The Avarice of Phillip Kree

A Whodunnit, from the 1 Cent Show

Part One – Awry Parties

The day was bitterly cold, as is usually the case, ironically, for occasions like this one. Why is that? I really couldn't tell you. Normally, I don't pen my adventures; they are true enough, few and far between these days. My brother has a friend who writes his for him; I'm not surprised, he has that sort of personality—the one that draws people. I don't know why I am writing this one down; it's not as if I'll ever publish it, nor will anyone really read it. But alas, here I sit, writing it down.

So, where do I begin? I shan't tell you my name; you'll find out through the course of the story. I've always detested the tale that begins with "Hi, my name is…," so I refuse to do so. If you want to know my name, that's too bad; and anyway, it is on the cover of the story. So, most of you just flipped to the front, and now we are acquainted, so there, that's that. Alright, now that a sufficient amount of my ink has been wasted, my mind is ready to begin the real story.

As I said, the night was bitterly cold, and I was hosting a party—or not really, but I was at a friend's party. He was quite drunk; he'd just gotten a divorce, so, as is usually the case, the male party drowns suffering with Walmart's finest champagne and beer. So, I was left to tend to the guests, because that is simply the charity of my heart. Alas, I stole three minutes to check the status of the world. Because it would seem even I have been affected by the modern technology of the world. I flipped on my phone to see several alerts; our resident county had declared a state of emergency. The snow outside had piled high, too high for vehicles to function properly. Sally Buchanan walked up to me just then. She too had her phone out, also observing the state of our county. She had a look of concern on her face; she glanced around at the people all around. There were ten of us, myself included, at the house.

"Max, do you think there's enough space here at the house for all of us?"

The house was more like a mansion, and seeing how there were two couples already, I thought there to be sufficient enough space. "Yes, of course, I think there should be plenty of room. He's got at least eight rooms and three sofas; there should be plenty of space."

"Do you think he'll mind, though?"

I peeked over her shoulder and looked at Frank. "I think right now, we could throw him in the frozen pool, and he wouldn't notice. Anyways, he doesn't really have a choice; we technically can't leave, let alone would want to."

"That's true, I guess," she frowned…

I suppose I should do an introduction of the cast before I continue, for your benefit. As you all now know my name, I'll go last. You just read me speaking to Sally Buchanan, wife of Wally Buchanan, one of my best friends. Then the "host" of the party was Frank. Then there is Jennifer and Pat Amber. There was obviously Phillip Kree, then Teddy, his son aged eight, Patrick Amber II aged 14. There is also Lewellen, Frank's older sister—although only by a few minutes, as with most twins, a looming few minutes. Then, of course, myself, Maximus Blade—yes, yes, I wrote out my name. Much to my chagrin, I have a thing about completing lists, so to complete the "cast," I had to write it down.

So, there were ten of us, all stuck in this house now. Sally walked back into the room and told Wally the news. He didn't seem to be distressed about the situation too much; he nodded and whispered to Jennifer and Pat. They also took the news very well; Teddy and Patrick seemed thrilled at the idea of spending the night in this mansion. So the news was spread around, and everyone seemed totally fine. Frank couldn't care less, although no one was sure he quite processed the information.

"Alright, everyone!" said Pat, "let's have a game, shall we? Charades, anyone?"

"No, let's do that game, uh, Heads Up! That one where you put the phone on your head?" interjected Wally.

"Yes! That's a good one," said Jennifer. "You've got it on your phone, Hon; Patrick, pull it up for your father."

The young boy pulled it up on his father's phone. I smiled at the scene and sat down on the L-shaped couch next to Lewellen. Just before the game began, though, Frank sat up. "Don't wait up for me; I've got to go use the crapper. Carry on."

Teddy and Patrick laughed.

The game went on; we played all sorts of different categories. It was actually quite an enjoyable game. After ten or so minutes, Phillip got up, saying he too needed to go use the bathroom. We quickly forgot about him as the game intensified; Wally was on a streak. He'd gotten ten right, and if we kept going, he was on track to hit 13 easily. A few more minutes passed when we heard yelling.

