《Junkyard Jones and The Lake House》


 It Had Been a Long Day

    It had been a long day¡­ and "Junkyard Jones, private eye," was almost able to return home. "Junkyard Jones, private eye," was his typical line of introduction to any client of his ¨C of course followed by a firm handshake. The nickname was uttered so often that his mind could not help but think of himself by this name at all times. "Junkyard Jones ¡­ Junkyard Jones, is almost finished with another mission," he said in his head with a slightly off-rhythm jingle - something he thought might be suitable to television one day.


    A private eye is not a profession suited to being advertised on TV. Anonymity was the best disguise one could dream of. Compromising Jones'' inconspicuousness was something that he could not afford, even if he received a respectable boost to business. Nonetheless, dreams of airing a T.V. commercial abated his pending collapse from boredom. Jones thought himself to be the one destined for the director''s chair even in spite of how unrealistic that might be. He did not care since the whole premise of creating a musical campaign for his private eye business was silly. Beyond the spot being commissioned by a man with poor musical talent, Jones could not afford to even meet with a T.V. executive. The only saving grace from declaring the whole commercial contemplation a waste of time was Jones imagining himself doing something new and exciting.


    Jones had little left to do today in terms of business requirements. The only matter left was concluding his services with a client. Jones was certain of when his surveillance would be finished. It was an appointment he had set long before in the hope that his work would be concluded today at the very latest. Despite having completed all of his obligations successfully, the meeting was not arriving quickly enough. Jones was not eager to receive any praise for fulfilling the requirements. All he desired was the money and, more importantly, a conclusion to his work.


    Despite sensible scheduling, Jones sincerely regretted his lack of clairvoyance. He had little appetite for work these days, but his experience always told him that it was best to give a comfy window of error. He prioritized a job done right, no matter how hard that was to do sometimes. The thought crossed his mind of quitting a fair few times during this case. Jones only found the will to continue on through it being the easier option than giving up prematurely. To somehow locate a phone booth, find his client''s number, and then to offer his apologies for giving up on the job he had agreed to seemed like such a chore.


    This appointment was to mark the end of a long stretch of cases. A grueling succession was something Jones rarely would take upon, but having been in the red brought about sufficient motivation to keep going. What seemed like an endless stream of divorce cases over the past two months had made Jones'' bank account appear healthy once more. Bills were no longer such a dreadful sight in the mail. Although in the past week, whenever Jones had received the post, he was exhausted. They were becoming slight bothers that needed to be resolved through the attention of a checkbook. A long time ago, towards the beginning of his career, Jones hoped he would reach a level of success that would allow him to no longer need to pay his own bills. Even with nearly a decade of work, it seemed like still a distant prospect for his company to comprise anyone besides himself. Cycles of prosperity and poverty would come and go. Despite the fluctuations, Jones always managed to find a way to just be alright ¨C he prided himself on his capability to ride out any wave to happiness.


    Jones'' only reprieve in his current run of cases was that they had all been matters of divorce. Divorce cases were practically always the same, allowing for a strong routine to develop. Routine was a benefit in that Jones had developed a sound protocol that often yielded success. Protocol was, however, mundane, and therefore exhausting to perform for a man who considered himself to be a free spirit. In fact, Jones thought of himself as that freedom being his only defining characteristic.


    The divorce case protocol began with hearing the dispute of his clients. No person hiring a private eye was ever completely happy. This constant interaction with emotional toil, all too often outwardly exuded, contributed solidly to Jones'' increasing need for a vacation. He no longer wished to hear the problems of the world. The contempt one spouse felt for another was so unbearable to witness in rapid concatenation that it almost made the money Jones received feel tainted. Further, angry spouses claim information that they are not certain of. If they were wrong, it would be up to the P.I. to figure out. Claims of cheating are more than 90 percent of the time followed by where the cheating is occurring. Around 50 percent of those alleged cheating locations provided by the spouse turned out to be busts. Regardless, Jones always felt a duty to act on the information of his client.


    This final case, however, went off without a hitch. The wife told Jones that she knew exactly where the husband was going to be with his mistress and at what time. Surprisingly, it turned out she was right about everything. His distrust of divorce clients proved to be misguided here. Jones was not so stuck in his perception as to not be thankful for his luck. However, given he could not trust the location or the time provided, Jones had arrived 6 hours before the affair was supposed to occur. If he was clairvoyant, he could have avoided the painful and boring stakeout. Thankfully, the cheap motel had a convenient parking lot for Jones to acquire the pictures demanded by the wife, eager to prove that her husband was a "no good dirty rotten scoundrel. A man who had wasted the best years of her life chasing floozies up and down the state."


    To Jones, this affair did not appear to be just a submission to carnal desire, but rather a romantic entanglement. The greeting at the door between the two lovers, as visible through the window, had no indication of deceit. The husband looked deeply in love when he went to embrace his extramarital partner. She returned his love, albeit she appeared to be 20 years younger. Kissing appeared to be not mere foreplay, but the purpose of the meeting altogether. Perhaps, once Jones delivered the final nail in the coffin of the divorce, the husband would now be free to express his true love and would no longer find the need to hide in a motel. Jones had been around the business too long to assume there could be any happy outcome here. More often than not, the allure was the cheating itself. He often theorized that the main cause of all the deceit was that, in order to reach such elation, one had to build a life to demolish beforehand for the affair to mean anything. Jones had yet to take himself so seriously as to try it for himself.


    No adjustments were needed; a few snaps of the camera and the private eye drove off. Once the pictures had been acquired, Jones only needed to print the film. He frequented a ten-minute printing store for that very purpose. Jones had struck up a friendship with the often-present clerk, a Mr. Copland. During his frequent dealings with the establishment, the worker had learned much about the private eye. Jones was not so inquisitive but had learned the exact cost to develop a set of film. The two talked about the weather sometimes. Other times, the conversation would digress to smart bets on upcoming games. Today, Mr. Copland told Jones of the pending dreariness inland. The seasoned film developer bemoaned the possibility of gray clouds with no rain. Jones did not understand the complaint completely. The inland was much too far from here, at least an hour''s drive away. A lingering thought insisted that he should be empathetic to those stuck in dreary weather, but ultimately he thought the suffering to be too distant for his genuine care.


    Most of the more professional P.I.s developed their own film, but Junkyard Jones felt the investment to be an overall detriment to one''s social life. Talking with others not directly related to his case over the course of a day was overall worth the premium one had to pay. Too, maybe one day, this conversation could generate a helpful alibi. Being around angry people, criminals, and general miscreants did pose occupational dangers in that private eyes had more than minimal contact with the police.


    When driving to the designated place to meet finally, Jones gave quick thought to his strategy. A P.I.''s work was as much investigation as it was collection. A written contract would scare off more than half of his clients. Receiving the money Jones had earned always required a bit of nimbleness. Often, it was suggested to his clients that the pictures were being exchanged for money. Although, strictly speaking, the cash was tied to time, not results, it was sometimes best to play pretend. Interactions with money were something Jones had to be very loose with. Whenever agreeing to work for some clients, the private eye immediately rushed to determine the kind of person he was working for. Over time, Jones was able to tell immediately who was going to have a difficult time paying, who needed to be tricked, and who he was not going to have a problem with. Coercion was no great problem, but it was certainly an annoyance.


    Money in exchange for time was not always a concept that sold. People expected results for their money, and sometimes it was best to blur the lines of the truth. The solution only worked when there were results to give. Still, no one could argue against material transactions. This was one of those cases where pretending that the photos were what gave him the right to take the money he had earned worked. This wife was finicky enough ¨C as if that wasn''t evident with her demand for someone else to solve the issue of her own separation. Their first, and only, meeting prior told Jones that she was a very proper person who thought herself to be committing some social faux pas by interacting with the private eye.


    The P.I. and the soon-to-be-divorced wife were to meet at a diner. The time Jones had needed to wait had already expired, so he made his way inside. The food here was too expensive for the occasion. This was no fancy date, but rather just the offering of a restaurant off the freeway. Jones was adamant that a vintage American diner should not charge 17 dollars for a burger. Despite his internal rebuke at the sight of the menu, he did take joy in that the coffee was being sold for cheaper than the quality of the beans being used. This was luxury coffee, and the diner advertised accordingly. Jones sat down first and waited for his client to arrive. She came right on the dot and adopted a very commanding walk. Her trot gave such force to her feet that the floor would certainly be stomped out of existence if such a thing were possible.


    No pleasantries were exchanged as she took a seat in the booth. Jones was tired and had no inclination to feign cordiality. Only the money and the pictures needed to be switched here. The soon-to-be-divorced wife made a superficial attempt at conversation. She wanted to know whether things went smoothly. Jones mustered a quick "yes," in as polite a tone as he could manage. With the brevity of the answer, he had hoped to communicate that all he was really interested in was getting the money he had earned. Jones held the pictures in his hand. That is all that should matter. Who cares how rough it was to get them? He always guessed that was the difference between him and most of his clients. Only a few times in the year did he have to access his special skills to solve a case. The rest of the time, he was just doing simple tasks that others were not willing to do.


    500 dollars was never easier to earn. The griminess of spying on one''s spouse prevented many people from spending a day of their life to take the few pictures necessary to prove their version of the truth ¨C at least this was how Jones explained the demand for his services. Any qualm about a lack of self-determination was not something Jones could complain too loudly about. Divorce cases were the foundation of his entire business. He loved his work in that if it was boring, the work was easy and paid well. If the work was hard, at least life was then interesting for a little while.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Remaining after the conclusion of his business was a courtesy to the establishment. Immediately after his client the establishment with her pictures in tow, Jones scanned the menu for his options. The thirty-year-old man thought to himself that he should not order a burger with extra fries, no matter how appealing it sounded. Jones was tempted, but he didn¡¯t. He abstained, but only because of the price. The aforementioned 17-dollar burger still was a proposition that did not sit right. Jones made a mental note to, from now on, be slightly more assertive about the place he met his clients. For too long had he acquiesced to his clients. Well, previously, he only demanded a public place, but now food was becoming a priority too. Jones coincidentally should be on a diet. His lack of fitness demanded that he correct what he ate, but he would be lying if this was the reason why he did not indulge in a greater course at the restaurant. Later, he was planning on devouring some cold pizza with a pack of beer. Meatlover¡¯s pizza with an import made for the ultimate meal to begin a holiday with. To Jones, even the most dreadful of days could be planned for if counterbalanced with a worthy meal. Sitting in one¡¯s car all day was one such dreadful occasion. Sedentariness was certainly not the worst of circumstances to face in the life of a private eye; however, it was occurring all too often to Jones lately. The amount of good food needed to make it all worthwhile was making Jones gain weight at a pace faster than he would like.


    Jones had a mind to order a coffee. Coffee was his favorite beverage in the whole world. Without any degree of hyperbole, coffee superseded food in its ability to turn a bad day around. It was truly a misfortune to Jones that it was quite disadvantageous to drink coffee late at night. He enjoyed the beverage more for the taste and not simply for the caffeine. Jones waved down the waitress after his client left. The client had done nothing overt to offend the private eye, but still, he was averse to ordering a meal for her. It was healthier for his bank account this way.


    The waitress at the diner was pretty. Her beauty made it easier to remain at the diner rather than booking it for home. She had sort of an artsy look. Her work costume barely sufficed in disguising her true passions. If Jones were to guess, she was to have an art class the next day, or maybe even that very night. The style of her brunette hair complemented her face perfectly. She was a picture worth painting if there ever was one. It was the sort of natural beauty one could only spot when witnessing someone who took pleasure in living their life.


    ¡°Hello, ma¡¯am, I will just take a coffee,¡± stated Jones, hoping not to offend her with such a miniature order.


    ¡°Black, or with cream and sugar?¡±


    ¡°Black. Please.¡±


    ¡°Anything else for you?¡±


    ¡°That is all, unless you happen to have some chocolate cake?¡±


    ¡°No, sir, sorry. Cheesecake?¡±


    Jones responded no with a shake of the head. He detested the taste of a cheesecake too creamy and was not willing to risk the displeasure this evening.


    The waitress scurried off after receiving the meager order. She had carried the whole conversation with a smile regardless of his clear intent to only order a coffee. The smile was a pure expression of joy. Jones felt slightly bad about not ordering something more. He was occupying a table with a small tip. Maybe next time he will compensate by ordering a true feast. The seventeen-dollar burger may lie in his future yet. Still, despite the enjoyable company of the waitress, it was quite out of his way. Jones was now eating 35 minutes north of his home. This was an area, however, that he frequented for business. It was one of the richer districts in the whole of the state. Divorce cases were becoming quite rampant around here. Further, people who had much money to lose from a bad settlement were particularly motivated to acquire Jones¡¯ services.


    The waitress returned with the coffee. She brought a chocolate muffin as well. ¡°On the house,¡± she said with a youthful giggle. A man more inquisitively inclined at that moment would have asked why she was laughing. That same man would have strived to learn a little more about her interests, but Jones was not in the mood. Jones said nothing about her beauty ¨C not yet, at least. He was saving it for the return trip sometime in the near future. His mind was too tired for anything beyond the normal motions. The next time he came, maybe he would attempt to lay some charm, but tonight his heart was not up for conversation. Today, he had no predisposition for any discovery that he would need to remember.


    This was a day that Jones only had interest in winning. His case was destined to be the first of three victories. The first victory had only occurred a few moments ago. A client paying was never a guaranteed thing. Jones potentially considered the coffee to be a victory, but it had not been something already established within his schedule. The second victory had only been determined as a gambling win to occur later tonight, and the third would be a peaceful slumber thoroughly earned through his work.


    Soon a football game was being played and would be shown on the TV. Jones had quite the vested interest in this particular match. Spring football was back, and he had an inside track to the winner of tonight¡¯s game. The only pleasure he derived from sports these days was when he could win a respectable sum of money. He used to win more, but as Jones grew older, his knowledge of sports began to diminish. It annoyed him to see the players in excellent shape as it would remind him that he used to exercise quite a bit more. As was now necessary to be confident of a gambling win, a bookie owed him big. Jones was able to divert a cop¡¯s attention from a poorly placed gambling operation. One free tip is what he earned, and now he was ready to cash in. Although he was not reassured by the fact that a bookie knew the results of games, Jones found no qualms in taking advantage this one time. He had half a mind to make this the last time he ever placed a bet. Jones could only imagine what he would spend his newfound wealth on. Purchasing time away from work was one use of his money that was very desirable at the current moment.


    After leaving the diner, Jones was making a beeline for home ¨C only to be pleasantly interrupted by the scenery surrounding him. The path was familiar, but the magic never faded. To his left were magisterial hills decorated with a few homes, and to his right lay the ocean. At least for this one stretch, civilization was only concerned with the appreciation of nature. Entire lives were dedicated to the acquisition of a property capable of worshipping the sea¡¯s glory. Jones felt slightly bad for the residents up on the hill. Such a view was right now being ruined with traffic. The highway between Crystal City and where Jones resided was mildly crowded ¨C albeit much less than your typical afternoon. The roads not being completely at capacity allowed Jones to drive at a more reasonable speed than 55. Jones¡¯ heart could not stand 55. He pushed the pedal promptly down by the time he noticed that no cops were near him to ruin his fun.


    Few cars on the road were as stylish as Jones¡¯ pride and joy ¨C a 1970 GTO, dark green. Jones had made a few modifications to his ride. A tune-up of the engine and the new paint job made him very proud when driving about. Travelling in the fast lane gave him an ample view of the boring sedans surrounding him. The newest designs did not appeal to Jones as much. Further adding to his displeasure was that all of the cars on the freeway then appeared to be factory standard; nothing was unique.


    Jones did hold out hope that someone amongst the crowd paid enough care to their car to modify it, for his own changes were not apparent to the untrained eye. The only change visible was the paint job. Not many people knew that it was a change from how Jones received the car new. A Pontiac GTO was not nearly as popular as Chevy Chevelles. Jones was not the type to boast about his car. That being said, however, sometimes the pride he took in the uniqueness of his automobile managed to find a way to be outwardly expressed.


    Jones checked the clock after the traffic began to settle more into the normal dense levels that rush hour demanded. He still had ample time to get ready, with the game starting at 7:15. No longer able to fully concentrate on driving, the exhausted private eye¡¯s thoughts turned to his home. Jones¡¯ sofa sat there in his living room, eager to be used and enjoyed. Jones had faith the relationship between him and the seat was reciprocal. Jones was of the opinion that objects have a desire to be consumed. A pack of beer in the fridge lay similarly in wait, demanding to be drunk. The reason why food spoiled was because one did not fulfill their obligation to consume quickly enough. People got tired of waiting, and so therefore the food must too. Jones was determined not to make his beer anticipate his arrival for too long. He could almost feel its dry taste in his mouth while speeding along.


    The beach was only a few hundred feet away from the freeway. Jones knew that this vista was paradise. A paradise he felt was often underappreciated. Even as traffic remained stop-and-start, he saw no one turn their head to the bright blue sea. Infuriating was the fact that the sea was so close, yet the minuscule energy required to move one¡¯s eyes was deemed to be too expensive. Jones felt the perceived immensity of the expense was due to the value people placed on home. The people surrounding him valued reaching its refuge over a journey potentially transcendent. Sure, one¡¯s home was nice. One might even say a home is homely, but paradise is a state of mind ¨C a place only accessible through the appropriate outlook. Jones held the opinion that if there was beauty in front of you and you were not able to enjoy it, then the person did not exist. Jones took particular pleasure in his job for allowing him to appreciate the world around him. His proof of this state of mind was the wild maneuvers they would go through in order to save a few seconds. A lane change here and a cut-off there would eventually wreck their cars one day.


    No matter how long of a day, Jones would always feel awake in proximity to such beauty ¨C barring the influence of being drugged. Once, he tried to recover from a tranquilizer through the ocean¡¯s power but failed miserably. Jones had learned to adapt in the absence of a cure from the ocean. Despite having been drugged more than the P.I. would care to admit, he had become quite adept at recovering from a mickey. He was proud of the fact that he was able to regain his faculties rapidly enough to chase down the perpetrator that very morning. The trick was a scald of hot coffee over his shoulder. The image of a man burning himself slightly to wake up was perhaps not the most pleasant sight, but Jones found the solution to be better than letting someone get away with drugging him.


    To Jones, no place evoked more emotion than the ocean. He was not rich enough to afford one of those homes on the hills, but the beach was even closer to Jones¡¯ mobile home apartment than any road could ever be. To this day, Jones was unsure how he swung the purchase of his property on his meager income, ¡°the Junkyard.¡±


    Accordingly, as a product of alliterative happenstance, all of his business cards read ¡°Junkyard Jones.¡± It proved to be an effective method to separate himself from the competition. A catchy name was the kind of marketing one could not buy; either a name would be remembered, or it failed to serve its purpose. People enjoyed the hokeyness, even despite the frequent protestation by more refined members of society when coming across his card. Refined members of society did not hire private eyes much anyway. They just ran to the police to protect them. And if not, in that instance of requiring Jones¡¯ services, they were not behaving as luminaries anyway. Regardless, if he were not able to provide a catchy gimmick with some readily available poetic tool, Jones would be forced to create something. Written word was never Jones¡¯ strong suit. He thought it always better to use the land around him. A happy coincidence occurred here with the transition of his property to a memorable catchphrase.


