Young Writers Society

Sophie excused herself to grab another drink and Aloysius was once again left alone. He leaned over to look at his painting. He looked good. Sure, he wasn't any Rudolph Valentino, but Sophie's painting at least made him look decent.

Aloysius sat in silence beside the occasional "hello" to people passing by. His second drink of the night was almost empty, but he didn't get up. He didn't want the table taken if neither Sophie nor him were there. Instead, he looked around and people watched. Almost every person in the room was dancing or talking with a partner, except for a few straglers near the bar.

Aloysius looked past the bar, to the door. The speakeasy's accountant (Henry? Grant? Aloysius had no clue) was standing near it and occasionally opened it a crack to look outside. He was fiddling with his hands the whole time; Aloysius assumed as a nervous habit. Then, Sullivan the bartender walked up to him and said something, presumably telling the man to get back to work. The accountant crossed his arms and seemed to put up a fight, but eventually gave in to Sullivan and walked away, looking back several times as he did so.

Suddenly, Aloysius noticed someone approaching the table and smiled. The light-haired man from before—Julian, he thought?—had evidently come from the bar, nearly-full drink in hand.

Julian grinned in recognition when he caught sight of Aloysius. "Hey!"

"Hello!" Aloysius said, motioning him to sit down, "Funny seeing you again! Sophie from last time is here, too."

"Ah, the artist," Julian said, placing his drink on the table. "Sad to say I don't know her well. Mostly I've interacted with her brother. Liam, I think? He's, ah... part of the staff. In a way."

"I didn't know that. How was your weekend?" Aloysius asked, taking a sip of his drink, only to realize there was nothing left for him to drink.

Julian took a sip. "How it always is. Spent wasting away in this dingy building." He sighed. "Got in some playing though, Sunday. And you?"

"That's too bad. As much as I love this place, I'd need a break once in a while. As for me, I had a baseball game on Saturday and won. Then I saw an old friend of mine named Elle. She's sweet, although she does read into things a bit more than she should sometimes," Aloysius chuckled, "Besides that, I worked for the rest of the weekend and wrote a letter to my mother."

"Quite the ladies' man, it seems," Julian joked. "And congratulations on the baseball. Never been much of a sports fan myself, but my brother's glued to the radio whenever he can to catch up on the latest highlights." He paused. "You said you wrote your mother a letter? Have you been away from home long?"

"I've been away from Pittsburgh since.. 1926, so around two years now. My mother has never been a fan of telephones-"

Before Aloysius could finish, another familiar figure approached the table. This time, it was Caroline. She was alone, and seemed tired, and possibly depressed. While still pretty, she was dressed more simply, in a navy dress with white trim.

"Hello! Well, isn't this fun," Aloysius said, "How was your weekend?"

"Good," Caroline said. "It was nice. My friend and I went to Navy Pier." Her tone was clipped as if there was something else she was holding back.

"Navy Pier is always great," Aloysius replied, not wanting to intrude on something she didn't want to say.

Aloysius looked over to the bar to see Sophie returning to the table, new drink in hand. She seemed to have noticed the other two at the table. Aloysius smiled at her, but quickly returned to the conversation. He could get used to this group of people.

641 words, by looseleaf, Plume, and Elinor

Before long, the weekend was over and Caroline was punching in at the texile mill at 8am on the dot. This particular morning, she was feeling particularly unmotivated to manage the load of work she had before her. Then, when the day was over, she would have to come back and do it the next day. And then day after that, for the next five days. Brief respite for the weekend, and then back at it again the next week.

It was terribly boring, and depressing when she thought that she had no prospects beyond this job and the boarding house.

But, Caroline reminded herself as she sat down, this is what she'd signed up for when she'd left home. She'd forsaken the security and comfort that would have come with staying in her parents home for a life of freedom and truth.

Even if she hadn't really thought it through at the time, all she'd known was that her parents were responsible for the death of the only boy she'd ever loved, and that no one would face consequences for his murder. Even if she could go back to that moment where she chopped her hair and headed south, knowing that she'd be stuck in a mundane job and be so lonely, she was positive that she would make the same decision.

It didn't mean she had to like it.

At the very least, she was looking forward to drinks and dancing that night, and spending more time with Emma. She'd been the first real friend Caroline had made in the city, and of late she'd felt like they'd grown distant. Now that she was single again, she could go out and do things more.

The day inched by in a blur. When she got home, Emma said she'd changed her mind about the Golden Vanderbilt.

"I'm sorry, Caroline," Emma said. "I'm just not up to it tonight. You have fun."

"Oh, okay," Caroline said limply.

"I know it was my idea."

"You were going to cover me, remember?" Caroline reminded her. Payday wasn't until Wednesday.

"Right." Emma fished a dollar out of her purse. "Just pay me back. After this weekend, you owe me $3."

"I know. As soon as payday comes."

Caroline dressed in the first acceptable dress she found hanging in her closet, a navy one with white trim. She left the boarding house and walked over to the Golden Vanderbilt just as she had the previous Friday night.

To her surprise, she found the same familiar faces she'd sat with on Friday. Naturally, she joined them, and greeted them. Caroline ordered beer this time, and they made idle chatter for a while. Sophie had these new paintbrushes that she'd bought, and judging by the frequency at which she kept going back to the bar for drinks, she was enjoying the night more the more intoxicated she got.

They were each a few drinks in when the dog, Hoover, came their way. Caroline petted him, and so did Julian, and the other man whose name she couldn't remember.

Sophie got up from the table and started to chase after Hoover, who had gleefully pranced away, Sophie's paint brush in his mouth.

"Hoover, you stupid dog! I just bought this paint brush today! Do you know how much one of those costs?"

Caroline realized the brush must have indeed been really valuable for Sophie to take off in the way that she did, leaving her empty glasses right on the table. Before long, she'd disappeared into the crowd of the speakeasy.

"Should we follow her?" Caroline asked the others at the table. After a momentary pause, they nodded in agreement.

Caroline was the first to get up and follow Sophie's path. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that they had started to follow her.

626 words

Hoover's slobber was still wet on Julian's hand as he watched Sophie dash off after him. He glanced from the empty glasses on the table to Sophie's less-than-graceful speedy promenade through the speakeasy crowd, then looked at the others.

"Should we follow her?" Caroline asked, echoing Julian's thoughts. She already seemed to be getting up, so Julian nodded. A scrape of a chair told him that Aloysius had done the same.

