Young Writers Society

It was dark and stormy the evening I died. But the day that started the whole escapade was grossly sunny. I had pulled the blinds shut as I brooded in my office, smoking my pipe. My favorite tobacco company had recently gone bankrupt, and my lip pulled into a grimace as I tried to become accustomed to this new stuff. My feet were up on the desk-- littered with burnt matches, playing cards, and of course, my colt anaconda, all eight inches of her barrel gleaming like an adulteress's eye, her ivory grips like the creamiest of hand lotions-- when I heard the knock. 

"Enter," I growled around my pipe, which had mysteriously gone out.

In stepped a dame, her blonde hair wet with rain despite the sun I was so desperately trying to block. She refused to meet my eyes, but when I lit a match to relight my pipe, she glanced up, revealing, in that split second of firelight, blazing green eyes like a jade stone found in the forests of china. She was wearing a glossy red evening dress the color of passion, which fit her exquisite form, although the hem was torn as if she had been running through brambles to escape something. Perched on her head was a miniature Chapeau, with a netted half-veil obscuring the left side of her face, and a peacock feather that bounced in the draft. I dared not tell her that this attire was from last century. Her lips were painted a cherry blossom pink, and her cheeks matched in hue, as she was breathing ever-so-slightly belaboredly, her bosom rising and falling with exactness on every breath. Perspiration shone on her forehead, like dew on the grass.

"Can I help you?" I asked gruffly, removing the pipe from my mouth and letting out a cloud of smoke.

"Are you Inspector Hugh Dunnit?" the dame asked in a tremulous soprano, still staring at her shoes.

I shifted, removing my well-worn black leather loafers from the desk, and taking a swig from my flask that contained more fire than whiskey. "Call me Detective Dunnit. Who, may I ask, wants to know?"

"Loretta Loveday," she murmered, stuttering over the L's. She coughed a bit.

"And what's a dame like you doing in a place like this?" I asked, leaning forward in my cashmere chair to glimpse the shoes she was so fond of looking at. They were nothing special: cherry stilettos with a floppy black bow, soaked also by the nonexistent rain.

She abruptly looked up, her piercing eyes wet with tears. "My husband..." she broke off into a stream of sobbing, mascara running for a split second before she conjured a handkerchief, seemingly out of nowhere, to wipe away the tears. 

"On with it woman, I haven't got all day." I fixed my attention to a speck of dirt under my index nail.

"He was MURDERED!!!1!!one!!!!111!" 

My blood ran cold. There hadn't been a murder in Concrete Heights since I was but a lad. "Tell me the details," I said, removing a notepad from my coat, and a pencil from behind my ear.

"Last night," she began, "we were at a cocktail party. At Flex McCreedy's."

"Ah yes, the 'biggest party of the decade.' I'd heard of that party." I didn't tell her that I had also received an invitation, but had turned it down, suspecting foul play might be afoot. I always trust my sixth sense. I trust it more than my other five put together. "Go on," said I.

"Well, Gregor-- that's my husband-- and I had a fight on the way to the party, so when we got there, we went our own ways. I didn't see him the whole night.. until..." her voice cut out and her eyes focused on something like impending doom.

"Until what?" I prompted.

"Until dinner time. They brought out all the dishes, covered in silver domes. And there was Gregor! Lying where the roasted pig was supposed to, an apple stuffed in his mouth, a knife in his back!" She fainted with the memory. Luckily I had had very cushy carpets installed for this exact purpose. I wasn't too worried about her head.

I turned the situation over in my mind, like a half-baked pancake. I had no evidence thus far except for this woman's word. I'd have to see the crime scene for myself. As I stepped over the woman's prostrate body, she moaned and turned her head to face me, her eyes fluttering open. 

"I think it was... the butler," she rasped, then let her head fall again to the floor. This behavior worried me, and I reached down to check her pulse.

Just as I thought.

Dead.

Obviously there had been some sort of neruotoxin working through her system. I had been oblivious to the signs. She had been confused, sweating, coughing,  her eyes were watering, and her nose running. What I had thought was a state of panic was really a dose of Sarin working through her system. I was surprised she had made it this far. Perhaps it was a small dose. Whatever the case, the murderer had to be caught-- and soon.

I stepped out into the hall, pulling my fedora further over my eyes, and cinching my trench coat tighter. It was rare that I left the smoke-imbued room I so often called home, but today was a special day. 

I had finally succeeded in killing my ex-girlfriend and her self-righteous husband.

And I had done it in style.

When I was sure that the hallway was absolutely deserted, I dragged Lorette's body into the custodial closet along with the real Hugh Dunnit.

I wiped my hands on my trench coat, hung it on a hook outside Dunnit's door, and skipped out of the corner office building, a grin on my face.

I lived for 60 more happy years and was never found out. 

The day I died was dark and stormy, but I was satisfied.

The end. :)