Jennifer M. Zeiger's Blog, page 43

Jace Option A: Follow Them

Welcome back to the second post in the adventure. So far you’ve taken your friend, Jace, camping and he’s been kidnapped by slavers. Now you’re following them. Let’s see if you can save your friend!

Jace Option A: Follow Them

You can still see the boat meandering away down the river. Your gut clenches with the thought that, if you lose sight of that small vessel, you may never see Jace again.

The river meets the ocean in a wide cove surrounded by cliffs. It’s not useful as a dock, so usually no ships use the cove. However, if you lose sight of the small rowboat, there’s a chance the slaver’s ship will leave the cove before you reach it since they’re traveling by water. Then you’ll have no chance of finding Jace.

You can’t chance that.

You take off down the riverbank but it’s not long before you run into vegetation creeping into the water. It blocks your way as surely as if the slavers had set up a gate.

Heading inland a bit, you try to work your way past the area only to find the trees grow thicker. By now the rowboat’s got to be well beyond your sight but you try to go back in order to check the river for it.

When you do finally make it, sure enough, the river’s empty of any boat. Tears prick at your eyes. Jace’s thrilled smile plays through your mind. Camping should’ve been a fun, safe activity for him but now he’ll never want to go to the woods again. That’s if you can find him and bring him back.

You have to find him. There’s just not another option in your head.

With renewed determination, you head back to the camp, realizing now that in your initial rush, you left your lantern and hatchet behind.

Items in hand, you make your way back to the impassable spot in the river and move inland again, swinging the hatchet through the brush to make a trail wide enough for you to pass through. Branches still scrape at your face, arms, and legs though, and it’s not long before small trails of blood trace your skin.

Dawn brightens the treetops by the time you’re able to follow the riverbank again. Sweat drips from your nose and off your hand as you swing the hatchet but thankfully there are a few small rivers meeting up with the main water that help cool you down when you have to cross them.

Exhaustion clouds your eyes as you scan the river for any signs of the rowboat. You’re close to the cove and can hear the ocean. Rushing ahead, you pan your gaze across the cove and your heart sinks.

No rowboat, no ship, no Jace.

Your knees hit the sand but then you hear a scuffing sound and what started out as a sob of disappointment turns into you ducking into the brush behind you. The sound comes again from inland, toward the cliffs along the cove where the trees grow thick.

Then you see it. Men on top of the cliffs. And there, in the middle of them stumbling along, you make out Jace’s blond head.

The only thing that makes sense would be if the men never had a ship but headed up one of the smaller rivers that you crossed on your way to the cove. Who knows all the details, the why or how or what are they doing, but you’ve got Jace in sight again.

Do you…

Aa. Climb the cliffs?

Or

Ab. Head back up the river to go around the cliffs?

Blessings,

Jennifer

Jace

“Look,” Jace points ahead, “trees!” Then he takes off running for said trees with his pack bouncing on his back.

You jog to keep up but, since you’re carrying most of the gear, he keeps his lead on you.

“Jace,” you call, “slow down. You’ve got longer legs than I.”

He turns, still running, and trips over his own feet.

You cringe as he tumbles and his pack slides over his head to tangle awkwardly around his shoulders.

At first you think he’s crying but when you come even with him, you find his convulsions are silent laughter.

“I cart wheeled!” He announces in his slightly slurred speech.

“That you did. It was glorious,” you respond while untangling him. You consider that maybe you should view life more like he does. A ten year old’s enthusiasm in an adult’s body. Life is never dull for Jace. He’s aware enough to live on his own, but as his neighbor, you still check in on him every day. In essence, you’ve become his best friend.

You don’t begrudge helping him cook his meals or clean his house when, without fail, he brings a smile to your face.

You race him to the trees and teach him how to set up the tent by the river that runs just inside the tree line.

His grin about splits his face. It’s been there since you agreed to take him camping the day before.

You gladly agreed when he asked. The area where you live is relatively safe, unlike the larger cities to the west of you, and Jace loves the surrounding forests.

As you settle in for the night, his grin is the last thing you see before falling asleep.

