Unforgiving, icy rain drummed on the rooftop of Thornthrob Manor. Lightning crackled in its spidery dance in the heavens, and the thunder growled like unfed beasts of prey.

The Detective gladly entered the manor and hung up his drenched raincoat. Uneasiness sparked in his honest brown eyes. It was an ominous sort of night to match this ominous sort of party. He was late because of the storm. The party was supposed to have started at 6:30. It was now 7:00, but to his surprise, he was informed by the small child playing in the hall that her grandfather had not come downstairs yet. The host was late, and the Detective smiled. He had two tasks now--meet all the guests as soon as possible, and ensure all was well. There were just a handful of people--six in total--to celebrate the fifty-three years of August Smither's life. Who knew why they'd come--the Detective was sure that some of them would rather not be celebrating this event at all. August had contacted him earlier to warn him about it. Not only that, but Smither also pleaded for the Detective to attend the party as well.

"Slippery, all of them!" August had avowed. His bushy eyebrows drew down over his mismatched eyes. "Slippery as eels ... sharp as knives! I don't trust any of them."

"Then why invite these people at all?" the Detective had inquired narrowly. "Why not invite your family? Your friends?"

"Ahem!" said August. "You're missing the point. I don't trust these guests... and they don't trust me either, the scoundrels!" he laughed uproariously.

"I don't follow."

"What kind of a detective are you? I wish to heal the divides between me and my ... honored ... guests. But I wish you would come. To see that all goes as it should."

The Detective suspected there was far more to the story, but he agreed. Now, as he wandered around the manor, he was attracted by the sound of music. He tracked the faint sounding notes all the way to the ballroom, and he cracked open the door to glance inside.

Miss Iris Sonata was the only guest there. She sat at the piano, her skilled fingers dancing over the keys with almost feverish haste. The Detective had to admit that she played brilliantly. Her back was turned to him. He couldn't see her expression. But he could hear it, so to say. Her music rose, swelled, became a fury of pounding notes--then suddenly, she looked over her shoulder. A side door had creaked opened, and another guest glided into the ballroom. Miss Sonata's music immediately stopped.

The newcomer was Lady Rachel Maroon. She was dressed in her trademarked colors of crimson, and her dark hair and steely eyes gave her a cold appearance. She wore a ring that was clearly from the Medieval Era. That confirmed her identity. Only she would have such a love of the ancient.

"What interesting music," observed Lady Maroon, unaware they were being watched. "Pray, what is it called?"

"I thank you," said Miss Sonata. "It has no name."

"No name? How intriguing." Lady Maroon's steel-colored eyes suddenly darted around the room. Miss Sonata noticed.

"Are you looking for someone?"

"No, in fact, I am avoiding all someones. I shall make an exception for you--your music was simply dazzling. Oh, and by the way, will you let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary while we are here?"

Miss Sonata looked extremely interested. "Out of the ordinary? Such as what?"

"Thank you very much." Lady Maroon started towards the second side door--and the Detective quickly darted through a nearby door to avoid being seen. He found himself in the spacious dining room, furnished in a classical style. He got the impression of green--emerald green walls, light green trim, and forest green table runners. Dinner was spread out, but the steam was long gone. It was sitting cold and uneaten.

"You must mark what I say, mi amigo--" a woman's voice, ornamented with a strange accent, shut off. The Detective realized that he'd stumbled into the middle of a conversation between two guests.

The first was a short Spanish woman with luxurious curly hair. Her eyes shone with a reddish glow through her silver-lined glasses.

"Ah, qué pena, you do not know who I am! I am Miss Thara Bode," she announced with a smile, seeing the Detective's vacant look. "And this rascal here is Thomas Williamson, a good friend of mine."

"It's a pleasure," said the Detective, joining Thomas's smile. Mr. Williamson leaned back in his chair, quite at ease. His brown hair was neatly arranged and his garb was of good appearance. Tidy and polite, but with a weary smile in his pale face--that was Mr. Williamson at first glance. His fingers were sensitive and dexterous--at the moment, they were busily stacking cards into a card castle of impressive height.

"Has Mr. Smither decided to come down yet?" asked Miss Bode, smirking, and glancing at the heavy books she was poring over. "He's beyond fashionably late now."

"He still is," said the Detective.

"What on earth can be taking him so long?" asked Mr. Williamson. "Perhaps someone should go find him."

"I'm on my way up there right now. I'll go drop in and see where he's at."

The Detective left the dining room and wandered up the hall. He went up a flight of stairs towards the chambers, and accidentally bumped into the last two guests heading up towards Smither's office.

"I wouldn't be surprised," the younger one was saying.

"No! His wallet is quite large!" the older one answered. "I tell you, it is the size of a dinner plate--"

"I don't think I've met you two yet," said the Detective, as they noticed him.

"Ahem!" said one, taking off his aviator hat. He was middle aged: his hair was going grey. A ceremonial silver sword hung from his belt. "I am Colonel Ashton Silvertip."

"And my name's Kofi," chimed in the second, a young man in a white suit. He was athletic, long-limbed, and tall enough to change pretty much any lightbulb with ease. "Kofi Hansen." He brushed some golden dog hair off of his sleeves.

"Colonel, Mr. Hansen," said the Detective. "What brings you up here?"

"The old man's taking his sweet time," said Mr. Hansen.

"Yes, he's unpardonably late," frowned the Colonel. "I can't understand it."

"I can't either," said the Detective. "Do you mind if I join you?"

The Detective and the two guests went down the hall, and then promptly got lost in the winding halls. They argued for a while, and then Colonel Silvertip suggested they ring the bell for a servant.

A bell could be in any room, but though they sought for a room that wasn't locked, they found unlocked doors were a rare commodity here. The halls were open--the rooms were sealed shut.

"He really doesn't want anyone prying around," scowled Mr. Hansen.

"I wonder," said the Detective.

Eventually, Smither's granddaughter wandered past them--a small girl of maybe seven years old. The Detective asked her if knew where her grandfather was. She nodded.

"Grandpa said ... said he was gonna sit in the library," she yawned sleepily. "He said not to bother him."

"And which way is the library?" asked the Detective. She told him, and then staggered off to find her room.

The three visitors followed her directions all the way to the library door. It was shut and locked, just like the others.

"Mr. Smither," he called, pounding on the door. No answer. "Smither!" he shouted even louder.

No answer.

"Maybe he's not in there," said Mr. Hansen.

"Balderdash!" said Colonel Silvertip. "Where else could he be? Everything else is locked up! I vote we bomb the door."

"Good idea," said the Detective, and he set his shoulder against the wood. Mr. Hansen kicked it, and Colonel Silvertip went and got a chair to ram against the solid wood. Finally, the door gave in. The Detective ran inside with the others, and they cried out in terror and stared.

August Smither was there, slouched over in his chair. His eyes stared vacantly in front of him. The Detective ran to check his pulse, and sighed when no spasm of life touched his fingertips. August Smither was dead.