Author Archive

Tension was thick in the room. Ice swirled round and round in gin glasses as their owners rubbed their temples, fidgeted with their ties, crossed and uncrossed their legs. No pairs of eyes were still except for Mr. Green’s, the rest darting back and forth. Miss Scarlet was bobbing her foot to the tempo of the soft jazz that was playing on the radio in the corner of the lounge. Professor Plum pulled a medical text off the shelf and flipped through it. A couple pressed hundred dollar bills fell from the pages. Plum looked cautiously around the room at the other guests before pocketing them. Mrs. Peacock leaned forward on the leather couch and put out the stub of her last cigarette in the ash tray. Mrs. White was inspecting a sterling silverware display, rubbing away a smudge from the glass.

There was a small knock on the door before the butler entered with a new tray of drinks. Colonel Mustard lifted himself to his feet, re-tucking his shirt, and traded his empty glass for one filled to the brim.

“How much longer until dinner, Gladwell?” Mustard inquired. The butler sighed.

“The cook is recording herself preparing the meal on video to send to a chef’s contest in New Jersey, so she’s doing multiple takes. It won’t be for another hour or so, I’m afraid.”

“Why are we here, Gladwell? Whose house is this? We all figured out we’re being blackmailed by the same person who goes by codename “Straight,” but why were we invited here? Who do you work for?” Mustard asked angrily before taking a swig of his drink. Gladwell shook his head.

“The cooks and I were asked to come here by some anonymous person for a fair amount of money. I have four children, sir; I can’t afford to pass that kind of money up. But I do know that whoever is blackmailing you has to have access to government records. Take Green there, for example. He’s a treasurer, blackmailed for embezzling money. Shifty character if you ask me. Very rude to me when he came in. And Scarlet,” Gladwell went on. Mustard leaned in. “Scarlet is a secretary for a government branch… Blackmailed for being less than virtuous, if you know what I mean.”

Both men looked Miss Scarlet up and down, a slit in her bright red dress cutting all the way up to her hip. Mustard gave a low whistle. Gladwell adjusted the drinks on the tray and continued.

“And Peacock there- her husband was a high up government official. He committed suicide half a year ago, giving the misses a fortune. There’s quite a bit of evidence against her proving that it wasn’t a suicide; that’s what she’s getting blackmailed for. She’s quite a character.”

Mustard clucked his tongue. Gladwell nodded in agreement.

“And Plum? A professor studying nuclear science and teaching at a local University. Blackmailed for getting a little too friendly with his students. Nervous fellow, he is. Mrs. White is a maid for the same official Scarlet works for. She’s being blackmailed for using the man’s credit card for her own personal purposes when he gives it to her to run errands, though she’s a very sweet lady. Her pay is almost as low as mine.” Gladwell looked at Mustard. “What about you, Colonel? What’s your story?”

Mustard took another sip of his gin before responding.

“I… may have been, uh… selling military equipment illegally on the black market…” He cleared his throat and tucked his shirt in some more. Gladwell chuckled.

“It’s alright, sir. What’s said in this house stays in this house. I certainly do not have the guts to blackmail any of you myself. Besides, it seems like codename “Straight” has done a thorough enough job of doing so anyway.”

Mrs. Peacock came over, her musty feathered hat bobbing on top of her hair-do. Gladwell nodded and handed her a glass.

“But I see what you mean about Straight having access to government records,” Mustard said. “It seems as if everyone here works for the feds.”

Mrs. Peacock narrowed her eyes and titled her head, the feather hairpiece wobbling dangerously.

“What are you two gentlemen discussing over here?” she asked. Gladwell grunted.

“Just reviewing the facts, is all,” he said. Peacock pursed her lips.

“Perhaps you should go back to the kitchen, butler, to assist the cook. It seems as though dinner may take a while.”

Mustard furrowed his brow, but Gladwell set the tray on the end table and left the lounge silently. The colonel coughed awkwardly.

“So… You’re a widow, eh?”

Mrs. Peacock rolled her eyes.

“I need another cigarette…” she muttered. She left to go get a new pack from her coat, leaving Colonel Mustard standing alone.

Across the room, Mrs. Scarlet downed the remaining liquid in her glass and clapped her hands. She grinned at Mr. Green, who was sitting to her right.

“Don’t you just love this song?” she asked, snapping her fingers to the new jazz piece that came over the radio. Green smiled wryly and shook his head.

“I hate jazz.”

Scarlet raised her eyebrows at him.

“I happen to love it,” she said. “My father was a pianist, my mother a dancer. They used to perform down at the club every Thursday.”

