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daleketer · 2 months

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Raphael is "french toast." Is it because Raphael is a French 🥖 name and he's figuratively hot? 🔥

GRATUITOUS BOINK TIME SCENE™ 🥵😮

Huh, stickers and tape? I know several local vendors who make those things. Never bought any of those since my aesthetic is very simple, clean, and symmetrical. 🙀

Lola 🐝 and Raphael's 🐢 Gratuitous Public Make Out Scene™ reminds me of this short:

youtube

Newspaper man is totally a spoopy goast. 👻

Finally, you captured the ridiculous, over-the-top acting in mystery dinner theaters. #SoBadItsGood

The only thing Lola had to worry about in regards to her birthday weekend, according to Raphael, was that she prepare a small overnight bag for herself, otherwise, every detail and arrangement had been handled. All she needed to do was sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience, but Lola could hardly think about relaxing once she learned the plans for her upcoming birthday celebration. For one, the party was on the weekend, and there were many days to get through between now and then, so instead of focusing on any of her work for the remainder of the week, Lola occupied her time relearning all she could of the Northcott Manor House. She dug into her old research files, brushed up on the Northcott lineage, and poured herself into what stories the newspaper archives had preserved to reacquaint herself with the cannery mogul and his wife.

She was so completely wrapped up in all of her research and study that she hadn’t realized it was the day of her party until she felt feather light lips on her neck, gently kissing her awake to a golden morning of song birds while being held in the embrace of her caring lover.

“Good morning,” Raphael greeted, his voice a notch lower and more rumbled due to sleep still lingering in his throat. “Happy birthday,” he added, nuzzling Lola closer to him.

“Good morning,” she replied, content and cozy, “and thank you.” She smiled, still half asleep, and burrowed deeper in the pocket of warmth created by their bodies and many blankets.

“Is the birthday girl ready to start her day?”

“Five more minutes,” Lola answered through a powerful yawn. She hugged his arm that was wrapped around her closer to her body, trapping him into continuing their shared morning snuggle, however, the cruel timing of her stomach grumbling broke the quiet intimacy.

“Hungry?” Raphael asked.

Lola could feel the smile on his lips as he returned to kiss the column of her neck while he asked the obvious question. “I’m not ready to leave,” she declared, and she squeezed a touch tighter of his arm, refusing to relinquish the gentle realm of comforting softness cocooned in blankets that was created in their shared bed.

“You don’t have to leave, for I can bring breakfast to you,” he offered. “What can I make my little dandelion for a birthday morning meal?”

“Hmm,” Lola hummed, her tone theatrical and playful. She let go of his arm to turn her body around so she was directly looking at Raphael, a teasing grin upon her lips. “I would enjoy some French toast in bed.”

“One order of French toast coming right up,” Raphael said, leaning forward to place a kiss on Lola’s forehead. When he began to pull away to start breakfast, Lola reached out for him, her hands taking hold of his wrists, staying him in an awkward position of being halfway out of bed and half hovering over her. He stared down at her, his eyebrows in a quizzical furrow.

“Where are you going, French toast?” she asked, a slight blush rising to her cheeks while her thumbs brushed along his arms where she still held him. A sly smirk spread on Raphael’s face, reading her unspoken desires loud and clear, so he lowered himself back into bed, where Lola welcomed him with open arms as he disappeared under the covers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Raphael returned to the bedroom after the pre-breakfast appetizer with a tray piled high with, according to his beloved, his “world famous French toast”, and two glasses of orange juice. As he shouldered the door fully open, he saw Lola returning to the bed itself from the adjoining en-suite, her red, tousled hair framing her head like a lion’s mane, wild and uninhibited. She had slipped into her favorite fuzzy pink bathrobe, the sash having gone missing, but a smile crept to his lips when he remembered where he saw it last.

“What’s that grin for?” Lola asked, seeing him standing in the doorway as she climbed into bed, a secret grin to himself plastered across his face.

“Only that I love you,” he replied, shaking himself out of his ardent thoughts. “I come bearing gifts.”

“The best kind,” Lola laughed, her mouth beginning to water for the tasty treats.

