That was the reason. This path looks clear so I suggest following it all the way.”

“But what if there’s rats and murderers hiding out in the walls?”
“Well aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine.”
She leaned down and took the .22 pistol strapped to her ankle.
“Here take it. If you see any murderers shoot them but don’t waste bullets on the rats.”
And with that she started heading down the hallway and trying to figure out what was at the other end. Mauve rested at the entrance for a few minutes, before throwing his hands up in the air and sticking the pistol in the small of his back. As they raced down the hallway, the secret passageway door closed behind them.

They walked on for a bit before finally the conversation started up again.
“How did you know how to open the fireplace?”
“There was a lack of scorch marks or any sign that a real fire had ever been lit there. And when I peeled away the loose covering of dust, I discovered a heat sensor. It was just a guess that it controlled the lock but what other reason did it have for being there.”

They chatted for a few minutes before coming to a small-ish black door.
“Well how do you go about doing this?”
Before she responded to his question with a voice answer, she pulled the gun from her holster and fired a shot into the doorknob.
“Like that.”
“Hmm. That’s one way of doing it.”
They opened the door together to find the mysterious computer room that had brought them together and the man in black Zinnia had been hunting for a long time.

the brigadier rides again!
LMS VI: Lunch Appointment with Death






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Sun Mar 12, 2017 1:26 am
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ty7lucky says...



Dr Vermillion

Dr Vermillion stood in the billiards room. He examined a finely made gun that had previously occupied the space on the mantle of Mr. Krome's fireplace. The guns handle fit nicely into his palm. His thoughts always found a way to return to the stories he had claimed as his own. Any of the characters in "his" books would have already neutralized the threat.

He looked up from the gun and as he was about to return the gun he saw that another one of the guns was missing. Without a second thought the doctor slid the gun into his suit coat pocket.

He walked over to where Mr. Blanche stood and they continued the conversation they had been engaged in earlier. Mr. Blanche's head turned abruptly, it was clear he had noticed something. Gary's eyes found the source, Mr. Krome had stepped out with Professor Pecan. His scowl deepened.

Mr. Blanche excused himself and stepped into the hall. Not long after the lights went out, no doubt because of the dreadful storm outside. Dr. Vermillion decided he would do it. He opened the doors quietly and stepped outside. Soon he realized his footsteps made too much noise. He stopped and took his shoes off. He hated to leave them in the middle of the hall but couldn't risk being heard.

Vermillion followed the noise of movement up ahead, he felt like something from one of "his" own stories were being unfolded right before his eyes. He fingered the gun in his hands testily. He reached the end of the hall.

A gunshot soon followed his arrival.

He shoved the gun into his pocket and made his way back to the billiards room. He found relatively where he had been in the room and waited.

"There is nothing to fear, everyone, I have a candle and a lighter on me, so all will be revealed in a moment." A candle was soon lit, sending rays of light upon the face of Professor Pecan.

The guests made their way quickly to the library. Once there Vermillion realized he still wasn't wearing shoes, he hoped no one would notice.

They saw the dead body of Mr. Krome, but instead of mourning, the guests were just relieved. Dr. Vermillion's face shone despite the usual scowl.

"Good riddance." A voice from the crowd remarked. Dr. Vermillion found he quite agreed, good riddance.

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

The darkness seemed to close in on every side, the candle's barely revealing the sky blue walls of the room.

Dr. Vermillion felt very sunny and happy. He barely noticed the smirk on his face. Then the butler stepped forward and told them of an emergency file on a computer that would send if a code were not entered.
Having decided that no one really was that sad he was dead the guests left to investigate.

Once outside Dr. Vermillion grabbed the invitation for the acquaintance of Mr. Krome and promptly burned it with a candle

Dr. Vermillion walked away radiantly. Even with the secrets still on a drive, the man that he had loathed was dead. This was probably the happiest he had ever been in his life, and it was because someone had died
"Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job."
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Sun Mar 26, 2017 5:47 am
Wolfi says...



The Butler


The butler sat criss-cross on the rug, his arms thrown around the warm body of Heathcliff the dog who sat beside him. The dog was very anxious, and wanted to pace the room and sniff and whine, but the petrified butler held him in a locked embrace so that Heathcliff couldn’t do anything but shift his head and perk his ears at the various sounds that creaked and cracked and rumbled up and down the Hall around them. The fire was burning so that the room had a dim red-and-yellow glow. The shadows behind each object flicked to and fro at whim, and the flames danced in the butler’s watery eyes.

