Six foot six, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and blubbering like a three year old. He sat across from me, at my desk, in my office with his face buried in his huge hands. I stood and awkwardly patted his back for a minute, muttering the most comforting words I could muster.

"There, there" I said, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible. Under different circumstances, the situation would be quite funny. Me, a woman of a mere five foot five, trying to comfort this inconsolable heavy-weight champion! Finally after a few minutes he cleared his throat and rubbed his puffy red eyes.

"Sorry" He said in a gruff voice.

"No problem, It happens all the time." All the time? Oh well, a little white lie never hurt anyone.

"D-do you think you could h-help me?"

"I don't know just yet, Oliver. Is it okay I call you Oliver?"

"It is my name, isn't it, Ms. Heckott?" he questioned. I sighed, I could already tell he wasn't the ‘sharpest tool in the shed'. Though he wasn't unattractive. He looked somehow boyish and innocent. I glanced over his blonde curly hair, his worried blue eyes and well yeah, his bulging muscles. Steroids crossed my mind, but I mentally kicked myself for having such unprofessional thoughts.

"Yes, I was just asking to see whether you preferred ‘Oliver' or ‘Mr. Finnigan'. And please, call me Emily."

He thought for a minute. "Yeah, I like Oliver, Ms.- um, Emily."

"So, let me get the facts straight. Carmelia Finnigan, your Auntie is dead. You believe she was murdered?"

He nodded, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Not again!' I thought, fighting back a groan. I know, I should be more patient, but I had to already sit through a waterfall and it's not my job to comfort. Right, my job. I'm a detective, but I prefer the term ‘Private Investigator'. Yeah, I was born in the wrong era. I'd be much more comfortable in the fifties. I have a small office, with a view of a New York city street, great view if you like honking cars, yelling drivers and people always whistling for a cab. Aspirin's the most important thing in my office, fights off the permanent headache most New Yorkers deal with. I like to keep my office simple but elegant. I have a nice oak desk with my favourite books strewn all over it. I spend my time reading when I'm not on a case. Now that I think about it, I spend a lot of time reading. Not that I don't have work. People come every so often with simple robbery that the police didn't want to deal with or black mail, small stuff like that. I've never lost a case, though. And I have fifteen under my belt, so far. Which I think is pretty good considering I've been doing this for only two years. I'm twenty-three years old, with straight black hair to my waist. I wear it in a bun, though. I have green eyes which are quite round. I'm rather pale, I don't tan easily. I have high-cheek bones and wear a dark red lipstick. I think that gives a pretty good idea of how I look. I like to think I'm fashionable, but I dress a little oddly. Right now I'm wearing a long grey sweater and leggings. I have crimson shoes on, to match my lips, and I think I look alright. Oliver does too, by the looks of it. He's been eyeing me for the whole interview. Well, when he wasn't crying.

I pull out my notebook and jot down what I've learned so far, ‘Woman dead, police write it off as suicide, client doesn't believe victim would kill herself, wants me to look into it.'

"How did she die, Oliver?"

"Poison."

"In what form?"

"She got in a car accident last year. She broke her hip and busted her knee. She has to, I mean... had to take pain killers. She was found at her table, with her meds in one hand and her water in the other. There was a suicide note, I brought it."

"The handwriting matched?"

"Yeah, they sent it to the lab and said that it was definitely her writing. But they're so busy, they just left it at that."

"What makes you believe it wasn't a suicide?"

"I just know she wouldn't do something like that. We were very close, my parents died when I was nine, and she raised me." He blinked back tears.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I-" His voice cracked and he wiped his eyes. Clearing his throat he tried again.

"I know she wouldn't do that. She just wouldn't! Will you help me?"

"I can try."

"Oh thank you! I can pay whatever you like!"

I bit my lip greedily, I was getting a little short on money.

"How much would you be willing to pay?"

"Any price, I'm not at all poor. When my parents died, they left me a huge fortune, so did my auntie and I work, so I make a lot of money, too."

"What do you do?"

He puffed his massive chest out proudly. "I'm a wrestler."

I choked back a laugh. That explains all the muscle.

"Okay, let me see the note."

He pulled the note out a plastic baggie from his back pocket. It was written on cream coloured stationery in fancy, curly writing. I read through it quickly, didn't say much. ‘I can't take it anymore! I'm ending it. My will is in my left dresser drawer.' On impulse I smelled it. Just as I thought, it had been sprayed with perfume. A light fruity fragrance. I quite liked it.

"Do you know what kind of perfume she wore?" I was preparing to make a mental note of the name so I could pick up a bottle after work. I had caught him off guard, he wasn't expecting that.

"Uh, yeah, she always wore musk. For as long as I remember, only musk."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Some people just like different things, I guess. Take me for example, I'm the only person I know who eats peanut-butter and tomato sandwiches. On Rye, of course. No other bread will do."

