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The Party
The glass sat empty on the table, crimson lipstick smearing the edge. Rowcliff was glad no one had tried to move it. Thanks to CSI even the most sheltered people knew not to touch the murder weapon. The victim, Keren Blackwell, was still sitting in the chair where she'd died, vomit and spittle drying on her vintage Chanel suit.
Rowcliff eyed the suspects, crowded together under the bright flourescents like a herd of zebras fearing attack. Whichever one of them had put the cyanide in the wine must have been pretty desperate. But all their faces showed now was fear. Even in death, Karen Blackwell had them all on edge.
Dressed in black suits, the suspects looked ready for a funeral rather than a party. Lieutenant Rowcliffe knew these kinds of events well. They pretended to be socials but they were really tests to see who would get too comfortable, drink too much, laugh too loud, get too familiar with the boss. Well, someone had crossed that line all right. Rowcliffe was surprised it had taken them this long. Given Blackwell's management style, it was practically suicide.
She made eye contact with Keith and nodded for him to follow her to the table she'd claimed as her command centre. She fixed him with their mother's stare, knowing that the relentlessness of her grey eyes would make him honest.
"Talk to me, Keith."
He raised his big palms defensively. "It wasn't me," he assured her. As if she'd had to ask.
"Do you know who did it?"
Keith swallowed hard and Rowcliffe saw his index finger pick anxiously at a torn cuticle on his thumb.
He glanced quickly toward the group. "She was humiliating him, Mitts," he said, using ther childhood nickname. "It was awful."
"Did you see him do it?" Rowcliffe asked, putting each word down like a weight.
"No. I'm sorry, Mitts. I don't know any more." Keith wouldn't meet her gaze. In most men, she'd take this for lying, but in her brother she knew it was submission. She slapped a reassuring hand on the big man's shoulder.
"That's okay Keith. I know a thing or two myself."