With Caroline leading the way, they followed the zigzag path Sophie had cut through the Golden Vanderbilt. A few indignant cries from ahead told them that something had happened, and Julian winced when he heard Doyle's loud voice.

"Latkowski! Get that dog out of here!" His grimace only deepened when the sound of breaking glass joined the sporadic barks. He quickened his pace, catching up with Caroline with Aloysius not too far behind. He murmured hasty apologies to disgruntled patrons, stepping over a pile of spilled moonshine and glass shards. A few piano notes sounded, discordant, and in his mind's eye, Julian could just see Hoover's dirty paws on the keys. He shuddered.

After making their way through the crowd in the wake of destruction left by Hoover, they finally caught up to Sophie. She was standing by the bar next to the side door of the speakeasy, the one that led to an alleyway. In her hand was a paintbrush, clutched rather triumphantly between her thumb and forefinger.

"That stupid dog. But at least I made it. Why does he always have to eat my material? Just because I said he wasn't pretty enough for a drawing?"

"He's always been a pain in the rear-end," Aloysius replied, then laughed, "I guess he really didn't want you to finish my portrait."

"He's just jealous that you give a better portrait than he does. Stupid dog!" Sophie said loudly and began to say some improper words in French.

Julian barely registered their exchange— something else had caught his eye.

"Huh. That's odd. This door's not normally open." Julian wandered closer. He turned to Sophie. "Did Hoover go out there?"

She nodded. He turned back towards the door. It was slightly ajar, just open enough for a Hoover-sized dog to get through. It stuck a little as he tried to open it, and after it swung open from pressing hard with his shoulder, he could see why. Someone had wedged the corner of a crate into the doorframe just far enough that it prevented the door from closing.

"Why would..." Julian trailed off as he stepped into the alley.

At first he didn't know what he was seeing. A body lay facedown over some crates stored in the alleyway. A puddle of something shiny was on the ground around it. He assumed it was someone passed out from intoxication, who'd mistakenly collapsed with a drink still in their hand than had then shattered and spilled over the alleyway ground.

Hoover nosed closer, muzzle dipping into the puddle. Out of instinct, Julian kneeled and reached out, grabbing the dog's face and turning it away.

"Hoover, don't do that. You know alcohol's not good—" As his hand brushed against Hoover's mouth, a bit of the liquid touched his fingers. It was stickier than he'd expected. In the soft light that shone from the door behind him, he could make out a red tinge.

"—for you," he finished lamely, letting Hoover go, heart steadily speeding up. He stood up and hesitantly turned the body over. Even in the minimal light, there was no mistaking the pallid face illuminated, and the telltale dark stains slowly blooming on the white-shirted chest.

"Grant," he breathed.

Disbelief was all Aloysius could feel. It wasn't every day you saw the body of someone you knew, lying in a bunch of crates. Aloysius hadn't been close with Henry and had only said less than three hundred words during his two years at the speakeasy, but it still felt weird. Henry was a face he saw every week without a doubt and now he was gone. Forever.

Aloysius had taken the next day off of work, claiming he was sick. Lillian would be too suspicious if he said someone died and he would much rather keep Henry's death a secret.

"Am I correct in saying that you're asking for a day off, Mr. Mills?" Lillian asked incredulously after Aloysius called in.

"That is right," Aloysius said, twirling the phone cable around his finger, "I'm.. sick."

"May I ask with what?"

Aloysius paused. Thinking of nothing else, he picked up a handkerchief and blew his nose, hoping it would add some credibility, "The flu."

"But Mr. Mi-"

"I didn't want to infect you or anyone else. You know how Niemeyer gets when he falls ill- I would hate to do that to him."

"Hm, ok," Lillian gave up, "Good afternoon, Mr. Mills"

"Good afternoon, Lillian."

Aloysius put the phone down as soon as she left and rubbed his eyes. Man, was he tired. Aloysius had hardly slept a wink because of how many things happened at once last night: the body, the police, the questioning. It was insane.

He wandered over to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee before sitting down. The only thing he had managed to do that morning was grab the newspaper. He picked it up and, after taking a sip of his coffee, started reading. Nothing on the first page appealed to him. He enjoyed reading about politics and local issues, but he was not in the mood today. The sports report on the second page was mildly interesting, but another article on it was what really caught his attention.



Aloysius sighed. The case couldn't be closed. So many questions were left unanswered. Why Henry? It wasn't chance. Also, who did it? The main thing the police do is look for who committed a crime and they hadn't done that. In some small way, the police chief's negligence only made Aloysius want to solve the cause of Grant's death even more.

Aloysius flipped through the newspaper to the obituaries page.

"Old person.. old person... old pers- oh!" Aloysius muttered as he looked through each column. There he was: Henry Oliver Grant.



Aloysius ripped the obituary out and put it in his pocket. He quickly cleaned up his coffee and gathered his things. He had to tell someone about solving Grant's murder and the Golden Vanderbilt was the perfect place to do it. Sophie and Caroline probably wouldn't be there, but he had a hunch Julian would be.

721 Words

Caroline wasn't sure how she ended up at work on Tuesday morning. She didn't want to go. She couldn't. Even after she'd stopped puking in the alleyway and the police had escorted her home, she couldn't get the man's face out of her mind.

In her drunken haze she'd wondered why she and the others hadn't gotten in trouble for being at an illegal speakeasy. The man whose name she couldn't remember, not Julian, the other one, had told them they'd been shopping at Johnson and Co. They police hadn't questioned why they had been at a pharmacy so late at night. Whether they were that obtuse or they really believed that story, Caroline didn't know. But she supposed someone had just been murdered, so the police had bigger fish to fry.

Caroline barely slept that night. But she knew that if she didn't show up to work, her job would given to another eager young girl on the street. She somehow managed to get dressed and walk out the door the boarding house. Her stomach was only manage a half of a banana and a few sips of coffee for breakfast but she still walked into the front door of Fredrickson Textiles, Inc that morning like nothing was wrong.

The entire morning was a blur. She talked to no one and no one talked to her, and somehow, she managed to get her work done. By noon, she was barely picking at her lunch and picked up a paper. A few girls gave her looks, but no one spoke to her. Caroline's eyes drifted to an article. Man Murdered At Johnson & Co...

Henry Oliver Grant...

Henry...

Caroline made the startling realization. She'd met him on Friday. Days earlier, in line for the bathroom. He thought she was pretty...

The whole world started to spin. She heard a few girls scream before she collapsed in her seat and everything went black.

