Death at Bull's Tavern

The Priest, the Madam, the Sheriff, the Salesman, the Horseman and the Barkeep, sat around the table. The Pianist’s body laid cold on the hayrick just outside the barn.

“God rest his soul.” Murmured the Priest bringing a full glass of brandy to his lips.

“Yes”, stood the Sheriff, choked on the memory of flipping the body over and seeing the wound that ended the Pianist’s life. There was no gushing blood, no oozing gore. Still, the lawman barely knew what to say, “God bless him…”

“God help us.” Exhaled the Madam sensing the Sheriff was shaking in his boots.

“He was an atheist.” Said the Barkeep refiling her own glass.

“Thank God.” Grunted the Salesman before downing his drink.

“So, what now?” The Horseman asked. No one else spoke, so he turned to the embodiment of the authorities, “Sheriff. What now?”

“I…” five sets of unblinking eyes watched the Sheriff, waiting for an answer, or, at least, a sense of direction, “Well, one of you definitely did it.”

The room exploded in 'Oh’s!' and 'Hey’s!', the Horseman smirked and took a sip of his drink. The Sheriff remained standing, hoping no one could see his fear of losing authority, but knowing that wasn't the case.

“Like you would not want him dead, Sheriff!” Silence fell over the room when the Priest stood up, his pinkish completion now tomato red. He continued. “Was the Pianist not the man who broke your fiance's heart before you proposed to her? Did she never get over him? Hmmm?” His words slightly slurred.

“I told you that in confession!” The Sheriff responded.

“Oh, we were not at church!” The Priest leaned on the Madam’s shoulder. “And that was not a confession, it was whining”.

“I am not a petty man! One of you did it and I’ll prove it, damn it!” The Sheriff grabbed his hat and made his way out to the Out-Outhouse.

The rest of the party needed no words when they looked around the table, into each other’s eyes, and concluded no one wanted to chance staying behind with a murderer. Everyone stood and followed the Sheriff out into the crime scene.

Though the moon hung high in the night’s sky, the Sheriff wore his hat and tilted it back to get a better look at the ground, where the body was found. Once outside, the Barkeep joined the Sheriff in searching for clues. The rest of the party leaned against the barn's wall, half too drunk, half wary of the moist ground. The Salesman took a sip out of his flask and offered it to the Priest.

“Don’t touch that!” The Sheriff screamed at the Barkeep, who held the metal bucket in her hand. The Sheriff stepped closer, “It’s a weapon! See the dent on the side? The killer must have hit the Pianist with it.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” The Barkeep asked but didn't drop the bucket. She looked down into it, “Oh…”

The party’s ears perked up, and they watched as the Barkeep reached in the bucket and pulled out a once light blue, now blood-stained, handkerchief. The lonely clue was brought back inside and laid on the center of the table.

“Well…” Said the Priest felling very uncomfortable, “Does it belong to any of the ladies?”

“I would never use silk.” Answered the Barkeep, “I’m a cotton kinda gal.”

“I would not be caught dead near that bucket.” The Madam said with a disgusted look. "So it could not possibly have been me.” She concluded, and a disagreeable silence soon befell the room.

“Bit of a jump to conclusion, don’t you think?” Asked the Barkeep.

“Hey. I’ll ask the questions.” Interrupted the Sheriff. “That was quite the leap to a solution. Why should we believe you?” The Barkeep rolled her eyes, the Horseman and Salesman giggled.

“I am far too weak to knock a man to the ground with a swing of a nasty bucket.” Argued the Madam.

“But could you forgive him for the stolen watch?” Asked the Salesman.

“He’s the one who stole my watch?!” She responded appalled.

“Well, that’s at least one case solved.” The Sheriff thought aloud.

“Not until I have the watch back!” Stood the Madam.

“So you didn’t kill him, but have no scruples in going through a dead man’s pockets?” Asked the Barkeep, stopping the Madam in her tracks.

“Stop me if I’m wrong...” Interrupted the Priest “Did I not see you arguing with our Pianist this evening?”

There was a pause while the Barkeep gathered her thoughts.

“You all may have noticed that he was about to leave town.” Sighed the Barkeep pointing at the suitcases next to the piano, “I wanted him to stay after hours for a last smoke and a drink, but he wanted to leave as soon as possible. I thought he was across the street, waiting out the clock.”

“That’s true.” Confirmed the Sheriff, “They distracted me from the chess game.”

“Oh, now you’re just making excuses!” Yelled the Salesman.

“It must have been him!” The Barkeep pointed at the Salesman, “He’s always dropping his knick-knacks about.”

“A handkerchief? Who here doesn’t have one?” Asked the Salesman before he pulled a silk square of fabric from his jacket pocket, dropping a comb on the table in the process. Everybody followed suit and pulled their own handkerchief out of their pockets.

“I never carry one with me.” Said the Horseman, empty-handed.

“How convenient. Why not?” Asked the Barkeep.

“I’ll ask the questions!” Whined the Sheriff.

“To be honest, it is just as odd to me that all of you feel a need to carry these pieces of fabric on your person.” Shrugged the Horseman.

“Have we considered that the kerchief might belong to the Pianist?” Asked the Madam. It dawned on the party that they would not solve the crime without, again, looking at the corpse.

Standing over the Pianist’s body, the Sheriff and Barkeep trembled. The memory of carrying the dead weight around the barn onto the hayrick was bad enough, but seeing his face, drained of color save for the bruise on his temple, had their blood run cold. The party stood behind the Barkeep and Sheriff. Waiting.

“Fine.” Sighs the Salesman as he stepped forward and rolled up his sleeves. With the tips of his fingers, the man dug into the Pianist’s breast pocket, and found the train ticket. He handed the find to the Sheriff and dug further into the jacket’s pockets.

