The Excelsior

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PeachFreak
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Post by PeachFreak » Thu Sep 02, 2010 11:20 pm

"To tell you the truth, hon, I can't even remember when it all began. It feels like such a long time ago," Cheryl smiled weakly, still shaken from the night's events. "I must be getting old....They were in love. They say opposites attract, don't they? She was such a nice woman...a tad emotional about things at times, but all mothers are...usually. God knows it wasn't money that brought them together. Stanford didn't get that over night, you know. Not that Helen would care if he were poor...At least I didn't think so...You know, Nan loved that woman. Every girl has that aunt she tells things mom can't hear. Lord knows what sorts of secrets Helen knew about that daughter of mine."

Cheryl seemed to realize she had been rambling and simpered.

(Cue bar lounge.)
"Like my daddy always says, give me a good neuromuscular poison any day."

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Post by Adam106 » Fri Sep 03, 2010 8:51 am

"Ah, Stanford's wife was indeed a curious creature," said Colonel Northover and limply joined them, hopping his bit bottom onto the nearest barstool. "I remember sometimes Stan and I had done fishing, he'd invite me over for a drink or two and she stared at me with the most bizarre eyes. And the way she snuck about that house, she was like a...like a...sinister...cat? Yes."

He shuffled in his seat before continuing, "The day Stan and I played chess all afternoon, she looked very enraged. We wouldn't go to dinner, you see, so she ignored us both for the rest of the weekend."

"Scotch please," he asked of the bartender. He took it and leaned in towards the other's, "It was a big shock when I'd heard she'd killed herself. Hanged herself, no less. Oh, it was awful. Truly awful. I really can't see who would want to kill her, if that's what Stan's now suggesting. It doesn't make sense. Sure, the woman was batty but she was harmless, really. It really doesn't make sense."

He shook his head solemnly before swigging down his scotch. "No, it doesn't make sense at all," he whispered.

[Cue lounge guests/fellow drinkers]

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Lord Caspen
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DAY ONE ... Continued

Post by Lord Caspen » Sat Sep 04, 2010 2:53 am

Caroline Sheridan had arranged the early morning closures of the outbuildings, and begun work planning the evacuation itself. The phones were all wired to an automated system that would gently ring every occupied room between 6.30 and 7.30 in the morning. The guests would receive a recorded message with the pertinent information and by 8.30 the first buses should be leaving the main house bound for the Visitor Center. From there, the Parks people would be able to get them down the mountain.

This was an unusually brisk winter season; at 927 guests, the resort was operating at 85% capacity. Then there was the resident staff, a total of 260. That made 1187 people, leaving the hotel in three buses, with a maximum capacity of 54 passengers for each bus. She worked it out. Seven trips down the mountain. Assuming a half hour each way, starting at 8.30, they wouldn't be fully evacuated until 3.30 in the afternoon, and of course these things never worked out that easily. At least the snow was supposed to hold out until noon. She would have to keep the main dining room and the kitchen open, or there would be a riot about one o'clock.

Safety. Fortunately, that was the key watchword with which she'd drilled all her employees, because that's what would matter most come the morning. Keeping the peace, keeping the sanity, keeping everyone moving, and above all, safety.

[cue Excelsior]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Post by CluedoKid » Sat Sep 04, 2010 11:40 pm

Drunk. Mark thought. I'm drunk, again.

Clearly he was. The ceiling swayed sickly as he groggily opened his eyes. He turned over, barely thinking about the mess he was. He was stilled dressed in his suit, which by now was a swarthy bundle. His mind was trying to replay the events earlier when that fairy was singing. Was he a comedian? He couldn't have been a serious performer.

And finally his mind turned to Stanford.

It's over ain't it? C'mon Mark, your smarter than that. Think things through before wrecking what was left of the biggest partnership you've seen in your whole no-good wasted life. Will Stanford forgive me for speaking my mind? Rationally, he should...but...nahhhh...he won't.

And back to sleep he went.

