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Benoit Blanc was a man who, at his core, valued character above all else. Kindness and integrity, he believed, were both crucial to all good detective work, and no case could be solved without taking into consideration the presence or absence of both values in its victims, culprits, and witnesses.
In his regular life, too— at least, where he could help it— he liked to keep an open mind as much as he could. He’d come across a variety of characters in his time, and he knew very well how initial looks could be deceiving.
It was a sentiment he often found himself applying in equal measure to the inhumane; art, music, prose. He was no artist himself, after all (unless you would venture to call solving crimes a kind of art), so any view he could have on such a thing was an inherently subjective one.
All of that being said…
“What happened to the rope?” he asked, twiddling his thumbs.
“Oh,” she stumbled. “...I guess it just… blew away? In the wind?”
She set her cup down, looking at him anxiously; his focus was elsewhere.
“The police’d find that,” he hummed. “And how about the mother? She didn’t notice the ring going missing right off her finger? Unless she took it off beforehand.”
She furrowed her eyebrows.
“It was on her dressing table,” she explained. “She was asleep–”
“--But you said she slept light as a feather, page 48,” he insisted, drawing a line on the mentioned page with the pencil in his hand. “How else would she hear the floorboards above her creak?”
“...That’s true,” she admitted, “I mean, I didn’t–”
“--Furthermore,” he said, “what kind of detective doesn’t immediately rub for fingerprints? The uncle wasn’t supposed to be in town for another three days. If they’d rubbed for fingerprints on the body, they’d immediately know his alibi was wrong!”
Marta sighed.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
He stared at the sheet of paper before him, swallowing tightly, and squinted— as if, somehow, that might make the words before him jump to life more.
They remained as they were; dreary, lifeless. The multitude of plot holes he’d encountered floated around his brain like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a moral mystery he couldn’t solve. He clicked his tongue a little, armchair rocking, the battle between what he felt and what he ought to say warring in his brain.
“…It’s bad,” she confirmed.
Blanc paused, then shook his head.
“The story is good,” he hedged. “Just… the presentation could do with some workshopping.”
He took a sip of coffee, fingers twiddling with the edges of the pages; she relaxed back into her chair with a quiet groan.
“I’ve never been a good writer,” she fretted. “I don’t know what makes a good plot. I’ve been trying to learn, taking classes– and I reread all the books he wrote. I just don’t want to let him down…”
She gave another sigh.
“Do you think I should just—?”
“—Absolutely not,” Blanc responded immediately. “Sell it if you want, but don't you give Walter one red dime.”
He handed the script back to Marta, who took it with shaking hands.
"I know, just..."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Harlan deserves better than this."
Blanc took another sip of his coffee, shutting his eyes.
That was Marta, alright; always thinking of others above herself. For all her artistic incapabilities, that kind soul had never left her.
This situation, in and of itself– the fact that it had been about six years since the Harlan Thrombey murder case, and that in spite of both of their busy schedules, she’d never let six months go by without inviting the detective who’d saved her life to tea– was a good case in point. Each time, she would make a real effort, rearranging appointments, booking off work in advance, remembering time after time exactly how he took his tea and coffee and having both prepared hot and fresh whenever he was around.
Blanc, himself a happily married man, had never been one to prefer the company of young women, but Marta was one of the few exceptions he gladly made. As strained as his relationship with his own father had been, he felt his friendship with Marta to be a natural continuation of his father’s friendship with Harlan. Of course, it also helped that he liked Marta– liked that she kept up her work in spite of her millions, and that she hadn’t allowed the money to make her snobbish (though part of him knew she wouldn’t; she simply wasn’t the type)-- liked how down-to-earth she was in spite of all that had happened– and liked, especially, how she would always have the most interesting observations about his cases and the dynamics between the people within them. She carried, he thought, a kind of emotional intelligence that he often felt too hardened by the world to fully grasp alone– a perspective he found enlightening, a perspective gained only by someone who thought, as much as she could in good conscience, with their heart over their head.
Unfortunately, he thought bitterly, the heart alone was not very good at tying up loose ends.
