The Last Will and Testament of Geralda Connors
My name is Elisha Crow and I hate my job.
I'm waiting in my office, a sealed envelope before me on the mahogany desk.
I glance at the potted plant, plastic since the real ones keep dying on me. Then at my Harvard's law degree nailed to the wall.
Geralda Heather, nee Connors, died last week, alone in her villa. Her husband left her with twelve million bucks, which she held very close, and a vast hatred towards humankind, which she spread passionately. She died with locked doors and closed windows; dogs and gardener outside on the lawn. No signs of a struggle. She had a weak heart.
I adjust my special glasses and examine my guests.
Sprawled on the sofa as if it belonged to her alone, Brigitta Connors scowls at me. She disapproves of any skin color but her own, and I'm black, wearing a suit that she decided I've stolen. She's the victim's sister, but they weren't on speaking terms. She has the only spare keys to the villa and an alibi.
Sitting rigidly on the small chair near the window, once-violin-prodigy Pearl Heather wilts under my scrutiny. She ran away from home in her teens. She's bald, wrestling with one of the bad cancers. Lost her flat and savings to the medical bills. She's the victim's estranged daughter. She has no friends, no prospects, a pair of lovely eyes and a motive.
Shuffling his feet and glancing at the armchair wondering if it's all right to sit down is John Cotter, the gardener. Employed by the Heathers for fifty years, and they weren't kind people. He's the key witness and a stubborn one, insisting nobody came to visit on that fateful day.
My cell phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. Finally!
Aconite. How did you know, you old fraud.
It's Francine. So bright, so full of life. I wish she'd let me date her, but she's too smart for my cheap lies.
I type: 'I had a hunch, Fran.'
Bull. And I'm Lieutenant Brown to you. Where are they now?
'They're all here. I'm about to start.'
We'll be there in thirty minutes. None of your theatrics, you read me?
'Can't promise that.'
I'm warning you, Crow!
I put down the phone. Sighing, I take off my special glasses, clean them with a handkerchief and leave them on the desk.
I blink as my vision clears. I see Brigitta, looking bored and haughty. Pearl, gazing dreamily at the sky outside. John, who settled for balancing uncomfortably on the armrest.
And the pale specter of Geralda Connors, my client, staring at her killer. She's livid.
I hate my job. I wish it was a job I could quit. You can stop an investigation; you can exit a tribunal. But anywhere I run, I'll still be a psychic. And the dead can tell.
"Ladies and gentleman; thank you for coming," I begin. "Before I read the will, there's a story you need to hear."
Killers & Lovers
I have their full attention. Including the ghost of the departed. I try to ignore the pressing presence of passed Geralda:
"This story is about guilt. What a surprise, no? I do know that you, Pearl Heather", I shift towards her, "are sitting on a pile of unpaid bills and will soon be eaten away by cancer."
A frightened sudden suppressed sobbing answers me. Unable to avoid those worried, yet beautiful eyes of the daughter, I continue.
"I'm really sorry, I have to say all this, as reluctant as I am. After all, I am aware that, in order to become the mistress of your financial situation, you sold the violin given to you by your mother in 1981 - handmade by William Ebsworth Hill. Under no circumstances should you have done so. The exact words of your mother to you were: "If the violin ever leaves the family, misery shall come."
Pearl shivers, all fragile, hardly able to speak: "But from where ... ?" The questioning eyes beg me to explain my infame knowledge, while Brigitta Connors lets me hear a short snort.
I do not give her relief and Pearl now cries almost unrestrainedly. I look at Brigitta Connors. She counters with pointed lips, unfearful.
"Mrs. Connors. You haven't spoken your sister for over thirty years, but about a months ago you telephoned him." I nod towards the gardener, who now coughs in shock.
"The old hag is sitting on her millions like the devil on a dung heap. Have you sworn in the family doctor?" I pause. "Those words sound familiar to you?" Starting to be disgusted by the merciless me.
Brigitta jumps off the sofa as if stabbed: "What kind of black business do you run here? Read the will immediately or I'll leave this room!"
John Cotter, however, slumps down like a beaten dog. Not raising his head, not saying a word, he nestles on his trouser pocket.
Pearl has stopped crying, waking from her self-pity.