“I don’t care,” Green muttered. Scarlet switched her left leg over her right, facing Green. She rested her chin on her hand and flashed a smile.

“Then what do you care about?”

“Money. Now excuse me.” He got up and left for the restroom, leaving Miss Scarlet feeling self-conscious and passing Mrs. Peacock in the doorway with a newly lit cigarette on her lips.

Nearby, Plum moved farther down the bookshelf, reaching for another thick medical journal, most likely seeking more hidden money. As he touched the spine of the book, he bumped into Mrs. White, who was trying to clean a white porcelain bowl.

“Oh, uh, pardon me, ma’am,” he said, suddenly flustered.

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m just trying to get rid of this smudge! I bet this hasn’t been cleaned in years!” Plum looked around.

“Um… Right…” Mr. Plum went to the other side of the room.

A few seconds later, Mr. Green sauntered in the room and stood by a copper statue.

“You look like you need a drink,” Mustard said, striding over with a glass in his hand.

Suddenly a loud scream sounded from down the hall.

“You know it,” Green said, taking the glass from Mustard. All six guests rushed into the billiard room, where the scream had come.

The cook was standing in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth.

“I was coming to get some rum from the bar for the tiramisu when I saw him!” She pointed to the billiard table. The guests leaned forward to see Gladwell with a noose around his neck, lying on the table, strangled to death. Mrs. White and Scarlet gasped, Mrs. Peacock’s hat bobbed precariously.

Mustard raised his voice, “Alright! Everyone in the library! Including the cook!”

The guests looked back and forth at each other. The murderer had to be one of them. They all made their way into the library, the dark curtains drawn, the orange lamps glowing. Oil paintings hung on the wall, the eyes of the subjects staring at each person accusingly.

“Why would someone murder the butler?!” Mrs. White wailed, covering her mouth with her handkerchief.

“What does that matter?” Mr. Plum exclaimed. “All that matters is that we find out who it was! Because I do not want to be alone in this house with them! The doors are locked, Gladwell had the key. There’s no way out!”

A nervous titter rippled between the guests. It was true; they were all stuck here with a murderer.

“I remember the last conversation I had with him,” Mustard said, shaking his head. “He was saying how whoever was blackmailing us had to have access to governments records that contained dirt on all of us. Who else would murder Gladwell but the blackmailer? He was the only other person who knew the dirt on the rest of us. Sure, he said he didn’t have the guts to blackmail, but that may not have been true. That posed as competition to the blackmailer- a threat.”

“It had to have happened in the last five minutes,” Scarlet said. “Gladwell had just left the room after he dropped off the drinks. Who wasn’t in everyone’s sight in the last five minutes?”

Scarlet looked at Mr. Green. Mr. Green looked at Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock looked at the cook. The cook looked frightened.

“It couldn’t have been me! I was recording myself for that contest! I have proof!” the cook yelled. She pulled out a camcorder from her apron and hit play. The date and time was clear in the corner of the screen as she chopped vegetables. Everyone looked at Mrs. Peacock.

“I went to get a cigarette! I wasn’t gone all that long!” she trilled.

They turned to Mr. Green.

“Well I didn’t do it,” he said flatly.

They turned to each other.

“Besides the cook, not very convincing arguments,” Mustard muttered.

“Wait!” cried Mrs. White. They all turned to her small figure. “The rope! That was the rope from those dirty curtains in the hall! I remember- it was frayed. Bugged the heck out of me. It was rubbed with cedar oil.”

“I see where you’re going with this!” Plum said excitedly. Everyone turned to him. He paused. “Um… Actually, maybe not.”

Mrs. White gave an exasperated sigh.

“The murderer is whosever’s hands smell like cedar! They had to have tied and handled the rope!”

Scarlet and the cook clapped their hands happily.

They all turned to the suspects.

“Stick out your hands!” Mustard boomed.

Mrs. Peacock pursed her lips and jabbed her hands out. Mr. Green calmly put down his gin and held out his hands. The guests leaned forward and smelled their hands.

“YOU!” they yelled.

“Told you I didn’t do it,” Green said, stepping off to the side.

“It was Mrs. Peacock! In the billiard room! With the rope!”

Mrs. Peacock stomped her foot.

“Gladwell spoiled everything!” she shouted. “He got nosy, and had to ask everyone about their lives. Why did you tell him what you were being blackmailed for? You stupid people. He’s poor! Why wouldn’t he blackmail you, too? I couldn’t allow that. That information was mine.”

“But why?” Scarlet asked. Peacock sighed.