    This interestingly named lot of mobile homes was right off the Pacific Ocean. The beach was a mere minute away from the front door. Junkyard certainly was not an appealing name to the average person. One might even call this name dreadfully implicative of a worn-down establishment, or even that it would be a true junkyard. More strange than the odd name is that it was named a junkyard for no particular reason. It was just a normal lot of mobile homes right off the ocean. All that was known for certain was that ¡°The Junkyard¡± was chosen for some random purpose, some reason that no one was sure of anymore. Some say the first owner of the lot was a loony tycoon. His billions were said to have allowed him to make frivolous purchases, and he had little interest in any return. Land was one of the most sensible investments a man could make. Even supreme reason could easily be made into a joke should it be named improperly.


    Jones sometimes speculated on the scene that brought about the name Junkyard. Maybe the billionaire¡¯s expensive Italian car was totaled, and it had to be sent to a junkyard. He would have then had his just revenge on the poor people who would go on to buy his property by putting an eternal check on their property values from ever rising too high. Jones never came up with a satisfactory answer. Every scenario insisted that the person responsible had a comical view of the world and was not possessing a modicum of sound judgment. All that to say, whoever named a valuable development the Junkyard either had a very advanced sense of humor or was a madman. Jones took more value in the madman. He would have enjoyed the company of a man with money who still enjoyed the world enough to blatantly disregard what one should do in order to maximize profits for the sake of a laugh.


    Jones made it home safely, still thoroughly exhausted from the day¡¯s labor. Usually, the drive home would refresh some of his energy. He just needed to stay awake a little longer to maximize his joy. 500 dollars for pictures and 3000 as the prize for a sure bet were set to make an amazing day indeed for Junkyard Jones.

 It was around 6:50

    <div>


    He had only drunk half a beer so far, determined to celebrate his gambling win while still partially sober. Afterward, he planned to crash into bed and wake up thoroughly refreshed. As the final commercial break before the game concluded, half his mind drifted to talking to that waitress from the diner tomorrow¡ªAmelia, he thought her name was. The other half longed to take a trip up the coast. He needed to avoid a hangover to start this holiday on the right note.


    The man introduced himself as Gary Wells. His daughter had passed away last week under suspicious circumstances, dying of a heroin overdose. The police were convinced it was an accident and refused to investigate further. For Jones to get involved legally, the case had to be officially closed¡ªinterfering with active police work was the fastest way to lose his private eye license.


    He paused briefly to consider how to proceed without overpromising. ¡°I¡¯m hesitant to take this job because I know nothing about what¡¯s going on. This is a bit outside my usual scope. Investigating murder is a serious matter, and I don¡¯t take it lightly. I only like to get involved when I have enough to start with. I¡¯m sympathetic to your situation, so at the very least, I¡¯ll hear you out. Can we meet tomorrow morning?¡±


    ¡°You have to help me. I beg you. I¡¯ve already waited too long to make this call.¡±


    ¡°The people at the place she worked. I know they¡¯re involved,¡± Gary stuttered, voicing an accusation he¡¯d never said aloud before. The idea of blaming someone for murder clearly felt alien to him.


    Jones knew of The Lake House but lacked specific details. Just a week ago, he¡¯d seen its name in an article in the state paper. Celebrity gossip didn¡¯t interest him, but he rummaged through his stack of old newspapers and found what he needed: ¡°¡­ The de More family did it again. The end-of-winter gala was an astronomical success for the venue, with every film award winner attending the party. In an interview, young Vincent de More expressed shock at his event¡¯s success. In only his second year running the establishment after taking over from his mother, Beatrice de More, now 70 years young, he aims to surpass all who came before him. He credits his fortune to the venue and the staff¡¯s hard work.¡± Jones wasn¡¯t a wordsmith¡ªhis lack of skill with words often got him into trouble¡ªbut even he thought using ¡°success¡± three times in quick succession was clumsy.


    Claudia had indeed died of a drug overdose in her apartment. A neighbor found her body the morning after her death. The police initially treated it as a homicide, but with all signs pointing to a self-inflicted overdose, they deemed it accidental within hours and closed the case.


    He knew there was little chance of the police reopening the case without a major breakthrough. An ideal plan began forming in his mind: find enough evidence to prove Claudia was murdered, then push the police to take it up again. The seasoned private eye had no intention of taking Gary¡¯s money without a clear strategy.


    The sun was setting, and a few people were out. His neighbor was grilling burgers, clearly enjoying himself, and gave Jones a hearty wave. Jones returned a smiling nod. His car waited, ready for another journey. Something told Jones this case would be a long one. With all the reluctance he could muster while still maintaining respect to Brian Wells, he got behind the wheel and headed north again. At least the Dime Bar had an avocado burger he was eager to try. He was already making progress on his earlier resolution to meet at places with reasonably priced food.

 11 Oclock on the Dot

    <div>


    "11 o''clock on the dot," Jones stated aloud to the clock the very second he entered his motel room. "It is time to rest ¡­ time to sleep. Junkyard Jones is on another mission" Jones found great joy in talking to himself whenever he was tired. Something about the sound of his own voice kept him awake for a bit longer. Maybe, it was his strong determination to not go crazy that motivated the soliloquy. Jones wanted to check the score of the game and confirm his winnings, but that would have to wait till morning. The bookie seemed reliable enough, but anyone claiming to know the people rigging a sports match could not be the most trust worthy man alive. Any fear of Jones'' sure win was hushed out by the bed was calling his name loudly. The pillow got into the action and professed her love for the back of his head.


    Jones rarely dreamt. He was more inclined to reflect on the events of the day prior and then gently fall into a slumber. Only when he began a holiday would he expect himself to dream. Today was no exception to the regular habit. Despite expectation that morning, the holiday had not yet begun. Something was bothering him about the situation. A country club full of very wealthy people and the manager happened to be a sleazeball ogling his client''s daughter. The character assessment of the manager  reeked of rudimentary deduction on the part of the father. Her describing the manager as a sleazeball could have been the product of a fight the two had. Sometimes first impressions are held on too long and the father could have been the recipient of witnessing an unfortunate circumstance. Labeling the manager as a sleazeball revealed to Jones that the relationship between him and Claudia was something more than professional.


    The nuances of relationships were generally not of interest of the police to people who died near places with reputations. Jones had learned as much when he wandered down to Acapulco for a month. There is no motivation for there to be an open investigation near esteemed establishments. Especially when the cause of death is so readily apparent the police will not hesitate to close the case. Anything for a reporter to not be able to form a narrative around a death was the excuse a more honest cop in that situation would give. The corrupt would not bother to say anything more justifying their actions as protocol.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    In the case down in Mexico, Jones dealt with the corrupt side of things. The most he was ever able to get out of the police down there was an officer offering the explanation that "Murder of one''s self is a tragedy, but not a crime." The private eye was almost pushed to the third degree himself at that very moment. The situation begged investigation, but no one was willing to step out of line. The chagrin caused by this prior unresolved death was partially the motivation for Jones to look into Claudia''s case with such fervor. Although his desire to solve the case was not yet totally apparent to the outside world due to his exhaustion, he felt a need to make things right.


    While making the final adjustments to his sleeping position, Jones continued to think about the situation he was now in. The Lake House was a reputed establishment. Enough so that people on the coast were well aware of the extravaganza that took place there. This fact really meant something to Jones. The coast was too often a world that was only amused with itself. This was a notable exception being made even if it was partially due to all of the celebrity that managed to gather there. This was a five star locale and celebrities were known to be the almost exclusive patrons of the club. Celebrity worshipers would certainly feel faint walking through their cultural epicenter.


    The galas Jones mentioned to Gary on the phone were the real social deals, or ordeals depending on who you ask. Not just money could gain you access to those events. Although it certainly helped, the prestige was something the establishment could not afford to compromise. Each guest was somebody who the masses would feel content living their lives vicariously through.

 Morning Came

    Morning came and Jones was ready to begin his investigation. He knew that he delayed beginning his work enough, but the only thing he needed more was a cup of coffee. In order to not feel guilty about the acquisition of his favorite beverage, he set the room alarm for thirty minutes before he told himself to be due to begin investigating. Jones would then use that time to make motel room coffee. Jones was well acquainted with all of the brands motel rooms would carry. The powder one could barely call coffee that sat on the motel room desk was the worst of them all.


    This was the last time Jones thought himself willing to sleep until the case was solved. The only reprieve Jones had while finishing his coffee was that every cup thereafter would be an improvement. This small mental game of finding better tasting coffee each and every time was often what was needed to stay awake after the time awake hits 48 hours.


    First thing came first. Jones knew the beginning was to search Ms. Claudia Well''s apartment for any peculiarities. Peculiarities were the basis of all progress in Jones'' investigative experience. Her apartment might yet be able to inform the private eye whether she was having a relationship with the manager Gary had mentioned. The home should provide enough evidence to determine whether she was using drugs.


    A more inexperienced detective would not be so interested in the apartment. A place that had already been searched by the police is all too often viewed as a closed avenue by a sleuth eager to get an investigation going. Although, it was certainly true that the most obvious of paraphernalia in the apartment would have been spotted by the police sometimes addicts leave a few clues beyond the more direct evidence of drug use. Drugs right next to the body were one thing, but a silver spoon amongst the cutlery would be enough to confirm she was a regular user in Jones'' mind. This was the kind of evidence Jones needed to rid himself of this suspicion that Claudia was murdered.


    After much strategery with a cup of piping hot joe for company, Jones drove to the cursed place the victim met her demise at. The apartment was in the same small town as the motel. The modest unit was located near the edge of town. Crossing through the town was very revealing to its overall status. Jones had arrived too late last night to get a good impression, but even in his quick jaunt down the main street it was apparent that this area did not have the wealth of all the other surrounding villages. Despite never having been to Yeoville before, it was quite different from the other places in the lake region Jones had visited before. All of the notable locations that he knew nearby were little shopping centers or resorts. The label of village was semi-deceptive. They were merely just places to shop near some other touristy activity.


    The town Claudia lived in had developed a long time ago. He knew most of the workers in the resorts and in those small shopping villages lived in Yeoville. The buildings here came from a time when the wealth of the country was not so pronounced. There were still some dense housing around. A few apartment buildings were littered around the mainstreet. Perhaps when they were built the vision of the town was much different and not so reliant on service. It did not seem as if a new construction had been here in thirty years. According to an article in the newspaper that Jones had once read, there was sort of a gentleman''s agreement with the rich towns folk to not develop this area. The article alleged that the wealthy in the lake region were in need of labor to staff their homes or resorts and thus were motivated to provide a place to live at a reasonable price.


    Jones stepped out of the car finally and headed up the stairs to the third floor apartment. It did not seem like a dangerous place and all of the apartments appeared occupied. Both of the second floor tenants had quite quaint inviting door mats.  The welcoming attitude that Jones had felt on the second floor quickly dashed by the reality of a locked door on the third. Despite the police tapes'' efforts to cover up such an exquisite piece of art, the door was of an exquisite paneled design. Little unique carvings lived within each panel. All of that being said, Jones had never seen such a horrid mismatch between the building and door.. The original owner of this place must have put some care into the interior of their home and had not paid much heed to the outside.


    It took Jones only a few moments to pick the lock. He was quite adept at dismantling things and putting them back together without much fuss. Picking locks was his foremost specialty. A client once offered him employment as a locksmith, but that would eliminate all of the fun. It was quite a shame that this skill often led to illegal activities otherwise. That line between legality and the desire for results was Jones had to skirt often in order to get results.


    Claudia''s apartment was nothing special. Perhaps, the valuables that made a home a home had already been moved far away where the stench of death could not infect. Jones found it more likely that she was not of the inclination to invest much into decor. The gray walls matched the gray skies that had just arrived over the town. Little natural light was coming in through the windows. Turning on the lights made it much more comfortable to Jones'' eyes. The only thing that stood out as being valuable was the picture frame nestled on the countertop. Jones thought that It must have been a gift from the father given how out of place it was in terms of value. It appeared as if the edges were gilded with gold, and the ornate design was stolen right off of a coat of arms. For the frame to have been bought by Claudia, the value must have been a result of meretricious design


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The picture in the frame was a beautiful image of the deceased. The photographer had captured the transcendence of youth. One could imagine that young woman to be the star of a soapy teenage film. Except this teenage film was soapy in all the right ways. An adult would see this film and be reminded of how he or she behaved back then. More importantly, in regards to the case, the face matched with the picture Gary had given to Jones the night before. Jones had once, or twice, broken into the wrong apartment so the match was of much relief.


    The relief of being in the right place was short lived. The idea of her being once so happy and now her dead was an unavoidable thought to run across. In the picture she stood next to a surfboard well worn.  Jones knew the general spot from the boardwalk in background. She certainly had one of the widest grins Jones had ever seen. It was the kind of smile one provided when one had not a care in the world. It was the kind of smile earned through a rigorous attention of enjoying life. Unable to bear looking at the picture more, Jones moved to the kitchen cabinets.


    Dust was beginning to conquer the space.  At least a week had passed since anyone had opened these cabinet doors. Only a few nonperishable items remained. No one was interested in this space anymore besides her father, and, now, by proxy Jones. If she was involved in any larger plot, it must have taken place elsewhere and not here.


    Jones moved to the bedroom and took a peak outside. The one bed and one bath on the third story of a well worn building suggested a practical investment. There was no stunning view from the bedroom window and too there was little in the way of markets nearby. She must have drove across town to find the company of other people. This section of town was way too quiet. In the entire time that Jones had been in the apartment thus far no cars had passed by, at least none that made themselves audibly known.


    After performing a scan of the entirety of the premises, it was clear to Jones that, unlike the original owners and their ornate door, no such frivolous investment was taken on by Claudia Wells. The curtain matched the drapes. The apparent cheapness of the locale The knife set near the sink was an unmistakably cheap brand. Its reputation was so damaged that it lacked even a worthwhile premium version that made it semi acceptable to purchase these knifes.


    The living room had a secondhand sofa opposite a very old TV. This small television set had vacuum tubes instead of the now common solid state electronics. This was perhaps thought of as another practical investment by the recently deceased. However, Jones doubted that if one of those vacuum tubes were to blow that they would be able to be fixed. The TV was a heavy contraption if there ever was one. She certainly had hired someone to take that TV off the street and into her apartment. It was too possible that she had the aide of a male friend, the type one did not have to hire. All of this was speculation, but for now it was all that Jones had. The TV was the first lead to get to know her life a little better. Jones quickly searched the rest of the apartment, but found little of note. Despite a sense of cheapness in the decor, everything was ordered properly. Bills were organized and there were no clothes thrown strew. This was not the home of a druggie, and, an apparent heavy drug user at that. Thanks to Claudia''s organization it was easy for Jones to find a few recurring receipts from a local restaurant. The bills contained two main dishes on each and every visit. From what the private eye could surmise, she was meeting someone there. The receipts were over the course of two months and stopped only a week before her death.


    Jones wondered why the friend, whether male or female, had not come forth when the newspaper article announcing her death was published. Gary had mentioned that only a day after the discovery of her body did the press release a brief statement on her untimely passing. It certainly was a bit weird that such a friend had not announced him- or herself. This was the second lead that Jones had and the first that he was determined to pursue. He still needed a strategy to investigate the lake house and its manager.


    Nothing else here was of note. This was a place barely lived. One seat on the sofa was turned upside down. Although, an out of place cushion could easily be accounted for by a general lack of care, but what could not be accounted for was why the police did not flip it over. Underneath Jones found a single white piece of paper. A single sentence was scrawled across the middle, "a jack of all trades is a master of none, but is oftentimes better than a master of one."


    The lights only marginally helped with Jones'' vision. The artificial brightness failed to introduce life into rooms devoid of soul. No amount of art on the walls could change that droll feeling one has in a home so cold. The coldness pierced deeper than any of those cheap knifes could ever dream of. Jones did not know whether it had always been so dreary or if this had been caused by the murder that took place here. Moment by moment he was becoming more sure that this was no accidental overdose. An evilness was crawling in the walls and it was begging to be revealed.


    At 10:30 the restaurant where Claudia and her friend met was opening for the day, as was indicated on the receipts. To Jones, it seemed like a waste of ink to put the hours of the establishment on the receipt, but he assumed the owner of Drake''s American Fare knew better on how to run his business. Jones drove to the restaurant immediately after concluding his search of Claudia''s apartment. The roads in town were starting to get a little busier. By no stretch of the imagination was main street crowded, but, at the very least, there was life visible.

 It was 10:35

    It was 10:35 by the time Jones had entered the restaurant. The distinct Americana decoration of the interior could only mean one thing, the fare was to be quaint. Jones'' suspicions turned out ot be right, hamburgers and sandwiches dominated the menu. If one wished to skip the bread, a nod was given to a steak.. The restaurant was very affordable considering the area they were in. All was affordable except that steak.


    "This must be a place for the townies," stated Jones unsure whether he kept the remark in his head or not. The hostess had turned into a waiter and agreed with Jones'' assessment of the establishment''s clientele. Jones then struck up a conversation with her about his business in town and what she knew about the death of Claudia Wells.


    The hostess was very forthcoming to Jones'' questions. It seemed as if the private eye had struck gold in finding such a wealth of information. Claudia''s death, a regular patron of the restaurant, had happened to be the most interesting thing at this job for a long while. For a brief moment the whole town was quite shocked that someone here died of a drug overdose. She remembered Claudia fondly as a regular patron of the restaurant. She had a propensity to tip well and was polite with the staff.


    When asked if Claudia would meet someone here frequently, the hostess was quick to remember a male friend. The hostess very distinctly remembered that they were embroiled in discussion whenever they ate. "One could say they talked more than ate." said the hostess in very succinct terms.


    She told Jones that she wondered why they did that here and instead of at home. The hostess'' query was quickly met with her own assertion of greater indifference. The description of the Claudia transformed then into a general description of how a restaurant worker ought act in order to maximize tips. "It is best not to pry too much into the lives of our customers. Although that means that I am not much able to help you know."


    All that hostess was able to claim with certainty was that the tips were great enough for her to have a smile on her face whenever the pair walked through the door. When pressed on the matter of the nature of Claudia and this man''s entanglement, the hostess admitted that she believed that the relationship was romantic. The dwelling of the hostess'' description on the man as someone mysterious and fairly good looking made it clear that if he were to flirt with her she would follow suit. The hostess added that the two never held hands. The man also never introduced himself by name despite how often the two would stop by. The pair also really flirted loud enough for her to hear, but she was certain that they were together. The hostess called it female intuition, but could offer no more evidence than that.