Ever the gallant knight, Raphael sauntered into the room, setting the tray down in front of Lola in the middle of the bed. He then sat himself across from her with an elegant fold to his legs so they could begin digging into breakfast. Lola couldn’t help but beam at the care and panache Raphael displayed in making her feel celebrated, and the single red rose on the tray table helped to soften her broad smile of delight into one of loving tenderness. She picked up the rose, smelling it, her heart blooming open like the soft petals before her.

“Are you ready for tonight?” Raphael asked, referring to the mystery dinner theater they were to attend later that evening.

“You better believe it,” she said while setting the rose on her nightstand. “There are just so many hours between now and tonight, I don’t know what I’m going to do to occupy my time.”

“’Idle hands’,” he chuckled. “Hopefully it won’t be too insufferable of a wait for you.”

“The anticipation will only make it that much better,” Lola quipped around a forkful of French toast. “How do you make these taste so good?” she moaned, practically melting as the warm, buttery bread hit all the right notes on her tongue’s palate.

“That is a secret I will never tell,” he stated. He caught the glimmer of challenge sparkle in Lola’s eyes, and he couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips even if he tried, knowing full well that inciting her with an “unattainable mystery” made her light up with mischievous schemes for play. “Unfortunately, there are some obligatory errands I need to take care of today.”

“Oh? What do you have to do?”

“I need to run by the Renaissance faire grounds to pick up a packet from HR, but then I’ll be straight home,” he answered.

“That’s right! The Ren Faire starts up next weekend. Are you ready to reprise your role, Mr. White Knight of the jousting ring?”

“Provided I have your favor.”

“For now and for always,” she declared, and leaned over the breakfast tray to give him a kiss, his lips an intoxicating taste of cinnamon and sugar.

“Now, don’t think I don’t know how important it is for you to carve out some alone time to journal during special occasions, and your birthday is no exception, which is why I have a surprise for you.” Raphael got up from the bed, taking Lola’s hand as he did, and led her out of their bedroom down the hallway towards her crafting room. He stopped them just outside the doorway, then placed her in front of him so he could cover her eyes so as not to ruin the grand reveal of his surprise. Lola giggled, trusting her fiancé wholeheartedly as he guided her into the craft room, and after drawing out a theatrical countdown, which served its purpose in ramping up her anticipation for what awaited her, he removed his hands with a dramatic flourish. Lola blinked a few times, adjusting her sight, and gasped when she saw a large gift bag on her writing desk done up in an array of pretty tissue paper with a single, long stemmed rose poking out of the wrappings.

“Honey love, what is this?” Lola asked, stunned at the gift that seemed to magically appear overnight.

“A birthday present,” he informed. “Open it,” he then encouraged, prodding her forward. Lola floated towards her writing desk and sat in her swivel chair, placing the impressive gift bag in her lap, and spun around to face Raphael, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching her with the look of a lover’s expectation as she balanced the present upon her thighs. She took out the rose first so as not to damage it, and gave the bloom a quick smell and a kiss before setting it on the desk. Then, she pawed through the waves of tissue paper to fully unveil her present.

“No way!” she declared, spotting the hidden items. “Stickers!” she proclaimed, holding up the booklets of cozy-themed stickers. “And they’re from my favorite designer. And look! Fancy tape,” she next gasped, “and a boxset of rubber stamps themed in cottagecore and my favorite brand of pens! This is all too much!” Lola spun her chair in circles, hugging her new treasures close to her chest.

Raphael laughed, his heart swelling with love at the display of her joyous expressions. “I guess now you’ll have something to occupy your time before the party tonight.”

“You stinker,” Lola chastised without malice, stopping her chair to face him head on. “You had this all planned out.”

“Of course I did,” he affirmed, his chest puffed out in pride, and walked fully into the room. “That’s what happens when one knows the love of his life so well.” He had reached her chair, leaning forward to place his hands on the armrests, and Lola took her cue to kiss him.

“Thank you,” she said once their lips parted. “This is absolutely the most perfect gift. I love it, and you.”

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” and he kissed her breathless again. “I simply ask that when you journal about your generous bounty from the man of your waking dreams, that you write only good things about me.”

“Don’t I always?” she joked.

“I don’t know, I haven’t read that far in yet.” He laughed, her expression of horror as if a deer frozen in headlights spurring on his mirth. “I’m teasing you,” he assuaged. “Your secrets are safe. Now, how about you come downstairs and help make coffee with me?”

