May for Mystery
Who among us can resist a great murder mystery? They always start with ordinary situations, but when things take a bloody turn, we find ourselves
unable to put down the book, hanging on the author’s every word, and trying to put the pieces together ourselves. And when the mystery is
finally solved and all loose ends are neatly tied up, that sense of satisfaction we feel, well, there’s nothing quite like it.
With murder mysteries being such a universal favorite, the banyan trees chose as its May Theme ‘Dial May for murder’. As a nudge in the right direction,
we also gave our writers this optional setting for their grim tales.
“The guests froze and the parlor became eerily quiet. All eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Everyone was thinking the same thing: one of
them had to be the killer…”
Inside this edition, you’ll find creative takes on the classic murder mystery, from humorous pieces to clever detective stories. See if you can
crack the case before the big reveal… Happy sleuthing!
Dont forget to name your guesses for the stories with part II in our comment section. 
The Gift
Tobias Kroll
The phial’s content was dark and stagnant; the ribbon seemed to choke its neck. A precious-looking card said “Just for you, my love.” A coffee maker hissed and snarled in the kitchen corner.
He awoke and found himself alone in the bed. A reluctant thunder growled over him as he sat up and let his face sink heavily into his hands. First drops of rain hit the windowsill. The coffee maker spat and snorted sickly, then fell silent. His gift was waiting.
It was his birthday.
The Horseman
- Tobias Kroll
The stairway resonated with heavy creaking until the assassin reached the attic, where the dust danced silently in the shimmering light.
Looking through the round window with its scratched glass, he could oversee the sandy courtyard. He settled down, at his spot underneath the window, took up his rifle and began to wait.
The courtyard reflected the sound of the bells that rang in the chapel. A dog crossed the lucid space and got invisible, hiding in the shadow.
A little old woman with black braids as thick as her arms stooped slowly through his sight. The horseman did not come.
Clouds rolled by as years did, and children were born for whom no raindrop fell. The horses in the stables across the yard grew old and died. And the horseman did not come.
Rougher times and milder times took endless turns.
MANY YEARS LATER,
the horseman came galloping into the courtyard, slid off his horse and, still out of breath, handed the note to the old man who did not know the rain. The note said the horseman would be shot by the assassin lying in ambush behind the attic window. The peones were sent immediately to capture the killer. But they found nothing except a stooped bundle of dried skin that rustled and flaked off like tobacco. The assassin had written in the dust around him: “The horseman never came”.
The wind blew some leaves across the yard.
The Game’s Afoot
Anuradha Chandrasekaran
Both cannot be more different and yet in the fiction world, both have gone on to solve world famous puzzles with relative ease. The Rich and famous have sought their advice. Even now fan mails and letters with specific detective problems pour in to 221B Baker Street. We all know Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, in their own little worlds, as the most loved fictional detectives. However what I endeavour to do today is to paint a comparison, not as to who is better but about how very different both were in their means of solving a puzzle
Whilst Hercule Poirot scorned at the very method of what he titled “hunting for clues”, by looking for footprints, fingerprints or anything that the criminal left behind, Sherlock Holmes was described as the human hound in his very first novel. Watson presented him as a detective who could give us information about a man’s origins simply based on the cigarette he smoked, his profession by following his gait or the way he wore his spectacles etc. While Holmes went all around the place gathering evidence and posing as hundred different people during the process, Poirot sought answers in what he fondly referred to as “grey cells”.”I just need to sit and think. They are all here in these grey cells”, He used to say. While Sherlock Holmes was a man with a precise scientific mind to whom a woman never mattered in essence, Hercule Poirot was the exact opposite in his daintiness and the way he noticed women. He was irked by even minute details like whether a woman had not made up her face. To Holmes almost everything was judged based on pure intellect while Poirot was often moved by emotions. His suspiscions were sometimes based on pure instinct as a reaction to the way people felt around him. The only time I have ever seen Holmes exhibit any kind of emotion was when Watson was shot while they were keeping watch on a smuggler and the only woman whom he referred to as “the woman” was Irene Adler, the only person to have ever out-witted him on a case.
