Chapter 2: What Happened in December

Chapter 21

I reached my apartment completely soaked through, and I was shivering with cold. I threw off my jacket, and lit a fire in the teeny fireplace. Changing into a worn, fuzzy robe, I tucked my feet under me and wrapped a blanket around me. I stared into the fireplace, contemplating the events of the last few hours. The flames jumped up and down, licking the logs in the fireplace. My coat was hanging up on the fireplace grate, and something was sticking out of the pocket. The letter in Monsieur’s hand! I jumped up and grabbed it before it could fall into the fire and turn into ashes. Hesitating for a moment, I stared at the letter in its envelope. Holding my breath, I opened the partially wet envelope, and unfolded the letter. This is what it said. 2

“Mademoiselle Genevieve. 46th rue. Aidez-la.”3

-Monsieur Fr. 4

Using what little French I already knew, I understood that the letter said Miss Genevieve. 46th street. Help her. 5

Apparently there was a Miss Genevieve on 46th street who was in trouble, and Monsieur Francquois wanted the person who found this letter to help her. What was really got to me was that he did not write “help me”, when he was the one who called and said he needed help. My phone rang, and answering it, I heard the familiar voice of Jerome, Monsieur’s butler…or former butler. 6

“Detective Somerset! Monsieur he is..he is..dead!”7

“Yes Jerome, I know. I went to his house earlier this morning because he called and said he needed my help. Why did you not come to the door?”8

“Ah…well Detective Somerset, actually, I am kind of in hiding at the moment.”9

“Hiding, Jerome? Why are you hiding?” For a second I thought he was hiding because he killed Monsieur, but my suspicions were dispersed when he spoke again. 10

“Detective Somerset, I know who did it. It was not me! I promise. The murderer pointed a gun at my chest when I opened the door, and I had no choice but to allow myself to be bound and gagged. Right now I am in a warehouse, and I have untied my ropes, but cannot find the door out. This is a pay phone I am on. It is a man. I know by his voice, though his face was covered. I heard him whisper something about the fortune…”11

“Jerome? Jerome, pick up!” My heart beat frantically in the silence. Another voice spoke. 12

“This is not Jerome my dear Detective Somerset. It would be better if you abandoned your search to find the murderer of Monsieur Francquois. If you did, I would have to personally kill you…just like your little friend Jerome here. Have a nice day.” I could hear a shot ring out on the other end of the line, and a deathly scream which escaped Jerome’s mouth. 13

I dropped the phone and slumped on the nearest chair. My God, help me. Abandoning the search for the murderer was not an option, I assure you. Once I set out on an investigation, I finished it. Even if it meant I received death threats. Sitting in my little apartment was not going to help me in my search for the man who murdered Monsieur, or what the man was trying to get his hands on. I also, as you may remember, needed to figure out what Monsieur wanted me to do in the first place. I dressed again, but not as a detective. Jeans, a fashionable rain jacket, my umbrella, and a purse. I dropped the note from Monsieur in my purse, and went into the back to grab one last thing before I set out. I locked the door from the outside, and under my disguise, I could still feel the cold metal biting my skin. 14

I took a cab to 46th street, which was 15 blocks away from my apartment. Normally I would have walked, but a young lady walking alone in the twilight would arouse suspicion, and it would be dangerous. But it would not have been dangerous clothed as a detective…but I was not a detective at that moment, so it was dangerous. If that idea makes any sense. Arriving at 46th street, I paid the cab driver, who complained loudly of his meager tip. Ignoring him, I walked down 46th street, which looked as if it had not been inhabited for many years. Houses on either side were gray and gloomy. I walked faster, as if that could make the spookiness of the place go away. I finally arrived at a small house, with the lights on. Checking the number I had written down for Miss Genevieve’s house, I walked up to the door and knocked. The house was of an old build, and the bricks were red, as if it were a school house building. I could hear somebody inside call out,15

“Who are you?” 16

Who am I? Well, I am many persons. I am Helena Somerset, the average young lady. I am Detective Somerset, who is regarded by some as rather dark and mysterious. I am a person who investigates. And currently, I am frantically writing down this before midnight, so you may know what happened…but usually, it is not a good idea to give a person your name before you know them. And I mean, REALLY know them, outside and inside. You can never trust even the most amiable looking strangers. Only trust yourself, your instinct, and your ideals. That is when you know who you truly are. So, deciding to play safe, I answered, “I am a friend of Monsieur Francquois.” It was like I had said the magic words. The door flung open, and before I could even say “Hello, I am looking for a Miss Genevieve”, the person, whoever they were, whisked me inside the warm house. 17

The man that faced me was tall, and had tousled brownish black hair. His eyes were a dark, dark blue, and they flickered with the lamplight overhead. Without saying a word, he ushered me into the back part of the house, until we were in the kitchen. A single bulb hung overhead, and everything was very simple, but extraordinarily clean. 18