“My husband didn’t leave me a thing. After all that! Nothing! Except- the access to his office. He had all his records in there. Well, what a perfect opportunity! I found the most scandalous cases- you five- and earned the fortune I deserved.”

“I’m poor because of you!” Plum shouted. “Look what you did to me! I do not want to be locked in a house with a murderer like you!”

Suddenly, he reached for Colonel Mustard. He pulled the revolver out of the holster that was strapped to Mustard’s waist and aimed it at Mrs. Peacock. Every guest jumped for him, trying to grab the gun. They were all struggling to pull the weapon out of Mr. Plum’s hand when it went off.

A loud bang echoed through the whole house, making the china and other heirlooms quiver. Mrs. Peacock lay dead on the Oriental rug, a bullet in her heart.

They all looked at their own doing. In the library. With the revolver.

The yoyo was white. Originally. Now? Well, by now it was far from white. It seemed that every color sharpie known to Wal-Mart had scrambled for its own little part of the toy upon which to scribble. As it spun down to the grey and orange flecked carpet, the colors blurred together into an unsightly brown. But when it snapped back up, flying into skilled fingers, the yoyo held still for a millisecond, revealing the detailed patterning drawn by the owner. Red fingernails dug into the plastic impatiently before chucking it to the floor, only to catch it again the next moment.

The skilled fingers belonged to Mackenzie B. Only “B.” because she never wrote out her whole last name on her artwork in grade school to drive her painting teacher up the wall. As the yoyo froze for a moment once more in her palm, one could quickly read “ZeeBie” in multi-color bubble letters along the surface.

She tapped her foot irritably and blew a stray curl from her face through bright red lips. She pushed her rose colored glasses farther up the bridge of her nose and ruffled her mass of black curly hair. She had been waiting for this moment for months. Just think, her reward for weeks of labor would be her hands in less than ten minutes. She peered around the large bald man in front of her toward the teller. She tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, could you tell me what time it is?” she asked confidently, a trace of impatience leaking into her words. The man lifted a thick, tattooed arm and showed her a bulky black and red watch on his wrist. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve been standing in line nearly half an hour …” she muttered, flicking her yoyo up and down even faster. She wanted her reward. “Love the watch by the way, sir. Thank you.”

Zeebie stopped the yoyo and pulled her paint-stained purse from her shoulder. She grabbed a small notebook and scribbled a few words and digits with a purple pen.

“Excuse me, sir?” she chirped, tapping the man on the shoulder again. He turned and raised his eyebrows at her. She flashed a smile. “Yes, hello, I’m Mackenzie B., you can call me Zeebie. I’m an artist. You have the perfect stature for a piece I was thinking of doing. Here’s my number. I stay up late, so if you’re at all interested, feel free to call from 9:00 am to 2:30 am.”

She ripped the page from the notebook and held it out to him. The man towered over her small, unflinching figure, staring at the bright purple phone number. Zeebie blinked and wiggled the paper.

“Well take it. You never know, right?”

The man slowly took the slip, keeping his dark eyes on her suspiciously. Mackenzie B. pulled out her yoyo once more and started to hum absent-mindedly, still tapping her foot. The yoyo continued to bounce up and down until the man left and she was at the front of the line. She faced a pale, mousy red-head hidden behind bullet-proof glass and large spectacles that, quite possibly, could have also been bullet-proof.

“Yes, how may I be of service?” the red-head asked in an unexpectedly bold voice, making Zeebie cock a brow. She sized up the teller again. “Must be the glass force field they’ve got goin’ here…” she thought. She reached into her purse and grabbed the key to her treasure. She took a deep breath.

“Hi, I’d like to make a deposit, please. Here’s my card and check.” Zeebie slid the objects under the slit in the window. The teller’s eyes widened behind already magnified lenses, giving the same effect as a goldfish in a bowl.

Zeebie smiled at the teller’s surprised look, picturing the 12 ft x 24 ft painting she had been working on for the past four months. She felt her pride swell up inside her. Mackenzie B. continued to spring the yoyo up and down rhythmically as she went through the bank’s tedious procedures. By the end of the process, the small toy was bouncing three times as fast and was blurring into a brown that was three times as ugly.

After the transaction was complete, Zeebie thanked the teller, pulled a Polaroid camera out of her purse, and snapped a quick photo of the fragile, red-headed figure. She grinned at the bank receipt showing her five thousand dollar deposit, the glorious self-earned treasure. Five thousand dollars! Mackenzie B. left the bank dancing to her iPod shuffle, the yoyo of many colors dancing with her in celebration.