(Cue Excelsior)
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Lord Caspen
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DAY ONE ... Drawing to a Close

Post by Lord Caspen » Sat Sep 04, 2010 11:56 pm

Five cafes, including the Palm Court, were in operation all day long on the ground floor of the Excelsior, in addition to the Lakehouse restaurant, and, during the summer season, the Dairy at the east end of the resort. The cafes were mostly of a bistro variety, a fare which included big Cobb salads, hot pastrami sandwiches dripping with savory sauce, beef stews and thick tomato soup, and pie or cobbler for dessert: apple, pear, peach, plum, sweet potato, and chocolate caramel. The Palm Court was more refined: lobster bisque and vichyssoise, spring greens, crisp fish fillet, and heart-of-palm salads, with eclairs and sorbet desserts. One of the cafes was exclusively vegetarian. Three times a day the penthouse restaurant, which occupied most of the eleventh floor, opened for breakfast, lunch, and two-options for a seven-course dinner.

Tonight's A Menu ran thus:

FIRST. Mushroom Terrine with Truffle Vinaigrette
SECOND. Mock Turtle Soup
THIRD. Escargot Salad over Baby Greens
FOURTH. Angelhair Pasta with Garlic and Basil
FIFTH. Ahi Tuna on Avocado and Green Pepper Sauce
SIXTH. Rack of Venison with a Cherry Port Wine Sauce
SEVENTH. Baked Alaska

And the B Menu:

FIRST. Gorgonzola Polenta
SECOND. Wild Mushroom Soup
THIRD. Northwest Wild Greens
FOURTH. Lemon Sorbet
FIFTH. Chicken Amore
SIXTH. Salmon de Provence
SEVENTH. Macadamia Cups


Most of Stanford Pryce's guests tucked in there, with plenty of scotches and martinis and Sex-on-the-Beaches to wash it all down. The meal was also spiced liberally with gossip.

A few guests ate by themselves in the odd cafe -- Mark, of course, slept -- while Leverage took a Reuben sandwich on a tray in his room.

[OOC: To be continued]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Lord Caspen
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DAY ONE ... Drawing to a Close

Post by Lord Caspen » Sun Sep 05, 2010 12:29 am

After dinner, there was coffee. There were strolls through the English gardens, now lit against the wild darkness by elegant streetlamps. A few guests circumnavigated the hotel along the veranda, couples arm in arm. The temperature had fallen off sharply since the afternoon. The breeze was bitter, in fact, and persistent.

The Pryce party however was not feeling social. They idled, and they itched inside their fancy clothes. Would they leave in the morning? What would Stanford Pryce do to them if they did? Anything? Was he resigned? What game was he playing? Some drifted into the library, some the games room, a few found themselves in the theater, watching the original Poseidon Adventure, but even with books out, nobody read, with cards on the table no one could focus on making their bids, and the acting prowess of Gene Hackman and Shelly Winters and their struggle against all odds to escape the bowels of a luxury liner could not hold their attention.

Helen Pryce ... murdered? It didn't seem real -- suddenly nothing about this vacation seemed quite real.

And then at last the dining staff gently herded guests back to the elevator while busers finished the tables and a maid unwound the vacuum flex cord. Another maid locked the doors of the emptied theater. The fire was extinguished in the Great Parlor and the doors closed and locked.

The great hotel was winding swiftly down, and guests who had not already retired were finally laying themselves down, except for the odd straggler. The hotel was a maze of corridors, with cozy, armchaired nooks in the odd corner here and there, and the library was left open all night long.

Most, however, were ready for sleep, and even the staff was turning in. The twelve-foot grandfather clock in the lobby struck midnight.


[OOC: Please, everyone (except Mark) post once for each character, showing where they are at this time. Most are probably asleep, but they might have wandered outside, or they could be in the lobby or the library, or a random nook. If you have some other idea, post it, but these are the primary places. PLEASE NOTE: this is when the first victim will get it, so between midnight and one o'clock, your characters should each be completely alone. When all the nighttime posts are done, I will PM the victim's player, and then there will be one more post for that person's death.]