    The increasing speculation that the hostess was offering returned to certainty when the topic of money arose once more. The man was not nearly as generous with tips as Claudia was. She found it strange how the two would bicker about who was to pay the check. If he was too determined to pay he would just hand over the cash straight from his suit pocket. "It comes to mind that this man always wore a suit and carried much cash. Whenever it was his turn to pay the bill, he barely even paid a glance to the final total and would just hand over a straight 100 from the wad in his pocket." finished the hostess. A tingly feeling came over Jones. Men who carry large wads of cash are usually up to no good.


    Murder was usually committed by people who had something to lose. The tingly feeling was not just about the suspicious activities of this mysterious man at the diner. Jones too was feeling fearful. People who kill once are often tempted to do it again. Once the wall to the sanctity of life is crushed, it is much easier to draw from the well of death once more. Nosy private eyes usually do not last long when around such corrupted people. Jones, however, gave his word to the father that he would figure out what transpired and thus continued to talk with the hostess despite the growing ting of nervousness.


    Jones attempted to finish the conversation, "Thank you for your time. I am sorry about the delay in ordering  the food. I really am. May I have a club sandwich?"


    "No problem sweetie. Good luck in your investigation. It certainly seems more interesting that slogging away at this restaurant. Rye or on white?"


    "White. You do not like it here?" responded Jones. For a brief moment his alleged diet spoke to him. He wondered if rye would be the healthier of the two options.


    "Working here is certainly not as interesting as at The Lake House or pretty much any other establishment in the area. Here let me put your order in and I will be back."


    Jones would have asked about The Lake House''s history if he had the opportunity, but maybe the hostess had sensed his curiosity. He was quite certain that this place did not get many visitors from out of town. Indubitably, the seasoned hostess returned and now took a seat at his table. She explained in great detail all about how The Lake House came to be:


    "Just after the war, The Lake House country club was built and designed by Beatrice de More. Her maiden name was Balkland. They were one of the original families that had settled the region. As farming was becoming unviable the family made the decision to shift to becoming hoteliers. The first hotel they built in the area was the Balkland Inn a few miles south from here. It was a successful business endeavor and so they were motivated to build another hotel to capture the growing market. The family''s goal was to target luxury and so they built a country club hotel hybrid. The eldest daughter of the family happened to be studying architecture and was put in charge of the project. Things went well and the country club was an instant success, but the rumor was that the construction costs were close to bankrupting the family. Beatrice believing herself responsible for the financial situation married into the de More lineage. They had built their wealth through a shipping company. The de More''s bailed out the Balkland''s debt, but took control over The Lake House. I still think Beatrice, or now her son, runs the place. Interesting, huh? There is much interesting history in the region. Many important families have come and gone."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Jones could not get a word in edge wise. Even if unprompted, the history lesson was indeed interesting. Nodding in agreement another waitress brought out Jones'' food and the hostess excused herself.


    Jones returned to his car after enjoying his meal. Cheap and good was what Jones enjoyed the most, and this place certainly delivered. If he was ever near this part of the world again, he would have to stop by and try some of the local wines. Now was not the time for a working private eye to drink. Jones sat in the driver''s seat and began to consider all of the clues he knew so far.


    The information on Claudia and the history lesson was a good break for the case. Jones knew that the father was extremely keen on investigating The Lake House. The newspaper excerpt that Jones read before did not do the establishment justice. The reduction of the country club to a host of celebrity galas seemed to fail to appreciate its rich history.


    Jones had gathered so far that Claudia did not seem to do much in life besides work at the country club. She slept at her home as there were no receipts indicating stays elsewhere. Further, her father claimed the only time she left the vicinity of work was to visit him. Jones cautiously trusted the information the father provided. He would always wear rose tinted glasses in the matters of his now deceased only daughter.


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    While driving back to the motel, Jones'' mind returned to the realm of the material. From the appearance of her apartment, she definitely was not habitually partaking in drugs. The private eye shuddered at the thought of such poor police work letting this go at an overdose. A death should not be treated to callously as only seeing what lay around her. Bothering the small details was the difference between an effective detective and an amateur sleuth. People with no passion for the truth can often let their abilities slide off as amateurs. Jones could for now only hope the police were incompetent and not a willing participant in the cover up of her murder.


    There was still a chance that her apartment did not convey the full picture of her life.  Jones deliberated whether Claudia it was possible for her not to be just working as a waitress at the country club. An attractive girl like her could easily get into trouble when around the wrong people. The wrong peoples capabilities are only exacerbated through wealth. Jones disagreed with the hostess when she said she would rather work at The Lake House over Drake''s. This opinion could be the result of a bad taste from interaction with rich divorcees. Nonetheless, by the time Jones had pulled into the motel parking lot he was of the mind to operate off the assumption that whatever was supplemental to her life was the thing that got her killed. He saw no other means to progress beyond skipping a few steps of detective work and filling in the rest as he went along.


    She was, perhaps, too innocent to be a member of a world of deceit. Jones could only remember that picture with the surfboard when pondering the evilness she must have interacted with to be murdered. Disturbed by the thought of her final moments, Jones knew right then and there why he could never become a detective. The routine witness loss of the loss of innocence was too much for his mind to handle. Jones wondered then if for a mind to remain pure it must shelter itself from evil. Regardless of the answer, death was too corrupting a topic for the private eye. Even if he often uniquely could solve crimes, the pleasure of a demonstration of intelligence alone was hardly ever worth the pain ultimately.


    Stepping through the door of his dark motel room, Jones turned on the lights once more. It was not nearly so painful to see the room now as it was this morning. "I am no miracle worker. I need a miracle." said the gumshoe aloud now sitting on the uncomfortable motel bed. So uncomfortable in fact that Jones lay down almost immediately to rid himself of the lower back pain just sitting there was giving him. Moving to the chair in the corner of the room seemed like too great of an expenditure of energy.


    Gary Wells was certainly right about one thing The Lake House needed a thorough investigation. Infiltration of the establishment was becoming an unavoidable task. Given a lack of police involvement this was an especially hard maneuver to accomplish. Identifying the right person and flashing a badge in their direction made undercover work much easier for the police. People become quite willing to bend the truth for such official purposes. Jones, however, did not have the support of the police. Announcing his investigation to the right parties to insert himself into the establishment was simply not an option. Further contributing to the need of delicacy in the investigation was the propensity of criminals to flee once there is a whiff of danger. There was no hyperbole in suggesting to Gary that people would rather move to Timbuktu than be in jail for murder.


    Going undercover was the only viable option. A country club of that stature would certainly run a background check on any prospective member. and employee Attempts to be duplicitous all fail eventually. Applying for employment under some fake name might work temporarily, but maybe only for a few hours or at max a day or two. Further, he could expect his questions to be answered truthfully as a worker. No employee really wants to divulge the death of a comrade to a guest. Still, Jones knew that if he were to work there and leave immediately some alarm would be raised. He only could pray to be successful before his quick departure.


    Jones thought of only one possible course of action, finding this mysterious male friend that met with Claudia and getting him in on the ruse. If the man were to vouch for his employability, the estimated hours Jones would have on the inside could comfortably become a whole day. Even if this alleged boyfriend was the perpetrator of the crime keeping him close would allow Jones to investigate him simultaneously.


    Something did not sit right with Jones about the whole thing.  The more he pondered on that he resolution to the unease had to lie in that country club. She must not have made many friends outside the establishment. There was more going on there than what met the eye and if not Jones was headed up a cul-de-sac regardless. Jones had no way to confirm that there was a devious plot associated with the club besides that there must have been something wrong in her life for her to be murdered. The swiftness of the police in closing the case pointed to an enemy possessed influence. In this line of work, Jones found it necessary to contrive the enemy into existence. Most cases would go unsolved if one merely waited for the most logical and certain step to appear.


    Jones knew that it was time to put his plan into action. Any gaps in the logic just needed to worked out with a bit of improvisation. Truthfully, he expected the man Claudia met at Drake''s to be the manager Gary had mentioned earlier. He lay there in his bed for a good hour before the idea hit him on how to lure the friend out. If indeed the country club was connected to Claudia''s murder somehow, he just had to call and ruffle a few feathers. The key to this bait was the restaurant. This was a gambit that he needed to work and Jones knew it.

 It was 2:30

    It was 2:30 and the restaurant had closed for its break between lunch and dinner. Jones was still in his hotel room and gave a ring to the The Lake House. He only had one hour and thirty minutes to make his plan work.


    The person who answered the phone introduced herself as the front help desk receptionist.


    "Hello ma''am, my name is Mr. Dobson and I work for Drake''s, the restaurant in Yeoville."


    "Hello, how may I be of assistance to you today?"


    ''This call is in regards to one of your employees, a Ms. Claudia Wells. I was informed of her passing, but she owes a significant amount of money at our restaurant. We attempted to find a relative of hers to receive payment, but have been so far unable. We know that she worked at The Lake House and wanted to know if you all had any information on this matter."


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I am not certain. I will ask my manager and give you a call back."


    "Wonderful, my number is 111-222¨C-3333. Please give me a call back at your convenience."


    The call ended and Jones resumed laying down on his bed. Besides questioning who could bare to sleep on a bed like this permanently, the only think he could do was pray that The Lake House would get back to him. The waiting was always the worst moment of a sales pitch. There was no guarantee the receptionist would even communicate the message to anyone.


    Ten minutes passed and the phone rang. Bingo, he was fifty percent of the way there. "Hello, I am looking for a Mr. Dobson," a man spoke this time. The hestiancy in his voice revealed a certain flimsiness. It was impossible for Jones to know the cause.


    "This is he," replied Jones.


    "My employee told me of the situation. My name is Luca Hartmann. I am the general manager here at The Lake House. We should meet and resolve this issue in the right way. I can be at your restaurant in 30 minutes. Does that work for you?


    "Yes it does. See you then." Jones confirmed the appointment. It took all of his energy to not reveal his excitement in having duped the manager to meet. Still he could not be certain that the manager was the friend.

 3:00 on the Dot

    3:00 on the dot and a fancy foreign car pulled into the lot. Junkyard Jones stood right in front of the door of the restaurant knowing that the guise would soon be blown wide open. He just needed to ensnarl the man before he could leave.


    A man in his mid 20s wearing a dark gray three piece suit stepped out of the expensive automobile and Jones gave him a quick .


    "Mr. Hartmann?" Jones hardly looked like a restaurant manager. His attire was very casual and he had yet to shave today. It was never his intention to lie about his identity in person. "This is he," Luca had repeated the statement right from  Jones'' mouth in the prior conversation. Luca paused for a brief moment and continued, "I am sensing that you are not a manager of this establishment."


    "My attire?" replied Jones.


    "Yes." retorted Luca Hartmann with a widening of his eyes. Strength in his character appeared for the briefest of moments.  "Well you are correct. I am not a manager, but I still require a conversation with you about Claudia Wells."


    Luca replied, thrown off his expectations suddenly became flimsier than ever, "Ok, but somewhere private." Upon the direction of the private eye, wishing to psychologically dominate the conversation, they moved to Jones'' car upon the direction of the private eye. The movement to the car was swift, but Jones picked up on Luca''s hand shaking, seemingly out of nerves.


    Jones began the conversation, "I apologize for the bit of deception that I used before. I am going to level with you and you are going to level with me. Does that sound fair?" "Sure." replied Luca, now fully revealing his frayed nerves. There was no need to speculate now. Claudia''s death had affected this man greatly.


    Jones was ready to throw caution to the wind, press the advantage while the iron was hot. There was no need to present a way for Luca to regain his strength through the discovery of Jones'' true identity. "Alright, I am a private eye hired by Claudia''s father to investigate her death. I suspect that she was murdered and I know you were meeting her regularly. I found receipts suggesting that she ate here with someone. The hostess corroborated this and gave the description of a man who looked just like you. Are you that man who met her?"


    Luca ignored the question. The question itself became unnecessary given any continuation of the conversation was confirmation enough that the two were meeting. "Murder? I read in the paper she died of an accidental overdose. I just assumed it was a medication of some sort. What makes you say murder?"


    "Did she ever use Heroin?"


    "No, a druggie would never work at our country club. If anyone shows up unable to work at 100 percent, they are gone that very day. People are paid well enough for us to demand perfection. We have a reputation after all. No no, she would never do something like that. She would never insult our work like that." Luca was turning from a nervous wreck to a just a plain wreck. The fancy attire he had arrived with was not nearly a thick enough cover to hide his timorousness.


    Jones returned to a question he already knew the answer to in order to maybe relax Luca some, "it was you that met with her, right?"


    "Yes. We had a relationship that we kept secret. I am her manager and I usually am not allowed to really date."


    "Who has such control over a grown man?" responsed Jones with a laugh.


    "Work. I am paid rather handsomely, but the female guests expect my attention." The translation of expect to demand was unmistakable in all figurations except the word, or so Jones thought.


    "You prostitute yourself?"


    "I just give them my attention. Beyond being a manager of the staff, I am supposed to make sure our club is the best in town. My personality is just another feature our club can offer." A smile finally arrived to his face, however thin. That was at least until he looked down ashamed at himself..


    By personality he meant his handsomeness. The debonair aire about him was not something easily replicated. A model would make a million dollars out of his sophistication. Even if this class was temporarily abated by the collapse of a person''s natural calmness .


    "I was given this job contingent on upholding my promise to make this the best club in the area. I love my job¡­" Luca paused to perhaps contemplate the reasons why he still loved working there.


    "I met Claudia there afterall and fell in love with her because of work funnily enough. She was the hardest worker around and was not afraid to expand her job description. I miss her. I really do." Death, let alone murder, exposes the frailty of people. Even if only involved tangentially, premature death exposes the necessity to reach a man''s greater purpose in life. Luca put both of his hands on his head. To Jones he appeared confused. Somewhere still Jones remained aware of the fact that this man might be good at feigning confusion.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Jones gave Luca a moment to collect himself. His head tilting ever more down and into his chest. This move by Jones was tactical as much as something motivated by sympathy. He wanted to see where Luca would take the conversation. Luca was the first person Jones had met from The Lake House. To Jones, there was no reputation that proceeded the man. All impressions were made from a blank slate. Jones had no good way of determining whether he was being true to himself or not.


    The only way to expose more of Luca was to get him to talk more. The torture of silence was inflicted effectively by Jones to achieve this very ambition. A whole minute passed before the shrunken man caved and could no longer bear to continue waiting for a response,


    "How certain are you that she was murdered? Why are the police not doing anything about it?" asked Luca.


    Jones was of the mind that a person who committed a crime murder, and too possessed a modicum of intelligence, would not dare to go down that line of questioning about the lack of involvement of the police. All attempts would be to divert.  At that moment Jones began to treat Luca as a victim, and not a suspect.


    "I am fairly confident at this point that she was murdered. As for the police, I cannot answer why they have chosen to handle this case so shoddily. I suspect the worst, but it remains only suspicion. I do know that their inaction, for whatever reason, cannot be good."


    "I want to help," Luca said abruptly. "They might listen to me when I say that I have a suspicion that she was murdered and take a second look at things."


    "The second look will be as good as the first. What I need is to access The Lake House. Only when I am trusted by her co-workers can I begin to investigate that angle." Jones knew that involving the police with murder was almost always the right thing to do. The danger of being mistaken as a murderer was slim, but the cost of such an error was grave.


    In the case of incompetence, Jones would wish to involve the police in most crimes he was tasked to investigate. When matters were corrupt, however, it was another beast entirely. Jones could not get rid of his hunch that someone on the police force was being purposefully negligent. He was certain he needed Luca''s help to infiltrate The Lake House. His offer to help was Godsent.


    "I can help with that, but, before we partner up, how do you intend to investigate the matter? I need to know that you are not some sort of incompetent investigator that got lucky in finding me."


    "I intend to leave crumbs around and imply that I know more than I do. I think the person who murdered her was worried about any questions being asked at all. There is no avoiding the fact that this was a murder disguised as an accident. There had to be a degree of premeditation in this whole affair, but also a degree of insecurity is exposed by the disguise. In my experience this could either be a risk mitigation tactic on part of the criminal, or the cover up was the only way out for the person to simply disappear with no more questions being asked. I am hoping that it is the former."


    "The plan sounds solid enough. It is better than nothing I guess." Luca let out with a sigh. The vague semblance of strength that Luca mustered in inquiring about the capabilities of Jones had disappeared as soon as it arrived. The sigh confused Jones for a moment. He eventually came to figure that Luca just wanted this all to be over more than anything. The sudden arrival of Jones meant things could not be over for Luca just yet. The guilt of not participating in the attempt to find Claudia''s killer would be too much to bear.


    Luca continued, "I understand your lack of guarantee. Only begrudgingly as our members usually do not afford us that same understand." Luca exclaimed with a chuckle. The topic of his demanding job seemed to clear his head somewhat.


    While still in the front seats of the car, the two worked out the final details of establishing Jones undercover in The Lake House. Luca had met Jones by chance at the police station when attempting to see if Claudia was in possession of any cash to pay off the bar tab. Jones would pose as her much older brother, and Luca would hire Jones to work for a week at The Lake House. He would work as a waiter given the need of a short term replacement.


    He had decided to take on the name of Brian Wells when plotting how to integrate himself into The Lake House. Brian sounded about right to match the last name. Luca thought a name less orthodox would be better to explain the 10 year age gap. He reasoned that a back story was necessary to concoct.  Luca''s story was that they were half siblings and his mother was a hipster of sorts. Jones nixed the idea immediately, pleading with him to never mention such a tale.


    Luca was starting to overthink the whole ordeal. "K.I.S.S. every situation to death. Keep it simple stupid until the simpleness is obnoxious," the words Jones lived his life by desperately needed comprehension here. He repeated the maxim at least three times to Luca. Each time he could only hope that it would catch on. It appeared as if Luca and Jones were of incompatible minds.


    There was still a chance even that if Jones were to be unsuccessful that the murderer would not be alerted to his sudden departure. All of this still hinged on the killer being someone she knew from work.


    On the matter, Jones asked Luca one final question. "Did she do anything besides work?"


    Luca responded with an aire of guilt, "Yes, she met with me sometimes. But other than that, no. I disliked it intensely. I was a young adult once too. She needed to live more." The comment felt out of place to Jones. Mr. Hartmann was hardly over the age of 25 and too seemed to be obsessed with his place of employ. Jones theorized that what Luca meant to say was that "she needs to be still living."


    The meeting was over after a few more moment of deliberation. A shake of the hands occurred, but the private eye did not know for what cause. Jones made the trek back to his car and drove once more to his motel. Not shaving in the morning almost blew his interaction with Luca Hartmann. He could not afford to be sloppy any more.


    All Jones needed to do now was shave and get ready for work.  This final drive through town of the day was again quiet, more reminiscent of the early morning. Most people must be at work at this time. Like Drake''s the only other restaurant he could spot on the main street was closed.