Lola visibly relaxed and gave Raphael a half-hearted glare before accepting his hand to help make the hot morning beverage. Upon entering the kitchen, Lola found another long stemmed rose in one of her favorite coffee mugs that sat innocently next to the coffee maker. She had a suspicious feeling she was going to be finding roses hidden throughout the house, and sure enough, by the end of the day, as she and Raphael were heading out the door for the Northcott Manor House mystery dinner theater, there was a full vase on the kitchen table with the same amount of roses equaling to her age.

The drive to the Manor House was entertaining, at least from Raphael’s perspective, for Lola could only sit perched on the edge of the passenger seat, chatting idly and listlessly for the duration of the ride, and then practically threw herself out of the car once the vehicle pulled into a parking spot. The engine might have still been running, but at least the ride had come to a complete stop.

“I wonder if anyone else is here yet,” Lola questioned while she waited for Raphael to get out of the car.

“Happy birthday, Lola!” came a shout from a familiar voice across the small parking lot. Turning towards the exclamation, Lola caught a glimpse of her two oldest and dearest friends approaching her, Modesta carrying a gift bag topped with fancy paper, and Jack, his camcorder.

“Jack,” Lola said with a laugh after she pulled away from a warm hug with Modesta. “Why are you filming?”

“This is my birthday present for you,” Jack replied, ducking and weaving in the space around the others to capture every dramatic angle. “I’m filming what is sure to be a most spooky experience so you can relive this moment whenever you want.”

“That’s a very thoughtful gift, Jack, thank you,” and Lola shared a hug with him next.

“And this is my gift to you,” Modesta said, offering up the gift bag. “I received a shipment of these a few days ago and I knew you had to have one.”

“Thank you, Mo,” Lola said, her smile beaming as she accepted the gift bag. “Should I open it now or wait until later?”

“Let’s wait until later, Lazare isn’t here yet,” Raphael said. As his words were spoken, a new vehicle entered the parking lot and pulled into the empty slot next to Modesta’s car. Shortly after, Lazare came out of the driver’s side, apologies on his lips as he scurried towards the cluster of friends.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said on an exhale of breath. “I came straight from the pawn shop, and traffic was backed up. Why is Jack filming me?” he asked, confused as Jack crouched low, then high in a strange dance of cinematography.

“Pretend I don’t exist,” Jack instructed, zooming in on the semi-frightened portrait of the newest friend to enter the scene.

“Believe me, I already do,” Lazare sassed, but his sarcasm fostered no ill-will. “Moving right along…this is for you, Lola. Happy birthday!” Lazare held out a small rectangular box, offering the wrapped parcel to Lola, to which she thanked him with a big smile and matching embrace. Raphael, after looking to his watch, took charge of the group, and began to herd them all towards the Manor House where dinner and a show waited for no one. After giving his name to the hostess, the friends soon found themselves seated at a long, linen covered banquet table tucked at one end near the corner of the dining room, where similar tables lined the walls, filled with other guests who spoke with each other in soft conversation, waiting for the show, and dinner, to begin.

Lola sat at the head of the table, her back to the wall, giving her a full view of the room. Her eyes roved over every gilded inch of space, taking in the soft glow of the electric chandeliers, the light glinting off the shiny surfaces of marble and crystal. Paintings of regal portraits dotted the spaces between accent mirrors, their eyes seeming to bore into her soul, smug in keeping their secrets behind their immortal, thinly painted lips. The wait staff circulated the dining room, taking care of diners’ drink orders, and in a matter of minutes, Lola had a glass of wine in hand, clinking edges with her fiancé, absorbed in the ambiance of the glittering room filled with light and laughter. A warm palm on her right forearm brought her out of her trance, and she turned her attention to Raphael beside her.

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” he asked.

His smile melted her insides, her heart captivated from the candlelight sparkling in his azure colored eyes. “It is,” she said. “I’ve never been here at night. It’s magical.”

Raphael leaned towards her, drawn to the enchanting glow of candlelight reflecting in her own eyes. “From what I’ve gathered about tonight’s performance,” he began, “is that the actors will perform in-the-round, so everyone here will be able to experience the whole production in a more intimate setting.”