However one very similar characteristic that both had,in my opinion, was the air of superiority that they carried with them whereever they went. Of course in a way they did deserve it for the way their minds worked. But I have often been irked by the way they have treated Hastings and Watson. They were treated as if they were too dumb to understand anything about a murder at hand. Both Holmes and Poirot had an extremely charming way of extracting information by putting the people they were questioning at ease. And ofcourse both never took credit on any of the cases they helped solve.
Do I like one better than the other? difficult… very difficult. Purely based on persona I have always found Sherlock Holmes a very interesting and enduring character while Hercule Poirot would have positively got on my nerves. However as far as the stories and the plots concern I would dig both on any given day.
The Forgotten Damsel -Adithya SriKrishna
The room was eerily quiet. Not a word was spoken in the last fifteen minutes. All the eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Not a single soul had an explanation to give to the other. They knew the gravity of the crime, the unbelievable nature of the incident. Everyone stood their ground frozen with shock written all over their faces. They had walked into the room and were either instantly petrified or bumped into the one that had entered before. The body was lying on the floor, a perfectly fit man, about 6 ft tall, scar on his right cheeks and short black hair greying at the temples. James Bond was dead.
The usual suspects were all present. Looking at the no. of people and their relevance, it looked more like a memorial service than a crime scene. There was M standing next to the body of Bond, a kind of shock that took nothing away from her restrained face. Q was also present at the scene. He remembered dropping the phone when he heard the news and came over immediately. The Quartermaster couldn’t take a step beyond the entrance and stayed close to it dumbstruck. There was one other person in the room who if not for the absurdity of the turn of events would have been conspicuous in the current situation. Ms. Moneypenny sat on a chair beside Q, her hand over her mouth and a slight hint of tear that was waiting to trickle down any moment.
The forensics was on their way and until then the people in the room maintained status quo. It was a clear case of poisoning. There was no hint of a struggle, merely an empty glass that had rolled down towards the edge of the carpet as Bond’s body lay behind the couch. Bond was immaculately dressed in white shirt and black trousers with only the coat missing indicating that he had just returned home. Possibly from abroad because M had no contact with him in the last three days. And that was quite normal considering their history. The most intriguing aspect was the fact that Bond was not involved in any case at that point of time. He had finished an assignment in Central America and returned just about a week ago. Technically, he was on a break. But it was no secret to anyone – M, Q and Monepenny of all people – that Bond had made enemies faster than he’d bed a woman.
The forensics arrived and got on with their job. M moved around carefully and going by her body language, it was apparent that she had seldom been to this place. The place was dimly lit and adequately furnished. There was a study with a large table, a lot of books on the shelf and several compartments below the table. Quite unlike Bond, M thought to herself. Ms.Moneypenny followed her wherever she went and M didn’t seem to mind. Not this time. They didn’t utter a word to each other though. M walked across and magically produced a bunch of keys from an opening in the wall. Only that it didn’t look like an opening at first. Moneypenny had no idea what she just witnessed but she observed M move around the table and open two of the compartments under the study.
The first one she opened was almost overflowing with photographs. Most of them were of naked women, lying on the bed in various poses, and quite undoubtedly at the end of a passionate night. Or moment. On the back of the photographs were names handwritten by Bond himself. M and Moneypenny were both able to dissect that. The only two living people who could. M still showed no qualms about Moneypenny joining her in her aimless quest. The one M picked first said Honey Rider. Some more inconsequential photographs in inappropriate positions later Moneypenny found one more significant one. The writing on the back said Pussy Galore. M picked some more and collected pictures of women she was aware about. There were also some of them she had no idea about. Moneypenny picked up pictures of Plenty O’Toole, Octopussy, Solitaire, Stacy Sutton and Tatiana Romanova. M picked up those of Domino, Kissy Suzuki, Judy Havelock and Anya Amasova. M dug further down to find the only picture of a fully clothed woman. The tag said Slyvia Trench which made M wonder why would this picture be included along with the rest.
