“For the last time—no one is leaving. You may return to your rooms.”

Helga strode past the Inspector.

He gripped her by the arm. “No one is going anywhere.”

“Unhand her, you brute.” Scott rolled up his shirt sleeves. After a few steps toward the Inspector, he stopped and put up his fists as if to box.

Helga pulled free. She found a place near Scott in the foyer.

The suspects—Professor Holloway, Crosby, and Madam DeBule—and I watched from the second floor balcony. I grew tired of the spectacle and left back down the stairs, then down the hallway to his room. Inside, Capablanca scratched away at a notepad with a pencil.

He lifted the paper after a few minutes to say, “Are these not from the mouths of the victims and other witnesses? Surely, I must be mistaken. Let’s see what you think.”

Looking at the paper, I saw his list:

1) Museum staff report seeing a man matching Holloway’s description with a tall woman with red glasses debating art near a Rothko at 7 PM.

2) A ride-share receipt shows Helga Michelson was dropped off near the Museum, despite her claim she was at gallery.

3) A couple feeding ducks at the time of death reported seeing a man running laps around the lake. He wore practice gloves that identified him as a boxer as he ran.

4) Fresh grease and a burn wound found on Crosby. His neighbor complained of hearing a revving engine around the time of the murder. It ruined Jeopardy for him.

5) A delivery driver tried to drop off a package at Madam Debule’s residence around 7:15 PM. He recalls hearing chanting coming from inside the house.

I put the paper back on the table. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

Capablanca put his coat around his shoulders and grabbed a bottle of water out of the mini fridge. “Gather them all in the upstairs ballroom. I wish to address them.”

When they all had arrived, they took seats around a table as he instructed them.

“You fools. Do you not know who I am? I see through everything.” Capablanca took a sip from his bottle.

The Professor stood as if to say something, then threw himself back down to his seat.

“Yes…yes… and your fragile ego. Why did you, Mr. Holloway, send me on a wild goose chase when you were innocent? Is it because a man of your intelligence cannot be seen with a damsel such as Helga? You two prove each other’s innocence, yet I had to ascertain the truth from a search of the trash!”

After saying this, he downed the remaining contents of the bottle, crumpled it up, and threw it on the table. Then, he removed his coat. “And you, Scott Fizz. While I know you are grieving, your burner phone not only confirmed where you actually were. There were witnesses. They seem to feed the ducks at the park every day at 7:00 PM. Again, simple truth would have sufficed.” He put his coat on the table.

Crosby turned to Madam DeBule as if he wanted to strangle her. “It was you? I know it wasn’t me.”

Capablanca laughed. “Neither of you could find your way out of a plastic bag, much less commit murder. Lies come back to haunt us all. You wasted my time, eliminating your alibis when there was someone else there the entire time. Someone who did not know a thing, yet no one quite knew how.”

“You see, your initial stories gave me the killer as Helga. After all, who else might venture murder than a woman scorned, but no! You all had reasons—blackmail, theft, infidelity, and revenge. Yet, not a one of you could see the truth because you were lying to yourselves and each other.”

Scott slammed the table with his fists. “Get on with it!”

Capablanca took back his coat. “Then tell me, Scott—when all living suspects are removed from play, who is the only possible murderer left?”