Agatha Poyrot watched the policemen pack the murderer into their funny little car and speed off to the station. Another brilliant series of deductions, inductions, and preductions. She uncovered the culprit who daringly murdered Tweety Post during the very luncheon Tweety hosted for an exclusive list of almost fourteen guests. Not only that, but she uncovered three affairs, two embezzlements, and an international spy (Ian Tondens, alias James Phlegm, retired), reunited a mother and daughter estranged since birth, and rectified the erroneous passing of an estate to a second-oldest child when the oldest child’s true identity was revealed. By her.

She wanted a cigarette and lunch. Through all the commotion, no one remembered to serve lunch. Except the butler, but the butler didn’t serve lunch on account of being an accomplice to murder, so.

She got a stick of nicotine gum from her purse and tossed it in her mouth, wrapper and all. Again, and for the hundredth time, she wondered if the best thing for everyone would be to just stop seeing people. God, it was exhausting. This month alone she attended a friend’s wedding, drove to the suburbs to visit a great aunt her mum recently discovered (turned out to be a con artist), took a weekend flight to Paris, had a lovely meal with friends at The French Garbage (booked six months in advance, her reputation let her jump the list), and went to the gym regularly. At every one, every single one, there had been at least one murder closely trailed by juicy tangled intrigue. She had to keep switching gyms. And that’s not including the funerals she skipped. She stopped attending funerals because it risked recursion.

The police chief, Hamish MacMillian, sauntered over and gave her a pat on the back. “Another mystery solv—”

“Don’t touch me.”

“M’apologies, m’lady—”

“It’s fine. How goes bringing down the crime rate?”

He chuckled. “Your reputation grows with every case, and soon I am sure the scoundrels and would-be murderers will run from the city like rats from—”

“I’m going home. Don’t call for a consult.”

He doffed his hat with a cheeky grin. When she walked half a block away, he called after her, “Another mystery solved!” which made her spit out her gum.

She passed an apartment building where the sounds of a heated argument drifted to the sidewalk. An older gentleman taking out rubbish watched the window from which the ruckus came until a gunshot cracked and glass shattered. A dog howled, someone screamed, and Agatha Poyrot knew, knew that dog would be that last clue that made everything fit.

The older gentleman gaped at her. “Call the police! Tell—”

“No. No, goddamn you, I’m going home. Don’t I get a day? Haven’t I earned one day off?”

“But—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, the chauffeur did it, okay? Tell the police the chauffeur did it.”

By the time the gentleman de-doffed his cap, she was speedwalking the hell home.

When she checked her mail, it was invitation, invitation, invitation, invitation. If she burned the lot of them, her landlord would inquire about the smoke, he’d just happen to have a new tenant handy to introduce, who’d just happen to have a housewarming coming up, and so on. She would know. It’s happened twice.

Once she returned to her flat, she realized there wasn’t a thing to eat. She closed her eyes, envisioning going to the store, bumping into an acquaintance, and then in a week their body would be discovered, and so on.

She sat at the dining table for minutes, staring at the wall, hands enclosing her mouth and nose, before deciding that ordering delivery was safest.

“Hello, China Express, can I take your order?”

“Yeah, are you still doing lunch specials?”

“Ohh, you’re lucky. Our new manager, the brother of the old manager who died under mysterious circumstances, extended our lunch hours, even though business has been bad and also our head chef somehow bought a huge insurance policy—”

She hung up.

She stared at the wall then moved to stare out the window. A couple walking along. A street vendor selling ice cream. Several friends laughing on a balcony with a yappy dog. Dozens, hundreds of people. Every single one could be a murderer. Especially the dog. She drew the blinds and went to bed early.

She dreamed everything was perfect. No murders, no robberies, not a crime to solve anywhere. Every problem talked through, not a shred of intrigue to uncover. It was the first time she ever bored herself awake. It was nice.

She got up to shower, holding onto that beautiful, indescribable mundanity. It shattered when a rat scurried out of the tub. That was her limit. She would risk a murder if it resolved a rat problem. She dialed her landlord as she picked up the newspaper, shaking out the front page to reveal the headline, “CHAUFFEUR CONFESSES TO ELABORATE MURDER PLOT.”

Her landlord agreed to come by at 9:00 sharp, by which time Agatha Poyrot was properly starving, and at 11:48 sharp, her landlord turned up with a box of rat poison and, wouldn’t you know it, a new tenant to introduce.

While the landlord fervently introduced the tenant, “Bert,” she watched the box and thought of hosting her own luncheon.

“…so, yeah!” finished Bert.

“Look, I’m sorry, I’m so busy lately, my schedule is packed for months, I can’t come.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You just invited me to something?”

“No? No, I don’t really know enough people for parties and stuff. I’m kind of boring, actually. I have a friend who says I can make any situation less interesting.”

Only then did she see him properly. He was… indescribable. He lacked even a single memorable characteristic.

“Seriously?”

Bert nodded vigorously.

“Are you rich with conniving next-of-kin?”

Bert paused, then wobbled his hand.

Agatha Poyrot weighed her options until her stomach growled. Then she threw up her hands. “Let’s put this to the test. Wanna get lunch?”

* * *

Ⓒ Leo Rein