“What do you have to do with Monsieur, and why are you coming here at such a late hour.” The man asked me.19

“I am looking for a Miss Genevieve. Monsieur Francquois has been murdered, and I found this in his hand.” I handed the tall man the letter. “And even if I do not look like it, I am a detective.”20

“How do I know I can trust you?” the man questioned.21

“How do I know I can trust you? You brought me in here very ungraciously, and you have not even been so courteous as to offer me a drink.” I replied with indignation. 22

“Well, do you want a drink? I just don’t go offering drinks to any one who shows up at my door.”23

“No sir, I don’t want a drink, I’m just commenting on your manners as a host.” The man sighed, and motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table. He brought out a teapot and started to boil water for tea. 24

“Please forgive me for my ungracious manners as a host. Things have been a bit-frazzled around here. Nothing is how it used to be.” He served the tea, and joined me at the table. 25

“So you said Monsieur died. Well, one cursed thing comes of that.”26

“And what might that be?”27

“His fortune. I inherit it.” I lowered my tea slowly and asked him, “You inherit Monsieur Francquois’ fortune? And how did that come to be?” 28

The man sighed again; it seemed as if he had many sorrows and was always sighing. “Well, Detective whoever you are,” “Detective Somerset.” “Well, Detective Somerset, you see, I am Nicolas Francquois, son of the multi millionaire Monsieur Isaac Francquois.” 29

I think my jaw dropped to the floor. “You? But, but…Monsieur never told me about you! He was one of my clients, and we came to trust each other very much. I have known him almost my entire life!” How could I have never learned about the fact that he had a son?” 30

“My father was very good about keeping secrets, Detective Somerset.”31

“What about Genevieve? Who is she?” Again, Nicolas sighed. “Genevieve… was my sister. She was murdered.” I winced. Poor man. He had two family members murdered. It was rather inevitable that he would be next. As if he had read my thoughts, he said, 32

“My father was a very influential man when we lived in France. He inherited an enormous fortune from my grandfather, and he continued to build on that. Our family began to receive death threats, and my mother became very frightened, and I believe my father was too; he just did not show it. My mother fell ill with tuberculosis, and nothing could cure her. She died half a year later after she was diagnosed with the illness. My sister, father, and I were very sad; as we missed our mother because she was a very important part of our lives. My sister and I grew up, but Genevieve was still grieved by my mother’s death. I don’t think she ever got over the shock of not having a mother. My father became much more solemn and withdrawn into himself. I was eighteen, and Genevieve was sixteen when she was murdered. We went to bed on October 29, and Genevieve looked particularly troubled. I asked her what was wrong, to which she replied that she was fine, just a little tired. The next morning, I went downstairs and ate breakfast as usual, and then waited for Genevieve so that I could drive her to school. I realized that we were going to be late, so I went upstairs to wake her up, because I knew that she hated to get up early in the morning. I knocked on her door, and no answer. I opened the door and the room was completely black, and the curtains were drawn. 33

“Genevieve? Wake up; we’re going to be late for school.” I wasn’t returned with the usual groan, or even an “ok, ok, I’m up.” I flicked on the light and threw the covers off the sleeping Genevieve. Her skin was paler than a ghost’s, and the sheets were stained red. I turned her over, and saw that she was shot in the chest with a bullet. In her hand was a crumpled note. It was another death threat, saying that if she did not bring 1.ooo dollars on the night of October 29 to whoever wrote the letter, she would be killed. My father rushed home from work, and took the stairs two at a time. He cried so hard when he saw little Genevieve. He said he would have given all the money in the world just so he could have Genevieve back. I wanted to cry, but no tears would come. It seemed as if I was in too much shock to cry. 34

We lived in a big house, and everybody knew who lived there, and it would be easy to pinpoint us, if someone was trying to murder us. It seems that is what happened to my father of late. So that I would not receive death threats and be stalked by money seekers, my father took me out of school, and bought me this house. I have lived here ever since I was eighteen, and no one knew what happened to me. It was as if I just disappeared.” Again, Nicolas sighed, but he looked relieved, as if he had been waiting to tell that to someone. 35

I whistled a low, long whistle. “So…you’ve lived here ever since you were eighteen.” I racked my mind for the familiar name…Nicolas. Nicolas. Why, of course! I turned to Nicolas. “Nicolas Francquois disappeared from Hattel High private school. No body knew what happened to him, some say that he moved back to France. He was the most popular boy in the school, and was smart, and very athletic. Every girl wanted to date him.” 36

“What? How…how do you know?”37

“I am Helena Somerset, Nicolas. I was in your sister's class...when she was murdered. And then, coincidentally, you vanished into nowhere." Nicolas gasped. 38

“This means,” I concluded, “that you are Nicolas Francquois; the most popular boy at Hattel High who disappeared into thin air.” I stared down at my hands. 39

“Don’t think that your disappearance didn’t raise questions.” 40