[cue Excelsior]
Last edited by Lord Caspen on Sun Sep 05, 2010 1:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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DAY ONE ... Bedtime

Post by Lord Caspen » Sun Sep 05, 2010 4:16 am

Cheryl Pryce lay exhausted on her bed, a wet washcloth folded neatly on her forehead. She was trying to keep her eyes closed. The room was dark, her breathing ... was gradually ... controlled. Martinis, liberally prescribed before, during, and after dinner, were a help, only she was now at that stage of contending with petite waves of nausea. Alka-Seltzer fizzed up a glass of water on the bedside table.

Keeping her eyes closed, still as possible, she inched a hand out to grab the glass, and then the thought of the taste of bicarbonate made her intensely woozy and she folded her hands across her belly instead.

She needed someone. She needed someone to understand how hard it was. To be a Pryce, to be the sister of Stanford Pryce, billionaire, devil.

But he wasn't a devil to her.

Their father had been a switch operator in the New York subway, and lord knows how he kept his job for twenty-three years -- he always stank of cheap whiskey. He wasn't always violent, to be sure. He had a reputation on their block for generosity, for neighborliness. They'd lived near a park and he'd organized regular picnics on New Years' and the Fourth and on Labor Day. He made sure collections went round when a neighbor woman died, for her children, and he was the neighborhood oracle. Sitting on the stoop in the evenings, smoking his pipe and whittling, children would ask him about how bicycles worked and when their baby brothers would be born, and the men would ask him who would win the next championship bout or the next election, or how to fix their watch. It seemed there wasn't anything he didn't know how to fix, and there wasn't a prediction on record he hadn't hit exactly right. He was accounted a prince.

And at home, normally the drink simply kept him lubricated, jovial. He had beautiful stories, terrific patience, a beautiful smile and a light brogue. But there were nights, weekends sometimes, when he would storm in very late and wake everyone with his stumbling and habit of throwing things. Lord knew what he had in mind. And sometimes, when he'd been out late, he'd wake them up deliberately, wrench them out of bed. He had a switchman's build and fists the size of cannonballs and he let those do his talking. He'd call his children "blight on the face of God," and presumably he thought his blows were a cure.

Cheryl's forehead was throbbing a little less. She could breathe a little more easily. The washcloth was mostly dry, a little tacky. She pulled it off, sat up and blinked. The room was in absolute darkness. She felt gingerly for the nightstand, the tabletop, the glass. She forced down the fizzy bicarbonate, one gulp, two, two and a half, and stopped to breathe.

The late Raymond Pryce.

She put the glass to her forehead, rolled it around to a temple. And breathed again.

When she was six years old, she recalled, Raymond Pryce, the Prince of Filmore Street, had gone after fifteen-year-old Veronica with abandon. She'd been woken with a scream. Father had barged into the room and thrown on the light and hauled Veronica out of bed and Cheryl had heard a wicked snap and Veronica was hanging at the wrong angle in Da's grip and she was bawling and the room rang and rang. Cheryl had thrown her hands over her ears and she was crying, too, crying to make Ronnie and Da just stop, stop.

And of course it was Stan who made it stop. She didn't know it at first, all she knew was he was in the room and he had the stick -- an ax-handle, she would later learn, the stick Da had bought for Mama when he had to be out late -- and he swung the stick once and split one of Da's ribs, as she would later find out. The second blow struck Da on the neck and shoulder and now Cheryl was screaming -- Stan, no! Da's hurt, Da's sorry and Da's hurt, you're hurting Daddy, Stan! Stop!

"GET OUT!" Stan was trembling. When he screamed, he was black with rage, but when the first shout drained out of him, he just settled into a stony look. He trembled, but he was planted, focused. "You get out of our house, you shit! Just get out, and don't you touch any of us again."

They never saw him after that. Word had got round. A man's family was his property, that was understood, but there were limits, even for the Prince of Filmore Street. Now it was the neighbors' turn to be generous. Stan was already working in the lumber yard, and he was their principal support, but Mrs Wilson often made them meals, and Mr Massey, the local druggist, tutored her and Veronica -- whose shoulder never completely recovered. And Jasper Flynn, across the way, sometimes helped them make rent, and one summer he asked them to join his family on a trip to the beach at Atlantic City. As for Raymond Pryce, he'd had to take a new place a couple of streets away, or so she'd heard.


