Porch Prompts - Week 2!

Week Two: Setting the Scene

Night has set across the library in [insert your hometown of choice here], which, during the day, intimates the warm allure of the sun; and at night, the distance. Within, across the high call desk, through the wooden stacks, and into the deep middle of the romantasy section, lies on the floor a woman in a long dress, arms laid vaguely about her head as though dancing, the blood seeping from her body making a mess of the worn carpeting. Several details in her vicinity reveal themselves: First, a step ladder fallen nearly on top of her, a toppled book settled perfectly upon her face. Second, a letter opener covered in something… sticky? lodged into her left lung. And third, of course, resting within her open hand: a literal smoking gun.

Each day, you will be given a new clue. Each day, you will be asked to solve the crime. And if you don’t solve it in time… you’ll be next.

Thanks to Ani Beeler and Eliza James for launching this. Am FEVERISH following the alleged rampant success of my first week. Apparently a South African Paramedic is now forever to be whispered in the annals of history.

To get started, let’s build our characters! (Mentally OR on paper OR however your heart desires.)

Our characters as defined by their differences:

~Character One~

Character One is sharp in mind and tongue, which does not endear them to anyone. They are someone who is, and must be, easily hated, and this works perfectly for what they have planned.

~Character Two~

Character Two is reserved, and rightfully so. They have a secret that, when revealed, will ruin everything.

~Character Three~

Character Three is boring & normal.

Day #1

Day One: Our beloved characters are hanging out in the local pub when the town gossip busts down the door. The Hemingway-or-bust high school English teacher reads romantasy???? Oh, and also, she’s dead.

Ok, Ok…I know I missed last week, the victim of an unexpected flurry of home activity. I’m hoping to redeem myself with a strong showing this week!

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“Another Teacher’s Ernie?” Glenda called over to her only patrons from behind the bar, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. Did I shrink it? She’d been working at The Snog in the Snug for less than a year, and it fit when she started. But now, no matter how she tried, it insisted on riding up, revealing an unflattering belly bulge. Not even her stretchy jeans came up high enough for ample cover. Maybe it’s time to break up with the chippy.

Ernie, the taller of the two men seated at the bar, raised his nearly empty glass wordlessly in confirmation. With one last futile attempt at wardrobe rearrangement, Glenda palmed the bottle of whiskey from the counter and headed their way. As far as she was concerned, eleven am was a bit early for blended scotch, but the Snog didn’t pay her for her opinions.

The other man, an insufferable ponce called Simon, had been talking Ernie’s ear off for several minutes, which was status quo. Normally, she tuned him out entirely and suspected Ernie of frequently doing the same. Her approach, however, reluctantly dragged her into the so far one-sided conversation.

“I’m telling you, mate, the entire genre is a thinly veiled cover for monster sex fetishes!” Simon’s tone carried all the usual bluster of someone who masked their ignorance through confident delivery. “That bird is definitely into shagging werewolves, or centaurs, or summik.” Simon stretched out both fists before pulling them back toward his body repeatedly, jerking his hips forward in a lewd, piston-like motion, before forcing a fake laugh.

Closer to Glenda, Ernie turned toward her with an epic eyeroll. The corners of her mouth twitched in response, but she kept it contained.

“For god’s sake, man, the woman is dead, show a bit of respect!” Ernie admonished him, sliding his empty glass across the bar.

Catching it between her thumb and forefinger, Glenda inverted the bottle. “Who’s dead?”

“Miss Hemingway, the sixth form English teacher,” Ernie said.

“And monster shagger!” Simon added, hoping that if he repeated the joke enough times, it would get funnier.

Ernie shook his head in exasperation. “They found her in the library last night. Apparently, she enjoyed reading Romantasy, and this one,” he tilted his head toward Simon, “Thinks that means she indulged in certain kinky proclivities.”

Glenda’s face wrinkled in distaste. “That’s horrible!”

“That’s what I’m saying! Thank you!” Simon instantly piled on.

“Horrible that she’s dead, not that she likes her fantasy with a bit of spice, you numpty!” Glenda fired back. “Honestly, Simon, sometimes I’m jealous of everyone who doesn’t know you!”