***

Twigs crack close by and you bolt upright, fully awake.

“Hear that, Jace?”

There’s no response.

Jace isn’t beside you. The door’s on your side so you’d wake if he got up, but the flap is still tied closed. A breeze brushes your skin anyway. In the dark, you crawl over Jace’s empty spot to find the far wall of the tent sliced and now flapping free.

“Hey, hey no—“

You recognize the slightly slurred speech.

You shove through the open wall of the tent in time to catch a disturbance on the north side of the camp. Following, you stumble on to the edge of the river and see a small boat with two silhouettes rowing away. A shock of light hair, definitely Jace’s, shines on the side of the boat in the moonlight.

Slavers, you realize with a sick sensation. They’ve been plaguing the coast but you thought this was far enough inland to be safe. Apparently not. They must have used the river to sneak inland.

And now they’ve got Jace. Why didn’t they take you too?

You’ve no idea but now you’ve got to save Jace.

Do you…

A Follow Them?

Or

B. Head to the coast to find their ship?

Blessings,

Jennifer

Poison Inn 2 Option Ab1: Ask

Welcome to the end of the adventure. Let’s see what happens =)

Poison Inn 2 Option Ab1: Ask

As you debate whether to say something, the old woman speaks up and you hold your breath, a bit surprised.

“Can I use the restroom?” she whispers. “My old body doesn’t do well sometimes.”

The room’s silence is so profound you can hear Wallin click bottles together from his bag upstairs.

You realize this is your moment. If you’re going to ask, this is it.

“Um,” you raise a hand to draw Marl’s attention. If you’re wrong, you’ll deal with it, but your gut tells you your suspicions are justified. “Is she wearing a wig?”

The woman’s hand flies to her hair like the wind just stole her hat but the move’s not fast enough. The knife-yielding woman snatches the gray hair from her head and long, black tresses tumble out from beneath.

Unmasked, the woman bolts for the door. The knife woman snakes a foot out, and catches her, tripping her into a table, which tips and hits the floor with a thud. Between Marl and the knife woman, you don’t catch much of what happens next, you just see it when they lift the woman off the floor and haul her back to the bar.

“Wait now,” One of the axe man steps closer for a better look, “I’ve seen you before. Hey Alex, hand me my bag.” He holds out his hand to his goateed partner. When the bag’s handed over, he rummages inside and pulls out a badly crumpled flier. “That’s it.” He holds the flier up for all to see.

Wanted

Bradley Couple Assassin Team.

20 silvers reward for their capture.

Below the words is drawn a likeness of two people, a man and a woman. The woman’s sketch is rough but her dark hair stands out. It’s uncommon in the area.

It’s then you look around for the old man, wanting to compare him to the drawing as well.

“He’s gone,” you speak up. “The old man’s gone.”

Ms. Bradley sneers while everyone looks around for her husband. Sure enough, he’s nowhere to be seen. Marl grumbles and looks at you.

“Head upstairs. Let Wallin know what’s happened.”

You take the stairs two at a time, both excited and happy to be out of the room. When you explain everything to Wallin, he nods and gestures for you to sit with the serving woman.

“She won’t wake for a while,” he says. “But she’s the baron’s daughter, so I’d prefer not to leave her alone. You probably don’t want to be a part of our questioning the assassin anyway.”

You readily agree, realizing this all has to do with politics and you’d prefer to be left out of it anyway.

You sit with the girl until Wallin returns. Her color’s improved to a light pink tone and he gives you a smile.

“We’ll probably never catch the guy,” he admits, “but you helped us catch half the assassin team and maybe who hired her. The baron owns the inn. So you can stay here for free anytime you like.”

It’s a great deal for you since you make the trip between home and the Capital all the time for your Master.

You’re always curious about Mr. Bradley but Wallin, when you see him, doesn’t ever bring up the subject, and you don’t ask.

The End

You caught half the assassin team! Well done =)

Blessings,

Jennifer

Poison Inn 2 Option Ab: Master’s Assistant

Welcome back for the third post in the Poison Inn Adventure! I hope you had an amazing Fourth of July, if you’re in the US, or, if you’re not, I hope you’re weekend was still amazing and wonderful.