A haphazard memorial service for his master played through the butler’s mind, beginning with the first day they met, when Francisco was fifteen, in the barrios of Puerto Rico. The boys had urged him, with threats and brandished knives, to follow this well-dressed tourist in black and steal something from him, else he could kiss his gang days goodbye.

Francisco had thought he was being sneaky when Mr. Krome stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, turned around, and asked, with the deep-voice bravado of a conquistador, why he was following him.

Struck with surprise at such a gringo’s well-groomed Spanish, Francisco faltered, stuttered, and finally replied truthfully. “Lo siento, señor. My friends told me to… steal something from you. I needed to do it, else I couldn’t be in the gang.”

“Some friends,” Mr. Krome said, puffing on his cigar. “I much prefer to be friendless, myself, and thus without enemies. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

“Señor?”

“A Streetcar Named Desire. Don’t overthink it, niño.”

Mr. Krome had stayed true to his word, steering clear of close friendships all his life. But somehow he had amassed quite the cast of enemies. And for some stupid reason he had invited them all to his Hall. And now one of them had killed him.

While the criminals had been busy destroying their colored files and exploring various hidden passageways (finding them in abundance with the finesse of no typical guests), the butler had slipped into the broom closet adjacent to the main hall and flipped the switch under the vacuum cleaner. This had unhinged the narrow trapdoor above his head, which swung forward and smacked him in the forehead.

Elora had told him about this secret passage, but she had never mentioned the part about ducking. However, to her credit, she was considerably shorter than him.

Grumbling, the butler climbed up the broom closet shelves and hoisted himself into the vertical secret passageway. It was dark and metal and narrow, with cold ladder rungs running up along one side. He climbed in the dark until he reached a dead end, at which point he searched blindly for the second switch and found it above the final rung. Wincing in anticipation, he flicked it on, but rather than the trapdoor swinging down, he heard only a click. He pushed up on the ceiling and the heavy board gave way. He was instantly met with Heathcliff’s wet tongue, whose breath was reminiscent of his recent dinner.

The room was locked. The butler would be safe.

Another gunshot pierced the air and the sound socked him in the gut. His eyes sprung wider, and he squeezed Heathcliff tighter. Surely he was in Hell.

The room was locked, but that didn’t matter. These people have guns. They could shoot the lock off, just like they do in old movies.

But, no. No one would even try this door. There’s too many to choose from. It’s dark.

It’s dark.

Would they see the faint orange glow from the fire in the cracks of the door? Should he turn the fire off, and wait here, breathlessly, keeping Heathcliff quiet, in the dark, until the police came?

He heard sounds outside, and the dog did too. With one arm still around Heathcliff, the butler leaned forward and cut the gas off. It made an agonizingly shrill metal squeak, which wouldn’t be noticed in other circumstances but in this instance was terrible and frightening, like the gentle but detrimental creak of a wooden floorboard in an old west prison escape.

The butler reached up and snatched a candlestick from the mantle, his other hand on Heathcliff’s collar. He was careful not to choose the other candlestick - that would have triggered the noisy opening of the trapdoor from which he had just entered.

The doorknob jiggled. The butler sucked in his breath, and the dog growled.

“Hey, Butler!” someone yelled from outside, somewhere beyond the door he could not see. It sounded like Ms. Zinnia.“You in there?”

Perhaps if he let Heathcliff go so that he could bark all he wanted, they would think it was just the dog that had made the noise.

“Mr. Krome left a message,” a man said. Mauve, maybe? The butler hesitated, readjusting his grip on Heathcliff’s collar.

“Yeah,” Zinnia said. “Thought you’d like to hear it.”

“We’re not going to kill you,” she added after a pause.

He gave in and let go of Heathcliff, who stormed to the door, huffing and growling. The butler unlocked the door and slipped outside, where Zinnia, Mauve, and Pecan were waiting. Pecan was holding some sort of torch.

Zinnia grinned, the shadows carving hauntingly into her features. “Follow us,” she said. Grudgingly, the butler obeyed.

In a few minutes they arrived in the mouth of a hallway the butler, to his awareness, had never been before. He was so turned around and disillusioned in the dark that he was clueless as to where they were in the house - the floor, even, wasn’t certain. At the very end of the hallway he could see a bright white light, and he could hear echoing voices.

“Oh good!” Miss Blue said as they neared. “You found him.”

“Play it again,” Blanche said.

The butler squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden harsh light of the computer screen. He could see the handsome face of his late master, paused in time, serious, sad, and regal.