The pour spout dribbled to a finish before Glenda inverted it a second time, giving her regular a bit more than the standard. The uncomfortable smile on Simon’s face confirmed he was trying to work out if she’d just insulted him. Mission accomplished.

“What happened?” she directed the question deliberately at Ernie.

The taller man shrugged. “Dunno, but they found her in a pool of her own blood, holding a letter opener, so it’s definitely suspicious.”

Having convinced himself that she hadn’t intended to besmirch his character, Simon spread his hands wide, a look of disbelief on his face. Holding the pose until he had her attention, he looked at Ernie’s refilled glass, then back to his empty pint glass, then back to her.

“Same again?” she asked, snatching the glass from the smooth lacquered wooden bar top. “What was it?”

His voice dripped with sarcasm, “If you don’t mind. It’s Stella. It’s always been Stella for as long as I’ve been coming here.”

“Of course it is,” She muttered, turning around to the tap on the rear counter.

“Whoa! Looks like you’ve got some love handles on the grow there, Glendy! You lookin to change it up from those bunches? Give your fella summik else to grab hold of?” Simon forced another laugh. Ernie’s hands instinctively rose to cover his face.

With one hand holding the glass and working the tap, the other reached behind her, giving the shirt another self-conscious tug before turning up her middle finger in his direction. “I’ve told you before, please call me Glenda…Glendy sounds like some chain-smoking slag that draws her brows on with a Sharpie.”

Her back to both men, Glenda pursed her lips, subtly releasing a long drool of saliva into the head of his beer. Forcing a sweet smile onto her face, she turned around, sliding the pint across the bar.

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Day Two: Character One did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: Your viewpoint character of choice visits the crime scene to check it all out (how do they get past the police? Who knows). When they remove the book from her face, a cavity within its pages becomes visible—but it is empty. What could have been hidden within? Search for the item that has been lost. It is near her body, and it may be a crucial clue.

Day 2 Add

She watched him neck the first third of the pint. The change was subtle, but her smile shifted from a facade to genuine satisfaction. Personal indulgences aside, she needed to steer the conversation back to the murder, a confident title for what she witnessed last night.

The date had ended far earlier than she’d hoped. The modest expectation of a decent meal, and maybe even a shag, was dashed by an obvious mommy complex and a revolting obsession with something called Warhammer. At least she’d managed to scarf down a rocket salad before bolting when he went to the loo. Not her finest moment, but life was too short for that kind of bullshit.

The walk back to her flat, on the other hand, was far too long, especially in this rain. Arms folded across her chest, head bowed, she hurried across the street toward the public library. Normally quiet in the evening, particularly with the local uni already in summer recess, the building spanned three blocks across the south end of the common. Entrances on both sides offered a welcome cut through against the weather, making it an easy choice.

No one at the front desk, that wasn’t unusual anymore—cutbacks. The hollow sound of her heels against the stone floor echoed as she crossed the space. Clack clack. Children’s fiction. Clack clack. Fantasy/Sci-Fi. As she crossed into Modern fiction, the clacks stopped abruptly. Prone on the floor, in the middle of the aisle on her right, a woman lay motionless, the soles of her Clarks pointed at Glenda.

“You alright, Love?” she called, before seeing the blood. Rushing down the aisle, Glenda stopped short, resisting the urge to shout for help, a tingle of warning tickling her brain. The woman was clearly dead, the front of her dress soaked in blood, a larger puddle framing her torso on the floor below. Her eyes darted to the victim’s face, hidden under an open book, curious, then to the letter opener. Tiptoeing around the puddle’s crimson edge, she examined it closely. Handle and blade both bloody, it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots, but there was something else.

After a sweeping glance reassured her she was alone, Glenda carefully got down on her knees, the floor’s surface cold against her bare skin. Stupid miniskirt. bringing her nose close to the dull blade. and the dark purple smear near the tip, she inhaled deeply through her nose. The tang of wet metal, copper more specifically, dominated her senses, but another, more familiar scent tickled her brain. The Aussies…pints during the Ashes last summer…Black Currant! Snakebites, they called them, VB with a dash of black currant bitters. There was black currant jelly on the letter opener. Very odd.