Let’s see what happens next in the Inn.

Poison Inn 2 Option Ab: Master’s Assistant

The room crackles with tension as Marl eyes you, waiting for your response. You can just imagine his reaction if you say Apothecary’s assistant. Even to you that sounds suspicious with the poisoning.

“I’m a Master’s assistant. I was headed to the Capital for supplies when the storm hit.” You hold Marl’s gaze as your say this. It’s all technically true but his eyes narrow, perhaps sensing you’re holding information back.

“What supplies?” he asks.

“Spices mostly,” you respond. “Sage, Thyme, the Cinnamon ships should have arrived a few days ago. My Master wan—“

Marl waves for you to stop. You snap your lips shut, relieved because those were the only three well-known spices on your list and you’re a horrible liar. Much more talking and he’d have known for sure you weren’t telling everything.

After a moment longer of eyeing you, Marl moves to question the old couple at the end of the bar.

“Who are you?” he asks them.

“Th—we’re the Nichols,” the man swallows and grasps his wife’s hand so tightly his knuckles look white. “We were headed to visit Maria, our daughter. It’s her birthday, you see, and we were going to surprise her with…” his voice reminds you of the rasp from a harpsichord as he rambles on about surprising his daughter.

You clasp your hands together against the rough bar to stop them from shaking, only catching half of the man’s words as he continues to ramble.

Marl simply watches him, his silence pulling more words than questions would have. You don’t blame the man. You know exactly how that furious stare feels.

The old woman pulls her hand free from her husband to push her glasses back up her nose. Her hand shakes and she pauses for a second before pressing on the bridge.

You stare hard at her fingers. She’s almost totally silver haired. Her face bares the signs of liver spots, but her hands, they’re long fingered and elegant. Smooth skinned like they’ve never seen the sun.

You scan her appearance again, trying to reconcile the smooth white of her hands with the brownish spots on her chin and forehead. You’re eyes catch on something else.

She’s silver haired but tucked behind her right ear is a lock of black. It’s hard to catch because the white hair overlaps it in several spots and that side of her head hides in her husband’s shadow cast by the lamp behind the bar, but you’re fairly sure the hair isn’t even the same texture.

While you’ve been staring, Marl’s asked a few more questions that you didn’t catch the answers to. He seems satisfied with the old man’s response though and moves down the bar to the chess players.

You don’t even listen to their reasons for being in the Inn this evening. Instead, you continue to watch the old woman. She waits for a bit, fidgeting with her glasses and pulling at her jacket like she’s cold. Then she slides off her stool and steps away from the bar like she’s stretching her old legs.

Something tells you she’s about to bolt. You really want to blurt out a question about her hair. Is she wearing a wig? But if you ask and you’re wrong, Marl’s going to suspect you even more.

Do you…

Ab1: Ask?

Ab2: Keep quiet?

Blessings,

Jennifer

Poison Inn 2 Option A: Take the Knife

Ahhh! Couple hours late on posting. My apologies everyone! Here’s the next post, let’s see what happens =)

Poison Inn Option A: Take the Knife

Photo courtesy of Sebring’s Snapshots.

Without a weapon, your stomach knots with anxiety. You slide past the bar and palm the knife into your hand and up your sleeve. No one cries out at your move but your back itches as you head up the stairs, just waiting for someone to point you out.

At the top of the stairs, you pause. You’ve no idea which of the two rooms Wallin took the woman to. Then you hear a muffled step from behind the right hand door.

You knock softly and hear a deep “come” from inside.

The room’s so small you almost stumble into the foot of the bed. The giant Wallin kneels on the left side close to the serving woman’s face.

He sniffs and then glances at you. “Come here,” he beckons toward the right side of the bed.

You hold the bag up so he can see why you’ve bothered him but he simply waves for you to set it down and gestures toward the side of the bed again.

“Smell her breath,” he says and tilts the woman’s head your way.

It’s only then you realize she’s still breathing. It’s shallow, not enough to raise her chest, but enough to be felt on the skin of your face when you lean close. The faint scent of almonds tickles your nose.