"Listen here!" I think that voice belonged to Frank.

"I'm not gonna listen to anything!! You know!!" Phillip, I believe; they said something a bit quieter that we couldn't make out.

"Oh, you BASTARD!!"

"Me!? ME the Bastard, ha! You are funny!"

"Gah! We'll talk about this later."

They walked back into the room, to crickets; everyone stared at them in uncomfortable silence. They stopped, and Frank recovered quickly. "Oh, sorry about that, you guys. Me and Phil are just a bit tipsy," he smiled at Phillip, who also recovered.

"Oh right," he threw his arm around Frank, "Yeah, we're just having a little row; we're starting a business venture together, and we've got a disagreement on whether we should bring in a third party." He chuckled and slapped Frank on the back. I thought, a bit too hard to be friendly. I squinted at the two of them, taking in every detail. I took a mental picture to remember later. The night slowly recovered its steam, and we started having a good time again, though the tension remained a constant thrum in the background.

It was close to one o'clock when the night wound down. Frank allotted rooms for everyone, and there was ample space. I slept in the smallest room, sleeping on the ground floor while everyone else was up above. Something I'm glad for because I discovered that Frank had a butler, always an excellent source of information. When I woke up in the morning, I noticed the older man walking around the house, although I was slightly disappointed to find out that he wasn't in a tuxedo. Alas, not everything can be so stereotypical.

When he noticed me, he greeted me, "Good morning, Sir. I imagine you are Mr. Blade?"

Curious as to how he guessed, I responded, "Yes, how did you know? I didn't notice

 you about last night."

"Your hair, Sir, its depiction is quite renowned," he replied, a hint of a smile on his face.

I looked up, although, of course, I couldn't see it. "Alas, my hair is quite renowned," I chuckled. I have longish curly hair, constantly in a state of disarray. There's technically a fashion term for messy hair, but I usually just call it what it is. I unconsciously ran my hand through the mop of gray curls. My hair also grayed when I was yet a lad, not really a lad, but at my age 30 was young.

"Well," said the butler, "could I get you a coffee, Sir?"

"As long as you sit down with me and have one yourself." The butler looked around; I imagine he was looking for Frank. "Don't worry, Frank was more than a bit drunk last night; he'll be asleep for a while yet. And if he gets angry, blame me for it." He smiled and poured us each a cup of the good stuff. We sat down at a high-top in the kitchen. "I suppose I've made quite the assumption about you; you are, in fact, a butler, yes?"

"I am indeed the butler."

"How long have you worked for Frank?"

"Well, let's see, my whole life, really. This is his ancestral home, and my father was the butler for his father. I took over when he passed away. Frank has been something akin to a brother to me for a very long time. I went out on a business venture some years ago; he was good enough to give me a loan to help start it. Unfortunately, it failed, and he never said anything about it; he even offered me my old job back here."

"Yes, Frank always was a good guy."

"All of the Concussors were good people. If you don't mind, Sir, what is it you do? Or did, if you're now retired."

"Humph, a jolly good question, that one." I laughed and sipped. "Let us say I was a professional consultant and leave it at that. Otherwise, you would get bored with stories and explanations. Actually, you probably wouldn't get bored, but I would."

"Quite assumptive."

"How do you mean?"

"I smiled a knowing smile. 'My dear Watson,' I said, taking a sip of my coffee, 'I know that you would be.'"

"Try me," replied Watson. That was actually his name; I am above making such bad jokes as what you anticipated the above was.

"No, no, I'll not fall for your trap nor be baited by your accusing me of lying about the excitement of my prior profession." I paused. "Although I'll trust you heard of the Reynard Scandal of '92?"

"Of course," he rejoined.

I gave a knowing nod and gestured my thumb at myself. "You were involved in that? To what capacity?"

