The drawing-room of the Walter Estate was built to impress, not to mourn. It was a huge, silent space of ivory and gold, filled with priceless old furniture that seemed to judge the living. A new, very expensive, and heavily scented bouquet of lilies sat on a marble stand, making the air feel thick and dead.
Mr. Samson looked around the room with a dramatic sigh, pulling a lint roller from his pocket and slowly cleaning his tweed jacket a clear, humorous delay.
"Ms. Cynthia," he whispered, still looking at a very stern-looking porcelain shepherdess. "You always question a dead man's taste when his sad family chooses such a sharp-looking vase. It suggests deep anger, doesn't it? Either that, or someone just truly hates flowers."
Ms. Cynthia, sitting quietly with her notepad, gave a brief, practical answer. "The housekeeper insists Mr. Walter chose all the house décor himself, Mr. Samson."
"Ah, the typical bossy man, trying to control both the look of the place and everyone's feelings," Samson concluded, nodding wisely. "It always happens that way. Now, let's meet the last person the victim saw. The widow."
Mrs. Walter, Eleanor, walked in with the slow, practiced movements of a woman used to being watched. As people said, she was much younger than her late husband. She wore dark purple mourning clothes that somehow made her pale skin and striking blonde hair stand out. Her sadness was perfectly shown—in the slight slump of her shoulders, the lowered chin—but her eyes, large and a striking pale blue, were hard and dry. They showed intense self-awareness, not pain.
Samson waited until she sat down on a velvet sofa, treating the silence like the start of a show.
"Mrs. Walter," Samson began, bowing a little lower than necessary. "I apologize for interrupting your private sadness. However, as an odd private detective, I have found that sadness, when gently discussed, often shows amazing truths. Tell me, what was your husband, Mr. Walter, like underneath all the Tredex City praise?"
Eleanor's voice was soft, musical, and well-rehearsed. "He was generous. Driven. He built a great career here, Mr. Samson. He gave me everything."
"Everything but maybe his full attention?" Samson pushed gently. "A man of his importance, Mayor William said, was often late. Long nights in the city, long nights in his study. That must have made the magnificent rooms of this house feel quite empty."
The woman paused, her pale fingers tracing the velvet of the sofa. "We understood the situation. His work was demanding. But he always... he always had high demands for our private life too." She stopped, a troubled look crossing her face, then quickly brightened up. "But I had my own things going on, of course. My social group. Close friends."
"Close friends," Samson repeated, making a note with his left hand that looked less like writing and more like drawing a quick, secret symbol. "Such as a Mr. Lorenzo? A friend who valued your company when Mr. Walter was busy?"
The subtle, sharp question hit its mark. Eleanor's calm broke for a moment. Her nostrils flared, but she quickly recovered, smoothing her skirt.
"Mr. Lorenzo is a good family friend. He often gives... comfort to the city's most important ladies when they are under stress. He was simply doing his civic duty, Mr. Samson. Nothing more."
"Of course. Civic duty often includes late-night talks and whispered advice," Samson agreed, not pushing the matter for now. He knew the smell of a lie, and Eleanor Walter wore it like a faint, expensive perfume. He stood and gave a quick, sharp salute to end the talk. "Thank you for being honest, Mrs. Walter. I will return to your close friends later. For now, I must speak to the son who remains. Theodore."
The change between interviews was jarring. While Eleanor was ice, Theodore Walter, the firstborn, was fire—all stress and boiling anger. He was a tall man, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat. He wore a thick, silk tie that looked like it was trying to strangle him.
He barely waited for Samson to sit before starting a bitter outburst.
"He deserved a better way to die, I guess," Theodore spat, his voice sharp with a strange mix of respect and hatred. "But don't mistake my feelings for sorrow. My father was a vulture, Mr. Samson. He made a joke of my life."
"Ah, the classic unhappy son," Samson noted, leaning back, his dark eyes sparkling with a dramatic appreciation for the anger. "Please tell me, how did such an honored man manage to let down his only natural-born son so badly?"
"My company. My investments," Theodore replied, his hands turning into fists. "He stopped funding my tech startup five years ago, calling it 'child's play.' He forced me to work for him—his empire. And he enjoyed showing off my lack of success to the whole city. Especially in front of Chris."
Theodore said his stepbrother's name with the practiced poison of a man who thought about the hatred every night.
"Chris is Eleanor's son," Samson stated, checking his notepad.
"Chris is the golden boy!" Theodore snarled. "My father hated me, but he loved showing Chris off. Sent him to the best schools, paid for his friend Allen's tuition—anything to shame his own flesh and blood. Walter used his money to buy people's loyalty, and he loved proving that he could buy my stepbrother's devotion more easily than he could earn mine."
