Cracked Names: Cracked Cases Part 4

           Blood-red lights flashed like the pulsing of a heartbeat whilst sirens blared. Abigail and Alma stood in the center of it all, the former brandishing a candlestick, the latter a hidden knife, and both looking extremely suspicious.

           Abigail was the first to recover from the surprise and she lurched forwards towards the awoken family, mousy man standing in front.

           “Would you please explain to me why you have a booby-trapped guest log?” she demanded.

           “Would you please explain to me why you’re sneaking around our house like the villain in Clue?” the man demanded right back.

           Abigail sighed. “Fine. My coworker and I remembered that we forgot our map in this room and we were just going to retrieve it. Then I saw that there was a bug on your very mysterious guest log and I tried to squash it, until this house lit up like an ambulance on Independence Day!”

           At the very beginning of her career, Abigail had learned the virtues of maintaining eye contact. People rarely expect others to actually hold their stare so when Abigail did, it messed her opponent up so much they ended up caving. Which was exactly what that man did.

           “We live in the middle of the woods!” he defended. “You can never have too much security!”

           Abigail didn’t say anything, just raised her eyebrows. Sure. Security. Because when she tried to protect her house from squirrels, she did so using a guest book specifically made for humans.

           Either there was a feral-person problem in these woods or the Langston family was hiding something. Abigail didn’t really need to think to know what the likelier answer was. Anytime “or somebody was hiding something” was an option, it would always be that option.

           “Well, I guess we’ll be going to bed.” Abigail looped her hand around the crook of Alma’s elbow and pulled her forward. “I hope we don’t activate your bannisters or release a hidden spring in the radiator vent.”

           “You never explained what you’re—”

           “We’re hospice workers,” Abigail repeated. “What is there to hide?” She twisted the left side of her mouth into a smile. “I mean, the body’s already dead!”

           It was a bad joke, even for Abigail’s standards. But it shut mousy man and his coven up. Alma saluted “goodnight” weakly and the two traipsed back to the servant’s room.

           Per usual, Abigail did not sleep.

           Abigail entertained herself for a bit by just staring at Alma. How could somebody sleep so…unhindered? If Abigail so wished, she could drop a heavy book on Alma’s head. Or squish her face with a pillowcase. Alma wasn’t even holding her knife; it was in an unlocked drawer in the table next to the bed! Abigail shook her head. Alma was very lucky she was working under Abigail, for otherwise she would have made a very easy prey.

           At one point, after hours of staring at sleeping Alma—curly hair provided an excellent distraction from the mundaneness of life—Abigail observed Alma waking up. She stretched her arms above her head and slowly lowered them, the right one sinking to her lap as the left one rubbed her eyes.

           “Ah!” she yelped when she caught sight of Abigail staring at her. “Why must you be so creepy in the mornings?”

           That implied that Abigail was less creepy in the evenings, and mid-afternoon, and pretty much any other time, which slightly bothered Abigail but mostly appeased her, for people are more likely to forgive not-creepy people for setting off mysterious alarms.

           Alma tumbled off the bed and clapped her hands, the sunlight streaming through the windows illuminating her like a spotlight and lighting up tufty, fly-away strands of dandelion hair. “What’s our plan for today?”

           Abigail shrugged. “I’m going to pretend like last night didn’t happen and you’re going to figure out what’s even happening with this family.”

           Alma sighed. “You know, considering that you’re the detective, you’re doing an awful lack of detecting.”

           Abigail nodded. “And considering that you’re the murderer, you’re spending an awful lack of time in jail, but such is life. Now let’s go.”

           Surprisingly, the family had not barricaded their bedroom door, nor put a noticeable security camera by the stairs, nor waited for them at the landing, nor otherwise seemed remotely suspicious of the two newcomers. Abigail practically stomped in hopes that somebody would emerge and explain the family’s lackluster reaction.