I was about to grace a response when a shrill scream pierced the house. We both jolted upright, looking towards the general sound. After the accustomed moment's hesitation before running towards something clearly distressing, we both ran towards the scream. Down the hall, up the stairs to the left, and then a right took us to the upper East wing of the mansion, where most of the guests had been staying. Lying on the ground, halfway out of his door, lying on the ground dead, was Phillip Kree. Standing above him, sobbing, was Jennifer Amber. Moments later, Pat came out, followed by the Buchanans. Teddy, Kree's son, was restrained from the view of his father. Regardless of the efforts, he was sobbing, calling out, "Daddy? Daddy." Even my heartstrings were pulled by this. Lewellen came out from the room perpendicular to Frank's own room from the other end of the hallway. Patrick also joined our gathering in the hallway; Lewellen's eyes bulged as she saw the dead man on the ground. She immediately spun around and burst into Frank's room. I accompanied her after instructing no one to touch the man.

Lewellen poked and prodded Frank, attempting to wake the man. "I don't know, Lew; he was pretty plastered last night."

She looked at me. "Max… he's not breathing!"

"What?" I walked over and put my ear to his mouth; I put my hand to his neck to check for a pulse. I knew in a second he was dead, though; his skin was ice-cold. I looked at Lewellen. "He's dead, Lew." She nodded, and tears formed in her eyes. "I'm sorry," I said; she just nodded again.

It's worth noting that I felt rather awkward at this moment, as at one point in time, Lewellen and myself were rather near marriage. Grant it, that was some thirty years ago, but since then, neither of us, so far as I know, has ever been with another person.

She choked back a few sobs and said, "Figure this out, Max."

It was my turn to nod. Now, I am sure you are all possibly not too surprised by the death of Phillip, after all, I did title this story "The Avarice of Phillip Kree." But I do hope that you were all as surprised as I was by the death of Frank. For at this moment, I was at a total loss, as in my mind, the only possible suspect was dead. Frank and Phillip got into quite a row last night, the way they looked and sounded, well, they could have killed each other right then and there.

I walked out of the room and met everyone's stares. "Frank is dead," I said rather bluntly.

A stunned silence enveloped the room. Watson spoke up then, "Let's everyone go downstairs. I've got some tea and coffee. We can relax, eat a little bit, and hopefully calm down and call the police."

"Who are you again?" asked Pat.

"Oh, I'm Watson, Frank's Butler."

"Oh… the butler," said Pat a bit dazed. "I didn't know he had one of those."

Watson escorted everyone downstairs, but I walked into Phillip's room. I peeked out of the window; snow was still falling down like bricks, and the branches of frozen trees would snap off in the torrent of wind. I knew then that the police would not be arriving anytime soon; I wouldn't be surprised if the phones weren't even working in this tumult. I glanced around Phillip's room for a while, and as I was about to leave the room, I turned around and saw his phone. A BlackBerry device, rather modern, the newest model, in fact. I looked at Phillip; his suit was second-hand, probably from his father. His shoes, they weren't shabby, but his appearance, the clothes he had, they did not speak to me of someone who could afford a device of this price.

I picked up the phone and turned it on; a red dot appeared in the corner of the message box. I selected the message application, it opened, and I looked at the name of the sender, Jan. The message read, "Please, I'm begging you, just give me some more time. I'll get the money, just don't say anything." Very interesting, I thought, and without the slightest bit of guilt, I started thumbing through the other messages. It became quite apparent that our dear Mr. Philip Kree was a blackmailer. Although obviously quite fresh at it, as he carried around the evidence on his personal phone and had yet to restock his clothes with nicer ones. I clicked the phone off and put it in my pocket, fresh with new knowledge I went downstairs, skirting the body. I hesitated once and once again went back into the room. I ripped the sheet off the bed and tossed that over him, then went downstairs.

"Maximus!" said Wally, rushing up to me, fear a prevalent emotion in his eyes. He rested his hands on my shoulders. "What's going on here, Maximus?" I stopped listening for a moment; I heard someone on the phone.

"Yes? Hello? Can you hear me? Hi yeah, we need help… Hello? Hello? I lost them."

"…Maximus?"

I shook myself and looked back at Wally. "What's going to happen to us, Maximus? What did happen?"

"Phillip was a Blackmailer," was all I replied.

