The Detective and The Fool Chapter 1 (Final)

My name is Elise Sarte, and my friend Doreen has murdered her partner. I am submitting this document (book) to the court for your consideration. I would like to state that although I may seem a bit slow in some of the moments in this novel, that only appears that way because you are aware that this is a detective story. I was simply along for the ride. How was I to know that trying to help my flatmate with the death of her girlfriend would turn into a mystery involving a missing week planner, a failed murder attempt, a broken glass, and the whole secret would be unlocked by a simple pronoun.

It was a night with a purplish sky. Stars glittered like fresh ice, which explained the cold. A lot of writers say that you shouldn’t describe the weather when you start a detective novel, but I believe that those writers are cowards.

We kept lawn chairs out back on the cracking concrete porch, my chair and her chair. I sat there, craning my neck upwards, ignoring the cigarette butts scattered on the floor around hers like little, flat slugs.

It was quiet. A car alarm went off in the distance, and was then snuffed out before it had a chance to be anything significant. I jerked my head to the side, like a car alarm was worth the fascination. My hands were pressed together, fingers laced, knuckles jammed like so many cars in a small parking lot. The haze of half sleep still swirled around my head.

I released my fingers and hunched forward, gripping the arms of the lawn chair like they were a life raft. There was the click of a key turning, the front door swinging open, and footsteps, half tiptoe half smacking to the floor. I sprung up, and ran back into the flat.

Doreen stood at the kitchen counter, hands spasming. She reached up and tried to get the knots out of her hair, but her hands twitched too much, so eventually she just gave up. Her skin was even paler than usual, and her eyes were wet and glinting like drops of oil paint.

A noise escaped her throat, a sort of screech, and she ripped a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, dropping it to the counter like it was hot coal.

While she ripped the cellophane open and plucked a cigarette free, I opened the nearest window and dragged an old chair up to it. She slid an ashtray in front of her and knocked into it. I wanted to ask her to take it outside. She knew that she had to. But given the circumstances, I let it go.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down across from her, “start from the beginning.”

She pressed her teeth together and scratched her forehead.

“Tabitha. Tabby.”

I nodded.

“The police aren’t taking my story seriously,” she muttered. She sucked in nicotine and the smoke slithered out between the near nonexistent gaps between her teeth. I tried my best not to jerk back.

“They think I’m delusional. They think that it’s a suicide.”

“Oh.”

“They think that she got into her own head. They think that she made it happen after…after the…” the corner of her mouth jerked back. She pulled her hand away and pressed her forehead to her palm.

“Fortune teller,” I said.

She nodded, swallowing.

“They just think that the whole thing is ridiculous.”

Her face scrunched for a second, like she wanted to cry. The facial features about to break and shatter, but then it all just smoothed out. Doreen stared across the room. There was nothing behind her eyes, just empty, imaginary buildings.

We sat like that for what seemed like years.

“I’m going to help fix this,” I said.

Doreen didn’t even look up at me. She just shook her head.

“Don’t do that,” I said, “don’t make this a you thing. Don’t take this all on by yourself.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

I stared at her. Silence permeated through our flat. It was a small building, but it felt like it was so much bigger and emptier than it had ever been.

“Your girlfriend died! Are you serious? Is that a question?” My mouth moved on its own accord, my face was like a hot plate. “Your girlfriend died from an overdose, under very mysterious circumstances, and the police have the audacity to act as though there’s nothing there!”

I sat there, my mouth wide, and breath heavy. Then I blinked, and the little interruptions of darkness, bruised purple and orange, snapped me back.

“Oh. Oh, Doreen, I’m so sorry,” I reached out, but she just puffed out a jet of smoke and shook her head.

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “It's not the best way to start a Christmas story, is it?”

“This isn’t a story, this is you. This is your life, this is…I mean, I know, you and her hadn’t been dating for too long but…I thought that you guys had something special.”

Doreen smiled, small as the ember that glowed at the end of her cigarette. She smiled with all of the hours that she had spent studying literature and all of the hours she’d spent dreaming over poetry and wine. She smiled, and the romantic in me would have written that one could see Tabitha reflected in her eyes.

But I am not romantic, and if there was one around, he wouldn’t be in me. That would be weird.

“You’d be surprised how much those two things coincide; Life and stories. People always think that stories come from life experience. But I think that they can go both ways. Life and its little… obstacles can come from stories, just the same.”

I sighed, and clasped my face into my hands. Finally, I looked at her, and said, “I am going to get help, whether you want me to or not. I have to do something.”

“How? How are you going to get help?”

I shrugged, my eyes swinging around the room like I was looking for help. Funnily enough I found it. My gaze landed on a book, one left on the floor with its cover facing the roof. An old Agatha Christie. Poirot Investigates.

“I’ll hire an investigator,” I said.

Doreen snorted, ducking her head behind her clasped hands. For a moment, the burning ember on the end of her cigarette was the only eye that she had. She looked back up, and her face changed.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Which investigator?”

“I don’t know.”

“With what money?”

“Presumably mine.”

“With that answer, my question does not change. With what money?”

“I’ll work it out.”

“You know detectives aren’t like they are in books, right?”

I leaned forward, “And how would you know that? How many detectives have you hired?”

“I’ve read so many interviews with detectives about the way that the job works and everything, and they constantly laugh at detective stories.”

“I’ll find one. I promise. One I can afford.”

Doreen shrugged. It was becoming a natural movement for her now.

“That’s your choice. I’m going to bed.”

She took the ashtray, cigarettes and lighter and left, cigarette still clamped between her lips. I watched her go, ember glowing from the front of her silhouette like she was a character in a gothic novel with a lantern.

I sat at the kitchen counter, hands flat. I pressed my tongue to that back of my teeth, closed my eyes, and made spiders with my fingers. They glided along the cheap table top, playing invisible ivory keys as I tried to make sense of things.