    Jones was to begin his work as a waiter with a 6:00 to midnight shift. Feelings of progress in the case came at the cost of worry that he would not be a sufficient waiter of a five star dining establishment. He had been ecstatic momentarily with his success at procuring a sufficient undercover role, but he had forgot that he had no experience waiting in his life.


    Having arrived at his room once more, Jones was a bit apprehensive all things considered. He had never worked a normal job with any great success. A normal job to him was one that held routine expectations. The very defining feature of normalcy was that which kept him from finding labor fulfilling. A lack of success meant a lack of enjoyment to Jones. Only the brevity of the undercover assignment kept Jones sane.


    Now with some time to kill and no firm leads to operate on. Jones began to reminisce. He thought that maybe his great aversion to prolonged routine labor began with his military career. Right after high school, Jones had enlisted in the army. Jones had joined the army to become a warrior, only to discover that he enjoyed the freedom vehicle repair afforded him. Having shown a knack for mechanical tasks, repairing trucks was the role assigned to him immediately after basic training. Compared to the responsibilities of other soldiers Jones was able to prolong the completion of orders to the length of a day rather than immediately. He lasted only four years in the military before he became a private investigator. After his four years were up, Jones left the military without a second thought. Despite the great luxury he lived in working around cars, he could no longer stand the expectation of being at work at 8 a.m. everyday


    When he was just starting sometimes Jones would work the odd job to make ends meet. His skills as a car mechanic helped pay the bills once or twice, but whenever a regimented schedule was proposed by a satisfied employer he visibly recoiled. Some bosses would take offense and others understood that the man wanted nothing to do with routine.

 Around 5:00

    Around 5:00, following a quick clean up of his look and facial hair, Jones drove to The Lake House. Being completely foreign to the area, he would have been fairly uncertain of its location. If it were not for the sign bearing its name being gilded with gold and illuminated by five different lights, Jones might still be driving east to this day.


    The private section of the road to the country club was right up along the edge of a pristine lake. A plane flying above would have a difficult time finding the massive building. Jones could begin to see the massive wooden structure in the distance. A pinnacle of luxury that could not be overstated was practically embedded in nature. There were no trees to serve as a barrier between the lake and the road. One misstep and it would have been a quick trip right into the drink. The water being of such clarity indicated that this was the kind of lake to be adored from a far. The guests


    Luca told Jones when concocting their planned that no material in this establishment was ever fake and for the private eye to behave as such. The ability to spot faux crystal or silver was something that Jones lacked. He would just have to go off of Luca''s word on the matter.


    Despite no training or experience, Jones understood his self-given assignment well enough. The private eye needed identify what in Claudia''s life. The answer, he believed, had to lie in her work. Jones was only worried that Luca had not held up in end with the necessary arrangements. Him betraying Jones now was not something that he thought possible on purpose. There was always the chance that a man not comfortable at subterfuge would reveal the plot accidentally.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Even though Luca was not completely above his suspicion, there was always the chance that he was a talented liar. The faith that Jones was now placing in Luca was becoming a source of weary.


    Stepping through the doors of the side entrance, it became apparent how much the general manager had to lose through being discovered. The paintings in the hallways were easily worth a 100k a piece. Each name in the corner was recognizable. If one treated the walls with such class, they must be taking care of their employees is how Jones figured. Jones knew a real art enjoyer would never reduce the art to monetary value, but he could not help himself.


    Jones had made it to the designated spot to meet Luca a few minutes early. Luca had mentioned a short training before he began work. He was trying to sneak the private eye in under the radar. Despite the need for brevity, Jones was worried he would be the kind of person who was in need of in depth training. As a sort of relieving fact, Jones had eaten at restaurants enough to know the general premise behind waiting. While the customer getting their food was the primary objective, he knew that equally as important was ensuring satisfaction. He always felt that the best waiters were though that possessed a quasi mind reading capacity. The mind reading ability only extended to the knowing when Jones needed a refill on his beverage, but nonetheless he was in admiration. Jones still wondered if there was some secret formula the more luxurious of dining experiences used to improve their customer''s satisfaction.


    Maybe here Jones would find the job he would work in his retirement. Suspicions of his body not being able to handle being a private eye forever was a prominent thought on his mind. His body ached purely from the stress he had endured in this past.

 5:30 Came

    5:30 came and the briefest of trainings was already over. Jones was exposed to the menu and what his responsibilities were.


    For being the supposed brother of a recently deceased co-worker, no one batted much of an eye when hearing his name. He dropped his full name maybe too many times in the break room before the shift began. Jones worried he was being too obnoxious with how much he repeated his surname. He could only hope the right party had heard his name and would be tempted into action. Jones was not as weak as a nineteen year old. Part of him hoped the ultimate confrontation would turn physical. A desire of exacting revenge was starting to pulse throughout his body.


    All of Jones'' new co-workers were too busy to pay much heed to a new face. Jones asked himself if the women here were allergic to such an attractive face. As a less ridiculous reason for the cold reception, he hypothesized that he was entering into a world where looks and behavior were only part of the equation. Living next to such rich people must be a contagious experience after all.


    The country club was approaching the busy time of the evening. It was explained to him by his shift manager that things would start to taper off around 8:00. The shift manager was stand-offish to the undercover private eye, but still took it upon himself to make sure that Jones had the tools to succeed at the job.


    The crowd that stayed after 8:00 were usually the younger guests. They did not demand as much from the staff in the dining hall and really would just drink the night away. The bartender would become swamped around that time and as long as you had a table away from the giant window and even further away from the bar you would not have much to do. Given that he was new Jones'' shift manager gave him a section of tables far from the majority of the action.


    6:00 o''clock rang and the shift began. Standing in the designated hall, Jones dreaded his first steps towards the first people who sat in his zone.  Nonetheless, his feets carried him forward. The dining hall revealed itself to Jones as he made his way over to the family waiting his attention. Some might complain that a dining hall did not suffice as a descriptor for such a grand stage. Jones did not know the word that would suffice. He only knew that the appropriate descriptor had to somehow convey unending grandeur and organized joy in an efficient manner. The private eye was of the mind that no sufficient multisyllabic word existed capable of describing a scene so magisterial.


    The decoration followed a red, gold, and white theme. Table clothes of pure white were decorated with the finest cutlery and what one could assume were gilded candelabras. Brass could not shine so bright. All of the serenity offered by the decor was dwarfed by the imposing majesticness of the enormous glass windows providing view of the lake. From the road the glass did not appear nearly so large. The sun was due to set in a few hours and Jones could not wait for the experience. The sunset here might just rival the feeling he would get at the beach.


    Jones'' momentary pause at the service entrance was disrupted by the beckoning of a co-worker to move forward and see his customers. Jones was determined not make such an error again and quickly put his head down. All he had to do was last till 8:00 and the investigation into the co-workers could truly begin.


    The first few families that Jones served were all staying at the hotel. Their eagerness to share details of their adventures aided in the overall smoothness. If Jones was not so nervous about his performance, he might have gotten annoyed at the constant borderline boasting that he was forced to hear.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Of all the people that he served, only one family really stood out in their demeanor to the green waiter.


    Jones offered his standard clunky introduction, "Hello, my name is Brian and I will be taking care of y''all this evening. How may I help y''all this evening? Shall we start with some water?"


    A man wearing a bolo tie and a matching cowboy outfit answered with much a do, "Howdy there Brian. Waters for the whole family and an old fashioned pour moi. That is French for "for me." He bellied out a laugh knowing that the joke he had made was horrendous. Part of the humor to the Texan was that the waiter was forced to smirk at the horrible joke.


    "Yes, sir." Jones provided that expected smirk. He was not being disingenuous in the slightest. Truthfully, he enjoyed a bad joke. The joke too had provided relief from the all consuming investigation he was still a part of. Each moment that he had a break Jones was listening to the other waiters to catch if there was any trouble amongst the staff. It appeared as if there were no such internal problems.


    To Jones, it was undeniable that this man spoke in a Texas accent. Despite never having been to Texas, the Sunday morning cartoons of unfortunate Texas cowboys made the identification simple. A man from Texas was rich and spoke rambunctiously.


    The situation that Jones found himself in reminded him of those old cartoons. The second thing established by the oil baron, beyond his need for an old fashioned, was that the most expensive liquor needed to be used for his mixed drink. In addition, Jones was not to tell him the name of the whiskey used until the Texan had three guesses as to what it was. Jones that if this man was  an oil baron, he must have been one of those cattle ranchers capable of launching a range war.


    An army friend of Jones was from Texas and told Jones that Texans did not ever dress in such attire. The private eye was eager to shove this story in his face one day. This encounter was just something that he had to hold that friend should he ever see him again. The joke about pour moi was something he needed to repeat at least once.


    The Texan was particularly fond of flaunting his wealth. The bodaciousness of his flaunts prevented them from ever crossing into the realm of rude. The man ordered the most expensive dish the restaurant had. This would not be such a statement if the food was not being ordered through stating aloud for everyone in his vicinity to hear that he wanted "the most expensive entree for everyone at the table. We have no choice in the matter."


    Jones paused and said "Alright sir, I will get that right out for you."


    Jones'' assumed oil baron had one more question for the waiter, who was now eager to escape to the kitchen out of fear that such a man would see through his nervousness, "what sort of food am I getting son?"


    Truthfully, Jones did not know how to answer correctly. He had gotten acquainted with the menu, but not the prices. In fact, Jones knew none of the prices. Prices were never included on these sorts of menus.


    "Sir, if I may level with you, this is my first day and I woke up this morning not even knowing  this establishment existed." Jones was worried that his answer would disappoint the customer severely. He remembered the words of Luca only a few hours earlier and how the manager was met often with unreasonable demands from members of the club. Jones just had to hope that this was not one of those instances.


    The plump man from Texas was truthfully very kind, "You have done a great job son do not worry too much about such trivial details. If I really cared about what was coming to me I would have asked for it by name!" The Texan slapped his knee and laughed twice as hard as before.


    Jones went back and acquired the name of the dish from the shift manager. Returning to the table, he was met with more questions from the Texan, who now introduced himself as a Mr. Gormand.


    "Son, have you ever been a waiter before?"


    "No sir." All nervousness seemed to wash off given the exposition of the truth and the understanding of a person very adept at enjoying a fancy meal. It was still a bit strange to hear himself being called son when the wife that bore the Texan''s kids at the table must have been a few years younger than himself. The confidence that Jones was gaining allowed him to develop a greater understanding of his environment. He needed to not get so bogged down in the job should he wish to make progress on the case.

 8 p.m.

    8 p.m. could not have arrived too soon. The mental wear of being a waiter was beginning to set in. The moral boost provided by the Texan was insufficient in the private eye maintaining complete mental acuity. Any attempt prior to reinvigorate himself was met with new customers sitting down in Jones'' zone. Only the sunset had helped with the Jones'' depleting energy.


    "Mr. Wells, you did quite alright out there." said the shift manager in a mild voice at a bit after 8:00. The stand off ishness from before had seemed to be wearing off. It turns out that Luca had told him that he was a completely inexperienced hire. The shift manager had attempted to make the training hard for that very reason. The harshness of his treatment must have flown right over Jones'' preoccupied mind.


    "Your demeanor is indicative of a man inexperienced in the waiting business." said the manager in a very intellectual voice. His voice alone made it seem certain that the man''s passion was being a waiter. The certainty the shift manager conveyed was that which Jones expected from a university professor. Jones never had met an academic so he had no way of confirming the veracity of his statement


    The manager continued after the briefest of stutters, "Wait, wait I do not mean that negatively. Truthfully, I disagree with the hiring practices here. They want professional waiters, but are not willing to take a risk on new blood usually. The demeanor of a professional waiter is all too callous. Experienced waiters are nice and all but they focus on just doing their job. Our guests also expect a degree of entertainment from their waiter. Some sort of humanity in the person ensuring that their experience is enjoyable. We are a country club first and not just a restaurant." His words rang of idealism. It was evident the man thought of this all day. Jones had never heard of any restaurant theory, but the notion of a better experience in something so simple intrigued him.


    Jones'' mind for the case also found what the shift manager said to be of interest. His investigative mind only heard one thing, a waiter had to be experienced before coming here. Claudia''s father never mentioned her having any experience waiting before. He only mentioned that she wanted to start a new life. Till now, Jones imagined that this meant a completely new line of work. Jones would ask Luca later about the exact circumstance of her hiring.


    Thoughts on the case ran parallel to the conversation that Junkyard Jones was having with the shift manager still, "You are right I have never been a waiter, but I heard much from my sister. She used to work here. Did you know her? Her name was Claudia."


    "Yeah, I knew her. Real quiet gal. She worked lots of double shifts. When you have the gift of gab waiting tables becomes a lot easier honestly. I only ever heard her talk that way with the guests though. She was a bit too quiet for rest of the staff. We have very little turnover here and people like to know your weakness if you know what I am saying."


    Jones was getting a better understanding of the environment with each passing moment. The fellow waitstaff on duty where starting to give Brian less blank stares and say hello to him in passing. The shift manager offered his condolences, but was unable to stay any longer in the conversation as his work beckoned.


    It proved to be awhile until the next customer sat in Jones'' zone. The last customers that happened upon Jones'' zone were extraordinarily presumptive. Demands were given and Jones could barely hold it together without revealing his sense of frustration. Somehow none of his negative emotion was exposed despite how out of depth the P.I. was. Maybe the only time he really was in his depth that whole evening was when dealing with annoying customers who had complete control of a situation. A private eye''s clients often tend to figure that the gumshoe they are hiring to be someone willing to do anything for money. Somehow they must be told no and still feel like they are getting what they want.


    Tribulation with customers turned out to be rite of passage and Jones was welcomed into this little family of dining room attendants soon thereafter.


    It was midnight and Jones finally was able to reach the formal break room. During the work hours, the informal congregation of the workers was in a hall right near the kitchen. There was a discreet view available there that allowed for the waiters to keep an eye on the situation and still be out of direct reach. The balance was necessary to perform the job and to not go insane.


    Jones had been standing this whole time. The ache he felt at the beginning of the day had only become exacerbated during his six hour shift. Everyone looked so busy when passing by that Jones had hardly a chance to make deep conversation without the feeling of committing some cardinal sin among the waitstaff.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    His shift was over and he was soon supposed to head home, but now was the perfect time to snoop. He was surprised that quite a few of the workers still remained. He opened with an exclamation of his fatigue at his last customer.


    "How many times does a person need to see a menu before they finally can memorize its content?"


    A skinny middle aged man replied, "Once more than the amount of times you handed it to them that is for certain." The whole group laughed with much sympathy. This behavior from a customer was something that often gouged their patience. A rude customer could be tolerable when at the end of a shift, but in the middle of a busy period their attitude made life simply unbearable.


    "Hey, does anyone know the score of the Arlington game last night?"


    "Arlington 31 - Defenders 24"


    "Oh shoot."


    "Big football fan, ey?"


    "Just lost a bet. That darn bookie said it was a sure fire win."


    Jones had not really lost the bet ¨C he had won ¨C but sometimes one must lie to expose the weakness desired by others. Jones was in a discerning mood. He believed only slime really found it necessary to know a man''s weakness to trust them. Yet, he needed to placate all moral consideration through the practical need of this crowd to be comfortable with him ¨C and quick.


    One week at most was not very long for undercover work. They could have the rest of their lives to believe in everyone''s innate corruption. The only thing that Jones ought discern for now was him being properly embedded for the time being. He had shown the capability to behave in just as measured and fake a way as they. Jones did not really know whether he was better than the crowd.


    The veteran waiter took the initiative in inviting the flat foot to a small shin-ding. They all gathered in the a place in the woods near the mansion to have a drink after the day was through. There was no effective measure for Jones'' exhaustion at this point, but he felt the need to continue.


    Seven members of the waitstaff all walked to a camp fire just off of the parking lot. One of them even stopped at their car to gather a case full of beers. The Lake House, in all of its glory was visible from the spot. The front was as decadent as the dining hall if not two fold. The pine wood exterior had a decadence rarely experienced by the beach. All of the buildings there were made concrete, a material with no organic tale. Jones was quite alright with the formation of his story purely by his lonesome, he needed no aid from a domicile. Still, he respected the help of the trees. The Lake House was assured to last a hefty duration longer than his meager body.


    The sun had fully set by now, but one could not help but feel the glory of the world alight. The stars more than compensated for the absence of the sun tonight. The distance between nature and the civilized was so miniscule that one could not help feel amongst the beasts whilst enjoying  carefully designed landscape. If Jones had the money, this would be a resort that he would routinely patronize. Unfortunately for the case of the private eye, a guest room cost more than a fourth of his yearly income for a single night. He could still enjoy this night no matter the dour circumstance.


    For some reason he missed the sea right now. The ocean was always free. Jones wondered today the water reflected a shade of blue or green. He wondered whether the sky shone orange, purple, or yellow as the sun set some hours. There was something soothing about the waves in a time right now.  The sea always remained the same. The waves came in and the waves rode out. The beer entered in the same gullet that the inebriated words came out. Only Jones remained sober  in the little afterwork party. After all he was still on Gary Well''s clock. There was a murder to be solved.


    Most of the inquiries Jones made to Claudia''s co-workers had so far yielded no results. He could only hope that the alcohol would loosen lips some. It was, however, clear that no one knew much about Claudia in earnest. One could not pry information from a person truly unknowing. She was quiet and kept to herself. Her dedication to her work prevented her from socializing. Despite no one saying in direct terms, no one trusted her. One of the female waitstaff claimed that she close with her boss. That same woman swore she heard her swearing the name of Vincent de More a few days before her death.


    Jones pounced on this information,"Is this typical?"


    Another waiter responded as the female waitress was guzzling a beer, "We all have had to talk with de More. Vincent de More is in charge of our pay more than Luca. We are met with the same excuse of it not making fiscal sense for us to get raises. At least, Luca allows us to address us on a first name basis. He is a nice enough guy, but has no real power around here. de More is always such a stickler for the rules and such. Curse him."


    Jones empathized with the deceased here. Claudia was right to avoid the party. This social gathering was miserable and from what Jones understood it happened routinely. All the waitstaff were just drinking and complaining. These people had no eyes for the future. When not giving the brief nod to conversation, usually at the behest of Jones, they just looked at their drinks.


    The night was almost over and the female waitress did say one more thing interesting in regards to the case.


    "You know the only memory I have with your sister was when she needed help on table setting placement."


    "Is that strange for a new hire?"


    "Yes, very, well at least for here. Most people know the proper dimensions before they begin at The Lake House. Easily 150 years of waiting experience exists here between us. All of us have been working at this stupid job our entire lives. Well, not necessarily here, but still we are a guild of professional waiters!" she exclaimed, beginning to show visible signs of tipsiness.


    "Here, here!" they exclaimed with a great deal of pride.


