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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| PROMPT November 17th You have been invited to a posh dinner party hosted by one of the wealthiest people in your small town. When you arrive, your host does not greet you, and the butler informs you they have been missing since last night. A quick search by all the party goers finds him/her dead. Their body is in a small clearing in the woods behind the mansion. Being a modern day Nancy Drew/Joe Hardy type of person, you begin your own investigation. What do you find that leads you to the murderer. Who is the murderer? How was the host killed? Whew, the finding of my hostess' body is rather unfortunate for her anyway. I breathe a secret sigh of relief and stifle an urge to cheer. This is not the time, or the place. I may not be in the same social circle as she is, er, was, but I was raised with a modicum of good manners. All that fretting about which fork to lift to my mouth and wracking my mind to come up with suitable dinner conversation is now a moot point. I've been spared the opportunity to embarrass myself, but at the expense of another's life. I don't suppose this is a subject covered in an etiquette handbook. I didn't know Widow Snooty at all and no one was more surprised to receive an invitation than moi, yet I don't believe she'd have enjoyed being the spectacle she now is splayed on the muddied ground behind her mansion. It seems so undignified to be gawped at. Death doesn't care about the niceties at all. Her lavish attention to hair, make-up, clothing and accessories is apparent, but I doubt the murderer, or the specter of death even noticed. The great gaping hole in her chest was certainly difficult to ignore. The stunned expression forever etched on her visage made an indelible impression, too. Maybe that could be blamed on an embossed invitation stuffed into her mouth. Who knows? I recognized the silver lettering as a twin to the one I'd balled into my pocket at the start of the impromptu search. This could be evidence and if so, I could prove my innocence. One of the guests had silenced his / her hostess. I had not been the first to discover Snooty. I ran towards the high-pitched screams of another partygoer and in my haste I stumbled over the likely murder weapon, a bloody umbrella. Never had I ever seen such a large spike atop an umbrella. Had it been designed to serve as a means of protection from more than a downpour? And hold on a minute, who brought an umbrella on such a lovely, cloud-free evening? Before long uniformed officials arrived to set up a perimeter of yellow tape and I found myself jostled against a small crowd of gasping, murmuring onlookers. This had not turned out to be a chance to peak behind the brocade draperies so to speak, or was it? If this was how the wealthy treated each other they could keep it. I'd barely set foot into the great hall and now I'd been swept up into a murder enquiry. I decided no one would miss my absence and I hurried back to the mansion slipping in through the opened door. In the hush, I wandered from room to room searching for I knew not what. An 'ahem' startled me and I turned to see the rather stern-looking butler appraising me. On the upstairs wall adjacent to the sweeping staircase I peered at a portrait of two young girls. I blinked at the butler, arched my brows and nodded at the painting in its gilded frame. "Yes," he intoned, " that is Madam and her twin sister. Quite the uncanny resemblance don't you agree?" My head bobbed and something, a specific something on the canvas, caught my eye. "Is that Madam Snooty's custom umbrella? I believe I've seen it just a short time ago." The butler squinted and shook his head. "I've never noticed such an item in this house." Both of us startled as a crash of breaking glass echoed from a closed room down the corridor. Without hesitation we loped towards it. I followed the houseman as he shoved open the door. I didn't mind that he entered the room ahead of me, somebody had to be first. We stopped short and stared. A familiar woman stood before us with an armful of clothing. On the bed lay a half-filled suitcase. A shattered lamp littered the floor. Bureau drawers sprawled open. The woman flung her items as she gaped at us wild-eyed. Specks of what I suspected to be dried blood freckled her face and a bright red smear stained her dress. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Well, I don't believe any of us are Widow Snooty, do you?" With a stomp of her foot and a toss of her hair, my number one suspect shrieked, "I could 've been, I should've been!" |
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