Rated M for Mature. Contains violence, excessive language and mildly sexual themes.
october 31st
the grand marconi hotel
20:33 p.m.
It was proving to be a rather spectacular evening. A full moon was already well on its way, rising up in the blue night sky, not a single cloud in sight. It was warm, yet not as warm so that one would feel overdressed. It was chilly, but not as chilly so that one would require a coat.
Brown autumn leaves twirled down onto the cobblestone roads leading up to the Grand Marconi, the hotel's impressively tall windows beaming yellow light into the forests.
A long row of red-clad valets stood next to the hotel gates, happily taking over vehicles and parking them for their owners once they arrived. The passengers, usually wealthy families, exited the vehicles and approached the hotel's main doors, where the hotel clerk, Andrew Finch, awaited them with a charismatic grin.
"First time, eh? Well, don't worry, lass, you'll fit right in," he said to a young woman entering by herself, his R's rolling over his tongue. Evident of his Scottish origin. With a wink, he put a stamp on the woman's invite and stepped aside to let her in.
It was then that a white Chrysler B-70 rolled up to the hotel gates, its driver all too well known to the hotel staff. He was by himself; he always was. Just in front of the gates, he exited the Chrysler and heaved a large brown trunk out of the car, landing it on the road with a heavy thud. Immediately, as if a sensor had gone off, the hotel's bellboy, Jerry Marsh, hurriedly approached the man.
"Evening, mister Locke, sir," the bellboy chirped, nervously smiling.
"Evening," responded the man, turning around to reveal his unique, yet handsome features. He wore a large trench coat and fedora in a matching color, and he chewed gum. "Everything set up?"
"Oh, yes sir, mister Locke, sir," the bellboy replied, nodding vigorously, "your suite on the third floor, as always."
"Good," replied Locke in nonchalant tone, absentmindedly chewing his gum. "Go ahead and take my stuff up. I'll go on and head inside."
The bellboy nodded and heaved the trunk on his back, immediately sinking through his knees. He looked back once more at the man, forcing a smile.
Locke turned back to the row of valets, handing his car keys over to the first in line.
"Not a scratch," he demanded.
After his car drove off towards the immense parking lot, Locke approached the front door. Andrew Finch saw him coming from miles away, and was already smiling. "The heart of the party!" he exclaimed, laughing. Locke silently handed his invitation over to the clerk, who briefly skimmed through it with his eyes and then stamped it. "In ya go."
Locke stepped into the hotel, and was, for the 15th time annually, baffled by the interior. The Grand Marconi had existed for nearly a hundred years, and it was still in remarkable condition. Hand-painted murals on the walls, windows and doors lined with gold, walls painted in salmon pink and carpets of burgundy... the works.
"Detective!" sounded a voice from atop the stairs. Locke looked up, seeing none other than the hotel's manager descending. It was a rare occasion, seeing him in the lobby - he was a businessman, and involuntarily inherited the hotel, yet took care of it like it was his baby. Still, he hardly showed his face in the hotel and left most of the overseeing to be done by Andrew Finch.
And for good reason - even now, while broadly smiling, Marconi was downright creepy-looking.
"Detective," he repeated once more, now in a content whisper, as he shook Locke's hand. "Excellent to have you with us again. We need you tonight more than ever. I've had a... couple of phone calls from guests fearing the recent string of murders. I doubt they risk any danger, but... it is still comforting knowing we have the law's watchful eye with us."
Locke smiled faintly. "Well, anything I can do to help, sir."
Marconi laughed like a proud father and patted Locke on the shoulder. "How goes the investigation, by the way? Any leads?"
"Well, that is strictly confidential, sir," replied Locke, loudly chewing, "though I can say, I ain't backing down until this dog is behind bars."
After finishing up with Marconi, detective Locke hung up his coat and hat and went into the ballroom, dressed in a sharp-looking tuxedo. The bellboy Jerry could be seen in the distance, squeezing his way through the guests with a tray full of drinks.
Locke took a gander at his watch.
21:07.
He sighed.
Time to mingle.
october 31st
ballroom
23:49 PM
Detective Locke had bluffed his way through the event relatively easy, even though he drew a lot of attention towards himself - he was the only guest who was allowed to not wear a mask; in case of an emergency, it seemed inconvenient to go through a crowd of masks in order to identify the detective, and only then inform him.