“Sweet or sour?” Wallin asks.

“Almond,” you answer.

He scowls. “I know that. Sweet or sour?”

You take another sniff. “Sour.”

Before he can respond, there’s a thumping on the floorboards from below. You jump and Wallin cracks a smile.

“Marl wants you back down there,” he says. Your hand’s on the doorknob when he speaks again. “Leave the knife with me.”

He must have noticed the bulge of the knife beneath your sleeve. Even still, you turn, trying to keep an innocent but confused look on your face but he just shakes his head.

“You’re not the poisoner,” he says. “I would’ve known if you were.” He gestures at the woman on the bed. “You could have tried to mislead me here.”

“I’ve no weapon,” you admit, “and, well—“

“The room’s full of them,” he finishes for you. “I get it, but if Marl finds you with his prize knife, he’ll slit your throat, poisoner or not. Take this,” he holds out a round stone. When you hold out your hand, he drops it onto your palm. It’s satiny smooth and ebony in color.

At your questioning look, he explains. “Marl will know I trust you because of that. Let his club do the rest.”

You nod and hand over the knife you took from the bar.

As you leave, the stone feels cold in your palm. Compared to the knife, it offers scant reassurance but you didn’t want to argue with Wallin.

In the room below, Marl’s got every one sitting at the bar now, lined up like school children. There’s one stool left.

The club’s off the wall and swinging in Marl’s hand, its round head whistling through the air as he twirls it.

You take the last stool and Marl points at you. “Occupation?” he demands.

Considering the situation, saying Apothecary’s assistant could be the worst thing you could do. You could shorten it to simply Master’s assistant but he might dig more and then it’d look like you were hiding something.

Do you say…

Aa. Apothecary’s assistant?

Or

Ab. Master’s assistant?

Blessings,

Jennifer

Poison Inn 2

It’s a good time to rerun an adventure. I could make it sound like I planned this but, honestly, my days got away from me and Monday night rolled around like a snowball that got out of hand. I wrote the start to a lovely adventure that harkened towards Alice in Wonderland but when I looked back over it, it doesn’t make sense to even me. Oops =/ Plus, I only have the beginning to it and no outline. That’s just a disaster waiting to happen, trust me.

So here we go with an adventure from the beginning of the year. It has snow in it, which, when it’s over 100 degrees outside, appeals to me like the ice cream truck’s jingle does to a child.

Hope you enjoy and thanks for stopping by =)

Poison Inn

You’re sitting in an inn well off the beaten path enjoying a hot beverage that wafts the scent of cinnamon under your nose and warms your hands through the wooden mug.

You were on your way to the capital to buy supplies when the storm hit. It started out as sleet but as the day grew later and the temperature dropped, the sleet shifted to snow. Beneath the growing layer of white, the sleet turned to ice and it was all you could do to keep your feet to get to the next town.

Photo courtesy of Sebring’s Snapshots.

Once you reached the town, however, you found the main inns were already full from travelers like yourself. So you were forced to move deeper into the town to find this run down place that boasted only a few rooms above and a stable for four horses out back.

It wasn’t the safest part of town either.

Since you sat down, you’ve kept your eye on a pair of men next to the hearth. Their heads are bowed over a chess table but you’ve yet to see a piece move. One of them, a great bearded fellow whose shoulders remind you of a troll, fingers an axe that hangs by his side. The other strokes his ragged goatee with one hand while tapping his nails on the table with the other. From his belt also hangs an axe. It’s double bladed. Not a woodsman’s axe, but a war axe.

They’re not the only ones that give you pause. At the bar sits a woman with high-topped black, leather boots. This wouldn’t give you cause for alarm except, when the woman shifted on her stool last, you spotted the tops of at least three knives sticking out of the right boot cuff. One, maybe two, would make sense for safety, but three?

