The First Case: Rapunzel – A Murder in the Tower

Once upon a shadowed evening, deep within the whispering woods, the lifeless body of a woman lay sprawled at the foot of an ancient tower. Her form was twisted unnaturally, her hair tangled with dirt and leaves. The body belonged to a witch named Ophelia, and her fall had drawn a crowd from the surrounding villages. They didn’t come to grieve—no, their curiosity was ravenous, driven by gossip and conspiracy. Only one soul wept aloud, or so it seemed.

A young woman with impossibly long, golden hair arrived late to the gathering. She dropped to her knees beside the body and sobbed, her wails echoing through the hush of the forest. Her golden locks looped three full circles around the crowd, gleaming like spun sunlight. Her name was Rapunzel, and she claimed the dead woman as her sister.

Detective Polkadot, an unorthodox fantasy investigator with a reputation for solving the unsolvable, stood apart from the onlookers, observing in silence. Her sharp eyes noticed something the others had missed—Rapunzel’s tears never truly fell. Her sobs were practiced, her grief too theatrical.

“I never got to say goodbye,” Rapunzel cried between hiccups, her voice trembling with effort.

A kind villager placed a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Rapunzel dear, you can speak to her now. Her spirit lingers, no doubt.”

For a brief moment, Rapunzel’s face stiffened with alarm. Then, just as quickly, her sorrow resumed, louder and more exaggerated.

But Polkadot wasn’t fooled. She had learned to see the unseen—and standing beside her was the transparent spirit of the witch, Ophelia. Her voice, soft as wind through pine, whispered, “I didn’t fall. I was pushed.”

Polkadot’s lips tightened. Another murder to solve.

A Strange Prince and a Grieving Ghost

A young man staggered out of the woods, pale and glassy-eyed. His clothes were wrinkled and stained, his face sickly and sunken. At the sight of him, Ophelia’s spirit murmured, “My prince. Oh, what have they done to you?”

Polkadot watched him carefully. He looked less like royalty and more like a puppet drained of its strings. As the prince collapsed beside the body, a hush fell over the crowd.

Overhearing a few nearby villagers, Polkadot picked up rumors—some believed it was a suicide. Others found it suspicious, but none dared speak further.

Breaking her silence, Polkadot stepped into the crowd. “This was no accident. Nor was it suicide. This—was murder.”

Gasps echoed among the villagers. Eyes turned to the detective, taking in her foreign coat, her firm stance, and her steady voice.

Rapunzel stood abruptly. “Murder? Who would do such a thing? Whoever it was, I want to see him punished!”

Polkadot’s gaze locked on Rapunzel. “Yes. And I believe the murderer stands among us.”

The Theory Unravels

Walking calmly to the base of the tower, Polkadot gestured upward. “A fall from this height is unlikely to kill instantly. The tower’s ledge is waist-high—it would take effort to leap, or… to be pushed.”

A man in the crowd scoffed. “She must’ve thrown herself over! Girls like her are too dramatic.”

“She was thrown,” Polkadot said plainly. “And she was drugged. But not alone.”

She turned toward the prince, who still stared blankly at nothing.

“I believe the prince has been poisoned slowly over time. A drug in his system clouds his mind. His violet eyes confirm it—classic symptoms of nightshade essence.”

More murmurs. Rapunzel’s fingers twitched.

“You’re making this up,” she said with syruped sweetness. “How dare you accuse me?”

Polkadot tilted her head. “You said you were picking flowers at the time of your sister’s death. Where?”

“In the forest,” Rapunzel replied quickly. “By the lake. I was gathering roses.”

A villager named Chuck stepped forward. “Roses? By the lake? That’s impossible. Roses don’t grow near water.”

“And yet lilies do,” Polkadot added. “Miss Ophelia was last seen by the lake, gathering lilies for her potions, just before sunset. Witnesses heard her singing.”

A young girl nodded shyly. “I heard her, too. Just as the stars began to appear.”

“Then Rapunzel lied,” Polkadot said calmly. “And liars rarely lie without reason.”

The Truth Revealed

Polkadot walked to the tower and knelt beside a bloodstain hidden near its base. “This blood doesn’t belong to Rapunzel. She’s uninjured. It belongs to Ophelia.”

With the crowd’s permission, she helped Chuck roll the body over. There, just below the collarbone, was a clean stab wound—small but fatal.

The crowd recoiled. A wave of angry whispers swept through the people.

“You… you think I did that?” Rapunzel barked. “You have no real proof!”

Polkadot turned to the prince. “Did you love Ophelia?”

His voice, weak but true, answered, “Yes.”

“She was kind and powerful,” he murmured. “She could turn pebbles into butterflies.”

Polkadot stepped back. “Rapunzel wanted the prince for herself. And when she realized he loved her sister, she drugged him and killed Ophelia in a fit of jealousy. She dragged her sister’s body to the tower and pushed it from the ledge, hoping to disguise the murder as a suicide.”

The prince, finding sudden strength, rose shakily and pointed. “She killed her. I saw the blood on her hands.”

Rapunzel stepped back, caught in the blaze of revelation.

At that moment, Ophelia’s ghost smiled gently. Her form shimmered like morning mist. She looked once at the prince, once at her sister, and then faded into peace.

Moral of the Story:

Jealousy blinds and destroys, but truth always finds the light.