Almost three hours into the night, nearing midnight, Locke found himself on the ballroom balcony with another guest. The only information he could gather was that she was a woman; her mask hid her facial features, as was custom.
The conversation droned on casually, most of it consisting of small talk, the detective chewing his gum as he stared off in the distance, when it happened:
A terrifying shriek resounded through the Grand Marconi.
Instantly, the detective drew his gun and pushed the woman aside, re-entering the ballroom. With no time to wait for the guests to clear the staircase, Locke hopped onto the railing and slid down, clumsily landing on the marble floor, knocking into Jerry Marsh as he did so. The tray of drinks flew through the air, crashing into the buffet.
Pushing the people aside, shouting he was police, Locke arrived at the center of the ballroom. His gum fell out of his mouth as he did a terrible discovery.
Lifelong attendee of the masquerade, 98-year old Baroness Danielle von Liechten, was dead.
Her body lay sprawled across the floor, a deep red wound at the center of her chest. Single fatal blow to the heart, Locke noted. He lifted his right foot, which had been standing in a puddle of the Baroness's blood.
Shit, Locke thought as his eyes remained locked on the corpse. Not only was the Baroness dead, he now had to go through every single guest at the event - anyone could be a suspect. However, a single thought of relief entered his mind; this wasn't the work of the serial killer I've been chasin'.
Doesn't fit with the MO...
"Finch!" he yelled to the clerk, whose head immediately popped up from the crowd. "Lock the doors and gates. Nobody gets out 'til I say so, you hear me?!"
After Finch hurried off towards the hotel entrance, a string of employees following after him, Locke turned around to face the crowd and silenced them with a loud yell. "I want everybody at my office... er... suite on the third floor pronto. I'm sorry, but right now, everyone's a suspect and I need to goddamn narrow down this list. The more honest you are, the sooner you can go home and the sooner this business is done with."
Easier said than done, for the line in front of Locke's suite had been endless, extending to the ballroom and even to the terrace.
november 1st
detective locke's suite
04:10 AM
Locke sighed and slouched in his seat, blowing out a large cloud of cigarette smoke. Finally, the last guest on the list. He threw the guest list away and pinched his nose bridge, his headache building. After tediously going through one aristocratic family after another, most of them hysterical and in tears, Locke had finally narrowed down the list to 9 people, excluding himself and the hotel staff.
He picked up the list and looked at the horrendously written names. (He wasn't exactly famed for his handwriting)
Teddy Roberts
Ludmila Chernova -- odd bird, better have Finch keep an eye on her
Vivian Marshall
Lance Demel -- criminal record? gotta look into it
Lukas Schiller
Cora Rodgers -- movie star of sorts. also woman i was talking to on the balcony
Bohai Jing
Jason P Anderson
Bryan Daggerty
Not taking the hotel employees into account, but definitely keeping them in the back of his head, Locke put the list down and exited his suite, descending back into the lobby.
All the remaining guests were gathered there, including the six head honchos of the hotel staff.
"Right," said Locke as he stood in front of the small crowd, as if he was addressing a poorly recruited military force. He took a gum from his pack and slid it in his mouth, chewing audibly. "From now on, no one leaves the hotel. Finch has given the key to me and I'm not lettin' anyone out until I find out who killed the Baroness. I don't care if you've got a sick dog, dyin' uncle or pregnant wife at home, no one leaves. That, for the record, includes me. There's suites on the second and third floor that have been prepared for you, should you wish to take some rest. Do note that I will be keepin' an eye on everyone, and so will the staff. Your cooperation in this investigation is much appreciated, 'cuz I don't want to sit around 'till Christmas either."
With a satisfied click of his tongue, detective Locke nodded his head and crossed his arms. "Oh, by the way," he then said, lifting a finger, "to the killer, I say this: know that I will find you and that I will bring you to justice. You may keep quiet for as long as you like, but I'm playin' the long game here."
And with that, the masquerade had turned into a crime scene, and the guests had become suspects.
Only one question remained...
Whodunnit?
Bookmarks