“Does that mean there will be some audience participation?” Lola asked, preparing to play the part of inspector detective to help solve the soon-to-be murder mystery.

Raphael laughed. “There might be, but knowing your propensity for mischief, I’m sure you will find a way to weasel yourself into the show.”

“What can I say? I like to be part of the story,” she admitted with a lift of her shoulders.

“And that’s what makes you so dangerous,” he said, leaning in closer, the heat of his body twining with her own.

“You do enjoy playing with fire,” she bantered in reply, helping to close the distance until she felt his breath fan her neck.

“Is it my fault the flames of your passion are so…alluring?” His nose ghosted over a tender spot below her ear, causing her to shiver as he breathed in her scent of amber and vanilla.

“The way you stoke the flames, I’m surprised I haven’t set the world on fire.”

“My world is ablaze.” His hand had moved from her forearm to her thigh as his lips brushed against her jaw, and although the allegory was directed towards her being of fire, she was the one finding herself burning.

“Hey, I’m all for exuberant PDA’s,” said Jack after a slight uncomfortable cough, “but if you both keep that up, this is going to turn into a wildly different movie, and that’s something I’m a touch squeamish about filming of my friends.” He gave his camcorder a little shake, emphasizing his point, while Modesta and Lazare snickered quietly to one another. Lola’s face tinged red with embarrassment, not because of her lover’s closeness, but merely from the fact she forgot there were others in the room with her at all. Raphael had the uncanny ability of making her feel she was the only person in a room, for whenever he fixed his attention solely on her, the rest of the world tended to fade away.

Raphael was undeterred by Jack’s comment, and with a haughty scoff, said, “Film away,” and planted a kiss straight to Lola’s lips. The quiet snickering turned into full on laughter as Lola reached for her glass of ice water once Raphael settled back a respectable distance with a triumphant smirk crooking his mouth. To stave off the growing arousal her fiancé so expertly coaxed of her, she darted her eyes around the room for any type of distraction from her mind’s otherwise romantic thoughts, the mere glance towards him being enough to unravel her self-control to end the night immediately for special birthday evening activities---the charming devil. He was too good at disarming her completely, burrowing into her heart beyond capacity to overflow and burst with love. Peering over her glass as she gulped down half her beverage, Lola noticed a man staring at her from the foyer through the entryway which opened up and led guests into the dining room.

What surprised her most wasn’t only the fact he was staring into her soul with a focused, unblinking gaze, but rather, his attire, for he wore a tweed cap, white button front shirt, and suspenders that were secured to the waistband of navy blue wool slacks. He looked as if he had stepped out of a movie that took place on the city streets of the 1920’s, and she half expected him to start bellowing at the diners to collect their evening newspaper from him. She watched as he placed a lit cigarette to his lips and turned to disappear from view deeper into the foyer hallway.

“I think the show is about to start,” Lola said to her friends once the figure vanished.

“Is it already seven o’clock?” Modesta asked, looking at her watch to confirm the time.

“Let’s call it a hunch,” Lola replied. As if on cue, the wait staff entered the dining room, wheeling out on linen covered carts salads for the appetizer course of the set menu, and following behind them, a tall, slender man in a brown three piece suit, trench coat, and hat stepped into the center of the room.

“Ah! Good and pleasant folk, I’m so glad you’re here,” began the man, addressing the whole of the room, and as he pulled from his coat pocket a small notepad and pen, a police badge pinned to his vest flashed from the candlelight. “My name is Detective Charles Babcock, and I’ve been summoned here this night to help solve an attempted crime of passion: murder.”

“I’m so excited,” Lola whispered, clutching onto Raphael’s arm in her exuberance for potential homicide.

“As I am just one man, I can’t possibly get a straight story from the suspects on my list,” the detective continued, tapping his pen against his notepad as he swept around the room to deliver his dialogue. “Even if I could get them all to the station for questioning, I’m down to one team member who hasn’t quit on me…yet. So,” he stressed, opening his arms wide to the diners in a grand gesture, “you fine folk are my unofficial-official gumshoes. Do you agree to help me solve this case?” The crowd replied by cheering loudly and applauding. “All right, that’s what I like. Enthusiasm! Okay, folks, let’s start with our first suspect, the one who called in the crime, the parlor maid Miss Honeyworth.”