Lastly, at the far end of the bar sits what appears to be an older couple. You’d think them sweet with their holding hands but the woman’s shrill voice hasn’t stopped since you entered the place. Every once in a while the man’s gruff responses cut her off but it doesn’t stop the woman’s tirade for long. You’ve been questioning their age for about five minutes when the serving woman approaches your table. It takes you a minute to respond to her because you’re staring at the older woman. Her glasses slid to the end of her nose and when she moves to push them back up, you could swear her hand looked like that of a twenty five year old, not an eighty year old.

“We’re out of beef stew. Want mutton?” The serving woman asks again. Her voice is flat.

Mutton’s disgusting unless cooked right but you’re hungry, so you nod and say, “that’ll do.”

She thumps a plate with bread, butter and a small square of cheese onto the table and moves away toward the chess players.

All you want is to get a decent night’s sleep and leave for the capital in the morning. Behind the bar stands the bar keep. He’s a giant of a man with flaming red hair. Over his shoulder, held on the wall by two iron hooks, is a club he must use to keep the bar peaceful. It’s only a little reassuring.

The serving woman’s half way across the room, headed back toward the kitchen, when it happens. She catches herself on a table’s edge but it’s a pedestal table and the weight on only one edge serves to flip it. She hits the floor and doesn’t move.

There’s a moment of shocked silence before the bar keep’s over the bar and kneeling beside her. He leans in and sniffs. The look on his face when he raises his head makes you shrink back in your seat.

“One of you low lifes poisoned her!”

Another man appears from the kitchen at the bar keep’s bellow. He’s an exact match to the bar keep with flaming red hair. You guess he’s the cook due to the apron he’s wearing. He scoops the woman off the floor and heads for the stairs, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Once he’s up the stairs and out of sight, everyone moves. They don’t get very far.

“No one leaves!” bellows the bar keep, “until I know who’s responsible.”

You sink back into your chair.

“You!” he points a finger your way, “Wallin will need his bag,” he points to a bulging sack just behind the bar by the kitchen door. “Take it to him.”

You nervously move across the room with all eyes on you, guessing he picked you because, one, you’re alone, and two, unlike the woman at the bar, you’re not heavily armed.

It’s this thought that makes you look twice at the knife sitting on the edge of the bar. Everyone watched you reach the bag but then looked away when the bar keep pointed at the goateed chess player and started asking questions.

As you pass the bar again to head up the stairs, you might be able to slip the knife into your hand and up your sleeve.

Do you…

A.Take the Knife?

or

B.Leave the Knife?

Blessings,

Jennifer

The Jamison House Option Bc1: Take the Pocket to Mr. Jamison

The Jamison House Option Bc1: Take the Pocket to Mr. Jamison

Confronting Brandon, making him pay for Michael’s death, would be wonderful, but by yourself would be foolish and with the wash crew, all of whom are younger than you, would endanger them. You just can’t do that.

“We’ll take the apron to Mr. Jamison,” you tell Sam.

He nods and goes to hand the apron to you. You refuse to take it.

“Brandon’s the Butler now,” you say. “We’ve got to go through him to see Mr. Jamison. You hang on to the apron. I’ll keep the pocket.”

Sam clutches the apron and then shoves it into the pocket of his own apron. When you turn toward the house, he follows you with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He looks like a dejected street urchin. You hope that’s not a bad sign.

All of the workers have scattered back to their respective tasks by the time you climb the porch steps. Your stomach rolls with apprehension but you make sure your knock on the door is firm, confident.

Moments later Brandon opens the door and scowls at you. “What?” he asks.

“Here to see Mr. Jamison about a problem with the water,” you say. There kind of is a problem, Michael’s not around to fill the tubs. You hope the words ring true.

“The Master’s busy. I’ll come around later to look,” Brandon moves to close the door.

You catch it before it latches by shoving your toe in the way. Even with your heavy boots, the smack of the wood sends a pain into your foot.

“It needs attention now,” you insist, “Or the Master’s going to be lacking in sheets come tonight.”

Brandon’s scowl deepens, if possible. He’s a thin man and the expression pinches in the corners of his lips until you can’t see the pink of his mouth anymore.

“This way,” he finally says and opens the door wide enough for you to enter. He leads you to the library. “No soiled aprons in the house,” he says and holds out his hand for Sam’s apron.

