A Mystery Murder

by Stranger-jkl

The year is 1947, The Last Great War is over, and life is good... For everyone except Rodreich Edelstein, whom was shot through his heart, at his own dinner party, no less... Someone is a killer, just who? The suspects are as follows, a mysterious Swiss-Canadian, a Canadian author, a Dutch brewer, a Englishman 'gentleman', a Prussian soldier and Edelstein's ex.

1. Chapter 1 The Beginning (obviously)

7th of September, 1947

As the car pulled up, the Swis-Canadian P.I. looked out the window, "Hmm... Guess I'm late. Well, best of luck to me, eh?" He asked that question to himself and himself only, stepping out of the car the investigator surveyed the seven men near the door. There was Gilbert Beilschmidt, a Prussian soldier who worked with the Allies on the Enigma Codes, Matthew Williams, a former RAF pilot who wrote about his experience with the RAF, Lars Brouwer, a brewer, and friend to Williams, and a ex-Dutch Resistance member, Arthur Kirkland, a ex-RAF pilot whom was held in Colditz Castle and broke out and was a ruthless business man as a result, and then, himself, Stephen Jack Matterson, a Swiss-Canadian private investigator, who served as a medic in the Last Great War, then, the host, Rodreich Edelstein, a rich aristocratic man whom managed to stay out of the Last Great War, somehow, and then, his ex-wife, Erzsébet Héderváry, often referred to as 'Elizabeth' by those who couldn't pronounce her name, a Hungarian ex-soldier and a friendly person, until you piss her off, then she hits you with a frying pan, HARD. He walked up to the door, at the same time pushing back the strand of red hair, and spoke "Well. Sorry for being late, but, well, I'm here." The aristocrat turned and smiled, pushing up his glasses that covered the eyes of the aristocracy from dust and poor taste, "Ah, hello my friend. Don't be sorry, I was alone for, hrm, what time is it?" "It's twelve hundred hours, sir." The Prussian looked around, then saluted, "God, Gilbert, no need to salute, you aren't in the military." The Hungarian said this, then the Canuck spoke, "It's probably force of habit, just let him, if it helps, then hey?, what's the cost?" The Dutchman nodded in agreement, before coughing, hard, the aristocrat spoke next, "Let's get inside before the storm drenches us." And so, inside they went, the Austrian run off to get something, and everyone scattered throughout the mansion... Then, the noise 'CRACK!', and the smell of gunpowder.

A/N: And it's done. Fun fact: Brouwer and Erzsébet mean 'brewer' and 'Elizabeth' in Dutch and Hungarian, respectively. See you all soon, and review, it keeps Lars from cigarettes!