With a fling of his arm towards the main foyer, a buxom brunette in fishnets wearing a scintillating outfit of black and white lace flounced into the room. She dusted the air with her feather duster while adjusting a tiny cap pinned to the mountain of tight ringlets on top of her head. The audience laughed at her comedic appearance and over the top French accent, the detective goading the crowd reactions by acting tongue tied and flustered. The table where Lola and the others sat was served their appetizers as the detective was trying to question the parlor maid through innuendoes and accidental pickup lines, much to the confusion of the current suspect, who answered with her own equally embarrassing double entendres, delivering the punchline of their bit, much to the amusement of the audience. By the time Lola’s salad plate was set in front of her, she had taken out a notepad and pen from her purse, already having jotted down bullet points of observations and takeaways, and resting at the edge of the table, microphone facing the cast members, was the ever-faithful tape recorder Stanley.

“You know Jack is filming this. Why the need for Stanley?” Raphael asked, leaning towards Lola to ask his question in a quiet tone so as not to disrupt the performers.

“Stanley never misses anything,” Lola said, her reply matter of fact. “While it’s good to have visual evidence, you risk the lens being pointed in the wrong direction, or filming out of focus. But Stanley captures it all.”

“Let’s hope a breeze doesn’t obstruct the audio,” he teased.

“Don’t you dare jinx Stanley,” she scolded with a frown. “He hasn’t failed me yet.” She felt him bump his knee into hers, signaling a truce and intending no ill-will towards the little silver box resting between them. His smile was playful and she relaxed, both of them returning to their salads as well as their attentions to the animated figures of the comedy troupe.

“And then I heard a big crash. Boom!” the parlor maid explained, gesturing grandly with a large circular motion of her arms.

“Where did the noise come from?” asked the detective.

“From the library,” she answered. “So, I quickly ran to see what happened, but the doors were closed and locked.” The audience laughed as the character trotted in a semi-circle to then mime struggling to open a pair of locked doors. “But then, they opened!” More laughter came as she stumbled backwards, breathless. “And guess who was behind the library doors?”

“Who?” Detective Babcock asked, pen poised to take her statement.

“Mr. Garfield, our head butler.”

Lola looked to her friends at the table, where they all met each other’s gazes in silent agreement knowing full well that the classic butler trope had indeed “done it”.

“Then what happened?” pressed Detective Babcock.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Miss Honeyworth. “Mr. Garfield instructed I phone the police, so I left to call you.”

“A wise thing you did,” agreed the detective, “but, you said there was an attempted murder when you phoned me. Why make such a serious claim?”

“Because,” she sobbed, “I saw Mr. Fernsby, our employer, face down on the ground. He looked as if…as if….” She couldn’t finish her statement. Instead, she burst into a mournful wail, burying her face into a handkerchief she procured from her bosom while the detective embraced her in an awkward side-hug, flummoxed in trying his best to console her.

“I understand,” he soothed, patting her shoulder. “You did the right thing by calling. Now, if Mr. Fernsby was lying on the ground, surely he must not have gotten there by accident. Be a kind soul and fetch me your Mr. Garfield.”

Lola observed as the parlor maid, who, with a large sniffle and a nod, pranced out of the room, exiting through a side entrance, where on the outskirts, the newspaper man character was stationed. His eyes remained fixed towards the middle of the dining room, oblivious to the woman who flitted past him. Curious, Lola jotted down his character in her notepad, circling the words “newspaper man”, her movement catching Raphael’s notice. When she saw his raised eyebrow of question, she jutted her chin in the direction of where the cast member had been leaning casually against the wall, only to find that he had disappeared.

“I’ll explain later,” she whispered to him, to which Raphael shrugged in acceptance and went back to eating his salad, Lola following suit despite her focus being pulled distractedly to the shadowy corner where the newspaper character had only just been standing. She drew her attention to the play actors at hand once the butler, who had entered the scene, began speaking.

“We were discussing affairs of the household,” Mr. Garfield was explaining, “per our routine every evening after dinner.” The butler Garfield was a tall, overwhelming character, towering above the detective by a good two feet or more. He was imposing, but mild mannered, with sleepy eyes and a perpetual frown, unhurried and unbothered even in the face of such a dire predicament.

