Donkey Dust

Save my butt.

That was all he had written on each of the six letters—that and the invitation to come and dine at his secluded forest mansion with three others at six o’clock sharp.

From anyone else, this would have been a strange invitation, no doubt about it. But for world-famous author Theodore Thelarious? Hardly deserving of so much as a furrowed brow. This kind of strangeness was his normal. And so his guests arrived before six, unsure whether to be honored or anxious. Thelarious often wrote about people around him, so it was natural to consider that he might be gathering observations.

Just a month ago, his latest novel, Oil & the Obligations of Oligarchs, had shaken the world with bizarre satire regarding the oil industry and those who benefited from it. One such man was James Pebblefella, a monopolist within the field. Pebblefella had of course heard of the book, and it had greatly affected his business and name. Thus it was only natural he would have some apprehension toward the author. He arrived first in a long white limousine, fifteen minutes early. The other guests had much less apprehension, or at least, they showed it much less.

Michael Frizz, a local jazz musician, arrived in his bluest suit and with his hair at its fullest volume. "Musician" is a very generous term, as his highest musical achievement was playing at a hotel bar with his childhood band. As he stepped out of his blue brown-rusted car, he was careful to ensure his mushroom-like fro did not brush up against the door frame.

Shortly after him, Penny So arrived. Her yellow Volkswagon Beetle was plastered with labels from animal welfare organizations, and she carried a backpack full of medical supplies should she run into any roadkill that wasn’t quite dead.

The last guest to arrive was Irene Steele. Her car stopped in a military halt, and she left it in precise movements. She had come directly from work, that being the asylum, not bothering to change from her cafeteria attire, as it was appropriate for any event. Besides, she didn't believe Thelarious was one to dress up for. Once she was there, the guests entered the house.

“Welcome!” Thelarious exclaimed, a wide grin spreading beneath his exquisite moustache. Pebblefella took one look at the impressive feature and lowered his brows in jealousy. Some men were blessed with marvelous facial hair, and others seemed destined to only produce skimpy patches of it. “Please, come in,” he said as he ushered them into his mansion. “Do you know, you are the first to enter my home since the release of my book?” he asked as he led them.

“I suppose you’d like us to feel honored,” Ms. Steele said, her jaw as firm as a spring-bound rat trap.

Thelarious let out a boisterous laugh, which she took as mocking her.

“Nonsense,” he said after he’d finished, “feel whatever you like, Ms. Steele, I was merely making conversation.”

She didn’t respond, but clenched her jaw tighter and cast a death-like glare to her right, which was where Penny happened to be standing. The timid woman averted her eyes, a squeal almost escaping her when she caught sight of a deer’s head mounted on the wall.

“Oh you poor creature!” she gasped.

“Yes,” Thelarious said, following her gaze. “Any creature’s a poor one if it finds itself between me and my rifle!” He gave a short chuckle and continued leading them down the hall. Penny glanced at the head once more, offering a silent prayer for the departed animal.

“Say,” Michael murmured as he caught sight of a record hanging on the wall. “I know that record.”

“I should think you would!” Thelarious said, “that is, if you’ve kept up with jazz since your—” he paused, and then concluded with, “untimely retirement.” He said nothing more to Michael, and an uneasy silence set in. Michael observed the record a moment longer as the others passed, happy memories of his band stirring before being dashed by reality.

They passed several more rooms and objects that attracted interest, but no one felt obliged to point them out. It was a very awkward grouping, as none of them really knew one another. The only one who may have been slightly known by the others was Pebblefella, and he only due to his extensive wealth and business. If Michael had been even marginally successful in jazz, he might have been more well known. But even the locals, such as Penny and Ms. Steele didn’t seem to recognize him as the man who occasionally played tuba in the declining town bar. Of course, neither Ms. Steele nor Penny went to the bar very often. Ms. Steele was far too busy, and working at a mental institution required one to be alert at all times. Even if she was just the cafeteria cook, she could not afford to be intoxicated when an inmate—patient, goes on a spree. As for Penny, she knew that drunk drivers killed many more animals than hunters, and therefore abstained even from the thought of alcohol. So it made perfect sense why they did not know one another, and made them each question why they in particular had been invited.

“Here we are!” Thelarious announced as they came to a doorway at the end of their long walk. “The dining room,” he said as he held the door for them each.

The room was expensively decorated, yet contained the simple feel of the forest setting. Pebblefella sniffed, his nose unhindered by any facial hair.

“Is that pine?” he asked, turning to Thelarious.

“Why yes,” the host responded, “a fresh scent gathered directly from my backyard.”

Pebblefella scoffed.

“You do not approve?” Thelarious asked, raising his brows slightly.

“I prefer more modern and civilized scents,” the monopolist said. He then removed from his breast pocket a small container. “Here, a cologne of my own invention.”

Thelarious held the container skeptically before spraying it and sniffing. He waited a moment, his brow lowering slightly.

“That’s right,” Pebblefella nodded, “scent of oil.”

Thelarious cleared his throat and observed the container.

“Toxic if ingested,” he read.

Pebblefella quickly took it back.

“Of course it is,” he said angrily, “what doof drinks cologne?”

The others had been standing patiently, observing Pebbelefella’s boasting. Penny had listened with meek enthusiasm, while Michael was bored but amused. Irene, however, had heard enough and was not afraid to say so.