***

Caroline wasn't sure how much time had passed when she woke up in Mr. Watts' office.
She'd never been in there before, and sat up, slightly nervous. He was a middle aged, balding man with a thick mustache who sometimes reminded Caroline of her own father. He wasn't the worst person in the world, but he wasn't the most friendly either.

"The girls brought you in here," he said flatly. "What's going on today?"

"I had a bad night," Caroline said, not wanting to get into it. "I didn't sleep at all."

"What were you doing?" He asked.

Caroline said nothing.

"Miss Craig," Mr. Watts said flatly. "Listen. I employ fifty girls just like you. I could easily find someone else on the street to take your place. But I see the potential in you. I want Frederickson Textiles to be different from somewhere else where you might work. I was in New York City during the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. I remember it vividly. I would hope that we've progressed since those days."

Caroline still said nothing. Mr. Watts clearly wanted to talk and for her to listen.

"I want my girls to grow, perhaps be promoted and feel like they're valued. But you make it rather difficult for me to justify keeping you at times. " Caroline said nothing, and Mr. Watts continued. "What you do off the clock is your business, but I can't have it affecting your work."

Caroline went back and forth. "I found a dead body yesterday. My... friends and I. Pardon me but I'm rather traumatized by the whole thing."

Mr. Watts stared at her blankly. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Caroline wanted to remark on what he'd just said about what happened off the clock not affecting work, but she couldn't find the words. "I'm sorry," was all she managed.

"That's a very terrible thing to go through," Mr. Watts remarked.

"I didn't know the person..." Caroline said quietly.

"Miss Craig, why don't you take the rest of the week off? Next week can be a fresh start."

Caroline nodded. She stood up and was almost out the door when she turned around. "Mr. Watts, if you don't mind, sir, I was wondering if I could receive my pay. It can't wait until I'm back."

"Of course. You can pick it up tomorrow."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Watts," Caroline said. She gathered her belongings, punched out, and walked out of the mill without another word.

At the boarding house, she grabbed another newspaper so that she could look at the article again. Funeral would be at 11:00am Thursday. While she may have rejected Henry's advances, she figured that she would have seen him again and maybe the timing would have been better.

Yet, he was dead...

The least she could do was go to the funeral.

771 words

The death of a person is always associated with loss. Sophie had experienced enough loss in her life to understand that with death, only the memories remained in the closest people. But she had more than repressed the lifeless body that evening. She talked it down and was more preoccupied with her paintbrushes and getting Hoover than realising that her behaviour had turned out to be inappropriate.

It was only with the first rays of sunshine the next day, as the memories welled up over the sober conscience, that she realised, lonely in her bed, that she had not behaved normally when she found the lifeless body.

It was something where she always acted strangely. With every piece of bad news, the sight of something frightening or simply something banally unpleasant, her consciousness moved into a box and another Sophie appeared, enduring whatever was happening until everything cleared. This surrogate doll, as Sophie sometimes imagined this figure, she tried to paint some days, to see what face this mask would have that she would put on to deal with the suffering.

But the mask she had put on had shattered. Into a thousand little shards, scattered around her flat. With each step, she felt the sharp little splinters on her feet. And in the end, she could thank Liam for that. She was absolutely sure that she would have forgotten everything if he hadn't knocked on the door while she was painting. Or at least it was the appearance of painting because the canvas continued to be a blank, pure white, quite contrary to her conscience.

She had realised it was Liam as soon as he knocked. The number of knocks, the sound that rang out, it was like a melody that haunted her for days like an earworm. She would have preferred not to open, but she and Liam knew full well that Sophie didn't have that many retreats where she could be.

Before Liam could say anything through the door like, "I know you're there, Sophie," she had already opened the door and was staring at him with a scowl.

"What do you want?"

"You weren't at dinner on Saturday," he greeted back.

"I wasn't hungry."

"I could take you out to dinner on Thursday, but you're already taken by then."

Liam smiled at her and squeezed through the door into the flat. In a moment he closed the door. Before Sophie could reply why he was now inside, she took three steps backwards and tried to imagine waking up now. Just like in her dream last night, where she wanted to go to the museum but it was so crowded that the door was closed in her face and she was told to come back later. A moment later she was lying in bed with her eyes open.

"I can't tell you outside because it's secret."

"Please don't act like that. I'm cancelling, I don't feel like coming with you so soon," Sophie returned.

"That can wait," Liam smiled back, pulling a crumpled paper from his trouser pocket.

"There's no smoking in here."

"Silly Sophie."

He handed her the paper after smoothing it out as best he could. Sophie read off his scrawl.

“5th Mairie… 6 Rio Gare? What is this? Some secret code or some stupid attempt to learn a new language?”

“Silly Sophie,” he repeated, “St. Maria Goretti Church. Thursday, 9 am.”

“Have you now completely given up on my sister and are getting married again? I hope she kills you.”

Liam made a rapturous smile and wanted to pet her like a pet. Sophie evaded.

"We have a death in our establishment and I have chosen you to go there for us. Because I don't have time.”

“Who died?”

But before she heard an answer, she was woken up and realised it was the accountant. Henry Grant or something was his name. Sophie remembered again and suddenly her eyes became a fiery expression. She would have liked to throw Liam out of the window or at least shove the paintbrushes in his mouth, but she remained calm.

“Our accountant.”

“Your accountant.”

"Either way, you are announced, so go there, otherwise his spirit will haunt you forever.”

"Tu es vraiment une véritable cochonnerie égoïste, sournoise et irrespectueuse"

Sophie pressed Liam against her chest. Surprised at her own strength, she pressed him against the wall and opened the flat door.

" Begone. You'll get it all back.”

"Like all the other times? Remember, Sophie, boo!”

Liam laughed at them as he was pushed outside, doing a funny impression of rattling imaginary chains like a ghost. Sophie knelt down when she had made sure that Liam had left the house and lit a cigarette behind the next street corner and disappeared.

Sophie felt weak and wanted to get back at him. She wanted to punch him in the face so that he would stand there with a bloody nose and never be able to push anything on her again. But even the few times she raised her voice, Liam just laughed at her. Sophie wanted to hit him somewhere, hurt him and get revenge.

But she wasn't in a film or a novel, she was just Sophie, who now did what Liam asked of her anyway. But not because of him. But more because of the worry that a ghost might haunt her…

896 words

Julian rubbed the bridge of his nose for what felt like the thousandth time. He hadn't caught a break since— gosh. It'd only been less than a day, but it felt like so much longer. Ever since he'd seen Grant just... lying there, time felt viscous and slow. His mind kept circling back to the dead eyes gleaming in the dark, the pool of blood, the sheer weight of his cold corpse...