“Then, why was he on the floor?” the detective questioned.

“He wasn’t there to begin with.”

“The ‘loud crash’, as was stated by your colleague, came from the locked room you and the victim occupied. Explain that,” he challenged.

“The doors are always locked during our interviews to prevent unwanted visitors observing those delicate conversations. As for the ‘loud crash’, that did not come from the library, but the kitchen.” A low murmur bubbled from the diners as the new information was presented.

“The kitchen, you say. Interesting. Very interesting. Then, how, exactly, did your employer wind up on the floor?” asked the detective.

“I don’t know. That’s why I instructed Miss Honeyworth to phone the police. One minute he was standing, the next, he was prone.”

“It appears to me I need to be speaking next with your chef. Where is he?”

“I assume the kitchen.” Mr. Garfield bowed, excusing himself from the dining room.

“Well, this is quite a pickle, don’t you think, gumshoes?” The audience agreed.

“Detective! Detective! I have news!” Miss Honeyworth burst into the room, tripping over herself and falling into the detective as she approached him. “Whoopsies!” she tittered as he caught her up in his arms.

“N-news, you say?” he stammered, trying his hardest to avoid slinking to the ground himself while his knees knocked together in a boyish, amorous reaction to her closeness.

She righted herself, using his shoulders to push herself up to regain balance. “Yes! You have a phone call. Your partner is on the line with an urgent request.”

“He never calls unless it is an emergency. Lead me to your phone, Mademoiselle.” The parlor maid left briskly, the lawman close on her tail, the audience applauding as they exited the dining room. Their departure signaled the end of the first act, the Manor House staff entering to clear away plates and refill beverages while the diners broke out into quiet, speculative conversation.

“Okay, can we all agree that the butler did it?” Lola asked, turning to her friends.

“Oh, obviously,” Modesta said.

“The butler always commits the crime,” Jack added.

“I’m with Jack, it’s got to be the butler,” Lazare agreed.

“I’m more curious as to this,” Raphael shared, pointing to the circled name on Lola’s notepad. “Who’s ‘newspaper man’? We haven’t met any character like him so far.”

“Oh! He’s a cast member that’s floating around in the wings,” Lola began to explain, waving her hand to indicate the dining room. “He’s just on the sidelines, watching the show, but he’s dressed like a newspaper man from an old-timey street corner. He’s got a cap, and suspenders, and this old fashioned air about him.”

“He sounds interesting. I wonder what role he’ll play in this mystery,” Lazare said.

“What position would a house staffer have to be dressed like that?” Modesta asked.

“Maybe a gardener?” Lola guessed after a moment of thought.

“Or a maintenance man?” Raphael suggested next. “Perhaps he’s the director observing the cast from the shadows.”

“In costume?” Lola asked.

“So as not to be a distraction.”

“Maybe,” Lola mused, sipping at her wine. “I hope we get to meet this person during the next act. His character might just be the key in solving Detective Babcock’s case.”

As conversations continued, the wait staff succeeded in clearing the diners of their salad plates, making the transition into the main course of eggplant parmesan on a bed of spaghetti seem as effortless as breathing, and once the staff departed from the dining room, the play continued with act two.

“This isn’t good, gumshoes, not good,” Detective Babcock announced as he energetically entered the scene. He began to pace in front of the fireplace while rubbing his chin in thought, distressed and clearly agitated. “I just got off the phone with my partner down at the precinct. It seems someone made an anonymous call to the tip line about the murder of Mr. Fernsby.” The audience gasped at the news, taken aback, and instantly began whispering their questions and confusions to one another.

“I need to speak with the chef, and I need to speak with him now. Ah, Mr. Garfield. Have you brought in your chef?” Detective Babcock asked as the grave butler entered the dining room.

“I’m afraid I have not, Detective,” Mr. Garfield drawled. “I instead have come to inform you that Mr. Fernsby appears to have been…misplaced.”

“’Misplaced’?”

“He is not where I left him.”

“Was he moved? Did he get up and walk away under his own power?” Detective Babcock asked in a frantic string of questions to the stoic, unmoving butler.

“I don’t know, but I shall go and find him for you,” and once again, Mr. Garfield bowed low before making his exit.

