Four mourners tried to kill Malcolm Vane. Only one of them actually did.
Malcolm Vane didn't wait to die before holding his funeral.
The billionaire invited four people to his isolated estate, climbed into his own coffin, and demanded they deliver their eulogies while he was still alive to hear them.
Before the night was over, Malcolm was dead.
His wife poisoned his drink. His son sabotaged the balcony. His daughter interfered with his medication. His business partner tampered with the car.
Every one of them tried to kill him.
Only one succeeded.
Now each suspect must help solve the murder without revealing their own.
And Malcolm, apparently, planned for this.
#oc2026
Chapter 1: Please Rise for the Deceased
Malcolm Vane attended his own funeral from inside the coffin.
He had insisted on mahogany.
Not because he intended to be buried in it.
Because, as he'd explained to Beatrice over breakfast, pine suggested a lack of confidence.
The coffin stood open beneath the chandelier in Blackglass House's ceremonial hall.
Malcolm lay inside wearing a midnight-blue suit, hands folded over his chest, looking remarkably pleased with himself.
Four chairs faced him.
Four mourners occupied them.
His wife.
His son.
His daughter.
His business partner.
There were no flowers.
Malcolm disliked flowers.
“Performative decay,” he called them.
Instead, a bottle of twelve-year-old whisky sat beside the coffin.
Rain tapped steadily against the glass wall overlooking the valley.
Malcolm checked his watch.
“Beatrice.”
His wife crossed one elegant leg over the other.
“No.”
Malcolm smiled.
“You haven't heard the question.”
“You want me to begin.”
“I want you to eulogize me.”
“You're breathing.”
“For now.”
Leo laughed from the next chair.
Miriam didn't.
Nolan Pryce poured himself another drink.
Malcolm lifted his head slightly from the coffin cushion.
“Come on. This is what people do after someone dies. They suddenly discover adjectives. Generous. Visionary. Beloved.”
“Dead,” Leo offered.
“Eventually.”
“You've been practicing.”
Beatrice looked toward the clock.
11:14 p.m.
Malcolm lowered his head again.
“I've spent seventy-two years being discussed behind my back. I'd like one evening of hearing it directly.”
“That's called therapy,” Miriam said.
“I tried that. She kept asking questions.”
Nolan raised his glass.
“The horror.”
Malcolm pointed at him from inside the coffin.
“Exactly.”
Despite herself, Beatrice almost smiled.
Almost.
That was Malcolm's particular talent.
He could make cruelty entertaining enough that people sometimes forgot which part they were laughing at.
Miriam looked down at the program resting across her knees.
MALCOLM ADRIAN VANE
LIVING FUNERAL
PRIVATE ATTENDANCE
PLEASE SPEAK HONESTLY.
Beneath that, handwritten in Malcolm's unmistakable script:
I'LL KNOW IF YOU DON'T.
Leo leaned toward her.
“Do you think the coffin goes back tomorrow?”
“I don't care.”
“I checked. Eight thousand pounds.”
Miriam finally looked at him.
“You checked the price of Father's coffin?”
“I was curious.”
“About funeral furniture?”
“About whether he's finally losing his mind.”
From the coffin:
“I can hear you.”
Leo leaned back.
“I know.”
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills.
The lights dimmed for half a second.
Blackglass House adjusted automatically.
Malcolm sighed.
“Can somebody please die before me? You're making this unbearably dull.”
Beatrice stood.
Every head turned toward her.
She approached the coffin.
“Fine.”
Malcolm looked delighted.
Beatrice picked up his whisky glass from the side table and placed it neatly beside his hand.
Then she faced the others.
“My husband,” she began, “is the most extraordinary man I have ever wanted to strangle.”
Leo covered his mouth.
Nolan coughed into his drink.
Even Miriam's expression moved.
Malcolm closed his eyes contentedly.
“Better.”
Beatrice continued.
She spoke for six minutes.
Some of it was funny.
Some of it was cruel.
Nearly all of it was true.
When she finished, Malcolm applauded from inside his coffin.
“See? Marriage wasn't a complete waste.”
Beatrice returned to her chair.
Malcolm reached for the whisky.
She watched his hand close around the glass.
Watched him lift it.
Watched him drink.
Her face did not change.
At 11:37, Leo delivered his eulogy.
At 11:48, Nolan began his.
At 11:56, Miriam stood.
She had prepared nothing.
Of the four of them, Malcolm seemed most interested in hearing what she would say.
His successor.
His favorite, according to people who didn't know either of them particularly well.
Miriam approached the coffin.
Malcolm watched her.
For the first time that evening, he stopped smiling.
Miriam looked down at him.
“You want honesty?”
“Desperately.”
“No, you don't.”
The room went still.
“You want confirmation.”
Malcolm's eyebrows rose.
“Of what?”
“That whatever you did to us was worth it because it made us interesting enough to attend your funeral.”
Leo looked at the floor.
Nolan stopped drinking.
Beatrice watched her daughter carefully.
Malcolm said nothing.
Miriam continued.
“You don't want to know whether we love you.”
A pause.
“You want proof that we can't escape you.”
The lights went out.
Complete darkness.
Someone swore.
Glass shattered.
A chair scraped violently across stone.
Then Blackglass House's emergency system engaged.
Red floor lights illuminated the room.
Forty-seven seconds later, the main power returned.
Miriam was standing beside the coffin.
Beatrice had moved halfway across the room.
Leo was near the doors.
Nolan's glass lay broken beside his chair.
Malcolm had not moved.
Miriam looked down.
Something about his face was wrong.
“Father?”
No response.
She touched his shoulder.
Then his neck.
Behind her, Leo said:
“Don't.”
Miriam didn't answer.
Beatrice approached slowly.
Nolan remained where he was.
Malcolm Vane lay inside his eight-thousand-pound coffin, dressed for a funeral he'd intended to survive.
Miriam withdrew her hand.
“He's dead.”
Nobody spoke.
For several seconds, the only sound in Blackglass House was the rain.
Then Leo looked around the room at the four people his father had invited to mourn him.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“That's going to be a problem.”