Imagine.
You're riding on a steam train on a crisp snowy evening. A full porcelain tea set sits on the table in front of you, your handbag beside you. You occasionally peek up through your reading spectacles at the debonair detective sitting across the aisle. Charming man, dressed in a fine suit, newly polished shoes, and a fedora. The two of you continue to exchange subtle glances.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him rise from his seat. He must be catching on to your little bashful game. He approaches, and asks if you mind if he sits across from you. "It's a free country, detective," you reply. He asks how you know he's a detective. He seems confused. But of course, he shouldn't ask such foolish questions. Everyone knows who he is.
"Help yourself," you offer, gesturing to the untouched tea set in front of you. You don't see the appeal in tea, no, you're much more of a vodka person. He pours a cup, adds twelve sugars, and then points out your diamond earrings. "They were my mother's," you reply.
After making a dreadful amount of tedious conversation revolved around your heirlooms and his occupation, he gets to he point. He's there on business, investigating a crime. "I know nothing about that," you say evasively, although he still hasn't even told you yet the details of what crime he's investigating.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my tea," you add, despite the fact that you haven't poured yourself any. As he leaves, you reach into your floral handbag and pull out the shawl you inherited from your great-aunt, as it's gotten a bit drafty.
You wait a bit, absorbing a couple more chapters of your novel, before excusing yourself into the next car to powder your nose. But in reality, you're not powdering your nose at all. You're making your escape through the bathroom window. You have to slip off your heels of course if you want to walk on top of the train.
It's a great sacrifice. You have to leave your handbag behind. You may never get to finish your novel. Not to mention, walking on top of a train soils your stockings something awful. But I suppose a lady can't always be expected to keep up appearances.
You return to your Beverly Hills mansion to find the master bedroom, lit up only by the light of the fireplace, occupied. To your surprise, it's the detective, waiting for you on the white chaise and smoking a cigar.
He glances at you knowingly.
"Take a seat," you calmly tell him as you light the candelabra.
You're riding on a steam train on a crisp snowy evening. A full porcelain tea set sits on the table in front of you, your handbag beside you. You occasionally peek up through your reading spectacles at the debonair detective sitting across the aisle. Charming man, dressed in a fine suit, newly polished shoes, and a fedora. The two of you continue to exchange subtle glances.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him rise from his seat. He must be catching on to your little bashful game. He approaches, and asks if you mind if he sits across from you. "It's a free country, detective," you reply. He asks how you know he's a detective. He seems confused. But of course, he shouldn't ask such foolish questions. Everyone knows who he is.
"Help yourself," you offer, gesturing to the untouched tea set in front of you. You don't see the appeal in tea, no, you're much more of a vodka person. He pours a cup, adds twelve sugars, and then points out your diamond earrings. "They were my mother's," you reply.
After making a dreadful amount of tedious conversation revolved around your heirlooms and his occupation, he gets to he point. He's there on business, investigating a crime. "I know nothing about that," you say evasively, although he still hasn't even told you yet the details of what crime he's investigating.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to my tea," you add, despite the fact that you haven't poured yourself any. As he leaves, you reach into your floral handbag and pull out the shawl you inherited from your great-aunt, as it's gotten a bit drafty.
You wait a bit, absorbing a couple more chapters of your novel, before excusing yourself into the next car to powder your nose. But in reality, you're not powdering your nose at all. You're making your escape through the bathroom window. You have to slip off your heels of course if you want to walk on top of the train.
It's a great sacrifice. You have to leave your handbag behind. You may never get to finish your novel. Not to mention, walking on top of a train soils your stockings something awful. But I suppose a lady can't always be expected to keep up appearances.
You return to your Beverly Hills mansion to find the master bedroom, lit up only by the light of the fireplace, occupied. To your surprise, it's the detective, waiting for you on the white chaise and smoking a cigar.
He glances at you knowingly.
"Take a seat," you calmly tell him as you light the candelabra.
He is already seated.
"I can't bear to keep secrets anymore," you say. It must be his commanding presence that has you compelled to reveal everything to him.
Why should you have to keep it a secret any longer? You're unashamed, after all, of your affair with your butler Ezra, and you're unashamed of the measures you had to take to be with the man you love. Even if it meant tricking your husband into sailing away for his grandmother's funeral, when in reality his grandmother is fine, and he was just boarding the Goosebumps cruise ship with special guest R.L. Stine.
If that makes you a criminal, well, so be it.
The detective stares at you, confused. He states that he isn't concerned about your affair, although it does seem a cruel punishment for your husband. He explains that he found your heels on the train, and that they match the footprints found at the scene of the crime.
What crime could he be referring to? What business is he sticking his nosy nose into, if not your affair?
Of course, how ditzy of you! It's completely slipped your mind that you also killed Eloise, that gossiping mink. She thought she could expose YOU, but you showed her, didn't you?
"Oh, Detective, you don't understand... she threatened me, it was merely self-defense."
The detective shakes his head. Once again, this isn't the crime he's intended to convict you of. Rather, he explains, he's come to investigate the theft of Senator Brannigan's car.
You tell him you haven't stolen any cars, which you haven't, at least to your knowledge. Why waste time on such a petty crime? Why concern yourself with such foolish man, that Brannigan?
Untrusting, he asks if he can take a look around anyway.
"I'm an open book, detective," you say.
You lead the way past the foyer and through the linen room, out into the garage. Shockingly, as you open the door, you find the senator's car sitting there amongst your convertibles.
"Odd," you muse aloud, "I don't recall stealing it."
Two things might explain this phenomenon:
1. Perhaps Eloise survived the fall from her balcony and faked her death, and now she's trying to frame you.
2. Perhaps Doctor Hughes' diagnosis was serious, and you really have been struck with worsening chronic sleepwalking spells.
Regardless, the details check out. It is most certainly the senator's beloved Ford Fusion.
You begin to take a final glance at your belongings, particularly your favorite bearskin rug, which you know you can't take to prison with you no matter how you bribe the constable. The pearl-studded urn with your dear mother's ashes, your favorite mantelpiece. The darling iron-wrought grandfather clock. Oh, how you'll miss the sight of them.
Just then, the detective comforts you as he puts out his cigar. To your bewilderment, he says he doesn't intend for you to go to prison at all.
"But why, Detective?" you ask. "What could possibly restrain you from sticking to your duties?"
Suddenly, he takes his mask off, revealing that he was, all along, R.L. Stine.
He goes on to explain that the cruise ship has sunken, and he is the last survivor. Your husband, deceased from drowning, has handed everything over to you in his will. You're free to be with Ezra forever.
Astonishing.
But still, you feel empty. Somehow, your heart still lusts after greater fulfillment. Not even the love, the fortune, nor the diamond earrings you stole from Eloise's corpse seem to be making you happy.
Then, it hits you. You know exactly what you must do.
That evening, you ring Ezra to call off your affair.
Tearfully, he asks you why. What did he do to deserve this?
You reply, "Ezra darling, don't be blue. It's not what you've done, but the fickleness of my very heart. Don't you see? I'm in love with Robert Lawrence Stine."
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