Young Writers Society

Claude Innocente

“I was in the lab, of course,” Claude said.

“The lab, eh? Just like you were just now, in the same house as a dead body?”

“What, do you think that this work must be taken lightly? No, no, of course not, of course not. This is much too important, Monsieur. The work must go on, no matter how many… setbacks you suffer.”

The little boy relaxed in the large armchair in which he resided. His face expressed nothing but a cool confidence, a confidence that made Claude squirm in his seat, and unusually fidgety man being unusually fidgety. The young inspector was silent, and as any true scientist knows, anticipation causes uncomfortable feelings, of course. Of course he was fidgety.

“Do you know how many people are infected with this influenza in the world, Monsieur?” Claude continued. Christophe was silent yet. His older friend stared at Claude as well with dead eyes, top hat perfectly imposed on his head. Both inspectors rested their hands calmly on the arms of their chairs, making Claude feel uncomfortable with how his hands were fidgeting on his lap. Of course he was uncomfortable. Inconsistencies must always invoke some kind of compulsive response in the mind of a human being. He started again, “Do you know how many-”

“How many, Mr. Innocente?” Boston asked, obliging him.

“Almost everyone! About one hundred percent! This is important work that we are- were doing here together, Monsieurs. Do not deny me that fact! We cannot allow Mr. Du La'érudit’s- and my- hard work to be in vain. So of course I was working in the lab. Even in the wake of this tragedy.”

Christophe only regarded him with slightly amused eyes.

“Anyway. So I was in the lab that night. Not in the kitchen, not in the study. I was in the lab. I was projecting my legacy. Then, out of nowhere, there was the scream, and the sound of something falling. I immediately locked myself in and called for the police on the telephone in there-”

“So your immediate reaction was not to go help Jacque?”

“Like I said, Monsieur Lefèvre, this is important work we do here. Anyone who would want to risk stealing such work must be very capable and careful, of course. If Jacque’s scream was an intact piece of timeline, then it would already be too late for me to do anything. I had to stay and protect the work in the lab!”

Boston’s eyes were fixed upon him. “How are we to know you were really in the laboratory. What proof do you have?”

"My employer kept very good records of our work here, of course. Of course he would! It’s important work. But, regardless, he would always sign these records. And there is one that dates only hours previous to his unlikely demise that details the beginning of use of the Glamercie series of chemicals, one of his own inventions. These chemicals are highly volatile and must be observed and attended to constantly as they are heated. There is no conceivable way I could have left them alone without disastrous consequences, of course.” Clause smiled a little. This should be enough to convince them.

“We will look at these records... closely,” said the inspector’s elder and inferior.

Yet the boy’s expression did not change. “Do you know who I am, Monsieur Innocente? I am Christophe Lefèvre. I may only be a young boy, but I am no fool. I have solved 15 high profile cases in cooperation with various organizations, namely the police. I need to let you know that I WILL find out who killed my good friend Jacque. I don’t mind that statement being put on the record.” Claude began to fidget again . “I just thought you might want to know that. You can go back to your very important work, Mr. Innocente. It must be attended to, must it not?”

Claude got up to go, nervously clearing his throat, and said, “Thank you, Monsieur. Have a nice day.”

The boy smiled. “Of course.”

Charles "Boston" Baudelaire

He got up and left the room, Christophe trailing behind. "Do you believe him, Boston?" Christophe asked silently, his shoes scuffing the hard floors of the lab hallway. He seemed somewhat bored, to be honest.

"He has a valid reason, Christophe, but valid reasons are not alibis. There is a difference. Still," Charles picked up his top hat and wiped the beads of sweat forming on his upper forehead, "I do not want to interrupt him further at the moment. He is distressed as it is, and science is his outlet for that distress. Just keep an eye on him at the moment, I do not want him blowing up the lab." He slicked his hair once again and stuffed his hat back on his head.

"You would be the one to think that." Christophe jumped from one tile to another, the rough soles on his shoes hitting the floor with a solid click. Charles looked at him in his peripheral vision, his mind forcing him to remember that he was a child, and children do these things. "So, what did Luther want to say to you?"

He is also a detective, Charles' brain reminded him. "Not much. Just the usual 'The show must go on!' deal. The judges have already picked another candidant for the title. I swear, " he opened the door to the study, and they both walked in, "the man is eating up all of the attention the local newspaper is giving him. And I do dare say that he isn't particularly sad that one of the most major scientists of our time dies in his town." Christophe took a seat in one of the plush chairs sat in front of a massive fireplace, his legs sprawled out in front of him. Charles sat on one side of the loveseat to the right of him, pulling out a small notpad. "Did you hear? The Daily Mirror is coming over. They want to get this." He shook his head. "Damn shame, if you ask me."

"I want to add Luther to the list." Christophe piped up.

"Interesting." Charles scribbled something down on his notpad. "Why, may I ask?"

"Well, old man, he seems like a candidate for this. I don't want to leave anyone out. Put in the other scientist up for the title the judges are awarding the winner." He suddenly got up. "Have you talked to the neighbor yet?"

Charles shook his head. "Slow down, Christophe. We've just nearly started this."