“The ideas are good,” he insisted, quietly. “You have the base right. It’s a compelling story– and most of the plot holes are easy fixes.”
He flicked through the pages again.
“Bring up a storm on page 8– have some laundry go missing with the wind– that’ll explain the rope. Bring in an affair, that’ll fix the wedding ring. The detective– well, we’ll just say it’s his first day on the job. There are less lazy ways to do it, but…”
He set the manuscript down on the table.
“...S’pose the problem is that you keep writing yourself into a corner. You just don’t know how to wrap up the loose ends.”
Marta’s shoulders sagged a little, feeling rather discouraged.
“You do it so perfectly,” she said, laughing a little. “All your cases– you write them down so well.”
He smiled at the compliment, but shook his head.
“Marta, that’s real life. My cases are a math equation– I always know there will be a solution, even if I don’t know what that solution is. This– creative stuff, that’s… out of my field of expertise.”
Marta picked the script back up, thumbing it, deep in thought.
Blanc knew she was out of her depth here– he could tell from the bounce of her knee.
For a moment, Blanc was quiet; and suddenly, hazy memories seemed to flash across his mind.
“…I wonder,” he said, aloud.
Marta raised an eyebrow; Blanc took another sip of tea, eyebrows crossing, ideas swirling around his head.
He raised an eyebrow— then, looking at Marta,
“How would you feel about meeting a friend of mine?”
“I told you,” Jud said, looking oddly embarrassed as he shut the tabernacle, “I’m not an author.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Blanc said, sitting down on the soft carpet of the altar, “but you’re a preacher. You’ve got a way with words– your narration of the Good Friday murders had a good flow.”
He licked his finger and turned the page of Marta’s manuscript; Jud sank beside him and shook his head.
“I respect you as a friend, Blanc, but I’m not interested in writing about murder.”
Blanc blinked at that.
“Well, you don’t have to write about the murder. Just the things around the murder— spruce it up a bit. Flowery language; like you do in those homilies of yours.”
“Homilies are a lot different to writing published books,” he sighed. “Besides, I’m trying to keep my head low. If I join some murder company—“
“—Murder mystery novel company—“
“—Novel, whatever— if I join that, it’ll just reignite the whole murder-priest thing. If I give the Wicks mob an inch, Cy’ll rip down the church.”
Blanc considered that for a moment; then, he shook his head.
“Well, you don’t need to be credited,” he said. “And I’m sure the books could use some of that… religious morals, parables, church gobbledegook.”
Jud didn’t seem very happy by his use of the last word– Blanc, himself, felt a bit bad when he saw the small twitch in his face– but he let it slide.
That was something Blanc appreciated about Jud-- his openness to skepticism and doubt. Most of the religious folk Blanc had been familiar with before taking on his case had been hardcore conservative types-- the cut-off-the-nose-to-spite-the-face-type breeders of fallacy and paranoia who couldn't comprehend worldviews beyond their own, walking talking propaganda machines.
Blanc, for one, wouldn't trust people like that near a storybook. But he got the sense that if Jud were to try to instil his religious values into a murder mystery novel, it'd be in the right way-- an extension of his own love for others. If nothing else, Blanc could appreciate that, at least.
“Look,” Jud said, “if it's to help out someone in a fix, I don’t mind looking over it voluntarily. But it’ll be a one-time thing, okay? I have to put the church first.”
He held out his hand to Blanc for the manuscript, who gave it to him appreciatively.
“I understand that.”
And he did. Jud had been through enough trouble.
What he didn’t understand was the expression on Jud’s face as he flipped through the manuscript.
He peered at him, curiously; Jud continued skimming the words, then caught Blanc’s eyes and blinked, embarrassed.
“...Oh, sorry,” he said. “I just– I read a lot of Blood Like Wine when I was a kid. Caught me off-guard to see, uh… fanfiction.”
Blanc let out a laugh, at that.
“Fanfiction?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, continuing to skim the text. “There was that whole case with the author a few years ago, wasn’t there? Weren’t you–”
–He paused, as if suddenly coming to the realisation Blanc had been waiting for.