“Your invitation said ‘dinner’,” she said.

“Ah! Yes,” Thelarious said, leaving Pebblefella’s oily cologne. “How kind of you to remind me, Ms. Steele.”

“It also said ‘save my butt’,” Michael whispered to Penny, whose eyes grew wide and cheeks blushed.

“Come, dinner was prepared by a hired cook several hours ago,” Thelarious said. “I shall bring it out if you would all be so kind as to take a seat.”

And so they did, Pebblefella nearest the head on the right, and Irene beside him. Michael pulled out the second chair on the left for Penny, who thanked him in an embarrassed tone and sat down. Michael sat down last, taking the place opposite Pebblefella, left of the head.

“What a doof,” Pebblefella muttered.

“Dolt,” Ms. Steele said, correcting him.

“Doof is a word,” Pebblefella scoffed, “and it sounds much better than ‘dolt’.” He cast a foul glance toward the door their host had disappeared into. “And I think it matches our host much better.”

“Oh dear,” Penny whimpered quietly.

Pebblefella was about to continue, but Michael silenced him with an outstretched hand. He then turned to Penny, his poofy hair bobbing gently as he did.

“Something the matter Penny?” he asked.

“Oh—” she blushed, suddenly finding herself the center of unwanted attention. “It’s just—” she glanced at the door before lowering her voice and concluding with, “I don’t believe it’s very kind to speak of our host in such a way.”

Pebblefella raised his brows in slow distaste, and Ms. Steele’s jaw flexed as if she exercised it.

“No, she’s right,” Michael said, stepping to her defense. “He may be a bit of a—” he refrained from placing the label he had in mind, “but he was generous enough to invite us to dinner, wasn’t he?”

There was an awkward silence between all, the right side of the table a mixture of upturned noses and the left of self-proclaimed righteousness.

Thelarious soon returned, pushing a large cart through the door.

“Sorry for the delay!” he said as he stopped in front of the table. “The dish is terribly hot, and I couldn’t find my oven mitts!” Using the red and white checkered mitts, he transferred a large pot to the table. He then distributed large bowls to each of the guests.

“What is it,” Ms. Steele asked solemnly as Thelarious removed the lid, releasing a jumble of scents wrapped in thick steam. It looked much more like the opening of Pandora's box than any meal the guests had seen.

“It is a foreign dish!” Thelarious said with a smile. He then placed a ladle full in Ms. Steele’s bowl. She didn’t flinch at the smell or sight, but Pebblefella let out a bit of a grunt. “Not to worry,” the host said as he observed Michael’s confusion and Penny’s fear. “I tested it myself before bringing it out, it tastes much better than it looks.”

“And what about the smell?” Pebblefella choked out as he removed his oil cologne.

“Oh yes, that too,” Thelarious added.

The guests each sat observing the food for a good while, none of them very eager to test it.

“Come now,” Thelarious laughed, “I have an exemplary palette when it comes to food, multiple witnesses have said so!”

“Witnesses?” Michael muttered, “as in the scene of a murder?” he asked as he held up a spoonful of the strange soup.

“I will try it,” Penny said in a sudden burst of confidence. The others looked to her eagerly, Michael with some apprehension.

“Wait,” Ms. Steele suddenly said, pointing to the host.

Penny stopped, the spoon nearly to her lips. Everyone turned to the Thelarious, their eyes bulging and their brows lowered.

Thelarious cleared his throat, his face scrunching in confusion. And then in pain.

“Hah!” Pebblefella chuckled, “not so good as you supposed, eh?”

Thelarious shook his head desperately before putting his hand to his throat.

“Dying,” Ms. Steele suddenly said, her brows lowered and her face as certain as death.

“What?!” Michael exclaimed, looking to the host, who had dropped to the floor. “Maybe he's just choking.”

Penny was the first to do anything, but Michael was right behind her. She ran over to Thelarious, slinging her bag from her shoulders and removing her medkit.

“Water!” she shouted. The water being unpoured and in a large container, Michael quickly removed a flask from his breast pocket and handed it to her before dropping to the other side of the man. “Lift him up,” Penny instructed, a sudden militaristic decisiveness coming over her.

Pebblefella and Ms. Steele had by this time gathered around their host and were watching with horror as Michael propped the man up. As the jazz musician held him sturdy, Penny poured the flask down Thelarious’ mouth. The host lurched a moment, his eyes straining, and then relaxed in the hands of death.

“Thelarious?” Penny gasped, her quiet voice quivering.

“Wake up man!” Michael said, shaking him lightly.

“He’s not sleeping, his eyes are open!” Pebblefella exclaimed.

“I can see that, I just—”

“Dead,” Ms. Steele interrupted.

The other guests were silent, looking from the woman's stone expression to the author’s empty one. Penny began to cry, at which Michael laid the dead man down and put a comforting hand around her. Pebblefella sat down, fanning himself and then pulling out his cologne.

“Would you stop spraying that?” Ms. Steele demanded, “it’s hard enough to breathe as it is.”

“Well pardon me!” Pebblefella growled, putting his cologne back into his breast pocket. “Some of us are not as callused to death as you!”

“Not callused,” she corrected, “mature.”

They were about to enter into an argument when a door swung open, this one being from the same hallway they had entered from. A man and woman, professionally dressed, walked through. They stood a moment, confident and bored expressions on their faces as they observed the dead man.