"We cannot leave anyone out, Boston."

"So we won't." Charles stood up also. "You go and talk to the neighbor, and I will get in contact with the other scientist before this gets too out of hand." Christophe nodded, and they both walked out of the study.

Dr. Durand

Dr. Durand stalked behind the intern, her irritation boring holes in the small man's back who in turn hunched his shoulders against her glare as if making himself smaller would shy her anger away from him. Earlier the intern had weaseled over to her, his thyroid cartilage jerking around like a caged rabbit and his eyes shifting to the left, telling her that he presented news that he knew would cross her. She had narrowed her eyes at him, and after an excruciatingly slow witted stumble of words he told her that a detective was here to see her. Now, his pace told her that in the brief moment they had met that he had become deathly afraid of her; she decided it would be best if he became useful elsewhere, specifically away from her work.
As soon as the door opened to the separate room, the intern darted away. Dr. Durand breezed into the room and swiveled to look down her nose at the man who sat in a dull white chair. She positioned herself on a chair who resembled his, and replicated the man's professional poise.
"What may I ask was so extremely important to interrupt my work and just couldn't possibly wait until after work, detective?" She inquired, raising her eyebrows though no humor dared to enter her frosty eyes. He looked at her coolly, either ignoring her jab or very well at hiding it.
After a pause, he said, "Do you know who I am, Dr. Durand?"
"I can't say I do, detective." She replied.
"My name is Monsieur Charles Boston Baudelaire and I am here to represent detective Christophe Lefèvre on the murder of Monsieur Jacque." He said.
She narrowed her eyes at him. She recalled Jacque's disregardful presence in the lab, and his insignificant attitude as he accepted his awards and gave his acceptance speech in a voice that stabbed at her pride. She raised herself higher in her seat as the detective's names rang a metaphoric bell in her brain.
"Are you inquiring that I killed Monsieur Jacques?" She said.
"Not at all, Dr. Durand. You are not charged with murder, but you are a suspect. With that said, I would like to ask a few questions." He paused, flipping to a new page on his notepad. "Where were you on the seventh of April?"
"I was working, of course."
"Was there anyone there to support your claim?"
"I was there by myself, like any other night."
"What is your relationship to Monsieur Jacques?"
She paused, sorting her words appropriately. Boston leaned forward slightly in his seat, his pen poised over his notepad but his expression remained. Finally, she replied, "I can't say we were acquaintances, though we did know each other very well. He was always undermining me in every way he could, and I could tell that he was rubbing his awards in my face. We have our differences in every aspect of the science field, and I would prefer to leave it at that."
Boston scribbled it down, and when he looked up he quickly reapplied his bland expression. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Three days before, when he supposedly came to check in on his colleague. I'm sure he was there to spy on my work." She said acidly. She had almost wanted to flick her cigarette ashes in his eyes when he had came in with his sleazy smile, is gaze greasing over the papers that were spread out in front of her.
Boston smiled, the first time since she had walked in. "I believe that will be all, Dr. Durand. I apologize for interrupting you."
She stood and shook his outstretched hand, meeting his gaze and not returning the favor of a fair well. She turned and marched out of the room the same way she had came, her thin mouth pressed into an even thinner line.

Luther.
He decided he’d take a break from planning. Too much paper work. Not enough time. He took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out smoke, gazing at the dark, dreary sky. It would rain soon. Out in the street, leaning against a building, he watched the people scurry by.
“Mr. Marr,” a familiar voice said close by. He turned his head, sticking the cigarette back in his mouth. Approaching him was Christophe and Boston.
“It’s good to see you,” Boston said with a friendly smile and an outstretched hand. Luther sighed and quickly, but loosely, shook his hand. He blew out more smoke and noticed Christophe swat the smoke away, coughing.
“Any news today, boys?” he asked, watching a woman wearing a lot of fur pass by.
“Well, no, sir. We haven’t any leads right now,” Boston reported.
“Kid,” Luther said, catching Christophe’s attention. “Go inside and get me the rest of my cigarettes. They’re on my desk.”
Christophe nodded and headed into the building of Mr. Luther’s office. Luther took the cigarette he already had out of his mouth and flicked the ashes off. He was almost done with this one.
“And get me a lighter, too!” he shouted after Christophe.
“Have you seen any of the suspects yet?” he asked.
“Well,” Boston started. “We have seen Mr. Innocente and Ms. Durand.”
“And?” Luther said impatiently.
“What do you mean?” Boston asked.
“Do you think either of them murdered him?” he asked, not wanting to say Jacque’s name too much. It always brought on memories of Darla and her cruel betrayal.
Before Boston could reply, Christophe exited the building, handing Luther his cigarettes and lighter.
“Thanks, kid,” Luther muttered, flicking the butt of his old cigarette to the ground.
“I’d like to know soon who did it. People are uneasy and I won’t have anybody feeling nervous at this fair!”
“Nobody has admitted to it yet, sir. But I assure you, we’re on it,” Christophe said.
Luther pulled out a new cigarette and lit it. He put it in his mouth.
“Do you have any ideas, sir?” Boston asked.
“You’re the detectives,” he muttered under his breath. He scanned his brain for any memories of suspects until he remembered somebody.
“There was a kid Jacque knew. A young thief girl. They say she’s around these parts. Some say she had some kind of weird loathing of Jacque. Find her,” he ordered.
“It may take some time, sir,” Boston said.
Luther flicked the ashes away and glanced at the two before replying, “then you should probably hurry.”

