Author's note: I didn't want to put an author's note at the beginning of this story because I wanted it to be dramatic, so I stuck one here, hope you don't mind. "Picture Perfect" is the fourth (gads, the fourth!) in my Sara Watson, Sherlock Holmes series. The other three, in order, are "The Seven Princesses," "Hypnosis," and "Five Flutes and a Black Rose." You might want to check them out, otherwise, Sara Watson is a teenager who moved to England from America and meets a teenage Sherlock Holmes, all in present-day.
And please forgive any lapses in my writing, here. You know what's really strange? In "Five Flutes" I gave Sara Watson and b-day, and then she gets sick. And the day after my b-day, I got sick! Freaky... Anyway, the point is I'm all drugged up on Sudafed, please forgive grammatical errors and such...
One last thing, I stole some of this from "Holmes for the Holidays", so if you've read that, please don't give away the ending!
And now, to the story -
"Whoah!" I said, stopping suddenly. "Marianne lives HERE?"
The building, no, the castle in front of me was surrounded by a huge, black, wrought iron fence. The house was white and at least four stories tall. The windows were huge and shiny, and they illuminated the whole yard, which was filled with pretty flowers and expensive Japanese willow trees. It would have looked like something out of a magazine, except for the three or four police cars in the driveway.
Marianne hiccuped again. "We need to go around back," she said quietly. "I'll sneak up to my room and scream, you can come in after me."
We followed Marianne up to her house, creeping underneath the huge windows. She led us to a huge back door and she slipped inside. "F-five minutes," she gulped, and handed Holmes his jacket before she turned and walked away.
Holmes and I peered through the open doorway cautiously. The door opened into a huge kitchen, - the kind with two stoves, a refrigerator that could hold an entire Burger King, and a marble island big enough to sit twelve.
"Marianne's got some serious money!" I whispered, awed.
Holmes nodded, frowning.
Just then, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the night. I jumped about a foot in the air and turned white. Holmes put his hand on my arm and I took a deep breath. The murmur of voices died sharply, and the sound of feet pounding on stairs told us it was our chance.
"Boy, Marianne can scream, too." I muttered, earning a disapproving glare from Holmes. We tiptoed inside and Holmes led the way to the parlor. With a shock I realized he had been here before.
The parlor was beautiful - it had a deep, dark, parquet floor partially covered in an Oriental rug. The walls were dark green, with matching curtains and expensive looking paintings. There was a writing desk, a fireplace, and several squashy-looking armchairs. On the wall furthest from us was a huge chart that, on closer inspection, proved to be a family tree.
I didn't notice most of this right away, because my attention was immediately drawn to the dead body on the floor.
He was a middle-aged man, about the age of my father, I realized. He was dressed in pajamas and a robe (dressing gown, I think they call it). He was lying face down in the carpet, at the far end of the room. His right arm was stretched out in front of him and clenched tight.
Shivering, I knelt before Mr. Cuttinghall and examined him. Bleaaaaugh! I choked back bile as I touched his cold, stiff neck. I turned to Holmes.
"He was shot," I whispered. "Point-blank range. The bullet entered between the third and fourth ribs - it definitely went into the heart. He's been dead," I looked at my watch. It was one in the morning. "Maybe two? three hours?"
Holmes nodded briskly and examined the room. "He was shot over here," Holmes said, "Look, you can see the blood where he staggered across the room."
"He kept walking," I said, incredulous, "AFTER he was shot?"
"Yes, yes, look at the blood, Watson! But why?" Holmes walked back to me and looked the body. "Why is his right hand closed like that?"
"Death agony?" I suggested, shrugging.
"But why only one hand in death agony?" Holmes knelt swiftly and pried the stiff fingers open. They cracked and I put a hand over my mouth, queasy. Holmes pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, torn off from the family tree in the corner. It had just the "leaves" of the tree from the top right corner - no names. Holmes quickly matched it up against the wall, and noted the blood on the chart.
"Well," he whispered. "This gets uglier. Watson, look in the ashtray. Two cigarettes and a cigar. He was wearing a bathrobe. He was talking with someone he knew. And then after he was shot..."
"He grabbed at the family tree!" I gasped. "Holmes, someone in his own family killed him!" I glanced back at the body. "What's this?" I muttered, and pulled a pen from my pocket. Slipping the pen underneath, I lifted a jeweled hairpin from beside the body.
Voices and the sound of footsteps drifted down to us "Stupid girl - 'I had a nightmare!'" Someone was saying. "Honestly, Inspector, how do you expect to..."
Holmes grabbed my arm and I stuffed the hairpin in my pocket. He dragged me out of the parlor, towards the voices!
