It was a stormy night. The wind was howling loudly, and the rain was pouring. Someone was knocking on the door. I opened the door, and it was the room service lady, Diane. She asked if I’d fancy a cup of hot jasmine tea. I accepted the tea. She left to get the tea as I gently closed the door. Oh, I almost forgot to introduce myself. I’m Aristide Whitlock, aged 23, and I’m an artist. I had just finished my shift as a part-time waiter at a café, and it suddenly started raining cats and dogs. Unfortunately, I forgot my umbrella, so I was soaking wet. Perhaps that was why Diane offered me some hot tea to warm me up.
Diane was back with the tea, and I invited her into my room. She sat in the armchair and smiled as I sipped my hot, fragrant jasmine tea.
Diane looked at my unfinished artwork and asked, ‘So, how have you been? Miss Janice told me to take good care of you.’ Janice was my aunt and the co-owner of the hotel, and her husband was the owner. I took a deep breath and answered, ‘Everything’s fine, I guess.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Diane.
‘Yes,’ I miffy answered. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’
‘Well, you can’t afford to live in an apartment and have to rely on your aunt,’ Diane shook her head and said. ‘Your aunt is getting old, and you can’t just rely on her your entire life! You need to wake up and think about what to do with your life. You have to look inward and ask yourself the bigger questions.’
I was ignorant. I pretended I didn’t understand what Diane said. I smiled awkwardly and told her to leave.
But what she said shook me. I realised that nothing was subtle. I rely on the income from my low-paying part-time job, and I haven’t gotten a single art commission since this March, and it was for my friend’s wedding. And I am living in a hotel where I begged my uncle to allow my aunt to let me stay.
I was in a financial struggle.
I needed to make a change.
I decided to take a stroll around my hometown, looking for some decent-paying jobs. I, however, couldn’t find any that piqued my interest. I was in despair. What was I going to do? Was my life going to be relying, relying and relying?
I couldn’t let this happen, so I wrote to my friend, Frédéric.
‘Hey, Frédéric,
I’ve been looking for some jobs, and I know you live in a place convenient for those. Would you mind giving me a tour of your neighbourhood while letting me see some jobs? Thanks a lot.’
I got Frédéric’s reply about three days later.
‘Sure, Aris. I’d love to. After all, I haven’t seen you since I married Vivienne. Also, thanks for the painting you did for us, love it and have it framed and pinned on the wall. I guess I’ll see you this Friday – when I’m free – at Johan Café.’
I was ecstatic. I would finally have (like my mother always said) a proper occupation. I was on top of the world, soon worry-free from financial issues. What could go wrong?
Everything, everything went wrong.
On that very day, I met up with Frédéric.
I laughed, ‘Oh Fred, your hair is so messy!’
Frédéric blushed in embarrassment and muttered, ‘I just woke up 30 minutes ago! My alarm clock didn’t work!’
As I requested in the letter, Frédéric took me around his neighbourhood. We walked around, and Frédéric stopped at a door of a vibrant pink house.
He said, ‘Mr. Monet lives here, and I think he can help you.’
Frédéric knocked on the door, but Mr. Monet didn’t answer. Instead, I heard screaming and smelt a strong scent of rust. I tapped on the door again, but there still wasn’t an answer. And this time, there was a loud bang, and the whiff of rust was getting increasingly malodorous. At last, we banged on the door, and Mr Monet finally answered.
Mr Monet had silver hair and a pair of charming glasses. He wore a pair of surgical gloves tinted with red and a butcher’s apron also tinged with red.
Mr Monet smiled, not showing awareness of his attire and celebrated, ‘Well, isn’t it my favourite boy? Fred! I haven’t seen you since March. Where have you been?’
Frédéric hugged Mr Monet and smiled, ‘I’ve been busy with work. Sorry for not visiting you, but I need your help. May we come inside and talk about it?
Mr Monet gaped and replied, ‘Yeah…sure….’
Frédéric and I went inside. How cute! The interior had a fairy-tale-themed design, very unexpected for a man like Mr Monet. However, the dirty rust smell got more intense.
Mr Monet got some tea and asked us to sit on the sofa. He asked in a heavy British accent, ‘Now, who’s this handsome young lad?’
Frédéric answered, ‘That’s my friend, Aristide.’
I added, ‘You may call me Aris for short.’
Mr Monet raised his eyebrows and said, ‘What’s the help you need?
‘Well, you see my friend here,’ Frédéric answered.
‘Yes?’
‘He needs a job.’
‘I see.’
