Amelia Swan: A Case of Mis-Identity (A Whodunit)
“I can assure you, Vittorio is not the identity snatcher. But someone else here is.”
So says Occult Detective Amelia Swan, words singing through the room like a crossbow bolt. The accusation hits visceral and four targets respond in turn. Three genuine, one theatrical. She can't help but smirk.
Now then, to find the actor.
She dismisses Vittorio and turns to the victim. The butler, for once, has his hands clean of the madness, alibi fitting like a tailored suit.
Here lies Isabelle LaCroix. Ballroom dress glints verdant in the city lights, body slump on the floor parallel to the balcony. Swan and her due diligence has already checked for pulse. LaCroix is alive, but some fates are worse than death. Hair halos a face as smooth and blank as eggshell. Where once eyes splashed and lips danced, there remains only skin and smudges of mascara and powders, useless without the features they mean to accent. The face, once a bastion for individuality, has become a slate of anonymity.
Identity snatchers. The latest fad of the occult. Even Swan’s curriculum vitae–one choke-full of werewolf entrapments and vampire skewers–remains ink-dry on this specific manner.
Now, she occupies the room with one.
A cure was available, if the culprit was found. But, as it tended to be with such things, time was of the essence.
The suspects: Madeline. Beatrice. Oliver. Edward. All of them baptized with the surname LaCroix. Siblings are always trouble, but siblings from one of the wealthiest families in France are hell incarnate. Occult, in hindsight, mixes in like milk and honey.
Adding spice to the mixture, the LaCroix siblings were a poker hand of two pairs, two sets of identical twins. Madeline and Isabelle, Oliver and Edward. The women, in their arms-race to distinguish themselves, were inevitably betrayed by the matching crescent birthmarks on their cheek, faint yet a nuisance–Madeline’s is presently curling with her lips as she spits venom and accusations to her brothers. The men had appeared to reach a truce in their twinhood, differentiating themselves by the cigars that had permanent occupancy in the corner of Edward’s mouth and the glasses of cognac that were glued to Oliver’s hands. Though they share a carnal desire to gamble, their parent’s will the only thing keeping the finances in check. Beatrice, the youngest, remains the black sheep. In genealogy and geography, she stands apart from the others, dress and make up flawless as she appraises silently.
Swan’s brow furrows. All crimes are like marble. The answer lays perfectly formed beneath the surface. One just has to chip away the excess to reveal the statue. And she does, shutting her eyes, cutting out the jittering siblings, all four of them providing enough soap-opera antics–in pose, flourish, accusation–to put Da Vinci’s Last Supper to shame.
Here, in Florence, the LaCroix have secured invitations to Carmelia D’iantori’s Scarlet Gala. Already Swan scoffs. Italy remains one of the few states to keep vampires in its umbrella of citizenship; a veneer of civility smeared over a rot of corruption. Vampires offered what no one else could. While riches could acquire most things, only undead fangs to the neck punched that golden ticket to immortality. And now, the Gala promised such fate to one dear bachelor. Dearest Carmelia was still without a lover, and her patience was wearing thin. Her invitation posited she entertained all genders–and perhaps favoured the femme–Isabelle, Beatrice, and Madeline had hopped on board, immortality too tantalizing to resist. Such is enough to foster an eye roll from Swan, one doesn’t have to be a detective nor be queer–two of her keenest traits–to realize the façade in the statement. To the rich, relationships are yet another transaction. It’s nearly a case killer for her, but curiosity is Swan’s vice. Some puzzles are simply too delicious to let be, and the potential to catch a Face Stealer is a career staple she’s not willing to pass up.
And so, what gift ought to woo a vampire more than a face? A mask to replace their own ghoulish ivory flesh–the only curse of immortality? The motive brought into daylight, Swan moves on.
The events thus far: The LaCroix paid handsomely for a last minute deluxe suite they all then squeezed into–so noble they were, none could settle for a simple inn. Vittorio, the suite’s butler, was sent to acquisition every fine dress, suit, cosmetic, and jewelry in the city. The riches of Florence were now spread out, annexing the bathroom and the kitchen. The LaCroix would settle for nothing less than à la carte, whether food or clothing.
Oliver used the bathroom to prepare first, then Edward, Isabelle, Madeline, and Beatrice, although each had used it prior to relieve their noxious drinking habits. Each one emerged with their vanity quenched, garbed in clothes and accessories alone worth more than Swan’s yearly salary. All remained in the suite during this time in plain sight of one another, save for Oliver, who had sauntered down to the bar to harvest from their collection, finding their room’s offerings inadequate.
All were in the room when the crime occurred. Edward close to the balcony, chewing a cigar to embers. Isabelle nearby, nursing a glass of champagne. Madeline upon the bed, finishing her nails. Beatrice fixing foundation. Oliver in the kitchen, already drunk. Moments before the valet service was about to arrive, Isabelle had suddenly gasped, hands shooting up to face, flute falling and shattering on the floor, glass bursting outwards like a dead star. It takes five seconds, and then she is silent, eyes, mouth and nose fizzling away like the sparkling wine that stains the carpet around her.
“It’s a straight forward scenario,” Swan now turns to address the four. “And I’d say the key to unlock it is the smoking gun. Neither smoking nor a gun for that matter, but a spell. It still occupies this room. Ah! But the trick with magic is that it could come in many forms...” The old-fashioned projectile, fountaining from a wand as crackling and effervescence as fireworks, was still timeless, yet rather unlikely in this case. There remained the more insidious culprits, ingesting, inhaling, direct skin contact. Such things could take time as well. Ingestion did not permit immediate demise. Instead, set the timer for thirty minutes and wait.
But Swan plays her best card for last, garnishing her delivery with a wink: “Or, I can tell you the crime is already solved, but not complete. One of you is guilty, and another is about to be the second victim. Our intrepid face stealer is not finished. You’ll appreciate that I’ve already called the necessary authorities and healers–although one ought to expect siblings to extend such sympathy. You can thank me now, dears.”
Who? (Solution below)
Solution
Swan’s suspicions were raised when, despite having sent Vittorio to claim a buffet of jewels, clothing, and cosmetics to dress themselves to perfection for Carmelia’s gala, one of the LaCroix left a glaring oversight. As Swan surveyed the room for clues, she couldn’t help but notice that Madeline’s birthmark had remained visible, the faint crescent moon on the side of her cheek, a nuisance she wouldn’t readily ignore, and something that could easily be covered with foundation, a cosmetic applied directly to the face and one that both Isabelle and Beatrice had used, as evidenced by the powders remaining on Isabelle’s face, and Beatrice fixing hers at the time of the first face theft. For any other family, it would be of no concern for Swan. But for the infinitely vain LaCroix siblings, it was practically a silver bullet.
Beatrice had also used the bathroom last, therefore explaining why the cosmetic had yet to be triggered upon her. With Madeline as the identity snatcher and Beatrice as the second victim, Swan deduced the motivations quite quickly. Madeline would gift Carmelia with Beatrice’s face, and use Isabelle’s to replace her own after becoming a vampire herself, as an identical twin’s appearance would no doubt provide the perfect substitute.
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