Murder, They Tweeted #3
Nov. 30th, 2018 04:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsA dead body is found at the rehearsal dinner! Quentin's cousin Raph is implicated in the murder, so Quentin and Hank set to clear his name.
Much as Quentin hated these social gatherings, he never passed up a chance to dress up. He'd save the really good duds for the wedding tomorrow, but he planned to slay at the rehearsal dinner, too. Green tartan blazer for color, contrasted with a more restrained crisp white shirt, slim black tie, black pants, and brogues shined within an inch of their lives. He knew his family would be talking about him behind his back, anyway. They always did. Might as well give them something to talk about.
Most of the dinner guests were already in the wine cellar by the time Quentin and Hank arrived. Raph and Diane, along with their parents, were talking to the poor beleaguered winery manager next to a stack of barrels. The barrels were on some kind of mechanized ramp for easy movement. Quentin supposed if things got too boring, a telekinetic shove or two would prove amusing.
Hank looked rather more sober beside him, though Sue had at least ensured he had two nice outfits to bring with him so that he didn't commit the faux pas of wearing the same suit to the rehearsal and the wedding itself. Quentin's parents were already seated, and it wasn't divine intervention or chance that steered their steps towards a table as far away from that particular conflagration as possible.
Moving to the front of the room, Diane waited, catching people's eyes for them to quiet instead of using her wine glass or making noise herself. When the room quieted, she smiled, "Welcome, everyone! We're so glad you were all able to join us on this magical weekend and make it even more special. In just a few minutes, they're going to start opening a barrel for us and start serving dinner - they know how much we can drink, so please, enjoy!"
"If anyone comes by to talk, just pretend you don't speak English," Quentin said to Hank as he reached over to adjust Hank's tie. "That's what I do sometimes. It's easy, they believe it. You know the first time I remember meeting my uncle, he actually said ni-hao to me?" A hand lingered on Hank's chest, and a great aunt or second cousin or something sneered at the sight. It was so typical that it would not have even phased Quentin had he not brought a date. So he smiled at the relative as she spilled water all over her blouse. Even though she had just put down her glass. Curious, that.
"I'm sure he was just trying to be polite," Hank offered, though he didn't actually sound that sure. He could feel the eyes on him, all around, and tried not to visibly flinch under their scrutiny. He had been spoiled by the comfort of the mansion and the liberal haven of New York and the accepting throngs of the university.
Across the room the manager began the show of pouring the first glasses of wine - for Raph and Diane, of course, who grinned and held their glasses aloft as the rest of the guests were served. It was a dark, rich red - a merlot, Hank thought - and his mouth watered a little at the thought of tasting it.
"If you don't mind," Raph's voice managed to rise above the conversation that had resumed while the wine circulated. He smiled at his bride. "We know it's not traditional, but Di and I just wanted to say a few words while people are still reasonably sober."
"Nobody wants to hear you talk until tomorrow!" A male voice called out, and it was met by some enthusiastic clapping and polite chuckles.
"That's probably true," Raph grinned, "but hey," he shrugged, "you're all here. So tough." He scanned the room. "It means a lot that you all came all this way for us. Truly, we're touched. And we're so thankful, especially for our wedding party, who put up with what I'm told was an insanely wild bachelorette party," he teased. "And an even wilder bachelor party if you can believe that."
"Just don't ask Trevor — not like he remembers most of it." The same male voice, apparently one of Raph's groomsmen, interjected again. The tittering here was even more polite, but heads turned, Raph's included, as they searched for the apparently absent best man.
"Probably off licking his wounds after that fight," Quentin muttered. A few people turned to look at him questioningly, but he just shrugged and did not satisfy their curiosity.
The winery manager cleared his throat to call back attention and held up a dark bottle as his employees began distributing glasses with the same wine Raph and Diane held. "We have a very special treat for you tonight, courtesy of the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Quire. Our merlot is aged 3 years in our oak barrels you can see right here. In fact, we just bottled from this one! Brand-new wine for a brand-new marriage. Please join me in toasting the couple. À votre santé!"