Out of nowhere, there was a muffled yelp, ‘HELP’, Mr Monet sweated and stuttered, ‘D-don’t mind that. It’s just the cat.’ Mr Monet ran upstairs, and I heard a lot of banging noises.
When Mr Monet was gone, Frédéric drank the whole cup of tea and asked me, ‘Hey, this tea is some good stuff. Do you mind if I drink yours too?’
I answered, ‘Not at all. I wasn’t going to drink it anyway.’
After a short while, Mr Monet was back, covered in sweat as if he had just taken a shower. ‘Aris, isn’t it? Here’s a treat for you, all the jobs in the city,’ Mr Monet said. ‘Now, would you two kindly leave? I have some duties to attend to.’
‘Alright, thanks, Mr Monet,’ said Frédéric, waving to Mr Monet.
Frédéric and I left Mr Monet’s house and headed to Frédéric’s cosy cottage. However, during the walk, Frédéric said, ‘My body feels numb. Can we sit down and let me take a rest?’
I helped Frédéric to a nearby bench.
After a short while, Frédéric said weakly, ‘I think I’m fine now. Let’s go.’ But Frédéric was really alright. When Frédéric got from the bench, he collapsed onto the ground. He had a stroke and groaned in pain.
He kept moaning until he stopped moving.
I phoned the police immediately, and they came in a short while, along with the ambulance. The doctor crouched down and quickly examined Frédéric. It wasn’t long before Frédéric had laid his last breath. The doctor said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
I gave a dry sob, but deep down. I was sorrowful, demented and in grave despair. How did Frédéric suddenly die? Did someone murder him? Who could’ve done such a thing?! Soon, the police requested me to follow them for an inquiry.
During the ride to the police station, I looked at the folder Mr Monet gave me. There was the same rusty smell that came from his house. That was when I realised that wasn’t the scent of rust at all.
It was blood, blood from his cold-hearted murders.
When we arrived at the police station, the police ordered me to tell them what I knew. I told them about how Frédéric died, from his stepping in Mr Monet to his very last moment.
Then I left the police station, still in the gloom of Frédéric’s sudden death. I set off to Johan Café to get my usual – a hot mocha latte – and went back to the hotel.
Back at the hotel, it was already midnight. The wind was yet again howling loudly while the rain was pouring heavily. Once more, someone knocked on the door. Was this some kind of déjà vu?
But I didn’t even bother to open the door this time. I knew it was Diane, worried about me again. At this point, I can’t stand more ‘ted-talks’ from anyone except Frédéric. I wished that he were still alive.
I lay on my bed and thought about what had happened that day, from Mr Monet to the, y’know…that.
What was something that Frédéric did that I didn’t? A strange light sparked within my eyes, and suddenly, I had an idea of how Frédéric was brutally murdered. Maybe that light was a blessing from Frédéric.
The next day I bolted to the police station and told them my theory that Frédéric got poisoned by the drink Mr Monet gave us. My proof included the peculiar screaming and banging that concluded Mr Monet could’ve murdered and wanted to rid all witnesses of any proof. The tea Mr Monet gave had a vile skunk spray smell, and Frédéric had hyposmia. I didn’t notice the smell since it blended with the rusty blood scent in the background.\
The police thought for a while and one said, ‘Yes, we have a similar theory too. Yesterday we saw your file, and it was from Mr Monet, so we searched his house and found two empty teacups and this pen, that says… Frédéric Laurent – who’s the victim of the murder.’
The police showed me the pen, and the other continued, ‘We thought that Frédéric and you had visited Mr Monet’s house, so we did a DNA check on the cups to make sure. We were correct. But meanwhile, the Forensics contacted us that Frédéric had died of batrachotoxin poisoning, so we scrutinised the cup and both had very little remaining of batrachotoxin inside.
I asked, ‘So it’s confirmed that Frédéric died from barto-what?’
‘Batrachotoxin.’
‘Yes, Batrachotoxin.’
‘Well, ‘yeah. But we found something else when searching Mr Monet’s house.’
‘What is it?’
‘Dead bodies of famous artist Ruselle Fleming and her sister.’
‘W-wow…’
‘We don’t know his intentions, but we must send him to justice. This man is not safe.’
A few days passed and there was news about Mr Monet. He was arrested for homicide and at last, imprisoned for 26 years. Yet, we do not know the true intentions of this wicked man.
However, my dear Frédéric, Mr Monet is now sent to justice. Rest in peace, you will be remembered.
A year later, I saw shocking news…but I’m not going to tell you, yet.