Even though I did not say that particularly loud, it was loud enough for everyone to hear and stop in dead silence. Almost as dramatically and the vinyl record screeching to a halt, everyone stopped twittering and turned to look at me. I glanced around before saying anything more. I read the message out loud for everyone to hear; the stunned silence remained and actually reverberated even louder.

Pat walked in from another room. "...I can't reach the police. I tried, but the connection was terrible. I don't know what they heard, if anything." He looked at everyone staring at me. "Did I miss something?"

Sally shook herself. "We just found out that Phil was a blackmailer."

"What!?"

"It is a shock to us all. He was so…"

"Wildly irritating," interjected Pat. "I hope you weren't going to say nice. I never could stand that guy, even in college. Although I never would have wished this on him—stabbed to death. That is how he died, right? I thought I saw the marks on his shirt?" He looked around; everyone nodded their concurrence.

I needed to get a closer look before I was sure. I would need to get my information, but at that moment, my stomach was rumbling. There was no way I was going to let Watson's good omelets go to waste. I scooped one onto a plate with some sausages and began to eat. Jennifer eyed me incredulously.

"How can you eat at a time like this?"

"Helps the brain think," I said, tapping the bottom of the fork to my head. "Trust me, I have absolutely no appetite, but my body needs fuel, as does my brain. I will figure out how this happened and how Frank and Phil died."

"Hang on, Frank!?" said Wally, then he spun around and realized that Frank wasn't here.

I looked up from my half-empty plate, swallowed. "Oh yeah, he died as well."

Sally put her hands to her mouth and looked at Jennifer, who was sobbing again. They started crying and sat down on the couch crying together. Pat had his hand on his hip and head, breathing in and out, looking puzzled. On the other hand, Wally sat down next to me, head between two hands. I could hear gears misfiring in his brain as he tried to fathom what was going on. Watson, on the other hand, was still cooking, working away his grief, as a man should.

I finished my meal and handed the plate to Watson. I patted him on the back and gave him my condolences at the loss of his friend. Of course, I was sad about Frank; he was a very good friend of mine. As for Phil, well, I felt the same way as Pat. Regardless, I felt it my duty to solve these two murders if I could.

Part Two – Whodunnit

Who done it? Or, as is the more recent term, "whodunnit," as humans are infinitely lazy. My word processor even recognizes the word as proper English. So, who done it? Well, I'll get there. I ask my reader for a little more patience. I'll now walk you through my process of deductions and how I ultimately figured out "whodunnit."

My suspect for the murder of Phillip was dead, so that was quite frustrating. I ultimately moved on and first began to try to solve Frank's murder. I thought, who was to benefit from Frank's death? I didn't know. I'm not sure if Lewellen was to gain anything, probably the divorcee. But I wasn't sure about that, nor if they had a son. I thought they did, but the ex-wife had full custody. I quickly realized that I had nothing for either victim, no one as suspect for either. This was going to be quite the puzzle. I decided that I would need to look over the bodies again and investigate Frank's room. Wally noticed this and jogged over to me.

"What's going on, Maximus?"

"I'm going to look at the bodies again. I am going to figure out who did this," I replied.

"Oh, well maybe I can help out a bit."

"If you'd like to," I shrugged indifferently. I didn't really need an assistant, but I wasn't going to turn him away either. Back up the steps, I went over to the body. I was about to turn over Phil but stopped. I looked at Wally. "Say, would you mind fetching some gloves from Watson for me?"

"Huh? Oh sure, don't want to put any evidence on the body, gotcha," he winked a conspiratorial one, then dashed off as fast as a 55-year-old man could. I had already peeled the sheet off. I held my pocket handkerchief over my mouth, although I did realize that it was probably in vain. People had been standing over him and weeping. Mostly in shock, obviously, but he probably had their snot all over him. Still, I wanted gloves for myself because I don't want to touch a dead body if I don't have to.