The widespread belief was that Bond never cared much for his women. It was also common knowledge that M was one of severest critics of this trait. But this moment’s discoveries overwhelmed her to an extent that she was ready to revaluate Bond in a new light. A collection of photographs doesn’t say much but M never believed that Bond could have a thing for posterity. Moneypenny casually gestured to M that there is another compartment waiting to be discovered. As they both stared into the second compartment the most noticeable aspect was how neatly this one was arranged. It had three sets of photographs arranged in chronological order. The first set had photographs of Vesper Lynd. Both M and Moneypenny couldn’t help a wry smile as they switched from one photograph of Vesper to another, some fully clothed, some semi naked. Another common knowledge among Bond’s close associates was his history with Vesper Lynd. M opened the second set. Tracy Bond aka Teresa di Vicenzo was the name written behind these, a lady Bond was married to and one of the few he was emotionally attached to in his lifetime. Once again, there were no surprises there for the two ladies in the room. Moneypenny went for the third set of photographs. She grabbed the one on the top and looked at it. Someone familiar, sitting at an office desk stared back at her. The office was M’s and the front desk belonged to Moneypenny.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Almost all the photographs were taken at the front desk. Of course that was the least of all mysteries running through Moneypenny’s mind at that instant. Several questions, nonsensical or otherwise, came crashing into her. Did Bond love her? Did Bond ever dream of a future with her? Did he really think of her in the same vain as Vesper? Or even Tracy? If not, why would the photographs be in this compartment? Her heart was racing with questions and she was shattered to realize that the answers died with Bond. She came back to her senses as M held her arms and shook, “Moneypenny! Are you alright? I understand this must be hard but the people from the forensics have finished their job. We must get going.” And with that she walked out of the room leaving Moneypenny in the same position like nothing significant happened. She walked to the door and gazed at Bond’s dead body.
She thought to herself, with that tear finally trickling down, “What have I done?”
Picture Credit:http://www.bondstreetshops.com/wardrobe/images/moneypenny_l.jpg
Johnny X, 29, Dead
Ajay Ramachandran
Summer – Starlet, Johnny’s Date for the Night
When Johnny asked me, I was like ok. I mean, he said he’ll hook me up with some producers and when you think Johnny you are like, some serious partying right? But I knew it was a mistake the second I came in. BIG mistake. I was bored out of my mind. Totally. Forget that there was no producer of any sort, even the suite sucked. This loser who owned the place looked like Steve Carell, but was unfunny and had a belly. Anyway, he had asked for a 70s theme and he was like NO, when he saw my That 70s Show costume. Johnny somehow calmed him down. And don’t even freakin’ get me started me on the no cell phones part. I mean seriously. I don’t know how Johnny was friends with him. He was nuts, this guy. Anyway, I got bored with the guys. They only stared at me (and my body), but never spoke more than a few words. You know, I know I was with Johnny, but I am still a woman, guys, you could still engage me. Anyway, I walked up to this brunette who was drinking some red thingy. I thought it was Shiraz, but no, it was pomegranate juice. She was one of those weirdos, who don’t do booze and meat. I even had to be careful and say non-alcoholic jokes. Such a total tightass. The guys were far better. I excused myself now and then to go to the ladies, which was a chore as I had to get past the floor where Johnny was going to play his guitar later and god it was dark. Luckily I had a whole bottle of sleeping pills in my handbag and I popped a couple whenever I was in the ladies. That and Long Island Ice Tea fixed me up real good. I was my royal highness.