"How in snakes name are we going to find one pickpocket in the whole of Paris?" Christophe pondered aloud as he dusted himself off.
Smoke. Disgusting.
That foul man Luther's foul habits had really gotten to him, oh the joy he would get to force him to watch as he saturated everyone one of his putrid cigars. Christophe almost made himself sick, keeping up that little boy act around him, but it was true, Luther was the only one around he vaguely feared as a 'adult'. He had the power to fire him.
And this case was important. If Christophe was fired of the case then another investigator would be commissioned. Not that their were any good ones out there BUT what if... what if that other investigator found...
Christophe shook his head. Petty thoughts. Jacques murder was HIS case. No one would take it from him, and he himself would not rest until someone was behind bars.
Boston waddled beside him, hands in pockets, marching along in silence. What were his thoughts on the case? Had Boston found out any vital information he was keeping, was Boston hiding anything?
Boston suddenly stumbled forward and Christophe jumped backward as a dashing of brown shot off down the street.
"Purse snatch!" a woman that had been strolling behind them yelled, Christophe snapped his head around and saw Boston urgently struggling to his feet.
"He took my wallet too, it had my notebook in it!"
"Then what are you waiting for my good man?!" Christophe exclaimed. "After him!"
Boston broke into an awkward jog, his belt so loose he had to hold up his pants as he ran. Looks like it was up to him.
Christophe accelerated forward, his shiny shoes were surprisingly effective for sprinting, he could see the thief in the distance, given away by the gleam of a sparkly pink handbag. The thief was young, but so was Christophe, and with the sparseness of the street and the tightly packed buildings on either side there was no alley or nook to dart into for a quick escape. The purse snatch took a hard left and doubled into a grocery shop, Christophe slowed his pace and then followed with caution.
The bell of the door tinkled as he entered and a flustered looking man's face got even redder.
"Not another one! Darn kids! Keep out of my shop" he bristled through his upset moustache.
"Calm your socks sir" Christophe said coolly, "and tell me where that thief went."
"Th-thief" the man stuttered, "You mean th-that girl? Oh please i hope she does not take anyth-" the man was cut off by the tinkling of the bell once more, and from the corner of his eye Christophe saw the brown shape dart back through the door.
"Drat" Christophe cursed, "escaped."
He shuffled out of the store in a huff, shuffling his feet.
"Gotcha."
Boston was holding the girl in a tight wrestler hold, she was struggling and trying to bite his arm without any success.
"Good work Boston!" Christophe said, his tone lightening up. "Right in the bag".
He walked over to the girl who had an ugly sneer spread across her face. He picked up the pink purse which had been dropped and tucked it under his arm, studying the girl.
"You don't suppose..." He wondered out loud, spotting a brown knapsack the girl was trying to conceal. He reached out and snatched it before she had time to react, she cried out in anger and shock as he pulled open the drawstrings and started rummaging through.
"Here's your wallet, Boston" he said, producing the tatty brown lump of leather from the sack. The rest of the items seemed personal; A photo, a tiny teddy bear, a paper bag of candy, either that or she had robbed a baby. But what was this? Christophes hand felt something smooth and scaly, he pulled it out and caught the glint of long polished black leather.
"Speak of the devil" he gasped under his breath and he opened it.
"Missy, you are coming with us and will be held until further investigation. This is the wallet of Jacque Du La'érudit."


The girl-thief was promptly collected by a police car and driven back to headquarters.
"We will interrogate her shortly" Christophe informed Boston when he had wondered why they too were not going, "I forgot something at the murder scene."
After the lost item (a toy Aston-Martin that had fallen from Christophes pocket) had been retrieved the two were interrupted by an alarmingly sudden knock on the door. Who would visit a dead mans house? Boston opened the door to be confronted by a young man sprouting a puffy envelope.
"Delivery for Monsieur Jacque Du La'érudit." He announced, eyeing Boston suspiciously.
"He's dead." Boston said blatantly, "if you were not aware."
"Oh." said the boy, "I was not."
"He's lying." Christophe said stepping into the doorway. The young man seemed almost to laugh at his presence. Not for long.
"Not only that, but he had no way of knowing that you, Boston, were a private investigator, you could have killed poor Jacque right now. He had no reaction."
Christophe walked forward and stood on his tip toes so he was almost eye to eye with the deliverer.Even though still short,he had recently had a small growth spurt and he was pleased with his new-found height.
"I can read it on his lying face. He knew Jacque was dead and we are going to find out why."
The boy opened his moth to protest.
"Shush!" Christophe commanded, snatching the envelope which was now evidence. "Save your voice. We were on our way to an interrogation anyway. You might as well come along."
Boston stepped forward, chest held high against the skimp lad.
"Sir, If you please, will you come with us." It wasn't a question. Through Bostons gruff voice there was a content smile on his face.

