Professor Plum stumbled on a root, not used to outdoor settings, his job dealing with desk work, and offices. He could see Miss Scarlet doing the same.

"Here is the guest house where you will be staying," continued the butler, who was taking them on a tour.

"How long will this take," Mr. Green thought to himself, checking his watch, he had to do an online business meeting in fifteen minutes. Miss Peacock tripped, and caught herself on Colonel Mustard. She shrugged him off in disgust, as he made eyes at her.

"Why did she need to be with such gross and weird people. Her model job never had anyone like this." she hated when no one treated her like the world famous person she was.

"Is there a bathroom anywhere?" asked Mrs. White, looking from face to face.

"Uhh, right inside the main house, if you take a left at the first hallway, and then another left, and then two rights, and then the first door on the right," the butler responded.

"I have to go myself," said Mr. Green, taking this moment to get his meeting set up.

"Okay," stuttered the butler, but you will be missing out on some of the tour. Mr. Green didn't even respond, and just left. "Does anyone else need to leave?" asked the poor butler. Everyone raised their hand.

Inside the main house-the Body Estate-everyone went their separate ways, looking around for their host.

"What I need right now is some Vodka," murmured Colonel Mustard, with the butler no where insight, he had to look for it himself, and that is how the found the limp, already dead, body of their host, Mr. Body.

Col. Mustard remembered Mr. Body mentioning something about a wine cellar, so he meandered around the house looking for the entrance to such a cellar. After ten minutes of searching, the colonel stumbled across he stumbled across a narrow, unassuming downward-sloping staircase tucked away behind a rack of preserves in the walk-in pantry. He descended the creaking steps, each one groaning under his feet, as if in warning. The staircase seemed to spiral deeper into the foundation than the house's exterior suggested until he finally reached a heavy, iron-strapped wooden door that stood slightly ajar. He paused, listening to the heavy silence of the basement, before he carefully nudged the door open on its rusted hinges. The darkness inside was absolute, a thick velvet shroud that smelled of cork and ancient dust. He reached out into the gloom for a light switch, his fingers fumbling blindly against the rough, cold brick of the wall. Finally, a single bulb hummed to life.

The walls were lined with racks of wine, carefully arranged by age and region of origin. In addition to the wine, there was a collection of various other spirits from around the world - vodka, whiskey, tequila, maotai, sake, etc. The colonel had planned to scour the racks for a good drink, but before he could do that, he saw it.

A pale, motionless hand rested on the dusty terracotta floor, its fingers curled loosely as if reaching for a fallen cork. Col. Mustard froze as he registered the body connected to the hand. A tweed jacket, horn-rimmed glasses, and thinning silver hair - this was unmistakably Mr. Body.

The initial shock hit him like a physical blow, leaving his lungs burning for air he couldn't quite catch. He knelt beside the body, his knees cracking in the silence, and reached out with a trembling hand to check for a pulse he already knew wasn't there. The skin was cool and waxy, an unmistakable finality that made the fine vintage bottles surrounding them look like headstones. A dark, tacky pool had begun to spread from beneath the Mr. Body's head, soaking into the grout between the tiles and mimicking the deep crimson of a spilled Cabernet.

Mr. Body's legs were resting at unusual angles. The left arm was twisted underneath the torso. The eyes were still open. Colonel Mustard gently closed them, then backed away, his boots scuffing against the floor until his shoulders hit the sturdy oak of the storage racks. Above him, the house remained blissfully unaware, the faint muffled sounds of the dinner party guests laughing and the clink of silverware mocking the scene below. Their dinner was about to be rudely interrupted.