Jocelyn Beauregard, Private Eye (part six)

Having completed NaNoWriMo ’10, I’m going to share one section of my story here every Friday until you’ve read the whole thing. Hooray for easy update days! Enjoy.

“Mrs. Keltzschlinger, thank you so much. I really appreciate this!”

It was a windy morning, and Jocelyn was standing outside her office with her next door neighbor, a tiny white-haired woman with thick glasses and an oversized white apron. Mrs. Keltzschlinger opened her flower shop with the sun every morning, sometimes beating it by a few minutes. The sun gave no indication that it was bothered at all by this, likely out of respect for its elders. Mrs. Keltzschlinger was so old she had wrinkles on her wrinkles and a hunched back that conjured images of a turtle’s shell.

“Think nothing of it, dearie,” replied the old widow as she signed the document Jocelyn had handed her, “’It is godly indeed to help a neighbor in need.’ I don’t mind at all that your sign covers a few of my bricks, and if that Larry Benson Arches on the other side of you says any different you tell him I’ll rap his knuckles but good.” When she handed the paper back it was somewhat crumpled and dirty in the spots where Mrs. Keltzschlinger’s soil-coated hands had touched it.

Nonetheless, that piece of paper was worth its weight in gold to Jocelyn, or would if paper were sufficiently heavy for that old cliché to apply. Rather than call Danny around to help her remove the sign they’d spent all that energy putting up, Jocelyn got the idea to get her neighbors to sign a document stating the placement of her sign wasn’t hurting their businesses at all, and in fact they were very happy to have her in the neighborhood.

“I don’t think the haberdasher’s is open yet,” said Jocelyn. “Perhaps I’ll try him after breakfast.”

Mrs. Keltzschlinger dismissed that idea. “That old boy is shiftless like a tree stump. It’ll be a bonafide miracle if he’s opened up before eight o’clock. Not like me; I sleep like a stone every night and wake up with the rooster every morning. That’s a godly way to live.”

Jocelyn had previously observed that Mrs. Keltzschlinger automatically liked anyone who was up as early in the morning as she was. She learned this quite by accident; she was returning to the office after an all-night stakeout at a residence where Limburger cheese was being produced without the requisite zoning licenses. Mrs. Keltzschlinger was coming outside to water her spring arrangements and noticed Jocelyn sleepily unlocking her front door. Mrs. Keltzschlinger was just so impressed to meet another adherent of “early to bed, early to rise” that Jocelyn couldn’t bear to explain that she was coming, and not going. She ended up locking her door back up and walking back down the road, with Mrs. Keltzschlinger waving her good-bye. After dozing for a while on a park bench she had sneaked back into her office and collapsed exhausted into her cot without even taking off her galoshes.

As soon as her hands were once again free, Mrs. Keltzschlinger went back to arranging her flowers, sliding large pots into position to receive the optimal amount of sunlight during the day. “Those bluish-purple ones are real pretty,” complimented Jocelyn. “What sort are they?”

“They’re called drowned violets, and they’re ugly as sin if you ask me,” the old woman replied. “They look like big, blood-blistered worms. Of course, these ones haven’t bloomed yet. I normally don’t carry them, but they came part and parcel with a rare bud I purchased recently, so I figured I could sell them for church hats at least.”

“These ones are rare, then?”

“These? Heavens, no,” Mrs. Keltzschlinger scoffed. “These here are practically weeds. Once in a lifetime, though, one blooms with no color at all, just pure lily white. That’s the one I thought I was buying. Cared for properly, and then dried, that one flower can last all season. Connoisseurs pay top dollar for that kind of thing, you know.”

Jocelyn didn’t think the drowned violets looked much like worms. To her, they looked more like huge, purple raindrops, just barely clinging to the edge of a leaf, ready at any moment to break loose and splash onto the ground. She found it surprisingly difficult to imagine a white one, and figured she would prefer the deeply-colored version, anyway. Of course, she didn’t tell Mrs. Keltzschlinger that.

“I wasn’t aware there was such a thing as a flower connoisseur,” she said instead.

“You’ll never catch one buying a bouquet of these nasty things,” sighed Mrs. Keltzschlinger. “And I ended up not getting an albino after all, though I was assured I would. Anything I don’t grow from a seed, I get from an orchard upstate, run by an old-money family with more cash than sense. You just see if I don’t give them a piece of my mind, too.”

