The Phantastic Apparition Social Society Presents: A Murder of Sorts at Unlivington Manor, Chapter 2

Vincenzo’s spoon was halfway to his mouth when the steak knife plummeted from the opulently painted ceiling with a direct course towards his head. Luckily, Vincenzo had a tendency to lean ever so slightly to the left, due to a run-in with a séance in 1998 that left him constantly adjusting his centre of gravity (and also left him with an odd reaction to mint, but no need to stray off-course). Vincenzo was leaning the exact amount needed to avoid spending the rest of his haunting life with a blade in his skull, so as the knife stabbed into the table, all that was bothered was his spoonful of tomato bisque. It spilled onto the white tablecloth, which no doubt infuriated Mildred, and stained his cuff. The rest of the group let out a sigh of relief. Then they realized what had just happened.

Everyone jumped from their seats and backed away from the table, eyes shooting to the ceiling in an attempt to catch any more rogue weapons.

“Who planted the knife, was it out of spite, oh if poltergeists could leave a print!” Shaughnessy’s song supernaturally dislodged the dagger and repositioned it for a better view. It struck firmly into the centrepiece, which was a charming display of black narcissus dahlias, and scored a floral head at a particularly jarring angle. 

Polly’s eyes darted to Camille, the contortionist. Could she have wiggled herself up to fasten a blade? It was possible, so Polly frowned at her.

Camille didn’t notice, and studied Rex the recluse with a squint. He always kept to himself and stayed far away from everyone else. Might he have had the chance to sneak off and plant a weapon? It was likely, so she squinted harder.

Rex ignored Camille and instead inspected Mildred, the millionaire. The woman always had to be in control. With all her wealth and connections, could she have arranged this irritating evening? It was plausible, so he curled his lip in curiosity.

Mildred ignored Rex and arched an eyebrow at Vincenzo, the one with a vengeance. He had only recently stopped haunting a tailor who had unevenly hemmed a pant leg seventy-five years ago. Might his anger have fuelled a scheme to off them one by one? It was within reason, so she arched her eyebrow higher.

Vincenzo bore no interest in Mildred and examined Shaughnessy underneath furrowed brows. The singing ghost always seemed to avoid any real line of questioning with his everlasting choruses. Was he deflecting to avoid admitting his crimes? It was conceivable, so he furrowed his brow deeper.

Shaughnessy had his attention on Polly the possessive, his mouth pursed in an inquisitive oval. The young woman couldn’t go anywhere without snatching something—did this desire to steal extend to their afterlives? It was believable, so his mouth pursed harder.

Their silent accusations eventually led them all to shift their heads to the table centrepiece, where the knife stood erect like a sword. Polly’s arm reached out to observe the handle, but before she could grab it, Vincenzo screamed.

“This soup is garnished with MINT!” Vincenzo raced off towards the kitchen. Everyone followed, and when he got there, he flung the kitchen doors open. The entire Phantom Apparition Social Society barged in as Daisy plated mackerel escabèche over crispy tartines while Todd rinsed arugula.

“Eight more minutes before the next course,” Daisy’s unwelcome tone was accompanied by a rude gesture with a fish bone.

If there is one thing Vincenzo the vengeful ghost is known for, it is not letting go of things easily. “Not so fast, Chef. I have strong reasons to believe that you’ve made an attempt on my life, and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it!” 

“With all due respect, Vincenzo, is ‘life’ the correct word to use here? And what exactly do you mean?” Todd stepped away from the arugula and tried to maneuver the guests out of the kitchen.

“I’m referring to the tomato soup, and the abomination you call a garnish! You know what mint does to me, so I can only assume you’re planning some sick festivities on my demise!”

Rex rolled his eyes. “No need to be dramatic.”

There were three things that made Chef Daisy Petropoulos lose her cool. The first was soup getting cold. The second included people storming into her kitchen. And the third was any negative critique on her food. She came from a long line of gourmet restauranteurs, and until her father was unjustly removed from his fine-dining throne and forced to pack up and move to California to start a catering business, the Petropoulos name had always shone in the strongest of cuisinary light. Needless to say, this evening’s events, accompanied by the accusation that the tomato bisque was anything other than perfectly rich with an acidic freshness, was inexcusable. She threw the fish bone like a dart. Vincenzo ducked just in time, and it scoured the back of the door. “My bisque recipe does not call for mint.”

Polly admired the bone and quietly removed it from the wall. She placed it in her pocket while Vincenzo continued to argue, bellowing, “Then what do you call the green sprig on top?”

“Basil.”

It hadn’t occurred to Vincenzo that there were many other green herbs that were used to garnish soup. He was forced into a fuming silence. Mildred attempted to get the party back on track. “And it tastes scrumptious,” she ushered them back into the dining room. Once out of earshot, she chastised the ghosts. “Can we agree to wait until there is evidence before attacking the human caterers? I personally would like to stay on their good side, lest they call an exorcist on us. Every one of you, eat your soup and try to figure out who strung a dagger from the ceiling.”

So they did.