He shook his head, blinking his eyes. Taking a sip from some stale water he'd gotten from the pharmacy, he surveyed the room. He was behind the counter of the pharmacy. Hamilton was probably off running some more errands— even after all that had happened, Doyle didn't want them losing any business. Doyle himself was outside, most likely, or back in the Golden Vanderbilt. He'd left Julian behind the counter to take care of any customers, of which a grand total of zero had come.

Liam had been by in the morning, somehow dodging the police and getting into the Golden Vanderbilt. He'd talked with Doyle briefly before leaving as silently as he came. Julian wasn't the biggest fan of his, and this only served to heighten that dislike.

Aloysius had also stopped by, alerting Julian of a newspaper article and obituary. Apparently there was a funeral being held, which Doyle would send Julian to go to, no doubt. He'd looked slightly weirded out being there during the day, and had left also fairly quickly.

The doorbell dinged suddenly, and Julian looked up. Coming into the store was a rather polished looking man, hat perched atop coiffed hair, walking alongside Doyle. As they approached him, he straightened up, leaning slightly forward.

"Can I... help you?" Julian said hesitantly.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Doyle beat him to it.

"This is Detective Donaldson," Doyle replied, sounding not too pleased. "He'd like to ask us all some questions."

"We already talked with police," Julian said, looking back and forth between them.

"I told him that as well," Doyle said through clenched teeth.

The police had not been their biggest issue, in terms of the whole situation. Julian knew there was some fraction of their profits going to the police chief to keep the speakeasy under wraps, and Julian could have sworn he'd seen some officers in the Golden Vanderbilt from time to time. On top of that, Grant wasn't anyone high profile— just a body found in an alleyway in a rougher part of town. Nothing too special about that. Because of the lack of clues, the chief of police had decided to drop the case, which was why it was strange to see a detective back again.

Donaldson cleared his throat. "I'd like to ask some further questions." He extended his hand. "Albert Donaldson. Detective." When Julian didn't shake his hand, he cleared his throat again and rescinded it. "Now, I'm here, if you couldn't figure out, about the murder of Henry Grant, who I believe worked—"

"The investigation was dropped, wasn't it?" Julian interrupted. "Does your chief of police know you're here?"

Donaldson coolly stared him down. "That's neither here nor there. As I was saying, Grant was an employee here, was he not? If you could gather all your staff, that would be stupendous. I'd like to question them."

"All our staff aren't here," Doyle said. "And those that are here don't want to be questioned. I doubt you'll get much helpful information, Detective."

Donaldson considered for a while, his eyes narrowing, before exhaling sharply. "I'll be back. I trust you'll allow me to investigate the premises once I have a permit. Good day to you both."

The two watched him walk out the door. After the doorbell rang and the door swung shut, Doyle groaned, and Julian turned to him.

"Horrible for business, this is," Doyle said. "Who'll want to come now? Dead body in the alleyway isn't the best advertising."

Julian murmured in agreement. "Are we— will the Vanderbilt be open tonight?"

Doyle rubbed his temples. "Don't know. I hope so. Need to talk to Bouchard and Sullivan, first. See if they'd be willing to come in." He paused, sighing. "God, who would do something like that to Grant? I'd like to think it was a wrong place-wrong time situation. That's what the police said. But I just can't help but think..." Doyle trailed off.

"You'll be going to the funeral, of course," he added after a few moments, staring out into space. "Don't think Grant had many friends. It'll be good to have one of our own there."

Julian, too tired to protest, nodded. "I'll be there."

It was still early morning when Sophie left the flat. Despite the summer, there was a pleasant chill in the air, combined with the strange smell of night and gangsters. Tobacco smoke followed the young woman as she crossed the streets to get to her destination.

She had to search for a long time before she found something appropriate for the service. She didn't have much black clothing with her and partly thought of buying new clothes and during the evening hours when she rummaged in her wardrobe, she raved about looking like a Victorian-era widow. It was then that she remembered that the point was not to look good but to express one's condolences through one's clothes.

As Sophie continued walking towards St Maria Goretti Church, she realised the last time she had even been in a church. But she couldn't think too long, she was too awe struck by the architecture of the monumental colossus before her. She was too focused on not disturbing the silence that enveloped the church. With slow steps, she walked past the trees and opened the gigantic gate. Sophie was reassured that it didn't squeak and startled as four pallbearers passed her and exited the church.

Sophie lingered at the entrance for a few seconds looking at the architecture and was reassured by the bright glow that was spread. She had been too afraid of a gloomy place of silence but with the rising rays of the sun over Lake Michigan, the stained glass windows lit up in the colours of the rainbow and reflected down onto the hard pews. Even the lone coffin in front of the altar was draped in a glow of sunflower yellow and poppy red.

Sophie's footsteps echoed throughout the building and she felt like a centrepiece as she counted the rows of pews and knelt down in front of the second one and sat in it. Too early she was there, her pocket watch only showed 8:30. She didn't dare turn around to investigate the church a little more closely, too worried that the priest would somehow chase her away for being ungodly for her curiosity.

As the minutes passed, an elderly man with snow-white hair and big round eyes appeared, cloaked in a bright dark robe and gave life to the candles around the altar. He then laid a wreath and nodded a greeting to Sophie, who returned it easily. Only now did she realise that she had not gone to the coffin or brought flowers or anything else. Even now, only a few minutes before the actual start of the service, she did not notice that she was one of the few participants. Her gaze was too focused on the cross, the coffin and the bright colours.

It seemed to Sophie that she was the only person in this place. When the priest appeared and the organ sounded in the background, the entire church was transformed into a gothic castle. Sophie felt uncomfortable, almost as if she was out of place and tried to find a way to feel better somehow. But the organ didn't stop playing and the music continued while the priest stood behind the altar with his eyes closed and said a prayer.

It seemed to Sophie that days had passed when the last echo in the building died away. But now a voice rang out, a rough yet beautiful voice, from the priest that was in no way inferior to the sound of the organ.

"Welcome, my children, to this day. We have come together in such numbers to bid farewell to a good friend.”

Sophie dared to turn around for a moment and suddenly thought all the rows of benches were now full of people, but she could only count three or four. And surprisingly, she still knew the people present. They were the acquaintances from the speakeasy and Julian. When Sophie turned back to the priest, she thought it had to be a joke and Hoover would come from somewhere at any moment and it would all be just a big elaborate joke by Liam.

