Red
Mr. Blythe Jackson
Kindly Requests your presence
On the hour of 8’clock
On Saturday,
June Twenty-First
Gracia and Pilson
“Hmm. What do you think, Pilson?”
“Well Ma’am, I think—”
“I could go and hear the latest on how things are getting along or not show and create a
scandal.”
“If it’s not too bold miss, I--”
“I suppose I should go, as it is my intended’s party. I expect a proposal any day now. Don’t you
agree?”
“Yes Ma’am. Whatever you think.”
Then the man so-called Pilson strutted off with his nose in the air to fetch this attractive woman
a cup of hot, black coffee.
She would never be caught dead with make-up caked upon her face, as she was gorgeous
without it. She was extremely tall for a woman and often wore high-heels to make her seem taller still.
She was known only as ‘the tall, exceptionally pretty woman with the red hair,’ yet everyone knew she
was not to be made upset. Though she was not the kind of old woman who would yell at small children,
the town kids never went near her large house, even on Hollow’s Eve. A sense of negative energy
radiated from the mansion like a bad odor.
Pilson was what you might call a ‘butler.’ Then again you might not because you think butlers
only work for royalty that lived in castles in England. Anyway, Pilson worked for the lady of the house
because he simply enjoyed it and couldn’t think of doing possibly anything else. He didn’t care when the
miss cut off his sentences, and he wasn’t bothered by small, frivolous things like not being told “thank
you.” Nothing made the not-butler more delighted than going to fetch the morning coffee, newspapers,
and robe. Fixing his lady a meal was like happiness on his own plate.
Pilson had known his so-called ‘boss’ all his life. He was one of the few people who knew her
actual name. To protect the innocent (or non-innocent), we may be able to call her Gracia for the time
being.
The man mentioned in the invitation is now dead. His own party became his own death trap.
This story tells of a great tragedy, romance, and betrayal. The one who seems to be the most obvious
killer may not be so. Also, how this Mr. Jackson was murdered is a mystery. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen.
We have on our hands a murder mystery.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Blythe
Blythe Jackson will be introduced into this tale simply as this: a rich man whose past is unknown
aside from the fact that he has never worked a day in his life. As a tall, smart, handsome, and completely
eligible bachelor, it is only natural that our own Miss Gracia would snatch him up as soon as she and
Pilson moved here. Although Mr. Jackson did not like going out in public (except for horse races), Gracia
made sure every time she was seen he was with her. This made Jackson extremely uncomfortable and
anxious to get back home to his dogs.
One question: if he did not like socializing as men and women of his age did, why would he hold
such a large and lavish party? The answer is actually quite simple—to celebrate his uncle’s deathday.
This may signify to you that the latter did not like his uncle. On the contrary, Jackson adored his
uncle and posed him as his role model. Confusing? You see, Mr. Jackson’s mind works differently than
yours and mine. To him, this party represents the wonderful life his uncle had, and how death is just the
next great adventure to him. His uncle had quite a magnificent death, if one can. He died when his oneman airplane crashed into a tree and detonated, sending jagged metal flying everywhere. Marty Jackson
really went out with a bang, pardon the pun.
But now Mr. Blythe was right in a pickle. His favorite maid was out with the influenza, and no
one could cook quite like her. So now Jackson had several idiots trying to figure out how much flour was
needed in the cake.
What incompetence. How many people did it take to read directions and measure out
ingredients?
After several wasted hours, the cake was iced (no guarantee on taste), decorations were up,
refreshments were made, and guests started to arrive.
The Matters
First entered a rich, large man, who was wider than he was tall. He and his wife entered in a
fancy ‘to-good-for-you’ sort of way. The man in his best suit; his wife in a long, shimmering blue dress.
Her dark hair was in a tight bun, and a fur wrap was draped around her shoulders.
Mr. Fancy-pants leaned over to his wife and said secretly to her, “Blast! Of course we are the
first ones here. Everyone in this danged town is always late. They say it’s fashionable. Pshaw, I say.”
Mrs. Nose-in-the-air murmured, “Relax, darling. We will only be in town for a few more days.
Then we will be living in luxury with real aristocrats.”
Why do they want to leave so quickly?
“Matters! How are you?” Mr. Blythe addressed his guest.
“Fine, Jackson, just fine.”
“And Miss Natalie Matters. How is your daughter?” Mr. Blythe turned on the charm and kissed
the lady’s hand.
Natalie snatched her hand away, revolted, and wiped it on her husband coat was she laughed
nervously. “Quite” was all she said.
The couple waltzed off to the refreshment table, and Mr. Matters gorged on small crab cakes
and other finger-foods.