Cream Neela
The butler leads me through the grand front hall of the estate, his steps a steady echo on the marble floor. Everything here gleams – polished banisters, towering portraits, chandeliers dripping crystal. It’s the sort of house built to impress, to intimidate, to remind visitors of the wealth and power of the man who owns – or rather owned – it.
I brace myself for more of the same as the butler opens the parlor door but am pleasantly surprised.
The room is warm, intimate – soft colors, well-loved books, a small fire crackling in the grate. And in the center of it all sits the newly widowed Dagmar.
She rises when I enter, and for a moment I forget myself.
I had done my research in preparation for this meeting. Scoured newspapers and gossip columns, noted the soirées she and her husband attended together and the ones she attended alone, traced the subtle shifts in influence that followed her wherever she went. Everything I found painted the same picture: a young, vain society wife who had grown tired of her husband’s infidelities and put a stop to them for good.
I thought I knew exactly what to expect with Dagmar. A polished beauty in pin curls and pearls, rehearsed in charm, elegant in a way few could fail to admire and fully aware of it.
But I am utterly ill-prepared to face the woman that stands before me.
Her mourning dress, her unadorned hair, the quiet stillness of her posture – she is the antithesis of all my presumptions. Yet her beauty stands resolute, simply expressed without the gloss of society’s expectations. Not the cultivated radiance I anticipated, but something gentler, quieter, and entirely natural.
And that, more than anything, unsettles me. I had braced myself for artifice. Instead, her eyes meet mine with a calm sincerity that leaves me momentarily unmoored.
“Detective,” she says, her voice soft. “Thank you for coming.”
“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” I reply. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today. I know you must be busy with preparations.”
“It’s no trouble for me either,” she says, gesturing for me to sit. “And please, call me Dagmar.”
A maid enters quietly with a tray of tea and pastries, setting it on the table between us. Before she can begin serving, Dagmar offers her a gentle nod of dismissal.
“That will be all.”
The maid hesitates only a moment before withdrawing, leaving the two of us alone.
Dagmar reaches for the teapot herself, her movements calm and deliberate. It’s unexpected – someone of her station pouring tea for a guest – but she seems entirely at ease with it.
“Sugar?”
I nod, collect myself, and begin the interview. I start with the basic questions – name, age, family background – before steering towards the topics I really came here for. I ask about her marriage, her husband, the rumors of his infidelity. I ask about the days leading up to his demise.
His death had been ruled a sudden cardiac event, unfortunate but unremarkable, at least on paper. Still, something about the timing, the whispers, the way the household closed ranks… it warranted a closer look.
She answers it all with quiet clarity, never defensive and never evasive. She does not weep for her husband, but neither do I sense from her any joy in his passing.
I examine her every action as though under a microscope. The way her brow furrows when an answer eludes her, the slight uptick of her lips when recalling a fond memory, and the waver in her voice when recounting her husband’s final moments.
I am observing the tremble in her hands when I notice it.
The shadow of a bruise, fading but unmistakable, peeking out from beneath the loose sleeve of her dress. Though I cannot see it in its entirety, I can make out the beginnings of its finger-like shape.
The sight hits me harder than I would have expected. A cold, sharp jolt beneath the ribs. My question falters mid‑sentence, the words drying in my throat.
She notices instantly.
Her hand freezes. Her breath catches. And for a heartbeat, she looks at me with something like fear – fear that I’ve seen too much, fear of what I might assume, fear of what I might do with the knowledge.
“I – please don’t misunderstand,” she says with a forced smile. “It’s nothing, truly. I was careless with a vase.”
I don’t believe her. But I let it pass.
The conversation drifts from there. First in a weak attempt to diffuse the sudden tension, then with aplomb as we find ourselves enjoying one another’s company. She asks about my work, my travels. I ask about the estate, the town, the pastries she insists I try. They’re soft, sweet, impossible to refuse – much like the woman sitting before me.
I’m halfway through one before I realize I’ve stopped thinking like a detective. She’s halfway through an anecdote from her childhood when I realize how little that perturbs me.
When I reach for my cup and find it empty, she smiles faintly. “We’ve run out.”
“So we have.”
“Would you…like more?”
I would, but I force myself to shake my head. “No. I should be going.”
She rises with me, smoothing her skirt. “Let me walk you out.”
We move through the hall together, the walk to the entryway far too short for my liking. I rack my brain for any excuse to prolong my visit. The question slips out before I can talk myself out of it. “You said you have a private garden. May I see it?”
Her eyes widen, surprised but also, I hope, pleased. “If you’d like.”
The garden is tucked behind a hedge, secluded and quiet. Flowers bloom in careful clusters, each one chosen with intention. She moves among them with a familiarity that softens her entire posture.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“My mother taught me to garden,” she replies. “I come out here to tend to it when I miss her or just when I need a moment of peace. It’s the only place in this estate that has ever felt truly mine. Though, I suppose that is no longer the case…”
We walk slowly, both of us unabashedly stretching the moment. I am admiring a patch of roses when an unexpected spark of color catches my eye near the far edge of the garden. It is a lone bloom sitting atop a mound of upturned dirt, carelessly dropped as someone hastily uprooted a section of flowers.
I do not know much about flowers, but there are a handful of plants I have had to familiarize myself with in the course of my work. One of which is remarkably similar to the flower I stare at now – purple, delicate, and star‑shaped.
Belladonna.
My heart sinks into my stomach as the last piece of the puzzle I had hoped desperately not to solve slotted itself into place. Dagmar had the motive to kill her husband, the opportunity, and now I can no longer deny she had the means as well.
“Is something the matter?” she asks me, and from the corner of my eye, I see her gaze follow mine. “Why do you look so – oh.”
The color drains from her face, and we both know she has been caught.
I want her to deny it. Want her to claim I have misidentified the plant or say she has never seen it before. Accuse me of having planted the evidence myself.
She does none of those things. Instead, she stands perfectly still, back rigid and hands clasped tightly before her. She waits for the accusation, the arrest. I wait for myself to deliver them but find I cannot.
Because as I stare at that small, purple flower, I am reminded of the large, purple bruises blooming across Dagmar’s wrist. As soon as I acknowledge this truth, my decision is made.
“You may want to tidy up your garden,” I say with faux calmness. “Reporters will start popping up soon enough, and they’ll photograph everything.”
I retrieve the flower and walk back to Dagmar. I take her hand and place the flower into her palm. As I close her fingers around it, my other hand moves to gently brush her bruised wrist.
“We wouldn’t want them gossiping about unkempt lawns,” I continue. “It could be…embarrassing for you.”
She exhales shakily, understanding exactly what I’m telling her – and what I’m choosing not to say.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I release her hand slowly, reluctantly. The moment stretches between us, charged and confusing. I’m not a man who falls quickly. I’m not a man who lets his work blur at the edges. Yet here I am, determined to risk my career for a woman I’ve known for less than a day. A woman I am certain murdered a man and who I only hope did so for just reasons. I need to leave before I make any more mistakes.
“Detective,” she hesitates, “Would you like to come back some time? I want to properly show my appreciation for your hard work and your…excellent advice.”
I am surprised by the sudden invitation but far from displeased. “I – yes,” I manage to stutter. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
Her expression warms, subtle but unmistakable. “Good. I’ll look forward to it.”
I tip my hat and turn toward the path, already rehearsing my attestation of no foul play. The scent of belladonna and sugared tea linger behind me like a secret we now share.
Floral painting is Still-Life with Flowers by Rachel Ruysch
Background and all other images from Pixabay
Profile and story by
Calypso