“See to it that you do,” harrumphed the detective, “and send in the chef for questioning, for goodness sake’s,” he called after the departing character, and then, with a heavy sigh, announced, “I need a stiff drink.”

“Did someone say ‘stiff’?” Miss Honeyworth entered the dining room. She had a silver tray in her hands with a small glass filled with red colored liquid balancing on top. “I made you my specialty nightcap, in case you were feeling stressed.” She offered the tray up to the detective in hopes he would accept her offering.

“Thank you, Miss Honeyworth,” he said, taking the beverage, “but I think I’ll save my drink until after I’m off the clock,” and he placed the glass on the fireplace mantel, declining the beverage.

“Oh,” Miss Honeyworth pouted. “That is okay.” She began sniffling, hugging the empty tray to her chest. “I figured it would help you relax. Mr. Fernsby always seemed to like my nightcaps.” She began to turn away before Detective Babcock stopped her.

“Wait a minute! Fernsby drank these?”

“Yes. I would make him one after dinner every night. He would take it with him into his meetings with Mr. Garfield.”

“Miss Honeyworth, did you make him your specialty nightcap tonight?” he asked.

“No, not tonight,” Miss Honeyworth answered. There was a tense pause before she spoke next. “But the chef did!”

“The chef?”

“I’ll go find him!” and Miss Honeyworth excitedly ran out of the room. The audience was equally appalled and aghast, much like Detective Babcock, the rising din of whispers and accusations circling amongst the diners.

“Why hasn’t anyone found this chef yet?” Lola asked herself. She was frantically scribbling notes in her small pad of paper, drawing connecting lines between the words “Fernsby” and “nightcap”, and underneath, she circled her third incriminating word: “poisoned”. She looked up from her notes, her attention on the scene in the middle of the room, where the detective, though animated, couldn’t hold her focus, for once more she caught the newspaper man leaning against the wall of the shadowed side-entrance hallway. This time, he appeared to be staring directly at her, and she flinched back in surprise from the intensity of his stare, yet she held his gaze, as if looking away would cause her to miss some unspoken information.

Lola saw the slightest smile hook one side of his mouth, accompanying the smallest shake of his head. Her brows scrunched in confusion as the newspaper man slowly brought his forefinger and thumb up to one side of his head, his index finger pressing into his temple, his thumb jutting up towards the ceiling.

“Shot?” she mumbled, and crossed out her note of poison, replacing one mode of murder for the other. When she looked up from her pad of paper, the newspaper man was again gone. “That seems a tad gruesome.” The next surprise came when Miss Honeyworth burst into the dining room in a flailing stumble, frantic and hysterical. She clung to Detective Babcock, and after a blathering rush of unintelligible syllables, finally shouted the cause of her distress.

“Mr. Fernsby’s been shot!”

“I have fetched the chef,” announced Mr. Garfield at the same moment as he entered the dining room after the maid whilst dragging an uncooperative, squat figure in a crooked chef’s hat and coat behind him.

“Let go of me!” the chef squawked. He attempted to tug his arm free of the butler’s tight grip, all while digging his heels in reluctance at being forced into the dining room where chaos had exploded. “You can’t prove I did anything wrong!”

“I can’t prove you did anything right,” Mr. Garfield retorted, and with a commanding yank, brought the cook before Detective Babcock.

“Did you poison Mr. Fernsby?” the detective asked point blank over the wailing sobs of Miss Honeyworth who had buried her face into his chest.

“What? No!” screeched the chef.

“Then you won’t mind taking a drink of Miss Honeyworth’s specialty nightcap that you created?” Detective Babcock dislodged the maid and pressed the beverage from the fireplace towards the chef who shirked back as the item was presented.

“Get that vile stuff away from me! I’m not in the habit of drinking cough syrup. Those ‘nightcaps’ will keel anyone over by its fumes alone.”

“Where did you find Fernsby?” asked the detective to the sobbing maid.

“I found him in the kitchen,” Miss Honeyworth wailed.

“And where did you find the chef?” Detective Babcock asked the butler.

“Also in the kitchen,” he answered.

“Then who called in the tip that Fernsby had been murdered?”

“I did!” the chef shouted.

The audience laughed at the buffoonery of the characters standing in a circle, yelling and sporadically pointing at one another with each accusation of Fernsby’s demise.