Mr. Crow clicked play.

Mr. Krome’s message wrote:If you are watching this, chances are I'm already dead. And chances are, if you're not Francisco and if you're clever enough, you killed me, or are planning to kill me. Either way, it doesn't matter, because my death won't save your reputation.

If you have killed Francisco, your fate is sealed. I already have a completely separate backup file being sent to the police. The only way to stop it is to update it, which I do, every seven days or so--but there are only two people in the world who know how, and where the file is. If I'm gone, Francis is (or was) your best bet.

If you are Francisco--well, old chap, it seems you've found yourself in a pickle haven't you? Listen. You might not think you do, but you know how to do this. I've told you once, I've told you twice, I've told you multiple times. You know where I go in my leisurely hours. You're a clever chap. You'll figure it out.

To everybody; if Francisco allows you into my file quarters, you still have the matter of entering. Entering, of course, doesn't require any fancy passwords, but there's a catch. You all must be willing to send one file to the police. You can do this by vote, or by pleasure of how serious the damages are, or yada yada yada--but you know what would be the best? You know what would not require the others reading into your file? Figuring out who my killer is, of course. I mean, it's so simple. Only one person did it after all. And if all of you did it? Well, you'll still have to scapegoat someone. Why not the person who put you through this mess?

Have a good game.


The butler looked down at the candlestick, which he was still gripping with white knuckles. Slowly, he released the pressure so that he wasn’t holding it so tightly. He wouldn’t need it. He wouldn’t need any weapon. These criminals would have to keep him alive at any cost, and with this brilliant shield that his master had placed around him, Francisco would ascertain that the proper murderer would be brought to justice.

He looked up. “Well? Who did it, then?”
John 14:27:
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled
and do not be afraid.





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Sujana says...



Mr. Crow



He wasn't as panicked about the situation as the others were.

Really, this entire scenario was more out of revenge than anything. He'd chanced thought of volunteering to take the fall, since he was going to kill himself anyway. But the thought of Day back home, and the children, and them being interrogated and searched and accused by police officers--

Just when I thought I was out, he thought, they pull me back in.

"Monsieur Crow?" Blanche, the specimen who was staring at him during the dinner banquet for some damned reason, "Where are you going? We ought to discuss this, you know."

"I'm going to the kitchen to see if there's something I can chew on," he said, "I'm not in a talking humour."

Blanche chuckled. "Well, from the banquet earlier," he said, "I'm knowledgeable enough to say the cook makes a killer steak."

"Yes, well, I'm vegetarian," Crow stashed his hands in his pockets, "Let's hope she has a good carrot or two."

Crow didn't look back to talk with Blanche any further, traversing through the strange halls in order to find the kitchen. He could almost feel the intense debate in the floor above him, but he was a little too busy looking through one of five refrigerators, wondering what one man would need so many refrigerators for and where in God's name he put the milk.

"Looking for anything, sir?" A voice behind him asked, and he snapped behind him, out of reflex and paranoia. He sighed. It was only the cook.

"Your milk," he said, "I'd like to have something non-alcoholic in my system." He'll need the sharp mind, not a drunk one.

"Right away, sir," Gloria answered, and took to the refrigerator in the corner of the room. While she was sorting through the vast array of food, Crow idly took to opening the horizontal fridges, the ones used to keep meat.

"You have a lot of guests here, Gloria?" the cook returned, handing a glass of milk to him.

"Every other month," Gloria answered, "Though not as often as the food would suggest."

Crow smirked, taking a sip of his milk. He strolled to the other horizontal fridge, opening it. "You seem oddly calm about all of this," he remarked.

"About what?"

"Everything," Crow strolled to the next fridge. "Your boss dying, specifically, but also the fact that all of your boss' guests hates his guts. You're accustomed to his eccentricities?"

Gloria shrugged. She was in the island table, cutting some onions. "As long as I'm paid," she said.

He smiled. "Well," he turned to the next fridge, "I won't argue with tha--oh, bugger."

He dropped his glass of milk, letting it shatter on the floor. Gloria jumped up at the sound, and held her mouth at what was in the fridge. Crow only grimaced. "Bugger," Crow repeated, louder, drawing the fridge fully open. Inside, besides several packets of ham, the body of the maid sat, uncomfortably crunched in its place.

...

"Qol," a voice said, in the far distance of the hill crest, "Qol, what are you doing up here, silly--"

Qoholeth didn't respond. He was a quiet boy, but this wasn't the sort of silence his sister was used to. This wasn't the sort of occasion he was used to. He heard his sister climb up the hill, staring at the apple tree the two would laugh and play and read books under. She was quiet. Neither of them knew what to say.