“Sooner than I expected,” the man commented, at which the woman held out her hand. He handed over a twenty-dollar bill.

“What is this?” Michael asked, looking at the two with disgust.

“It’s a murder, blue boy,” the woman said.

“We can see that!” Pebblefella growled.

“I assume you are referring to us, then,” the man said, one brow raised. He then held up a badge. “Howard Square, P. I.”

The woman removed a similar badge.

“Susan Red,” she twisted a corner of her mouth, “also P. I.”

The guests were silent a moment, each of them either confused or angered by the sudden appearance of the two.

“Private Investigators?” Ms. Steele questioned. “And who hired you?”

“The recently departed,” Howard said, glancing at Thelarious.

“Doesn’t seem like you’ll be getting paid,” Pebblefella commented.

“He paid beforehand,” Susan replied.

“He knew this would happen?” Michael asked, rising warily.

“Suspected,” Howard said, taking a closer look at the body.

“Do you mean—” Michael paused, a look of horror coming across him as he scanned the others.

“He believed one of us would kill him,” Ms. Steele said, a nod from Susan confirming her.

“So this whole dinner was a sham!” Pebblefella grunted, rising and moving toward the door.

Howard moved in front of him, his hands at his sides and his chiseled jaw set.

“Didn’t you hear Ms. Steele?” he asked, “one of you murdered Thelarious.”

“No one leaves till we rattle the culprit out,” Susan added.

The room grew silent, apart from Penny who let out a squeamish gasp. Michael gave her a reassuring nod before stepping toward the two Private Investigators.

“You can't believe we killed him,” he began, his fro bobbing slightly. “None of us had any opportunity to.”

“Yes!” Pebblefella exclaimed, “we arrived only moments ago, and no one had a moment alone with—” he nodded toward the body.

Susan smirked and let out a bit of a scoff.

“You know, we once had a case where the culprit killed his victim with a hairball from the victim’s cat. All he did was line Mr. Whiskers’ water bowl in cleaning solution and the cat did the rest.” The room was silent, and Susan continued. “You see, the culprit knew that Mr. Whiskers liked to climb near the stove when it was running, particularly in the winter. Just so happened that our victim was cooking dumpling stew when Mr. Whiskers decided to stroll across the counter, under a chemically induced shedding cycle.” Susan gave a short chuckle before continuing. “One hairball in the soup later, and our victim had died in his home. The culprit never had to be in the same room with the victim.”

Penny had taken a very apprehensive stance against the whole story, but Michael’s eyes had widened.

“And you caught this guy?” Michael asked.

“Oh yeah,” Susan answered, “caught him within two hours of the murder.”

“How?” Pebblefella asked.

“Confidential I’m afraid,” Susan replied.

“That’s code for ‘it didn’t happen’,” Ms. Steele muttered.

“You calling me a liar?” Susan asked, taking a step toward the iron woman.

“You’re frivolous is what you are,” she answered coldly. “You’ve already wasted nearly ten minutes since you’ve arrived.”

“Wasted?” Howard scoffed, “we’ve been collecting information this whole time,” he said with a confident grin. Susan joined him, and they both crossed their arms.

“Okay, like what?” Michael asked.

There was a moment of silence between all.

“Well—” Susan scoffed and Howard snorted, “we can’t very well tell you.”

“Not yet at least,” Howard added.

“Code talking again,” Pebblefella muttered as he leaned over to Ms. Steele. She nodded without a smile.

“Alright!” Susan exclaimed, “everyone take a seat.”

The guests did, albeit with mild annoyance now. The charm and awe the Private Investigators had instilled was gone, and everyone was much less confident in their ability. The reality of the situation began to hit in as well, and each of the hosts eyed one another with a little more caution. Although Michael made no effort to refrain from comforting Penny whenever she showed discomfort.

“Let’s begin by going around the table,” Susan said. “You,” she pointed to Pebblefella, “when did you get here?”

“My limousine dropped me off at five-forty-five on the dot,” he grunted, although he had put a significant amount of stress on the method of his arrival.

“Five-forty-five?” Susan asked, “did you have a stop-watch on you to be so sure of this time?”

“Yes,” Pebblefella said as he removed a very golden watch. The others, apart from Ms. Steele, gazed at with awe. “Besides, it is my practice to be precisely fifteen minutes early to everything. So I can assure you I arrived at five-forty-five.”

Susan nodded while Howard jotted down his comments.

“And you, Ms. Steele?”

“Two minutes to six,” she stated.

“Cutting it close,” Susan commented.

“It is wasteful to be early,” she replied.

“Penny?” Susan continued, not wanting to start a discussion with Ms. Steele regarding timeliness.

Penny’s eyes grew large at being addressed, and she gathered her thoughts in a flustered movement.

“Five-fifty-five,” she squeaked. “At least, I think it was,” she added, her face growing pale at the possibility that she had forgotten.

“Alright,” Susan said, “no need to panic.” She waited for Howard to write down the detail, and then addressed the last guest, “and you, blue boy?”

“Five-forty-two,” he said, his brows lowering at being called blue boy again.

Susan nodded, and then was silent a moment.

“So Pebblefella,” she said, turning to the monopolist. “You were with Thelarious before any of the others.”

“No,” he shook his head, “we all entered together.”