Billy – Hotel Owner, Johnny’s Best Bud
The sight of old Johnny sprawled on the floor, his beige suit dipped in red at first was laughed at. If you know Johnny, you would have done the same thing. He had already set the evening ablaze with his suit. I understand it was a 70s themed party and all that. And actually there was nothing extraordinary about the suit itself except for the fact that it was cut at some snooty street somewhere in London. But seeing Johnny in a suit was like seeing Gandhi in a Levi’s. So naturally the girls who laughed when they saw him at first thought it was some kind of a prank he was pulling. I remember saying in vodka-laced tones, “Time’s up, Johnny” and turning the lights to the raised floor on. “That’s enough, Johnny, get the hell up.” He had gone there some time ago to check on his electric guitar and other instruments. He had said, “Turn off the lights, man, I know my way around my guitar.” You see, he had promised us a performance later on and you know these performers right. Too meticulous to the point of being eccentric. So we left him alone and had even forgotten about that. There was this guy who made us laugh with his Simpsons impressions. So time went by. When I kicked Johnny, there was no visible reaction. The laughs had started to die by now. A tricky silence made its presence too obvious for comfort. With something that resembled a screech than a cool laugh, I bent over him. Yes he definitely had passed out. I kept saying, “Stupid Johnny” over and over not knowing what to do. I mean I was too terrified to do anything. Like check his pulse or do whatever you do in such circumstances. The Simpsons guy, who it turned out was Johnny’s unseen bro-in-law and who had been a Boy Scout, pushed me aside and tried to resuscitate Johnny. “He’s dead” was all he could offer after a few tries. How a young man, not yet even thirty, who was so alive till half hour ago, was now “dead”, none could fathom. The girls screamed, hell, I screamed too. And Dino, the bell boy, did the smart thing of bolting the door so no one could go out. He stood by the door daring anyone to escape. Dino is about like nine foot. I don’t know why he didn’t take up a job as a bouncer. By this time, everyone had stopped drinking. And though alcohol had dimmed my senses, I could see that Johnny had been killed. Perhaps by one of us. Not me, but one of us.
I looked for my cell phone. Dammit. I couldn’t find it. Don’t panic, think, I said to myself. Think, idiot. It was only Johnny’s face that I saw whenever I tried to focus. How even as young as eight, we had wanted to make it big in music and how Johnny went on to do it and how I realized too late that I didn’t have what it takes and grit alone could only get you so far. I have envied him his raw gift, I admit, his how-in-God’s-name likability by one and all, even his smart investments. I swore vengeance when he stole my girlfriend…
Al – Johnny’s Brother-in-law
I was really surprised when my erstwhile brother-in-law, the famous Johnny X, called me up for a party his friend was throwing. It was more than 3 years since I spoke to him last. In fact, I remember it was at Erin’s funeral. Johnny didn’t even have the decency to say my sister had loved him all through their dysfunctional marriage. Instead, he read from something out of Dylan Thomas and everyone loved it. They almost forgot it was Erin who died. Last week, we met and he showed some emotion. “I know I was bad to Erin, Albert, but I don’t want to sustain enmity with you. Family is family, man” I don’t like being called Albert but Johnny never got this. Would I forgive him? I said yes. Would I also consider being an equal partner in his newly formed records company? I said yes, reluctantly. Money isn’t everything in life. It cannot bring Erin back, you jackass, I thought. Johnny introduced me to everybody at the party, as if I was a popular talk show host and this was the beginning of the show. “He makes hell of a Simpsons impersonation” he said. I thought Johnny had just passed out when his immature friend Billy almost started crying on seeing his friend on the floor. Erin had told me about his overdose problems. But, though I never liked him, I was shocked to see no sign of life in him. Perhaps that’s life.
Esther – Johnny’s Agent
I was very much against this whole party. I told Johnny so. But as always he patronized me. “Just get on with it, will you?” Billy seemed a nice fellow, but having a party at his hotel? Come on, now. I was not very surprised to see only a handful of people come, though many had RSVP’d yes. It was just Johnny, some bimbo he had picked up, Billy, Al, and myself. Party, huh? You can’t expect your mayor or your quarterback to just show up to this. The place was in the midst of seedy strip clubs. But it was not that bad (till Johnny was found lying motionless that is). Billy and Al were both sweet. Johnny was his stage-self: goofy. If only people knew how he was when you actually spend time with him. It is not fun, let me say. You sometimes think, am I that stupid really? And sometimes you just feel like ending everything then and there, you know. But I digress. For some reason the guys didn’t much like Summer, the bimbo. She looked odd. She looked as if she had some serious bowel difficulty. I’m serious. She used the restroom quite often. I was laughing at something Billy had said, when I saw Johnny on the floor. Even Summer was laughing. I thought she was just high. After a few minutes, I went and looked at him. His eyes were closed. His suit had smears of vomit and Al said he was dead. “Someone call 911″ I said, and then remembered Billy’s invite: cell phones were not there in the 1970s; if one is found in your possession, you’ll be taken to Guantanamo Bay. His frivolity knew no bounds as our room did not have a telephone either. It was here that the menacing attendant locked the door.