Once I had the gloves, Watson and Wally stood over me as I tucked the handkerchief back in my pocket and began an inspection. I found it true that he was stabbed four times, curious. I stood over him, simulating each strike, looking around, gathering each minute detail, the pulls on the fiber of the carpet, blood spatter, the marks on his clothes. His body was cold, but the blood hadn't started to harden yet. Then, as is my custom, I sat down, legs crossed, and began to recreate the scene.

Phil stood up. It was late, approximately 6-7 hours ago; he might have heard something, maybe the killer called him out. He opened the door, startled by the appearance of a person with a knife, started back, which he kicked the door frame, causing the streak on his freshly polished shoes and a black streak on the bottom of the frame. It was no use, though, as he was falling over. He was stabbed, angled down in the chest. No, he fell forward; that's why there was a splash of blood. He fell into a falling puddle. So as he started back, the assailant grabbed his tie, which was why he has a rash there. Pulled him forward then stabbed him; he fell forward then the assailant stabbed him twice more. I must have frowned because Wally asked me what was wrong. I held out a hand to silence him. In my mind, I went over the attacks, four wounds. The first downward, the man fell forward, got turned over, two more, but the last one was angled weirdly. A left-handed blow!?

I jumped up. "Is anyone here left-handed?" I asked.

"I'm… not sure," replied Wally, looking to Watson.

"I don't believe so," said Watson. "Why?"

"Because this strike right here," I pointed, "was dealt by a left-handed attacker." I stood over

 and demonstrated how awkward the blow would have been right-handed.

"Well, couldn't the person have just switched hands for that blow?"

"With the amount of anger a person would have had to have to stab someone four times and the last time have the presence of mind to switch hands to confuse an investigator, I doubt it."

"Which means?" queried Wally.

"There had to have been two assailants!" I said, eyes widening.

"One of whom is left-handed?"

"One of whom is left-handed," I confirmed.

At that moment, I heard footsteps below walking away from the steps. Someone had been listening in. I rushed down the steps to try and catch who it was, but I missed the person, whoever they were. I walked back; they had questions on their faces, but I shook my head. I had not seen the person, whoever they were.

After I finished looking over the body of Phil, I went into Frank's room to snoop around and see how he was killed. Wally and Watson, I deployed downstairs to gather rumors and spy on what the people down there talked about. Frank didn't have a mark on his body, not on his head nor neck. I grabbed a pen, held it under boiling water first, then opened his mouth. His tongue was black as night. Poison, I knew that much, but to testify as to which kind of poison would do that, I'm many things, but a toxicologist is not one of them. I frowned and contemplated the consequences of this news, as well as the problems. There were so many times he could have been poisoned at any time last night, but the most likely suspect had already been killed.

I went to find Lewellen. I had a few questions to ask her, an idea had begun to percolate in my mind. I had to find Frank's office, if he had one in his home.

She was downstairs, brewing another pot of coffee. "Lewellen?" I said.

"Did you discover anything, Max?" interrupted Pat.

I ignored him, and Lewellen responded, "Yes, Maximus?"

"Does Frank have an office in here somewhere?" I could hear Pat harumph in the background. That put a bit of a smile on my face. "Yes, he was right-handed," Wally replied.

"Interesting," I murmured to myself. "So, we have two blackmailer friends who end up dead on the same night. Jennifer, whose secret is exposed, and Pat Sr., who discovers he's not the father of his son. Both of them have strong motives to get rid of their blackmailers."

Wally nodded, absorbing the information. "And you think Jennifer might have killed Phill, with help from someone else?"

"Yes, that's the theory. The left-handed killer is still out there, and it could be either Sally or Pat Jr. Since Frank was right-handed, it makes sense that he was the victim of a left-handed attacker. We need to find out who else in this house is left-handed."

"Right," Wally said. "I'll discreetly ask around, see if anyone mentions being left-handed or if they notice someone else being left-handed."

"Good plan," I agreed. "But we need to be careful. If the killer realizes we're on to them, they might try to eliminate us as well."

Wally looked worried, but determined. "Don't worry, Maximus. I'll be careful."

I patted him on the shoulder. "I trust you, Wally. Just be cautious, and we'll get to the bottom of this."