Indie Harris


Indie had not the most pleasant look on her face as she was dragged away to the Police Station. She sat in a metal chair that was starting to get very uncomfortable. The young boy and the man who had grabbed Indie earlier, were standing across from her over a tall desk. Indie kept her cold glare on them as they spread her loot out over the table-top.

"I'm sorry sir, but can I ask why I am here?" Indie asked louder than necessary. The two people on the other side of the table looked up at her and sat down, like they had done this a million times before.

"Miss. Harris, do you know who I am?" The older man asked her. Indie was surprised that he knew her name so she listened a little more closely.

"No sir, I don't think I do." Indie replied trying to seem a little more polite.

"My name is Monsieur Charles Boston Baudelaire and I am here to represent detective Christophe Lefèvre on the murder of Monsieur Jacque." He said.

Indie's eye's narrowed down the the so called 'Boston'. She hated Jacque and believed that he was the reason her parents are dead. That man was a tool. Indie saw his wallet that she had stolen on the table and gave off a little smile to make the room a little less unpleasant. Then she realized, she was being accused of murder.

"Sir, are you accusing me of murder?" Indie asked innocently.

"No, your being charged with murder, but you are a suspect." Boston picked up the wallet and started to search though it. Indie straightened her slacks and checked her boot for her knife, it was still there. She quickly returned to her lazy position and pretended like there was nothing wrong.

"Where were you at April seventh?" Boston asked leaning onto his desk.

"I was at the market trading in my old boots for new ones." Indie replied automatically. She didn't want the two men to know that she was setting off dust bombs all over the town that day.

"Did you see Monsieur Jacque any where that day?" Boston asked looking straight into Indie's grey eyes.

"No sir." Indie replied starting to be a little more truthful.

"What is your relationship to Monsieur Jacque?"

"I don't know him very well but I do believe that he is the reason my parents are dead." Indie said this all very quickly and didn't know she had said it, till it came out of her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hands and felt ashamed.

Boston wrote that down and leaned back in his chair getting comfortable. "When was the last time you saw Monsieur Jacque?"

Indie thought hard and answered in complete truth this time. "April sixth in the street's, that's when I stole his wallet."

Boston gave off a slight smile. "I believe that will be all Miss. Harris."

He reached over to shake Indie's hand and she hesitated but took it anyways knowing if she didn't, she would be looked upon. She stood and walked out the small office smirking at the thought of a skinny fourteen year old being a murder.

Casey Madren

Casey strode down the street to the police station and barged through the door. "I would like to speak to an officer, please." She enunciated her words carefully. This was no time to be tripped up by a grammatical error.

The man behind the polished desk rolled his eyes. "You'll have to wait a bit. Most of them are busy investigating a murder."

She leaned on the desk, curiosity evident in her face. "Who was killed?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Some rich scientist. They're all in an uproar because he was about to win some award or another."

Casey sat back down, thinking. Maybe she'd finally be rid of Professor Du La'erudit. It seemed to fit his description, anyway. Maybe she'd be needing a new job.

Just then, a girl strolled out of the back of the office, followed by a fat man. The girl had long brown hair, a smirk, and wore a brown shirt with pants. Exactly as I had seen her. I jumped to my feet. "That's her! She took my purse!"

The man following her shrugged. "She didn't have it on her." He looked at the girl, eyebrow raised.

She shrugged. "Stole it a week ago. I already spent all the money."

Casey shuffled to the desk. "Will I be reimbursed for my loss?"

The man at the desk asked, "What's your name?"

"Casey Madren."

He straightened. "That doesn't sound French."

Casey rubbed her eyes. "It's not. I'm American, and here for my schooling. I made that money from a lazy old man and deserve every bit of it."

"We have to know your employer's name as proof you earned the money."

"Professor Du La'erudit. I don't know his first name."

A hand clamped down on her shoulder from behind. "I think I need to talk to you in another room, Miss Madren." She looked up to see the fat man who'd been with the girl. The thief was gone.

Casey followed him to a simple room. The man pointed her to a metal chair.

The man started. "Miss Madren, I am Monsieur Charles Boston Baudelaire, representing detective Christophe Lefèvre. Do you know why I took you aside?"

Casey shook her head, although she was beginning to suspect.

"Monsieur Jaque, or Professor Du La'erudit as you knew him, has been murdered." He watched my face. "You don't seem all that surprised."

"The man at the front desk mentioned a murder, and I thought his description of the victim fit the Professor."

"What exactly is your job for Monsieur Jaque?"

Casey shrugged and folded her hands in her lap. "Just the maid. I came in a couple times a day to sweep, dust, and make everything neat."

"Where were you on April seventh?"

"At university, at home, at the Professor's house to clean...I had quite a busy day."

"Did you see Monsieur Jacque that day?"

"Yes, in the morning. He seemed distracted and rude, but normal for him."

Boston jotted something down on his notepad. "Did you come back to the house during the day?"

"At night."

He looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Yet you didn't find the body."

"Was it in his sitting room? I never go there if he's not watching. That dog of his is a vicious beast." Casey raised one of her hands and showed him the scratches and bite marks on it.