She got to her feet, suddenly very aware of how things might look if someone found her over the body. Still, curiosity got the better of her. Pulling the sleeve of her jacket over her fingers, she lifted the book gently off the poor woman’s face, looking into the vacant eyes staring back. She recoiled, a sharp gasp escaping her lungs. It’s Philippa Hemingway!

Suddenly aware of the accelerating thump of her heart, beating against her chest, she looked down at the book. The pages had been cut out to hide something, something small, no more than three inches long and less than two across. One of the shorter edges was stained crimson, long dry by the look of it. What the actual fuck?

She flipped it over. No label on the base of the spine. Not a real library book. She glanced at the title—A Farewell to Arms. Her eyebrows arched in surprise. Hemingway…a bit on the nose.

Whatever secret the book’s cutout had been hiding wasn’t immediately apparent. It couldn’t have been the letter opener—too big. After placing the book back where she found it, Glenda checked the library’s bookshelves—flush with the floor, so whatever it was didn’t escape that way. What if it’s underneath her body?

She hesitated.

Fuck it! I need to know!

Returning to her knees, she cautiously lifted the victim’s right shoulder, her face retracting in a grimace of disgust. Nothing. Shimmying around the blood puddle, she repeated the maneuver on the left shoulder, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

And there it was…a severed human thumb!

Glenda lurched back in surprise, the lifeless shoulder returning to the blood pool with a sickly squelch.

“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god!” she hissed.

What started as a gesture of compassion was escalating rapidly. The smart thing to do now would be to walk away and pretend she was never here.

Instead, she found herself reaching into her handbag for her pack of wet wipes and returning to the body. After two false starts, she worked up enough courage to lift the shoulder again and snatched the digit.

The wail of distant sirens snapped her head up. Shit. The Filth. Carefully folding the thumb up in a wet wipe, Glenda removed her heels and raced for the exit.

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Day Three: No, actually, Character Two did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: The stickiness on the letter opener tastes like honey? Strange. Thankfully, it was something semi-edible and not horrendously disgusting, since someone chose to taste it.

Day 3 Add

“Oy, Glenda!” Marcus’ voice from the kitchen snapped her attention back to the moment.

“Alright, alright!” she shouted back. Wiping her hands on a bar towel, she walked back toward the kitchen, still puzzling out how to subtly bring the conversation with Ernie and Simon back to the murder.

Holding the door open with her hip, she accepted two warm plates from Marcus before returning to her only customers.

“Here we are, gents, two full English.” She slid the plates across the bar and turned on her heel, retreating to the cooler behind the till. “What’s brought you in so early on a Sunday anyway?”

“Weekly market,” Simon replied. Unwilling to wait for cutlery, he plucked a mushroom from his plate and popped it into his mouth. “Ernie has artisinal tastes, and there’s a bird there I fancy.”

Glenda opened the cooler to fetch the bowl of butter pats. Her gaze lingered on the severed thumb, suspended in a pint glass filled with ice, before considering the bowl of jam packets. I wonder. Quickly rearranging the packets, she collected both bowls, along with two sets of napkin-wrapped cutlery. Depositing all of it in front of Simon and Ernie, she gave her troublesome another tug and leaned back against the counter.

Simon directed an upward nod her way, immediately snapping up a pat of butter. “Cheers, Glendy!”

“Cheers!” Ernie echoed, grabbing butter of his own.

She watched intently when Simon went for the jam. Hunting through the options, he finally made a selection. He peeled back the foil cover before levering the contents onto his toast with a smear. Black Currant.

Her lips stretched into a smile.

“Would you mind terribly if I used my own?” Ernie asked. He held up a burlap shopping bag from the floor beside his stool. “Weekly market!”

“‘Course you can,” she replied with a wave of her hand.

Focused on Simon, she only casually registered Ernie removing a jar from the bag. Plunking it on the bar before returning the rest of his shopping to the floor, the color caught her eye—purple.

The seal gave way with a metallic pop.

