Tucked behind a plush, leathery sofa like a piece of misplaced luggage sat Mark---undetected from all angles except one small corner of the seldom used study. It was a hot, sticky Thursday and he was thankful to be in the crisp coolness of the air conditioned mansion.
Soon, the wheels of his carefully devised plan would spin into motion and deliver him to a life of unimaginable wealth. Though he had waited patiently for weeks, it was only now, just before the big moment that he began to feel a twinge of impatience.
The events of the passed half-year reeled in his mind.
A few months back, just after Mark's mother and father were killed in a jet crash, his Uncle Remos invited him to stay in his two story, turn-of-the-century house. It was a large leap from the modest three bedroom house where he had been raised, but it didn't take long to become accustomed to the pampering of his uncle.
It was obvious that Uncle Remos had grown especially fond of Mark.
One day, the stately old man called him into his office and confided to Mark that he was making him the sole inheritor of his vast estate. Everything would be his: cars, boats, several houses other than the mansion, and a stack of money that would make King Midas green with envy.
Mark was estatic.
Shortly after his period of mourning began to lift, a devious plan formulated in his mind, as if it had taken on a life of its own---unfolding and playing itself out right before his mind's eye.
It was all he could think of.
Day in and day out.
At first he attempted to block the thoughts, but it became apparent that attempting to do so was futile---the image of his uncle's millions at his disposal was a driving force that knew no obstacles.
His uncle was healthy---too healthy.
It might well be years before his uncle died a natural death and unfortunately, patience was not one of Mark's finest attributes.
He wanted the money now---and that's where the plan fit in.
In the following weeks, Mark had watched the hired staff closely.
The gardener, handyman, and maid each worked until 5 p.m. sharp each day. Like clock work, they would leave through rear exit of the house, even if it meant practically dropping whatever they were doing at the time.
The cook on the other hand stayed about ten minutes later in order to serve dinner to Uncle Remos. By five-fifteen there was never anyone else in the house, except Uncle Remos. Mark himself usually spent his time in the cottage at the rear of the property, where he had an elaborate bachelor apartment.
Mark visited Uncle Remos several days ago in his lavish office on the second floor of the grand old house, overlooking an Olympic sized swimming pool in the back yard.
"Uncle---I've been thinking---"
The white haired man sat his reading glasses to the side and smiled at Mark. "What's on your mind, lad?"
"Well, sir---it's about the will you told me about---"
"Oh?"
Mark nodded. "Yes sir---well, the fact is that I've grown somewhat fond of your staff---" He smiled and pretended to reflect on the servants. "I just love them all---they're all so special in their own way---"
For emphasis, Mark paused.
"They've been faithful---," interjected his uncle.
Mark nodded. "And, I was just thinking---wouldn't it be nice if you left each of them some money---?" He paused again. "You know---something that basically says 'thank you and that you were appreciated'---that sort of thing, you know?"
Uncle Remos was buying every word.
"That can certainly be arranged, Mark. In fact, I'll call my attorney first thing in the morning."
Afterward, Mark congratulated himself on a fine acting job---imagine thinking that he cared for those imbeciles. It was absurdly humorous but the part had to be played. Anyway, a few grand was a small price to pay to ensure that the suspicion would be shifted to someone else.
That someone else was the cook.
Only days earlier, Mark had discovered an interesting fact concerning the barrel-chested Italian man. Thanks to a gambling addiction, the cook was indebted thousands of dollars to a local bookie. Couple this with the fact that he'd just learned that he would receive money upon Uncle Remos's death---and this would make him the prime suspect.
Earlier in the afternoon, Mark had taken the burly cook's personalized pen. Mark had noticed it on a counter every Thursday, along with a sheet of paper. The cook prepared a list throughout the day for his weekly trip to the grocery store.
A short time ago, Mark had told the maid, Maria, that he was leaving for a long weekend at the beach. On his drive across the estate, he waved at the gardener, Jesse---then, after leaving his car in a city parking lot, he jogged back to the mansion and slipped into the study.
It was too easy.
When he returned from his "three day stint" at the beach---no doubt, the cook would be behind bars.
The chimes of the grandfather clock rang through the room; it was five o'clock. Several minutes later, Mark eased to the window and watched the cook drive off the estate.
"Ha! If you only knew that you just murdered dear old Uncle Remos," chuckled Mark.
The stage was now set.
Mark peered toward the antique grandfather clock in the corner.
5:20.
Uncle Remos would be alone.
Calmly, he strolled out of the study and went to the kitchen to grab a butcher-knife. Wasting no time, he hurried down the hall, climbed the stairs, and waited outside the office for the opportune time to slip in and kill his uncle.
He preferred that the old gentleman never know what hit him.
He at least owed his uncle that much.
Finally, he walked toward a window, enabling Mark to quietly close in on him. One swift stroke across the throat was all that was necessary. His uncle lay on the floor drowning in his own blood. Quickly, Mark retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the cook's personalized pen and placed it under his dead uncle.
He then hurried to the kitchen to get a second knife.
This one would be carefully carried in a napkin, so the cook's fingerprints wouldn't be disturbed, smear some blood on it---and then, get the Hell out of town.
Just as he was about to wash the bloody knife, which he had used to kill his uncle---a piercing scream echoed in the hall.
Maria!
What was she doing here?
Gripping the knife and ran upstairs toward the chilling shrieks. Maria was stammering backwards from Uncle Remos's office. She looked toward Mark; her eyes affixed to the dripping knife. Her mouth gaped open as the realization swept over her that she was standing face to face with the murderer.
He knew that she would have to die.
Somehow, Maria managed to maneuver passed him and run down the stairs. Mark was in close pursuit. The chase ended in the kitchen where the cat had cornered his mouse. Maria begged for her life.
"I'm sorry---," Mark apologized, "You've seen to much---"
Just then, the kitchen door swung open and crashed solidly against the wall. The cook jumped through the entrance holding a gun in his right hand.
His eyes were wide with alarm and suspicion. "What's going on here?", he demanded gruffly. "What're you doing to Maria?"
The gardener and handyman piled in behind him, carrying the groceries that the cook had dropped in his haste to get inside the house.
Minutes later, with the police on their way, Mark asked in a shaky voice, Why are you all here? You're always gone by five---always!" He shook his head. "Every day---I've watched---" His words trailed off into quiet despair.
The cook looked at him sideways. "Yeah---well, it's not five yet, bright boy!"
Mark cried, "Not five? But, it is! The clock in the study---"
"The study? You mean the grandfather clock?," the big cook growled. "Nobody ever goes in there! That clock hasn't been set back since the last time change. It's an hour fast."
The End
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