Dino – Hotel Attendant
Celebrities are human too. Funny, grumpy, stupid, flawed, smart, and emotional. And so predictable. If there is a god, and I am him, I would eradicate some of these human traits. Because I am not sure how much time it will take for evolution to take care of this. If we can achieve the seventh degree of concentration, the mind-disassociation, then we won’t have to worry about anything. Even celebrities and their stupidness. I always say this to people who think they feel foolish: think of Paris Hilton or Kevin Federline, now suddenly there are worse stupids than you, cheer up. In ancient times, Paleolithic peoples practiced a sort of magic wherein they would draw a bison on walls, and cut one or more of its limbs so they could hunt a real bison with ease. If we have the means to do that, how easy our lives will become. I know one can disassociate one’s mind if they practice hard, but how great it will be to disassociate someone else’s. When this famed guitarist was said to be dead, I was the least concerned. One more in the can. He had thrown up apparently before he died. It looked as though he had been drinking some red wine. Either he was poisoned or strangled or suffered a massive heart attack. I don’t suppose he took his own life. I know by looking at a face, whether it is a face of someone who would kill themselves. The other people in the room looked fairly innocuous. Not hurt a fly, so to speak. But hurting and killing are two different things. But most importantly, no more antics from the man. That’s a relief.
Photography! Femme Fatale
Picture by Arjuna Ravikumar
Photography! Evil Under the Roof
Evil Under The Roof – Picture by Dharini Sundaram
Murder Most Fowl
Arul Sirpy JP
03:30 AM
“Screech!”
“Squawk!”
Two abysmally out of sync sounds broke the silence of the night. A few minutes later, silence reigned once again.
11:03 AM
Krithika’s Dad opened the door solemnly. His smiling face betrayed a hint of trouble. I stepped into the house, smelling a rat.
It was worse.
The scene was something straight out of an Agatha Christie novel – an Indian version perhaps. All eyes were fixated on the floor. Most of them, I guess. Krithika was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the hall on the floor. Her hands cradled a lump of what looked like white elephant droppings. She was staring at it. Shreya, the ever good-looking Shreya, stood clutching a pillar clad in a full-sleeved churidhar. Who wears a full sleeved churidhar in this heat, I wondered as I flicked off a drop of sweat that threatened to invade my vision.
My best friend and roommate, Venky was standing at the kitchen door. He was looking guilty as hell. He had had a queer past with Krithika (let’s call her Krits). After graduation, just before he left for the States, he proposed to Krits. It was a cliché, so to speak. All that he got were emotional slaps in the form of “Sorry, I have never thought of you that way” and “Let’s be friends, ok?” and so forth. It was hilarious to the rest of us.
Krits Mom was the only one who seemed to moving anything close enough to be called a muscle. She yelled at the servants to take my luggage and clean up the mess immediately. Weirdly, enough her hollering was punctuated by almost isochronal snores. I traced the source to an easy chair, where an old man in a shawl, presumably Krits’ Grandpa, was sprawled like a dismantled tepee. He was blissfully oblivious to all. A small mound of broken walnut shells inside a betel pestle sat on his paunch, which swung up and down with each breath.
Krits’ Dad finally spoke, “Anand, (Krits’ fiancée) had sent a parakeet from Singapore, the day before. Today morning, it was found strangled to death. That’s why…” His voice trailed off, with good dramatic effect.
AHA! A case for the brilliant, swashbuckling, awesome (insert other good adjectives here) detective – Krish!
Oh, I am Krish, by the way. And yeah, I did not strangle the parakeet if you readers think I am going to give so big a twist to this rather sober tale.
16:08 PM
All of us sat sipping hot coffee around the dining table. There was a marked level of suspense hanging in the air. Everyone was thinking of the same thing. One of them had to be the killer. Who was it? Who did the fowl deed?
Actually, nobody was the least bit chafed over who did it. They were just pondering how to pacify Krits who was down in the dumps. I meant – down in the lumps. Contrastingly enough, Shreya was glowing. Or was it just me?
