Two detectives looked out across the grounds of the estate with its heir, Andrew Sarcophogus. Some serious shit had gone down. Andrew’s parents were dead and a work of art had been stolen. The forensics team still crawled the house. Meanwhile, Detective Peter O’Slooth wanted answers. “So all this is yours now.” He glanced at his partner and raised an eyebrow. Detective Gumheel smirked back.
“Yes,” Andrew said, “but it’s not what you think. I would never have killed my parents to inherit their estate. I don’t even want the burden of dealing with it. Look at this monstrosity!”
It was true. The place was enormous, with a tennis court, a riding ring, gardens, and a pond with a beautiful white swan. The cost of the grounds maintenance was likely astronomical. Not to mention the property taxes. Still, who wouldn’t want this place?
(Image credit: Lobos Houska, Pixabay)
“So, help us out then, Sarcophogus. Who may have had a motive?”
“Please. Call me Andrew. Or Honest Andy, if you prefer. That was my parents’ nickname for me, may they rest in peace. You see, I always tell the truth.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh God. I don’t know if anyone in their circle would have wanted to do them in. It’s possible. They had a lot of so-called friends.”
O’Slooth pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “So-called?”
“Yes, because of their money. And their art collection–the Rembrandts, Picassos and Chagalls. My parents were high society types, but honestly, were not well liked. People just wanted to see the art. Most of their friends were leeches. Or in competition with them. Rose and Indigo White, for example, seemed to take a vicious pleasure in one-upping them in the who-owns-what game.”
O’Slooth jotted notes in his notebook.
Detective Gumheel took out a notebook as well. “So, Andrew, I understand the stolen artwork was a piece by a lesser known artist, rather than one of the masters.”
“Yes,” Andrew said. “It was an original Anike Kirsten. Lovely artwork, titled The Whale.”
(Image Credit: @anikekirsten)
“I’ve seen a picture of it,” O’Slooth said. “It’s a magnificent piece.”
At that moment, a woman in a bright red dress, a floppy black sun hat and enormous sunglasses emerged onto the grounds from a garden gate and walked over to them. Sarcophogus smiled. “Hello Candy. Come meet the detectives investigating my parents’ case.”
Candy removed her sunglasses and extended her hand to the detectives. “Good day, I’m Catherine Candlestick. But I go by Candy. I’m the accountant for the estate. And you are?”
“Detective William Gumheel.”
“And Detective Peter O’Slooth. Nice to meet you, Candy.” He looked over at Gumheel, who somehow maintained an even expression. They would have a lot to talk about back at the precinct. An accountant would certainly know the value of the art collections. A potential motive, perhaps?
Candy put a hand to her chest. “What a terrible thing, these murders. Oh, and the missing painting. It’s just awful isn’t it?”
O’Slooth could not help but notice her somewhat disingenuous tone.
The sun had dried the dew from the leaves and flowers, and it was getting hot. Andrew produced his cell phone from a hip pocket and made a call. “Hello Cooke. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d love some tea. Yes, with ice. The detectives and Miss Candlestick. On the veranda. Thank you.”
O’Slooth looked up from his notebook. “Your parents had a professional cook?”
“Not technically, no. He does a bit of everything. More of a butler slash housekeeper.”
“But you called him Cook.”
“Well, yes. That’s his name. With an ‘e’.”
O’Slooth and Gumheel both jotted in their notebooks. Gumheel squinted at Andrew and Candy. “So, let me ask something of you both. Why would an art burglar steal the Anike Kirsten, instead of, say, a Rembrandt or a Chagall?”
Candy laughed, presumably at Gumheel’s naivete. “Have you ever tried to sell a stolen Rembrandt?”
Gumheel glanced at O’Slooth. “But why even collect the lesser artists? Isn’t the big money in collecting masterpieces?”
Andrew shrugged. “You would think so. But my parents found that there is excellent money to be made by discovering a lesser artist early on. The goal is to find a promising painter on the cusp of broad awareness amongst the art collecting community. When they rise in fame, you can see a tremendous increase in the value of your collection.”
“Interesting. I suppose that’s why the Anike Kirsten went missing. Is she an up-and-coming artist?”
“Oh yes. You can say that again. In fact, since The Whale went missing, the value of her pieces has quadrupled.”
O’Slooth tapped his notebook with his pen. Very interesting. What happened next was even more of a surprise.