Quentin greedily accepted his glass and, the boor he is, did not wait to return the toast before taking a healthy sip . . . that he promptly spit back. "Holy shit, this is the worst wine I've ever had." Everyone turned to look at him again, but a couple brave souls seemingly agreed when they drank. Guests all around the room started muttering, looking from their glasses to each other to Raph and Diane and back. The winery manager looked aghast, like he might faint right on the spot.
Thankfully Hank had refrained from taking a sip, and given the reactions of those that had he wasn't sure he wanted to. Instead he bent over the glass and gave a tentative sniff of its contents, his nose wrinkling at the aroma. "There's something very wrong here," he murmured to Quentin. "It smells very much like this wine has been contaminated with... blood."
"Blood!" someone nearby shrieked, much to Hank's chagrin. "He's right, that's exactly what it tastes like!"
The room erupted in a furor of activity - guests sloshing their glasses as they hurriedly put them down on the nearest surface, staff trying to collect them back in while the manager apologized repeatedly to Raph and Diane.
Gasping, Diane glared at the manager, this was not happening at her wedding! "What's going on here? Open the cask!"
The manager stammered at her demand. It's not done, it would ruin the wine. Never mind it was already ruined. The manager sighed, and reluctantly did as he was told, turning on the ramp device to stand the barrel up and remove the top. His face turned green, and he took several steps back, bumping into and nearly collapsing on top of Raph.
"Whoa, man." Raph helped the manager get upright, frowning slightly as he brushed himself off. Then he traced the man's path, approaching the barrel. He peered into it and visibly blanched. "Holy shit," he gasped, staggering back. It was a body. A man's body. "Holy shit," he said a few more times, the panic more apparent in his voice with each repetition. "It's Trevor."
~*~
The police were called immediately and came as soon as they could. And police meant two officers: the sheriff of this little town in the Adirondacks and a deputy barely older than the murder victim himself. It was murder, of course. People don't swim and bleed in barrels of wine of their own accord. Someone makes them do that. The question, of course, was who was that someone? The resort's seclusion was a gift, in that respect. Few people going in and out meant the culprit was likely still there.
When the sheriff heard of Raph and Trevor's confrontation earlier that day, it did not take him long to turn his attention to the groom. Raph was a "person of interest." Not a suspect, though that seemed more of a formality at this point. When the sheriff asked Raph to go with him, Quentin surprised himself (and possibly the other Quires present) by standing up and getting in his face.
"He didn't do it," Quentin insisted, flexing his fingers behind his back, like a nervous tick to keep his telekinesis in check. "You have no evidence, you can't take him anywhere."
"Q, it's fine," Raph tried to reassure his cousin. With his face still pale and his hands still shaking from the shock of seeing Trevor's wine-drenched corpse, his words seemed hollow. He was freaked. "I didn't fucking do anything," he echoed, both for the benefit of the sheriff's ears and for those of his wedding's guests.
Still, ever the consummate scion, he knew better than to make a scene. And unlike his cousin, he generally thought that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. Especially when white privilege was concerned.
And so, he was going to acquiesce. "It's fucking bullshit, but it'll be fine," he told Quentin. "They'll ask me some questions. I'll tell them what I know — which is nothing," he looked at the sheriff quickly, "and tomorrow, we'll tie the knot." He looked at his bride-to-be and his voice lowered so only Quentin could hear. "Just make sure Di's taken care of while I'm gone, okay?"
Quentin's eyes fixed on his cousin, his gaze steady and resolved, the same expression he wore when he saw off Daniella Gauthier to her new life, when he assured the Bush family he would take them to safety, or when he ordered Jean to let him sacrifice himself to subdue the Shadow King. "You have groomsmen and bridesmaids for that," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Naw. I'm going to find out who did it. These idiots couldn't solve the junior jumble. They prove that by pointing at you." The scheme was impulsive and passionate and ill-advised. He was a desk jockey, not a proper investigator. Last time he had taken the lead, he had endangered his career and his health.
But what choice did he have?
