The Tredex Municipal Building, in the harsh afternoon light, looked less like a seat of power and more like a carefully maintained theatrical prop. Mr. Samson returned there, having dismissed his earlier ride, preferring the peculiar observations available only on foot. He found Ms. Cynthia back at her post, her concentration on a stack of files so absolute it was almost a physical barrier. Mayor William was nowhere to be seen a calculated absence, Samson suspected.
"Ms. Cynthia," Samson announced, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe of the Mayor's outer office, his posture conveying a perfect blend of casualness and unnerving focus. "I'm developing a profound respect for the resilience of Tredex City's elite. They manage to hold their secrets together with nothing but expensive tailoring and sheer, unadulterated fear."
Ms. Cynthia lifted her head, her expression remaining perfectly neutral. "The people you interviewed are merely protecting their privacy, Mr. Samson. The death of a public figure is a complicated affair."
"Complicated, yes. But ultimately, always simple," Samson countered, strolling toward her desk. He pulled up a small, ornamental chair and sat opposite her, giving her his full, intense attention. "The question is not 'who hated Mr. Walter?'—the answer, I suspect, is most of Tredex. The question is 'who hated Mr. Walter enough to risk his own honor and freedom?'"
Samson placed the glassine envelope containing the gold-and-green sash thread directly onto the spotless mahogany desk. "This thread, Ms. Cynthia, is from the sash of the Most Honored Man. It was forcibly torn off near the body. This wasn't a random slip. It was a close-quarters confrontation, likely involving the man's cherished symbol of status. Who would know Walter's devotion to that ridiculous sash better than Mayor William, the man who handed it to him every year?"
Ms. Cynthia finally lowered her pen. "Mr. Walter and the Mayor were business associates, not intimate friends. Mr. Walter held a significant share in the Tredex City Development Fund—a fund the Mayor champions. Their relationship was mutually beneficial, not personal."
"Mutually beneficial until it wasn't," Samson murmured, his eyes scanning the impeccable organization of her desk. "Did Walter have a means to ruin the Mayor? Perhaps a ledger, a record of an illicit deal? Something that Mayor William needed silenced?"
"The Mayor's records are transparent," she said coolly.
"Oh, I believe that," Samson agreed with a conspiratorial wink. "Transparently incomplete. Politicians always keep a secondary ledger, tucked away in the mind of their most trusted lieutenant. And that, Ms. Cynthia, is where you come in."
He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "I saw the photograph in the Walter house—Walter shaking the Mayor's hand. William looked subservient. A pillar of the community shouldn't make the city's leader look small. That tells me Walter held a powerful leash on your boss. What was it? Zoning? Kickbacks? A piece of the Development Fund that was... questionable?"
Ms. Cynthia maintained her composure, but the pressure was visibly getting to her. "I am loyal to Mayor William. I manage his legitimate affairs."
"Legitimate affairs," Samson repeated, standing and beginning to pace the small office, circling her. "Let us talk about an affair that is anything but legitimate: the affair between Mrs. Walter and Lorenzo. Mayor William knew about it, didn't he? It's the kind of salacious information the city elite shares over expensive whiskey. Did Walter threaten to use that, or another piece of scandalous information, against the Mayor to leverage a business deal?"
She finally broke her silence, but only slightly. "The Mayor was aware of the unfortunate situation in the Walter household. He certainly didn't approve of Mr. Walter's heavy-handed control over his family, or his business partners."
"Heavy-handed control," Samson sighed dramatically. "The common denominator in the entire Walter family dynamic. And that brings us neatly to the next circle of influence: the young, the hopeful, and the deeply indebted. Specifically, Ms. Penelope."
Samson used Ms. Cynthia's contacts to arrange an 'impromptu' meeting with Ms. Penelope, Theodore's fiancée. He found her not at the Walter Estate, but at a quiet, overly ornate coffee shop known to cater to Tredex City's discreetly wealthy.
Penelope was delicate, dressed in shades of expensive cream and pale pink, but her hands shook slightly as she stirred her tea. She had a nervous energy that Theodore, for all his rage, lacked.
Samson opened the conversation with characteristic disarming absurdity. "Ms. Penelope, thank you for meeting. I must tell you, I have an allergy to pastries, and I only mention it because being near this many croissants makes my left ear itch. A peculiar affliction, but it keeps me sharp."
Penelope offered a weak, nervous smile. "I heard you were... unconventional, Mr. Samson."