    "She, your sister, definitely had not worked at this job before. I mean I have nothing against it. There are worse coworkers to have in this business. The experienced ones are sometimes better at stealing tips. I liked her. Really, I am sorry for your loss. And if you ever need help with setting the table just find me." She finished that last thought seductively with a grab at Jones'' arm. Jones was too shocked at the poor flirtation attempt to fully process the clue he had just been gifted. His earlier idea of her being a strange hire was now something to pursue with all due haste.

 ... at 1 a.m.

    Jones arrived at his motel at 1 a.m. Generally his rule was not to sleep during a serious case. This was a rule he felt forced to break due to his declining ability to think clearly. There was work tomorrow and could not afford to show up with too dark of circles under the eyes. A mental pause could prove a general investment in his mental acuity. There was still some shame in resting his eyes.


    Jones laid down on that uncomfortable motel bed once more. He began to feel a bit unsure that the rest would be refreshing in the slightest. He really needed to have a word with the bed''s designer. Jones began his general reflection before slipping into the relaxation of dream time. Thoughts were running through his mind at an uneasy pace. The day had been too long to appreciate every detail fully. He thought to himself that the possibility of missing something important was too great for his liking. .


    Jones tried to distract his mind by thinking of the most attractive waitress he had seen in the past few days. None at The Lake House were particularly provocative candidates. The P.I. was certain that the most beautiful of them all the waitresses he had interacted with was the one at that expensive diner, the one where he concluded his most recent divorce espionage case. Despite the appreciation of her form by his trained eye he had forgot her name already, Amelia was it maybe.


    Beyond the physical beauty, he was gaining a new appreciation of waiting that made conversation with her all the more enviable. Waiting was a job that he could not see himself doing forever, but maybe he could add it to the list of odd jobs he could pursue. He could add it to the rotation, after all is was certainly acceptable to stay only a couple of months there. At all costs, he had to avoid the misery evoked by the waiters at the party tonight.


    In regards to jobs, Jones needed to focus on Claudia and the circumstances surrounding her acquiring the position she had. Somehow she was hired without any experience prior. He thought her not to be incompetent and took the word of that other waitress in that Claudia was new to the trade. Given how three people had mentioned the strict expectation of experience, something here was suspect.


    Jones begun to wonder about the timeline of Claudia''s relationship with Luca. Luca had managed to hire Jones without much issue. The authority of Vincent de More was something that the private eye was yet to understand. He had seen no sight of the man despite the suggestion of the waitress that the man was thoroughly involved in the affairs of The Lake House.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    There was also the possibility of another player in her life. It was frustratingly unbeknownst to Jones whether she interacted with a whole other social sphere in her life. The doubt of the mystery of her life was eating away at his calmness. Jones tossed and turned trying to stop the thinking for a little. For a moment it was more his mind at unease than his body in that rotten bed. He could not help himself from thinking about the case. As a means to subconsciously clam himself down, Jones'' mind accused him of being just like her co-workers in needing to know a weakness to feel satisfied.


    The confrontational accusation did little to qualm the demand of his mind to know more. So far no clue helped to narrow down the killer. Her work was not the strongest of leads to begin with. The drugs might have been a lead if the streets were not flooded with heroine at the present moment. Even out here away from the bustle of the coastal cities, there was still likely to multiple dealers willing to sell and ask no questions.


    A new thought was coming into Jones'' head that paired well with the amount of time she spent at work. The police''s unwillingness to investigate might not have been caused by proximity to an obscene wealth. Sure those kinds of people were easily offended by unnatural death, but this sort of negligence was maybe the result of a push for the local authorities to close things quick. Interference was possibly a trail for Jones to follow if The Lake House lead were to peter out.


    The unexplained connection with the upper rings of The Lake House was intriguing to say the least. Jones wondered how powerful Luca was. The relationship he had with the waitstaff in contrast to Vincent de More could have been an act. A good manager and a bad manager could work together to retain order and still be informed to the ideas of the staff. Luca already demonstrated himself to be influential enough to subvert protocol slightly.


    Jones'' suspicion of Luca Hartmann was abated by one reason, he was aiding the investigation after everyone else had moved on. The distraught Luca conveyed was either real or the sophisticated act of a sociopath.


    Luca said that he disagreed with the hiring practices The Lake House employed. It could be that the hiring practice was all outside his purview and Claudia was just another case of a random hire sprung upon him.


    Having attempted to sleep for a good thirty minutes, Jones set the alarm for 5 a.m. The only productive thought was the need for a schedule. First, he needed to give a hopeful report to Gary Wells. The hope was not entirely untruthful. There was progress being made in that he certainly knew more at the end of the day than a the beginning. Following a brief correspondence with Gary Wells, Jones was then to meet Mr. Hartmann. After a talk with the, by now hopefully more collected, manager, Jones still had to work another shift.


    Dream time finally was able to silence all thought and Jones was asleep. No dreams were had and the rest was empty. His mind felt tired, but his body had to be ready for yet another day of work. Working two jobs was not for the faint of heart. Jones jokingly asked himself whether he would get paid for this work as a waiter. The tip the Texan had left was massive.


    Coffee would have to take upon the burden of waking his mind up tomorrow. If there was anything that could be called a dream within Jones'' mind that night, it was the feeling of that sweet relief coffee never failed to deliver.

 5 a.m. Arrived Too Early

    5 a.m. arrived too early for the private eye. Despite the sharp cry of the alarm, his brain still wished to be fast asleep. Only through pure mindless reflex was he able to find his way to the blasted motel coffee machine. Jones was a connoisseur of the beverage. Being mechanically inclined in conjunction with his passion motivated him to explore brewing his favorite beverage to the fullest. He had built his own coffee machine at home. He sorely missed the product of his ingenuity at that moment. The drink that was now pouring out of the motel coffee machine appeared to be coffee, but barely could be lumped into the same category of his home brew. Jones, admittedly, used an overly complex method to brew his coffee. Such a design did yield a superior quality in spite of the criticism of his one friend. This friend was of the mind that by making his own coffee taste so good, he was creating a standard unreplicable. The man had a point. Jones'' machine made this swill even more horrendous to bear the taste of.


    After the caffeine had a moment to take effect. Jones updated Claudia''s father on all of the important details he had uncovered so far. There was some hope of solving the case yet, but Jones was reticent to overplay his hand. For he knew that the world had a cruel way of playing out uncertain truths to those it meant the most to. The talk was over quickly as Gary urged Jones to get back to work, "Remember you are on my dime so don''t you dare dilly daddle." The boss of the whole operation said this with a hearty laugh and wished him luck in the endeavor. He ended the call with a thank you.


    This wish of luck was similar to the kind a demanding parent gave to their kid before a sports event. The luck here was to achieve the result that the hard work beforehand warranted. Jones knew that even the most strenuous of labor did not certainly yield anything without some luck.


    The Lake House''s courtesy office was to open at 11 a.m. Just before then was the time Mr. Hartmann arrived for the day. As arranged the day prior, he was supposed to meet with Luca before work began. Jones'' thoughts last night before he slept led him to believe a rescheduling was in order. Luca was to be surprised by how quick 11 a.m. would arrive. Jones'' objective was to transform 11:00 to 8:00. It was magic how something so set like time would change through the mere assertive suggestion that the clock was lying.


    The venue of the meeting would have to change as well. An office would not suffice in providing a venue conducive to Jones'' inquisitive intentions He had found Luca''s address in the yellow books quite easily and planned to leverage their relative privacy accordingly.


    Luca''s home was closer to one of the fancy shopping villages than Yeoville. The residence was only a single story tall. Jones was surprised at the overall modesty of the square footage given the salary Luca must earn in his position. Gilded candelabras at work to an executive ranch at night did not seem quite right. Managing a place as affluent as The Lake House must place one''s wealth into the upper stratosphere. Prior to seeing Luca''s home, Jones thought that this must be one of the few jobs in the world that would be worth killing for.


    Despite its compact size, the land Luca lived on must have been worth something given the magnanimity of the landscaping. The unimpressive dwelling was being paired with the king''s garden. Spring had pushed many flowers into bloom already. Jones was no horticulturist, but the landscape still managed to be appreciated by a man who usually had no time for flowers.


    Jones silently pulled into the driveway with his green muscle car. Luca was definitely at home still with his car still in driveway. Jones was in no mood to wait and hopped right out.


    Jones knocked and Luca opened the door with a completely distraught look. It quickly became apparent that the look was less from the sudden appearance of Jones and more from the ongoing collapse of Luca''s mind. The Lake House''s general manager was unable to offer the resistance necessary to make this planned interrogation at least mildly interesting. Jones had no stomach for beating on the weak. To portray the disheveled look in its full form, the youthful manager reeked of alcohol. One would expect the scene more from a freshman recovering from a hangover rather than a man who outwardly appeared to have all of his ducks in a row. The million dollar house was paired with an interior worth little more than zilch.


    Jones exclaimed "Since when has this place looked so decrepit? Hire some cleaners."


    Luca was instantly apologetic for the state of his home, yet he made no attempt to fix things. One could not fix a calamity in a minute, but he could have at least given an effort. No matter how ineffectual it would have been. Luca sat down on a couch half littered with worn clothes and gazed upwards, "A week. I have been enjoying living in squalor."


    Jones stayed standing. There was nowhere for him to go. The seat Luca had taken for himself was the only place for rest in the whole of the living room. Even so, trash was piling at the edge of the couch seat.


    Jones'' initial plans of an intense questioning on the circumstances of Claudia''s hiring was collapsing. He knew that he could not pursue the matter so aggressively lest he risk breaking the man''s spirit entirely.


    "Who hired her?" asked Jones as neutrally as he could.


    "What do you mean? I hired her of course." replied Luca with a mark of confusion.


    "Without any correspondence or undue influence?" clarified Jones.


    "Yeah, I usually have a say on all hires. That is if they meet the prerequisites. No one else was involved with Claudia. My boss and the owner''s son were both out of town. I did not feel like informing them about it. Why?"


    "Can you explain to me why you hired her with no prior experience then?"


    "Oh. Well I was upset with having to always go with the overqualified. Their wages are much higher than someone new. They only really come here for the money. We are hemorrhaging profits enough through an overinflated wage bill. Vincent refuses to change. Success is not just prestige to me. But, like I said everyone else was out of town so for Claudia I thought it better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. If she was interviewed two days later, she would not have gotten the job"


    "I see." Jones was ready to admit on what he thought was a promising lead. Luca appeared to be telling the truth once more. Truthfully, Jones had hoped for a more revealing answer than this. He hoped for the answer to reveal some sort of murder-worthy intrigue. Instead, he was up another dead end.


    The only thing he could do to possibly check whether Luca was telling the truth was breaking into the HR office. There also might be something of note in her file regardless. Hopefully the file had not already been thrown out.


    "Where does that leave us then?" Luca chimed in, interrupting Jones'' deliberation on what to do next. If Jones was being honest with himself, he would realize that he was almost out of avenues to explore. The direction of the case towards Claudia''s work appeared so singular that either Luca was not telling the truth or he knew more than he was letting on. Further, the disappointment in Jones'' work yesterday failing to reveal anything compounded the private eye''s confusion on where to go next.


    Jones'' thoughts turned to The sty he had led his apartment become indicated some sort of guilt about something. He did not seem like the murdering type nor did it look like she could even imagine how one would administer heroin.


    Jones returned to the conversation after moving some clothes and take-out food containers. After a bit of effort, he was pleasantly surprised to discover there was still a seat on the reclining chair. The seat was comfy enough under all of that mess, especially to a sore Jones. The bed he had slept on still remained on his mind.


    "Not much peculiar seems to be going on where she worked. I found out she did not say much to her co-workers. I probably talked to them more last night than she ever did. Were there any changes in her behavior over the past few months I should know about?


    "Yeah there was."


    "Go on." said Jones, now confused why he had not mentioned such a detail earlier. Luca was never asked by Jones about Claudia''s behavior before directly, but still the P.I. could hardly believe his ears. An important detail was being held from him. Jones was visibly upset.


    Luca began to explain what he meant by a change, "She became obsessed with money. Right after Claudia had a visit with her father she shifted her focus in life.  First, she started to pinch pennies. She even began to sell what little was in her apartment. At some point you can only have so little right?"


    "Pinching pennies? Most people her age save their money. Most do not buy expensive bottles of liquor." The single malt scotch on the coffee table in front of Luca cost 200 dollars easily.


    "Sure, most do. I do not need to live so frugally." Luca realized the boast about his wealth was in  poor in taste. He returned to the topic of Claudia,


    "I noticed it when she dropped her tip at Drake''s from 20 to 15 percent for the first time. I made fun of her about that afterwards. The girl who would always get upset with me before about how much I tip turned into quite the stingy lady indeed. It was a playful teasing. 15 percent is not that bad of an amount. Even so, she refused to divulge why it was 15 percent this time. I thought then she couldn''t bear to criticize the wait staff, but they had done something  A week later she asked if there was any extra money making opportunities for her. I was her boss I could arrange a raise for her easily seeing as no one knew that we were dating and her performances dually justified her more. She refused my offer. She asked again the next week if I had heard anything she could do to bring in more, but when I said I had not heard anything again she stopped asking altogether."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "What lack of thought possessed you to not mention any of this earlier?"


    "I don''t know man. It was all so innocuous to me." Luca''s youthful na?vity was beginning to shine through.


    "I get you are trying to find her killer, but people looking for extra money is not that much of note to me. I thought she was just becoming a reasonable adult" Luca had finally finished polishing off the bottle and took out a cigarette. He did not seem to be an experienced smoker. The taste of his first drag made him cough. It took him a few tries to get to the light on, but still seemed relieved with the exhale."


    Jones could just wait for the man to finish. He was beginning to question the Luca''s purpose in this all if he were not the killer.


    "No it is not normally something to be too concerned about, but people are not normally killed. People normally live normal lives. But, there is nothing normal about this. People do not get killed everyday. We have to tear apart her life no matter how hard it may be for you. Her father can only rely on us two for now."


    Luca took a single puff more on his cigarette before a knock on the door was heard by both men.


    "Who could that be at this hour?" asked Luca as if Jones had any way of knowing. Jones took it upon himself to open the door as Luca was in no condition to perform any social interaction.


    On the other side of the door stood a police man, maybe 6 foot tall. His profession was clear enough by the noir style trench coat. If there was any worry about impersonation, the pistol visible through the peephole being nestled safely in a standard issue police holster sealed the deal. After introducing himself as Lieutenant Lovemarine, the peace officers made his way through the door. Despite normal police protocol, he told the two men visible from the door that he was alone.


    After making his way into the living room, Lovemarine became alarmed at the state of the home. "Are we sure the murder did not occur here?" he stated with a chuckle. If the murder indeed had taken place here, the smell would not have been able to break through the reeking trash laden about.


    "Whose murder?" retorted Jones, not willing to submit to any humor just yet. Investigating a murder without the police''s knowledge could rub the local authorities the wrong way. Regardless, a police officer showing up unannounced was never a good sign. The detective being without a partner was a positive sign.


    "Claudia Wells. You already visited her apartment so I thought you would know." Lovemarine simply waited for Jones to answer the accusation. It was too apparent to Jones that the detective hoped to manipulate the private eye into revealing his hand bare. Breaking the law was a good way for a police man to obtain leverage over a situation, even if Lovemarine''s visit was not strictly sanctioned by the department.


    Luca was too zonked to assess the situation properly. From his demeanor, it was clear that Luca had been drinking all night long.  The manager was only a reluctant witness to the brief interrogation of the private eye. Attention would later return to the man increasingly becoming less capable of sitting up straight.


    Jones initially did not know what to make of Lovemarine''s intentions and decided to release the truth into the air.


    "I let myself in to investigate her death. I was hired by the father of the victim so the breaking and entering won''t stick."


    Lovemarine''s chuckle returned, "Don''t be so defensive, mister?"


    "Jones, private eye down near the emerald beach." He too showed the detective his license. It was a quick flash of the license, but Lovemarine did not protest at what could have been a sleight of hand.


    "So you are investigating her death and that has brought you into cahoots with this esteemed gentleman." beckoned the detective for an introduction of the man on the couch.


    "The esteemed gentleman is the boyfriend of the deceased, Luca Hartmann ¨C general manager of the place she worked, The Lake House." Jones thought to mention the country club''s name in case the detective was fresh to the case. The detective would quickly disprove any worry Jones had of needing to bring him up to date on the details. A partnership was to be formed from the pair''s mutual interest in solving the murder case.


    Lovemarine''s observation of Luca''s esteem was meant here with severe irony. Reputation and position suggested a man with his life together. Whatever shakiness that had begun to appear the day prior was now exposed to the core. To all but the blind and deaf Luca exuded no composure. If the lack of clear form in voice and posture could somehow be excused, it was deniable that any man with esteem would never let his house become so tainted.


    "And why did this boyfriend not come to aid in settling the final affairs of Claudia Wells? Do you not feel a little responsible for caring for her after death?" asked the detective with the intent of completely unraveling the man.


    Luca gathered himself as best he could and explained, "I thought she killed herself and could not deal with admitting she was gone." The bit about responsibility was completely ignored by Luca. He obviously felt that the accusation was beneath him. Jones thought to himself that either Luca was a good actor or felt himself to be earnest enough to not entertain the possibility of misdeed. The detective clearly thought it still possible the man was feigning patheticness.


    Lovemarine, a man who appeared in the doorframe to be at least semi-jovial, had fully turned harsh. The pointed question about inaction was superceded in judgment through the revealing the detective''s thoughts on the Luca''s behavior, "That is a bit pathetic for a grown man, don''t you think? It is clear that only two of us in this room are taking it seriously that she was murdered. In fact, we might be the only two people in the world who actually care for the her after death.  Well, three including the father who identified the body and now has to bury his daughter alone. Thinking that no one who knew her cared, well maybe he was right?"


    Lovemarine was goading the man while he was down, a common tactic employed by veteran police officers to achieve the desired result. That result was to penetrate the core of a man to reveal the entirety of their personality. One risked shattering a meek person completely, but Lovemarine did not seem to mind. Jones and Detective Lovemarine seemed to be of the same opinion here that Luca could not be the culprit. Provocation was the manner through which the hypothesis was to be tested.


    Jones knew of the tactic. It matched the age of the gray haired detective. The provocation was so harsh that Jones was unsure of whether this was an attempt to bring out the aggression necessary to murder or to bring Luca to tears. Luca could muster neither. He just looked down knowing to mimic indifference would be a lie. However, to appear indifferent was the only way he could not make the situation about himself.


    Not even an angel could not make eye contact with the man. There was no winning answer. No response would bring his side into the right and Lovemarine into the wrong. His soul could only assert itself to be real. Everything else around the man morphed into blurry insignificance. Even if Luca''s eyes were physically in position to make contact with the outside world, the necessary will of the soul was lacking.