"When death reaches us, we realise how precious life is." the priest continued, "Too precious when it is taken so young. It is an injustice that we cannot understand. As if it were a cruel game that the lord plays with us, a test that we receive. But it is not a test. My friends, those present, Mr Henry Grant has not passed away. We have in our hearts what he showed us. All the time his light has burned here, he has shown us life. As long as the memories of him are in us, he dwells among us.”

Sophie tried to remember Grant. The few times she had met him, it was always a fleeting encounter. He wasn't particularly talkative, away from his actual work, and since Sophie didn't know how to approach him, he remained the silent accountant.

"Death is nothing more than a door we cross. Another room we enter where someone is waiting for us. The Lord is nothing more than the person who once brought us into this house, what he has built, and now brings us out again with one hand because it is collapsing. We must not forget that in this life we are only on a stopover on our journey. A moment where we are alone, without parents, looking for links that can help us later.”

Sophie wasn't sure how much longer this would go on, and as she listened to the priest and at one point smelled frankincense, she lost all sense of time. She no longer noticed much but remained in a trance that enveloped her completely for the service.

960 words

Julian entered the church, tugging at his shirt collar with one hand, the other around a bouquet of flowers. Houses of worship always made him nervous. Even though his parents were devoutly Catholic, he was never a fan of church—as a child, he'd disliked all of the rules, and he'd never gotten over the anxiety that came every time he stepped through church doors.

The church was fairly empty when he arrived. He thought he spied the back of Liam's sister's head in one of the front rows of the church, and perhaps Aloysius somewhere in the middle. A few others were also in the pews. He slipped into one of the back rows, straightening his jacket as he sat down. He was only here because his job was at risk if he didn't come. On top of his dislike of churches, he and Grant hadn't been all that close. In fact, he was sure Grant hadn't been close to anyone, which explained the nearly empty church. Grant just... wasn't friendly. It was obvious from his demeanor that he wasn't interesting in making friends. He was simply one of those people who seemed alone but not lonely, like no one else was good enough to get close to him.

The priest emerged to the sound of organs. That was the one part of church Julian remembered liking as a child. He liked the full tones of an organ, though piano was always king in his heart. Organs carried with them too much mournfulness, not enough joy. As the sounds reverberated, the somber attitude seemed magnified.

After a brief prayer the priest began to address the audience. Julian caught words like "good friend," "precious," and "light." He smirked internally. From the eulogy, it sounded as if the priest had never met Grant before. Though perhaps under God's eyes in church, Grant was a different person. Stranger things had happened.

After many metaphors regarding death, the priest finally ended the service with a few mentions about the following funeral rites and interment. Julian glanced at the bouquet next to him. His mother had insisted he take it.

Morela had been worried not having heard from her son for a day, and had actually come to the pharmacy to ensure he was still living, much to Julian's surprise. Her rage slowly turned to surprise and horror as she learned what had happened. Talking to her in hushed Polish, Julian finally managed to convince her he was fine and that she could go home, but not before she made him swear he'd be home that night.

Right before he'd come to the service, she'd fussed over him, tugging at his jacket lapels and brushing his hair back.

"Such a sad thing," she kept murmuring. "You should take flowers." And so that was how Julian ended up with a small collection of simple white roses. They were a bit limp, but Julian was hoping no one would notice. There was a small gathering of flowers near the front, and Julian figured he should put his up there as well. He slid out of the pew and walked up the aisle, avoiding eye contact with stragglers in the audience.

"Hello, my child," the priest said as he approached. "It is good of you to be here."

His familiar tone bothered Julian. "Mm," he agreed, looking past the priest towards the coffin. "I have"—he offered the bouquet—"these."

"How kind of you," the priest answered, taking them from Julian. "May I ask your connection with the deceased?"

Julian paused before answering. "Colleagues," he said eventually. It wasn't wrong, but it made doing taxes and playing piano for a half-rate illegal establishment sound a lot more sophisticated than it actually was.

"Ah. I see. I'm sure you are all quite saddened by the loss of such a great man."

Julian disguised a snort with a cough. "Of course." This is a serious occasion, he reminded himself in his head. It doesn't matter that Grant was contemptible.

"I hope you'll be joining us for the burial."

Julian nodded as courteously as he could muster. "Of course, Father."

It was three minutes after nine when Caroline showed up to the church. She carried a single yellow rose in her hand, for it was all she'd be able to acquire after stopping by the textile mill to obtain her pay. She didn't like to arrive late to things, but she'd started the day late, and without having somewhere to be, she'd managed to sleep in. She would have gone straight to the church, but her pay was most important.

That morning, as she walked from the textile mill to the flower stand to the church, she'd thought about how well rested she was, how much calmer she felt without a commitment to her tedious and emotionally draining job.

She took a seat near the back of the church, clutching the rose tightly in her hands and hoping that no one would ask her too many questions about how she knew Henry, or about the gray dress she wore since she didn't have a black one.

Caroline thought back to the brief moment that they'd shared in line for the bathroom. He'd thought she was pretty, and she'd thought he was handsome, like Rudy Valentino. But she'd been drunk, her mind preoccupied with other things. Even though the thought hadn't crossed her mind that Friday, she supposed she wouldn't have turned him down if they'd met at the Vanderbilt again. How was she supposed to know that he would be dead by Monday?

Caroline supposed the funeral went alright. There was lots about how great of a person this Henry Grant was. But she realized then that she didn't have much to compare it to, because the only funerals she'd been to were for older family members when she was a small child. No one young. Of course, Julian had never had a funeral. He didn't have the courtesy to be buried in an unmarked grave. His family had demanded answers, but she'd left Green Bay before she knew if they'd had a chance to find them.

Something told her that they didn't. Because of course, something Caroline had to realize lately is that the world wasn't fair. A young, handsome man could be murdered for no good reason. A boy could die because he'd fallen for a girl.

Caroline had stopped believing in God when Julian was murdered. The service fascinated her for that reason, to hear the priest still believe so ardently.

As it progressed, she noticed familiar faces, and realized they were the same people she sat with the last few nights at the Vanderbilt. They looked different in the daylight, in the polite society of a Church. But they were clearly the same people. She would have to say something. She wasn't sure what. But this was the third time in a week that their paths had crossed. That couldn't have been for nothing.

It sounded like there was going to be a burial afterwards. She could go to that. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

498 words

The Church had been strange. Aloysius was Catholic: he had been to Church every weekend for more than two decades. Even if his family was in some far-off place on vacation, his mom always managed to find some Church to take the family to. The thing was, though, Aloysius hadn't been to Church in three years. His uncle hadn't been Catholic, so they had a quick visitation then buried him.

