Late night rummaging...

[Cameron Westen]

The door to the bookstore opens, and in strides Cameron. The man looks to be somewhere in his late twenties to early thirties, though his shaggy blonde hair had begun to prematurely grey in a few places before his Embrace. An eternal five o'clock shadow graces his rather average face, and his pale blue eyes flit about to take in his surroundings. A worn London Fog coat is draped over an off the rack suit.

He shoulders a battered black bookbag, and strolls past the counter. He raises a hand to offer the man behind the counter a cursory wave, and strolls directly towards the door in the back. At one point he pauses to eye the horror section, snatching up a dog-eared copy of The Shining. He whistles softly to himself as he pushes his way fully into the back room.

Cameron glances about as he sets the book down near the door to the back room, reaching into his pocket to fish out a pack of Silk Cuts, and a scuffed lighter. A quick flick of the flint and he takes a deep inhale off the nicotine. The chemicals might not calm him anymore, but the memory of the calming sensation is enough to take the edge off from a long night at Nectarines.

He approaches a comfortable looking chair and slips the bookbag off, letting it drop beside it. He then slides back down into the chair, relaxing for the moment, his eyes closed, the cigarette dangling between his lips.

[Mr. Smythe]

Mr. Smythe walks in and asks for a cuppa. As with Cameron Silk Cuts, the chemicals mean nothing, it is the habit that is comforting. Smyte sits down in a large leather armchair, and open's the Idiots Guide to Voodoo, reading the page on Legba.
"Bloody confusing night, was it not? Damned shame about Eric Clayfield. Now there is going to be quite the tiff about replacing him. I suppose, however, the real haunting question for me, is what kills a kindred in his own haven?"

[Ghost]

Ghost comes sauntering around the corner, his burned and blasted features out of place belied by the casual stroll. He balanced a copy of The Once and Future King in one hand, while simultaneously texting on a handheld device in the other. "I suppose the options are more varied than we would be comfortable with," he proffered offhandedly. "There's the possibility of an assassin who crept their way past his haven's defenses and managed to get the drop on him. Or it could have been someone he trusted enough to let into his home. Unlikely was it someone he didn't trust but didn't see as a threat. How many people of that description do we invite into our havens? More likely someone close, someone he wouldn't suspect. Then, depending on the specifics of how he actually died, it could have been a small explosive planted on either him or a specific spot in the haven. History tells us that you don't have to be stronger than someone to kill them; you just have to do the unexpected."

Ghost rounded over to a comfortable chair and settled himself in. He put away his phone and popped open a laptop, sidling it next to his book. "I mean, at this point, you can't really discount anyone as a suspect, can you? The most harmless-seeming person in the world could, in fact, be the killer, or could have orchestrated it. The biggest, most obvious suspects are going to be Clayfield's no doubt long list of enemies and anyone who stands to gain, or even potentially gain, from his death. Someone moving after what was his, be that money or connections or his position or any combination thereof. One has to admit, the intrigue of it all does offer a certain excitement. It certainly whet's the appetite."

[Cameron Westen]

The man glances up from his nicotine reverie and offers Smythe a lopsided grin. His specialty. He plucks the cigarette from his lips and shrugs his shoulders, the Stephen King novel resting in his lap.

"Coulda been anyone, mate. I'm curious about who did 'im in, acourse. But more important to me is who is gonna take 'is place. 'E ran the ship well 'n all...but a different Seneschal could turn this lovely burg upside down."

He casts a glance in Ghost's direction, trying not to flinch at his appearance. "I'm lookin' into it...as I'm sure everyone else lookin' for a part on the head is as well. Everyone's 'oping that figurin' this out'll make 'im important. Or at least...noticed. I'm more interested in me own clan politics, to be honest."

[Cheval]

A man walks into the bookstore, appearing in his mid to late twenties. He wears a white button up shirt with a vest over it, some jeans, and a wide brimmed straw hat. He leans heavily on his cane, his dark skin matches well with the color of the handle. He leans heavier than a man his age should, and his back is curled over as if he were at least three times his apparent age.
He glances over the books nearest the crowd and pulls down a weather beaten dog eared copy of "The Necronomicon", the one you'd find at Borders, generally.
"De Baron, He gon' get a kick outta dis one." he mutters to himself.
He turns back to the crowd, glances at the open book in Mr. Smythe's hands, "Dey neva get me picture jus' right. So who you boys be talkin' 'bout? Who be goin' to de Baron's gateway?"