    While Lovemarine stood there still near the door with this hand rubbing the stubble of his beard, Jones decided to intervene. He could not bear to witness Luca Hartmann''s spiritual death for any longer. His uncomfortability gave Jones the proper excuse to ask a question to to the older detective.  "How did you know that I was in her apartment?"`


    Detective Lovemarine, proud of his police work, explained his knowledge of Jones'' intrusion and his actions afterwards thoroughly, "the neighbor who originally phoned the police said that he saw a man pick the lock into her place through his peephole. Murder makes people a bit more paranoid of their surroundings it turns out. He further added that this strange man had gotten into a green muscle car of some sorts. His inability to identify a Ford from a Chevy was a severe hinderance, but I spent the entirety of yesterday and this morning in town looking for you. I guess I got lucky by seeing you leave that motel."


    The detailed response gave Jones cause to ask two more questions, questions that were more pertinent to finding the killer, "What led you to believe that I was still in town and why do you suspect she was killed?"


    "I didn''t know you were here still. For all I knew you were the killer visiting the scene of the crime ¨C quite a few sickos return to the scene of the crime. I guess looking for that phantom green car is also infinitely more appealing than sitting around the police station. Knowing a killer is on the loose and inaction is one of the worst feelings in the world." Lovemarine paused to give a side eyed glance to Luca.


    "I know she was murdered because she would never have spent that much money on heroin when nothing in her house was worth more than a few dollars. The absence of objects are often more informative than the objects themselves." Jones did not ask for investigative lesson, but Lovemarine was proud of the wisdom he managed to impart. The detective tapped on his temple and resumed.


    "Well all was so cheap in that apartment, mind that picture frame. It appeared to be a genuine article of value. I wish I collected antiques at that moment. My wife would benefit from a more beautiful home. Nevertheless, the exception proves the rule. She was a cheapskate and not buying expensive heroin."


    Luca woke up from his inebriation for a brief moment of clarity, "what picture frame are you talking about?" Jones knew exactly what the detective was talking about and exclaimed  "the one that contained the picture of Claudia with a surfboard. It had the weight and design of an antique, the one with the flower pattern on the top."


    The depressed manager responded confused, "Please stop yanking a down man around. There is no need to lie to me. I saw that picture of her with a surfboard once, but it was never in a picture frame. She kept it in the cabinet with all of her clothes. I asked her about it once. I wondered who had taken the picture. She looked so happy in it. I remember that clearly. "


    Lovemarine interrupted the manager''s dragging on thoughts on with another question, "When were you there last?"  Luca replied, "Exactly a week before her death." Luca was half of the mind to add why they were meeting, but for once he had guessed correctly that neither Jones nor Lovemarine were particularly interested in that moment. Monday was date night for the two.


    With the interruption to his sunken rumination, Hartmann was beginning to realize that his importance to Claudia''s life was gradually slipping away. Either he was to help her now or he was never able to again. Reality was gradually coming graspable to him once more.


    Still, Luca did not say a word as Jones'' and Lovemarine''s began to discuss their confusion. The sudden arrival of such a prized possession was a clue they could grasp onto. Figuring out who owned that frame previously could be a trail right to the killer. The frame was certainly a better clue than the nothing Jones had at the beginning of the day. It did not take Lovemarine''s investigative expertise to know that money was the most common of motives. The question was could a frame hold so much value that cover-up murder costing a few bags of heroin be tenable.


    Jones'' contributed further to the discussion  by adding Claudia''s recent uptick in frugality. Lovemarine posted that the frame could have been a gift from a rich suitor. A suitor that Claudia went after in the search for more money. Luca was indignant at the idea. He believed her to always love him, "even now in heaven."


    Jones then suggested that Claudia may have viewed the frame as an investment. Lovemarine was not convinced, "if that were the case then why would she have put her own picture in the frame. Would it not have been a valuable safer hidden? There was always a chance the frame was stolen. A man rich enough to afford expensive photo frames could be one disturbed enough to kill. That being said not many people in the world were deranged to kill over a frame worth at most half a thousand dollars."


    If it was not a faux antique, as Jones had half suspected, the genuine that frame must have been worth a hefty sum given the quality of craftmanship. Lovemarine''s estimation did not account for sentimental or historical value.


    "There were only a few places that would deal with such valuable antiques in the lake regions." was a fact that Lovemarine, as a local, was able to offer. Perhaps, this was the first time that Jones was glad that the murder had occurred here and not near the beach. Investigating stolen valuables was such an unenviable task that he would not take the case. A client could come perfectly well behaved to the private eye and still the amount of places the valuable could possibly be led Jones to more often than not pass on the opportunity.


    The detective was the quickest of the two to suggest a change in scenery. "Let''s go back to the scene of the crime and make sure Mr. Hartmann is correct about not seeing the frame before."


    At the behest of the detective, all three men travelled to Claudia''s apartment. Also they were to hop into Lovemarine''s car. Without saying as much, Lovemarine meant to establish that he was in charge henceforth. Perhaps out of worry that the implication of giving orders was not enough for the drunk Mr. Hartmann to comprehend, he would make it explicit on the drive that he was to lead the investigation.


    The drive did not last long, but no one said a word after Lovemarine established the power dynamic. Luca was still distraught. Lovemarine''s remarks did not help his willingness to speak in the slightest. Still, authority was somewhat sobering to the general manager as his posture in the car demonstrated marked improvement.


    Jones knew better than to talk with or around cops when not necessary. At this stage, unless Lovemarine spoke to him he was determined to remain silent. The homicide detective could still railroad him with a breaking and entering. Any hope of having a vacation after this would be thoroughly dashed if he were to make an enemy of the man. All he could do was go along and get out quickly. There was little more to do than hope that Lovemarine had the best intentions in his heart. Nothing pointed to the detective being corrupt, but Jones'' exhaustion was starting to induce a degree of paranoia that he could just not shake.

 At Around 9:00 a.m.

    At around 9:00 a.m., the three men arrived at Claudia Wells¡¯ apartment. Jones and Lovemarine jostled to enter first, their competitive streaks surfacing simply because neither collaborated well with others. Luca, as usual, trailed behind. The fading connection with Claudia had given him just enough resolve to tag along, though not enough to take the lead.


    The presence of dust had only grown in the past day. Where once it was the top of the hanging cabinets, now the handles were too turning gray. The lack of living within the residence was making itself visibly more apparent. The passage of time since the murder was no longer an observation reserved for the vigilant, but could now be considered plain for all those except the unattentive.


    A dismay unspeakable occurred. No scream of terror was let out, despite the emotion being there. The only reason they remained silent was that it was neither in the nature of Lovemarine nor Jones to let out any such harsh cry. The picture frame was missing. If it were possible to motivate Jones to audible anguish over the disappearance of an object, it would have happened then and there.


    As clear as day the counter lay bare. Jones and Lovemarine were frozen in shock. Almost cognizing the detail in unison, they first wondered if they had misremembered. As soon as the possible dissonant memories resolved themselves to the version of reality, they fully realized that the frame once on the counter was not a figment of their imagination. Luca was ever the oblivious character and ran into the back of Jones.


    "Someone took it," exclaimed Jones with extreme frustration. Something so key to the case was stolen right under the nose of both the detective and the private eye.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Who could have took it?" where once Luca excelled now was the time for the private eye to ask a question no one in this room had an answer to. The two active minds within the room gave each other a look. No words were needed to admit to the disaster that had just befallen them.


    Lovemarine, who was now discernibly more calm than Jones, proposed an answer in the guise of a guess, but it ultimately did provide to be a very reasonable solution to the mystery, "...the killer took it."


    Jones was swayed, but not entirely convinced, "why would the killer come back to the scene of the crime when he could have taken it during the murder?"


    Lovemarine rubbed his temples, "The frame contained some sort of clue, but, perhaps the killer thought that an attentive boyfriend had laid eyes on it. If the frame was discovered missing when the body was found, then the police would have investigated this crime as a murder and not as an overdose. At the very least we would have known that someone was present the night the murder occurred."


    The two sleuths performed a thorough search of the apartment once more. With such reckless abandon they tore the place apart, only ensuring that whatever they took apart could be resemble once more. There was now no satisfaction from a cursory glance at the important details at this stage in the proceedings.. Eventually, Jones arrived to the sofa. He asked the detective if he had noticed the upside down sofa seat on the first go through. Lovemarine had a vague recollection of what he was talking about, but none of the initial search party had bothered to search. One could hardly call the piece of paper Jones discovered a clue. If not for the weird position of the paper, it meant nothing at all.


    "A jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one," prompted by the query Lovemarine now read the paper aloud.


    Jones preferred Claudia''s version than the maxim often used by others. He was not a world expert in any one field, most people were not. A breadth of knowledge made life one''s own and not an act of moving between dependences to survive the day. The private eye wondered what had caused her to write this. All he could imagine was that a life obsessed with work had taken already taken a toll on the hope of a future with a breadth of experiences. Jones'' deliberation of the saying provided him the necessary calm to not rip the apartment completely apart.

 10 a.m. Arrived

    10 a.m. arrived and the renewed search did not yield anything at all. There were no new clues to work with. Jones began to fear that his own investigative abilities were deficient. The paranoia was rearing its ugly head once more. He was no longer certain that he could call it paranoia. The intrusion of the negative was something that he could not tolerate.


    Whether one wants to call it adrenaline or a fear of failure, the world certainly became once more alive. The coffee they were about to enjoy at a local diner for once would have no effect on Jones. One cannot truly wake up twice. The true aim was to bring Luca to a state of alert in the hope he could return to work. Jones had by now divulged the nature of his undercover work to Lovemarine. The detective was eager for Jones to get back to The Lake House despite the wall that was hit yesterday.


    Luca could aid in maintaining the cover for awhile longer. Lovemarine forced him to drink two whole cups and a glass of water, but all of this effort was to no avail.


    Lovemarine and Jones were meanwhile plotting their next move. A thin trust was beginning to develop between the two. Mutual ambition necessitated, at the very least, willing cooperation. Only through viewing Lovermarine''s orders as beneficial suggestions was Jones able to stomach command.


    Jones still questioned the reason behind Lovemarine''s departure from particle. Police travelled in pairs of two, if not more. Accordingly, Jones wanted to know more about the police''s actions. "Why did they stop their investigation so quickly? The statewide report transmitted to Crystal City said that only three hours had passed since they declared this to be an accident."


    Lovemarine replied in an ashamed voice, "Someone on the force had made the tourism board aware of the death within an hour. A call was then made to the chief of police about how a prolonged investigation might affect our overall economy. The case was over before all of the wonderful holidayers were even awake to scoff at a death in their proximity."


    Jones inquired further, "who is on the tourism board?"


    "The owner of The Lake House, and, by proxy, her son, among some other people from the area. Most of them are irrelevant in the greater scheme of things, mere pawns to the de More family. It is nominally just an arm of The Lake House used to keep competition down." Lovemarine let loose a devious smirk in the direction of Mr. Hartmann. Jones could only assume that the detective felt great ire towards the establishment long predating the case. The assumption was more accurate than Jones could have guessed. Lovemarine had been holding back his ill feelings toward the country club for a long time. No situation had yet presented itself to be couth to bash the establishment. Lovemarine had long held the country club as a homogenizing agent of the area. To others, the Lake House was viewed as the culmination of the history of the lake regions in its entirety. All else that had transpired was a mere footnote to the resort. He would have been more vocal about the decline of the region''s manifold sources of outside interest, but as long as he had a police man professionalism was demanded from him.


    Luca was defenseless to the attacks upon the establishment . His mind was clearly entering a brutal hangover. All the energy he could muster went to an interjection of disapproval. Not towards The Lake House itself, but he wished for no one to speak ill of Vincent de More.


    Jones replied to the demand asking him what the hang up was on critiquing him. The Lake House was just a place of employment. Vincent de More was merely his boss.


    Luca told him the circumstance of his hiring and his loyalty to the man. Mr. Hartmann came from a poor family located in some nameless town in the midwest. Vince, as he was now being referred to as, had given him a chance in life. Vince, being the son of the matriarch of the de More family, wanted to form his own regime. When Vince offered him the job, Luca dropped out of university immediately. "If the tourism board is what is necessary to protect the establishment, then so be it. I shall defend the honor of The Lake House with my life." Luca pointed his finger upwards as if a supporting crowd was in attendance. The call to cheer was met with silence.


    The waitress interrupted Luca''s speech to ask if the gentleman wanted any more coffee. The incoherent ranting Luca''s position was devolving to had led Lovemarine to realize that it was time to call it quits on trying on sobering him up. The detective told her no more and that their time here was near completion. Lovemarine requested the check to come at once.


    Before leaving the establishment, the detective told Jones of the plan he had concocted while listening to Luca''s rambling. Lovemarine was to sit on Luca while investigating what antique stores might have sold the picture frame. Jones on the other hand was to go to work again as Brian Wells. Brian Wells was then to strike up conversation with Vincent de More somehow. Lovemarine would leave the details on how to accomplish the mission up to Jones as truthfully he had little idea how it all could possibly be accomplished. Vincent de More''s coincidental return to the lake regions with the reappearance of the killer was very noteworthy indeed. Further, Vincent de More being the person who more than certainly pressured the police to close the initial case was a detail that now required investigating.


    Jones pulled into The Lake House employee lot at a quarter before 11:00. Lovemarine had made the executive decision that Luca would be unable to go to work today. He knew too much about the investigation and was not fully capable of understanding the gravitas of the secret identity of Brian Wells. Jones knew that the Lovemarine''s command was the right course of action once more.


    Jones'' shift was to begin with lunch, but his shift manager intervened. Apparently Luca had not completed the proper paperwork to officially hire the private eye. With him now forced to call in sick by Lovemarine, he needed to meet with a clerk. Jones gave a phony social security number to the clerk and knew that by the time it was processed the next day the ruse would be over. The clock was now officially on until his identity was revealed.


    Stepping out of the office brought about a sense of dread. The relative anonymity that Jones had been so far enjoying was coming to an end. Rather than report to his shift manager once more, he decided to speak Vincent de More with all do haste.


    Getting from the clerk''s office to de More''s office was quite the journey. Any man attempting to not remain covert would have been foolish to not request a map. Only through the loud conversation of a co-worker the night before did Jones know that the office was nestled in the residential wing of the complex.


    While the hotel section only carried passing through members, there too was the option of an extended stay. Each apartment in the residential section was beyond luxury. Only the princes of the world and the tycoons of tycoons were permitted to stay at the country club''s most exclusive offering.


    Adding to the difficulty of getting to Vincent without the use of a police badge was the attendant that Jones had spotted. The man was blocking off the residential wing from all those who were not supposed to be there.


    Jones had almost gotten caught when approaching the entrance to the wing. At first he did not notice the responsibility of the guard. A few steps before him a guest had gotten lost and was quickly turned away from the section he had no business in. Jones thought to himself that there was very little chance the attendant would leave his post for any trivial matter. Too large of a distraction would cause more harm than gain. He needed to find an enviable balance and quick.


    Either Jones would have to find Vincent de More somewhere else on the campus or he would have to get rid of this guard somehow. Luckily for Gary Wells, justice, and for gambling halls, Jones was adept at diverting people''s attention.


    Luckily for Jones he was in full uniform. Initial suspicion was the most difficult to overcome. The attendant ought trust that his purpose was true when he laid down the details to his story.


    "Hey there, I am just bringing word that one of our new hires is bringing a room service order to the residential wing and needs help finding the right place. Can you help him with that?"


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "No problem, when he gets here I can direct him to the right place."


    Jones did not say another word. It was not yet necessary. A full two awkward minutes passed before Jones asked aloud, "where is this guy? This was a rush order."


    The attendant seemed to understand well enough that Jones was implying that he got lost with the cart full of food. "Shall we go find him?"


    Jones let out a begrudging sigh, "alright." Eagerness was the wrong emotion to display here. Internally, the private eye was ecstatic at how lucky he was. If the attendant did not suggest himself to leave his post, there could have been great trouble in the suggestion that the man abandon his duty.


    The two split up to cover more ground at the behest of Jones. Jones doubled back as soon as he was certain that the attendant had turned the corner towards the kitchen. He entered the residential wing with no more issue. All that was left was to find de More''s office. Jones knew he needed to find it quickly. There was no time to appreciate the ornate wallpaper. By now the attendant had probably discovered the ruse and was alerting security.


    Despite no time to thoroughly gawk, Jones still caught the wallpaper in his periphery. The design and quality looked like it would cost more than Jones'' Junkyard mobile home by a few degrees. A disparity in value ever increasing with the longer the wing ran on. Even at a blur, there was something dreadfully reminiscent of the design.


    Any fear of not being able to locate the office quickly dissipated with Jones spotting the prominently labeled door. On top of a handcrafted panel door was a brass sign reading "de More." "Bingo," said Jones aloud for no one to hear. All other apartments that he passed by had such regular doors in comparison. There was no intricate carving on them and the residents were only deemed worthy of a number.


    Jones knocked twice, but no one came to the door. It was a risky move to announce his presence, but de More opening the door was advantageous to the P.I. Breaking the lock with de More in the room would assuredly clam him up immediately.


    There was no answer to Jones'' non-verbal request for someone to open the door. Picking the lock was extremely easy once more. Jones knew the lock model. The security here had not been updated in maybe 30 years. It was a brand that concentrated on a pleasing aesthetic over sincere attempt to stop a criminal. With full time security on the premise, the decision made sense. The company who made these locks has long since gone out of business. There just are not so many places in the world that were so upscale to demand designer locks.


    The office itself was lit well through natural light, but Jones quickly had to forgo the sun''s illumination. He closed the curtains to prevent any prying eyes from the lawn just outside the office. He began to search the office-apartment mix as thoroughly as he had Claudia''s apartment only a few hours prior.


    It was clear that the primary function of this residence was work. The bed in the side room did not even have the sheets on. Artwork adorned the walls thoroughly. The names on the paintings were common sights in the wealthiest of museums. Their reputation was thoroughly earned. The impressionism, that Vincent de More was clearly a fan of given its prevalence, provided quite an exhilarating sense to Jones even if only being viewed with a flashlight.


    Not much else of note was found around the office. All that was left to look through was the bureau. The solid wood desk must have weighed a ton if a pound. There were too many drawers and too many papers to look through, but Jones owed it to Claudia to at least begin.


    Luckily for the private eye, most of the papers in the desk were bills, as was expected from a man in Vincent de More''s position. Beyond the financial statements and bills,  all that Jones could find were a few letters from correspondence with this mother.


    The letter on top of the pile was something de More had yet to send:


    "Dear Mother,


    I have recently come upon some trouble. I know you are going through a difficult time with father. I will not burden you with the details, but rest assured everything will get resolved in due time. Your castle you have left me to care for is the most dear thing in my life. Well the most dear thing besides you. I am certain things with father will work out for the best. Sorry to keep this message short. There is not much to say. Perhaps, it is better for me to visit you. You know I will do just that. You will not read this message ok. I have some final things to take care of and then I will fly to your home.