"Holmes!" I whispered furiously but he didn't answer. I found myself at the bottom of a huge set of stairs. Just in time, Holmes and I ducked under the back of the stairs, into the shadows. Once again, I realized Holmes had been here before.
Several detectives and a maid came down the stairs, muttering to themselves. When they had gone back into the parlor, we crawled from behind the stairs. Holmes motioned for me to follow, and we tiptoed up the mountain of marble steps.
At the top of the stairs, Holmes turned right and led me down a huge hallway, thickly carpeted. He stopped in front of an enormous white door and knocked, timidly. "Marianne," he called softly. "It's Holmes and Watson. Let us in."
The door creaked open, and Marianne stood aside to let us in. Her eyes were wider and redder than ever before, and she sat on her huge, poofy bed and cried.
I felt terrible, but I scanned the room with interest. Everything was sickeningly white or pastel pink, and fluffy! Her bed was like a princess', with white drapes hanging down the side and pink satin sheets. There was a big screen TV surrounded by beanbags at one end, and a desk with a bookshelf at the other. There was another door off to the side, and through it I could see an en-suite bathroom. I resisted the urge to whistle appreciatively.
Holmes strolled around the room, and stopped at her desk. I noticed as he swept some papers off it and put them quietly in his pocket. "Now, Marianne," he said, turning around. "Tell us exactly what happened."
"It was about ten o'clock. I heard a car pull up and the front door open. My dad said something, then everything was quiet for a long time. I could smell daddy's cigars so everything was okay. Then there was, a... a... gunshot and I..." Marianne sobbed again. "I started screaming and someone pounded on my door, and then everything was quiet until my mother ran downstairs and started screaming and I called the police and... and...!"
"It's okay, Mari, it's okay. You say someone pounded on your door?"
"Yes," Marianne reached out for a tissue and blew her nose. "Somebody rattled the door handle of my room right after the gunshot. It sounded like they were trying to come in and I screamed and then they hit the door. Then I hear my mother's door open and everything was quiet until SHE started to scream and -"
"Someone rattled your door right after the gunshot?" Holmes said, quickly.
"Almost immediately after."
"You could swear to it?"
"Yes."
I looked at Marianne. "But you always keep your door locked?"
"Yes," Marianne hiccuped. "Because my brother likes to play tricks on me so I keep it locked."
"Very good," Holmes said, taking one of the papers from his pocket. "Marianne, what's this?"
Marianne looked at the papers and sniffled a bit before answering. "My uncle Carl asked me to do that a while ago. My dad has - HAD, HAD..." Marianne started to cry again and it was a while before she composed herself. "My daddy... had... terrible handwriting. Uncle Carl made a bet with Uncle Arty that I could forge his hand. Uncle Carl gave me five pounds to copy that."
"You're good at forging?" Holmes asked.
"Extremely good," Marianne said, blowing her nose again. "I used to get in all kinds of trouble for it," she added.
"Thank you, Mari, that's all," Holmes said. "Now, the best thing for you to do is try to get some rest. You're quite safe here tonight, but we'll come see you in the morning." Holmes walked over to her bed and gave her a kiss on her tearstained cheek.
I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT... too late. I shook the feeling away as quickly as I could.
"Come, Watson," Holmes said quietly and we slipped from the bedroom. We heard the door lock behind us and Holmes muttered "Good girl, Mari." Without making a sound, Holmes and I slipped out of the house, ducking in an empty room once to avoid the maid.
As we crawled beneath the windows and then walked along the fence at the far side of the house, Holmes began to talk. "When you put together the two cigarettes in the ash tray and the fact that somebody rattled Marianne's door almost immediately after the gunshot, I'd say we're dealing with two people. Two people in the family."
"But not Mrs. Cuttinghall, she was in her bedroom, Marianne heard her. And not Marianne, obviously, I've never seen anyone so upset. And how old's her brother?"
"Five."
"Well, there you go. Not someone in the immediate family, then."
"No," Holmes agreed. "But somebody on that family tree."
We considered this in silence.
"Holmes, what did it say on those papers?" I asked as we opened the front gate of the fence.
Holmes cleared his throat. "It is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them. Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year."
"Say what?" I said as we scuffled down the sidewalk.
Holmes shrugged. "That's what it says. Doesn't it sound like a ... my god, WATSON!"
Something hit me from behind and I toppled to the pavement. Strong hands gripped my shoulders and flipped me on my back. A bright light in my eyes and then -
"Get off of her! Hey, you, come back!" Holmes was darting off, chasing someone dressed in black. After about half a block, he dug in his heels and ran back to me.
"Watson, my god! Are you all right?" He put his arms under mine and hauled me to my feet.
I rubbed my head. "I think so," I said, bewildered. "What HAPPENED?"
"That..." Holmes glanced down the street. "That monster leapt up from behind, tackled you, shone a torch in your face and then was off like the wind."
