“MISS APPLEWOOD?”
Faith Applewood stretches her head over the green grocer shelf into the corpulent face of Chief Inspector Tilbury. He has a rogue mustard stain on his lapel, and a small crumb of bread at the corner of his mouth.
“Ah, Chief Inspector, have you just come from lunch? You had a sandwich, did you?”
“Good lord, Miss Applewood, how could you have known?”
“It’s just another one of those lucky guesses I keep having.”
The chief waddles his way around the low wooden shelf, and grabs her hand with his. It’s still slightly sticky with butter from his ham on rye sandwich.
“You must come with me, quickly! There’s been a murder, and we could use your help!”
“Well,” says Faith, hesitatingly, “let me just call Scotchie over. He’s in such a state, that if I were to disappear, he’d never fathom where I went. Scotchie!”
William “Scotchie” McTaggart stumbles past a display of canned peas, knocking a few of the tins over. The blood vessels in his nose are brightly lit this afternoon.
“Coming, mum!” Says Scotchie.
“Right, then. Scotchie, the Chief Inspector requests our company for a case!”
“A case of what?” asked Scotchie, uncertain of what day it is.
“Oh, Scotchie, there’s been a murder!”
“It weren’t me, mum! I was passed out on the floor back there!”
Faith sighs. “Just come along now, and do be careful not to pass out anywhere else.”
On the way to the scene, Faith quizzes the inspector about the case.
“It’s that unremarkable rich millionaire who was murdered, George Hollingsworth! He was discovered by his loving wife, Edna, and their gardener, Josh.”
“Well now,” says Faith, “this is a troubling matter. Didn’t they share separate rooms?”
“That’s right,” said the inspector. “But the marriage seemed like a solid foundation. They live with their young, innocent niece, Nancy Hollingsworth, whom they took in after the tragic deaths of her parents, ten years ago. Oh, how they loved that girl. Showered her with presents and love to try to help her move on from her tragedy.”
“And were there any others living with them?”
“Well, as I said, there was Josh, the hard-working gardener, and of course, you remember their maid, Maggie.”
“Oh, yes. The poor dear. She’s such a simple sort. Probably didn’t have the wherewithal to hurt a fly.”
“As was easily evidenced last year, during the dreaded fly incident.”
“Ah, yes,” says Faith. “That was a dark day for us all.”
“Well, they do have a manservant,” said the inspector. “The ever-loyal Wellington.”
“A decorated war hero, and perhaps the most faithful and discreet servant in all of England.”
“Of course! If it weren’t for Maggie, one would have never known Hollingsworth fancied women’s knickers.”
“Were there any others present at the residence?”
“No,” says the inspector. “Well … there was one more person present. And I’m afraid he doesn’t have an alibi for the supposed window of opportunity, as it were.”
“Who could that be?” asked Faith.
“He’s a violent drifter from Cornwall, originally. Name’s Garrick Deathkiller.”
“Deathkiller?”
“It’s French, I think,” says the inspector. “But we mustn’t hold that against him, hey what?”
“And you say he’s a violent drifter?”
“Yes, but I only say that because he’s of no fixed address. The Hollingsworths were such Samaritans, that they offered him room and board for the summer, if he promised to stop drinking and getting into bar fights.”
“Hmmmm,” says Faith. “Most interesting.”
“I know, mum. As you can imagine, we’re clearly stumped on this one.”
Lacroix was smiling that Loki smile of his. He seemed extra-pleased with himself on this one.
I sighed.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong now?”
“Seems a bit easy, doesn’t it? A little too cozy?”
Lacroix smiled even harder, and he started bobbing his head left to right. This meant he had a twist planned. He didn’t realize it, but his was the worst poker face I’d ever seen. Every time we played Texas hold’em, I took all his money. When others started finding out, I asked everyone at the WRPS to keep quiet about his tell. Everyone knew it.
“Maybe it’s harder than you think,” he said.
“No, it isn’t. The Deathkiller guy is obviously a red herring.”
“What?! Not necessarily!”
“You’re the cop, Lacroix. You should know this. In real life, it’s almost always the first person you suspect. Likely the husband or romantic partner of the murder victim. Then, a close friend or associate. In murder mysteries, it’s never the first person you suspect. And it’s never the guy named ‘Deathkiller.’”
“Geez, Virtue, you’re no fun.”
“Also, I know I asked you to work on your story, but it’s way too much like a classic cozy. There had better be some kind of plot twist somewhere.”
“Oh, there will be,” said Lacroix, furiously erasing something behind the game master screen.
“And come on. I thought you were going to workshop the names a little more.”
Lacroix threw his pencil on the floor. “Look, we can either keep doing this, or we can go back and play some more Call of Duty.”
I shrugged. “At this point? I kind of feel like blowing something up.”