Creston Fulmont Jr. smiled at his computer’s monitor. Wall Street was loving his layoff of one-third of Fulprise Corp.’s employees. The company’s stock would likely set a record by the end of the day.
He looked up and continued to smile at the long rows of gold-framed magazine covers that bore his face. A more introspective man would have been at least mildly curious about having his face on the cover of Seventeen, but Fulmont took it as his due.
Father Ramon stepped to the pulpit to deliver his Sunday morning homily. The familiar faces looked up at him with the familiar expressions: expectant, sleepy, thoughtful, judgmental, and blank. This Sunday, though, the old priest knew he would give them a lesson they would remember.
“You have noticed the sword on the high altar,” he began. “It has lain there for two weeks, now. I have told no one the story of how it came to be there, but I will tell you now.”
The sleepy and blank faces took on more life. The judgmental remained judgmental, as if daring the priest to be interesting.
The suit had never fit well. It bulged in odd places; it was too loose in some spots and too tight in others.
And it itched. That was the worst part.
But his days of wearing it were finally coming to an end. A couple of hours longer and he’d be able to ditch it permanently. There was just one more stop to make first.
The bell over the door jangled as the young, snub-nosed blonde woman walked into the candy shop.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Frankel,” she said cheerily.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gabriela. And how are you today?”
“I’m doing very well, thank you. Oh, and those chocolate mints I got from you last week were so wonderful. I loved them.”
“I’m so glad, Miss. Perhaps you would like another pound. On the house, of course.”
“Well, I would like some more, Mr. Frankel. But just half a pound, and I insist on paying for them. No wonder you own a candy store; you’re so sweet.”
They exchanged more pleasantries, and Mr. Frankel handed Gabriela her candy and an envelope.
Kay strolled slowly through the antique shop. She and Barry had met in such a store. She gently lifted a nautical barometer.
“My, aren’t you handsome,” she said. “So manly and wise and helpful. Barry would have enjoyed you so much.” But she set it down again, a bit wistfully. Barry had broken off their relationship three years earlier and she had to visit antique stores alone.
Walking on, she saw a magazine rack that had been both well used and well cared for. She touched a corner. “Sam would have liked you, even though he wasn’t particularly fond of antiques. You would have looked good in his home.” But again she moved on; Sam had dated her, briefly, before Barry had.
Kay came around a corner in the shop and froze. There, at the end of the aisle, two little boys were engaged in a very serious tug-of-war with a china figurine. She strode down the aisle quickly.
She colored all her flesh chartreuse and all her hair neon pink.
That was for visibility.
Clad only in these hues and a pair of black flip-flops, she walked through the heart of the city, striding briskly, with purpose, to indicate she was going somewhere and was not merely on display.
That was for dignity.
She met the eyes of everyone who would meet hers, neither challenging them nor giving them succor.
That was for honesty.
She walked into the building, nodded politely to the woman at the information desk, and got on the elevator to go to the 31st floor.
That was for practicality.
She entered the suite and the receptionist welcomed her by name. At workstations, in cubicles, and in offices people stopped and looked at her and applauded.
That was for chutzpah.
“A few more times here and in the other cities,” the director said, “and we’ll start the ads linking her to our highlighters. Everyone’s going to want them. This is the greatest product launch ever!”
That was for money.
Dave opened the door to his home and walked in. He took off his cap and jacket and hung them on the coat tree. As he turned to go into the living room he froze in place.
There stood Missy, and she was armed; a custard pie with a high dome of whipped cream rested, rather heavily, in her right hand.
“Missy,” Dave said, “I see you are standing there armed with a custard pie with a high dome of whipped cream. It is resting, rather heavily, in your right hand.”
“Nothing gets past you, Dave. That includes this pie.”
A quiet rumble of thunder floated across the blue sky.
“That’s all this day needs,” Marla said to herself. “A little melodrama.”
The door flew open and the knob banged against the wall for the nth time that day as Lance came in for the final box.
“Make that ‘a little more melodrama,'” she corrected.
The storm raged on, showing no signs of abating, and nearly covering the sound of gunshots inside the Salvorson mansion.
Three men, who had come from different parts of the mansion, stood around the body of their late, unlamented business partner, Brock Salvorson. He was lying at the bottom of a long, steep flight of stairs.
“If it weren’t for the multiple gunshot wounds, we could have said he fell,” Ian Irwin said.
“I think we must also rule out suicide,” Philip Ordell added.
“Gentlemen,” said Tate Fanchon, “one of us is a murderer.”
“And we all have motive for killing the S.O.B.,” Ordell said.
The funeral had ended. The casket was buried. The dinner at the church had been eaten. The guests had expressed their sympathies and gone.
They were back at the house now, and it was just family. Helen was straightening things up, whether they needed to be straightened or not. Her Uncle Curtis was in the room with her, picking things up, studying them fondly, and setting them down again. Two people were missing.
“Where’d they go?” Helen asked her uncle.
“To Father’s study. The moment the last guest left, they both made a beeline back there to start going over his papers again. They’re going to work out to the penny what he was worth, and no matter what they learn they’ll be angry.”