Cooke arrived–a sinister-looking fellow with a high forehead and a long jaw so deeply set with fissured wrinkles that they appeared to have been carved there. As he placed the glasses of iced tea on the patio table, O’Slooth couldn’t help but notice the jangling of keys from Cooke’s belt. Certainly Cooke had access to every room of the house. Access, yes, but motive?
Cooke spoke to Andrew in a deep resonating voice. “There was a call for you on the house phone, Mr. Sarcophogus. It was Ms. Kirsten.”
Andrew wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “Ah, thank you, that will be all then, Cooke.”
O’Slooth took a sip of his iced tea and looked at Andrew. “So you’re in touch with the artist, then?”
“Yes. She seems to have a vested interest in the outcome of all this. Interesting, isn’t it?”
O’Slooth made another mental note. Anike Kirsten had clearly benefited from the theft of her artwork. The list of suspects was getting more interesting by the minute.
With iced teas in hand, they stepped down off the veranda and strolled past a lush flower garden, where a gardener in brown overalls was kneeling, pulling weeds. He squinted and looked up, his white grizzled beard catching the morning sunlight.
“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” Andrew said.
O’Slooth was glad to be crossing paths with the fellow by broad daylight, as he was a strapping big brute of a man and looked none too pleasant. Evidently the Sarcophoguses hired thugs, perhaps believing it would protect them. The gardener held up a gloved hand in a solemn wave and returned to his work. O’Slooth remembered the mud the EMTs had found on the parquet entrance floor the night of the killing and added the gardener to his list.
The four strolled across the manicured lawn. O’Slooth noticed a thicket that seemed to have a rough footpath going through it. “What’s this?”
(Image credit: @bex-dk)
“Nothing much,” Andrew said. “The dog runs around out here.”
O’Slooth walked to the edge of the thicket and parted the branches. There was a clearing on the other side, where an ancient building stood. “It’s a bit more than a dog run.” He parted the brush, and waved the others through.
Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “Oh that. It’s just an old out building.”
(Image credit: ddzphoto, Pixabay)
“I’d like to check it out.” O’Slooth nudged both Candy and Andrew forward, and they all walked over to the building and stepped inside.
The place was in ruins. It appeared to be the previous mansion structure, from before the current estate was built.
They scuffled through the debris. The windows were gone, and the structure was badly damaged from weather and years of neglect. Most of the doors were open and a hot breeze moved through.
(Image credit: SIFotografie, Pixabay)
Gumheel split off from the group. Andrew took Candy’s hand and turned back the way they had come. “Well, I think you’ve seen what there is to see here. Shall we get going?”
“Soon enough. Once we look around.” O’Slooth took their arms and guided them along the hallway. He peered into each room.
“O’Slooth, I think you want to see this.” They followed Gumheel’s voice and found him standing before a door bolted shut with a shiny brass lock.
O’Slooth looked sternly at Andrew. “I’m absolutely sure you know what this is.”
Both Andrew and Candy looked pale. “I suppose there’s no use denying it,” Andrew said. He worked the lock until it clicked. When he swung the door wide, cool, dry air emerged.
Stacked against several other works in the temperature-controlled room was the Anike Kirsten. “Care to explain, Andrew?”
Andrew looked at Candy. “The jig is up, honey.” He turned to the detectives. “Fine. I’ll tell you everything. Things had been going well for us. But my parents figured out that we were siphoning money from their accounts to buy work from emerging artists, and that we orchestrated a burglary to steal this one. Then, well, we had end things. For our own protection.”
O’Slooth took out a pair of handcuffs. “But I thought you said you didn’t kill them, Honest Andy.”
As O’Slooth cuffed him and Gumheel cuffed Candy, Andrew said, “No. I said I wouldn’t kill them to inherit the estate. And I was telling the truth!”
About this story
This story was an entry for @gmuxx’s art prompt writing contest. I have some more notes at the end about an intentional literary mechanism at work, which I really had fun with in writing this piece.
This story uses a literary mechanism called the “unreliable narrator.” You can read about it in this post from @steemitgraven describing the latest Write Club prompt. The #writeclub group is debating whether an unreliable narrator story can be told in third person. Wikipedia says yes. I decided to test the theory. Meanwhile, I’m also working on the actual story I’ll be submitting for Write Club.
I won’t mention the reference to Clue here, but I will reward whoever first finds it and posts it in comments with 1 SBD. I hope you had fun with this!
I’d like to extend a sincere thank you to The Writers’ Block for their editing assistance. @therosepatch, in particular, helped me with last minute edits! Thank you!