The others confirmed with short nods of their heads.

“You arrived minutes apart, yet each of you decided to wait to enter until the others were present?” Susan asked, raising one brow. “Why might this be?”

They were silent, each of them brooding over the question or choosing to keep silent about something.

“I could understand why blue boy would wait,” she said, nodding toward Michael and Penny. They each shook their heads and scooted their chairs apart from one another. “But why the others? And, why would the two lovebirds wait for Ms. Steele?” She then turned back to Pebblefella. “But most importantly, why would you wait for anyone else?”

Pebblefella stuttered and cleared his throat a good deal before answering.

“I think I speak for everyone when I say that our host was not a generally likable man,” he grunted uncomfortably.

“Oh?” Susan said with a smile and a glance at Howard. “So you did not like the deceased?”

“Well—” Pebblefella stuttered and scoffed again.

“Tell me, what did he do to stir up your wrath?” Susan asked. The others listened eagerly.

“I wouldn’t say my wrath was stirred,” Pebblefella said with a frown, “I do confess that I had a slight disfavor of the man, however.”

“Why don’t you tell us about this disfavor?”

Pebblefella sighed and scoffed again, but complied.

“It’s his latest novel,” he grunted.

“Oil & the Obligations of Oligarchs?” Howard asked, his brows raised.

“Yes,” Pebblefella scowled.

“Funniest book I’ve read in ages,” Howard said, shaking his head slightly.

“Not to oilmen it’s not!” Pebblefella replied angrily. Then, after seeing Susan’s brow raise at his temper, he cooled back down. “It’s bad for business is all.”

“And would you describe business as bad right now?” Susan probed.

“It’s not good,” he muttered. “But I didn’t hate him for it, least, not enough to kill him.”

“Noted,” Susan said. “Let’s move on.” She looked over Howard’s notes a moment and then continued. “You said that you speak for everyone when you said you didn’t like your host. Is this true?” she asked, turning to the others. They were silent, of course. “Does anyone else have a grievance, however petty, with the deceased?”

“I do,” Michael said, his face sullen. “About a year ago I had a gig at a hotel bar. I played tuba, and was fulfilling my dream with my childhood band.”

“What was your band’s name?” Susan asked.

“Donkey Dust,” Michael said.

Pebblefella immediately wheezed out a hearty laugh. Howard followed, although Ms. Steele refused and Penny restrained herself after seeing that it hurt Michael’s feelings.

“It’s a poetic name!” he argued, evidently proud of it.

“About as poetic as Fruit of the Loom!” Pebblefella exclaimed, slapping his knee and gasping for breath.

“Why you—” Michael rose as if to get violent, at which Howard gave him a warning glance. The musician sat back down. “It’s meant to symbolize the working class, you know—” he paused, “the mules or donkeys of society.”

Susan was listening patiently, and Pebblefella had gained control over himself.

“I think it’s a fitting name,” Penny peeped. “Donkeys are noble creatures, despite their stubbornness.” Michael gave her a grateful glance before Susan continued.

“You said you had a grievance?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said, his tone becoming sober. Susan nodded, and he explained. “If it wasn’t for—” he nodded toward the dead body, “Donkey Dust would still be playing. We’d probably have made it out of hotel bars by now,” he concluded.

“What exactly did he do?” Susan probed.

“He left a review of the bar we were playing at,” Michael scoffed, “a bad one.”

“I see,” Susan said. “And you were fired based on his review?”

“Not just fired,” he replied, his temper rekindling. “Defaced. He made our band, particularly me, look like third-rate high-school students.” He shook his head. “No one has been interested in hiring us since. The band broke up over a year ago.”

“You’ve held quite the grudge,” Susan remarked, watching his response to her comment.

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, “wouldn’t all of you hold a grudge if he took everything from you? If he drove you into the ground so hard that you turned to alcohol to keep from—” he stopped short and lowered his head.

There was a bit of silence, with all eyes apart from Ms. Steele’s averting. Michael sat back down.

“What have you been doing since?” Susan asked.

“Playing at the local bar,” he scoffed. “Only people that listen are too drunk to care.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Susan said. She then turned to Penny, who had been watching Michael cautiously as he had shared his load. “Ms. So, do you have a grievance against the deceased?”

Penny quivered a bit, her eyes flicking from the dead body to the Private Investigator.

“Ms. So?” Susan repeated after receiving no answer.

“It’s not right to be angry with a dead person,” she whispered, shaking her head sheepishly but with conviction.

“And are you angry at this dead man?”

“I—” Penny’s ears turned red, and she refused eye contact.

“It’s okay, Penny,” Michael said softly. Ms. Steele scoffed loudly at the amount of sympathy being given and taken. Pebblefella yawned.

“Alright,” Penny finally said, her eyes a little red. “I do have a grievance against—” she nodded toward the body.

“Do tell,” Pebblefella said dryly. Michael gave him a stern glare, and the oilman sat up straight and pretended to care.

“He killed Nicodemus, my best friend,” she sputtered out, tears welling in her eyes.

“What?!” Michael gasped. Pebblefella likewise grew alert, only he seemed to possess some sort of joy in this news.

“I knew he was batty!” he muttered.

Even Ms. Steele seemed to tense a bit, not that she was surprised of course. Her experience at the mental asylum had prepared her for any depth of humanity.

