A Mogal's Death.

Who killed J. Giles Wentworth? The list of suspects is long. ....A story idea.

March 27th, is a day many will remember for a long time for two reasons. The storm that blew through Michigan spawned five Tornados and the killing of Financier J. Giles Wentworth.

Sitting behind his desk in the private office of his Victorian-styled estate, James Giles Wentworth went over paperwork to buy out the old papermill in town. He let it be known he wanted to reopen the old works, but in reality, he wanted the land to build a six-story office complex, with himself taking the top floor for a new business office for his many holdings.

The floor outside his home office creaked when walked upon. The house was around two hundred years old and built by one of his Grandfather way back more years than he wished to remember. He did not even glance up as he was so used to the sound and easily dismissed it from his mind. His immediate family knew never to interrupt him or face his wrath. The temper flew out like a hurricane with harmful results.

Lightning flashed through the wooden shutters covering the windows, and thunder boomed like cannon fire, causing the few lights on to flicker. Not wishing to be stopped by no electricity, J. Giles pulled the oil lantern closer and, with the scratch of a match, lit it. Turning it as high as it could go, he continued poring over the legal nonsense he never cared for. That was what his overpriced Lawyers were paid to do.

While he still had electricity, the old-fashioned radio poured out soft, mellow Jazz across the airwaves. And although he liked many, his favorites were The Dorsey Brothers, Benny Goodman, and Glenn Miller. He was so immersed in the paperwork that he failed to hear the supposedly locked door open, nor see the gun barrel poke into the room two inches.

Three shots ring out, disturbing the music for a moment. Crashing down onto the desk, his blood spilled across some of the paperwork and onto the Golden Oak floors.

At 10:27, James Giles Wentworth's last breath escaped his lips.

The next morning, the Butler knocked on the door to the Study, as he did every morning after Mr. Wentworth spent the night going over paperwork. With no response, he set the tray of coffee on the side table next to the door. Trying the door, it was unlocked, very unusual indeed. Slowly, he opened it a crack and called inside, "Mr. Wentworth. I have your morning coffee, and breakfast will be served soon in the dining room.

He got no answer, so he opened the door a little wider, peeking inside. Mr. Wentworth looked as if he had fallen asleep across his desk. Something he had never done before, as long as he had worked for him these past twenty years.