And for most of her life, Stan had always filled that role. He was protector, provider. But for years now, that connection had been harder and harder to keep. His work, his affairs, his spoiled little family. And now ... murder? Accusations of murder, their own family? That she could kill his wife? That Nan could? Who was this man?


Cheryl groaned, rolled on her side, glanced at the clock. 12.06. Past midnight. Where, oh where, was her beautiful man, to console her?

[cue Excelsior]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Post by PeachFreak » Sun Sep 05, 2010 5:39 pm

(OOC: I'm back. Thanks for posting for Cheryl, LC)

Immediately after dinner, Nan had gone to her room without a word to anyone and changed into her pajamas-a dirty white t-shirt and plaid pants with a peculiar blue stain on the left leg. Then, she lay down on the bed and stared at the celing for what felt like hours. And it probably was. Her stomach was churning-more violently with each passing minute. For a split second, she feared it had something to do with that night she went home with Rick, the popcorn guy-the friggin little hipster. Groaning and rolling on her side, she decided that it was her uncle and that stupid show he put on that was making her ill.

Sitting up, she rubbed her belly. She was hungry-starvng-having refused to eat that garbage they tried to serve her. What ever happened to pizza and fries? Sighing, Nan walked over to her backpack and began digging, before pulling out a generic brand of nacho chips. Nearby, her camera equipment lay alone in the corner-she couldn't bring herself to film anything.

"So I fail," she decided glumly. "Sudden revelation of murder. That's a good excuse." Closing her eyes, she slumped back onto the bed, shoving chips into her mouth and wiping her hands on her shirt. A spider was sucttling across the ceiling. Were she Patricia, she may have marched down to the front desk and demanded it be exterminated. But she wasn't Patricia. She wasn't a Pryce.

For her, murder was some moron getting beat up by some pimp and thrown into the river. Murder may even be throwing herself down that damned grand staircase in case Rick had left a present inside her. But murder wasn't fake suicides and stupid parties and furtive glances from everyone.

It was stupid. All of it was stupid. A stupid dream.

"But why can't I wake up?"

(Cue Excelsior)
Last edited by PeachFreak on Sun Sep 05, 2010 10:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Like my daddy always says, give me a good neuromuscular poison any day."

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Post by Adam106 » Sun Sep 05, 2010 6:40 pm

Dinner had been an awkward affair for Patricia. Dressed up like the cat's meow for no real reason other than the fact that she could. The whole dreadul business about her aunt's death had upset her tremendously, her mind racing back to that troubling time, back when she used too --

No. That was all behind her now. She bidded her goodnights and she and her beau, Claudio, made there way upstairs. She had wormed herself into a tidy, modest night-gown made of creamy silk and lay on her double bed, staring at the ceiling...thinking.

Claudio emerged from the bathroom, in a plain white tee and black joggy pants. He joined her on the bed and rolled over to her, caressing her arm in his own hand.

"It'll be alright you know, really," he soothed, his breath tickling her neck.

"Will it?" She turned to him, staring at his face. "Uncle Stan's a nightmare. Honestly." She exclaimed a roar. "Why did I come here? I knew it'd be a mistake. We could be at home right now, content, happy, not having to lay here in confusion. It's all just a mess. Nobody here really likes me very much. But, to be honest, I don't really like any of them."

"It's a vacation though, darling. It's just what you needed."

"No, it's what you needed. I was more than happy where I was."

The tears in her eyes began to well up. But before her dams could burst into a horrid, uncontrollable flow of mass proportions, Claudio kissed her. His warm, comforting breath eased her from every inch. He had kissed her and she had felt better.

It was when his hand reached for her bra-strap, she halted to a stop, jumping up. "No, Claudio! Not tonight. Not like this."

"But --"

"No!"

She heaved herself up from the bed with a huff and poured herself a glass of water from the fresh decanter on the coffee table.

"Why are you being so unreasonable?" he groaned, getting up also.

"My uncle's just revealed that my aunt may not have killed herself. That someone else...may have killed her...instead." She clutched her neck. "I feel sick."

"I can't be bothered with his," Claudio growled, grabbing his coat off the nearby rack.