Grant's Church service seemed short and quick. A few people were dotted around the Church, most of whom had discovered Grant's body with Aloysius. He meant to offer them a ride to the internment but, at the end of the service, he couldn't find any of them. Instead, Aloysius made his way to the front of the Church and slipped a dollar bill to the priest.

"Thank you my child," the man said, putting the dollar in the collection box. Aloysius would have put it in there, but he felt bad that nobody had donated to the collection.

"You're welcome, Father," Aloysius stepped away from the priest and, seeing as he was in the center aisle, awkwardly bowed towards the alter and walked away.

The drive to the cemetery would have been short, had Aloysius not driven around that area of town looking at buildings. He had time to kill, anyways, the hearse wouldn't be there for twenty minutes. The hearse was a simple car and, unlike the hearse that had carried Aloysius's uncle away, Grant's hearse had no ornate details or an excess of flowers. Instead, the only flowers that were on the casket were some pink carnations and the white roses that Julian had given the priest.

Aloysius followed the hearse into the cemetery to find the small group of people in the Church already there. He said hello to Caroline, Sophie, and Julian and stood next to them during the service.

A few younger men dressed in deacon and seminarian uniforms lowered Grant's casket into the ground. The priest must have enlisted them as part of their training.

Aloysius looked around. No one but the priest and the people from the speakeasy looked even remotely sad. There were a few people to Aloysius's right that looked like Grant but, because of their lack of emotion, Aloysius couldn't place them as Grant's parents. The woman was skinny and short and had most of the same features as Grant did, minus his eyes. The man, on the other hand, was taller and had a beer-belly. He had Grant's eyes. There was a teenage girl with them as well, maybe 16 or 17, and two other people.

"I think I speak for all of us when I say we were all blessed to know Mr. Henry Oliver Grant," the priest started to end his eulogy. Aloysius watched as the girl rolled her eyes, "Mr. Grant is looking down on us today, looking down on us and all that we have shared. On behalf on my good- no, best -friend, I thank you for being here. Go in peace."

Something about them was off. It was like they didn't want to or felt obligated to be there. So, as the service ended, Aloysius decided he was going to talk to them. Whether they liked it or not, he was going to find out what was wrong, and maybe the speakeasy group would help him.

563 words

"Well, that's over," Julian said to Madeleine, the only female employee of the pharmacy (she worked Thursdays and weekends, and never in the Golden Vanderbilt), doorbell dinging as the door closed behind him. "Think Doyle would let me take the day off? It should've been him there, honestly."

"I heard what happened. Such a terrible thing. How was it?" Madeleine asked, looking up. A smile on her face, she added, "you've let Hoover in."

Julian turned, and sure enough, the mutt was trailing in after him. "Aw, Hoover." He knelt and scratched him behind the ear. "I don't have anything to feed you, I'm sorry."

Hoover snuffled sadly. Julian gave him a soft smile. "Next time. Promise."

"He can't understand you." Madeleine joined him from behind the counter. "Why do you talk to him?"

Julian straightened. "Because it makes me feel better, and I could use some happiness about now."

Madeleine nodded, a sort of "that's fair" expression on her face. "So how was the funeral?" she asked again.

Julian shrugged. "About as can be expected. Not much of a turnout. Priest said some words. The man was buried. That's about it." Julian left out seeing the people he'd discovered Grant's body with—he'd not interacted with them at all at the funeral, and it wasn't like Madeleine knew who they were. Though it did seem a little strange how they'd all shown up to the funeral uncoordinated. He could see why Sophie Cox would be there—she'd probably interacted with Grant once or twice, her being Liam's sister and all, but the other two were a mystery to him. He supposed it would make sense if they wanted to get closure on witnessing the dead body. He only hoped that no one had ulterior motives involved, though what those hypothetical motives might be, he had no idea.

"Sounds sad."

"Well, that's rather the point of funerals," Julian replied, sighing. "Do you know where Doyle is?"

"Back in the Vanderbilt," Madeleine answered.

"Thanks." Julian moved towards the door that led back to the speakeasy.

"So you're just going to let me handle getting Hoover outside?" Madeleine called after him playfully.

Julian let out a laugh. "I have more than enough faith that you'll succeed."

-

Doyle was behind the bar when Julian entered the speakeasy. A drink was in his hand, but judging by the quantity left, he'd not drunk much of it. Instead, he stood, staring at a fixed point somewhere on the opposite wall.

"Sir," Julian said, mostly to get his attention. Doyle jumped slightly.

"Ah. Latkowski. I trust the funeral's over."

"Yes sir. Grant's been sent off and buried."

"Good, good," Doyle commented absently before realizing what he said. "Well. Not good. But better for business. I'm eager to be rid of it."

"Grant was your employee," Julian said. "Shouldn't you—"

Doyle glanced at him sharply. "Shouldn't I what?"

Shouldn't you express more sadness at his being gone? Julian had been about to say, but the question died upon seeing Doyle's look. "Nothing, sir."

Doyle humphed. "That's what I thought." His brow furrowed. "Though, while we're still talking about Grant, I don't suppose you know anyone in need of a job in bookkeeping."

"I can't say I do, sir," Julian replied. When neither of them said anything, Julian hesitantly spoke again.

"Say, sir. You talked to Grant the day he died, right?"

Doyle frowned. "I think so. As did, I expect, most of the staff. Why do you ask?"

"Well... did you notice anything strange about him? Anything that might have been troubling him? I remember he was outside and acting a little weird—"

"Stop." Doyle cut him off, placing his drink down on the bar with enough force to cause a bit to splash over the lip of the glass. "I know you might feel this... obligation to catch the culprit. But it's not worth the time. It's best if everyone forgets about it. Then maybe we can finally reach the crowds we used to."

"But—"

"Let it rest, Julian," Doyle said, voice gruff and unfeeling. "The police have dropped it, and you should too."

"Not that one guy. What's his name? Albert something?"

"I talked to them. They dropped it."

"Sir—"

"Leave it be, Latkowski." Doyle looked at him dangerously. "I don't hire you to investigate. I hire you to play piano."

"I know, sir."

"I don't want to hear any more about the murder."

"Of course, sir."

Doyle, leaving his drink on the bar, got up to leave. Right before he exited he called out one last demand to Julian.

"Clean the bar while you're at it, Latkowski. Then join Ms. Roy behind the counter."

