 | One Last Song All the pieces are there. An opulent, off-the-grid lake house, a bottle of wine, a guitar, a dead musician, and a prime suspect. But how do they fit together? |
| Contest: | Flash Fiction Challenge 2017 |
| Round: | 1 |
| Genre: | Mystery |
| Location: | A lake house |
| Object: | A guitar |
| Results: | 12pts - 4th place |
It wasn't everyday I got to speak to a beautiful Hollywood celebrity, much less one accused of murder. "This way, please, Ms. Blakely," I said as I escorted her into the interrogation room. Detective O’Connor sat at the far end of a stained metal table, waiting patiently.
"Take off her cuffs, Jenkins," ordered the detective. I did, and Ms. Blakely thanked me as she took a seat across from the detective.
"So why did you kill your ex-husband?" He stated the question matter-of-factly.
"I did nothing of the kind," Ms. Blakely replied, calmly.
O'Connor gave her a long, hard stare. Finally he shook his head, opening the file he held. He perused the contents a moment before continuing.
"You were found alone at the crime scene. Your dead ex-husband was at your feet, poisoned, still clutching his guitar. A bottle of wine from your own family's vineyards was open on the table with two glasses, one empty and one full. Traces of aconite were detected in both glasses."
Wolfsbane, I thought to myself. He was probably dead within an hour.
Ms. Blakely seemed unphased. "All perfectly explainable, I assure you," she said with a tight-lipped smile.
The detective seemed far from convinced. He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "Okay. Why don't you start by telling me what you were doing at the lake house?"
"That's simple," replied Ms. Blakely. "Paul had asked me to meet him to sign some papers."
"What papers?"
"Tax documents on the lake house. I still own half of the house, you know."
"No, I didn't know," stated the detective. After a brief pause, he asked, "How much is that property worth?"
"Two and a quarter million, roughly," she answered.
I let out a low whistle, earning a stern glare from O'Connor.
The detective continued, "So now that your husband's dead, I guess it's all yours, huh?" Ms. Blakely's eyes narrowed slightly, but she kept her cool.
"Yes, detective, that's right. But that's all I'll get. Maybe that seems a lot to you, but it's a fraction of my ex-husband's estate," she answered.
"He was a musician, right?" asked the detective.
"Paul was lead guitarist for the Bent Crowns. Surely you've heard of them?"
The detective shook his head, but I couldn't help chiming in. "Oh, I have," I said. "Great band! I play a little myself, you know, with the department band. At the Spring picnic, we played that song he wrote about you, Ms. Blakely. You know, the one that starts in A-flat-seven-sus-four. That chord’s a real killer…" Suddenly I noticed the expressions of both the detective and Ms. Blakely, and reigned in my enthusiasm.
“Anyway,” she continued, “he’s more than just the lead guitarist. He also wrote most of the band’s music. He holds the copyrights on almost the whole catalog. It’s worth tens of millions.”
“And who owns that now?” asked O’Connor
“That’s a good question,” said Ms. Blakely. “But I do know Brian—the lead singer in the band—has been after those copyrights for years.”
The detective raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”
“It’s common knowledge,” she said. “Brian and Paul have been feuding over copyrights for years. Brian thinks he deserves credit for inspiring the lyrics. Paul says that’s bogus and Brian never had any part of the creative process. He just sang the songs. As a concession, Paul agreed to leave the copyrights to the band in his will. If that’s true, then Rick, along with the rest of the band, could inherit a fortune.”
The detective scratched his chin. “Okay, lady, I’m intrigued. But you still have a lot to explain. Your husband was poisoned to death. You were the only soul around for miles. That house is totally off the grid, only one way in or out. Nobody else could have poisoned that wine. Never mind the fact that it was your wine.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, detective,” Ms. Blakely replied smoothly. “Yes, it was my bottle…but it wasn’t my wine.”
O’Connor slapped his palms on the table. “Okay, you’ve lost me.”
“The bottle was Cabernet Sauvignon. But the wine was Merlot. The bouquet is quite different. I’m sure someone must have noticed…”
The detective frowned, shuffling through his papers. Suddenly his eyebrows shot up. “You’re right. One of the investigators mentioned it smelled like Merlot. But what does that prove? You could have filled the bottle to cover the taste of the poison.”
“But why would I poison both glasses? No. Somebody sent that bottle to Paul. He opened it and poured two glasses, one for me and one for himself. I was late, so he started without me. He was dead by the time I arrived.” Ms. Blakely paused. “If I hadn’t been late, I’d be dead, too.”
The detective sat silently for a while, hands clasped on the table. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he motioned towards the door. “Get out.”
“I’m free to go?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, for now. Deputy Jenkins will escort you out,” he said. “But don’t leave the county! Understand?”
“I understand, detective. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.” With that, I escorted Ms. Blakely out of the station to her car. She thanked me, and quickly drove away.
Back in the office, Detective O’Connor stared helplessly at the files. “There’s one thing I can’t figure, Jenkins.”
“Sir?”
Why did the guy die with his guitar in his hands? He must have known he’d been poisoned. So why the guitar? Why not try to leave a message or something?”
I thought about it for a long time. “Can I see that photo?” He handed me an image of the body, still clutching the guitar. And there it was, plain as day. “He did leave a message.”
The detective blinked. “What?”
“He’s not just holding the guitar, sir. He’s forming a chord. An A-flat-seven-sus-four, to be exact.”
O’Connor’s eyes widened as understanding crept in. “Aw shit! Jenkins, find that woman!”