The Murder of Adelaide Sunflower Part 2

Someone murdered Adelaide but not because of her lovely apple pie.

The Second Master Chef Thomas Roseroot watched Sir Dawn pack his pipe without saying a word. They sat in the small stone room of the Pegasus Core Garrison, where long rays of lights cut through the window, painting Dawn’s fur in a bright hue of red. Hints of dust dance through the light as if they were trying to enjoy a sunbath before sailing back into the shadows. Dawn calmly packed his pipe with cherry wood tobacco before sitting back and lighting it ablaze.

                Smoke clouded the squirrel’s hard face becoming thicker in the light of the day. The sunlight still marched on through the smoke like it was nothing more than mist, and Dawn stared at the Chief before him.

                They had combed over Adelaide’s house once more to see if anything had been taken, and nothing was missing. Which told Dawn only one thing, the murder was meant to be a murder and nothing else. The killer showed up to her house sometime during the night to stab her to death.

                “I guess now you are the Master of the Kitchen,” Dawn said with smoke pouring out of his mouth.

                “I guess so,” Thomas agreed to try to steel his nerves, but the Knight’s hard eyes, cold and gray made it hard not to recoil from him.

                “You must be happy about moving up in your Rank,” Dawn said.

                “Not really,” Thomas shook his head.

                “Why so?” Dawn asked.

                “I wasn’t ready to take Adelaide’s place,” Thomas said. “She still had some much to teach me.” He glanced down at his paws, balling up in his lap. The sting of tears dashed to his big golden eyes, and he wanted to cry for his lost friend, but couldn’t. He couldn’t weep in front of Dawn; it would make him look weak. So he bit his lip, keeping the tears at bay. “She was my best friend.”

                “I hear you two were close,” Dawn said, his tone flat as if he couldn’t see the tears building up in Thomas's eyes or simply didn’t care.

                “We were.”

                “Close enough to be more than friends?” Dawn asked.

                “What?” Thomas shoots his gaze back to him. “No. I have a wife, sir.”

                “I know,” Dawn nodded,” which is why you had to get rid of Adelaide, right? Did she threaten to tell your wife?”

                “No, not at all,” Thomas snapped, wounded at the mere question. “I would never betray my wife in that meaner, sir.” He made sure the word sir was hard and cruel.

                “Are you sure?” Dawn asked. He made a big cloud of smoke from his pipe. A pipe he had made himself craved to have the face of a roaring lion on it. The little holes he added to the nose of the lion let some the smoke swirled out over it.

                “Very,” Thomas almost growled. “I love my wife more than anything in this world.”

                “Did Adelaide love anyone in that meaner?” Dawn asked, not letting Thomas angry get to him.

                Thomas sat back with worry flash of his face for a moment before he hides it. “I had rumors there might be someone.”

                “Do these rumors have a name?” Dawn asked.

                “I do not know it,” Thomas said calmly.

                “Odd,” Dawn said, pointing his pipe at Thomas, “you said Adelaide was your best friend.”

                Thomas locked his jaw.

                “Why wouldn’t she tell you the name of her suitor?” Dawn asked. “Don’t you think that is odd, Frist Chef?”

                “Like I said, they were rumors,” Thomas said. “In the kitchen, rumors are more command place than a butter knife. I heard them but never ask Adelaide about it. I figure if she wanted me to know, then she would tell me.”

                Dawn study him for a moment seeing this squirrel didn’t kill Adelaide. He stood on the edge of crying like a baby at the mere thought of his friend’s death. He had even begged the Wing Administrator of the Palace to remove him from the Rank of Frist Chef. He told the Administrator he wasn’t ready and would stay on as Second Master Chef, but he didn’t want to take Adelaide’s place. If he killed Adelaide to move up in Rank, then it had been a poor plan, indeed.

                “Did Adelaide have any enemies?” Dawn asked.

                Thomas shook his head. “Everyone loved her. I still can’t believe someone would hurt her.”

                “Better squirrels have died for less,” Dawn said, pulling on his pipe.

                “Yeah, I guess so.”

                “Is there no one you could think of that wanted to hurt her?” Dawn asked. “Maybe for revenge? Maybe some servant was mad at her?” If Adelaide had been anything like most of the Frist Chef Dawn had met, they could run their kitchens with an iron paw.

                “No one,” Thomas said, frowning deeply. “I’m sorry, sir.”

                “Anyone comes to the kitchen in the last few days or weeks angry at her?” Dawn asked.

                “Not that I can recall,” Thomas said. “Everyone loved her food. The historian Brain Redtales would come to sit with her all the time to talk. They spoke about everything, but he loved her apple pie, just like the Emperor did.”

                Dawn made a note about the historian. He had heard his name brought up three times today. Everyone seems to think it was odd Brain and Adelaide had been close, but Dawn knew everyone liked to talk about themselves. If the Bard had been letting her tell her story, then she would speak to him until Kingdom come.

                Either way, he still had to find out what Brain knew about Adelaide. Maybe, there had been something in her past, which led to her death.

                “Was Brain the only squirrel who came to see her?” Dawn asked.

                “Some Hoods, some Knights,” Thomas said softly, “the Emperor. As I said, everyone enjoyed her apple pies, so they came to get some.”

                “But no one out of the normal?” Dawn asked.

                “Not that I notice, sir,” Thomas said. “But the kitchen is a busy place, squirrels come and go all the time.”

                Dawn nodded, sitting the pipe down on his dark desk. “Thank you, and Thomas -“his eyes lifted to the steel eyes of Dawn -“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

                “Me too, me too, sir,” Thomas said.

                “You are dismissed,” Dawn said, and Thomas stood up from the chair. He started for the door before Dawn stopped him. “One more thing.” Thomas looked back at him. “Did Sir Gawain Sagesword every come to the kitchen?”

                Thomas took a large gulp and nodded his head, “Yes, sir, a few times.”

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or work on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercises or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.