“Mr. Thelarious murdered your friend?” Susan repeated, leaning forward.

Penny nodded, tears now beginning to bubble out.

“Tell me about your friend, Nicodemus,” Susan said, nudging Howard and nodding down at his notepad.

Penny took a good while to dry her tears and get the last of her sniffles out. The group, even Michael, was somewhat impatient by the time she finally began.

“He was forty-eight years old,” she whimpered. Michael lowered his brow a bit, wondering what circles Penny frequented. Michael was only twenty-four, and he had pegged her as very close in age. Not that it was a crime to have a friend almost twice your age, but it certainly made him see her differently. She continued, rubbing her eyes. “He had the brightest yellow eyes,” she sighed.

“Yellow?” Howard asked, wanting to be certain he had heard it right before writing it down.

Penny nodded.

“He was so beautifully brown,” she said wistfully. This created a confused reaction from the group, Pebblefella lowering his brows and Michael’s eyes narrowing. “He used to leap up onto the counters and jump across them as if he were mad,” Penny exclaimed, delight filling her eyes. Susan pursed her lips, trying to picture what Penny was describing. “But it all ended when—” Penny put her hand in front of her mouth. She sobbed out the last words, which everyone understood to mean that Thelarious had run over this curious character.

“About this Nicodemus,” Susan said, straightening in her chair and lowering her brows a bit. “Does he have family we could talk to?”

“I was his only family!” Penny blurted out, her tears spilling over. Michael stretched an arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him as her messy sorrow was displayed.

“Enough of this,” Ms. Steele suddenly said, at which Penny looked up in surprise. All looked to the iron woman, feeling the dominance her voice carried. “I will not sit here another minute if all I am to hear is uncontrolled blubbing over a cat!” she concluded.

“A cat?” Susan said, her eyes widening in understanding and relief washing over her face.

“Nico was more than a cat!” Penny shouted, suddenly becoming violent in her despair.

“He was only a cat,” Ms. Steele countered, her jaws clenched tightly together, “a pet, Ms. So.”

“Now hold on—” Michael began, but Ms. Steele gave him a look so sharp that his voice dropped mid-sentence.

“I do not care who you are, or how special you believe your cat was,” Ms. Steele continued. “A cat is an animal, and you are pathetic for making such a scene over it.”

Penny’s lip quivered a bit before she burst into violent sobs. She fell heavily against Michael, almost knocking the wind out of him.

“Okay,” Susan sighed, “blue boy, why don’t you take Ms. So to the couch.”

Michael gave her a nod and then helped the sobbing woman away from the table.

“Now,” Susan said, turning to Ms. Steele. “Why don’t you share what your deal is.”

Ms. Steele nodded, not at Susan, but at the wall behind her. Susan turned, as did the others. There on the wall hung a framed news article.

“What’s this?” Susan asked, not really wanting to get up from her seat. Howard rose and took it off the wall, handing it to her after reading it over.

“One of his proudest accomplishments,” Ms. Steele replied, nodding toward the dead man on the floor.

“And your downfall,” Susan murmured.

The article read “Gray Central Asylum Warden ‘Irene Steele’ guilty of patient mistreatment.” Susan didn’t read the full article, Ms. Steele began to explain before she’d even started on the first column.

“He snuck in, disguised as a patient,” Ms. Steele said, a deep grudge in her lip.

“I remember this,” Susan noted. “He uncovered a slew of ethical standards that weren’t being kept.” She noticed Ms. Steele’s tightening jaw and quickly added, “although I heard his testimony was questionable?”

“Yes,” Ms. Steele said. “His evidence was taken illegally.”

“And therefore dismissed,” Susan concluded.

“Not before destroying my career,” Ms. Steele said. “I am now the cafeteria cook,” she added, a bitter smile appearing. “With no hope of ever becoming warden again.”

“I see,” Susan said, averting her eyes from the stone gaze.

Pebblefella, the only other one at the table apart from the Private Investigators and Ms. Steele, cleared his throat and removed a stopwatch.

“Have you any headway on this mess?” he asked.

“Well,” Susan let out a sigh and took Howard’s notepad. “Everyone’s admitted to having a motive, so no.

“Oh come,” Pebblefella scoffed, “surely you can rule out some of us?”

“Like yourself?”

“Well,” Pebblefella cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Compared to some, my grievance does seem a bit trivial.”

“Trivial in what way?” Ms. Steele asked before Susan could respond. “Public shame and a declining company do not sound trivial.”

Susan watched Pebblefella. He scoffed and scrunched his face together.

“I assure you I am used to the spotlight,” he remarked, “bad publicity is as common to me as breakfast.” He paused, and with a bit of defiance, added, “and about my company, no one said it's in decline.”

“I think we can both agree that tough talk is a waste of everyone's time,” Ms. Steele replied.

Pebblefella’s face grew red, and Susan thought it best to interrupt.

“Regardless of how severe a motive, everyone will be staying until I say otherwise,” she said, “no buts.”

They both calmed down, although Pebblefella was the only one who had grown visibly worked up. Susan then decided to check in on Penny, who had been given quite enough time to recover. When she and Michael returned to the table, she still rubbing her cheeks and casting bitter glances at Ms. Steele, the room was filled with subtle tension. After hearing one another’s grievances, the party had either sympathized or grown leery of their fellow guests.