With a resigned sigh, Julian grabbed a rag. "Already on it."

-

Madeleine was finishing up with a customer when he emerged from the Vanderbilt, hands damp from wiping the bar down.

"You and Doyle have a row?" Madeleine asked him after the customer had left. "He looked pretty upset leaving."

Julian shook his head. "Nah. Nothing like that. Just..."

"Was it about Grant?" Madeleine asked.

Julian raised his eyebrows. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "It's what's on everyone's mind these days. Or at least, on the customers' minds. That was our first one to come by today. We've never been super popular, but even this"—she gave a prolonged exhale—"it's paltry, Julian."

"Mm." Julian went to go stand beside her behind the counter. "Well. Yes. Doyle was just harping on me for wanting to know what happened to Grant."

"You a detective now?" Madeleine grinned. "Though, all jokes aside, I'm curious too. Got any leads?"

Now Julian smiled. "I'm not that serious about it. It's just— it's been bothering me. He was acting weird the days before he died, and it just makes me think that there was something else. That it wasn't that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Madeleine shrugged. "You could be right. Is there anyone who would know more?"

"Not anyone at the pharmacy, that's for sure," Julian said. "The man was an enigma to all of us."

"Anyone at the funeral, then?"

Julian bit his lip. "It'd be probably too late for that. I suppose there was the priest..."

The priest. It wasn't a bad idea, now that Julian thought about it. He'd seemed to know a lot about Grant— or, at any rate, knew something that made the mysterious man everyone at the Golden Vanderbilt had known as aloof and bitter more friendly and genial.

And so it was settled. Sometime in the next week, Julian vowed he'd find the priest and find out exactly who Grant was, underneath the cool facade he adopted at the Golden Vanderbilt.

The funeral was over and Sophie didn't quite know how to feel. It was a beautiful day and the only thing she could have done now was to go back to her flat and pretend that nothing had happened. It was illogical for her to pretend that life was going on as if a human life had not just been snuffed out and buried.

So Sophie roamed the city, trying to pretend that she was at least grieving or not immediately falling into her old routine. But she couldn't. Somehow life went on. No one on the street or in the shops cared about Grant, no one cared about this insignificant thing. To outsiders, at least.

Still, Sophie was a little convinced that somewhere there was the ghost lurking about, and yet she didn't know what to do about it. She didn't notice that she was following her feet through the noon hour instead of deciding for herself where to go until she was suddenly standing in front of her sister's flat. She was jolted awake from her daydreams by Liam standing outside the door, apparently begging a paperboy for a free copy.

"What are you doing?"

Liam shocked at the sudden call, tried to keep quiet and lit a cigarette. The paperboy took advantage of this to run away.

"Sophie. I thought you were at the funeral. You know, ghosts!"

"It's over," she replied, "Besides, what are you doing here? I thought you were too busy today?"

"Well, there have been some changes of plans."

"That you only found out about now? Then you could have left too!"

"Take it easy Sophie, " Liam returned, "Or do you want to wake your nephew?"

He pointed to the second floor where there was an open window. Some primroses were growing there on the windowsill. Sophie smiled at him.

"I thought I'd come to your house for a wake today."

"Quite badly. I have some urgent calls later. You know, staff shortage, we need an accountant. Ours has become a mole."

Even Liam realised his attempt to appear funny wasn't. Sophie looked past it.

"Tell me why I had to go. Why didn't you go."

"Funerals aren't my style," Liam said tersely, "Besides, I've barely had any contact with Grant."

"I thought I saw you pumping him for money the other day."

Liam tried to put his arm around Sophie but she fought back.

"That's all yesterday's stories. You know, you shouldn't care about that either, you're a woman, I've learned, they're not allowed to contradict me."

Sophie shook her head and muttered a naughty word. She took the steps to the front door and was about to knock when Liam pulled her down.

"Please, no visits."

"I want to talk to my sister."

"You know, why not next week, we can all go out for a nice dinner somewhere together in the evening and talk about everything."

Sophie tried to pull away from him and got tobacco smoke blown in her face.

"Please, or come back later, all right?"

Sophie pulled the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the floor.

"I'll come back when you're not here!"

Liam smiled at her and Sophie thought she had won that battle as she left the street. But she gradually knew that she hadn't won anything at all because she had given up. She had left too quickly and she now had to admit to herself that she should have just called for her sister. Surely she must have heard something from Liam and her when they were downstairs. Or was she not there at all? Sophie was lost in her thoughts again, but this time at least she cared a little more. She planned a way to come by when Liam was at the speakeasy.

634 words

The funeral was over, and Caroline once again found herself alone, standing in the hot August sun. Other than exchanging a few pleasantries, she didn't speak much to the others from the Vanderbilt, and they didn't speak to her.

Still, even after most had left the cemetery, Caroline found herself standing in the graveyard, vague and directionless. After exchanging an awkward smile with the priest, she found herself putting one leg in front of the other and walking away from Henry's grave.

The sun felt warm on her skin as she snaked through the seemingly endless rows of tombstones, and she found herself stopping to look at the names and dates. Of course, Caroline knew that she would die one day. It seemed to be the one constant, certain fact of human existence. Yet, it was often easy to ignore such a fact in one's daily life. But now, standing in the graveyard, it was impossible to ignore, this idea of one day not existing.

Sometimes she thought about all the people who lived and died in the time before she was born, and the idea of going back to that was terrifying. It would be less so if she could comfortably say that she'd lived a good life. But, as the past two years had proved, first with Julian and now with Henry, it could be taken away without warning.

Caroline's eyes caught a specific tombstone and she found she could not turn away. This time, there were two names.



We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.

Of course, Caroline didn't know for certain, but the only assumption that she could make was that Victoria had been a young mother, Elizabeth her daughter, and the childbirth had taken both mother and daughter.

That was when Caroline noticed that there were fresh flowers. Thirty years on, and there were fresh flowers. From her widower, Caroline presumed. He must have gone on and remarried, but she imagined that there was a part of him that must have never been able to forget his first love, his wife, and the family that could have been.

Victoria would have been 17 or 18 when she died. Younger than Caroline. It was hard to conceptualize having lived her whole life by now. In a way, she imagined that it was more cruel to die in your teens or twenties, when you were old enough to conceptualize the world and have goals and aspirations for your future, than it was when you were still an innocent child. She imagined Victoria had dreams too. Even if it was getting to watch her child grow up.