My first suspicion was Venky. He was the one who had the biggest motive. His main purpose in coming here for this get-together was to ask Krits once again, to marry him. Her marriage to Anand had been arranged by her parents. Given the level of idealist theories that she used to spew around, we were completely convinced that she did not want to have any say on whom she got married to. Since Venky is my best friend, I decided to properly screw him over.
“Venky strangled the parakeet”, I stated matter-of-factly.
“No he did not. I’m sure”, Krits interjected even more matter-of-factly.
“WHA…??!! If there’s anyone whom you should be sure, it must be ME! Venky obviously still loves you! He has all the reason to kill the poor lump of elephant droppings!” I blurted out, quite deliberately.
“I know and I don’t care. But he did not.” It was said in a quiet, almost coy voice.
It took time for the sleuth to register and process that expression. And when it did, I went berserk. No wonder she knew it was not him, because she was with him last night!
Quelling my jubilance, I decided to look at the other possibilities. Shreya could not have done it. She is too beautiful. I sincerely do think, that is a good enough excuse since the only motive could have been jealousy. But Shreya had everything that Krits has and more. All counterpoints to this argument are tripe. I shifted my thoughts to the others in the house.
Krits’ Mom came inside. “You guys, ok?” she asked. “Yes, Aunty”, I chorused singly. Dolt.
When she left, I started thinking along her lines.
“Hey, could it be your Mom? She could have seen you guys last night *TALKING*. She must have tried to pin the deed on Venky so that you would leave him forever. Possible?”
“Impossible. They would have noticed.” I was brushed aside by Shreya.
End of discussion.
I dipped the crackers into the coffee and bit into them. They tasted delicious. They were like Vicodin. Wait a minute: Crackers – walnuts – parakeet, something clicked.
“Hey Krits, does your Grandpa use a nut-cracker to break the walnuts?
“No. He does it himself.”
I ran out, Archimedes style albeit with my clothes on. I went straight to Grandpa and lifted his shawl. There were bloodied parakeet feathers all over him.
“VỐILA!!” I said in my best French accent. Everybody clapped. I proceeded to give my pithy explanation.
“The time when the murder was discovered was around 11:00 AM. If Grandpa is sleeping until now, the only possible reason is that he could not sleep well last night. It is most probably because the blasted parakeet was screeching away. He decided to feed it some walnuts to shut it up. One thing led to another and he had no other go but to do away with the poor bird. He is strong enough too, since he does not use a nutcracker to break his walnuts. It was child’s play for an old man”, I finished with a mini-joke.
And that was that. Nobody wanted to mess with an 80-year old man with the small talk of birds, gifts and long distance relationships.
18:45 PM
Soon it was time to leave. We went to the pet store and Venky bought another parakeet for Krithika. She loved it. Then we discussed at length on how to tell her parents about Krits eloping with Venky. I liked to think that Shreya was proud of me. I was driving her back to Chennai.
We waved our goodbyes, wishing luck to the couple. I started the car and we were off. As we turned into the highway, I turned to Shreya and smiled at her. She smiled back.
“I know you were the one”, I said quietly.
Her face turned pale. “How..? When..? Did you see it..?”
“No. It was the churidhar. You were wearing a full sleeved churidhar because you were scratched when you were trying to strangle the poor bird. You also had a head bath after that to clean all the blood from yourself. That was why you were glowing early morning. Later, I had a chat with the servant. Grandpa’s shawl was used to clean the place today morning. That is how the feathers and blood came into the picture.”
“But why would I do it?”
“It was not Krits’ Mom who saw them together last night. It was you. You wanted to force them to tell about themselves to her parents. You succeeded partially; but you could have done better.”
“Why did you not say all this there?”
“And let your plan go to the dogs? I believed in you. More so since, I love you. I’ve always loved you.” I stopped the car and looked at her.
She demurely smiled and said, “I know”.
A Beauty, a Beast and a Murder
Anuradha Chandrasekaran
“Kill me to-morrow: let me live to-night!”, she wailed.