Boston looked thoughtful. "You may go, Miss Madren. We may need to talk to you again. And we'll see what we can do about your money." The last was clearly added as an afterthought, but she was satisfied.

Norman Belrose

Norman fidgeted in his seat. The eyes of Boston and Christophe were trained on him. Judging him. Plush armchair he was sitting in suddenly felt hard and the smell of old cigarette smoke that was still lingering about the police station caught in his throat. He had to remain calm and remember where he was and speak carefully.

"Mr. Belrose, what's your first name?" Christophe asked as he took his seat.

"Norman." He replied stiffly.

"May I call you Norman? It makes things much less awkward." Christophe smiled.

"Sure."

"How old are you, Norman?"

"Nineteen." Norman shifted in his seat.

"Ah, about to go off to college anytime soon?"

Norman looked away, "I'm working on that."

"What is your connection to the Professor?"

Norman picked at his thumb's cuticle, the tick he always fidgeted with when he was under questioning. They can't prove anything and they aren't accusing me, I'm no one to them. I'm just another pawn in their delicate case. Norman thought.

"I'm his delivery boy. The mail office assigned me to his packages because he receives them so frequently. The majority of the week something arrives for him." He said seriously, holding his chin high and looking Christophe directly in the eye.

"Is that all Norman?" Christophe rested back into his chair.

Norman glanced down at his cuticle which had suddenly pricked with pain. A fleck of blood dribbled along the nail. He sucked it away quickly. "Yes. Can I go now? I have other packages I must deliver."

"Yes. Thank you for your help. That's a nasty habit by the way, you'll scar your hands if you keep at it." Christophe stood and opened the door, eyeing Normans fingers pecking at each other's cuticles.

Norman shoved his hands into his uniform's pockets and sauntered out of the police station. Never turning around to meet Christophe's pondering gaze.

Christophe sneezed. Once. Twice, into his hankecheif.
He had been bed-ridden since yesterday, the worst possible time to come down with a cold. If only the professors cure was still around.
The bed sheets were scattered with papers and documents that Christophe had spent all his spare time running over and over again.
There was a knock at the door and Boston peeked his head around.
"Sir?" he asked.
Christophe glared, he was absolutely furious at Boston. He had let that street brat simply walk out of the police station. Did he forget that she was not only being interviewed but had many crimes under her belt as well. She was supposed to be held and perhaps sent off to some sort of youth centre or orphanage where she would be very closely watched until she was needed again. Now the criminal was back on the streets and even more alert than ever. It was possible that they would never find her again.
"Those receipts and invoices of Jaques' that you bought to me last night" Christophe started, his hard stare unrelenting.
"They were just as i suspected, Jacques has been consistently purchasing new wallets for quite a while now, it seems that that bag snatch was a serial-pickpocket whom has been targeting Jacques in particular."
Boston listened cautiously, he knew about Christophes current feelings toward him, he didn't want to say the wrong thing.
"Very suspicious, Master Christophe" he concluded.

Christophe was not only bothered by the thief. He still had not found out what the delivery boy was hiding, he had known something about the murder, there was no doubt. Christophe ripped off a page of his pad he had been scribbling on.
"I've gone over the remaining suspects Boston" he said as he handed the sheet to his comrade.
"We still have not talked to the neighbor, she is never in at a convenient time. And this rumored lover, ask around and see if you can find any information on her." He paused.
"I am sure there is someone else we have forgotten but the fever is getting to my head. Please go and investigate Boston".
Boston nodded and left the room in a sulk. Christophe closed his eyes and smiled to himself, despite the fall backs the investigation was running quite smoothly.

Elaine Delacroix

Elaine dusted the living room furniture for the fourth time this week. It provided a fitting distraction since hearing the news about Jacques. She'd already cried too much--she didn't want to apply her makeup again. After all, the police would probably show up, and there was one sure-fire way to throw them off the trail...Good thing she was wearing her favorite red dress. Men loved a woman in red.

Knock knock knock

Ah, speak of the devil, Elaine thought as she went to open the door, duster in hand. The man at her door was dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. Rather unusual for a cop. Perhaps a private investigator?

"How may I help you, Monsieur?"

"Good morning, Madame. My name is Boston and I'm investigating the death of your neighbor. Do you have time to answer a few questions?

"Of course, please come in and make yourself at home. Would you care for some tea?" Boston...what a strange nickname. And he was British. This one might be tougher to fool than the French police.

"No thank you, madame." Boston stood in the foyer as Elaine got some tea anyway. Green tea, Jacques's favorite. It would be rude not to have some.

"Well in case you change your mind, I already had some brewing." She put the saucers down and motioned for Boston to sit.

"Your living room is very clean, Madame Delacroix."

"Why thank you. And please call me Elaine."

"Very well, Elaine. Could you tell me where you were on the evening of April 7th?"

"Well I'd gardened all day since it was so sunny out, so I took a long bath then had dinner with my daughter. I'm an excellent cook, you know. Do you have a lady friend to cook for you, Monsieur?"

"Ma'am, a good friend of mine has just been killed. Let's stay on topic, shall we? So then did you see or hear anything unusual?"