"That is so bizarre!" I said, still rubbing my head. "But it sounds like..."
"...He was expecting someone else, I know," Holmes said, with a glance back at the Cuttinghalls. "Come, Watson, let's go home."
And please forgive any lapses in my writing, here. You know what's really strange? In "Five Flutes" I gave Sara Watson and b-day, and then she gets sick. And the day after my b-day, I got sick! Freaky... Anyway, the point is I'm all drugged up on Sudafed, please forgive grammatical errors and such...
One last thing, I stole some of this from "Holmes for the Holidays", so if you've read that, please don't give away the ending!
And now, to the story -
"Whoah!" I said, stopping suddenly. "Marianne lives HERE?"
The building, no, the castle in front of me was surrounded by a huge, black, wrought iron fence. The house was white and at least four stories tall. The windows were huge and shiny, and they illuminated the whole yard, which was filled with pretty flowers and expensive Japanese willow trees. It would have looked like something out of a magazine, except for the three or four police cars in the driveway.
Marianne hiccuped again. "We need to go around back," she said quietly. "I'll sneak up to my room and scream, you can come in after me."
We followed Marianne up to her house, creeping underneath the huge windows. She led us to a huge back door and she slipped inside. "F-five minutes," she gulped, and handed Holmes his jacket before she turned and walked away.
Holmes and I peered through the open doorway cautiously. The door opened into a huge kitchen, - the kind with two stoves, a refrigerator that could hold an entire Burger King, and a marble island big enough to sit twelve.
"Marianne's got some serious money!" I whispered, awed.
Holmes nodded, frowning.
Just then, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the night. I jumped about a foot in the air and turned white. Holmes put his hand on my arm and I took a deep breath. The murmur of voices died sharply, and the sound of feet pounding on stairs told us it was our chance.
"Boy, Marianne can scream, too." I muttered, earning a disapproving glare from Holmes. We tiptoed inside and Holmes led the way to the parlor. With a shock I realized he had been here before.
The parlor was beautiful - it had a deep, dark, parquet floor partially covered in an Oriental rug. The walls were dark green, with matching curtains and expensive looking paintings. There was a writing desk, a fireplace, and several squashy-looking armchairs. On the wall furthest from us was a huge chart that, on closer inspection, proved to be a family tree.
I didn't notice most of this right away, because my attention was immediately drawn to the dead body on the floor.
He was a middle-aged man, about the age of my father, I realized. He was dressed in pajamas and a robe (dressing gown, I think they call it). He was lying face down in the carpet, at the far end of the room. His right arm was stretched out in front of him and clenched tight.
Shivering, I knelt before Mr. Cuttinghall and examined him. Bleaaaaugh! I choked back bile as I touched his cold, stiff neck. I turned to Holmes.
"He was shot," I whispered. "Point-blank range. The bullet entered between the third and fourth ribs - it definitely went into the heart. He's been dead," I looked at my watch. It was one in the morning. "Maybe two? three hours?"
Holmes nodded briskly and examined the room. "He was shot over here," Holmes said, "Look, you can see the blood where he staggered across the room."
"He kept walking," I said, incredulous, "AFTER he was shot?"
"Yes, yes, look at the blood, Watson! But why?" Holmes walked back to me and looked the body. "Why is his right hand closed like that?"
"Death agony?" I suggested, shrugging.
"But why only one hand in death agony?" Holmes knelt swiftly and pried the stiff fingers open. They cracked and I put a hand over my mouth, queasy. Holmes pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, torn off from the family tree in the corner. It had just the "leaves" of the tree from the top right corner - no names. Holmes quickly matched it up against the wall, and noted the blood on the chart.
"Well," he whispered. "This gets uglier. Watson, look in the ashtray. Two cigarettes and a cigar. He was wearing a bathrobe. He was talking with someone he knew. And then after he was shot..."
"He grabbed at the family tree!" I gasped. "Holmes, someone in his own family killed him!" I glanced back at the body. "What's this?" I muttered, and pulled a pen from my pocket. Slipping the pen underneath, I lifted a jeweled hairpin from beside the body.
Voices and the sound of footsteps drifted down to us "Stupid girl - 'I had a nightmare!'" Someone was saying. "Honestly, Inspector, how do you expect to..."
Holmes grabbed my arm and I stuffed the hairpin in my pocket. He dragged me out of the parlor, towards the voices!
"Holmes!" I whispered furiously but he didn't answer. I found myself at the bottom of a huge set of stairs. Just in time, Holmes and I ducked under the back of the stairs, into the shadows. Once again, I realized Holmes had been here before.
Several detectives and a maid came down the stairs, muttering to themselves. When they had gone back into the parlor, we crawled from behind the stairs. Holmes motioned for me to follow, and we tiptoed up the mountain of marble steps.