“I’m innocent believe me! I have loved no one but you… Alas I’m helpless! How shall I prove to thee my unwavering faith?” pleaded the lady clutching his hands, whilst sitting up on her bed. For one moment, there seemed to be a flicker of hope for her, his features seemed to soften. But then the very next moment he took his hands to her throat and strangled her until there wasn’t any life left….
The curtains closed
Emma was backstage waiting for her husband. She was as excited as she had been when they had put up their first theatrical show together. Ah too many to count now! And yet here she was, those eyes that had enthralled many as Desdemona on stage could not contain its happiness. This was their longest running successful play.
“You were absolutely fabulous honey”, said her husband, in all smiles as he was coming in after having said his word of thanks to the public. At times people asked her how she loved a man who strangled her on the stage every single day for almost a year now. Her reply to most of it was “At home I’m Emma and he is Steve. We are not Othello and Desdemona anymore”. She wondered why people just did not understand the simple fact that they were acting
“I have booked tickets for our beach trip to Florida. We are going to have one fun summer after all this hardwork”, said Steve. Her eyebrows furrowed a little; she looked at herself in the mirror. “You look just as you did when I first laid my eyes on you 20 years back” said Steve reassuringly. “You liar!” she said mockingly throwing her hair brush at him.
“Miss Emily is on the line, Steve” , announced Dawn , his secretary and a lady who has been in love with her screen idol since her teen years
“Emily? Haven’t heard you mention that name before Steve”, asked Emma with a tone that had a carefully chosen coldness to it.
“Yeah. A newcomer from New York. Wants to be your understudy I suppose”
“Why would she call you if she wants to be my understudy?”, questioned Emma.
“Jealous? After all these years? Dosent sound a bit like you honey. Anyways I will make sure she finds someone else from our production house more attractive than this 55 yr old man”, replied Steve laughing it off. He knew very well about his wife’s temperament and did not want to bother her mind right now with such trivial things, atleast not until all the things he had planned for her went right.
Another day same scene
Othello is in wild fury, consumed with jealousy, walking over to kill his sleeping wife , consumed by passion, amidst her pleas, he strangles her, until words… why even breath stopped escaping that mouth. But just one thing did not happen. She did not wake up once the curtains closed.
A scream, a noise, someone was crying out “She is dead! She really is dead!”
He froze, he couldn’t move, he looked as though someone had rooted him to the ground. The guards were closing in on him. The crowd was shocked not because there was a murder but more because they had been in the audience watching a murder happen and had done nothing whatsoever to prevent it. It gave them goose-bumps to even think about what they had just witnessed.
“But I did not kill her! I did not… I loved her… She has been my wife for 20 years… why would I kill her in front of a such a big crowd and even imagine to get away with it, Officer?”, demanded Steve. All that the Officer said was, “she was alive until your hands went around her throat. And I have more than a thousand to swear what they saw in court. I’m sorry sir; you are going have to come with me”
Steve could do nothing. Dawn was standing next to him. She held his hand reassuringly and said that she would call their attorney and do all that she can to take care of things. His eyes and ears somehow did not register anything going on around him. His wife, the woman he had loved al his life was dead. That was the only thing going on in his mind. He was not worried about himself. He was worried for her.
The crowd dispersed silently. The television sets screamed telecasting news about the murder of this little known actress. Crime analysts were discussing about the psychology of the killer.
Dawn turned off her televison. She was tired. Could Steve have done it? She asked herself. “Ofcourse he had done it! I saw him. Could a thousand eyes be wrong?”. Yet having known him and loved him for so long she couldn’t come to terms with it. She had arranged for the attorney to fly in the next day. She had made all arrangements possible to help Steve. Yet was she helping a murderer? She couldn’t help wondering herself.
“Sir I’m going to have to let you go” said the officer stiffly.
“Has my attorney come in?” asked Steve, almost nonchalantly, as if nothing mattered.
“No! but we have just received the coroner’s and the doctor’s reports. All indicate towards one conclusion. Your wife, sorry sir, your late wife, did not die of Asphyxiation”
“What?”, it was Steve’s turn to be completely taken aback.
“She was poisoned”
This murder mystery will be continued. Catch our next issue to find out who the killer is! Think you know who it is? Leave a comment and see what the author thinks