Glenda craned her neck for a better look at the jar. “What is that?”

“Honey, imported from America, North Carolina specifically,” Ernie replied, “It’s gorgeous!”

“He paid fifteen quid for that. Can you Adam and Eve it?” Simon scoffed. “Purple honey!”

“D’you mind?” Glenda asked, arching her eyebrows, reaching for the jar.

Ernie nodded. “Course! Try some if you like.”

She held the jar up to the light—deep purple. “The color is amazing! What makes it purple?”

Ernie’s eyes glittered mysteriously. “That’s just it, no one knows! Some think it’s down to the plants they source the pollen from, others think it could be the soil.”

Glenda brought the jar to her nose and gave it a long sniff. Hints of grape…and black currant.

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Day Four: No, actually!!! Character Three did it. Carefully choose your viewpoint character to tell us how and why.

Your clue for the day: When the gun is pulled away, there rests a piece of paper with something written on it in the woman’s hand. Now your character must find out: What does it say, and how did it get there?

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Day 4 Add

Simon slapped his hand on the bar so hard the nearby cutlery rattled, bits of toast flying from his mouth. “Ha! Come on, Glendy. You expect us to believe that load of codswallop?”

Her dropping jaw pulled her facial features into a stunned pout.

Ernie’s shoulders shook in silent mirth while he swallowed a bite of black pudding.

“Accusing Ernie because of his fancy feckin honey? He didn’t even buy that until this morning. I watched him. There was a few bits and pieces missing from your little porky pie, wasn’t there?”

“I…I…don’t understand,” she stammered

“You just failed to notice a six-foot ladder, lying on top of the corpse, or the literal smoking gun in her hand, but you got close enough to examine the honey on the letter opener? Bollocks.”

“How do you…?” Glenda caught herself before finishing the sentence.

Simon smiled around the rasher of bacon he was shoveling into his mouth. “Because we were there, you absolute lampshade!” He tossed a worn leather billfold onto the bar, the flap falling open to reveal his identification card. “I’m DCI Simon Williams.” He tipped his head toward Ernie. “And this is DS Ernie Rees.”

After wiping his mouth on the napkin, Simon crumpled it and let it fall onto his half-finished breakfast. Pushing the stool back, he got to his feet, strolling casually toward the cut-through at the end of the bar, and her only means of escape. “I’m gonna make this real simple for you. How’s about you tell us why you killed poor Miss Hemingway, and what you took from the book?” In exchange, we’ll have a quiet word with the magistrate.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll knock off a couple of years.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Glenda said defiantly, her cheeks blooming pink. “She was already dead by the time I arrived.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that so?” He turned to Ernie, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “She has no idea, Ernie!”

The taller man smiled, clearly enjoying the breakfast theater while he mopped up a bit of egg yolk onto his toast.

Simon circled back to Glenda, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Besides the ladder, you also didn’t notice the note she had in her hand, wrapped around the pistol grip. We didn’t see it either, until we pried the gun out of her hand.”

“Not only were you foolish enough to threaten the woman in writing, but you even signed it!”

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdrew an evidence bag containing a rumpled piece of paper and read from it. “Meet me at 9 pm, south side of the common, and bring the key, or you’re dead - Glenda.”

“I didn’t sign my name—” She froze, realizing her mistake. Her chin sank to her chest. “How did you know?”

“Why do you think we’ve been coming in here every week for the last few months, ever since the museum heist?” Ernie called from his seat. “For the ambience? We’ve had our eye on you.”

Glenda’s gaze fell on Simon. “So have you just been pretending to be a complete arsehole this entire time as well?”

Ernie answered first. “No, that’s entirely genuine.”

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Day Five: The police are floundering, the town is flummoxed, and I mean obviously the woman herself is finito. So. How does this story end? Who murdered Ms. [—]?

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Day 5

Glenda tugged at the hem of her shirt and let out a sigh. “Fine, I wrote the note, but I didn’t kill her, I swear.”

“Make me believe that,” Simon challenged her. “Cuz from where I’m standing…” his head tilted to one side, brows arched.

“She was in on it, the ring leader in fact.” Glenda began.