Caroline kneeled at the gravestone, thinking if she looked at the names hard enough, the two would come back to life. When someone was dead, was easy to think of them as a dead person, as a memory.

She closed her eyes and thought of Julian, how strong his hand had been when it held hers. The first time they had kissed, it had been a beautiful summer day just like this one.

He'd asked her if she wanted to go out to one of his favorite spots. Caroline had agreed and told her parents she and some of her friends were going go into the city to new clothes and the department store. When she didn't come back with anything, she'd simply tell her parents they'd struck out.

Instead, Julian had driven up to a park where they could sit in relative seclusion, and he'd brought sandwiches, sodas and candy from the drugstore. They'd gotten close, and before she'd known it his lips were on hers.

After a moment he'd pulled away.

"Is that okay? I--"

Caroline hadn't spoken. She'd merely nodded, buzzed by the sensation. She wanted it again, so this time, she'd initiated.

"I love you," she'd said.

"But you're---"

She'd known what he was about to say. I'm black, and you're white.

"I don't care."

It had been her fault. He'd likely known what awaited him if they were found out. And Caroline innocently, naively believed their love could overcome it.

Caroline snapped out of the memory and back into the graveyard.

The world wasn't fair. It seemed to keep wanting to remind her of that.

714 words

Aloysius didn’t have time to talk to the speakeasy group after the service except for a couple of words. They were all tired and sad, so Aloysius was fine not telling them about his plans. Instead, he shook hands with the priest, sad a few goodbyes, and exited the cemetery. He looked back briefly only to see the casket being buried by some bothered-looking seminarians.

Aloysius drove around aimlessly, looking for somewhere to go. It was nearly noon and people were starting to sit down at restaurants. Nowhere looked good. The French restaurant on the end of 3rd Street looked too fancy. The Italian restaurant him and Elle had ate at a while ago didn’t sit right with Aloysius, either, mostly because Grant had looked Italian. In the end, after nearly running out of gas looking for a spot to eat, Aloysius decided he just needed to see a friend.

So, Aloysius stopped for gas and drove to the poorer end of town to see if Raymond was home. Aloysius’s outfit and red Packard was in stark contrast to the surrounding area. Kids even stared at him as he pulled up alongside the sidewalk. The newest car was a 1918 Ford Model T and some houses didn’t have cars parked on the outside at all. The brick houses were crumbling and the wood houses were molding. Women with pieces of fabric holding their hair back sewed, yelled after playing children, and made lunch for their family.

Raymond’s father could be seen through the open window of his one-story, four-room home. Mr. Kovar, for whatever reason, had Thursdays off. Aloysius climbed up the collapsing steps and knocked on the front door. He heard Mr. Kovar groan as he stood and open the door.

“What you w- Louis! How are you, boy?” the older man asked in broken English, his demeanor instantly changing as he saw Aloysius. While Mr. Kovar was only fifty-one, he looked the same age as Aloysius’s seventy-year-old grandfather. A scar from a work accident covered his right cheek and his hair looked like it was going to fall off his head at any minute.

“I’m fine, Mr. Kovar, thank you,” Aloysius said, “Yourself?”

“Wonderful. Raymond did not tell about my work accident,” before Aloysius could reply, Mr. Kovar motioned him inside, “Come, Tilly left extra lunch.”

Raymond’s mother, who’s name was Matylda Kovar, worked at a textile mill. She was younger than her husband by about ten years but looked just as old. Both of their struggles and work had worn them down over the years, but they were happy even if all they did was provide a better life for Raymond. Raymond had a little brother named Vincent at one point, but he died of a disease Aloysius couldn’t remember the name of. So, his parents turned all their attention and effort towards Raymond.

Mr. Kovar led Aloysius over to the table and told him to sit down. Unlike the exterior of the house, the furniture on the inside was relatively nice. When asked, Mr. Kovar explain it was from his homeland, Czechoslovakia, and had been preserved for several generations. He then went onto explain his work accident as he pulled a chipped plate out of a cabinet and set half a sandwich on top of it. He handed it and a flat cup of what looked like some sort of beer to Aloysius.

“I’m sorry Mr. Kovar, but I don’t drink,” Aloysius fibbed.

Mr. Kovar chuckled, “It is apple juice.”

“Ah, ok.”

“So, what bring you to humble home?” Mr. Kovar asked, finishing his own sandwich.

“I thought Raymond was home, but I must have been mistaken.”

“You are no mistaken!” Mr. Kovar said, standing suddenly, “He is in backyard. I show you.”

Aloysius grabbed his sandwich and followed Mr. Kovar outside. On the small patio, surrounded by nuts and bolts, was Raymond. He was doing something to his bike and, if Aloysius was honest, Raymond didn’t seem to be making that much progress.

“Synu, tvůj přítel je tady,” Mr. Kovar said. Raymond looked up and smiled.

“Děkuji tati,” Raymond responded as Mr. Kovar returned inside, “I hope the ol’ man didn’t bother ya too much. Not too many people talk to him.”

Aloysius dismissed the idea, “He was great. How has your day been?”

“Alright. Been tryin’ to put a motor on my bike.”

“And how is it going?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious,” Raymond said and Aloysius laughed, “How are you, Lou? You don’t come up here too often, so you’ve gotta need something.”

“I wanted someone to talk to,” Aloysius shrugged and leaned against the wall of the house, “I was just at a funeral for an acquaintance of mine. Poor guy.”

“What happened? He young?”

Aloysius explained the circumstances of Grant’s death, from his strange personality to finding him murdered and his nonchalant family attending the funeral. Raymond listened attentively, only pausing to ask, “How’d you know this guy again?”

“He works at the pharmacy I use.”

“You taking medicine, Lou?”

“Mhm. I’d rather not say what type.”

After Aloysius finished explaining everything, Raymond sat there and nodded. He looked deep in thought.

Finally, he spoke, “You know, Lou, I ain’t a smart guy-“

“I know.”

Raymond stared at him for a moment, “As I was sayin’, I ain’t a smart guy, but I think you need to figure this out. Talk to people. Be a Sherlock.”

“Yes, well, I’d love to do that, but I can’t. I don’t have anything to go off of.”

“The other pharmacy people who saw the body, the police, and the priest. Priest would probably be easiest, y’know, since you have the address,” Raymond said, picking a wrench up.

Aloysius nodded then smiled, “Forget what I said about you not being smart, Ray. I owe you one.”

“As long as I got rides to our baseball games, I’m all good,” Raymond wrapped a chain around part of the bike, “Now go see that Catholic guy.”

1,001 words