“Have you found the murderer yet?” Michael asked, somewhat upset he had been absent from the conversation. He cared for Penny, but had felt less sympathy for her when she confessed Nicodemus to be a cat.

“We’re working on it,” Susan said, “it’s a slow process.”

“Well can’t you tell it’s her?” Michael scoffed, glancing at Ms. Steele. She shot him an icy stare but did not respond.

“What makes you so certain Ms. Steele murdered—” she glanced at the body.

“She’s the only one of us cold enough to do it,” Michael replied, breaking from Ms. Steele’s oppressive gaze. “And who else would know about poisoning?” he nodded to her, “she’s medical, right?”

“I was,” Ms. Steele corrected. Michael held his expression, his eyes on Susan rather than the fierce woman across him.

“Despite what you may think, poison is an incredibly easy way to kill someone,” Susan replied. “You don’t have to be medical to find something toxic.”

“Hey,” Michael said, his eyes suddenly turning to Pebblefella. “I remember you showing—” he nodded toward the deceased, “your cologne. He said it was toxic if ingested, right?”

“Yes,” Pebblefella replied, growing uncomfortable at the accusation. “That doesn’t mean I murdered him.” He glanced anxiously at the dead body.

“You have the murder weapon,” Michael argued.

“A possible murder weapon,” Susan corrected. “Just because Pebblefella’s cologne is toxic doesn’t mean he’s the murderer.”

Pebblefella nodded approvingly.

“But I will take your cologne,” Susan said, holding out her empty hand. “Just in case.”

Pebblefella frowned and ruffled his feathers a bit but handed over the black container.

“Does anyone else have anything toxic on them?” Susan then asked. “Anything that might be toxic?” she added.

Pebblefella shook his head, his eyes on the bottle of cologne. Likewise, Ms. Steele denied having anything. When it came to Penny, she hesitated a little.

“Ms. So?” Susan asked. All eyes turned to her and she blushed.

“I—” she paused and then removed her medkit. “I have a medication, Lorazepam,” she said.

The others grew silent and their eyes widened.

“It’s not toxic in itself,” she quickly clarified. “It’s a sedative.”

“What do you carry a sedative for?” Pebblefella asked, one brow raised.

“For wounded animals on the side of the road,” Penny explained as she removed it from her bag. “They should not have to live their last moments in pain.”

Ms. Steele rolled her eyes.

“You said it’s not toxic in itself,” Susan said, “can it be toxic?”

Here Ms. Steele broke in.

“It, like any other medication, is to be used with caution,” she said. “All drugs can have a harmful effect when combined with the right substance.”

“But Penny never gave him a sedative,” Michael argued.

“What did you give him when he was dying?” Pebblefella asked, recalling Penny’s quick action.

“Michael’s flask,” Penny answered, glancing at Michael.

All eyes then turned to the jazz musician.

“It’s only a bit of alcohol,” he said.

Susan held out her hand. After he had given it to her she took off the lid and smelled it. Immediately she drew back, clearing her throat and blinking violently.

“What kind of alcohol is this?!” she gasped.

Pebblefella took it and smelled it.

“Hah!” he exclaimed, his own eyes blinking and his nose twitching. “That’s Spirytus!” He gave Michael a wild look. “I like my alcohol strong, but not that strong!”

After Susan had recovered, she turned back to Michael.

“Why such a strong alcohol?” she asked. “Isn’t that dangerous to carry around?”

Michael was silent a moment. He then sighed and his face drooped a bit.

“After Donkey Dust fell apart, I started drinking.” Penny patted his back gently. “My dream was crushed and I just—” he paused and his eyes watered. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“I might know a place,” Ms. Steele said, a cruel twist at the corner of her mouth.

“Don’t be such a gargoyle!” Penny squeaked, becoming defensive of the musician. Pebblefella had been snickering at her joke but stopped when Penny lashed out.

“Let’s all calm down,” Susan said, glancing at both sides of the table. She then looked to Michael. “I do suggest you try and find a healthier outlet,” Susan said, setting the flask down. “Drinking won’t solve depression.”

Michael nodded, his fro bouncing gently.

There was a moment of silence as Susan looked over the three containers before her. The only one that seemed most likely to be the murder weapon was the sedative. This would point to Penny, except she didn’t give their host any. The only thing he had taken was Michael’s alcohol, which wasn’t deadly.

“Did Thelarious have any medical conditions?” Susan wondered aloud. The room grew silent at the mention of the dead man’s name, until Ms. Steele spoke up.

“He had epilepsy,” she said.

Susan turned to her.

“Epilepsy?”

“Seizures,” Ms. Steele clarified.

“How do you know that?” Susan asked.

“When he entered my asylum, he wasn’t able to get a hold of his pills,” she smiled. “Once we saw him have a seizure, we knew that he didn’t need our treatment. It's written there in the article.”

“So he has—had epilepsy,” Susan murmured. “You said all medications are dangerous when taken with the right substance, do you know what he took?” she then asked.

Ms. Steele shook her head.

“Do you have any guess at what he might have taken?”

“His seizure was extreme,” Ms. Steele mused, as if in pleasant memory. “I would think he took a rather strong medication.”

“Such as?” Pebblefella asked, growing impatient.