           In the daylight it was much easier to see the rest of the building and its hotel façade. There was a long hallway with yet another maroon carpet and dressing-tables and chandeliers, all lined up and symmetrical with the main stairway at one end and the foyer at the other, though one long wall had an expansive, foggy mirror—was the house’s ventilation really that bad or did nobody think to clean it?—and the other had some sort of a timeline-painting hybrid.

           There were seven ovals with seven portraits and seven names underneath. It would have been similar to a family tree except the arrows ran horizontally and it was unclear who married whom and what the relationship between the seven was.

           “Hey, that’s the guy we murdered!” Alma pointed at the seventh portrait. “Except it says William Lancet the third.”

           “You murdered, let’s keep this straight.” Abigail squinted at the last oval. “And yes, he must have been William Lancet the third. But why the third when there’s seven ovals?”

           “They skipped the fourth,” Alma said easily, as if it were spelled out in front of her. Which it was. “There’s William Lancets one through three, then the fourth has been skipped for some-odd reason, then they start up with one through three again. I don’t understand it.”

           “Me neither, but why, then, are we in a Langston family reunion?”

           “Because these kids have no respect for their elders!”

           Abigail raised her hands and slowly pivoted around to the clunk of two legs and a stick. An elderly women was slowly approaching Abigail and Alma—she could be related to the secretary at the police station—with the fury of an angry older woman—which Abigail knew was a very specific type of fury—and her eyebrows furrowed, her left hand curled into an angry fist around the stick, and her other arm angrily shoved out at the portrait.

           “These kids are disrespectful!” she repeated.

           “That is unfortunate to hear,” Abigail commented, lowering her hands.

           “I told them that they were Langstons, they will be Langstons!” She raised the walking-stick to the sky in indignancy. “And they didn’t listen!”

           So there were Langstons and not-Langstons and Lancets and not-Lancets and it wasn’t like they could get any clarification on the matter because the last Lancet was dead. This was hilarious. Abigail smirked and raised her eyebrows at Alma, who stared straight ahead, clearly not wanting to partake in the humor.

           “Why is your grandmother screaming?" some other unidentifiable adult prompted from behind a closed, oaky door near the foyer.

           A different, albeit younger, voice responded with “She’s your mother!” but silenced after a light slapping noise. There was a general cacophony of scraping chairs and clattering forks as the rest of the family haphazardly clambered out of what Abigail imagined was a dining room.

           “Now you’re provoking our Matriarch!” mousy man accused.

           “Not provoking.” Abigail shook her head. “Simply wondering why your family has an abundance of names.”

           Mousy man glared at her. “You’re not getting answers until I complete my thorough questionnaire.” He whipped a piece of notebook paper out of his pocket. Notebook paper? Abigail rolled her eyes. A “thorough questionnaire” on a child’s school supply. This was legitimate.

           Still, Abigail doubted she would be going anywhere, but luckily for her Alma knew the drill. Abigail blinked slowly at Alma and Alma hurried off, mumbling something about her socks being too itchy, and because she had been mostly quiet for the whole ordeal nobody suspected her absence. Abigail hoped that Alma would find something of use considering that the house was basically empty while the whole family was questioning Abigail.         

           “What’s your name?” This was original.

           “Abigail Hartford.” One time Abigail had looked up her name. There were two hundred results and no need to get a fake name.

           “And how old are you?”

           Old enough to know that that’s a rude question. Abigail had read that once as a response to a scam-artist on the internet. But she didn’t go there.

           “21.” Abigail was often surprised that she was technically in the same generation as Alma—Abigail at the very beginning, a cusp of two, and Alma right in the middle of the bracket. Sometimes interviewers called Abigail “young,” which either meant “liar” or “go out on a date with me later,” but Abigail was quick to counter that she was being completely honest, and great success can be accomplished when one is born in September, so already young for the grade—barely making the cutoff by a week—and then skips a few more because the grade is particularly dumb, and then doesn’t take a gap year and joins an accelerated-degree program because there’s a surprising lack of meteorologists in the area. Sure, Abigail wasn’t technically qualified to be a detective, but she was highly qualified to be on television and was still searching for an opportunity.           