"Oh I'm afraid not. I was tired from gardening so I slept soundly, and I haven't looked in the windows that face his house since...since..." She trailed off, eyes welling up.

"Since what, Madame?"

"Well Jacques and I, we had tea nearly every night either outside or in here when the weather was bad. But last week I yelled at him about his little experiment and he said he would never come over again! I should have apologized but..."

"Madame, with all due respect, you do know he had found a cure for influenza, correct? Hardly a little experiment..."

"That's not what I was referring to, Boston."

"Than what are you talking about?"

"You said you were good friends with my Jacques? Tell me, dear, what do you know about his...personal life?"

"Well we suspect he has a lover and we've been trying to locate her..."

"Her? You won't find any women in his life. Except for me, of course. Now look at me, Monsieur." She stood up and moved so she was sitting next to Boston on the loveseat. "Most men would be thrilled to be my lover, wouldn't you say?"

"But Jacques wasn't, I take it?"

"He always said I wasn't what he was looking for. So naturally I watched his home closely for any signs of another woman. And soon enough, a young Irish man, a boy really, came over several times. At first I thought he was just an assistant, but one day they left the blinds down and I saw them...Oh if only I could erase such sights from my mind..."

"So you confronted him about this?"

"Yes, when we had tea the next evening. I couldn't understand how he could do this to me. He said some baloney about how he never meant to hurt me, but he was finally free to explore these desires, too old and rich to give a damn what society thought...I told him to stop, that it was unnatural...He said Adieu, for he would not speak to me again!"

"And when was this, did you say?"

"About two weeks ago. I've tried to apologize but my Jacques wouldn't even listen. And now he's gone forever..."

"Yes, his loss has been difficult for all of us. I hope to catch his killer soon."

"Yes, catch that bastard. And if you need anything else, I would be more than happy to help." She smiled and put her arm around him. "And if you're ever lonely, Monsieur, you know where to find me."

"Of course, Madame. Thank you for your cooperation." Boston freed himself from Elaine's grasp and left the immaculate house.

Conor Patrick.
Conor lead his last client of the day, Mrs. LeRoi and her sick German Shepard puppy, to the waiting room of the of the small building.

"I hope Polo gets better," Conor said, smiling at the small dog in the woman's arms. He reached to scratch the puppy behind the ear. "The medicine should be taken every night and morning. You should check in with me next week so I can see if he's doing any better."
Conor moved ahead of her to open the door.
"My receptionist should give you the medicine and the bill," he said motioning towards the dark haired woman behind a desk, writing.
"Thank you, Mr. Patrick." Mrs. Leroi smiled and headed to the receptionist.

Conor's eyes flickered to a figure in the corner of the room. A well dressed man with dark hair looked up from a piece of paper and locked eyes with Conor. The man stood, folding the paper and pushing it into his pocket, and advanced towards him.

"Mr. Patrick?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Boston. I'm investigating the death of Jaque. I understand you two were...friends?"
This Boston man hesitated when saying 'friends'. Why was that? Feeling as though his heart had dropped right past his stomach and to the floor, he looked back at Mrs. Leroi. She finished with the receptionist and disappeared out the door.
"Alexia," Conor called to the girl behind the desk. "You may leave now."
The girl nodded, collecting her things in a bag, and vanished into the night outside the door.

Conor looked back at Boston. He couldn't possibly know, could he? He couldn't know that his relationship with Jaque was far more than friendship, right?
"Sit. Please," Conor said, trying to sound civil, motioning to the couch beside them. Boston sat on one side and Conor on the other.

"Now, Mr. Patrick, where were you on the evening of April 7th?"
"I was home."
"I've heard from a source that you and Jaque were lovers. Is that true?"
Boston's words caused a chill to creep down his spine. Who told him? He made sure nobody saw him!
Conor nodded, stone faced.
"I'm not here to pry into that part of your relationship with him. I would just like to know when you saw Jaque last and if you saw anything or anyone suspicious."

The night of April 6th. He remembered it well.
Jaque had held his hand, patting it, and smiled.
"I want to tell people about you," Jaques had said.
Jaque's smile faded to a deep frown at Conor's protest.
"No. Are you insane? You can't speak of this to anyone!" Conor had pulled his hand away from Jaque's.
"Then is it true?" Jaque stood, glaring at Conor accusingly. "Are you here for my research?"
Conor sprang up and glared back.
"Is that what you think?!"
"You want the money! You know how rich it'll make me! I should have know," Jaque grumbled.
"I am not here for the money!" Conor stood stiff.
"You're not even looking me in the eyes."
Conor looked down at his feet. He couldn't think of anything to save him this time.
It was true. And he didn't regret it a bit.

"The night before his death," Conor explained to Boston. "He threw me out of his house after a...disagreement."
He was glad he didn't ask what it was about.
"Will that be all, Sir?" Conor asked, stopping himself from squirming.
"It should for now. I'll contact you if there are any other questions."
Conor stood, trying not to seem too eager to depart from Boston. He didn't quite like police. Especially this one who knew a secret.

He opened the door for Boston on his way out and then locked up his office. He flipped the sign on his door to 'closed' and sighed. Then he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a golden ring and slipped it around his left ring finger.