“Such as Lorazepam,” Ms. Steele suggested, after which she turned her cold eyes to Penny. “It has a wide variety of uses, but is highly effective for epilepsy.”

The room was silent again, and Penny whimpered a bit.

“Now hold on!” Michael said as Pebblefella began to make a conclusion. “Her having the sedative doesn’t mean anything!”

“I think it means something!” Pebblefella exclaimed.

“Like what?” Michael shot back.

“Well—” Pebblefella stuttered a bit as the room looked to him. “It is strange that she's in possession of the very same medication he used, isn’t it?”

“It is strange,” Susan sighed and gave Penny a comforting look. “But it doesn’t mean Penny murdered him.” She looked over the bottle. “After all, it wouldn’t make sense for her to give him more Lorazepam.”

“Maybe she took it,” Pebblefella said, “maybe that bottle is his!”

“Which would bring us nowhere,” Susan said. “He didn’t die from a seizure.”

“What did he die from?” was the question everyone was asking. They discussed it a good deal, with each coming to different conclusions. Penny said it could have been the food, which no one had eaten except for him. Michael agreed with her, although he added that Pebblefella had sprayed him with his cologne. Pebblefella grew enraged at this and sprayed himself to prove that such would not kill a man. He then claimed that Thelarious died by a natural cause, more in an attempt to be sent home rather than a logical conclusion. Ms. Steele provided the most interesting answer.

“His medication,” she said. “It has to be a part of his death.”

This topic was much less discussed, as no one really knew what might have caused a lethal reaction. Even Ms. Steele admitted that pharmacy was not her specialty and she knew little of the side effects of Lorazepam.

“Just look on the bottle,” she said, nodding toward Penny’s supply. “All medications have a list of warnings.”

Susan took the bottle and began reading the miniature script. Although everyone was interested, they couldn’t help but grow bored as she read. It was a very long script, and Susan had to squint to read bits of the small font. By the time she had finished, Pebblefella had begun tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

“Michael,” Susan said, giving him a direct look. He raised a brow. “You gave him some of your alcohol?”

“Yeah,” Michael nodded. “When he was choking.” He then added, “why?” with mild anxiety.

“Because Lorazepam can be lethal if taken with alcohol,” Susan said firmly. The guests looked to Michael, each one of them in shock.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he asked, his face becoming pale. “I’m not a doctor!”

“Ms. So asked for water,” Ms. Steele added. “And you gave him your alcohol.”

“Not just any alcohol either,” Pebblefella commented, “alcohol strong enough to make the devil vomit!”

“But I didn’t know he had epilepsy, or that he was taking this drug!” Michael’s fro had begun to bounce and bob uncontrollably. “And I didn’t know that this drug reacted with alcohol that way!”

He let out a sigh and then shook a moment, clearly upset and terrified. Penny hushed him and put an arm around him.

“Here,” Susan handed him the flask. “Take a drink to cool your nerves.”

Michael looked at it for a moment.

“No,” he said, “you were right, drinking won’t help me.” He offered a smile, but the room grew somewhat uncomfortable. Susan leaned over to Pebblefella.

“You’re sure that’s just alcohol?” she murmured. Pebblefella nodded, although somewhat cautiously.

“You can’t think I killed him,” Michael scoffed, looking at each of the guests and ending on Susan. “Right?” he asked, and then turned to Penny, who averted her eyes.

“Take a drink,” Ms. Steele demanded.

Michael looked at her, a sense of fear in his eyes.

Ms. Steele lowered her brows and produced a cruel smile. Susan leaned forward.

“Mr. Frizz,” she began. “You do see how you, a self-proclaimed alcoholic, refusing to drink the very alcohol you gave—” she nodded toward the body, “is highly suspicious, don’t you?”

“Well,” he scoffed again, his fro bobbing, “yes,” he admitted. He then added, “so you think I poisoned the alcohol?”

“You did something with it,” Pebblefella muttered. “A waste of such a rare liquor,” he added.

“But he—” he glanced at the body, “was dying before I gave him my alcohol. How do you explain that?”

The room was silent again. No one had taken this into consideration.

“That doesn’t change the fact he gave him the alcohol,” Ms. Steele commented, her gaze now on Susan. “Whether intentional or not, he murdered our host.”

“Come on!” Michael exclaimed, his hand striking the table. “Of course I didn’t mean to kill him!”

“Then why won’t you drink your own alcohol?” Susan countered.

Michael was silent as the Private Investigator continued.

“Based on what we’ve seen, I think it’s safe to assume you’re not an alcoholic,” she said. Michael flicked his eyes up at her momentarily. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t struggle with depression.” She paused, waiting for the musician to look up at her. “Does it, blue boy?”

“What are you saying,” Pebblefella asked, his brow low and his eyes squinted.

“I’m saying that after Donkey Dust disbanded, Mr. Frizz experienced a low point.” Susan glanced at the medication. “And maybe he did go to a substance for help, but not alcohol.”

Michael was silent, but his eyes were fixed on Susan.

“Something you said just gave me a thought,” she said, turning to Ms. Steele. “You said that Lorazepam has many uses. Do you know if it could be used to treat depression?”

“Its purpose is to soothe chemical imbalances,” Ms. Steel replied. “It would be a logical choice.”

The room was silent, apart from Pebblefella who let out a loud gasp.