As Wally went to gather information, I continued to ponder the evidence before me. The blackmail scheme, the secret affairs, and the mysterious left-handed killer. It was like putting together a complicated puzzle, and I needed to find the missing pieces.

Suddenly, it hit me. There was one person in this house who was left-handed, and they had a motive for murder. It was someone I hadn't considered before, but now it all made sense. I had to act fast before it was too late.

I rushed back to the group and gathered everyone's attention. "Listen up, everyone! We have a killer among us, and I know who it is!"

Gasps and shocked expressions filled the room as all eyes turned to me. I could see fear and suspicion in their faces, but I had to reveal the truth.

"The left-handed killer is none other than..." I paused for dramatic effect, "Teddy Kree!"

The room fell silent as they all looked at Teddy, the restrained son of the late Phill Kree. He looked startled and confused, denying any involvement. But the evidence was there, and I had to make him confess.

"You killed your father and Frank because they were blackmailing your mother, Jennifer," I said, pointing at the incriminating evidence on the desk. "You couldn't bear the shame and the thought of your father's affair being exposed. So, you took matters into your own hands."

Teddy's eyes filled with tears as he finally broke down. "I couldn't let them ruin my mother's life," he admitted, his voice trembling. "I had to protect her."

The truth was out, and justice would be served. The police were called, and Teddy was taken into custody. The rest of us were left to deal with the aftermath of the shocking revelations.

As the sun set on that eventful day, I couldn't help but reflect on the complexities of human nature and the dark secrets that can lie hidden beneath the surface. The Avarice of Phillip Kree had led to a chain of events that no one could have foreseen.

But as a detective, my duty was to uncover the truth, and that's exactly what I had done. The case was closed, and justice was served. And as I sipped my coffee once again, I knew that the mysteries of Avington Manor would stay with me forever.

Wally thought, "His left hand?" he said it more as a question than a statement.

"I believe so," I rejoined to his questioning statement, "there is a way to figure it out," I said and ran into the kitchen. I started pulling open drawers, searching for tape, and I found a roll just as people started to poke their heads in.

"Everything A OK Max?" asked Pat.

"It will be in a minute," I said and ran back up the steps, Wally in tow.

Next to Frank's bed was a little night table thing; it was really an end table with a blanket, I believe they call those tablecloths, thrown over it. Although it was too large and it draped to the floor, regardless, on it was a lamp, a book, and a glass of water. The glass was mostly empty. I put on another glove and picked up the glass. Holding it to the light, I tried to fog up the glass a bit, and I found a print. As I was about to put the tape on it to attempt to pull the print off, someone walked in and harrumphed.

"You know if you want to know whether or not Frank is left-handed, you could have just asked me? The answer to which is yes, he was," said Lewellen.

"Yes, I suppose I could have," I said, just a tad bit embarrassed.

"And you know, a right-handed person sometimes grabs a cup with his left hand, and vice-versa?"

"Yes," I couldn't look at her any longer, I am quite certain my face was flush. I inspected the print on the cup, distracting myself. Then out of curiosity, I inspected Frank's thumb. I believe Lewellen was still talking, but I couldn't hear anything anymore. I looked at the print on the cup again, then at his thumb, then his other thumb. They didn't match. At that moment, an incredibly ludicrous idea struck me. Then again, as some famous detective or other said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Well, I formulated my hypothesis and tested it immediately. I ran over to the body of Phillip. Practically slid on my knees over his hand, I grabbed his left hand and looked at the thumb, 1,2,3,4,5. I found five minutiae, I looked over to the glass still in my hands and found the same. The prints were the same. Which meant that Phillip handed Frank this cup of water, the water that had the poison in it. Probably before they went to bed, which meant that Phillip had intended to kill Frank, and Frank was left-handed.

The glass broke as it hit the ground, 1…2…3…4, four stab wounds: Sally, Jennifer, Patrick Sr, and Frank. The Four of them had intended to kill Phill; that was why the party had been designed in the first place. Or at least, so my idea went. Possibly Frank was going to turn Phillip in, and Phillip found out and decided to poison him. I imagine that Frank and Phillip soon began to see each other as loose ends. Neither wanted to be turned in, neither wanted to be the first to turn the other in. Possibly through some strange "code of ethics" instead of turning each other in. Instead, they had decided to just kill the other, happenstance had it they shared the idea.