    Best,


    You know who"


    Jones found the letter to be the most interesting item in the whole of the office. Beyond the penmanship being exquisite, everything else here could be described as tools of the job; a fancy pen, a checking book, and bills all were not out of their expected place. Vincent de More''s love for his mother was.


    Generally, there is some shame in breaking into a man''s private life, but Jones felt that he had earned the right. Vincent de More was quickly emerging as a suspect in the case. While all evidence being circumstantial, alignment of many clues towards the scion made Jones eager to interrogate the man.


    As confirmed by the hands of priceless grandfather clock near the door, five minutes passed since the conclusion of the search and Vincent de More stepping through the door. He flicked the light switch on while holding a paper bag of food in his hand.


    Jones sat there in his desk chair facing towards the door. Vincent''s reaction was of complete shock. His eyes opened as wide as possible, perhaps, to check if he was experiencing delusion somehow. Jones had the sense that Vincent de More''s privacy had never been disturbed so much in his life.


    "Who are you?" de More demanded an answer from the intruder. Jones opted to remain undercover.


    "My name is Brian Wells. The brother of one of your recently deceased employees Claudia Wells." replied Jones with an equally sharp tone. His transgressions needed to be explained should he hope to get anything out of this conversation. No matter the na?vity of the person rarely was information willingly given to someone viewed as a criminal.


    "What brings you here Mr. Wells?"


    "Well I have attempted to reach you for a while now. The front desk said you were out of town, but I hardly believed that. Here I am and you show up. Quite the shock, huh?" Jones had managed to get de More on the defensive. "I just returned from a visit to some family."


    "No matter. Now I am here and you are too. You have a question for you to answer. Why did you demand the police close the investigation into my sister''s death?"


    "The chief notified me that an employee of mine had died. He said he was certain that it was a drug overdose and did not suspect any foul play. I do not like bad press around my establishment so I requested that the case be closed as soon as it was responsible to do."


    Jones gave a stare indicative of extreme dissatisfaction. Again this was a guess that de More knew more than he was let on. The guess was well reasoned and not complete chance. Shutting down a murder investigation due to bad publicity might suffice in a courtroom as reasonable doubt, but Jones was unsatisfied. The scion crumbled quickly from the intensity. No business meeting ever carried the threat of physical violence. Jones looked ready to snap.


    "Okay look I know it may be hard to believe, but in all earnest I did it for the bad press. I feel bad about your sister. She died of an overdose and if I were not certain of that. I never would have given that input to the police chief. Please understand me." Vincent de More ended with a plea for non-violence. Jones had no reason to hurt the man, but de More did not need to know that.


    "How did you know how she died?"


    What was more telling than the response was the look that conquered de More''s face. Jones saw an unmistakable look of abject fear. A man who never had his freedom restricted before was facing a realistic possibility of losing the capability of a self-determined life. The luxury of such a life was something Vincent de More appreciated fully.


    "I will ask you a better question Brian. How do you know that she did not die from a drug overdose? The police told me that it was drugs that killed her and I believed them. You should believe them to. What you have done so far can be excused as the irrationality of a bereaved brother, but further transgressions against my privacy will not be tolerated." Vincent was trying to establish himself to be in a position of authority. His voice failed to reach the distinction of the British Lord he was dearly trying to replicate. He rather sounded impotent, a shook man was attempting to order a weary soldier. Even in the best of circumstances, authority was never well received by Junkyard Jones. A man suspected of murder had little chance of successfully coercing Jones'' actions to anything besides what the private eye desired.


    "She was forced to take the drugs. Do not play coy with me boy. You stopped the investigation before it had played out. For whatever intention you decided to intervene it must be said that you have blood on your hands. I have to question what the real reason is why. I already heard it was for the reputation of the area. I do not believe that." replied Jones.


    "Do not break into my office and make demands on how I answer your questions. What exactly are you accusing me?" Jones had gone too far with his admonishment and de More stopped  providing information. The only demand he reasonably implied was an honest response. de More slipping in his wordage was enough to confirm Jones'' growing suspicions. Jones now held the ambition of proving Vincent de More murdered Claudia Wells.


    de More being unwilling to conversate more was bound to happen eventually, but Jones was certain that he went too hard too quick.


    Jones stood up from the desk chair with much and walked to the door to leave. His initial burst of energy to ascend from his seat startled Vincent de More. Without looking behind him, Jones gave a sarcastic wave to Vincent. He left, but not without leaving the last words of the encounter, "Your chair is very comfortable. Thank you for the talk. We will see each other again. I am sure of it."


    The threat was meant to further throw Vincent de More off kilter. If abrupt movement was enough to throw the man, a little more applied pressure may be able to set him off completely.


    If de More believed that the intention of Brian Wells was strictly to find justice through the courts, it would be of benefit for him to be quiet. However, if the standard of evidence being considered was the amount for blackmail, Jones believed he could fool Vincent into playing the part of a criminal with much less resistance.


    Walking back to the attendant''s post to leave the establishment, Jones now had ample time to look at the wall paper he had hastily walked past earlier. The reminiscent design now became clear as to where he had seen it before. The picture frame''s carved flower pattern matched with exactly with the wallpaper.


    He needed to get to Lovemarine quickly and report his findings. Jones knew the detective suspected Vincent as well. That much was transparent from the second Luca Hartmann started to defend the owner''s son. Jones still had no idea who exactly the owner was. He remembered something from the newspaper clipping, but needed the perspective of a socialite expert. The name of Beatrice de More did not anything without knowing her accomplishments in life.


    Security laid in wait at the entrance to the residential wing. Jones explained that he was to leave and that if Mr. de More decided to press charges that he could find him at Claudia''s address. This was generally not the proper procedure to a trespass, but Jones acted with enough authority that neither the attendant nor the called guard were willing to do anything.


    Jones had made it to his car with no further impediment. The only thing he could think to do was drive to Luca''s home once more and talk with Lovemarine about who he was now willing to allege was the killer.

 12:30 p.m.

    12:30 pm asserted the clock of the 1970 GTO. Jones found slight distraction in how out of place his car was in the lot. Not a single car here was not a luxury brand. It could be reasonably assumed that the entry luxury vehicles belonged to the wait staff, but still by any stretch of the imagination all who worked here were doing alright for themselves.


    Last night was too dark last night to take account of his surroundings. Most of the employees had already left by then. Jones wondered how the rest of the people he met last night were getting on with their work. He still did not particularly care for them, but he wondered if today felt the same to them as yesterday.


    Jones left the premises of The Lake House for Luca''s home. Little attention was paid to the speed limit. The private eye was too upset with himself to pay much attention to the law. He was, however, careful of getting caught by the odd policemen in town.


    The door was open and Jones let himself into the abode. It was looking a bit cleaner than when Jones had left before. Lovemarine was happy about the progress the now sleeping Luca Hartmann had made in cleaning his house so far.


    "I can now confirm that a murder has not occurred here." He said with a chuckle. The joke was not satisfactory enough to warrant a lengthy pause in their affairs. "Back to business, what have you found out Mr. Jones?"


    "We need to focus all of our efforts onto Vincent de More. I believe he murdered Claudia Wells."


    As the basis of all good police work, Lovemarine asked Jones to provide evidence for his position. Jones was eager to share his thoughts on the matter; the timing of the reappearance of the killer coinciding with Vincent de More''s known movements, the response to the questioning of why he had urged the police to shut down the investigation, and the missing picture frame."


    Lovemarine was on-board with the theory. The detective offered a seat to Jones. Once where a pizza box lay was a green cushion that had managed to be spared of any stain. All of the other cushions were in the wash. To the credit of Luca, it appeared as if the cleaning supplies for the house were well stocked.


    Noting Jones'' good work, Lovemarine offered to make a pot of coffee. Jones was quite enthused at the proposition. Hartmann ought have some expensive brand laying around for a tired sleaze to enjoy. The sound of the coffee brewing could be heard throughout the living room.


    Lovemarine and Jones resumed their discussion. The two still yet lacked the reason for the crime. The visible bluster of Vincent de More would only take them so far in their quest. Finding the motive was paramount to bringing de More to justice. Even if there was proof of the two knowing each other, a detail that they still lacked, the two could only wonder for what reason de More would murder the waitress. As they were beginning to deliberate what could motivate de More to commit this crime, Jones remembered to ask about Vincent de More''s mother.


    Lovemarine was able to provide some information. Although he claimed that his wife was the reason for his knowledge on the matter, the rumor was that currently Beatrice and her husband are headed to divorce. Jones'' mind began to connect the pieces. First came the issue that Vincent mentioned in the letter draft. The issue mentioned was divorce. From the writing, it was clear that the eldest son was on the mother''s side. The issue he was describing involved the mother somehow. If Jones had not broken into Vincent''s office, he might have missed the connection between the mother and Claudia. The wallpaper had the same ornate flower stems crossing pattern as the now missing picture frame. As the country club was designed by Beatrice de More the connection was beginning to come into sight.


    The coffee machine beeped to signal the liquid gold had released fully into the pot. Lovemarine came from the kitchen with the promised coffee. Before taking the long awaited sip, Jones filled the detective in on his revelation of the connection between the picture frame and the wallpaper. Still, while the evidence was now beyond reasonable coincidence, it yet could not hurdle over the issue of circumstance.


    The java was something of repute at the very least. The brand was not Jones'' favorite in the slightest. Too weak of a sensation for an experienced coffee drinker. Jones sometimes wished that drinking coffee could turn into a profession, the same way one could become adept at wine tasting.


    While his mind started to slip from concentration on the case, something about the out of place purity of the black coffee made him think of the door to Claudia''s apartment. A door that bore striking similarity to the level of detail to the door of Vincent''s office had no place being where it was.


    "Lovemarine is there any way for us to see who owned the apartment building Claudia stayed in? I am getting a hunch that Beatrice de More''s family owned that building or had something to do with it."


    "Let me call a clerk at police headquarters."


    Lovemarine went to the landline and called one of his colleagues who could access such records. As the conversation was carrying on, with Lovemarine eventually being put on hold, Jones made his way through the coffee. The light flavor made a quick downing of the beverage, not only possible, but, too, the only reasonable option to Jones.


    "I know this goes without saying Tim, but be sure not to tell the chief about this call. I am just crossing my Ts hear and do not want to worry him in the slightest. Again, thank you for the information and please tell your wife I hope to see her over at our house soon¡­ bye."


    Jones was eager to hear the results. The de More''s did not own the building, but another notable family did.


    The Tuthill family owned that small three story multi family home. The Tuthills were not a reputable family in the lake regions. They were descended from bandits that had somehow been to able to keep their ill-gotten gains.


    "Could Beatrice de More have lived there at anytime?"


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "That information might be available at the county tax office. It is right here in Yeoville. Probably the only place they could afford to develop during the boom right after The Lake House was constructed."


    Luca Hartmann was still sleeping as the next step in the investigation unfurled before them. If the detective and the private eye could determine that Beatrice had lived at that apartment sometime in the past, it would make the gambit that Jones was plotting a very comfortable operation.


    The drive was quiet again. Jones knew that he was tired, but was beginning to realize the same might be true for Lovemarine. The road usually kept the private eye awake, but being in the passenger seat provided him with no such luxury.  "Stay awake, stay awake." he said to his mind over and over. Jones had no clue how long the drive was to be. Lovemarine only was willing to admit that the drive was in town.


    20 minutes later, the two had arrived at the parking lot of the tax office. The building was made of brick. One could only assume that the building was as old as the town itself. The two had to wait as the clerks were on their lunch break. Instead of waiting inside they decided to let the sun recharge them a little.


    "Staying awake there?" asked Lovemarine.


    "I said that out oud?"


    "Yes, son." replied the seasoned detective.


    "First rodeo with a long case?"


    "Unfortunately, or fortunately, not. I have been a private eye for the past 8 years. Lots of long days successive. I just have been working on unrelated matters before this case. I need a break urgently, but just not at Claudia''s expense."


    "Did you know her personally?" asked Lovemarine.


    "No, I met the father two days ago. I feel like I know her in a way. Like some sort of strange connection. Her apartment felt lifeless and I remember myself having that same issue once some time ago. I guess I just was able to grow up and put art on the walls." He paused. "That answer is the simple way out. Maybe, the connection I feel is just caused by the fact that I live while she is dead. No one could possibly envy her position of being murdered, yet here I am feeling sad for myself. She can never receive her life back, and here I am trying to put it back together. Even if I could somehow fix things wouldn''t she just die again. She would always live in fear not that it will happen one day, but that death will come again. I never understood how you homicide detectives can do it. This all really wears a man down."


    The detective understood had no good answer to the question. The detective did, however, know where he was coming from, gave him a pat on the back before asking him if he needed to recuse himself. "I am alright there lieutenant. I would tell you if it were necessary, but right now I can only think of her father." Jones'' words served as motivation to keep on going. The finish line was closer than it ever had been before. Not just a finish line, but a gold medal to boot, was a few more moments of investigative brilliance away.


    "Speaking of her father, I should ask him something. I wonder why she became so interested in money?"


    "I assume you have his number. Call him while I ask whether Beatrice lived at the Tuthill''s apartment building."


    The lunch break had ended when the first worker made her way back to the office. Lovemarine flashing his badge was able to put her to work on finding out whether there was any record of a Beatrice de More living at Claudia''s address.


    While Lovemarine was busy trying to ascertain the information, Jones gave Gary Wells a call. The father answered the call eager to learn what progress had been made. Before any update would be made, Jones inquired about Claudia''s recent money habits.  Jones introduced the subject by telling the father of his daughter''s change in habit. Jones asked if Gary knew of the reason why Claudia had changed so abruptly.


    Whatever happiness Gary had from Jones'' call initially quickly dissipated. He did know the reason. Gary had been diagnosed with cancer. He shared the news with his daughter. The mistake was calling into question whether his insurance would pay for his treatment in front of his daughter. He only mentioned it being a possibility, and an unlucky one at that, but Claudia had sent him 20,000 dollars two weeks after. he revealed the diagnosis to her. The mail contained a check and a note saying that she prayed for him every night.


    It sounded as if he had picked up a paper that lay only a few inches away to read aloud,"with much love from your daughter. That is how she ended it." Gary did not say another word for easily a quarter of a minute. He finally would resume by saying "20,000 dollars must have been her life savings."


    Jones could only answer, "I promise I will find her killer."


    Jones wished him good tidings and reminded him to stay on the coast. Hanging up the phone was difficult. He thought maybe he needed to say something more. The thought only lasted for a moment as Lovemarine was just opening the door.


    A shot rang out in the middle of the day. A pistol had fired from some distance away. The bullet missed the pay phone next to which Jones stood by a few feet. The murder attempt was unmistakably directed towards the private eye. As soon as the pistol''s sound clashed with the air, Jones ducked low hoping that whoever fired the shot was unable to see him in a prone position.


    Lovemarine was clearly visibly after stepping through the county tax office''s door. He stood only a few feet behind Jones, and pulled out his own firearm. He tried to spot where the shot had come from. Before any such identification could occur, one more poorly aimed shot flew past him to the left. The bullet collided with the brick wall, but was much to close for any comfort.


    Lovemarine too took cover on the ground. He, at the very least was covered by the walls surrounding the stairs. Still, the armed detective was at a severe disadvantage given that the shooter saw him and he still had no firm grasp on the person''s location. All fell silent for a few moments after the shots. This silence broke with the sound of running. The shooter was in full retreat. Still, both Lovemarine and Jones were hesitant to stand up.


    After a minute passed, it was discovered that shooter had truly ran. The two men stood up to see a car speeding away. A blue luxury sedan ran through a red light a block away. While the screeching tires of another car at the intersection was audible, the license plate was just beyond sight.


    "Should we pursue?" yelled Jones loudly after throwing himself to a standing position.


    "No, I think we know who was driving that car. Chasing him will only prevent the murder from being revealed. I do not want that punk getting anywhere near his lawyers," replied Lovemarine. The detective was confident that at least they had him on attempted murder charges. This was, however, not good enough. de More would be completely inaccessible the second he was in the police station. The only way for them to get de More on the murder of Claudia Wells was through confession.


    Lovemarine''s uncertainty of Jones'' character also aided his decision to not pursue the suspect here. While the P.I. had proven his experience to the lieutenant, he also knew that being shot at can break the ability of some people to restrain themselves ¨C however justified it may be.


    The two made their way to a small brick wall right off of the stairs. The height was just perfect for two grown men to have an otherwise uncomfortable seat. Jones took a deep breathe. No matter how many times he had been shot at the adrenaline rush was always the same


    "Cigar?" asked the detective as he pulled one out of his trench coat interior pocket. The cigar was a green candela, a rare sight to see. The cigar was certainly a leftover from a time in which a homicide detective had a bumbling charm. Despite Lovemarine''s enthusiasm to calm his nerves, it took the second time of asking to find a cigar that survived his sudden jump to the ground.


    "No, thanks. But I will take your lighter." Jones took the lighter from Lovemarine''s outstretched hand and started to flip it between his fingers.


    "Beatrice de More did live there right?" asked Jones. Although there was little need to ask as the shooting had by now confirmed all suspicions, Lovemarine nodded. Two names filed their county taxes at the address for the same year, a one Beatrice de More and a Lawrence Tuthill.


    Jones was now just waiting eagerly for the police to arrive. The sooner that the police could process the situation, the quicker he would be out on the streets again. Contrary to the belief of Lovemarine, Jones was still fully in charge of his faculties. To Jones, violence was much less severe of a punishment than jail or, even, state sanctioned death. There was no dignity in either option. He hoped that the man who he was to soon catch felt the same way.


    Jones was ready to take down Vincent de More. The plan to have him confess was starting to be drawn in Jones'' mind. Jones would just need Lovemarine to be witness. Despite his upcoming reliance on the detective to be the witness that puts the final nail in Vincent de More''s coffin, he only felt comfortable in divulging the idea after he had dealt with the approaching vehicles with sirens.

 A Little after 1:30

    A little after 1:30, Jones was taken into police custody. officially he was not under arrest for any crime. It was still possible for him to abscond given that no charges were being filed. However, he felt it best to feign cooperation. There was still a possibility that the corruption that had allowed for the influence of Vincent de More to put a halt on the initial investigation to once again rear its ugly head.


    Jones was willing to take the risk that he spent the night in a holding cell. Justice would just then have to wait till the morning. All of the rush prior to find the killer was no longer so important. The evidence needed to nail Vincent de More existed somewhere. Vincent himself had proven it though the episcapade at the county tax office. Despite not having seen Vincent clearly, Jones was willing to bet his life that he was the perpetrator.


    The officers who picked Jones up were very cordial to his surprise. They were sure to ask how his day was and if he needed anything. Their politeness did not seem to be an attempt to butter the private eye up, but was rather motivated by their respect for detective Lovemarine.