"Raph!" Diana had progressed from shocked and horrified to tears now even as she tried to be strong, "No! He's innocent, you can't take him, we're getting married!" she protested, knowing the cops wouldn't care. "Quentin! Do something!" Why she thought he could made no difference, she couldn't let Raph be blame and his life ruined! "Raph would never hurt anyone! He tries to put spiders outside for me!"
"That he does," Felix cooed, wrapping his arms around Diane's shoulders. "I think we all need to take a moment to calm down, and relax. The good men of the sheriff's department will sort this out soon enough. Poor Trevor though." He gave his head a shake, even going so far as to take his hat off his head. "Didn't deserve this, nosiree. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people? Stress does crazy things..." He nodded to himself and hefted up his pants. "What we need here is to get away from this room. Diane, come with me, darling. Let's go and find a quiet place to sit. Everyone, please," he announced to all the remaining guests, "why don't you all head to your rooms, take a few moments to calm down while decisions get made. Before you know it, things will get sorted out." He hushed a bit more to Diane, and motioned to the staff as if this was his wedding ,and he was paying for everything. As the guests started to make their way out of the room, Felix followed, Diane in tow.
Thank goodness for that. Not that Hank was considerably more relaxed - there was still a dead body in the room, after all - but at least without Diane's cries and the guests' mutterings he could think a bit straighter. Had Quentin really said that he would lead the investigation? What on earth had made him think that was a good idea? Still, what kind of friend would Hank be if he didn't back him up?
"I, er, could try to gather some forensic evidence," he suggested, somewhat timidly. "I believe I could do so without contaminating the scene or disrupting anything. And as for the... body. I could examine that as well." He had completed most of his pre-med classes by now. That would be enough... right?
"He's a doctor," Quentin easily lied to the sheriff and handed him his business card. It did not say he was not an actual investigator, but it also did not say his main duties were ordering office supplies and sending invoices, so he hoped he could pull one over on them with just force of personality alone. Convincing the police to let them participate would be much easier with telepathy, and silently mourned. Of course, if he had his telepathy then he could have instantly discovered the culprit and this whole thing would be moot.
He pushed that lament aside, cramming it in the deepest recess of his mind. He could not afford such doubts now. He could do this, he was sure of it. He would prove them all wrong about him.
Much as Quentin hated these social gatherings, he never passed up a chance to dress up. He'd save the really good duds for the wedding tomorrow, but he planned to slay at the rehearsal dinner, too. Green tartan blazer for color, contrasted with a more restrained crisp white shirt, slim black tie, black pants, and brogues shined within an inch of their lives. He knew his family would be talking about him behind his back, anyway. They always did. Might as well give them something to talk about.
Most of the dinner guests were already in the wine cellar by the time Quentin and Hank arrived. Raph and Diane, along with their parents, were talking to the poor beleaguered winery manager next to a stack of barrels. The barrels were on some kind of mechanized ramp for easy movement. Quentin supposed if things got too boring, a telekinetic shove or two would prove amusing.
Hank looked rather more sober beside him, though Sue had at least ensured he had two nice outfits to bring with him so that he didn't commit the faux pas of wearing the same suit to the rehearsal and the wedding itself. Quentin's parents were already seated, and it wasn't divine intervention or chance that steered their steps towards a table as far away from that particular conflagration as possible.
Moving to the front of the room, Diane waited, catching people's eyes for them to quiet instead of using her wine glass or making noise herself. When the room quieted, she smiled, "Welcome, everyone! We're so glad you were all able to join us on this magical weekend and make it even more special. In just a few minutes, they're going to start opening a barrel for us and start serving dinner - they know how much we can drink, so please, enjoy!"
"If anyone comes by to talk, just pretend you don't speak English," Quentin said to Hank as he reached over to adjust Hank's tie. "That's what I do sometimes. It's easy, they believe it. You know the first time I remember meeting my uncle, he actually said ni-hao to me?" A hand lingered on Hank's chest, and a great aunt or second cousin or something sneered at the sight. It was so typical that it would not have even phased Quentin had he not brought a date. So he smiled at the relative as she spilled water all over her blouse. Even though she had just put down her glass. Curious, that.
