With my back against the wall: Indigo; Clueplot

[charade]

The den was trashed. Trashed like a frat party after pledge week, or so Indigo imagined. He wasn’t invited to frat parties. He was also alone. So he attempted to copy the statues pose once more. He thought he was fairly close this time. Indigo sighed. He chalked it up to shock more than anything else, but Violet had been impossible. True, he was bleeding from his forehead and there was going to one hell of a bruise, but he really didn’t require ice for it. Not now.

“Violet, no, Violet really, we should stay togeth—“

But she hadn’t listened and had left to get him ice for the abuse his face had suffered. He’d almost followed her but his head was starting to pound and he’d needed to sit down before he blacked out. Indigo sighed and leaned up against the back wall. Even with the lights out, he could see the doorway from where he was, and not just that, but a one-eighty view of the entire room. If anyone came into the room, from the door or from behind a hidden panel, he’d see them and have a minute or two to react.

Unless of course, the secret panel was in the wall behind him. But in that case, he’d feel it opening and then he’d bash the killer over the head with the dictionary in his hand, because who else would be popping out of the wall? Indigo looked down at his shoes. He’d been able to stop crying a while ago and the horror of it all was hardening into resolve. Someone so full of life like Whitney shouldn’t have died like that.

None of them should have.

Indigo knew he was nothing special compared to the rest of them. He was no hero, and not brave enough to be a martyr. He did not have it in him to execute someone, nor could rescue someone like an angel from on high. Above average intelligence, weed and social awkwardness in one lanky package. He’d accepted his invitation on a lark, hoping to make friends and prove to himself that he was a genius. But with nearly half the occupants of the house deceased or likely deceased, he was feeling pretty dumb. But at the very least, he now had something to fight for.

Whitney had accepted him for who he was. She’d stayed true to herself right to the end. If nothing else, he had to live to see that the killer was dealt with, that the killer had made a mistake in killing her instead of him. He opened and closed the book in his hands, the darkness making it impossible to see the definitions. How to define a murderer? Every person was the sum of their actions. He’d told Whitney that. So who did Malcolm, Blaine, Whitney and potentially Adam equal?

Coralie had killed Poppy and Amrin in a fright and fled. But did that mean she had killed the others as well? The rich girl. Indigo sucked at his teeth. For such a peach he would have thought she would have been more charming. But her personality was vile and Indigo didn’t think she could manipulate her way out of a paper bag. Could she have playfully booped him on the nose? He didn’t think so. People like him were beneath her, hell, she’d mistaken him for a waiter at the first meal.

No, she wouldn’t have stroked his shoulder. Kicked him in the groin perhaps.

The dictionary closed.

Then there was Beryl. The green-eyed monster. Possibly the only one in the house richer than Coralie. He certainly acted like it. Beryl didn’t care about anyone other than himself, that much was easy to see, but he was also the squeamish sort. Indigo couldn’t picture him hefting a hammer and driving the nail into Whitney’s hand.

Adrien, slowly rusting away under a name he never wanted. Indigo banished the thought immediately. Adrien had been in front of him and he’d been cracked in the back of the head before being taken to the secret room. Adrien was the only one he could leave off the list of suspects completely.

Well, him and Violet. She’d have to be one hell of a magician to teleport across the room to free him after murdering Whitney. Of course, there could another passage that allowed it, but that had been real anguish on her face when she saw the body. Not her either then. The gears in his head turned to the next suspect.

Harvey, the gray, neutral one. Not doing enough to stand out but not trailing the pack either. Always in the middle, keeping his head down. It was a good place to be, because from the middle you could see the top and the bottom. If there any of them Indigo could see knowing their way around a hammer, it would be him. But the playfulness, the desire to make him watch? Harvey was not a showman.

There was a showwoman though.

Fiora, a rose in a garden full of weeds. She’d leapt at the chance to solve this mystery, much like him. The saying went that the murderer always returned to the scene of the crime, and she’d wanted to check over Malcolm. But to find clues or to hide them? Hmm. But she’d always been in the middle of things, making friends, watching. Indigo chuckled darkly. If it only it was as simple as finding one of her cards in a place that it shouldn’t be. But did the girl who claimed to be able to talk to ghosts have the capacity to kill? And keep killing?

There was only one proven killer. And his train of thought circled back to Coralie. Was he overthinking this? Was it the obvious answer? Indigo opened the book and stared at the pages he couldn’t read. Perhaps killers weren’t always what they seemed, but sometimes they were exactly what you’d expect. He’d been expecting that the killer would fake their death to be able to move around with impunity, to cast suspicion on the innocent. But what if he was wrong? What if the killer truly was the one person who had been witnessed committing murder? What better place to hide than in plain sight?

Indigo closed the book again and listened to the silence pervading the mansion, now a mausoleum. There was a vital clue that was missing. Just one, he could feel it. One clue and he’d crack the entire thing wide open. Cross all the suspects off the list but one. No more guessing. No more uncertainty. He opened the dictionary. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.

And the truth was that Indigo no longer believed he could solve this in time to save everyone who was left.

The book snapped shut.