"What else did you hear? Did she speak to you? Can you sense ... the dead? ... Is she ... here?" All of a sudden her eyes sharpen towards the floating presence. Then she touches her lips and falls silent thinking.
Before I can respond, Brigitta Connors steps up to her niece and raises her hand as if she wants to beat her, but then, changing her mind, turns around and comes to me behind the desk, vibrating: "If you don't stop doing such a horror show now, I'll drag you to court!
As soon as her words fade away, it buzzes. I quickly press the automatic door opener.
Shortly after, my dear Francine and another officer enter the scene. Sooner than expected. I raise my eyebrow and she forms a silent and sassy "I lied".
Now not even Brigitta dares to argue, but mutters something mean. The others don't even arouse themselves about the fact that law enforcement joins us.
"Don't stretch it!", Lieutenant Brown demands and I pull myself together, glancing at the ghostly figure, producing a kind of apologetic wink. I'd have to remain a spoilsport. How miserable my life is.
Without any further ado I announce: "There is clear evidence that you, Pearl Heather, are responsible for your mother's death!"
"What?", the gardener, who could not have been more surprised, cries out.
"Please open your handbag and show us what's inside."
To my surprise, Pearl's agonizing being changes unexpectedly and she speaks, in a completely new and casual manner: "Sure you do, sweetheart." Nonchalantly she swings her bag towards the policeman, who accepts it and dumps the contents on my desk. In a small side pocket, a single key is found on a silver chain.
"Now, Mrs. Connors, please compare this one with the one you carry as a spare key for the villa."
Brigitta, standing there as if struck by thunder, follows my command, slightly confused and, at the same time, seemingly relieved. She rummages in her purse and pulls out her key ring. "This one", she points. Francine takes it and puts one on top of the other. "Identical", her tone not showing the slightest irritation as if my unusual case handling is an innocent tea party. I adore her.
"I did it with a pillow." For a moment, this confession hangs in the air.
Pearl straightens herself, gets up and spins around with grace. She makes a little movement as if playing the violin.
I catch a smell of Arpège from her, reminding me of the black flacon I had purchased and never gave to Francine.
"Quite classic, no? But I tell you, the old one had some powers! I had to sit up all over her and keep her claws away from me at the same time! My, my, I almost didn't make it, she fought back so hard. And that despite the sleeping pills I have given her, added to the dose she normally took. Kudos, old box!"
She greets the ghost woman, who now seems quite satisfied. Geralda grips of me a thing from which I hadn't known would even be there.
"Mother ...", Pearl smiles, "Soon we will be united, my dear mother! What we were not in life, we shall be in death." She laughs a laugh that almost sounds joyfully warm, liberated.
In my depressing psychic career I had been blind. Blind to my gift. I feel as if someone has shaken me awake. After all, that's what humans were. ... Killers and Lovers. Why did I pretend to be surprised every damn suffering time?
Looking Francine direct in the eye, I lay out all my untold feelings, first time ever. Waving good bye the coward me.
Then, I clear my throat. With utmost dignity I finish the great theatre:
"Please, sit down all. And now, to the last will of Mrs Geralda Connors."
THE END
Thank you for this challenging beginning, 
I welcome that the #finishthestory ground changed a bit and gives the writers a different taste and atmosphere - I felt as if you put me into a theatre and on a stage. My first thought when I read the beginning was "Oh ... is this going to be an Hercule Poirot theme?" But then the ghost of Geralda was added and even extended the challenge.
I needed more than 500 words. I cut and pasted, pasted and cut. But then I decided: this is it. No more editing.
A little research I did for:
the perfume
the violin
Arpège was created by the fashion designer Jeanne Lanvin, who brought this scent to the public in 1927 as a tribute and honor for the 30th birthday of her daughter Marguerite, a piano player, who later on ran her mothers business. Arpège should symbolize the love between mother & daughter.
I couldn't believe my luck to have found this piece of history because I thought: "Oh, what a coincidence! Pearl, a violin player, the sad story between her and Geralda, the family constellation just perfectly fits it!
For the violin I just picked one of the mostly known instrument builders and decided randomly for the name which sounded the best for me: William Ebsworth Hill.
Now I am curious to read all the other finished stories! Here you go for the contest and our lovable 
picture source:
Photo by Josep Molina Secall on Unsplash