Detective Clara Vance had seen her share of bodies, but the scene in Room 412 of the Ashwick Hotel was different. The victim, Leonard Price, a wealthy art dealer, lay slumped across the writing desk, a glass of wine spilled near his hand. No forced entry, no signs of struggle—just the faint scent of expensive cologne and the quiet hum of the city below.
The hotel manager insisted no one had visited Price that evening. Yet Clara knew appearances were deceiving. A half-burnt note smoldering in the fireplace caught her attention. She pulled it out with tongs, piecing together words from the charred edges: “…payment… betrayal… silence.”
Clara’s partner, Officer Miller, dusted the wineglass for prints. “Nothing but the victim’s,” he reported. “Clean as if someone wiped it.”
She crouched beside the desk and noticed the faint outline of a second glass—no longer present. The killer had taken it. Still, killers were rarely perfect. Clara scanned the room, her eyes landing on the window. A thin layer of dust coated the frame, except for a clear smudge at the latch. She leaned closer. It wasn’t a full handprint, just a partial fingerprint etched in dust.
“Bag this,” she ordered.
Back at the station, the fingerprint came back to a name: Elise Carter, a gallery assistant employed by Leonard Price until two months ago. Clara had met her once—young, bright, ambitious, but rumored to be entangled in Price’s shady dealings.
When questioned, Elise admitted she’d gone to the hotel. “He owed me,” she said, eyes flashing. “I was supposed to receive a commission for a painting he sold. He cheated me out of it. But I didn’t kill him. I left before anything happened.”
Her story matched the time the security cameras showed her leaving through the lobby. Still, the fingerprint on the window proved she’d been inside. Why lie about that?
Clara pressed further. “Why use the window?”
Elise faltered. “Because he didn’t want anyone seeing me there. Said it would cause trouble.”
The pieces clicked. If Leonard had enemies, he would be careful who saw him. But if Elise had left through the front, someone else must have entered afterward—someone Leonard trusted enough not to fear.
Reviewing the guest list, Clara noticed another name: Charles Danton, a rival dealer who often bid against Leonard at auctions. Strangely, Charles had booked a room directly across the hall from 412. A search of his room revealed nothing—except a receipt for two glasses of wine ordered to Price’s room that night.
Confronted, Charles tried to bluff. “We were negotiating a deal,” he said smoothly. “Leonard drank too much, collapsed. I panicked.”
But Clara placed the burnt note before him. “You weren’t negotiating. You were silencing him. He threatened to expose you for art fraud.”
Charles paled. “You can’t prove—”
Clara laid down the photo of the wiped wineglass. “Your glass is missing. Elise’s fingerprint is on the window. But only you stayed long enough to share a drink and poison him. That’s why you cleaned your prints and took the glass.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Charles exhaled. “He left me no choice.”
Case closed.
Therapy Bits 
Talk to me! I love comments!