At the top of the stairs, Holmes turned right and led me down a huge hallway, thickly carpeted. He stopped in front of an enormous white door and knocked, timidly. "Marianne," he called softly. "It's Holmes and Watson. Let us in."
The door creaked open, and Marianne stood aside to let us in. Her eyes were wider and redder than ever before, and she sat on her huge, poofy bed and cried.
I felt terrible, but I scanned the room with interest. Everything was sickeningly white or pastel pink, and fluffy! Her bed was like a princess', with white drapes hanging down the side and pink satin sheets. There was a big screen TV surrounded by beanbags at one end, and a desk with a bookshelf at the other. There was another door off to the side, and through it I could see an en-suite bathroom. I resisted the urge to whistle appreciatively.
Holmes strolled around the room, and stopped at her desk. I noticed as he swept some papers off it and put them quietly in his pocket. "Now, Marianne," he said, turning around. "Tell us exactly what happened."
"It was about ten o'clock. I heard a car pull up and the front door open. My dad said something, then everything was quiet for a long time. I could smell daddy's cigars so everything was okay. Then there was, a... a... gunshot and I..." Marianne sobbed again. "I started screaming and someone pounded on my door, and then everything was quiet until my mother ran downstairs and started screaming and I called the police and... and...!"
"It's okay, Mari, it's okay. You say someone pounded on your door?"
"Yes," Marianne reached out for a tissue and blew her nose. "Somebody rattled the door handle of my room right after the gunshot. It sounded like they were trying to come in and I screamed and then they hit the door. Then I hear my mother's door open and everything was quiet until SHE started to scream and -"
"Someone rattled your door right after the gunshot?" Holmes said, quickly.
"Almost immediately after."
"You could swear to it?"
"Yes."
I looked at Marianne. "But you always keep your door locked?"
"Yes," Marianne hiccuped. "Because my brother likes to play tricks on me so I keep it locked."
"Very good," Holmes said, taking one of the papers from his pocket. "Marianne, what's this?"
Marianne looked at the papers and sniffled a bit before answering. "My uncle Carl asked me to do that a while ago. My dad has - HAD, HAD..." Marianne started to cry again and it was a while before she composed herself. "My daddy... had... terrible handwriting. Uncle Carl made a bet with Uncle Arty that I could forge his hand. Uncle Carl gave me five pounds to copy that."
"You're good at forging?" Holmes asked.
"Extremely good," Marianne said, blowing her nose again. "I used to get in all kinds of trouble for it," she added.
"Thank you, Mari, that's all," Holmes said. "Now, the best thing for you to do is try to get some rest. You're quite safe here tonight, but we'll come see you in the morning." Holmes walked over to her bed and gave her a kiss on her tearstained cheek.
I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT be jealous. I will NOT... too late. I shook the feeling away as quickly as I could.
"Come, Watson," Holmes said quietly and we slipped from the bedroom. We heard the door lock behind us and Holmes muttered "Good girl, Mari." Without making a sound, Holmes and I slipped out of the house, ducking in an empty room once to avoid the maid.
As we crawled beneath the windows and then walked along the fence at the far side of the house, Holmes began to talk. "When you put together the two cigarettes in the ash tray and the fact that somebody rattled Marianne's door almost immediately after the gunshot, I'd say we're dealing with two people. Two people in the family."
"But not Mrs. Cuttinghall, she was in her bedroom, Marianne heard her. And not Marianne, obviously, I've never seen anyone so upset. And how old's her brother?"
"Five."
"Well, there you go. Not someone in the immediate family, then."
"No," Holmes agreed. "But somebody on that family tree."
We considered this in silence.
"Holmes, what did it say on those papers?" I asked as we opened the front gate of the fence.
Holmes cleared his throat. "It is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them. Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year."
"Say what?" I said as we scuffled down the sidewalk.
Holmes shrugged. "That's what it says. Doesn't it sound like a ... my god, WATSON!"
Something hit me from behind and I toppled to the pavement. Strong hands gripped my shoulders and flipped me on my back. A bright light in my eyes and then -
"Get off of her! Hey, you, come back!" Holmes was darting off, chasing someone dressed in black. After about half a block, he dug in his heels and ran back to me.
"Watson, my god! Are you all right?" He put his arms under mine and hauled me to my feet.
I rubbed my head. "I think so," I said, bewildered. "What HAPPENED?"
"That..." Holmes glanced down the street. "That monster leapt up from behind, tackled you, shone a torch in your face and then was off like the wind."
"That is so bizarre!" I said, still rubbing my head. "But it sounds like..."
"...He was expecting someone else, I know," Holmes said, with a glance back at the Cuttinghalls. "Come, Watson, let's go home."