"Where are you going?" she shouted, glass held tightly in her hand.

"Out."

He stormed down the hall to the door.

"Where to?"

"To sort this thing out!"

The door slammed viciously behind him. She shrieked in anger, throwing her glass to the floor, the shards scattering everywhere in a sharp blizzard. Like a snow-storm. A snow-storm that was about to get a whole lot worse.

[Cue Excelsior]

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Lord Caspen
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DAY ONE ... Bedtime

Post by Lord Caspen » Sun Sep 05, 2010 10:13 pm

At the end of the English gardens lay a deep black pond, manmade, a scale model of Lake Onak, with a stone bench in place of the Main House, at its edge. Leverage Pryce had strolled here for a think, and now he sat on the bench, staring deep into the pond. He was still in tux, with his jacket hanging from a lamppost and his collar popped open.

Mom, he thought. Is it true?

If it were ...

Helen Pryce had been Catholic, so her son was Catholic, too, but only in public. In his heart Leverage found salvation impossible, and God implausible, and he did not believe in heaven or in ghosts. But whether he was only talking to himself or not, since his mother's death he'd found he couldn't get his mind around it without talking as though she were here and could hear him.

His face clouded.

At the time, Lev had been so angry with her. His words to her ... had not been kind. Dad was a pig, that was understood, but she could have done anything. She could have divorced, she could have simply walked out. She had been a strong woman, sharp, and the one thing he had never doubted was her love for her children. And then she'd taken that way out, her own life, before she ever got to know her grandchildren.

Leverage had the bottle in one hand. Small, brown, plastic. By now it was empty. He hurled it into the pond.

Leverage Pryce may not have believed in Catholic redemption, but he drew deeply on Catholic guilt. What could he say to his mother now? Was it even true? Dad could be wrong of course, or possibly senile. Or, and somehow this felt much more likely, Stanford Pryce could simply be playing some wicked new game, sinking to an all-time low.

And that brought more guilt. Jesus, how could he think that of his father? Even for Stanford Pryce, this was something not to be thought of. He was a fine grandfather -- he exchanged emails with Harvard and paid for vacations and birthday parties wherever they wanted, and he always put in a grand appearance and they loved him. How could he love them, and shit on the rest of the family like this? It didn't seem possible, in which case ...

Maybe it was time to consider a home. He was retired now, there had to be a reason for that. Maybe ... maybe he'd have to talk to Mark after all.

For a moment, Lev thought about going to find Bethany. Get her thoughts. But then, he was pretty sure he knew what those were. And that still wouldn't solve his problem with Ma.

"I'm sorry, Ma," he said. "Even if you did it ... I can't blame you anymore. I just wish you were here. We still need you, you know. Me, Beth, your grandkids. Vienna tries to be strong, but she needs you, too. And Dad ... I think he's gone crazy, Ma!"

He chuckled.

[cue Excelsior]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Post by PeachFreak » Sun Sep 05, 2010 10:41 pm

Having given up up on sleep immediately after dinner ended, Vaughn, still in his tux, found himself alone in the upper library. A few hours earlier, he'd picked up a copy of The Brothers Karamazov, and as he neared the end, he was growing increasingly irritated with trying to remember every character's name. Did the Russians do it on purpose? Name everyone the same thing just to confuse English speakers, he wondered. Furthermore, he didn't entirely understand the whole point of the thing-faith and intellectualism and loving your neighbor. It didn't appeal to him. Yet, he couldn't put it down, what with the affairs and the secrets...and the murder.

Not that he had been particularly close to Helen, but she was a pleasant enough lady. Yet, the simple fact that Stanford had the audacity to accuse someone of murder -it was jarring. That sort of thing only happened on tv and in silly Russian novels. In fact, Vaughn may have wished it to happen in real life for the sake of excitement....but now that it did happen, it wasn't as fun as he'd imagined.

Sighing, Vaughn placed the open book on his lap and glanced at his watch.

"It's getting late, Vaughn," he yawned, rubbing at his eyes. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed for the first time that the room had cleared out. "I should get to bed," he decided.

But the book looked mockingly up at him. It demanded he reach its conclusion. Five more mintues. He'd stay up five more minutes.