    After arriving to the small police station, Jones was dumped in front of the detective department. Right opposite a clerk, he was told to wait until after the officers had a chance to confer. At first Jones took the opportunity to rest his eyes. He stared upwards until the weight of his eyelids forced themselves down.


    Jones could not help but return to the action of only a half an hour prior. He begun to realize his mind had deceived him. His impulses were not under as strict of control as he had thought. The rush of the adrenaline from being shot at was beginning to dwindle.


    The car chase that he imagined in his head simulated itself a good three times. Each and every instance would end with Jones running the pursued off the road. Being the pursuant here would led to death. Jones did not know whether to feel guilty at the prospect of killing a man who shot at him. The thought disturbed him, and he discovered accordingly that he was unable to rest.


    Jones decided to strike up conversation with the young clerk sat across from him.


    "Hello, my name is Jones. How are you?"


    "Hello, my name is Jacob. Fine, and yourself?" replied the man, a bit shocked that someone was talking to him. The private eye hoped that he was not being rude in striking up conversation with the youthful worker.


    "Doing alright, I hate to be too forward, but do you happen to have the newspaper from the day that Claudia Wells was murdered?"


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The clerk was not sure of the day the event took place initially. After Jones informed the man of when exactly he was looking for, Jacob was more than happy to provide the private eye with the paper.


    With little else to do, Jones decided to read article of the local paper that gave brief mention to her untimely demise.


    "Claudia Wells, a resident of Yeoville for a matter of months, was found dead of a heroin overdose in her apartment. The police have declared the case to be an accident. She is survived by her father."


    Jones knew now who to pay a visit to immediately after the encounter with the police was over. He did not know if eagerness was taking over or if the frustration needed to be released, but he could not wait to confront Luca Hartmann with the knowledge of his lie.


    The closed door to the office of the homicide detectives had opened. "Mr. Jones?" called out the familiar voice of detective Lovemarine.


    "Yes?" replied Jones expecting more direction.


    "Come on in, we have some things to talk about."


    When entering into the room, there were four detectives, including Lovemarine, standing around.


    "So, we are here to discuss the next steps of the investigation. Before we begin, I am going to remind you that technically you are not supposed to be investigating active cases. I, however, think we owe it to you to have a chance to finish the case," stated Lovemarine before being interrupted by another detective.


    "You are on a leash. You will work with Lovemarine and you have a time limit. We will wait to reopen the case until 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. That is when the police chief will arrive and since he is required regardless to reopen any case technically we have done nothing wrong. The last thing we want is for the right thing to do to hamper our ability to put Vincent de More away for life. Understand?"


    "Yes, I do." replied Jones. He was expecting the usual police resistance to his presence, but the deal he was being offered was more than satisfactory. It was now or never. A guarantee in result was still far from certainty, but at least Junkyard Jones knew when his adventure was to end.


    Little more needed to be said. Where Jones thought that he would need to explain his actions to the police with the right amount of delicacy, Lovemarine had taken over the mantle. Jones counted his blessings that no mention was made of the breaking and entering. Lovemarine had proven to be a good commander after all.


    A detective offered to drive Lovemarine and Jones to the 1970 GTO at the tax office. The three of them made their way out of the building. Having taken the side entrance before, Jones had yet to see the bustle of the county police headquarters. The first floor of the police station was much busier than the second, but by no stretch of the imagination was it crowded. The atmosphere rife with familiarity between criminal and con could perhaps explain why this station was missing that distinct urine smell Jones was so accustomed to in the Crystal City.


    The detective''s car was nothing fancy. The car''s radio played music of the age of the detective, heavy rock and roll. Lovemarine only spoke to criticize the new generation of the music. He much preferred something with more melody. Jones did not know if these were the right words, but definitely the guitars were a bit too powerful.


    The detective bid the men adieu and wished them luck. Jones and Lovemarine stepped the car with mutual resolve to finish what they had started.


    "So I guess we are partners for a few hours more?" Lovemarine asked. Jones'' answer was the sound of his engine coming to life.


    "We need to pay a visit to Mr. Hartmann."

 The Clock in the Car Read 2:42

    The clock in the car read 2:42 as the pair were pulling into Hartmann''s driveway once more. Lovemarine''s car remained parked on the street opposite the house. What was surprising, however, was that a blue sedan now took the spot of Luca''s car. The tan car there before was nowhere to be seen. "Strange," remarked Lovemarine. Something was amiss and the pair would soon discover what.


    The two made it to the door. Jones knocked, half expecting for there to be no answer from the other side. After his first attempt at contact, Jones employed his voice, demanding for Luca to open the door. Luca obliged with a response, yelling loud enough to be heard through the walls. "Not right now guys, I have a bottle to finish. Maybe in a few hours I can pop my head out and pay you all a talk. I trust the delay works for you."


    A turn of the door knob revealed it to be locked. Jones was in no mood to wait. Not even the time it took to pick a lock was all too appealing. His overall disdain for Luca'' actions was quickly spilling over into the territory of anger.


    "Hey Lovemarine, have you had a chance to look at the flowers in the yard? Spring is certainly the best time of year for any enthusiast of nature," asked Jones of the older detective. Jones did not desire a response, just a quick turn of the head.


    The offering of a distraction was an acknowledgement that Lovemarine did not have to go along with what Jones was about to do. So far Lovemarine had already looked the other way on one breaking and entering, but that was no guarantee that Jones was permitted to commit a second.


    Abandoning all finesse, Jones was to kick the door open. It was not such a hard thing to do with enough knowledge of how doors worked. Jones hit the wooden barrier just right. The placement of the kick was right in the sweet spot next to the knob. The door swung open with great force.


    Lovemarine''s brief look away was quickly interrupted by the unmistakable noise. He only shook his head a little and then offered a chuckle.


    Jones walked through the slightly disturbed frame joking with Lovemarine, "They taught me that in the military."


    "Really?" Lovemarine asked the question in earnest.


    "No," answered Jones with a devilish laugh.


    Luca Hartmann was still sat on the couch.  The room overall was no longer full of trash thrown a strew. The trash was now in bags. The place still reeked, but at least the appearance was not so offensive to the sense. Luca was, at the very least, telling the truth that he was drinking. Before Luca there were two glasses now. It was yet another expensive glass of whiskey. The kind so smooth that a whole bottle could be drank without any protest against the typical harshness of alcohol.


    "We need to have a talk." stated the private eye with much force. While Jones meant to corner Mr. Hartmann and force an explanation out of him, the manager surprised the two by taking the initiative.


    "I will talk and you will listen." said Luca with resolve. Jones could hardly believe his ears. He would just have to wait a few moments for an explanation.


    "I killed her. I did it. I shoved the poison into her body. I killed her. You can arrest me now." confessed Luca with composure.


    "No, you didn''t. Stop lying. What does it take for a man to face reality? You knew all along that she was killed and that this was no accident. You lied to me about the paper. It did not just say it was an accident. They mentioned the heroin overdose. I am sure that reporter must have gotten in trouble too Vincent de More. When was he here? Why did you call and tell him we were at the tax office?" responded Jones to what he believed was a fake admission of guilt.


    "It was me. I did it. I killed her. I shot at you too. Here is the pistol." Luca took it out from behind him by grabbing the barrel. He then threw it to the other side of the couch before Lovemarine could even think to react with this own weapon.


    Hartmann continued, "The car I used is out front. Take me away now."


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    "You lie." now added Lovemarine. The desperation to be taken away settled any doubt that Lovemarine had about Hartmann''s guilt.


    "Tell me how you did it." interjected Jones shortly after Lovemarine''s remark.


    "We drank. I ensured she drank too much. She was knocked out, then I took the heroin I bought the day before and injected it into her veins. She died quickly." claimed Luca Hartmann. A small rip in his composition was beginning to form with the image of her death in his mind. Lovemarine picked up on the detail.


    "An overdose is not a quick thing," retorted the detective. He then went into the details of how an overdose looks, even Jones was taken aback by the whole description. Death was no pretty thing and Luca was being reminded of the fact. "The man who murdered his girlfriend had harmed her greatly. The pain you feel now is nothing compared to her last moments. I am sure you watched the whole affair happen to ensure she died."


    "I just meant that the whole thing was over quick," Luca responded with defensive haste. He could not bear to process all of what Lovemarine had said. His constitution was getting weaker by the moment. He was beginning to slouch, both corporeally and in resolve.


    Sensing the opportunity to drag the truth out of the man, Jones added more pressure to the interrogation, "You lie. You are nothing but a rat. Even if it takes me beating the truth out of you. You are going to tell me that you did not kill Claudia and you will tell me who did."


    Jones made his way over to the seat. He grabbed Hartmann by the collar and pushed him up against the wall. Jones knew he could not go any further with a police man standing right behind him. It took a few moments of the detective''s stare to break the manager''s will fully.


    No further violence was necessary, "Fine, fine. I was lying." As Luca began to speak once more, Jones took a step back. Rather than looking Jones or Lovemarine in the eyes, Luca stared once more at the sky.


    "Vincent de More came here an hour ago. He told me that he had killed Claudia Wells, and asked me if I would fall on the proverbial sword for him. I agreed to do it as long as he told me why he murdered her. He seemed eager to justify himself. Claudia was trying to blackmail him with the picture in the frame. The frame was left when the previous owner had moved out, Lawrence Tuthill. Tuthill had an affair with Beatrice de More and they met in that very apartment. The picture frame you saw with the recent photograph of Claudia had another picture in it. That picture was of a young Beatrice. On the back of the head portrait was a love letter to her by Lawrence. If that was exposed in court now, the divorce terms would become unfavorable to Beatrice. He did not say more than that. I agreed to his scheme, but now I can give the information to you." Luca ended his words with a justificatory smile. Jones may have taken offense to the smirk if Luca were looking at him, but his eyes were only point towards heaven.


    He asked one more question, "Aren''t you proud of me?"


    Jones responded, "No, because if you had one more night with her, you would have killed her yourself as necessary not to shatter your world." The words came naturally to the private eye. He did not need even to think.


    The two men were finished with Luca Hartmann. They trot themselves out of the apartment and sat in Jones'' car, plotting on how they would bust Vincent for murder. Lovemarine mentioned that however they were to do it they would need  to avoid the plausible deniability that Luca was becoming poised to offer the court. "If we finish this tonight, there can be no holes."


    Jones was still confident in their ability to get the job done still. The information that Luca Hartmann had just offered would only prove to shore up a plan almost fool proof from the conception. Vincent de More had demonstrated himself to be rattled.


    It was time for Jones to fill Lovemarine in on the the details. Jones now felt himself to be the leader of the operation, what he said was to go. Hopefully, Lovemarine would too view the orders as a mutually beneficial course of action.


    "I have a plan on how to finish this with an airtight case. I am going to call Vincent de More posing once more as Brian Wells. I am going to imply that I will resume the blackmail Claudia had begun, now with the addition of murder and attempted murder of a police officer. I will schedule the first payoff for tonight at Claudia''s apartment. You will lay in wait in the bedroom as I get Vincent to confess to the crime."


    "Risky," replied Lovemarine.


    "He may try to kill me, but I do not think he will bring a gun. de More will see that getting rid of me will be a bit more difficult than disposing of a nineteen year old. Regardless, his story ends there and then with you in the other room."


    "You are willing to die for this?" asked the detective.


    "Naturally. My resolve cannot afford to be any weaker. Justice has called and I must answer." said Jones with a smile. They drove off to set their plan into action.


    To dissolve the worry Lovemarine had for his partner in facing a potentially armed de More alone, Jones explained a little more about himself. There was one more reason that people called Junkyard Jones, Junkyard Jones. This was the reason his friends called him this name. Rather than being just a marketing ploy that stuck, he had earned his reputation by fiddling with what other people would call junk. The assortment of parts that he would play with would go into the construction of contraptions, booby traps one might call them. Jones preferred to refer to them as tools of the trade. Jones, despite his respectable size, never liked to leave confrontations to luck.


    Always weary of having to face a foe, Jones always kept one such tool in his trunk. The trap he had on him was a portable wooden plank designed to hold tension that could be released with the pull of a string. When attached to a stable surface, a hellish pain would be released upon the shins of an attacker. Jones assured Lovemarine that he had no intention of leaving his life up to a brawl.


    Once some privacy was found in Jones'' motel room. The call was made to Vincent de More . Thankfully, he was still accessible via phone in his office at The Lake House. The conversation unfolded quickly. Jones told him that he has everything figured out. He had proof that Beatrice had an affair, that he had murdered Claudia, and he knew that he had shot at a police officer earlier that day.He let silence ask the question of de More on how he was to make things right. Quickly, the scion offered to pay 50,000 dollars for Brian Wells to never speak a word of this. Jones agreed to the terms as long as he could get paid tonight. de More claimed he would need time to collect the funds necessary to pay Brian off. Jones was not happy with the postponement and de More relented to his initial objection. The trap was laid. All that remained was to wait for 9:00.

 ...arrived at 6:03

    Jones and Lovemarine arrived at 6:03. There was time for a quick bite of food before Vincent de More was due to arrive, but they were unwilling to risk any greater amount of time away from the apartment. Slight worry was paid to de More staking the place out and seeing the detective arrive.


    Jones set up his trap to be attached to the base of the counter. He planned to sit on the edge of the sofa when Vincent walked through the door. The door was left unlocked to ensure that the private eye was as far away from the murderer as possible. If there was to be a fight, it was best for it to not happen immediately. The two were heavily reliant upon the fact that Vincent would confess.


    Jones tested his contraption and then reset the device. The ecstatic grin following the powerful whip of the wooden plank was caused by his extreme satisfaction with the handiwork.


    Still three hours remained before they expected the arrival of de More. Lovemarine took out a deck of cards and asked Jones if he was willing to play. Jones agreed with a sense of reluctancy, The hesitancy appeared to be genuine, after all there was no other way to kill the time in the apartment. Truthfully, Jones'' voice had lied. He enjoyed the thrill of the gamble just was reticent to show it to a man he was coming to respect.


    "You are not the kind of person to count cards, right?" asked the detective as he shuffled the deck.


    "No, it is doesn''t make that much of a difference. I read a book about it once. The technique was enthralling, seemed like a true demonstration of intelligence, but then the guide ended by saying how much of an advantage once can expect. Simply, the juice is not worth the squeeze." replied the man now eager to receive his two cards.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "I take it you do not gamble much." asserted Jones expecting a response.


    "No, I do not have the time nor the needed additional stress of losing what money I do have."


    "Busy life?"


    "I have two kids and a wife. One kid is just about done with college and the other, she is just now graduating high school." responded the detective.


    "Why take the risk of being a homicide detective then? Being shot poses the threat of consuming more time than gambling ever could." asked Jones.


    "If I did not do this job, who would? Most people have great fear of being near the dregs of society. I feel this is where I am needed most." said Lovemarine while handing out the second round of cards.


    "Although, these days I feel the fear starting to take hold. Today, I truly felt nervous when on the ground, just praying that the person had no angle to finish us off. Well generally you hope that you do not die, but before today it was always a sense of I can''t die now I have to get justice. Today, I was motivated to continue living to see my family again."  admitted the middle aged detective.


    "Do you ever feel fear son?"


    Jones replied, "All the time. I just try to not let it affect me. I think it is natural to worry."


    Lovemarine here offered some advice, "My first partner on the force gave me some words of wisdom on the matter. Thinking is for before action and not during. You sometimes just have to do what you think is best and never look back. Do not blame yourself for an unfavorable outcome. Just take solace in the fact that you tried. Trying is more than what most people will ever do in their life. Most people take orders. That is fine at some juncture, but not in this line of work."


    "Seems to make sense." said Jones with a smile. He had drawn his first blackjack of the night.


    "So when Vincent de More steps through that door, what will you do?" asked detective Lovemarine of the private eye.


    "I am just going to take justice as it comes and accept whatever number is written in the cards."

 9:00

    9:00 came too fast for the fear to fully set in. Perhaps, it was the advice of Lovemarine that had him settled. Jones was still hyper alert to his surroundings. Every car that passed by caught his attention. Jones did not know if things were quiet enough for him to hear Vincent walk up the stairs.


    His plan was already set. There was nothing to worry about. Now was the time to disengage with the subconscious and to commit himself to reaction. He took note of the thin white string on his finger that was to release the trap and turned off his brain. All he had to do was wait and survive the night.


    Seven minutes later, Vincent de More made his presence known to both Lovemarine and Jones through ringing the door bell. Jones replied, "let yourself in." There he stood with his suit looking ready to attend to the affairs of The Lake House. de More appeared to yet be a paragon of high class. The pressure of committing a murder had not seemed to affect him in the slightest. There was no visible sign of distress or worry.


    While Jones observed first that his gait was thoroughly refined, it was more important for the private eye to notice that the did not appear to have a weapon in hand.


    "You have the money?" asked Jones. The line was delivered with the callousness one would expect from a professional extorter.


    "No. I did not think it necessary to bring it. I already told you it would take time to find such a large sum in cash. I refuse to give you another piece of blackmail of a check with a ridiculous amount of money attached." responded Vincent.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    "Rather, I came here to end you and put a stop to all of this. You and your sister threatened my family, and if you are anything like your sister, this is the only thing I can think of to make things right."


    "What do you mean like my sister?" responded Jones confused.


    "I was reasonable with her at first. I asked her why she needed so much money. She told me that her father was sick. You know, I offered to pay her for his treatment? She said that it was not good enough. Still, I was going to give her the money. Then when I said we would have to exchange that picture frame she refused. I had to kill her."


    "All to protect your mother in a divorce?"


    "You make it sound like such a foreign concept. She is a beautiful soul, capable of making beautiful things. Her design has brought joy to a great many people. I can not bare to see her life''s work be ruined by some tramp. My father is nothing but a dirty philanderer who does not deserve to share a name with my mother. He has spent their entire marriage bragging of his affairs, sending postcards from him and his floosies home. He was stuck in a marriage his own father forced him into. Finally when Grandpa died, my dad went to take The Lake House from his wife and child through this divorce. We have a chance of breaking the prenuptial agreement through his serial affairs, but not if my own mother''s affair comes to light. I am done explaining myself to you."


    Jones had no opportunity, nor need, to get a word in. His plan had worked a little too perfectly. He sprung his trap in response to Vincent''s lunge forward from the door. He was now carrying a knife in his hand. The last thing Jones noticed before releasing the wound up plank was the quality of the knife''s handle.


    The wood hit the man''s shin with great effect. Vincent lay on the floor face down writhing in pain. Jones rushed to his hand to stomp down and hopefully release the knife from his grip. Once his hand was incapable of holding on any longer, Jones kicked the knife away towards.


    The fight was over. Lovemarine, having heard the tussle, stepped through the door calmly. He had his handcuffs ready to arrest Vincent de More for the murder of Claudia Wells.