Shaughnessy finished his soup, singing between spoonfuls, “Since the caterers came here from L.A., Vincenzo’s been irked in a very bad way—”

“That’s true,” Camille twisted a leg behind her head and pointed it firmly at Vincenzo. “He’s held a grudge against Daisy and Todd from their very first day. Even for a vengeful ghost, he takes it to the extreme.”

“The previous chef was more suited to my taste. Then Iggy had to go for a frolic in the woods, catch them by surprise, and make them drive them into a tree! How do we know ‘Iggy the Innocent’ wasn’t really a guilty ghoul? Maybe this is all part of her act!” Vincenzo pointed toward the dagger. “She could have fastened this knife; all it would’ve taken is arriving early. Or perhaps that’s what she was doing when she met her own fate—the ballroom is between here and the conservatory!”

“Who would have more motive to do her in than you, Vincenzo Botticelli?” Rex paused before he continued, “I was wondering where we’d all heard that last name before. The Hollywood caterers replaced Chef—”

“Botticelli!” The rest exclaimed, then promptly gasped. Then froze. No one said a word. Mostly because they weren’t sure if Botticelli was perhaps a very common Italian last name, and they didn’t want to be seen as ignorant in assuming all Italians with the same last name were related. So they watched Vincenzo’s face for a clue. Sure enough, it twisted into a frown.

“My Uncle Angelo made the best Sicilian meatball soup, and this bisque is sub-par in flavour and texture!” He stood and angrily hurled the soup bowl against the wall. It shattered, nearing decapitating Polly with a flying piece of ceramic, and leaving a basil sprig to sadly swim down a stream of red liquid like a dead leaf in autumn.

Polly yelped in defence.“His soup was salty, and his ravioli was undercooked!” She flung a spoon in Vincenzo’s direction. He ducked and it hit a portrait of Old Man Unlivington, splattering his head with bisque and bouncing back to smash Mildred’s glass, forcing sauvignon blanc to explode across the table.

“This is a dinner party, not a zoo, so stop acting like animals!” Mildred was so furious she stood up and pushed her chair towards the closest person, which was Camille. The contortionist cried out and tumbled across the table, sending bowls, silverware, and glasses everywhere. She kicked Rex’s spoon out of his mouth and collapsed on the floor.

“Iggy’s bleeding out in the closet, Mildred. I don’t think you can salvage the evening.” Rex, who normally sat in the corner alone, was up on his feet. “Someone had better come clean,” Rex was now invested. He didn’t like many things, but he liked tomato bisque, and had hoped to finish it.

Camille straightened herself up and rubbed her muscles. She shot a glare in Mildred’s direction before turning back to Vincenzo. “I think it’s clear that Vincenzo blames Iggy for his uncle’s death, and orchestrated this entire plot for revenge. Seems fitting for a vengeful ghost, doesn’t it?”

Polly was turning the knife over in her hands, letting the gleam of the blade catch the light from the glass chandelier above. “It does.”

“A Botticelli scorned, he admits his revenge. Alas, it all makes sense,” Shaughnessy’s final note rang, and the members of the Phantastic Apparition Social Society circled around Vincenzo, whose ugly grimace was getting darker by the moment.

“I am not responsible for this dagger, nor am I responsible for what happened to Iggy. Now, if I’m being honest, part of me is pleased. But what I will not tolerate, however, is one of you fools committing a crime and putting the blame on me. That is something I will avenge until the day my soul moves on.” When Vincenzo veered into absolute vengeful ghost mode, it was unnerving to say the least. No one dared say a word.

Except Shaughnessy. His previous note was of not, in fact, final, and he launched into another verse: “But what he said rang true as can be, the knife was strung by the guest who was early. Early, I say, earlyyyyyyyy. Perhaps there’s more crime to beeeeeeee—”

“Why have we not once suspected this singing fool? He quite literally just warned us there is more crime to come this evening!” Rex grabbed the dagger from Polly’s hands and threw it in Shaughnessy’s direction. It missed and fell to the ground with a clang.

Camille inspected the room, tip-toeing around all the broken dinnerware. “If Shaughnessy had done any of this, we would have heard him singing along. The man can’t keep quiet. Therefore whoever is behind all of this must have arrived early. But that doesn’t make sense, because Mildred and I arrived first, at the same time. Then it was Shaughnessy and Vincenzo, Polly and Rex, and finally, Iggy.”

“Then the only one who arrived alone has some explaining to do,” Vincenzo once again led the charge into the hall. He pointed to the closet door, “I’m telling you, she is not so innocent. Polly, I assume you’ve pilfered the key. I also assume this will take awhile?”

He was referring to Polly’s pockets. Polly the possessive ghost had large pockets because she was, by nature, possessive. In order to reach the keys, Polly had to dig around everything else she had been possessing that evening. There was the fish bone, three croquettes, a champagne glass, Mildred’s glove, Rex’s bowtie (that he just now realized he had been missing), a candy dish, two dessert spoons, a purple ribbon, a record of soft jazz classics, and finally, the keys. 

“Behind this very door, an answer and perhaps more …”

Polly marched towards the door, key in hand, and placed a palm on the closet doorknob. At the same time, a jagged broken wine glass catapulted towards Polly’s hand and Mildred let out a shriek. All heads turned. Then the millionaire’s face turned blue and she dropped to the floor.