murder mystery

Writer’s Prompt: Tina Buffanti: A Hard-Boiled Tale of Murder and Premonitions

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Tina Buffanti inherited a PI business, a loaded gun, and a burning need to send her father’s killer to an early grave.

Writer’s Prompt

The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything away; it just turns the grit into a slick, black coat. I stood in front of “Buffanti Investigations,” the gold lettering on the door still peeling like a scab. My father, Mike, spent thirty years behind that glass before Dr. Mark Zilgar put two rounds in his chest.

The official report said it was a mugging gone wrong. My gut said otherwise. Mike had been tailing Zilgar for weeks, snapping long-range shots for the doctor’s “soon-to-be-ex.” He’d caught the good doctor doing more than reviewing charts with his head nurse—he’d caught the kind of intimacy that ruins reputations and loses licenses. Then, Mike ends up in the morgue, and the camera? Conveniently missing.

I don’t have the photos, and I don’t have a witness. What I have is a legacy of stubbornness and a Smith & Wesson that feels heavy in my purse.

My first order of business wasn’t filing paperwork or calling a lawyer. I walked into “Petals & Thorns” on 5th Street.

“Help you, Tina?” the florist asked, eyes darting to the black armband I was wearing.

“Lilies,” I said, my voice as cold as the marble in Zilgar’s lobby. “A massive spray. For Dr. Mark Zilgar’s visitation.”

The florist paused. “Zilgar? Tina, the man is still alive. I saw him on the news this morning.”

I leaned over the counter, the scent of damp earth filling my lungs. “He is for now. But I’ve always had a knack for premonitions, and I’m betting his schedule is about to clear up permanently.”

I walked out into the downpour. Across the street, Zilgar’s black sedan pulled up to his clinic. I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing the cold steel.

Finish the Story

The scent of lilies is already in the air, but the trigger hasn’t been pulled. Does Tina find the missing camera in Zilgar’s car, or does she become the very monster she’s hunting? How does the final confrontation end?

Writer’s Prompt: The Silent Scream: A Mime, a Fish, and a Fatal Flaw

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In a city where even the mimes are silenced permanently, only a goldfish knows the truth—and he’s not talking.

The Big Sleep-ish

The ceiling fan rotated with the lethargic grace of a dying dragonfly, chopping the humid air into stale chunks. I sat behind my desk, nursing a glass of lukewarm scotch and a grudge against the city of Oakhaven.

Then she walked in. She was wearing a trench coat twice her size and carrying a goldfish bowl like it was a ticking bomb.

“He’s dead, Mr. Marlowe,” she gasped. “My husband. Murdered in the bathtub.”

I leaned back, the springs of my chair screaming in protest. “Usually, people call the cops for that, sweetheart. Unless the husband was a toaster.”

“He was a mime,” she sobbed, setting the goldfish on my desk. “The police say it was an accident. They claim he tripped on a silent banana peel. But look at Barnaby.”

I looked at the fish. Barnaby looked back with the vacant intensity of a hitman. In the bottom of the bowl, nestled in the neon blue gravel, was a miniature, waterproof revolver.

“The fish did it?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “That’s a new one, even for Tuesday.”

“No!” she hissed. “The fish is the witness. He’s been blowing bubbles in Morse code all morning. He says the killer is still in the house. He says the killer is…”

Suddenly, the office lights flickered and died. A shadow loomed against the frosted glass of my door—a silhouette wearing a tall, striped hat and holding a very real, very silenced pistol. The goldfish started thrashing, splashing water over my case files.

I reached for my desk drawer, but my hand met a cold, slimy pair of handcuffs instead.

The Final Chapter is Yours…

The shadow is turning the knob. The mime’s widow is screaming in silence. Does the fish hold the key, or are you just bait? How does this absurdity end?

Writer’s Prompt: A Crown, a Corpse, and Absolutely No Comment from the Palace

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There’s been a murder behind royal gates—and you’re the one holding the pen (and maybe the dagger). It’s time to write a story where loyalty is deadly, secrets wear tiaras, and decorum is just one press conference away from collapse.

✍️ Story Starter:

No one expected the King to drop dead during the Trooping the Colour, especially not while waving from the balcony with that peculiar smile. The coroner whispered “poison,” the Queen demanded silence, and somewhere in the crowd… someone smiled.

Now the entire monarchy teeters on scandal—and your protagonist knows something they shouldn’t.

❓Questions to Deepen the Drama:

  1. Who benefits most from the King’s untimely death—and who’s pretending not to care?
  2. What family secrets are buried under the crown jewels—and who’s desperate to keep them hidden?
  3. Can the protagonist uncover the truth before they’re next in line… for an “accident”?
  4. 8

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