Sensing she was on the cusp of a long-winded rant about the politics of the horticultural community, Jocelyn acted quickly to excise herself from the situation. “Well, thanks again,” she said, smiling broadly and hoping Mrs. Keltzschlinger didn’t take too much notice of her abruptness. Mrs. Keltzschlinger smiled back. “You should let me fix you up with my Benny,” she said. “It doesn’t do for a nice young lady like yourself to go around without a gentleman on her arm. And the two of you have so much in common.”

By that Jocelyn knew Mrs. Keltzschlinger meant her grandson, Benjamin, was a flatfoot with his eyes set on making detective one day. Which meant, unequivocally, that he spent as much time as possible stuck like a shadow to Max Barrett. Jocelyn murmured something to Mrs. Keltzshclinger about finding time in her schedule, then shuffled away before the old lady could press the point any further.

Jocelyn tried to salvage the soiled letter by folding it carefully and tucking it into her jacket pocket. The original plan was to have both her neighbors sign the same copy, but given the state in which it had come back to her from Mrs. Keltzschlinger, and given that she had nothing more pressing to do before Mr. Arches arrived, Jocelyn decided to duck back into her office and type up a fresh copy.

As soon as she stepped inside, her telephone rang.

Jocelyn answered, “Beauregard Detective Agency,” as professionally as she could. She tried to sit at her desk, but Pads hissed accusingly at her as she approached her chair. Jocelyn thought better of it and simply stood hunched over the other side of the desk instead, chewed pencil in hand, ready to take notes.

“Good morning, Miss Beauregard. This is Detective Clark. We met briefly yesterday. I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

“Golly, think nothing of it. I’m, you know, up and at ‘em!”

Detective Clark cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. I’m sure you’re aware by now, your notebook wasn’t really of much help to us.”

Jocelyn tried not to sound too delighted. “As I said yesterday, that notebook is personal. There’s nothing in there about the case. But if you hold it sideways and flip through it—“

“Yes, yes. Two children playing jacks. Very amusing. Clever, really. I’m prepared to return it to you, in any case, if you’d like to drop by the precinct today and pick it up.”

“That would be fine, yes.”

“Good. I’ll be here most of the morning, I expect, but if not I’ll just leave it with Betty Sue at the front desk. You’ll have to sign it out, of course. Protocol to be followed for the pencil-pushers uptown. Is… is that hissing?”

Jocelyn stepped back as far away from the desk as the telephone cord would allow. “I, uh, just got a new cat. He’s still…” Pads’s tail swayed menacingly as Jocelyn searched for the correct word. “…adjusting.”

“Go by the market and pick up a nice can of sardines. He’ll be purring in your lap in no time. Well Miss Beauregard, I look forward to your visit. Good day.”

Jocelyn replied, “You too,” but Detective Clark had already hung up. He must have been extraordinarily busy. She braved the few steps towards Pads that were required to hang up the phone, then turned and faced her typewriter. Unable to use her own desk, she had it set up on a rickety old stool sitting in front of her cot. Typing the first copy of her letter had been one of the most uncomfortable experiences of her recent life.

She sighed. “That can wait until later, I suppose.”

Jocelyn placed the dirty, folded letter on her cot and headed for the door. Something made her freeze there, with her hand on the doorknob. Some pressing concern was preventing her from leaving.

“This isn’t right,” she said. “They know that notebook is worthless. It is, of course. It’s all doodles. And not even good doodles.” It was true. Jocelyn saved her best work for the margins of her own notebook or, failing that, the backs of bills that came in the mail. “It makes sense Detective Clark would want to return it. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. But…”

She looked back at Pads, as though expecting an answer. He was rolled back on his chair and licking himself obscenely. Jocelyn frowned. “You’re right. They want my real notebook.”

She took her hand off the doorknob, stomped over to her storage closet, lifted her typewriter and hid the notebook underneath. She hated leaving the office without it, but neither could she have Max Barrett sniffing around inside it.

She put a little skip in her step as she left the office. She was certain Danny would have been proud of her. The thought made her feel quite chipper. She was so absorbed in it that she didn’t notice the dark clouds collecting overhead.