(Cue Excelsior)

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Post by PeachFreak » Sun Sep 05, 2010 10:42 pm

DELETE

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Post by CluedoKid » Mon Sep 06, 2010 12:10 am

Diane Dragon entered the darkened solarium. It was still, abandoned and quiet. Save for the dribble from the fountain and the slight howl of wind outside. She plopped herself down on the nearest chesterfield and produced from her pocket, a little baggie of pills. Aspirin. She popped two into her mouth, swallowed them dry, and began to nod off.

Then a tap.

Diane spun her head with a start. She wasn't alone. Carlos Bello was flopped in a chair behind her.

"What are you doing here?" She quickly demanded.

"Oh," Carlos replied, "Sorry, I just needed to rest. Being a performer means you never get enough rest."

Diane rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure we all can't get enough rest Mr. Bello." She sighed in return, quite remembering his interesting performance earlier.

"What's that you just took?" Carlos inquired.

He pointed to her baggie.

"Just a little something for a certain induced headache caused by a certain someone," Diane answered.

"Vicodin?"

"Nope, it just some good ol' fashioned aspirin, doc."

"Oh, I see," Carlos replied with a laugh, "I wondered because I know somebody who has a whole stash of Vicodin. Mr. Pryce's son. That's who. Ever time I see him, he's always taking it. Poor guy, I pray for him y'know."

"That's nice." Diane commented.

She got up and started out the door.

"Buenas noches, signorita."

But Diane was already gone.

(Cue Excelsior)
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DAY ONE ... Bedtime

Post by Lord Caspen » Mon Sep 06, 2010 2:55 am

Bethany Pryce stood out on her balcony overlooking the lake. She had a tall glass of iced tea in one hand.

She remembered her mother-in-law fondly. She had once been manager of a tony restaurant, and now she was the wife of the powerful Stanford Pryce -- and while she definitely had that very proud, chin-first way of walking that most of her clients had, her eyes were very kind, and she spoke plainly.

"You're too good for Leverage," she had said, when she knew about the proposal. "He's like his father: work-driven and a drinker." But she was smiling. "But I think you might just be able to straighten him out. You're tough, and I like that. In any case, you have very good hips and should give me four or five grandchildren."

Bethany smiled herself.

But those moments of grit, she now understood, had been few and short, and waning ever fewer and shorter. She was constantly shutting herself up in a wing of the Pryce compound, with only her dachshunds to keep her company, and when she did emerge, her smile was faded, her attention distracted, her skin very pale. She shook sometimes. And then she'd be gone again, into her lair for weeks. The accepted wisdom, of course, was that Stanford Pryce and his affairs drove her to feel isolated and paranoid, but there never seemed to be any direct connection between events and her behavior.

Of course, Beth only knew her for a little over a year, but Helen's last turn for the worst had come just after Lev had announced he was sending his parents on a cruise next year to celebrate their thirtieth anniversary. Three weeks later, with hardly a word from that part of the house, Leverage had gone in ... and found her.

Bethany shook her head.

It didn't make any sense. If Helen Pryce had been murdered, the only logical culprit was Stanford himself. It took only a little bit of imagination to suppose that Stanford would have been capable, but he would hardly draw attention eight years after he apparently had got away with it. Everyone believed it was suicide. What could he have found, and ... She caught her breath. Where will it lead?

[cue Excelsior]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Post by Adam106 » Mon Sep 06, 2010 7:37 am

Colonel Northover had decided that after such a delectable dinner, the only way to end the day right would be a good book. He had carefully chosen something from the lower library. After rushing past hard-boiled crime (he'd had enough of that for one day), he faffed off such indecencies as romance and erotica and ended up stumped at the children's section. He decided to entertain himself with a vast array of witty wordplaying aided by a first-bound edition of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. His most favourite story.

He had gone out to one of the halls upstairs and slumped himself in a corner nook, switching on the table lamp next to him. He found the rabbit hole sequence was again hypnotic, the hall of doors sequence a fun whirlwind of overall confusion. Ah! The Mouse and the Dodo bird. Yes, these two should cheer him up! But they did not. He read past them with ever-decreasing enthusiasm. The White Rabbit's house no longer enthralled him. The Caterpillar picked him up a bit but the chapter soon ended too quickly and the pigeon scene had irritated him to the bone.