Sam’s eyes go wide. “It’s clean,” he insists, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets.

Brandon just stands there, his hand still out for the apron.

“What’s this?” says a voice behind you.

Spinning, you find Mr. Jamison amongst the books. You could of sworn the library was empty when you entered and, looking around, you see no other door, but despite this, Mr. Jamison’s right there.

“Making him presentable, Sir,” Brandon explains.

Mr. Jamison waves his hand in dismissal. “Leave him be.” He turns to you. “What are you here for?”

You glance at Sam and then hold out the torn pocket. As quickly as possible, you explain where you found the piece of fabric and Sam holds out the apron when you reach the part about Brandon throwing it to the kitchen crew just a little bit ago.

Mr. Jamison accepts the evidence without a word. He listens until you’re done and then fingers the fabric while eyeing Brandon.

The thin man, surprisingly, does not say a word in his defense while you explain. It’s unnerving to say the least.

Finally, he speaks up, “Sir, there’s no way I could’ve done this. I have to be in the kitchen that time in the morning. Someone would’ve noticed my walking between the kitchen and washroom.”

Mr. Jamison nods and you realize you forgot to mention the tunnel. You open your mouth to bring it up but Mr. Jamison holds a hand for silence.

“You play me for dumb?” he asks Brandon. “I’m fully aware of the tunnels on my land.”

A worried look finally hits Brandon’s face. He opens his mouth to protest but then snaps his lips shut without saying anything. Spinning on a heel, he bolts for the door and escapes out of it before anyone can react.

You cry a protest and head after him.

“Not to worry,” Mr. Jamison calls, “I’ll have the hounds hunt him down.”

You turn back toward the landowner and see he’s already pulled the cord on the wall for someone to respond.

“However,” Mr. Jamison continues. “There’s the issue of you and the boy. I cannot have servants in my household who keep a murder from me. I’ll sign your papers over to my neighbor, Mr. Colter, to finish your term.”

Whereas Mr. Jamison just doesn’t care, you’ve heard far worse about Mr. Colter. “Keeping it from you was my decision,” you protest. “Keep Sam on. He’s invaluable and loyal.”

Mr. Jamison considers and then nods. “You’re off my land by morning.” He says and dismisses you.

***

You fight Mr. Colter for an extra three years before he signs your freedom papers but Sam’s released in his usual five and Brandon’s caught. He’s still serving his time in the local jail as far as you know.

The End

Blessings and have a wonderful weekend,

Jennifer

The Jamison House Option Bc: Spy on Him

Welcome back to the adventure. We’re spying on the Butler to see if he’s the murderer. Let’s see what happens. =)

The Jamison House Option Bc: Spy on Him

There’s just not enough evidence for you to feel comfortable confronting Maurice, and the wash crew readily agrees to help you in spying on him.

So, you decide it’s time to repair the drying lines outside and start hanging the laundry out again instead of hanging it up in the room attached to the washroom. With the weather warming and the days lengthening, it’s the perfect time of year for this anyway.

Toward the end of the day, Maurice wanders over with a heavy frown on his face that droops his mustache below his chin. He walks through the lines and then heads into the washroom where the tubs no longer steam.

“Had hot water this morning?” he asks as he turns sideways to fit between two of the tubs.

You nod an affirmative.

Could he fit through the tunnel? Maurice is shorter but round. You wonder if he’s got scrapes on his belly or if you’ve got the wrong person.

“Isn’t there usually ten tubs?” he points to the empty back corner.

“Repairing one,” you answer on the fly. “We set it under the trees so the sun wouldn’t damage the repair. It’ll be back up by the morning.”

Maurice nods with a satisfied grunt and leaves.

“Think he’s getting nervous?” Sam asks after the Butler’s gone.

“Maybe.” You specifically mentioned the trees to see if Maurice would investigate later and find the grave.

But you spend the next several days watching with nothing more. You move the tenth tub back into the washroom and sleep there at night to both keep an eye on the woods and fill everything with hot water in the morning since Michael’s no longer around to do it. The work gives you a whole new appreciation for the man.