"I'm sure he was just trying to be polite," Hank offered, though he didn't actually sound that sure. He could feel the eyes on him, all around, and tried not to visibly flinch under their scrutiny. He had been spoiled by the comfort of the mansion and the liberal haven of New York and the accepting throngs of the university.
Across the room the manager began the show of pouring the first glasses of wine - for Raph and Diane, of course, who grinned and held their glasses aloft as the rest of the guests were served. It was a dark, rich red - a merlot, Hank thought - and his mouth watered a little at the thought of tasting it.
"If you don't mind," Raph's voice managed to rise above the conversation that had resumed while the wine circulated. He smiled at his bride. "We know it's not traditional, but Di and I just wanted to say a few words while people are still reasonably sober."
"Nobody wants to hear you talk until tomorrow!" A male voice called out, and it was met by some enthusiastic clapping and polite chuckles.
"That's probably true," Raph grinned, "but hey," he shrugged, "you're all here. So tough." He scanned the room. "It means a lot that you all came all this way for us. Truly, we're touched. And we're so thankful, especially for our wedding party, who put up with what I'm told was an insanely wild bachelorette party," he teased. "And an even wilder bachelor party if you can believe that."
"Just don't ask Trevor — not like he remembers most of it." The same male voice, apparently one of Raph's groomsmen, interjected again. The tittering here was even more polite, but heads turned, Raph's included, as they searched for the apparently absent best man.
"Probably off licking his wounds after that fight," Quentin muttered. A few people turned to look at him questioningly, but he just shrugged and did not satisfy their curiosity.
The winery manager cleared his throat to call back attention and held up a dark bottle as his employees began distributing glasses with the same wine Raph and Diane held. "We have a very special treat for you tonight, courtesy of the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Quire. Our merlot is aged 3 years in our oak barrels you can see right here. In fact, we just bottled from this one! Brand-new wine for a brand-new marriage. Please join me in toasting the couple. À votre santé!"
Quentin greedily accepted his glass and, the boor he is, did not wait to return the toast before taking a healthy sip . . . that he promptly spit back. "Holy shit, this is the worst wine I've ever had." Everyone turned to look at him again, but a couple brave souls seemingly agreed when they drank. Guests all around the room started muttering, looking from their glasses to each other to Raph and Diane and back. The winery manager looked aghast, like he might faint right on the spot.
Thankfully Hank had refrained from taking a sip, and given the reactions of those that had he wasn't sure he wanted to. Instead he bent over the glass and gave a tentative sniff of its contents, his nose wrinkling at the aroma. "There's something very wrong here," he murmured to Quentin. "It smells very much like this wine has been contaminated with... blood."
"Blood!" someone nearby shrieked, much to Hank's chagrin. "He's right, that's exactly what it tastes like!"
The room erupted in a furor of activity - guests sloshing their glasses as they hurriedly put them down on the nearest surface, staff trying to collect them back in while the manager apologized repeatedly to Raph and Diane.
Gasping, Diane glared at the manager, this was not happening at her wedding! "What's going on here? Open the cask!"
The manager stammered at her demand. It's not done, it would ruin the wine. Never mind it was already ruined. The manager sighed, and reluctantly did as he was told, turning on the ramp device to stand the barrel up and remove the top. His face turned green, and he took several steps back, bumping into and nearly collapsing on top of Raph.
"Whoa, man." Raph helped the manager get upright, frowning slightly as he brushed himself off. Then he traced the man's path, approaching the barrel. He peered into it and visibly blanched. "Holy shit," he gasped, staggering back. It was a body. A man's body. "Holy shit," he said a few more times, the panic more apparent in his voice with each repetition. "It's Trevor."
~*~
The police were called immediately and came as soon as they could. And police meant two officers: the sheriff of this little town in the Adirondacks and a deputy barely older than the murder victim himself. It was murder, of course. People don't swim and bleed in barrels of wine of their own accord. Someone makes them do that. The question, of course, was who was that someone? The resort's seclusion was a gift, in that respect. Few people going in and out meant the culprit was likely still there.