“Found it.” Said the Salesman as he turned around holding a clean handkerchief.

The train ticket, and the Pianist’s clean handkerchief joined the case’s first clue. The Sheriff leaned on the table, his eyes ran along the sickles on the walls. They were firmly stabbed onto the wood.

“Are there any other cutting tools in here?” He asked the Barkeep.

“No. One drunk scythe fight was enough.” She answered leaning back on the bar - arms crossed, eyes on the evidence, “The sickles have been up there for years. They rusted in the walls.”

“Were there always seventeen?” Asked the Horseman.

“There’s no way someone pulled one of those out unnoticed.” Answered the Barkeep.

“How can we know for sure?” Asked the Priest.

“My friend just died.” She said, exhausted, “Why would I lie?”

“Because he was the entertainment. Without him, your tavern will suffer.”

The Barkeep stared the Priest dead in the eye, “Well, Priest. Since we’re talking motive, you wouldn’t mind sharing your own indiscretions with the victim.” Everybody GASPED.

The redness rushed to the Priest’s cheeks, leaving the rest of his face white as paper. He shut up and sat down. The Madam sat next to him and held his hand. One by one, the others sat back down, except for the Sheriff.

“I think we are forgetting something.” He said, making his way around the table, “There’s a man here we cannot trust.”

“For the love of God, will let that game go?!” Cried the Salesman.

“Not you. The man we don’t know. Who showed up here tonight and never once took off his hat.” He stopped next to the Horseman, “My daddy told me to never trust a man who doesn’t take his hat off indoors. What do you have to hide?”

The Horseman leaned back in his chair, looked the Sheriff dead in the eye, and, finally, took off his hat. His green eyes were unnaturally right, to the point where they seemed to glow even under light, but that's not what the party was worried about. High on the Horseman's forehead were two small black horns that, once free from the hat, began to grow out - very slowly - longer and thicker out of the man's head. The Priest vomited on the floor.

“So it was you?” Accused the wide-eyed Madam in disbelief.

“What?” The Horseman frowned.

“Probably didn’t even need a motive.” Mused the drunken Salesman.

“And if it is true.” Concluded the Sheriff, “Probably didn’t need a weapon either.”

“Oh, yes!” Stood the Horseman, “Blame The Devil! Then you will all be heroes and everyone is innocent. That's a horrible ending to this whole thing.”

“But you know what happened then?” The Barkeep asked.

“Your Pianist might be my problem now, depends on what the other guy says, but on Earth, you are on your own. I just dropped in for a drink. Thanks for the show.”

The Horseman finished his drink and turned to the Sheriff, who stood frozen as he watched his career flash before his eyes. The Devil let the full weight of his hand land on the Sheriff’s shoulder, snapping the young man back to reality.

“That wound was clean.” Said the Horseman, “It wasn’t a sickle. One of them still has the murder weapon.”

The party could do little else but watch the man make his way out the door, hiding his horns under the hat once more. A horse galloped outside, and a flash of blinding green light flooded the town, penetrating the gaps in the old wooden walls and flooding the tavern. The party ran outside, but there was no trace of the man, or his horse. The remaining horses seemed undisturbed. The Pianist’s body laid just out of the party’s sight.

“We fought.” The Barkeep recalled, “And he stepped out for a cigarette...”

“Right after that, I lost a game of chess.” The Sheriff turned to the Salesman again.

"And my motive is that a sore loser doesn't the cut of my jib?!" The Salesman challenged the Sheriff and the Barkeep.

"Unless you were the Pianist's other lover," Said the Priest, “last I saw him, he was worried about his lover's reaction to him leaving town.”

“Weren’t you his lover?” The Madam whispered to the Priest.

“Naiveté isn’t a good color on you, darling.” The Priest whispered back.

"This is absurd", the Salesman still kept his cool.

"But how else would you know the Pianist had my watch?" Asked the Madam.

Silence.

"I knew you added a pawn to the board!" The Sheriff exclaimed in glee.

With all eyes on him, the Salesman punched the Sheriff square on the jaw, and ran toward the cartoonish wagon, scarring his own horse. Not losing any time, the Barkeep tackled the Salesman to the ground and used her belt to bind his hands behind his back.

The man was so drunk by now he could barely put up a fight as the Sheriff and Barkeep searched his pockets, pulling out matchboxes, cigarettes, a pipe, small notebooks, another handkerchief, all but a murder weapon.

“Search his socks!” Yelled the Madam.

And there, in the Salesman’s left sock, the Sheriff found a barber’s razor. Thought the object looked clean, the handkerchief didn’t manage to clean the slit where the blade rested, and once unfolded, it revealed fresh blood. The Barkeep held the Salesman by the lapel.

“Why?!”

“No one can have him anymore...” The Salesman confessed.

At the crack of dawn, the Sheriff rode away to the other end of town, his horse pulled the wagon where the Salesman sat, bound by the wrists. The Priest watched them leave, smoking a cigarette outside while the Madam paid for the empty bottle of Brandy.

The Madam joined the man of God with a cigarillo at the end of her cigarette holder. Their shadows stretched down the road as they walked away from the tavern and into the building whose lights never went out.

The Barkeep patiently put out each light in the tavern, when suddenly - POP! The young woman nearly jumped out of her skin. She held on to her chest, and looked around. The nearly empty bottle of bourbon on the table was open, and the cork stuck the landing on the Pianist's stool.

The sun hung low in the sky when the Barkeep stepped outside with the stool and the bottle. She sat just around the corner from the hayrick, and never said a work, just drank from the bottle, then poured one out for her friend.