Just off the entry hall, I slipped into Mr. Dawson's Garden Suite. The circular room was more like a conservatory than a bedroom. Moonlight poured in through a line of tall windows, their delicate outlines stretching the entire length of the outer wall. On the floor in front of them, a congregation of pots spilled their tendrils onto the white tile, twisting and knotting over one another like snakes. 

 

Outside, a maze of hedges and winding paths stretched in all directions. From the middle of the garden, a snarling dragon's head, carved from the purest white marble, rose high above the greenery. Between its rows of jagged teeth, something shimmered in the moonlight.

I started my search in the dark, not wanting to attract attention from the rest of the house. Dale was a much tidier man than I expected. His effects were organized and well-maintained. Beside the bed, a small black notebook caught my eye. Quickly flipping through the pages, I found it to be a lengthy, hand-written list of names, addresses, dates, and payment information. 

 

I was still rifling through the pages when, suddenly, the door opened and an orange light filled the room.

 

I saw him before he saw me.

 

"Good evening, Mr. Dawson."

 

"Detective!" he clutched his chest. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

 

The small book was behind my back, and I returned it to the nightstand before walking toward him.

 

"It seemed prudent to search your things, Mr. Dawson. I'm just being thorough."

 

He was nervous, his tone heavy. "You need to leave, Detective. Come back with a warrant. I won't have you tearing apart my..... My god! Why is there dirt all over the floor?!"

 

Confused, I asked, "What do you mean?"

 

He pointed to a decorative nook in the corner of the room where a massive flower pot, more than three feet tall and shaped like a dragon, rested in the shadows. Whatever plantings had once grown in its soil had been torn away. Black dirt and bits of fertilizer littered the floor to reveal a narrow hole some 16 inches deep– just big enough to insert an arm.

 

"What is this madness, Detective? What have you been doing here? Are you some kind of gopher?"

 

"Certainly not, Mr. Dawson. It must have been that way when I came in. I just now noticed."

 

"Ohhh, please, Detective. I have not been in here since before dinner, and I can assure it was perfectly in order when I left."

 

"Is that so? Well, you do have a strong alibi after dinner, Mr. Dawson. Maybe you wouldn't mind if I looked around for some clues to who might have done this?"

 

He nodded and limped after me, a bandage on his ankle poking through his torn pants leg. The desk and dresser were mostly empty and their contents of little interest. However, when I unzipped his hygiene kit in the bathroom, an empty vial of poison was resting atop the collection of combs. I took a rag from my pocket and plucked it from the case.

 

Holding it up in front of him, I said, "Oh, what is this Mr. Dawson?"

 

He shot to his feet. "That is not mine!"

 

"It was in your hygiene kit."

 

"Detective! It was planted! You have to believe me" he said, grabbing me by the arms, "I would never poison anyone!"

 

"You better start talking Mr. Dawson. What exactly is going on here? Your room is a mess. You are bleeding from your ankle. And you have poison hidden in your bathroom!?"

 

"I did not poison those people, Detective. I swear it! You must believe me. I, too, was sick after dinner. Why would I poison myself?"

"Maybe to deflect suspicion. You seem to have made a full recovery. Your dinner companions did not fare so well."

 

"I don't know what was poisoned, and, what's more, I had nothing to do with it!"

 

"You better start giving me some answers, Mr. Dawson."

 

"Ok, this afternoon, after Wesley went missing, we formed a search party and scoured the house. I will admit to straying from the group– as well all did at times– to search Wesley's bedroom ( 9 - P ). I was only trying to help a friend."

 

"I'm sure. What did you find?"

 

 "Nothing. I didn't get the chance. I poked my head in and, the moment I did, his bloody dog attacked me. The miserable mutt got me right on the ankle."

 

"He has a guard dog in his room?"

 

"Allow me to confirm that for you, Detective. A nasty one, too. But as I was scuffling with the dog, something very strange happened."

 

"What's that?"

 

"Someone burst from inside the room and shouldered me to the ground. From the ground, I kicked at the dog before slamming the door shut. I'm lucky to be alive."

 

"You've been lucky more than once today, Mr. Dawson. Who was this person that was in Mr. Range's room?"

"I don't know. The entire wing was dark. It was a man; I can say that."

 

"Anything else?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Stay here until I come fetch you."

 

"Understood, Detective."