"Did you, Theodore, ever feel like, let's say, pushing the vulture off his perch?" Samson asked with a gentle honesty that made Ms. Cynthia sharply draw a breath.
Theodore laughed—a harsh, barking sound. "Every day, detective. But I'm a coward. And I needed him alive. He still controlled the main trust fund. If he died naturally, I get enough to start over. If I killed him, I get a jail cell."
Samson let the statement hang, his eyes drifting from Theodore's angry face to the dark, ill-fitting suit he wore. The movement was deliberate, checking the person for any strange details.
"The Founders Gala," Samson quickly changed the subject. "Your father was the 'Most Honored Man.' Did that award come with any particularly showy decorations?"
Theodore rolled his eyes. "Oh, the whole annoying show. A huge, heavy medal. And the sash. He insisted on wearing the sash. Every year. He was obsessed with that award."
Samson's left hand slowly and dramatically reached into his inner pocket and took out the small clear envelope containing the gold-and-green thread. He placed it right on the fancy coffee table between them.
"This, Theodore, was found near where your father fell. Tell me, does it look familiar?"
Theodore looked at the tiny thread, his eyes narrowing. "Yes. I told you. It's the stitching from the Tredex Founders Gala sash. Cheap, sparkling gold thread on a silly, faded green velvet. They re-stitch it every year. He kept the sash in his study, sealed in glass, but he took it out recently. He made me carry it once, when he was too drunk to handle it. That is his little vanity project."
Samson's lips curved into a slight, pleased smile. The first piece of the puzzle was in place. The thread wasn't from a servant's uniform or normal clothes; it was a special symbol of Mr. Walter's public honor, something he treasured and kept close. For that small, specific piece of his pride to be violently torn off near the spot he died meant that someone had been very close to that sash, or perhaps, Mr. Walter had been wearing it. The fall, in silk pajamas, was starting to look more like a staged event meant to hide a fight over the symbol of his power.
Chris, the stepson, arrived moments after Theodore left. He was the opposite of the biological son: polished, handsome, and perfectly dressed in casual, but very costly, clothes. His grief was controlled—a quiet sadness that seemed real, if not deep.
"Mr. Walter was the only father I ever truly respected," Chris said sincerely, looking right into Samson's eyes. "He took me in, guided me. My mother… she was lucky to have him."
"And you were lucky to have his support," Samson noted plainly. "Tell me about what you were doing, Chris, in the early hours of July 13th."
"I was out with my friend, Allen. We were at a club downtown. We came home late—very late. Probably around 3:30 AM. My mother was asleep, and I didn't see Mr. Walter. I went straight to my room."
"Allen. The friend whose tuition Mr. Walter generously paid for," Samson noted. "A complicated kind of generosity, wouldn't you agree? Buying loyalty from your wife's son and his friends must have been very satisfying for Mr. Walter."
Chris's smile didn't fade, but his jaw tightened almost unnoticeably. "He was simply helping us, Mr. Samson. Allen and I are studying business. He believed in our future."
Samson leaned forward, resting his chin on his left hand. "Did Mr. Walter approve of your other friends? Your mother's friend, Lorenzo, for example?"
Chris paused, his eyes looking away for the first time. "Lorenzo... he's a family friend. That's all."
"And Ms. Penelope, Theodore's fiancée. Is she a friend of yours too?"
"Of course," Chris replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "We're all family, or soon will be."
Samson stood up suddenly, looking down at the sitting Chris. He pulled out a crumpled note from his pocket—a deliberate trick—and held it in his left hand, forcing Chris's eye to follow the odd movement.
"When you walked up that grand staircase last night, Chris," Samson said, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone, "did you happen to see if the sash of the Most Honored Man was still safe in the wall case, or if it had been taken out, maybe to be worn for a night of private celebration?"
Chris swallowed hard. His practiced calm broke for a second. "I… I wouldn't know, sir. It was too dark. I didn't pay attention."
"A busy night," Samson concluded, adjusting his jacket. "Too busy, perhaps, to notice if your 'true father' was about to be pushed down the stairs for his control, his money, or his pride."
Samson left the estate, his left hand lightly playing with the clear envelope. Three suspects, three layers of lies. Eleanor was protecting a lover, Theodore was protecting his inheritance, and Chris was protecting a carefully built image of loyalty.
The gold-and-green thread, the symbol of Mr. Walter's public honor, was the key. It was a token that only the inner circle of Tredex's elite knew about, and it had been violently ripped away. The murder, Samson realized, wasn't just about money or sex. It was about tearing away Mr. Walter's pride itself.
The gilded cage is beautiful, Samson thought, but the bars are made of lies, and the only escape is murder.