Mr. Samson was beginning to find Tredex City predictable—predictably deceitful, that is. Every gilded door opened onto a room filled with people pretending that wealth meant happiness, and every conversation circled back to the late Mr. Walter's crippling control. To a detective like Samson, control was the easiest thing in the world to break; it simply required applying pressure at the point of greatest resentment.
His focus now shifted to the younger orbit of the Walter household: Chris, the stepson, and Allen, the friend whose life was subsidized by the deceased. Samson arranged to meet the two young men in a neutral territory—a sleek, modern cafe downtown, a stark contrast to the gothic drama of the Walter Estate.
Chris and Allen sat across from him, a study in forced casualness. Chris was the polished veneer, Allen the anxious shadow. Allen, thin and prone to nervous fidgeting, carried the heavy weight of Mr. Walter's charity like a lead cloak.
"Gentlemen," Samson began, resting his left arm on the table and signaling for a black coffee. "Let us dispense with the formalities. Your patron, Mr. Walter, is dead. For you, Chris, that means a potential inheritance.
For you, Allen, that means a potential loss of tuition and housing. An honest man would admit that the death of a controlling benefactor is a profound double-edged sword."
Chris maintained his cool. "Mr. Walter was good to us, Mr. Samson. His death is a tragedy."
"Tragedy only for the person who has to pay the funeral bills," Samson retorted cheerfully. "For everyone else, it's merely a change of financial leadership. Tell me, Chris, you mentioned you and Allen were out late on the night of the 12th. Which club?"
Chris gave the name of an upscale venue. "We were out celebrating a potential business deal. We got back around 3:30 AM."
"A potential business deal," Samson mused, leaning forward. "Which, I gather, Mr. Walter was either funding, or actively preventing?"
Allen, unable to hold back, shifted in his seat. "He was preventing it. He kept saying our ideas were too 'risky' and 'untested.' He wanted us to work for him, for the Tredex Development Fund, on his terms."
Samson turned his full attention to Allen, whose loyalty was clearly the most fragile.
"Ah, the old promise of freedom versus the easy security of the benefactor's paycheck. Did Mr. Walter's generosity come with a price tag, Allen? Did he ask you to be an informant on Chris? To report back on his movements and ambitions?"
Allen stared at his coffee cup, his face turning slightly green. The silence stretched, thick and painful. Chris shot Allen a look of dangerous warning.
"He never asked me to do anything," Allen mumbled eventually.
"A lie, delivered with all the conviction of a man ordering a diet soda," Samson announced, pulling a crisp, white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing the corner of his eye in a gesture of mock distress. "Allen, your benefactor was a controller. He didn't just give money; he bought information. What did you tell Walter about Chris that night, or the night before? Did Chris, perhaps, have a secret meeting with Theodore? Or with someone else entirely?"
Chris intervened sharply. "Mr. Samson, Allen is simply nervous. He's grieving the loss of his scholarship."
"He's grieving the loss of his peace of mind," Samson corrected, waving a hand dismissively at Chris. "Tell me, Chris. The night you came home—3:30 AM. Did you walk past your mother's room? Did you see anyone leave the house? Perhaps a nervous gentleman hurrying away in the shadows?"
Chris shook his head firmly. "No one. I came in, went up the back stairs to avoid the housekeeper, and went straight to my room. I didn't see my mother or anyone else."
"The back stairs," Samson repeated, jotting a note. "A wise choice for a late return. But perhaps you neglected to mention one small detail. Did you, Chris, happen to see your friend Allen talking to Penelope earlier that evening? Away from Theodore's gaze?"
This time, it was Chris's turn to show alarm. His cool veneer finally cracked, revealing the panicked teenager beneath. "Why would I? Theodore and Penelope are engaged."
"Indeed. But Mr. Walter's control extended to every corner, didn't it? If Chris and Allen wanted Walter's approval for their business, perhaps they knew Walter would approve of a way to manipulate Theodore. Theodore is the emotional timebomb. Control the fiancée, control the son."
Samson looked from Chris to Allen, his eyes sharp and accusatory. "Allen, you are indebted to Walter. Chris, you are competing with Theodore. And Penelope is trapped between two brothers and a demanding father-figure. Did you, Allen, use your debt to Mr. Walter to gain access to Penelope? Were you running a message for Chris? Did you know she was also involved with Lorenzo?"
Allen looked utterly defeated. He mumbled something so low it was almost inaudible.
"Speak up, Allen," Samson commanded, dropping all pretense of humor.
"I saw her," Allen whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "I saw her with Lorenzo, two weeks ago. They were very close. I didn't tell Mr. Walter. I couldn't."
Samson nodded slowly, his face now completely serious. "A lie of omission. A very common weapon. Now, let's talk about the victim. How was Mr. Walter's mood in the days leading up to his death? Was he issuing threats? Making grand declarations? Was he demanding anyone produce his precious Founders Gala Sash for some private inspection?"
Chris leaned in, desperate to regain control of the narrative. "He was angry, Mr. Samson. Very angry about the Development Fund.
He was arguing with someone on the phone constantly. He had been reviewing his business documents, getting ready to make a major announcement at the Tredex Economic Summit—something that would make him look like a total genius and everyone else look small."
"Ah, the final, glorious act of narcissism," Samson sighed. "So, he was preparing to publicly humiliate his business rivals. Rivals, I wonder, who might include Mayor William? And in doing so, he would undoubtedly humiliate his son, Theodore, and perhaps even his stepson, Chris, by cutting them out of the new venture."
He looked at the two young men, who were now slumped in defeat, their youthful ambition curdled by the toxic legacy of Mr. Walter.
"Mr. Walter, I gather, was a man who enjoyed inflicting financial punishment," Samson concluded. "He was preparing to tighten the purse strings further, wasn't he? He was threatening to cut off Chris's funding, or Allen's scholarship, just to ensure absolute loyalty right before his big announcement."
Chris finally cracked. "He was! He told me he was reviewing the trust papers. He said I hadn't shown enough 'appreciation' for his generosity. He said if I didn't break things off with my mother's friend Lorenzo he knew about them, I don't know how he would cut me off completely."
Samson tapped the table rhythmically with his left index finger. "So, Chris, you had a motive born of financial fear. You had knowledge of your mother's affair. And you had a friend, Allen, who was too indebted and nervous to cover for you completely. This makes you a very strong suspect indeed."
He stood up, his height seeming to expand in the small cafe. "The motive is now clearer: it is money, control, and the preservation of one's future. The victim was a man who was preparing to deliver a final, public humiliation that would destroy the lives of half the people in his house."
He addressed Allen, his voice softening slightly, sensing the young man's genuine misery. "Allen, you need to think very carefully. You saw something that night, or you know something about Mr. Walter's movements, that you are afraid to share.
Think about who in that house had the courage to challenge Walter's pride, and the means to do it in the early hours of the morning."
Samson left them with that thought, striding out of the café and back onto the bustling street. He knew the pressure was mounting on the younger men. Chris's fear of financial ruin, coupled with the knowledge of his mother's secret, was a potent cocktail. But the gold-and-green thread still pointed to a struggle for a specific object of pride, and the lock on the study door was still an unanswered question.
"Every piece of gold in Tredex is tarnished," Samson muttered to himself, pulling out his phone to call Ms. Cynthia again. "And every secret lover has two or three side hustles. I need to meet Lorenzo. The man who sells 'comfort' is usually the one who knows where the bodies are buried."