           “What’s your occupation?”

           “A Hospice worker, please pay attention,” Abigail replied automatically. She rubbed her forehead. She was very hungry and therefore very cranky and couldn’t think of any point of this conversation. The rest of the questions she barely payed attention to.

           “What’s your height?” He could eyeball it.

           “What color’s your hair?” Mousy man ought to open his eyes a bit more.

           “What’s your blood type?” That was weird. B positive, why?

           “I have decided." Mousy man breathed in dramatically and held out the paper like a celebrity reading his acceptance speech. “That you are not hiding anything!”

           Abigail clapped her hand slowly and sarcastically, much to mousy man’s oblivion. “Brilliant deduction, just wonderful. I’m so happy we’ve gotten that straightened out.” Despite her stomach’s rumbling and the faint pressure Abigail felt clouding up her head, she decided against risking eating breakfast with many-named family and mousy man’s incessant questioning. “I’m…going to go and find my coworker.” Abigail walked off calmly—mostly because hurrying would have resulted in passing out, but also because she had no reason to run—and confidently strode into her and Alma’s shared bedroom. Which, coincidentally, was where Alma was not.

           Right. Alma was investigating. Oh good lord, now Abigail had to traipse around a whole estate trying to find her. If only she had invented an Alma-tracker and installed it.

           Abigail stood straight, the world swirling around her eyes. Her mother had told her that she got dizzy because she never slept enough. Abigail considered it for a moment and decided no, she was just fine not sleeping and eating copious amounts of sugars. She rummaged through the home-made pocket of her coat, lying idly on the foot of yet another unused bed. There was a lollipop, not melted or sticky, thankfully. That would have to do.

           With regained strength, Abigail voyaged throughout the hallways. The same tables, the same carpet, the same mirrors and chandeliers, all making it very hard to tell what door led to what and why. Hopefully Alma had a map. Or a string. Or a trail of bread-crumbs. Really, anything would do.

           As she wandered deeper into the house, the windows grew scarcer. Abigail grabbed a candle from the drawer of one cookie-cutter table and lit it with a match from another. She was back to being a villain in Clue, and wow, was it boring, stumbling around and hoping for your pre-chosen victim to be in your path.

           A slight murmur ticked Abigail’s ears and she immediately stopped and quieted her breathing. Alma. Why was Alma murmuring? Abigail padded slowly to Alma’s voice, which wafted from behind yet another closed, oaky door. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open, surprised at how heavy it was—she had to lean all the way back and use the full force of her body weight to get any momentum.

           Inside was some sort of a library—there were shelves on each wall, which was more of a library than most people got—with Alma sitting peacefully on a limp, velvet cushion on the floor, reading a book.

           Alma’s eyes barely flicked up before she talked at a regular volume. “Remind me to tell you something that I’ve read.” Alma stood up and clasped her hands. “Fictional. I’ll tell you the relevant stuff now.”

           Abigail nodded, signaling for her to continue.

           “Okay, so once upon a time there was a Lindenhuis family-“

           “Lindenhuis?” Abigail clarified.

           “Lindenhuis, and they came on boats from Germany and decided to abandon the thirteen colonies and set up their own. As you can see, it was more of a house than a colony. Basically, the Lindenhuis family had no idea what was going on at all, and all of them suffered from one mental-disease or other because their last names changed with each child.”

           “Really?” This was getting interesting.

           “Yeah. Now there’s Martha Langston—that’s the one who yelled at us—and Richard Lee—that’s the other one who yelled at us—and Charles Lambda, and Jemima Long, and Anthea Lutherton, and Margaret and Sara and Thomas and Vincent and Victor and-“

           “Do they have last names?”

           “Yes, but they’re children so they’re mostly irrelevant.” Alma took another breath and continued rambling. “But mostly, they’re really, really wealthy with old-money and stock bonds and Martha’s going to die soon so they had this gathering to situate where her wealth is going to.”