On the morning of the third day, Mr. Jamison calls everyone to the porch of the main house. He stands proudly beside Maurice and holds up a page of paper. It’s cream, heavy stock, and the writing on it is bold.

Then Mr. Jamison holds the page against the porch railing and signs it. After giving it a moment to dry, he folds it neatly and hands the page to Maurice, who smiles for the first time you’ve ever seen.

They shake hands and Maurice leaves the porch, a grin splitting his face.

“His freedom,” someone whispers. “He served his five years, now he’s free.”

Sam sidles up to you. “Maurice didn’t have a reason to kill Michael,” he whispers.

You nod your head but don’t say anything because you’re still watching the porch. Brandon, the cook, climbs the steps to stand beside Mr. Jamison. He’d be the same height as the landowner except for his hunched back. He can’t stand straight.

You recall seeing Brandon with his sack of flour the other morning, recall him clutching his back after setting it down. Strong enough to strangle Michael, but weak enough to need the polls to move the body.

Mr. Jamison hands Brandon a new vest, the sign around the house of the Butler’s position. They shake hands and dismiss everyone by entering the house. Before he follows the landowner inside, Brandon discards his apron and tosses it to one of the kitchen workers.

“It’s him,” Sam says. “Brandon’s wanted out of the kitchen for forever. “

You agree but you’re focused on the apron. “Sam, get that before it disappears.”

He sees where you’re looking and takes off into the gathered people. Before long, he reappears beside you with the discarded apron in his hand.

You pull from your pocket the piece of cloth Michael clutched in his death grip. It fits perfectly with the inside, torn pocket of the apron.

“What do we do?” Sam asks.

Do you…

Bc1: Take the Pocket to Mr. Jamison?

or

Bc2: Confront Brandon with the Wash Crew?

Blessings,

Jennifer

The Jamison House Option B: Investigate

Trying to fit a murder mystery into only four posts is tough! Let’s see what happens next as you find more clues.

The Jamison House Option B: Investigate

The image of Michael, blue and unnatural, sticks in your mind. You try to picture him smiling like he always did to greet you in the morning but the other image is just too fresh for you to push it aside.

You can’t take the chance the Jamison’s will brush this under the rug. Michael deserves better than that.

Gathering your courage again, you head back into the washroom for a closer look at the murder scene. You want this part done before the others arrive. They shouldn’t have to face it with you.

Upon closer investigation, you find a black spot in the back corner of the room like someone used the dirt floor to snuff out a torch. The room’s full of windows to allow light and air flow, so the idea of a torch doesn’t make sense unless someone was in the room at night.

You also find two poles tucked against the wall with heavy scuffing on the floor at the backside of the tub. As far as you can deduce, someone used the poles to roll Michael into the tub.

“Hello?”

The call’s timid but you recognize that it’s Sam, the boy who works beside you. Since you’re in the back of the washroom, he probably can’t see you.

“Over here,” you call. “Don’t let the others in.”

When Sam appears out of the steam, he’s holding his arm over his nose and tears stream from his eyes.

He spots Michael and stops, staring. “He was so excited yesterday,” Sam mumbles.

“What?”

“He said Mr. Jamison offered him Maurice’s job at the house. He was going to be the Butler for the rest of his term.”

This was news. “Did Maurice know?”

Sam finally raises his eyes to look at you. He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“All right, let’s get Michael out of here,” you gesture for him to give you a hand.

Using the poles that were left against the wall, you and Sam lift the tub to carry it into the woods. The sight of you moving the tub isn’t strange, the poles fit into rings on the side of the wooden frame. It’s how you empty it each night.

You return to the washroom for some shovels. You’re about to head back to the woods to dig the grave when you feel a chill breeze against your face. Since you’re in the washroom, the touch stands out like someone trailing their fingers over your cheek.

You approach the back wall and the breeze grows stronger. Then you see it, a line in the dirt like the grains are falling into a hole. When you trail your fingers along the line, sure enough, a larger line appears. You follow it with your fingers until you have the outline of a trap door.

Lifting it, you peer down into the dark depths of a tunnel. The need for a torch makes more sense now.