Conor was slightly relieved, though, that Boston met him at his office and not at home. What would he have told Alaine when she opened the door while he was busy at work?
Conor turned off the lights and left the office to go home to his high school sweetheart.

Nicholas
A gentle ring sounded through the small store front, Nicholas turned to see Christophe walking in with Boston follow right behind. Nicholas stopped rearranging the shelves and moved closer to the counter.
“Bonjour Monsieur Lefèvre et Monsieur Baudelaire, how may I be of assistants today?” Nicholas says wiping at a smug in his classes.
“You see Christophe needs some medicine, he has a bad cough.” Boston says, Nicholas eyes shift between the two.
“Shall we do a check up, to be sure nothing else is wrong?” Nicholas suggests, Christophe face showed nothing but a firm line.
“Why not, there is nothing wrong with being precise.” He answers, Nicholas waves them back. Nicholas pushes a door open into a dark room, quickly he flips the switch and then moves stacks of paperwork of the cot.
“I apologize for the mess, recently some of my things from home have come in. Please have a seat while I find my instruments.” Nicholas says searching the cabinets, he finally finds a stethoscope, stopwatch, sphygmomanometer, thermometer, and a reflex testing hammer. He hands the thermometer to Christophe, while putting the stethoscope in his ears. He starts and stops the stopwatch several times. “Anything happening in the detective business?” Christophe eyes Boston with the thermometer sticking out of his mouth. Boston clears his throat “Well, Monsieur Jacque Du La’érudit was found dead.”
“Oh that poor man, he probably died in his laboratory as well.” Nicholas now finished with the check up, he left the room and reentered with a bottle. “Here you go, take these every eight hours. You just have the flu, it would be wise to rest and not over strain yourself.”
“No, I must figure out who killed Jacque. I will not rest until I find them.” Christophe retorted, and then a mysterious look overcame him. “Where were you on the night of
Jacque’s death?” Nicholas stopped putting away his instruments, humming a thought.
“I was here, working. Alone I’m afraid. Why?” Nicholas started, “Wait you don’t think I killed him do you?
“Of course not, though anything is possible.” Christophe says while leaving the room Boston on his heels.

Claude Innocente

Claude shifted his wrist a minute around, jetting the flickering stream from the hose in a wide, sweeping pattern of water. He grunted and took another swig of beer. How many times had he watched from the front room window as Jacque stood on the very green grass that Claude stood on now, holding the garden hose from the hip like a gunfighter, watering his already perfectly manicured lawn.

It was too many times to count. And for every one of those times, Claude had the urge to run outside and rip the hose from his varicose vein filled hand to overtake the tax. Of course he had. Jacque was one of the most important men in the world. Why wouldn’t he want to partake in something the man took as routine. Why wouldn’t he want to be the one who possessed Jacque’s routine. In toto.

So, as his mentor did before him, now Claude stood barefoot in short, freshly mowed grass that was too green, so green that the chemicals didn’t even have to be deduced, they gave off an aura. Unlike his mentor, who would stand, well-dressed, reading the sports section, he held the screw end of the hose in one bony, gripping hand and gripped a cold, half-gone beer with two fingers and a thumb of the other hand.

He stood still, and although taken with the euphoric quality of being Jacque for that one moment, he was surprisingly calm. He blamed the beer.

His lab coat flapped open in the wind to reveal nothing beneath but the emaciated young lad in question and a pair of dirty boxers.

He surveyed the sprawl of almost an acre of land before him, the wealth in his proximity. The house he stood in front of was grand by all means, Victorian styling painting the country setting, the colorful gardens, with a putrid, yet somehow welcoming vibe. The houses up and down this boulevard were something to behold, especially the one next door, his right flank figuratively reflecting the glare of the well-kept monster of the Delacroix manor.

Claude did not delusion himself with inklings of class resentment. He certainly came from a place that did not resemble even the cleanest gutters. Yet, his world of luxury garden apartments paled in comparison to the platter before him. Of course, he thought, mocking his own diction.

But it was his now. He was Jacque’s legacy. He was the new temporary proprietor of this estate until this hose was wrenched from his cold, wet hands.

While in deep thought, he heard voices to his right from next door and turned about ninety degrees in that direction.

Claude witnessed the older man who had turned him over the other day stumble off the front porch of the manor and hurriedly say, “Of course, madam, and thank you for your cooperation.”

His collar was messed with a little and he was immediately followed out the door by Mm. Elaine, who was holding a handkerchief over her head with her chin up. Seeing his hasty departure, disillusioned, she let her breath go and slumped a little.

She brightened a little when she noticed Claude looking at her. She restatured herself and called out to him. “Yoo, hoo! Mr. Innocente! How does this day find you? I see you are dressed to kill today.”

Looking down at his appearance, Claude, void of emotion figured she was probably blushing, even though he couldn’t see her complexion this far away. He continued watering, and shrugged. “There have been better days, Madam. I had a body in my house until very recently.”

She immediately remembered and silently cursed herself. At least that’s what Claude figured she did. “Well,” her voice called, adopting a silky quality, “If you need any company or… comfort instead of huddling in there depressed and alone, give me a call.” She probably winked, but if she did, Claude didn’t notice.