"What is it!?" asked Lewellen and Wally together.

"I've figured it out," I replied to them.

"You figured out who killed Phillip?" asked Wally.

"And Frank?" added Lewellen.

"Indeed," I replied, "Come, let's go downstairs for the dramatic reveal."

As I am sure my readers have guessed by now, I can't resist just a touch of the dramatic. Perhaps it is the plague of all Introverted people by nature. When I have a chance to make a bang, which typically is few and far between, I always take it. So, if you are wondering whether or not I collected all of the house's residents together to reveal the mystery in a grand manner, yes, yes I did. But I will not bore you with how I did so. I spun the tale into a great yarn, not fabricating any of it though, but I did drag it out. Yet, this took on a dual purpose; I was also delaying the "grand" reveal for as long as I could. Because I waited for the police to arrive, I knew after the call that Pat had made to them, they would send someone over. So, I waited for their delayed arrival. When I did finally reveal the end, they all confessed.

"So, we come to this morning," I said, "when I observed the body of Phillip and found this phone." I held it aloft. "Along with the four wounds on his chest, one of which had to be from a left-handed striker. I admit I was quite baffled by this; I couldn't for the life of me figure out why someone in the heat of murder would pause on the last blow and switch hands. Even if they had, why would they do such a thing? The answer, of course, was that they didn't intend. There had to have been two murderers; still not a perfect solution but better than before. Yet, that idea led me to the ultimate conclusion. At this point is when I realized that Phillip was the blackmailer. I found a message on his phone, although the numbers on here had no names, the messages were clear that he was blackmailing three people. But who were they? Well, I quickly discovered this when I requested to think in Frank's study.

Curiosity got to me when I found a little safe on a stand in the back corner of the room. I, of course, opened this and discovered a bundle of photographs and a DNA test." I would have my reader know that this is not how I revealed to my dear friend Wally about his wife; I had told both Lewellen and Wally the whole thing just before this. "The photographs were of Sally and Patrick Sr, and their affair, and then Jennifer, you had been hiding that DNA test because if Pat saw it then he would discover your affair, because Patrick Jr is not his son."

"Jennifer, is that true?" asked Pat.

"Yes, it is, but I see no cause for you to be hurt, after what you did with that…"

"He was our son!"

"Was, our son, now you know he's just mine."

"Now, now," I interrupted, "the last bit that confused was how Frank was involved in this, an answer that I now had. Frank was Phillip's partner, but Wally gave me some insight, it was probably the other way around, Frank was the original blackmailer. But soon after Phillip was brought onto this 'business venture' as they put it, Frank realized that Phillip was a huge liability but didn't want to turn him in. For it would mean his destruction as well. After all, Phillip was a lawyer, but also because if he turned in Phillip, he would also be turning in himself." This was a revelation I had on the spot. "It just so happened that Phillip had the exact same idea, so Phillip poisoned him, and that same night he came with the rest of you and stabbed him, dealing the left-handed blow. Then when he laid back down in

 bed, he succumbed to the poison that Phillip put in his water."

I finished with a flourish, and just then a knock came to the door. Watson went to see who it was.

"That was very well done, Maximus," said Sally. She was teared up slightly, "and it was almost right."

"Almost, right?" I asked, confused.

"Yes, you see, Frank was also being blackmailed by Phillip, about being a blackmailer. Phillip was a lawyer, as you know. He said if he went down with Frank, his sentence wouldn't be hardly anything in comparison to Frank's. A risk he was willing to take. After that happened, Frank confessed to us what he'd done, but he also gave us back our money, at least most of it. He said he'd get the rest eventually. But then he also told us what Phillip had been doing, and then we planned tonight. Everything else you got right. That man… Phillip, he was just so full of… full of… avarice, and it got him killed, and I don't feel the least bit bad for him.

THE END