Poe Party (Rewritten) - Heliot

Chapter 8: The Cask of Amontillado

A/N: implied sexual content but very abstract and for just a moment

"Well, this is great. Poe is probably dead now, too," Charlotte said.

"Don't say such a thing," Annabel responded disapprovingly.

"Miss Lee, tonight is a test," Ernest said from an armchair, taking a sip from his flask. It burned going down but it was good. "The world breaks everyone, and afterwards, some are stronger in the broken places." And some are gone for good.

"Yes, life is hard. Thank you, we never would have known," Oscar drawled.

"At least I can confront it like a man," Ernest muttered.

"By punctuating every statement you make with a swig of alcohol, hm?" Oscar stood up.

"I don't hide behind witticisms and bon mots, I tell it like it is." Ernest tucked the flask into his coat and took a sip from a glass instead.

"Where are you getting all these drinks?" Oscar asked.

"I know how to box!" Ernest said, jumping up.

"Oh, here we go with this," Charlotte sighed.

"Yes, I'm sure your boxing matches are as short as your stories," Oscar smirked.

Something overcame Ernest then and he lunged forwards with a strangled yell. Oscar fell back into a chair and Ernest raised a hand to strike the man when he was pulled away by Charlotte and Annabel stood between him and Oscar.

His blood boiled hot, his heart pounded. He lunged around Annabel as soon as Oscar had gotten to his feet and the two ladies tried desperately to keep the two tussling men apart.

There was a sound, someone cleared their throat, and they all paused to see Edgar return with two policemen.

They quickly let go of each other and stood there guiltily.

"We often find that when we are struggling with writer's block, uh, that we... are... struggling with each other," Edgar said.

They all nodded.

"We are so sorry to interrupt," said one of the policemen.

"Yes, this looks like a very intense exercise, and I just want to say," the other added,"... you're all doing very good work on yourselves, and that's important.

"Yes, uh, please. These are officers Jim and Jimmy from the local police," Edgar introduced them. "They are investigating the disappearance of an Agatha Christie, and I informed them that we certainly have no knowledge of her whereabouts because we are merely a group of writers having a writer's conference... about food metaphors."

"Have I seen you before somewhere?" Jimmy asked Oscar.

"Probably. I'm very famous," he replied airily.

"A-And sir, can you tell me where you were last Thursday night?" Jim asked Ernest.

"I was..." Ernest remembered where he actually had been - with Mary Ann. They'd had dinner at his house. It was one of the only times he had seen her in a dress, and a plain one at that, but she had been so lively then, so perfect. The glow of her long hair, down for once, on the sheets later that night. The sunlight coming through the curtains in the morning to stripe across her small body tangled in the sheets.

"Hosting friends. Aboard my skiff, off the coast of Cuba. We drank rum, smoked cigars. I wrestled one of them."

"Oh, that sounds like a ton of fun!" Jimmy said.

"It wasn't. Life is suffering." And death makes it worse.

"So none of you have seen Miss Agatha Christie?" Jim asked. "It seems she was invited to this writer's conference."