When the sheriff heard of Raph and Trevor's confrontation earlier that day, it did not take him long to turn his attention to the groom. Raph was a "person of interest." Not a suspect, though that seemed more of a formality at this point. When the sheriff asked Raph to go with him, Quentin surprised himself (and possibly the other Quires present) by standing up and getting in his face.
"He didn't do it," Quentin insisted, flexing his fingers behind his back, like a nervous tick to keep his telekinesis in check. "You have no evidence, you can't take him anywhere."
"Q, it's fine," Raph tried to reassure his cousin. With his face still pale and his hands still shaking from the shock of seeing Trevor's wine-drenched corpse, his words seemed hollow. He was freaked. "I didn't fucking do anything," he echoed, both for the benefit of the sheriff's ears and for those of his wedding's guests.
Still, ever the consummate scion, he knew better than to make a scene. And unlike his cousin, he generally thought that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. Especially when white privilege was concerned.
And so, he was going to acquiesce. "It's fucking bullshit, but it'll be fine," he told Quentin. "They'll ask me some questions. I'll tell them what I know — which is nothing," he looked at the sheriff quickly, "and tomorrow, we'll tie the knot." He looked at his bride-to-be and his voice lowered so only Quentin could hear. "Just make sure Di's taken care of while I'm gone, okay?"
Quentin's eyes fixed on his cousin, his gaze steady and resolved, the same expression he wore when he saw off Daniella Gauthier to her new life, when he assured the Bush family he would take them to safety, or when he ordered Jean to let him sacrifice himself to subdue the Shadow King. "You have groomsmen and bridesmaids for that," he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Naw. I'm going to find out who did it. These idiots couldn't solve the junior jumble. They prove that by pointing at you." The scheme was impulsive and passionate and ill-advised. He was a desk jockey, not a proper investigator. Last time he had taken the lead, he had endangered his career and his health.
But what choice did he have?
"Raph!" Diana had progressed from shocked and horrified to tears now even as she tried to be strong, "No! He's innocent, you can't take him, we're getting married!" she protested, knowing the cops wouldn't care. "Quentin! Do something!" Why she thought he could made no difference, she couldn't let Raph be blame and his life ruined! "Raph would never hurt anyone! He tries to put spiders outside for me!"
"That he does," Felix cooed, wrapping his arms around Diane's shoulders. "I think we all need to take a moment to calm down, and relax. The good men of the sheriff's department will sort this out soon enough. Poor Trevor though." He gave his head a shake, even going so far as to take his hat off his head. "Didn't deserve this, nosiree. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people? Stress does crazy things..." He nodded to himself and hefted up his pants. "What we need here is to get away from this room. Diane, come with me, darling. Let's go and find a quiet place to sit. Everyone, please," he announced to all the remaining guests, "why don't you all head to your rooms, take a few moments to calm down while decisions get made. Before you know it, things will get sorted out." He hushed a bit more to Diane, and motioned to the staff as if this was his wedding ,and he was paying for everything. As the guests started to make their way out of the room, Felix followed, Diane in tow.
Thank goodness for that. Not that Hank was considerably more relaxed - there was still a dead body in the room, after all - but at least without Diane's cries and the guests' mutterings he could think a bit straighter. Had Quentin really said that he would lead the investigation? What on earth had made him think that was a good idea? Still, what kind of friend would Hank be if he didn't back him up?
"I, er, could try to gather some forensic evidence," he suggested, somewhat timidly. "I believe I could do so without contaminating the scene or disrupting anything. And as for the... body. I could examine that as well." He had completed most of his pre-med classes by now. That would be enough... right?
"He's a doctor," Quentin easily lied to the sheriff and handed him his business card. It did not say he was not an actual investigator, but it also did not say his main duties were ordering office supplies and sending invoices, so he hoped he could pull one over on them with just force of personality alone. Convincing the police to let them participate would be much easier with telepathy, and silently mourned. Of course, if he had his telepathy then he could have instantly discovered the culprit and this whole thing would be moot.
He pushed that lament aside, cramming it in the deepest recess of his mind. He could not afford such doubts now. He could do this, he was sure of it. He would prove them all wrong about him.