He reverted his eyes back to the grass in front of him and painted images in the grass with the hose. “Thanks, I’ll be sure.”

There was a period of awkward silence, in which he still felt her presence standing there.

“Oh! Um…” started the romantic madam, as if she were making it up on the spot, a possibility that Claude didn’t discount, “I am going to be holding a memorial dinner here next Monday. Everyone that Jacque was close to will be invited- in fact, that man you just saw leaving and his young friend will be in attendance-, and that number includes you. So… um… if you could attend…” She trailed off and looked up at Claude.

He reluctantly nodded and said, “Yeah, I think I can make it. Of course I can. Thanks for the offer.” What did you get yourself into Claude, he thought. This will be a perfectly good opportunity for the police or these inspectors to field questions. Then you might give up some damning evidence to your secret.

“Good, good,” she said wistfully. Looking around a little, she found nothing else to say and turned to go back inside.

Claude had to admit that in that tight red dress, Elaine looked very attractive, but in a matronly way. She reminded him a little too much of his mother. At this thought, she shuddered a little and spun 180 to continue the lawn and he heard a door click behind him.

Pondering how he would handle himself at this party, he didn’t notice the maids approach until she was walking past him up the adorned walkway to the front door.

“Cay-they,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of beer, “What are you doing here? I’m not paying you to come.”

“I know,” she said, walking briskly past in her heels. “There were just some loose ends in there that I forgot to clean up. It won’t take long at all.” And as an afterthought, “If you need anything cleaned, I can do one look over on the house for old time’s sake.”

Claude narrowed his eyes a little, and said, “No, I think I can handle it. But you’ll need these, of course.” He shifted the hose to his beer hand, letting it spray onto his naked leg. It was cold, but he tried to pretend like it was nothing so he didn’t look foolish. He removed the house key from the pocket of his lab coat and tossed them to her.

“Oh,” she said, unconvincingly, catching the keys, “Of course.”

Claude finished the rest of his beer, set the empty bottle down in the grass, and walked off through the wet cell walls to get the other half of the front yard.

Casey slipped into the building and went to the supply closet to get a broom. She then tip-toed up the stairs to the living room.

They had chained the beast to a table to allow investigators to move in and out of Jacques's home without being savaged. The dog growled and snapped at her. She stood just out of it's range and grinned. "Well, Jacques can't protect you now, you filthy mutt. What do you think of being made into sausage? Payback for all the times I went home bleeding." Casey raised the broom and cracked the handle over it's head. It went limp long enough for her to slip it into a potato sack and tie the top. She headed for a ground-floor window near the back; she had no desire to be caught by Monsieur Innocente.

The creature squirmed about in the bag as she dropped it out the window. Before she climbed out herself, she headed upstairs and shuffled through Jacques's drawers. A few coins and bits of jewelry, nothing that'd be missed by Monsieur Innocente or Jacques's Irish 'friend'.(Who says servants aren't observant?) He was shorting her on pay anyway.

Casey hopped outside, slipped the money into her pockets, grabbed the dog and headed down the street.Turning a corner, she bumped into Norbert Belrose, the delivery boy. She instantly froze, knowing exactly what she looked like in that moment, a thief, and mentally debated dropping the bag and running. He'd probably open it and look inside...Casey wasn't the only one the beast had been cruel to.

Conor.
It puzzled him where that sweet dog had gone. He woke early to visit the old home of Jacque. He expected the dog, when he found it, to run to him and lick his hands as he reached to pet him as he usually did. Jaqcue would tell him stories of other people, Casey included, that tried to make nice with the animal only to get bitten. Then they'd laugh. If Conor had had any real feelings for Jaqcue, the memory might have been followed by a sting in his heart, a pang of sadness for the loss of his lover and good friend. But he didn't and shrugged it off, continuing his search for the dog.
After an hour of looking he left the home confused. Perhaps it ran away. Perhaps someone took it? He shook his head. Why would anyone want to take that dog? He walked away from the house, looking up at the wide morning sky. When he looked ahead he noticed a woman in a slinky red dress. He recognized her as Jaqcue's neighbor. He wouldn't have noticed her if she hadn't been staring at him, her arms crossed over her chest. Confused, he passed her, noticing that she was glowering.
"Monsieur," she finally said. Conor turned to face her.
"Yes, madam?"
"You were...a friend of dear Jaqcue, weren't you?"
Conor's heart almost skipped a beat. He remembered Boston and now thought of this woman. She hesitated the way Boston did at the word 'friend'. Did she know too? This was unbearable.
He nodded.
Her lips were pursed and she looked as though she were debating something with herself.
"I will be hosting a dinner in memorial of Jaqcue next Monday. You may attend if you like." She continued glaring. "You don't have to if you can't attend."
Then her gaze lowered to his hand and his eyes followed. He'd forgotten to take off his ring.
"And your other friend may come," she said then turned to walk away before hearing his reply.
"I will attend," he muttered, not sure if she heard him. But he wasn't sure about bringing Alaine. He wasn't sure sure his secret was as hidden as he thought anymore.