The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 21 - Sorting It Out

"The easiest way to attract a crowd is to let it be known that at a given time and a given place someone is going to attempt something that in the event of failure will mean sudden death."

~ Harry Houdini

  

The Next Day
6 p.m.
Carey Manor

 

"I want you to know, I don't believe you're the killer," Zandra says to Sunglasses. They wait for guests to arrive by the stained glass paneled into the front door of Carey Manor. The solo piano of Chopin's Ballade No. 1 plays on a vintage record player nearby.

Sunglasses, dressed in his suit, adjusts his tie and says, "Thank you. I was getting worried for a minute."

"Yes, child, I apologize for my earlier suspicions. I came to realize, only recently, that there's no possible way it could be you," Zandra says, dressed for the evening in the same purple gown she always wears. "As I mentioned before, assuming people are guilty until proven innocent is a survival technique."

"We'll need all the survival techniques we can get tonight."

"Indeed, child, we will. A killer is on the way here. I'm glad to count you as a friend," Zandra says, managing the beginning crease of a smile. She takes Sunglasses's hand into hers and gives it a pat.

Sunglasses looks down at his hand in Zandra's. "Me, too."

Now that that's out of the way, the evening can officially begin.

The first guests to arrive, in an unexpected move of punctuality, are the trio of Chad, Bexley, and The Crocodile.

"You invited a lizard?" Sunglasses says as he unlatches the front door.

"Crocodile," Zandra says. "And I mentioned they should get here an hour early. That's why they're right on time."

The front door opens, and a waft of armpit and marijuana introduces the trio.

"Holy shit. You live here?" Chad says as he gawks in the entryway, still shirtless beneath his leather jacket.

Bexley is just as flabbergasted at the enormity of Carey Manor. The Crocodile seems less impressed, or tired, or bored, or pissed off, or all of the above. It's hard to tell.

"Would I live anywhere else?" Zandra says. "It'll be on sale soon. I hope you saved your pennies."

Sunglasses holds his nose and escorts the trio to the lounge, where Chad exclaims, "They have snacks, and a sweet pool table!"

Hank, or the yawning man from the hotel lobby, arrives next. He stops short of knocking at the front doors, his silhouette against the stained glass searching for a doorbell to push. Carey Manor isn't the sort of place where people show up without an appointment, though.

Sunglasses swings the doors open and says, "Welcome, Hank."

Dressed like a Wall Street fund manager, Hank might well get his suit tailored at the same places as Sunglasses. He offers a soft greeting and a bottle of wine.

"Make yourself comfortable with our other guests. They don't bite, but don't sit too close to The Crocodile," Zandra says. She motions for Sunglasses to take Hank to the lounge.

A bottle of wine isn't what Melvin hands Zandra after he walks through the front doors next. He left the overalls at home, but not the fermented beet juice.

"Please don't take it the wrong way. It's a peace offering," Melvin says and holds a canning jar out for Zandra.

Pathetic.