Rich Doyle Mysteries: Rose

Chapter 1: Wrongly Accused

My day started normally enough. Exhausted after a long night of homework—yes, homework. Don't judge, I am only sixteen—I had crashed into bed and slept like a rock. Of course, given that the next day was a school day, that was a bit of a problem. When I woke up, I had about fifteen minutes to get ready for high school, when I normally give myself half an hour. Frustrated with myself, I jumped out of bed and started running around like a crazy person, gathering my multiple notebooks and schoolbooks strewn about the room from last night.

Once I'd stuffed all of my books into my backpack somehow—probably crinkling a bunch of papers in the process—I ran to my drawer. Already, I knew I wouldn't have time to eat breakfast. I was already being pressured to get out in time for the bus without breakfast. It was when I went to my drawers that my problems began. Pulling out the top drawer of my bureau, I tugged out a wrinkled, black-and-white striped, long-sleeved shirt. In my haste, I almost didn't notice the black object that popped out with it. Barely looking down, my hand sought the object and wrapped around the cold metal. That was when I realized that definitely shouldn't have been there.

It was a pistol.

Maybe that would have been normal for some people, but my parents were always incredibly against guns. They wouldn't have one within a mile of our home if they could help it. So, stupidly, not really sure if I was dreaming or not, I stared at the weapon, my mind spinning. How the heck had that got there?

To be honest, I wasn't thinking straight after I found the weapon. Finding my voice, I yelled for my parents and they came running. They in turn called the police, and in short order the police arrived. Unfortunately for me, we discovered something very disturbing had happened that night in our little town of Vordrim, Georgia—a woman had been murdered. Mrs. Mary Graham had been shot through the heart ... and the bullet found matched the gun in my drawer.

It didn't take the police long to come to the "obvious" conclusion that I had shot the woman. Did they listen to me telling them that I'd never even met the woman before in my life? No. Instead, they drag me into the station for questioning, and since I have nobody to "prove" I was in my room doing my homework—you know, except for the pile of work I actually managed to get done the previous night—they place me under arrest for murder and toss me into a cell. Is that fair? No. Definitely not.

The cell itself wasn't completely horrible. It had a bed, a bathroom—well, a toilet and sink—and a mirror. Very homey. I still had my one phone call. Yeah, a lot of good that would do me, when no one would listen to what I had to say. I dragged myself to the mirror and started raking my fingers through my black hair, still a rat's nest from not being brushed when I first woke up. I touched the red hair dye in random streaks through it, remembering when me and my best friend Sierra had dyed our hair. Maybe they thought I was some sort of punk or something.

My dad had always told me my expressive green eyes could never lie; then why didn't the police believe me? I was just an average height, rounder-than-normal girl. I was a teenager, for gosh sakes! They couldn't even find a reason for me to have killed that woman. They just said that because I'd had the gun, I must have done it. There was nothing more frustrating than not being believed.

Finally, the cell door opened and a policeman came in and grabbed my arm. "Come along, Miss Doyle," he told me.

"Rose," I said.

The man smiled. "Bob Bennett," he told me. "Come on, Rose. You've got a visitor."

It must have been my mom and dad, I assumed. I followed Officer Bennett, intent on proving my innocence with my parents. I trailed him through the long hallways, finally coming to a room with a big door and glass windows covered by blinds. He opened the door for me. "Knock when you're ready to come out," he said to me, and I nodded. I slipped inside and the door slammed shut behind me.

I stared at my visitor in surprise. It was not, contrary to what I expected, either my parents. Instead, it was a tall, wispy-thin young man with a shock of dusty blond hair and startling black eyes. His pale, freckled face winked out at me from behind thick black glasses he didn't need, and he slipped his fingers beneath the suspenders he wore over a white dress shirt. With his billowing knickers supposedly imported from England, he wasn't exactly what I expected. Sadly, I knew him; only a year older than me, he was my cousin, Richard Doyle. Wealthy, extremely eccentric, and bumbling Richard "Rich" (as he insisted everyone call him) Doyle. "Rich?" I said, confused. "What're you doing here?"

"Hullo, Rose!" he said in his fake British accent. His mom had been British and he had made several trips to England in the past few years; he claimed that was where he'd gotten the accent from. I really doubted it—the accent was too fake for him to have unconsciously gotten it. "You've gotten yourself into a right-spot of trouble, haven't you?"

"What do you want, Rich?" I asked tiredly, in no mood for his shenanigans. "I'm not exactly having the time of my life, you know."

"Oh, I'm aware!" he said enthusiastically, and I wished he'd tone down the volume. He was giving me a headache. "I've come to help you out of it."

"Help ... me?" I repeated. How on Earth could this bumbling fool think he could help me?

"Yes!" he said. "I've heard no one would take your case. Well, rest assured, Rose, that your case is as good as solved."

"You've hired someone for me?" I said with great relief. Maybe he wasn't so hopeless after all.

His next words dashed the bubble of hope in my chest. "Of course not," he answered dismissively. "Why hire someone for a job that I can do myself? You can help, once I bail you out."

Although the idea of getting bailed out was pleasant to me, I couldn't believe his words. "You?" I said shrilly. "How can you possibly help me?"

He didn't even notice my rudeness. "I've read so many books and watched so many shows about police, lawyers, and detectives, I'm a professional!" he proclaimed. "Just like Sherlock Holmes!"

"You are not Sherlock Holmes," I protested. "Rich, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but my trial's in a year and I'd rather have someone who's qualified help me out."

"I am qualified," he insisted. "And you're right—a year's too long. Let's give ourselves a month! Then we'll find who killed poor Mrs. Graham and you can go back to school. Sound good?"

In spite of myself, it did sound good. Or, it would've, if Rich would just have listened to me and agreed to hire a detective. But he wasn't leaving me much choice. I sighed. What was I getting myself into? "Alright, fine, Rich. Just get me out of here, okay?"

It didn't take Rich long to connive his way into the police station's heart. He held nothing back and got his way, and within twenty minutes I was freed on the streets of Vordrim. One thing neither me or Rich anticipated was the inclusion of Officer Bob Bennett, who insisted we just call him Bob. He was assigned to watch me, but he also had this strange fascination with Rich.

As we left the police station, the dark-haired, light-eyed officer explained that he had been stuck with the job of keeping an eye on us since he was the youngest in the station at twenty. As he went on, he also added that he collected the autographs of odd people—one-hit-wonders, people who have only been in one movie, the worst whatever in the world, it didn't matter, Bob would find it.

It was for that reason that he thought Rich was so interesting. I guess I understood why; I mean, it's not often that you meet a wealthy young man who has a fake British accent and lives by himself. His parents died at a young age and he was raised by the servants at his mansion. It had definitely made him a little ... odd.

Cutting into Bob's seemingly endless chatter, I asked Rich as he got into his limousine, "Where are we going?"

He looked at me as if I had grown a second head. "Why, if you're going to solve a crime," he said, "you have to go to the scene of the crime. We're going to Mrs. Graham's abode."