[Mr. Smythe]

He looks over at Cheval, raising an eyebrow in what passes for an expression of surprise.

"You were not present for the announcement then?" He tries to recall the face hidden under the straw hat, but cannot quite put his finger on an identity. "The Seneschal, Eric Clayfield, was sent to final death in an act of murder. The details remain uncertain, though I have heard a rumor that symbols very much like the one inscribed on the floor of Elysium were found under Clayfield's bed."

He takes a sip of the tea, his eyes moving around the room to guage the reactions of Ghost and Cameron to the new comer before continuing: "What is certain, however, is the fact that a phone call was made from Clayfield's home at or near the suspected time of the incident. That phone call was to a number in Sunnydale. Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Smythe."

He offers a curt not and turns to Ghost. "You make some very strong points, Sir. though I must admit they do not do much to quiet my misgivings. You are correct it could be anyone of us, or anyone at all. I am troubled even more by the fact that the person who performed the deed might not have even known they were doing it."

He turns to Cameron. "A wise man thinks to the future, and you also raise a valid point: a bad choice of seneschal could turn this burg upside down. I think however, Prince Faina, will not make a bad selection in replacing Eric. I have only met her once or twice, but she seems to be a very shrewd judge of character."

[Ghost]

Ghost perks up at the arrival of the newcomer. Listening to the man's offbeat comments, he makes a mental note, adjusting his laptop more comfortably on the table. Hearing the Brujah Whip's commentary, he nods.

"I've heard that, too, but surely there will be more to it than just what the Prince has to say about it. Certainly she makes the final decision, no doubt about that, but the people that climb into the race are going to be working overtime to stack the deck in their favor and make sure that they are the new Chosen One. We're likely about to see (or at least hear about) Camarilla-fuck-you-politics at its finest. Deals will be brokered, favors exchanged, people's very lives used as stepping stones or speed bumps to enhance or trip up one contender or another, and my clan is about to clock more work hours than Johnny Cochran in the mid-90s. Let's face it, no Kindred worth the actual title of Seneschal is going to leave it all up to chance and fair play. It's not how things are done in the Camarilla."

He turns to glance over at the man in the straw hat. "Greetings. I don't believe we've formally met. You can call me Ghost. What do you wish to be called?"

[Cheval]

The young man turns to Ghost "Me be Papa Legba. You can call me Papa, Legba, or Papa Legba." He turns back to the crowd "Now, who gon' be kind enough to give an ol' man a place to sit?"

[Ghost]

Ghost stretched out a leg and shoved a chair out from his table at a 90 degree angle from his own position, giving Papa Legba a position to sit and see the other assembled kindred and also be plainly visible.

"Papa Legba, you say. Would you be the one responsible for the symbol at The Nectarine last week? The symbol was a representation of you, or your namesake, or some such thing. It was you, wasn't it?"

[Cheval]

Papa Legba sits heavily into the chair. "Ahh!Dese ol bones ain't what dey used to be. wasn't me that did no mojo at the Nectarine, though it was a pretty ting. An' powerful, too. I tell you his name, but de fool don' have one anymore."

"so, about dis death, anymore infomation on it?"

[Mr. Smythe]

"These are troublesome times indeed, Mr. . . . Legba was it?"
Smythe puts down the cup and looks up at the newly seated gentleman.
"It seems someone has killed the Seneschal of The City, and all manner of trouble is upon us. But little has been said thus far that can be substantiated. In our own borough, a phone number that is somehow linked to the murder seems to have appeared on the phone of one of the Torreadors..his name escapes me."
He pauses thoughtfully for a moment.
"Perhaps I am repeating much that has been said, but I think you do not know all of it. Certainly we are in for an interesting period of succession, but also, gaps have been created. I believe there is more fear at the highest levels than has been disclosed, for even the Sunnydale Whip Council has been told very little. Yet the game, as Mr. Holmes would note, is afoot."