           Abigail raised one eyebrow. “They should try therapy instead.”

           Alma gaped at her, but when Abigail questioned her reaction, Alma just shook her head and said nothing.

           “Well, Alma, the future’s pretty clear, at least as I see it,” Abigail decided. “We need to murder Martha.”

           “What?” It had been a good few days since Hysterical Alma showed up, but now she was back.

           “Murder her and take her money.” It was really quite simple. “And then we can do something…important and good with the money, I’m not sure, that’ll be for the press.”

           “And I’ll be the one murdering her?” Alma dejectedly sighed, physically deflating.

           Abigail snapped her fingers. “You’ve got it!”

           The rest of the day was mostly spent avoiding Richard Lee and his questions while still attempting to look sociable and innocent. Abigail had to suffer through a “Guidance Appointment” with Margaret and Sara and Thomas and whoever else those kids were and gently explained to them that yes, their uncle was dead but no, that didn’t mean he didn’t love them—thankfully he had no children or else Abigail would’ve had to spend another two hours with annoying tiny humans. Abigail tried spicing it up by adding a riot and some dramatic last words, but somebody’s mother got annoyed at Abigail for “traumatizing the dear children further” and Abigail handed the kids some crayons and let them cope with themselves.

           That night, Alma put back on her coat and pocketed her knife.

           “You could run faster without a coat,” Abigail commented, sitting idly on a different unused bed. There were so many unused beds, Abigail was able to rotate with each sit and never repeat.

           “Yeah, but it’s more dramatic.” Alma pulled Abigail up. “And you need to come with me.”

           “Why?” Abigail hated how whiny it sounded.

           “You need to stand guard.”

           Alma was getting a bit too bossy for Abigail’s taste. She was going to have to get ahold of some parental blackmail or something equally heinous.

           As Abigail had predicted, Alma knew the layout of the house and specifically where Martha’s bedroom was. The wind whistling through the drafty cracks provided a nice, dramatic effect, and combined with the flickering candle, still burning strong, and the hushed blanket of night, Abigail could feel her heart beat happily. Sometimes Abigail wondered if taking away another’s heartbeat fed her own.

           Alma put one finger over her lips and beckoned for Abigail to duck next to a dressing-table. Not even a floor creaked as the world hushed. Abigail seldom witnessed Alma’s murders but when she did, they were a treasure, more glorious than a pure pearl.

           Unfortunately, Alma could barely touch the fortieth oaky doorknob they had seen that day before more red lights and sirens blared.

          “What do you think you’re doing?” Richard, as he was apparently called, hopped out of a door adjacent to Martha’s and ran in front of it.          

           “Nothing?” Alma wailed. Abigail rolled her eyes three times over. Alma was sassy when she shouldn’t be and weak when she couldn't be.

          The rest of the family burst out of doors and crevices here and there, all shouting or crying but mostly accusing, an unnecessary amount pulling at various parts of Alma and cursing her with the label of “thief” and “criminal.”

           “She’s not a thief!” Abigail had had enough. Nobody messed with her right after a failed murder, and the Langston—Lindenhuis—whatever their names were—had to learn that. Abigail cupped her hands around her mouth in a megaphone. “I repeat, my coworker is not a thief!”

           That pacified nobody and Abigail upped her efforts. “Listen, if you all shut it, I’ll tell you who the thief is.” That worked. There was nothing like a little bribery to lead a room.

           Abigail inhaled deeply and shouted as loudly as she could. “Open your eyes, people! There’s no thief; there’s a murderer!” Alma paled and a good half the family looked ready to be sick, but Abigail giggled with glee. “The answer’s right in front of you—rather, in front of your beloved Granny’s door!”

           Let them think that Richard Lee, one of their own, was the murderer. It wasn’t as if his jumpy, skittery manner or constant, paranoid questioning was helping him.