Their father hung on the branch, staring at them, his face blue, his clothes ragged. The rope that held him there hugged his neck, like a mother would hold her son. "Qol," Michal whispered. "I--I think we should go back home."

But Qoholeth didn't speak. The seven-year old stood there, catatonic, dropping the copy of the Bible in his hands. "Qol?" Michal turned to his brother, drawing her messy brown hair away from her eyes, holding his face to hers. "Qol, listen to me. Qol? Qol!"

Qoholeth stared at his sister. He collapsed into her shoulder, then, crushing her hands. Curling them open. Closing them. Crying.

Open. Close.


Open. Close.

He opened his hands again, this time grasping the dog that Francisco brought with him. Qoholeth wasn't exactly an animal person, but the dog seemed to fancy his presence, rubbing against his leg as he sat down on the kitchen floor.

"There's a bullet hole in her head. Looks like a bad habit," Miss Blue said, to him specifically, while the others were crowding around the refrigerator. "Any of your snipers known for headshots?"

Crow scowled. "I've already informed you that none of them could kill Coda in this weather, and the chances of them shooting through walls and then magically transferring the maid into the refrigerator is even less likely," he said.

"You act as if your snipers can't walk into the premises."

"They won't," he said, scowling. "Not without my permission."

Miss Blue shrugged. "It's quite cold out there."

He scoffed. "Two of them are Russian, the other would rather shoot his foot than admit to physical pain. They'll be fine," he shooed the dog away, but Heathcliff only returned, rubbing his head against Crow's leg. "Ask the doctor. Perhaps she knows how long the woman's been in there."

"Yeah, okay. That's for later." Miss Blue crossed her arms, looking over her shoulders. "Canary's still treating Gloria there."

Canary had laid Gloria down on the island table, since Gloria had fainted at the sight of the maid. Francisco was engaged in a death match debate with the Professor and the Frenchman (the white one, not the purple one), and Zinnia--well, Zinnia was looking like she'd figured out something Crow very much did not want to know about.

"Whoever is doing this isn't exactly helping any of us," Miss Blue said, nonchalantly. "What's the point of killing the maid? What, are they going to go after the cook next? It's ridiculous. This isn't going to get us out of this situation."

Heathcliff climbed onto Crow's lap. Crow growled at the dog, before reluctantly letting it lick his face. "A morbid thought," he said, "But if they really wanted to help us, they'd kill one of us."

Miss Blue glared at Crow. "Excuse me?"

Crow shrugged. "Think of it," he said. "The killer wants to get out of this situation as much as we do. Thus, he kills one of our own, probably the guiltiest and most neurotic looking of the entire party, and he frames it as a suicide--a confession note lying next to them. Thus, Francisco is satisfied, the scapegoat is dead and thus can't complain, and everybody gets off scot free."

The woman crunched her nose at the man, before chuckling. "You know, the killer better not take that idea," she said, "because then I'll start thinking that you're the killer."

Open hand. Closed hand. Crow grinned. "Well," he said, "It's a decent plan, at the very least."
"For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."

Ecclesiastes 1: 18





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Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:08 pm
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Brigadier says...



Ms. Zinnia

Zinnia stood by awkwardly in the kitchen, feeling nearly naked as she was dressed only in blue jeans and the old polo shirt. This was not the usual attire she was used to being exposed to the public in, so next to the dead body in the room, the clothes had become the elephant. Death had never frightened her much, even though she had lost so many people in the past 15 years, enough to last a normal person a hundred lifetimes. If there was one aspect of her life that wasn’t in question, it was that she was not normal.

The guests were starting to thin out of the kitchen and decide whether or not to attempt being detectives. Mauve was standing patiently next to her in the silence, rubbing his hands together like he was tempted to go off somewhere and forge a Van Gogh.
No, she thought to herself, I believe a Monet would be more his style.
Crow remained seated by the dog, it occasionally reaching up, licking his hand and looking for a treat somewhere in his fist. She continued to wait for the people to clear out before confronting Crow with the nagging thought in the back of her mind, an accusation no one else needed to hear but a few still lingered about the cramped dining area.

“Crow. I need a word with you about this.”
She took a few steps toward him and he sat up a bit in the chair, with the dog still leaning on him.
“It would be better if the rest of the guests weren’t around to hear it.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because I know who you are and I will tell each and everyone of these damn people who you are. I’m sure more than one of them would have a beef with the organization you help to run.”
“Well if you tell them my identity, I’ll just have to reveal yours.”
“We are both protecting our families and I don’t think that’s a good threat to carry out.”
“Then maybe we’ll just have to come to some sort of agreement.”