“Mr. Garfield instructed me to get water before he told Miss Honeyworth to phone the police,” the chef began to explain. “I slipped in a puddle of water, bringing half the kitchen down with me. Before I could get up, I saw Mr. Fernsby in the doorway, staggering in, when right before my very eyes, he was shot, so I phoned in the tip.”

“Who shot him?” Detective Babcock demanded, he and the audience on pins and needles to learn the truth.

“I did,” Mr. Garfield declared, and with a swiftness contradictory to his otherwise sleepy disposition, the butler swooped up behind Miss Honeyworth, pulling her close in front of his broad frame, using her both as a shield and a hostage.

“He’s got a gun in his pocket!” she squealed in surprise.

“Don’t do anything rash,” warned Detective Babcock.

“Everything I do is with purpose,” Mr. Garfield stated, slowly backing towards the side hallway of the dining room, Miss Honeyworth tottering along with him. “Fernsby was a nuisance to society.”

“He brought jobs,” countered the chef. “He put this town on the map.”

“By leveling the old dairy farm? My father’s legacy? Don’t make me laugh,” Mr. Garfield spat.

“Your father was compensated greatly,” declared a voice behind Mr. Garfield, “and was able to give you the lifestyle one only reads about in the papers.” There was a loud “thunk”, and Mr. Garfield dropped to the ground, releasing Miss Honeyworth before he crumpled completely.

Lola gasped, clutching onto Raphael. “It’s gotta be newspaper man,” she whispered in excitement, however, standing in the entryway where the towering butler once invaded, was none other than Mr. Fernsby himself, who appeared to all to be as well and very much alive as one could be. The cast, and audience, gasped in unison.

“Mr. Fernsby?!”

“Hello, dear friends,” Mr. Fernsby greeted, fully stepping into the dining room, a thick and heavy candlestick in his hands. “It seems I’ve returned from the dead.”

“Mr. Fernsby! You’re alive!” Miss Honeyworth shouted.

“Yes, my dear, it would appear that way,” the older man replied with a smile. “Despite my life trying to be taken twice this evening, I guess it shows that you can’t keep a good man down.” The cast laughed, aside from Detective Babcock, who stood to the side pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I have questions,” Detective Babcock spoke, gaining the brood’s attention.

“Yes, yes, Detective, and all will be answered,” reassured Mr. Fernsby. “Garfield here did try to poison me, and when that failed, escalated to more drastic means. Luckily, his aim is as bad as his eyesight, as most of the poison missed my beverage, and he only just grazed my coat sleeve.” He waved his arm to the side, showing off the wound to his dinner jacket.

“Well! This has been quite the evening,” Detective Babcock chuckled.

“Indeed it has. But, let’s not dwell on the sins of the evening, let’s celebrate the life we are given by having one of Miss Honeyworth’s lovely nightcaps in the library while we wait for police to book my ex-butler.”

“I’ll drink to that,” cheered the detective.

“I’ll pass, thank you,” huffed the chef. “If Garfield couldn’t off you, those nightcaps will.”

“I have a cast iron liver, my friend. Come! Let us celebrate!” Mr. Fernsby ushered Miss Honeyworth and the chef out of the dining room, much to the satisfaction and applause of the diners.

“Well, gumshoes, I guess that’s signed, sealed, and delivered,” Detective Babcock said, addressing the room while dusting off his hands. “I’m going to take this bum down to the station, but you all can enjoy a nightcap on my behalf, that is, if you can stomach it. Thank you all for helping me solve the case, and please have a good rest of your night.” Detective Babcock bowed to the diners who showered down their applause and cheers. He then hoisted the disoriented Mr. Garfield onto his feet and led him out of the dining room through the side entryway, where Lola watched as the newspaper man gave a tilt of his head briefly in her direction, turned, and followed behind the retreating actors.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Whew!" Well, this was a long time in the making! Sorry to have been so absent with this story! I'm not even sure how it got away from me that quickly, but aside from that, I really love how this chapter turned out! Hopefully I can get some more posted sooner rather than later, but until then, I hope you enjoyed!

Until next time friends, be kind and stay safe! You all are the best!

~Melissa

#YEAAAH #Youtube

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