You task Sam with digging the grave with a few of the others and then, finding a lantern, you head down into the tunnel to investigate.

It’s a tiny space, just wide enough for you to slide through sideways. Thankfully, it’s a short tunnel but you estimate it’s just long enough to lead to the main house. You set the lantern on the floor and lift the hatch at the end barely an inch, just enough to see what’s on the other side.

The smell of fresh bread wafts through. Then the bustle of the kitchen reaches your ears. From the angle you’re viewing everything, the trap door must be right by the oven in the corner. The cook’s tall, lean frame passes in sight as he carries a bag of flour to the kneading table.

He grunts in pain as he lowers the bag and holds his back for a moment, looking around his kitchen as he does. You let the door fall back into place and sit on the dirt floor of the tunnel to think.

Whoever strangled Michael had to be strong because Michael wasn’t a small man. But the person also had to be thin enough to fit through the tunnel and need the poles the get the body into the tub.

Last, he or she had to know about the tunnel.

Maurice, the current butler, might fit all of those criteria. And, from the sounds of it, he was about to loose his position to Michael.

How to check the theory though?

You could lure Maurice out to the woods to show him the body and confront him there—

Or maybe a few of the smaller kids could keep a watch on him for the next few days. If no one speaks up about finding the body, he might get nervous and check to see what’s happened.

Do you… 

Bb: Lure Maurice out?

or

Bc: Spy on Him?

Blessings,

Jennifer

The Jamison House

Yay! It’s time to return to the adventure =) Moving is now done and settling in, which will take a while, has commenced. So it’s time for some fun.

Thanks for joining the adventure.

The Jamison House

The work hours grow longer as the days lengthen into summer. With the heat of the sun comes the oppressive humidity from the open tubs of water you use for washing.

Everyday you walk into the washroom and the damp heat hits you like a wall. In less than an hour your hair’s plastered to your scalp and your shirt sticks to your back. This is normal, your life as a wash person for the Jamison house. With five years of work, you’ll be free to do as you please but since the Jamison’s paid your fare to the new land, you’ve two years left to your service.

As work goes, you can’t complain.

But this morning it’s not just the heavy heat that meets you at the door. The stench doubles you over, gagging. Only with a supreme force of will do you keep your breakfast in your stomach.

Never in your last three years has the washroom smelled like this. It’s urine and warm flesh. Sure, you’ve cleaned sheets the kids peed on, but this isn’t the same.

You hold your apron over your mouth and nose in an effort to soften the smell and then brave opening the washroom again.

Nothing in the immediate vicinity looks off. It’s just the smell that says something’s horribly wrong. You venture farther into the room.

The tubs steam around you, which means Michael’s been in already, working hard to fill them before you and the other washers arrive. It’s then you spot the oddity.

Seven out of eight washtubs are steaming; the last one in the far corner is not. With all the others giving off damp mist, it’s hard to see that the eighth one’s different but, drawing closer, you see there’s no water inside.

Something else occupies the tub. At first you see a shoe, then the homespun pants, and by the time you’re close enough to see Michael’s face, you’re positive you don’t want to see. But somehow you can’t look away.

He’s a color of blue no person should be. Dark marks on his neck remind you of fingers. Whoever did this had to be strong because Michael was not a small man. Clutched in his hand is what looks like fabric from maybe a gray, wool coat.

You back away and race from the washroom with your stomach rolling again. Poor Michael. Although you didn’t know him well, he always smiled at you. One of the few people who made the effort to be friendly.

You should take this directly to the Jamison’s. Michael was their responsibility. But you hesitate. The Jamison’s care very little about their workers as people. It’s possible they’ll just clean everything up and brush the details under the rug.

But what are your other options? Do you investigate the murder yourself? What do you do if you figure out who killed Michael? It isn’t like you’ve got a way to punish the killer.

But you have to do something. The other wash people will be in soon and, if you’re going to investigate yourself, they’ll have to be a part of it. They’re young, really young, and you’re not sure how they’ll handle it either way.

So do you…

A. Tell the Jamisons?

Or

B. Investigate Yourself?

Blessings and see you Thursday,

Jennifer