The Key

I'm the most important thing in this place. But you can't find me.

Am I in the pile of papers? Under the sink? In the lock box? That would be ironic, wouldn't it?

Never mind that your health is questionable at best, go ahead, raise that blood pressure in your frantic search for me. He didn't tell you where to find me, did he?

Well, he did. He set up all the clues. You just have to pay attention, and you- Ah, you're no longer paying attention. Off you go, frantically fumbling.

He was clever, that former owner of mine.

He knew his relatives were greedy. He knew you would come swarming as soon as he was carried out of the house. Let's just say that his philosophy and yours on how he should live his life didn't line up. And how he should conduct his relationships, well, that didn't fit in well with your plans to take his well-earned gains. Believe me, you've tried it all – threats, manipulation, false arrest, guilt, outright theft. And were thwarted, time and time again. Cameras, changed phone numbers, a clandestine move, no forwarding address, new social media accounts. Friends in the local police station, and proof that he wasn't where they said he was when accusations flew. And shiny new PFAs when you pulled that slag, faithfully renewed every time till he died.

He and his mate were very much a match – key and lock, if you will. As a matter of fact, that's the heart of the mystery hunt that each of you “family” members have been sent on.

Which one of you was keeping secret tabs on him, to rat out his death to the others? Luckily his mate and lawyer were all over it.

You know those “reading of the will” things you always see in the movies? Yeah, those don't happen in real life, you've discovered. You were denied your dramatic moment, too rusty bad. What does happen, though, is that all you rats come crawling out of the woodwork to claim “your rightful share,” and the lawyer got such a kick out of slapping you down. He was friends since college with my owners, and he's fiercely protective of his buddies.

They cooked up this thing on one of their fishing trips. My human didn't want anyone just suddenly appearing with some made-up letter of eviction or fake will, trying to force the issue on friends-made-real-family in raw grieving. So their house location was kept secret, and their wills were set up so that the other got everything. Iron clad, they deliberately moved to a very liberal state so their wishes would be backed up by some very powerful local laws.

But they also bought a property somewhere between home and their state of birth, and refurbished it to look lived-in. Not exact, of course, but enough to fool the stupid. And the three of them – the lawyer loves the idea so much he's in on it too with his own greedy “family” – decided that anyone who wants a piece of a pie that's not theirs has to complete a locked room puzzle.

You have a day to figure out the clues, solve the riddles, find me, and unlock the giant safe with the prize. If you don't, you have to abide by the contract to leave and never contact the rightful heir ever again, for any reason.

And for an extra challenge, those three stuffed this place full of keys. All shapes, all sizes, all metals. Hung, scattered, framed, hidden, filling drawers and cabinets and a few in the toothbrush holder just because. Some are even pewter, and one's gallium for kicks and giggles. Don't get it wet! Oh, that reminds me, some are in the toilet tank. A few are bedazzled, because eff you, that's why. One has real jewels on it, is made of silver, just to see who'll take notice. None of you have, yet. Will you? Nope, doesn't look likely. The gold one is only paint, on a portrait, with a finger pointing in my direction.

And I get to listen, and laugh in my old-fashioned way at the words that are said by each contestant. I know, I know, iron-ic, isn't it?

I would have made a great straight guy. I make an even better skeleton in a closet. Come on, those were funny! Hunh, tough audience – oh, that's right, you're too busy panicking to listen properly. Make more noises, I'd love to learn some new curse words.

There's a sheriff nearby who drives you out here, blindfolded. You have to change clothes to make sure there's no tracking devices and stuff. None of that is necessary, but everyone gets a kick out of watching their old bullies taken down a peg or five. Humility is supposed to be good for self-reflection, not that any of you are even looking at the mirrors here. Hint, hint.

My former owner collected friendships. People like himself, who were bullied for their orientation. I don't get that part, there's up and down, and sideways, correct? Well, I guess there's sideways left to lock, and sideways right to unlock. Well, anyway, the sheriff is one of the old friends too. He was delighted to help, and contributed quite a few keys to the cause himself. The sheriff insisted on helping install cameras, to watch the fun.

And it's definitely fun!

Luckily the place is sturdy, because the curse words come with things being thrown, kicking stuff. One made the mistake of hitting the cinderblock wall, that was a trip to the hospital for his stupidity. Another started ripping the doors off cabinets, that one was given a bill for the damage. Still another was arrested for trying to burn it down. The guys call it “exquisite revenge for what you put us through.”

It's been so long, I think they've actually forgotten where they put me.

The treasure's real; the safe is bolted to the floor in the foyer. A reminder of what's at stake as the clock decorated with keys ticks loudly in the hall. The lawyer has a paper with the details on it, but he's retired now, and I know his home office is a mess. I was there when he was practising, and I'm certain it's only gotten worse now that he doesn't need to keep it neat. And the money and stocks in the safe are so minimal compared to their real net worth, they don't care if I get forgotten.

But I care.

I like being used for the purpose for which I was created. Revenge is a fun side quest, though. So entertaining to – hey, there, that's gonna cost ya, antique mirrors don't grow on trees!

At least you're not idiotic enough to just shove all the keys you find in the lock, hoping one of them is magically correct. My poor mate is chipped and bruised from that kind of poor sportslockship.

I'm hoping some of the nieces or nephews take a shot. Most of them aren't the bad sort, and haven't picked up your particular brand of stupid. Some even went off on you at gatherings, publicly calling you out on your slagging attitudes. And though they didn't do it to get on my humans' good side, I know the guys made sure a small anonymous college grant appeared for each when they'd get wind of the kids doing the right thing. Which is nice, they didn't have to do that.

Ah, and now you're screaming again. I can hear you from my secret compartment. The drawer with the ultraviolet flashlight is one of the first things you opened, you'd think one oddity with all the keys would be A Huge Clue. Isn't that one of the things you're given when you do the locked room games? And I know the message is on the wall right above the couch with the key upholstery – the blank space framed by keys, all pointing inward.

Oh well. Dawn's coming. The sheriff will be coming soon to cart you away.

I would like to be found by the right person.

Please, come try! Come find me! I'd like to see my lock again before I rust into uselessness.