"Unconventionality is merely seeing the obvious from an angle no one else bothers to look at," he replied. "You were engaged to Theodore. Mr. Walter, I gather, did not approve of your match entirely."
"He tolerated me," Penelope admitted, looking down at her cup. "He saw me as... part of Theodore's 'rehabilitation.' He wanted Theodore to settle down, to present a good image. I was a tool for his control."
"Control again," Samson noted on his pad. "But you must have loved Theodore to subject yourself to Walter's disapproval."
She looked up, and for the first time, Samson saw genuine, deep-seated fear in her eyes. "I love Theodore. But Walter made it very clear that Theodore would never receive his full inheritance, or even a decent living allowance, unless he followed Walter's exact instructions and that included marrying someone Walter deemed suitable."
"The golden cage," Samson said. "A classic motivation for murder, Ms. Penelope. The desire for freedom and funds."
He paused, letting the fear build. "Let's discuss the other member of your circle of acquaintance. Mr. Lorenzo. I understand he has been offering emotional support to Mrs. Walter, the widow."
Penelope's breath hitched. She looked pale. "Lorenzo is a friend to many in Tredex. He is charming."
"He is charming," Samson agreed, his tone suddenly dropping to a low, intense warning. "And he is also deeply entangled. Mrs. Walter's secret lover. But is he only Mrs. Walter's secret lover, Penelope? Or does Mr. Lorenzo, like a truly efficient professional, double-book his assignments and offer comfort to the distressed fiancée as well?"
Penelope's composure collapsed. Her shaking hand knocked over her tea, sending a small, dark stain spreading across the white linen tablecloth. She reached out with a napkin, her movements frantic.
"It was nothing!" she whispered fiercely, eyes darting around the cafe. "A mistake! A moment of weakness when Theodore was drinking too much and Mr. Walter was too cruel. Lorenzo... he just listened. He understood."
"He understood the vulnerabilities of the Walter family very well," Samson concluded, nodding slowly. "He had access to the wife, the son's fiancée, and a clear view of the deep pockets and the deeper resentments in that house. Did he also understand that if Mr. Walter were to die suddenly, his access to both women—and the subsequent financial settlements—would be vastly improved?"
He let the accusation hang in the air, watching her terrified reaction. He knew she hadn't killed Walter herself; she was too scattered, too fragile. But she was a shield, a witness, or perhaps an unwitting accomplice.
"Tell me, Penelope," Samson said, rising and handing her a clean napkin with a gesture of odd, old-world politeness. "Did you ever see Mr. Walter wear that sash? The one with the cheap, glittering gold thread? Did he ever take it out of its case for a bit of private, late-night vanity?"
Penelope, still trembling, shook her head vehemently. "No! That was his 'trophy.' He kept it locked in his study, like an artifact. He only wore it at the ceremony."
"Locked," Samson repeated, making a note. "A detail Theodore failed to mention."
He looked back at the tear on the tablecloth, at the dark stain slowly spreading. The stain was the lie, and the linen was Penelope's nervous composure. She was trying to mop up a stain that was already too large.
"Thank you, Ms. Penelope," Samson said, retrieving his glassine envelope. "You have confirmed my suspicions. The love triangle is less of a distraction, and more of a central theme. The money, the passion, and the power—they are all woven together, like that tawdry gold thread."
Back on the street, Samson paused by a public phone, his left hand idly tracing the pattern of the gold-and-green thread through the glass.
The clue now had a history: the Founders Gala sash, a symbol of Mr. Walter's pride, kept under lock and key, but clearly accessed and damaged during the final confrontation. Theodore said it was locked away; Penelope was terrified and distracted, but claimed it was locked. Yet, the thread was at the foot of the stairs. This meant the confrontation happened not in the study, but in the hall, and the object of Mr. Walter's pride was somehow involved.
He used the phone to call Ms. Cynthia.
"Ms. Cynthia, I need to know about Mayor William's whereabouts on the night of July 12th," Samson instructed. "And I need a detailed inventory of Mr. Walter's study—specifically, the lock on the display case for the Founders Sash."
His voice was calm, but his mind was running. The Mayor was clearly involved in the financial side, and now Lorenzo and Penelope were clearly involved in the emotional side. The killer had to be someone who could successfully navigate both the political and the domestic landscape of the Walter Estate, and someone who would know the exact significance of ripping away Mr. Walter's treasured symbol of honor.
"This case is beginning to smell less like a standard murder," Samson muttered to himself, hanging up the phone, "and more like a very bad Shakespearean play, acted out by greedy amateurs."