The Proposition

An hour later, I find myself sitting across from Ingram Crawford in his office. Dark wood paneling covers the walls from floor to ceiling. Shelves packed with medical texts, legal volumes, and family histories line every available space. A fire burns quietly in the hearth while rain lashes against the tall windows overlooking the estate grounds.

Thunder rolls periodically across the Blacklands, rattling the glass just enough to remind me how completely isolated Crawford Manor has become. I am still wearing the black evening gown Corbett brought me before dinner..The dress feels different now. An hour ago it felt elegant. Now it feels funereal.

The Colt Peacemaker remains strapped securely against my thigh beneath the fabric. The weight of it presses reassuringly against my leg whenever I move. Under the circumstances, I am not particularly interested in being unarmed. Ingram stands near the window with a crystal tumbler resting in one hand.

He has not touched the drink. His face remains calm, but the strain around his eyes tells a different story. "Losing a servant after forty years would be difficult," I say quietly.

"He was not a servant." The answer comes immediately. "He was family." For several moments neither of us speaks. The fire crackles softly. Rain drums against the windows. Somewhere else in the manor, people are probably locking doors. Finally Ingram turns toward me. "The telephone lines remain down."

I nod. "I figured."

"The satellite connection is down as well. We have no internet service, no cellular service, and no way to contact the outside world."

I lean back slightly in the leather chair. "So we're trapped." The words hang in the room longer than either of us likes.

Ingram sets the glass down carefully on his desk. "Under normal circumstances, I would contact the Sheriff's Department immediately."

"Under normal circumstances, I would already be halfway home," I note.

A faint smile appears and disappears on Ingram’s face. "Unfortunately, neither of us is enjoying normal circumstances." The doctor studies me for a moment. "You said that you work as some sort of investigator."

The wording makes me smile despite everything. "That is usually how people describe my job when they think it's ridiculous."

"I admit I remain skeptical," he says. "I have no interest in ghosts, demons, curses, séances, psychic visions, or any of the other subjects associated with your profession."

I shrug. "Neither do most of my clients until something starts throwing furniture." That actually earns a brief laugh. The first genuine one I have heard from him all evening.

Regardless, his expression quickly becomes serious again. "You are still the only professional investigator currently inside this manor."

I stare into the fire. Corbett flashes through my thoughts again despite my best efforts to focus on the investigation. I see the blood spreading across the polished floorboards beneath him, the ornate letter opener protruding from the center of his chest, and Faye kneeling beside the body with blood on her hands and terror in her voice.

I remember the stunned silence that settled over the hallway after the screaming stopped and the shocked faces gathered beneath the chandelier light as the reality of what had happened finally sank in. Less than an hour earlier, Corbett had been escorting me to dinner.

Now he is dead, and somewhere inside Crawford Manor the person responsible is pretending to be just another frightened witness. I came here because my truck got stuck in the mud. Now I am sitting in a locked manor house investigating a ****.

Apparently my life has developed a very specific sense of humor. "You want to hire me."

"I do," affirms Ingram.

"You realize I'm not a homicide detective," I warn him.

"I realize you're an investigator." Ingram glances toward the storm beyond the windows. "If you're unwilling, then we wait for the roads to clear and hope the killer remains patient."

I stare at him for several seconds. Then I sigh, "You've made your point."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "I will take that as acceptance."

"You should take it as **** cooperation." I rise from the chair and move toward the desk. "I'll look into it." The words leave my mouth before I can reconsider them.

"Excellent," says Ingram "Where do you intend to begin?"

"With a list," I reply. "A complete list of every person currently inside Crawford Manor. Family. Staff. Groundskeepers. Drivers. Cooks. Maids. Anybody breathing under this roof tonight. If I'm going to find out who killed Corbett, I need to know exactly who had the opportunity."

His expression becomes more serious immediately. I pull a small notepad from my jacket and click my pen. Ingram nods slowly. "Very well."

I open the notebook. "Let's start from the top."

Outside, lightning flashes across the Blacklands, illuminating the rain-streaked windows for a brief moment before darkness returns. Somewhere beneath the roof of Crawford Manor, a murderer is planning their next move. Apparently, so am I.

I stare down at the list for a long moment while rain hammers against the office windows and lightning flickers silently beyond the glass. Every name represents a witness, and most are also suspects now. Every person inside Crawford Manor had access to the hallways, knew the layout of the house, and had some opportunity, however small, to cross paths with Corbett before he died.

Some names immediately stand out more than others. Some raise questions. Some raise my hackles. The problem is that instincts are not evidence, and the dead do not care about hunches. I tap the pen thoughtfully against the notebook, glance toward the closed office door, and try to decide whose story I want to hear first. Somewhere inside this manor, somebody is lying. My job is figuring out who.