by: Ryan Huff, 2025

The annual Gala of Excess was in full swing at the sprawling estate of Lord Percival Worthington III, a man so rich he once tipped a waiter with a yacht. The air buzzed with the hum of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and a lone Bugatti Chiron that purred like a contented tiger. Crystal chandeliers glittered above, casting light on a sea of tuxedos, sequined gowns, and champagne flutes that never seemed to empty. It was the kind of night where secrets danced in the shadows and wealth was both armor and weapon.

But by midnight, the party took a turn. A scream—shrill, theatrical, and unmistakably Lady Beatrice von Snoot’s—pierced the din. The crowd parted like the Red Sea on a budget, revealing a ghastly sight: Reginald “Reggie” Montague, heir to the Montague caviar fortune, sprawled across the hood of his own cherry-red Maserati. His bow tie was askew, his monocle shattered, and a silver caviar spoon protruded from his chest like a morbid party favor. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the car’s pristine paint job. The socialites gasped. Someone dropped a martini. A poodle named Truffles—owned by the perpetually tipsy heiress Penelope Posh—barked hysterically, as if auditioning for a horror movie.

Detective Mortimer “Morty” Finch arrived, his trench coat clashing horribly with the opulence. He was a wiry man with a mustache that looked like it had lost a bet with a lawnmower. “Well,” he muttered, eyeing the scene, “looks like someone’s gone and made a mess of the hors d’oeuvres.” He knelt beside the Maserati, squinting at the spoon. It wasn’t just any utensil—it was monogrammed with Reggie’s initials, a detail that made Morty chuckle grimly. “If you’re going to stab a man with his own silverware,” he said to no one in particular, “at least have the decency to polish it first.”

The suspects were as plentiful as the champagne bubbles. First, there was Lady Beatrice herself, who’d been jilted by Reggie after he called her prize-winning peacock “a feathered diva with no talent.” She’d been seen clutching a caviar spoon earlier, muttering about “teaching him a lesson.” Then there was Sir Clarence “Cash” Cashmere, a rival caviar magnate whose empire had tanked after Reggie spread rumors that Cash’s product tasted like “fishy despair.” Cash had arrived in a matte-black Lamborghini, revving it menacingly as if to say, “I’m here to settle scores.”

Next up was Penelope Posh, whose dog Truffles had reportedly bitten Reggie’s ankle the week prior—an incident Reggie had dubbed “the mutt’s mutiny.” Penelope, swaying slightly in her stilettos, slurred, “Truffles only bites people who deserve it, darling.” Her alibi? She’d been “admiring the upholstery” of her Rolls-Royce Phantom all night—alone, naturally. Morty raised an eyebrow as Truffles growled at him, baring teeth that glistened like tiny, vengeful pearls. “That’s a dog with opinions,” he noted, scribbling in his damp notepad as rain began to drizzle over the estate.

The list grew longer: Count Vladimir Vroom, a Russian expatriate with a penchant for fast cars and faster grudges, had been overheard saying Reggie’s taste in caviar “insulted the Motherland.” His blood-red Ferrari 488 had been parked suspiciously close to the crime scene. Then there was Margot Mink, a socialite-turned-influencer whose latest post—“Caviar is so last season”—had cost Reggie a fortune in PR damage. She’d zipped into the gala in a neon-green Porsche 911, her laugh as sharp as a guillotine.

As the drizzle turned into a proper downpour, Morty trudged through the muddy gravel, his shoes squelching like a sad accordion. He found a trail of peacock feathers leading to the estate’s garage, where Beatrice’s bird, Sir Squawks-a-Lot, strutted about, oblivious to the chaos. “You’re no help,” Morty grumbled at the peacock, who responded with a haughty squawk. Nearby, a mechanic polishing Cash’s Lamborghini flinched when Morty asked about the car’s whereabouts at midnight. “It… uh… needed a wax,” the man stammered, his hands trembling. Morty smirked. “Waxing a car in the dark? That’s a new one.”

Clues piled up like empty caviar tins. A smudge of lipstick on Reggie’s collar matched Margot’s signature shade, “Vixen’s Vengeance.” A tire tread in the gravel matched Cash’s Lamborghini. A stray peacock feather fluttered near the Maserati, whispering Beatrice’s name. And Truffles—bless his furry soul—kept dragging Morty to a patch of dirt where a half-buried cufflink gleamed: Vladimir’s, monogrammed with a Cyrillic “V.” Morty held it up to the moonlight, rain streaking his face. “Looks like the whole gang brought their calling cards,” he muttered.

The investigation took a detour when Morty stumbled upon the estate’s security footage, conveniently “misplaced” by a bumbling butler named Jeeves. The grainy tape showed a shadowy blur of tuxedos and gowns circling Reggie’s Maserati just before the scream. A Ferrari roared in the background, and Truffles’ unmistakable yap echoed through the speakers. Jeeves, sweating profusely, claimed he’d been “distracted by a particularly tricky soufflé.” Morty didn’t buy it. “Soufflés don’t bark,” he said, tapping the screen where Truffles’ silhouette darted past.

The twist came at dawn, as the socialites nursed hangovers and Morty pieced it together. It wasn’t one killer—it was all of them. A conspiracy born of petty slights and bruised egos. Beatrice had lured Reggie to the car with a fake apology. Cash had pinned him down, jealous rage fueling his grip. Margot stabbed him with the spoon, muttering about “trending justice.” Vladimir had revved his Ferrari to drown out the screams, and Penelope—well, she’d sicced Truffles on Reggie’s shins as a distraction. They’d all agreed: Reggie’s insufferable smugness had to go.

Morty clapped his hands, startling Truffles into a yip. “Case closed,” he declared. “You lot are under arrest—though good luck fitting all those egos in a squad car.” The socialites shrieked, their diamonds rattling. Lord Worthington III fainted into his Bugatti. And Truffles, ever the hero, peed on Reggie’s polished loafers—one last indignity for the caviar king.

As the sun rose over the estate, painting the wet streets gold, Morty lit a cigarette and leaned against the Maserati, rain dripping from his hat. “Rich folks,” he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “They’ll kill for a spoonful of fish eggs, but heaven forbid they tip the help.” He glanced at Truffles, who wagged his tail smugly. “You’re the only one here with any sense,” Morty said, tossing the poodle a soggy biscuit from his pocket. Truffles caught it mid-air, and for a moment, the detective and the dog shared a look of mutual respect amidst the wreckage of high society.