“If I get a hold of your medical records, what will I find?” she asked, leaning toward Michael. “Will I find out that you take Lorazepam?”

“So what if he does?” Penny asked, her eyes wide and beginning to water. Ms. Steele filled her in with an icy tone.

“Whenever a drug is prescribed the patient is informed of the risks of taking it,” she said. She then gave Michael a damning glare and added, “this would include what not to combine the drug with.”

“Hold on,” Michael began, but Susan quickly cut him off.

“You would have known that Lorazepam, when taken with alcohol, is lethal.”

“But I didn’t know that he—” he glanced angrily at the dead body, “was taking it!”

Susan retrieved the newspaper article boasting of Thelarious’ successful exposing of Ms. Steele’s asylum.

“You could have made an educated guess,” she said, “the paper states clearly that he had epilepsy.”

“I don’t know anything about drugs though!” Michael protested, “how was I supposed to know which medication he was taking?”

Ms. Steele gave him a triumphant look.

“Nearly all medications for epilepsy require caution with alcohol,” she said.

“And seeing as you take Lorazepam, you could have easily known that it’s often used for epilepsy,” Susan added.

There was a looming silence as the guests watched Michael, Ms. Steele triumphant, Pebblefella relieved, and Penny shocked. Susan gave him a nod.

“Mr. Frizz, you are—”

Before she could finish, Michael upturned the table, sending Pebblefella and Ms. Steele sprawling. He then grabbed Penny, wrapped one arm around her throat, and held one of the dinner knives to her throat.

“Don’t take a step toward me!” he growled, his fro now dancing madly atop his head. “I swear I’ll kill her!”

Susan held a hand of caution up as the other guests stumbled up from the floor.

“Don’t do this,” Penny whimpered, her tears now bubbling out uncontrollably. “Please!”

“Easy, blue boy,” Susan said, taking a step toward him.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “My name is Michael Frizz!”

“Alright,” Susan said calmly, stopping in her tracks.

“And—” Michael’s face quivered, “and I’m a musician! A real one!” he said miserably.

“You’re a blasted murderer!” Pebblefella shouted, his face red with anger. Susan stretched a hand of warning toward him, and he stopped.

“Michael,” Susan said, her voice low and grave. “You have taken one life today. That is going to weigh on your conscious as long as you live.” She paused, and then nodded at the sobbing woman the musician was holding. “Do you really want to double that weight?”

Michael was silent, his face tormented and broken. Penny sniffled and closed her eyes.

“Let her go,” Susan said. “Things will be much better if you do.”

“I wanted to make it!” Michael sobbed, “I was meant for the stage, for the lights!” He then looked to the dead body, feverish rage taking over. “And he took that from me!”

“Yes,” Susan said. “He did you wrong. But that doesn’t give you the right to murder.” She paused. “You’ve committed a far greater crime than he ever did.”

Michael then released Penny and let the knife fall to the ground. Penny darted away, but fell to the ground sobbing. Susan and Howard quickly moved forward and cuffed the culprit. Michael didn’t resist, and was soon seated on the couch, his eyes staring blankly at the dead body.

The other guests were sighing and shaking their heads, apart from Penny, who was still sobbing and giving Michael sympathetic looks. As the Police arrived to take him away, he gave Penny one last look.

“Remember me,” he said. “Remember me like I was.”

She nodded bitterly, biting her lip in an effort to control her tears. Only Susan offered her comfort. Ms. Steele was focused on leaving the whole mess and Pebblefella was phoning his driver to come and pick him up.

“You gonna be okay?” Susan asked her.

Penny nodded.

“Be careful driving home,” the Private Investigator said as Penny began to leave.

“Thanks,” Penny said, a weak smile forming.

The guests all left then, Ms. Steele entering her vehicle first, her eyes as cold as ever and her mind set on the next day of cafeteria cooking. Pebblefella's limousine arrived after, and he left eagerly, telling his driver the whole story. Penny left last, her bumper stickers informing Susan of endangered species and animal ethics.

“Well, that ended better than I thought,” Howard said after they had all left.

“Better?” Susan retorted. “We failed him,” she realized. “He invited us to find the culprit before he was murdered.”

“That’s not our fault,” Howard replied. “He really shouldn’t have invited these people here if he thought one of them was gonna kill him.”

Susan nodded, but felt guilty nonetheless. The whole thing seemed so strange, and still a little off. Some of the pieces hadn’t fully fit together, and although she was certain Michael was guilty, it felt like there was something she had missed.

“Still worked up about it?” Howard mused.

“Just going over it one last time,” she replied. “It’s still strange that Thelarious had an issue before Michael gave him the alcohol.”

“Maybe it was natural, choking on something.”

“Maybe,” Susan said. “But they hadn’t started eating at that point.” She was silent a moment before shaking her head. “And it seems too coincidental,” she added. “I mean, Michael needed an opportunity to get Thelarious to drink. He knew Thelarious wouldn’t drink willingly, and therefore needed an opportunity in which the host had no control.” She glanced at Howard. “And one just presents itself?” There was a moment of silence. “I don’t know, maybe forensics will find something if they look at the body closer.”

“Either way, we’re done here,” Howard concluded contently.

Susan lowered her brows and gave her partner a disappointed look.

“Would a drink make you feel better?” Howard asked, shrugging off their failure. Susan sighed and then nodded in agreement, and the two forgot about the case.