Zinnia could feel the blood welling up in her veins as she clinched her fists and got ready to hit Crow. This momentarily sounded like a bad idea but there was a nice roll of quarters in her pocket and she had them gripped in her hand. Finally she couldn’t stand the man anymore, and threw her arm out at the black suit, aiming somewhere in the region of his shiny teeth. Crow saw the punch coming and rolled to the floor, reaching into the small of his back, looking for a revolver that wasn’t there. The blow hadn’t hit him square in the jaw as she had planned but still struck his shoulder enough for the man in black to be wincing on the floor.

“What the hell was that for?”
“You know what it was for bastar-”
Mauve and Blue loyally stepped in between the two fighters and tried to calm the situation.
“Elizabeth, perhaps we should proceed into the living room.”
He started out one edge of the room but she instead ran past him to where Mr. Krome was lying on the floor near the hall before coming back.
“What was that for?”
“Just checking.”
“Everything alright?”
“Yep. Two corpses. Everything’s fine.”

“That’s not exactly my definition of alright. I think I’m going to go out for some fresh air. Miss Blue, would you care to join me?”
Blue reluctantly left Crow’s side to follow Mauve out onto the patio, finally leaving Zinnia and Crow alone to discuss things.

“I thought you would be more broken about dear Tom’s death.”
“Well it was all a matter of life after death; now that he’s dead, I have a life.
“Oh I don’t think it’s quite as true and simple as that. You don’t seem like the type of person to so easily let go of your first and only true love.”
“Do you remember the night we first met? The night you killed them?”
“Not completely.”
She stood up and poured two glasses of water, before returning them to the table and sitting down.
“Then I believe Mr. Crow, a story is in order.”

I was fifteen the first time you ended up on the farm, talking to my parents and making yourself pass as just another visiting priest. You had dinner with them, pretended to know things about them you shouldn’t know, basically tricking them in anyway possible. I can remember it like the night it happened to this day, you taking the revolver from the small of your back and shooting them as the car rolled down the slope. To you they might have been just another kill, but to me they were the beginning of my career as an assassin. I stood by and waited for you to stop before taking the shotgun from behind the door. I don’t know if you noticed but you were missing quite a few snipers after that night.

“That’s a hell of a memory to carry with you. But maybe you should be thanking me instead of having a vengeance against me. I did help you start out a very successful career as a thief.”
“Those are the kind of comments that get you stabbed but the past is the past, we need to focus on a more relevant problem, solving this murder.”

Heathcliff jumped off of Crow’s lap and moved over to Zinnia before settling on her feet. She slipped a small piece of food out of her pocket and gave it to the giant dog. She rubbed his ears a bit and then looked back up at the man in black.

“Are you still considering the mystery Crow? Just so you know, I’m not going to kill you, at least for now. You are going to be of too much use to me during the course of this investigation.”
“Then we’ll call a short truce and get back to murdering each other next week. Deal?”
Zinnia was just starting to raise her glass to his as the Butler came into the kitchen and started to move the maid’s body.
“Whatever are you doing man?”
“I suggest we take the maid’s body into the study.”
“Why on Earth would you do that?”
“I’m the butler, I like to keep the kitchen tidy.”
Zinnia stood up to help him, while Crow and the dog sighed in the background.
“Perhaps a good joke would lighten the mood a bit. Did you hear the one about the man who was found dead in a vat of falafel condiment?”
“I’m afraid I did not.”
”The police are treating it as a hummuscide.”
The butler held the top half of the maid in his arms while he pondered the joke before finally chuckling a bit and heading out the door with the maid. Gloria stepped around the corner of the kitchen, screamed and nearly passed out again. Zinnia quickly rushed to her as Crow reached for the falling maid.
“Gloria come with me dear so we can get away from this. Mr. Crow I believe that we will have to continue our discussion at a different time.”
“It’s not like my schedule is particularly jam packed at the moment.”

Zinnia headed out the door with Gloria half draped over her back, followed by Crow and the Butler dragging the maid’s body across the tiled hallway. She kicked open the door with her foot before turning to her companions with a simple question.
“Well what are we going to do with the bodies now?”

the brigadier rides again!
LMS VI: Lunch Appointment with Death






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Sat Jul 01, 2017 8:45 am
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BrumalHunter says...



