November. Wet, grey, miserable. The pounding of the rain on the small, dirty window behind me echoed the pounding in my skull. This would be the tenth day in a row that I had come to my office, sat at my desk, and done precisely nothing. I had no cases, no work, and soon, if this kept up, no money. I was staying in the office mainly because I was pretty sure that the landlady of my apartment had changed the locks by now.
I didn't really care; the place had too many memories, anyway. But then, so did this office. I kept my eyes away from the empty desk besides me; staring at the door, hoping that someone would come in, listening to the rain. I was almost drifting off to sleep, debating whether to go to the bar across the street to see if my slate was good for another week, when the door opened. I had been sitting with my feet up on my desk, leaning back in my chair. I hurriedly sat up, and swapped the half empty bottle of malt whiskey that sat on my desk with some blank papers from my desk draw.
I tried to smooth the wrinkles in my shirt, and then gave it up as a bad job. I hadn't shaved in two days, anyway. I fixed a confident expression on my face, hoping that my potential client didn't realize that they had almost literally caught me napping. A woman walked through the door. She was well dressed, her short hair almost completely covered by a bright red hat, and her body enveloped by a fur coat. Since she wasn't wet, and it was still raining I assumed that she must have driven here, or possibly had her chauffer drive her.
She looked like she was in her late 30's, but I reckoned that she was at least 10 years older than she looked. She was attractive, I supposed, in a heavily made-up sort of way, but a cold look in her brown eyes put me on edge. Besides, she really wasn't my type. The two men who followed her into my office were my type. They were twins; in their early twenties with dark blond hair and green eyes. Too delicate to be described as handsome, to call them pretty would be an understatement. They were beautiful.
or Both were tall and slender, with neat, even features. The first one had his hear cut short; the second wore it a little longer than was fashionable. Although they both looked the same, and were both equally attractive, it was the second twin, the one with the longer hair, who caught my attention. There was just something about him. Both the woman and the other twin had carefully constructed neutral expressions on their faces. The long haired twin wore a strange mixture of frustration and melancholy on his face.
He also seemed to not be with the other two. They certainly gave no indication that they acknowledged his presence, as he wandered around the room, peering at my few belongings as if he had every right to do so, occasionally reaching out a hand to touch something, but never quite connecting. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. The woman took off her coat, and handed it to the short haired twin, revealing a slim figure clad in a cocktail dress the same shade of red as her hat.
Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing me, still cold as only brown eyes can be; a colour that should be full of warmth, utterly devoid of it. I forced a cocky smile onto my face. She was the first client I had had in over a week. The first client I had had as a solo detective. And she had to be a bitch. Still, damned if I was going to let this bitch get away. "This is Alsop Kirk Detective Agency?" she asked, her eyes moving away from me to flick around the room, her lip curling slightly, as if distaining the slightly shabby interior. I tried to suppress a wince. "Just Kirk," I said. "I'm Richard Kirk, people call me Rick."
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"Mr. Kirk. I have heard that you operate without a detective license, and that you take on cases that others may find to be unpalatable." I suppressed a sigh. So she wanted to pay me peanuts to do her dirty work. This never would have happened if Ed were here. But he wasn't. It was just me, and I needed the money. I leaned forward. "And just what is it you want me to do Miss..."
"My name is Mrs. Stella Griffin. This is my son, Franklyn." She didn't bother to introduce the other twin, who was glaring at her, his hand resting on my desk, with his fingers slightly sunk into the wood. Great, I thought, a ghost. I was willing to wager that a homicide within a wealthy family had just walked through my door. And I reckoned that Mrs. Griffin had married into money, and that Franklyn was her step-son. No one who was born wealthy flaunted it as much as she did, and no real mother gave her son the look she gave Franklyn when she introduced him. "So, Mrs. Griffin, how can I help you?" I asked.
I really didn't want to get into this, but I didn't have a choice. Not if I wanted to eat, anyway. She narrowed her eyes, and a slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She had me backed into a corner, and she knew it. "My son has been murdered," she said. I wasn't surprised, but I feigned it, looking over to Franklyn and raising my eyebrows slightly. She caught the gesture. "My other son, Celadon.
We know who did it, but we don't have the proof." The ghost, Celadon, I assumed folded his arms across his chest and gave her a murderous look. I suppressed a sigh. The woman was being clumsy. Even without the presence of the ghost, I would have suspected her. I knew where this was going. I would have to find some phony evidence that she planted, enough to prove her questionable innocence, and to put whatever poor sap she decided to frame in prison. Well, I would go along with it, provided that I got paid. I was in no position to get all moralistic. Besides, from the way she was acting with me, it was highly likely that she would trip herself up. And Celadon intrigued me. Really, it was a shame that he was dead. "O.K, Tell me what you know," I said. She shook her head. "Franklyn will give you the details.
I shouldn't be seen around here." Drama queen, I thought to myself. Nobody dresses as flashily as you do if they don't want to be seen. I could feel the pounding in my head getting worse. It was like the woman was playing some sort of murder mystery game. I wondered if this was all part of some elaborate plot, or if she was just deeply stupid.
She glanced around the room furtively, and Celadon rolled his eyes before turning his attention to the wilting pot plan in the corner. It wasn't mine, my former partner had left the damn thing with me when he went, and I refused to water it. It was clinging to life tenaciously; I had a theory that my hope would die with it. If that was the case, I was obviously more optimistic than I had given myself credit for. I took my eyes off Celadon, and found Franklyn looking at me with narrowed eyes. With a sudden sinking feeling, I wondered if I was the only one who saw ghosts. After all, you heard things about the connections between twins. Until I knew exactly what was going on, I would rather that no one knew that I could see Celadon. Mrs. Griffin exited my small office as if she could hear her own personal fanfare in her head. For a full minute after the door closed on her stiletto heels, Franklyn and I regarded each other, with equal suspicion. I gestured to the chair sat in front of my desk.
"Why don't you tell me what happened," I said. Franklyn gave me a watery smile, and remained standing.
"Your name is Richard, right?" he said, "so that makes you Dick the dick." He snickered at his own lame joke. I narrowed my eyes.
"My name is Rick," I said. Pretty or not, the guy was a jerk, and I couldn't help thinking that the wrong twin was dead.
"What happened to your brother?" A slight hitch of his shoulder.
"He was killed." Great, stupidity must be catching.
"I figured as much," I said with forced patience, my fingers itching for the whiskey bottle sat in my desk draw.
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