He was just on Alice arguing with the Frog-Footman about how to enter the bizarre Duchess' cottage when he felt a sudden pang of sleepiness.

"Why does your cat grin like that?" Before he could finish, Northover had fell asleep. His limp, aged hand dropped the book to the floor.

He snored slightly, the bright light of the nearby table-light blurting at his eyes. But he couldn't be bothered to switch it off. He was far too tired.

The book had found itself on a particular page and lay still. It was the croquet game with the irascible Queen of Hearts.

"Off with his head!"

[Cue Excelsior]

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Post by CluedoKid » Fri Sep 10, 2010 9:09 am

"Anybody up for steaming plate of thinspo?" Carlos asks to whomever dares to join him.

(Cue anybody as we wait upon the last movements of the evening)
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Oh dear

Post by Lord Caspen » Fri Sep 10, 2010 3:57 pm

[OOC: I haven't heard from CMustard or from PrinceAzure in a bit. Of course, PA has his computer troubles; and I hope for a speedy return of both so we may resume]
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Post by PrinceAzure33 » Sun Sep 12, 2010 7:50 pm

Lionel Jove emerged from a door in the fourth floor suites corridor. He looked down the hall, and crept across the carpet, scanning each door number. He stopped, retrieved a small envelope from his breast pocket, slipped it under a door, and went on his way.
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Meanwhile, Caroline was still up. Having just extingushed the glowering chandliers of the Great Lobby, an eerie dimness was cast across the room. She welcomed the darkness, her eyes were half shut now, sensitive.

A migraine thumped at her forehead, as if an axe were working its escape from the recesses of her mind. Naturally, through the vines of her ever gossiping staff, she had heard about the incidient in the Great Parlor.

It was an odd affair indeed, she knew Helen Pryce, they were as close as a frequent guest could get to her hotel's manager.

Murder. It had been murder.

A murder in the Excelsior.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
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The glow of the moon on the shores of the lake had been most relaxing for June as she approached the hotel from her nighttime constitutional. Quite an eventful evening it had been, June's mind kept going over the glare Vienna had shot her.

She had always tried her best to be cordial to those spawn of her former lover. Always tried her best to ensure she wasn't Helen's replacement. How could they think the cause of Stanford's crumbling marriage was solely hers for the blame. Nooo, she knew the truth, and if it boiled down to it, she'd make sure everyone knew.
Oh, it's England. Croquet on the lawn, tea in silver teapots, sherry before dinner. One simply has to maintain one's standards!

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Lord Caspen
Court Stenographer
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Joined: Fri May 06, 2005 8:50 pm

DAY ONE ... Bedtime

Post by Lord Caspen » Sun Sep 12, 2010 8:29 pm

Stanford Pryce reclined on the veranda overlooking the lake, puffing at a cigar. He could feel in the air ... it was colder than it should be. This time of year, there was usually still a light balm punctuated by breeze, even at this elevation, but it was nearly frigid.

He reflected on the night's events. His guests had not been particularly surprising in their reactions to his announcement. Outrage, amazement. Northover practically asleep, Cheryl teary and attention-grabbing, Nan bitter and withdrawn. Bethany didn't know whether she wanted to spit or laugh at him. And Lev.

Stanford sighed.

Leverage Pryce, his only surviving son and principal heir, had panicked. Stanford shook his head. Somehow ... somehow he'd always suspected.

When he finally revealed what the detectives had turned up, he wondered what reactions would be then. Around the cigar clenched in his teeth, the Devil of Wall Street chuckled.
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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Lord Caspen
Court Stenographer
Posts: 2537
Joined: Fri May 06, 2005 8:50 pm

Pic

Post by Lord Caspen » Sun Sep 12, 2010 8:33 pm

Incidentally, in case the other link was to a picture too small, I'd like to post a new link, which is basically what the Excelsior is supposed to look like.

Here!
It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. -- Blithe Spirit, Noel Coward.

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