“April Hemingway, the sixth form English teacher, the mastermind of the museum heist?” Ernie’s tone was doubtful.

“The very same, as God is my witness.” Glenda held up one hand, as if swearing on a bible. “There were four of us from around the country, all specialists. I was the fence.”

“Come on then, who are the others, let’s have the names.” Simon prompted her.

Glenda gave a long shrug. “Never knew them, never even met them, I swear! She kept us all siloed and used codenames. I was called Kerouac. She named everyone after authors.”

Simon paused her with a raised hand. “Kerouac? She named you all after authors?”

“So, what was the key you demanded, and why was it so important?” Ernie asked.

Glenda nodded before turning to Ernie, lifting her chin defiantly. “I did my bleedin’ job, didn’t I? The buyers were lined up and getting more than a bit irate since I hadn’t delivered the artwork, and of course, everyone wanted to get paid. Only our security specialist—codename Steinbeck—had the goods locked up somewhere and went dark, likely holding out for a bigger share. Hemingway said she knew where to find the key, and would bring it to me. When I hadn’t heard from her, I wrote the note.”

Ernie pushed his empty plate aside, his cheek bulging in an attempt to pry a stubborn piece of bacon from between his teeth. “And where’s this key now? We know you haven’t gone anywhere apart from your flat and The Snog since last night.”

“The unis are tossing the flat as we speak; if they find it first, it’s game over,” Simon added.

Glenda’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two men for a long moment. “Well, turns out it wasn’t really a key, was it?” Taking two steps toward the cooler, she reached for the handle.

“Easy!” Simon barked.

Holding up her hands in surrender, she used two fingers to open the cooler door and extract the pint glass, sliding it across the bar’s surface.

Simon recoiled, taking a step back. “Jesus Christ! Is that a finger?”

“A thumb, actually,” Glenda confirmed. “That’s what was hidden in the book.”

Well, whose is it?” Simon’s lips curled in revulsion as he leaned in for a closer look, wiping away a line of the rapidly forming condensation on the glass surface.

Ernie let out a sigh, his head shaking in disbelief as he reached down for the burlap bag at his feet.

Glenda shrugged. “My guess would be Steinbeck’s. He was an expert with locks, alarms and safes. His job was to hack the systems at the museum, to get us in. Maybe it opens a digital lock, wherever he hid the paintings?”

Simon pulled the thumb from its icy tank, holding it up for a closer look. “And you think Hemingway killed him and hacked off his thumb?”

Glenda nodded. “I don’t think she was retrieving it from the book. I think she was hiding it there, for me to pick up!”

“What gave you that idea?” Ernie asked idly, setting his shopping bag on the bar, rummaging through it, obviously looking for something.

Glenda looked from one to the other in disbelief. “Didn’t you notice the book title?”

Ernie raised his head from the bag. exchanging a blank look with Simon.

Glenda transitioned from a headshake to an epic eyeroll. “Tottenham’s finest, you two barnacles! It was A Farewell to Arms…Ernest Hemingway…get it?” She spread her arms in a look of stunned disbelief as they stared back, unfazed. “Her name was Hemingway, she cut off a finger, and chose A Farewell to Arms to hide a severed thumb? What a perfect setup to leave me a cryptic clue on where to find it! Only someone got to her before she could meet me on the common.”

“So, who killed her then?” Simon was growing impatient. “Who was the fourth member of your crew?”

“He was the infiltration specialist, could get in and out of anywhere without being seen, so she said. And apparently, if someone did see him, they didn’t live to squawk about it. Like I said, I never met him.”

Simon pressed for details. “But what was his code name? Tell us that at least.”

“Fleming, Ian Fleming.” It was Ernie who spoke. Extracting a pistol from his market bag, two gasps hissed from the silencer. The first shot struck Simon in the right ear, the second caught Glenda in her left cheek. Both crumpled to the floor.

Sliding the gun back into his burlap tote, Ernie calmly rose from his stool, crossed to Simon’s still form. Stepping around the crimson puddle expanding around his head, he casually snatched up the severed thumb, added it to his shopping bag, and exited The Snog.