Sunday evening had arrived, but Monica hadn't.
It was already dark outside when Art ascended the steps to her apartment for the third time that day. Pushing her bell awoke a triadic chime. It quickly faded.
He knocked and listened once more, but the only sound he heard was a car making its way through the wintry slush outside. Its noise tapered, and Art and the door were facing each other in silence.
Another scene of a crime?
His bowels knit into a tight knot as he reached out for the smooth metal handle, hesitated, and finally pushed it.
The door did not move. It was locked.
Relief flooded him—he had been afraid to find it unlocked, admitting him to something he never wanted to see again.
He sighed and turned his back on the apartment. His steps were slow as he walked down the stairs.
Something's wrong here.
He passed his own door and continued downstairs. The Meiers would know. They always knew. That's what a janitor and her resident spy were there for.
As he reached the ground floor, a new patch of color on the communal pinboard caught his eye. A pink sheet of paper dominated the half-faded commandments and edicts of the powers ruling the place. It displayed text in the garish yet irregular inks of a poorly maintained printer.
🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄
PRE-CHRISTMAS PARTY
Join the traditional fun
on Friday, the 6th of December, at 6 p.m.
at the Meier's ground floor residence
(Pls. confirm until the 4th)
🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄
Art stared at the message with its neat rows of Christmas trees. He was struggling to associate 'fun' and 'the Meiers ground floor residence' when he heard the door of that same residence being opened.
Ralph emerged and greeted him with a smile. "Hey, Art."
"Hello, Ralph." Art's higher mental capacities were still stunned by the concept of the party, and he groped for something appropriate to say. With the murder's weight heavy on the house, the murderer lurking somewhere, and Monica's unexplained absence, a party was the last thing he had expected. "A Christmas party?"
"A Pre-Christmas party. It's an old tradition of the house." Ralph spread his hand as if blessing the place. "Now that the... case has been solved, we thought we could go ahead with it."
"Solved?"
"Yes, haven't you heard?" Ralph pointed his finger at the ceiling.
Art looked at the impassive, beige plaster hanging above them, then back at Ralph. "No, have they found the murderer?"
"Yeah, it looks so. They've arrested Monica Marez." Ralph took a step towards Art and leaned forward, eyes wide open. "Or rather, they took her into custody."
"Monica?" Art yielded backward and shook his head in disbelief. "She killed Mrs. Knooch?"
"As I said, they didn't really arrest her, it's just custody. Provisional detention." He raised his eyebrows. "A preliminary arrest, until the actual trial... they do this when they're afraid someone might bolt, run away... or commit further crimes. And they don't do this lightly. There must be strong evidence."
"What evidence? Did she confess?" Art noted that his hands were clenched into fists—he tried to relax.
"Search me." Ralph shrugged. "They must have found something... Well, who would have thought? But then, the woman is on the impulsive side, don't you think so?"
YOU ARE READING
The Egg at Dumstreet
Mystery / Thriller[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex. The university he works for has fo...