Mr Blanche



After Pierre had finished comitting to memory the details of his exposure, he followed the others' example by burning the folder and not leaving until every bit of paper had been consumed by the flames. It was a relief to know it hadn't been his own misconduct that had resulted in Monsieur Krome learning of his forgeries, but it was also so much worse than if it had been.

A client had given away his name after being pressured. If Monsieur Krome had succeeded in discovering his identity in this manner, anyone else who tried would likely have the same result. Many a passive man had resorted to violence once his family had been threatened, and Pierre knew he would be no different, if pushed to that point. But for the time being, murder was out of the question. He would find another way to deal with the liability.

As the evening had already proved, however, not all of his fellow guests shared his passive stance. In fact, their ruthless nature was once again confirmed when death lured the occupants of Heathermire Hall to a grim scene - the kitchen, that time. Monsieur Crow had discovered the maid in one of the fridges.

She undoubtedly had a murderer in common with her late employer, for she too had succumbed to a gunshot wound to the head. How the murderer had managed it without them knowing... that was worrisome. If he or she had somehow found a suppresser and the time to hide her body, what else could they manage before the storm subsided and allowed their departure? How many more would die?

When the professor came to Pierre with the same thoughts, a swift exchange resulted in the resolution not to move about without remaining within view of at least one other individual. They were about to attempt gathering the already scattering guests when Mademoiselle Moss' muttered sentiments caught their ears: "Great. With the maid dead, there's no-one left to dispose of the trace evidence of our stay here. We're screwed no matter what." A horrifyingly true claim.

Yet the professor didn't seem to appreciate the gravity of their circumstances. "Trace evidence is only useful if you know to whom it belongs or have a way of finding out. None of us are registered in the Canadian database, so it means nothing."

"Fate favours the prepared and punishes the overconfident, professor. I believe this is a matter we cannot ignore."

"But my good man, you heard what the miss said - the maid is dead."

Pierre nodded but turned to gaze at Francisco. "Indeed. But there are other staffmembers who have cleaning included among their household duties. It would be wise to ensure their cooperation in this regard."

"Very well. Butler, come here."

Francisco seemed irked at the summons, but then, he had lost both a master and a colleague. His irritation was justified.

"What do you want, professor? There is enough tea in the lounge. The staff won't be taking any requests right now."

"Ah, that's a pity. This is quite the important request, I'm afraid. You see, it concerns your continued well-being."

Seeing the man's irritation turn to fear, Pierre raised a hand. "We have no intention of threatening you, monsieur. I daresay we want to find our host's murderer as much as you do, though for entirely different reasons, of course. But a thought occurred to me just a moment ago. After we have sent the authorities the culprit's file, they will want to launch an investigation and scrutinise the premises regardless. There is little use surrendering the murderder if our lives outside these walls remain in jeopardy."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Come now, don't be dim-witted," Professor Pecan scoffed. "We're saying you need to remove any trace of our presence here before we turn over the guilty party."

The mere thought of delaying justice for his master enraged Francisco to no end. "Absolutely not! The moment we discover who the killer is, we're handing them over to the police. You should consider yourself lucky only one of you needs to be arrested, considering how you're all-"

"I strongly advise against finishing that sentence," the professor seethed, raising his voice too, but not by nearly as much. "These walls play host to powers far more intimidating than a bloke or lass with a gun. If you're as knowledgeable as Snow White here-" he waved at Monsieur Krome's corpse, which had been moved after the maid's discovery, "-claims you are, you ought to know that."

"How dare you?!"

"No, how dare you-"

"Gentlemen, be civil." Pierre addressed the steaming butler. "I am certain others will start voicing their concerns soon enough, so I advise that we cool our tempers and discuss the matter. Having a solution before others are aware of the problem is certainly preferable to the alternative, is it not? Perhaps we had better conduct this discussion where we cannot be bothered."

The butler scowled. "Not now. The other animals in the house are frightened and require attending to as well. Excuse me."

How rude. Pierre allowed the man to leave without the satisfaction of a reply. "I heard Monsieur Krome boast about how impressive his collection of reptiles is. I admit, I wouldn't mind seeing how Francisco attempts to soothe a 'frightened' snake. Care to join me?"

The professor's countenance indicated he wasn't yet finished exchanging words. "By all means, lead the way."
But the Fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.
— Paul the Apostle

Winter is inevitable. Spring will return eventually, and AstralHunter with it.








"I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school... I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy..."
— Unnamed Girl from "Mean Girls"