"No, I didn't mean that. She would never wear anything fruity smelling?"

"Oh, no. She hated those scents. She always said," he put on a shrill, scratchy voice, "Fruit is for eating, not for wearing." He went red when he realized he just mimicked his poor old aunt. I coughed to cover my laugh.

"So it would be very unlike her to use this scent on a note?" I handed him the note. Smelling it he told me,

"She would never wear anything like this! Why didn't the cops think of this?" He was obviously impressed and I smiled smugly.

"Sometimes the cops just miss out. It's no big deal." I added, trying to regain some of my modesty, if there ever was any. It's one of my downfalls, I'm quite prideful and vain. But I have no problem admitting it. Hey, we all have our shortcomings.

"You wouldn't happen to have any other notes she's written you, would you?"

"I don't know, I'll check." He pulled out his wallet and searched around for a bit till finally handing over a folded up, crinkled paper. I flattened it out and read it over. ‘Oliver, [it read] please pick-up more of my note paper. I only have one more piece after this. Love Auntie C.

"This was the last note I got from her. She left it on the door a couple hours before she..." Deep breath, "Before she d-died. It was Last Friday. She always goes out for dinner on Friday with her friend, Tansy Parlington. I was at the gym and I found it when I got back. She always leaves notes. For me, or the maids, or someone." While he talked I compared the two notes. The suicide note was on much different looking paper once you looked closely. It wasn't as thick as the other, or as creamy looking. It looked downright cheap next to the Friday note.

"Did you ever get a chance to pick up her note paper?"

"I did, but I couldn't get it to her. I have it here." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a delicately wrapped little parcel. It had ‘C.F.' written on it in thin wavy print.

"Is this note paper made specifically for her?" I asked.

"Yeah, she has it custom made, she hates to think she has the same thing as someone else."

"Do you mind if I open it?"

"No, not at all. Not much use to her now, I suppose."

There was a string wrapped around the package and as I tried to untie the knot I absently hummed to myself. Halfway through the song Oliver cleared his throat and I glanced up at him. I wondered what he was looking at me like that for, I went beet red as I realized I was humming the tune to ‘Michael Finnigan'.

I fell silent and focused on opening the parcel. Finally I got the knot undone and unwrapped the surrounding paper. I laid a piece next to the other two and noticed that there was a light outline of Carmelia's initials on the blank. I held the other two up to the light and saw the same initials on the Friday note but not on the suicide note.

 I was shaken out of my thoughts by Oliver suddenly standing up. Clearing his throat he said, "I really have to get back to the gym. Should I come back here at the same time tomorrow?" I shook my head. "No, I'll just meet you at Carme- well, your house at one. So I can have a look around. Is that okay with you?" He nodded. "Good." I continued, "Could you give me your address?" He riffled around in his pockets for a pen for a moment then pulled out a silver ball-point. He glanced around for something to write on and leaned over my desk to jot down his address on a sticky note. No, not just any sticky note! Quickly I snatched the suicide note out of the way. Realizing what he had almost done, he apologized sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't think." I opened my mouth to reply, but sighed instead and didn't say rude "Do you ever?" remark that I had planned to. "Here," I said in a kinder tone, "write it on this." After giving me his address, he managed to get his big, bulky form across my small office and out the narrow door without upsetting anything. Which, to tell you the truth, was a surprise.

 I sat back and tried to fit the different clues together. The papers didn't match, the handwriting was hers but the perfume was not. "This isn't getting me very far." I thought. Something was wrong, I could feel it. I'll often get gut feelings about things and this time was It was deep. I just knew, somehow that Mrs. Carmelia Finnigan hadn't committed suicide. She was murdered.

Keyword: Am Emily Heckott Mystery: The Sticky-Note Murder

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Comments (3)

Posted by chaabuk 2008-08-01 02:07:49 Whodunit This is kinda - whodunit. I like it absolutely. The aunt's suspected murder and the nephew's hunt for the murderer through clues and the letters. This is interesting. + Report this comment
Posted by lemon 2008-08-01 17:36:52 .... I wasn't able to make it all the way through. I stopped when he 'stuck out his chest and said he was a wrestler'. This sounds WAY too much like a childrens book, which theres nothing wrong with, but a murder mystery isn't exactly childrens book appropriate. + Report this comment
Posted by Willowtree123 2008-08-10 19:20:17 .... Thanks for your comments, chaabuk and lemon. Hopefully I'll get around to writing more, but I still don't know what's gonna happen next. Lemon, sorry you couldn't make it all the way through. It's not surprising I sound childish, I still am one. Maybe as I get older my writing will mature. Thanks for trying! + Report this comment

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