Michael the III’s Murder Mystery

No one suspected the Detective would be the first to die, but they all agreed it made the evening more compelling. The six remaining strangers took turns gasping, shrieking for help, and searching for a couch to faint on—anything to appear innocent. The lights went out. A candlestick was thrown. Everyone had seen it. Or had they?

In the moments before he died, the Detective reiterated the facts: They were gathered at the missing billionaire's former fortress to solve the mystery of “green-bud.” None of them had a clue what that meant, nor where to find it. The reward—the inheritance of Michael the III’s entire fortune—would be offered to whoever untangled its knot, though no stipulations prevented teamwork. “So,” said the Detective, “Let’s work together.” And that’s when he was murdered.

After the initial terror of his death wore off, the other guests wondered: Why can’t a missing billionaire just act normal? But Michael the III was not like other billionaires. Having made his fortune in the self-portraiture boom, he disappeared soon after. At first, nobody noticed—it’s not remarkable to lose track of a recluse. Most of his friends considered it a long, unannounced social media break. Others reasoned he would return when he realized no one cared.

His fortress remained unoccupied, and when the seven guests arrived, it took a group of them to free the door from its shifted frame. The electricity had been restored, but it was eerily dark inside. The rain pounded on the roof and the building’s wooden beams creaked. Ten years is a long time for a place like this to be empty, they thought. Someone lit a match. For a moment, the Detective swore he saw Michael the III staring back at him, but it was only one of the other guests: the Chef, the Gardener, the Mystic, the Therapist, the Captain, the Viscount. It was difficult to tell them apart.

When the Viscount first discovered the will, he nearly threw up his margarita. He’d already changed his name to Michael the IV, which is to say that the allotment of “tabi socks and the password to my streaming accounts” wasn’t the inheritance he expected. The others were equally bothered by the little they received, but refused to let that stop them from a chance at a jackpot inheritance. In fact, they only felt more entitled to it.

Dinner that evening was pleasant, the conversation kept light. There were no mentions of murder or “green-bud.” Prodding the dangerous subject seemed safer than poking it with bare hands.

The Therapist asked the Chef: “What kind of microgreens are these?”

“Radish,” the Chef replied.

“Radish?” inquired the Viscount, feigning culinary interest.

Having sourced the seeds himself, the Gardener repeated: “Radish.”

“Ah…” the Viscount said, reserving his spot in the line of questioning. “Did you often serve Michael microgreens in the time that you worked here?”

“Always—” the Chef began.

“Michael loved the whole brassicaceae family,” the Gardener added.

“Come again?” said the Captain.

“Brassicaceae. You know, arugula, mustard greens, watercress, brussel sprouts…” said the Gardener.

“Fascinating,” said the Viscount.

Fascinating, they all thought.

Back when the fortress was thriving, the Gardener tended great swaths of greenery, the development of which was celebrated by Michael the III, who claimed even the smallest budding brussel sprout made the air noticeably fresher. It earned the Gardener the benefits of a lifelong bestie: an adjoining suite, access to the private pool, the spot next to him at dinner. There were a few fights between them. And then he was gone.

“Any brassicaceae in the garden out back?” the Captain asked.

The Gardener, mouth full, shook his head and returned his gaze to his plate.

A few drinks later in the lounge, the Chef announced: “‘Green-bud’ sounds like a boat.”

“Does it?” said the Captain. “Never seen a boat called that.”

The Captain, defiant, repeated, “Never seen a boat called ‘green-bud.’”

The Mystic shocked everyone when he spoke up for the first time: “‘Green-bud’ is obviously a reference to ‘rosebud.’ It’s from Citizen Kane. Didn’t any of you think that? It’s a sled.”

“A sled?” the Captain laughed. “Michael don’t play sports.”

“I only meant it’s commonplace.” the Mystic said, composed. “I sense it.”

“Ah,” agreed the Captain. He closed his eyes and imagined a polished yacht on the Amalfi coast adorned with mint cursive writing: “green-bud.” He fought the urge to leave.

“Marijuana?” offered the Chef.

“Not a bad idea,” reasoned the Therapist. “Just to get our minds going.”

The Chef crinkled his nose. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what do we know for certain?” the Therapist shot back. “What are we missing?”

“Is this when we address how weird it is that we all look alike?” asked the Chef.

The therapist shrugged. “It’s not privileged information to say he was obsessed with decoys.” He looked around, hoping to have impressed someone but saw no reaction. “We talked about it often, actually, his reliance on lookalikes to do what he didn’t wish to do. I know you’ve all done such things for him.”

Immediately, the Therapist regretted his revelation—the Detective was killed for much less. “Michael often lied though…” he continued.

Had he said too much? As a child he’d lay in bed playing with his flashlight, racing the light about the room until he turned the light towards himself, illuminating fingers or bits of flesh. He felt now as if he had done very much the same.

When the wine was later refilled, only the Captain and the Therapist continued to drink. An odd taste. A tickle in the throat. Delirious laughter. Dizziness. More laughter. Sudden death.

“Do we really think Michael is killing us?” the Gardener asked.

“Who else?” said the Chef.

The Mystic pointed towards him. The Chef laughed.

“You did refill the wine jug,” said the Gardener.

“It could’ve been poisoned before or after I got to it!” the Chef remarked. “We all went off at some point.” He turned to the Viscount. “Where’d you go?”

The Viscount smirked. “If you must know, I went snooping through your things.”

“And you found...?” the Chef demanded.

The Viscount opened his hand to reveal a pouch. “Poison!”

Soon it was decided: For the good of the group, they’d lock the Chef in the empty freezer. They saw no danger in it—it was not turned on—and the Chef agreed it was the only way to prove his innocence. He had always desired approval. If a dish didn’t go over well, he’d offer infinite adjustments.

The next morning, the Chef was dead. Frozen. Chilling for those who found him.

“Maybe I’m selfish,” said the Gardener, as he and the Viscount placed the Chef on his bed to thaw. “But…I don’t want to be murdered.”

“That poor, innocent cook,” the Viscount said.

“What?” shouted the Gardener. “You accused him! You even provided proof!”

“I know. But, in case I die, I want to admit it,” said the Viscount. “I poisoned the wine. Only…I took it back. I saw the Chef in the kitchen, something came over me, sure, but I regretted it right away. Honest.”

“You think that’s enough? You tried to murder us!” the Gardener groaned.

“It doesn’t count! I took it back!” repeated the Viscount.

“It counts,” assured the Gardener.

The Viscount changed the subject. “Did the lock on the freezer door look strange?”

“It looked expensive,” said the Gardener.

The Viscount replied: “I only know one person who uses such locks.”

Nobody needed to say it: Michael the III.

There wasn’t much more for the final three to do but find ‘green-bud’ and get out of there. The house itself had been thoroughly searched, so the Gardener grabbed his gloves, the Viscount put on his rollerblades, and off they went to investigate outside.

“Here he comes!” the Viscount shouted, welcoming the Mystic to the cliff’s edge, where they had been combing through green weeds.

“So you tried to kill us?!” the Mystic yelled back.

What made the Mystic so mystical was that he could read minds. It was a neat party trick, even if he did not possess the ability to fact-check what he acquired. Nutcase, he heard them think as he silently sifted through their thoughts. At first, he made nothing of the Captain’s mint-green vision of “green-bud,” but when the Chef—who first brought up the boat—was accused of trying to poison them all, he saw his best chance at the reward: Add a lock to the freezer door. Kill the Chef. Find the boat.

The Mystic wasted no time, strangling the Viscount as soon as he reached the cliff’s edge. The Viscount’s life flashed before the Mystic’s eyes. The Mystic saw a spoiled man frolicking on a golden hill. He saw that, more than once, the Viscount slapped a rival across the face with his gloves. The Mystic did not see that for the Viscount’s final act, he would grab the neck of his attacker, and being the stronger of the two, overtake him. The Mystic did not see it because he died as it occured.

Freed from the Mystic’s grip, the Viscount caught a breath, but it was still not safe to rollerblade on the bumpy cliff. All it took was the Mystic’s last breath to push the Viscount over the edge, plunging to his death.

The Gardener returned to the abandoned fortress, feeling very alone. He noticed an echo of footsteps, the height of the ceilings, and the heavy chandeliers swaying on fraying ropes. And then there was an excited call from up above.

“GREEN-BUD!”

The Detective’s eyes opened. He squinted, body aching. He was “dead” after all, and he wouldn’t break character even for an instant. Not when they bonked his head on the door while moving his body from their sight, nor when they critiqued his pants. Rude.

He took a moment to congratulate himself: so clever to rig the lights with a clap sensor, how perfect to find that a candlestick falling on tile makes a tiny smack not unlike the “clap” required to spotlight his bloody scene. Oh yes, he thought. The fake blood helped too.

He stood up and flattened the creases in his clothing. He opened the bedroom window to take in the mountain air, envying the cloudless sky. He heard it again: “Green-BUUUD!”

Stumbling into the silent hall, the Detective feared the folly of his actions. Had they found green-bud after all?

The Gardner and the Detective each fell down in amazement when they reached the mysterious voice, for there he was again in the flesh: Michael the III.

“Look!” Michael rang out, too exhilarated by his finding to offer a proper greeting. “Remember these?” he exclaimed, holding up two shoes. “I can’t believe I left them on the floor like this. They should be in storage.”

“That’s ‘green-bud’?” asked the Gardener, stumbling over his words, finding it strange to discuss a pair of audacious, shamrock green, high-heeled crocs when someone had just returned from the dead and another reappeared from a 10-year disappearance.

“They’re polarizing,” he purred, “but that’s why I love them. I don’t care what anyone says. They’re gorgeous!” He set them down. “But—how good to see you both! I was worried when I saw cars in the driveway and nobody in the house. Will you be staying the weekend?”

They didn’t know what to say.

“Where’s everyone else?” Michael asked, feeling very much the host again.

They only blinked.

“Well, OK, you go on enjoying the rest of your weekend,” Michael remarked. “Pretend I was never even here. I’m sure you all can manage to stay alive without me.”

Michael the III is a writer, photographer, and model, and does not condone violence of any kind. His work has appeared in THEFINEPRINT, Gayletter, Document Journal and SSENSE.