Slowly but surely, the dread crept down onto his face.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no way,” he said. “Blanc, I can’t edit for THE Blood Like Wine.”
“Well, why not?”
Jud balked, struggling for words.
“Because– because it’s huge!” he eventually managed. “These were– hell. If anyone finds out I’m involved, or if I mess it up–”
“ –You won’t mess it up,” Blanc said. “You’re a team player– more importantly, you’re a good person.”
He looked at Jud more earnestly, now, resting a hand on his knee.
“Between you and me,” he said quietly, “I think part of that’s what this author really needs. Kindness and company. Someone from the outside world who isn’t trying to rip her apart.”
Jud went quiet again; the sentiment seemed to really hit home for him. He turned the manuscript over in his hands, peering at the contact details on the back-- MARTA CABRERA scrawled in pen, block capitals.
It took him a moment to speak again.
“What’ll you do if I say no?” he asked.
“Well, I’m hoping you don’t,” he said unseriously, “because my second option was a Mr. Lee Ross, and I really don’t want his input.”
If nothing else, that, at least, seemed to get a laugh out of him.
“...Well, there’s nothing wrong with it,” Blanc said.
Marta sighed anxiously, foot tapping characteristically on the floor before her once again.
“Too long?”
A hum.
“No, not at all. Too short, if anything,” he said. “But it’s a fine novel length. It just…”
…Blanc trailed off, not out of awkwardness or a desire to please, but out of a sheer lack of ability to express what was missing.
He just looked down at the manuscript, turning pages between his fingers; then, he looked back up to her and spoke.
“...It’s like a donut.”
“Here we go,” Marta said quietly.
“Now,” he said, standing theatrically– whether he’d ignored her or not heard her, Marta couldn’t quite tell– “before you started editing this, the script had a number of gaping holes in the middle.”
Marta nodded.
“So… you had Jud help me.”
“Yes, and he did a good job,” Blanc repeated, gesturing to the script. “And upon first glance, the hole appears to be filled. The story makes sense– it flows well– it’s fit for publishing, and yet…”
Marta blinked at him.
“But?”
His gaze turned dark.
“And yet… it falls flat,” he said. “Because inside of that donut hole, there is a second, even smaller donut hole that has yet to be filled.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he monologued to himself.
“It’s like… a missing glaze. No filling– just dough. And it’s good dough, but– it doesn’t taste like a donut! It’s missing something– something…”
“So… what?” Marta asked, seeming frustrated by her own inabilities. “It needs more flavour?”
“Indeed!” he said, with a flash of something in his eyes. “It just needs that— that last little oomph. Character. The book needs to come alive.”
He seemed to dwell on this for a moment, as if trying to conjure up some old image in his mind; but he returned moments later seemingly blank, staring at Marta with a look of loss in his face. Because for all her intelligence, Marta was not dramatic; she’d never been able to afford being dramatic– and the humility in her soul demanded that those around her be treated as humans, distinctly separate from monsters, not understanding well enough how often the two lines converged in cases of murder and deceit.
She gave another of many sighs, peering down at the manuscript.
“Look, Blanc,” she admitted, “it’s hopeless. I told you, I should just sell it off to–”
“No!” he exclaimed.
Then, sighing– “Look, we’ve talked about this. You can sell it off if you really want, if you think it’s not worth the hassle, but– even if you published it now, it’s a fine book. All you need is– is some flame, some spark, that…”
He stopped suddenly; the gears began turning in his head.
“...Blanc?” Marta asked.
“Spark,” he repeated.
Then, with a mumble, he turned away from her and pulled out his phone.
“Can you make it quick? I’ve got a job interview– I gotta leave in ten.”
Helen took a long, lengthy chug from the bottle of Kombucha in her hand, then sat it down, hurrying to the other room to find a comb.
Blanc merely stood by the door, watching her flail.
“A job interview?” he said, peering at the bottle. “What’s that fo–?”
“Liquid courage!” she interrupted, from the other room; then, comb in hand, she dashed back in.
He held up a hand in protest.
“No, no– don’t bother getting ready,” he said. “I’ve got you a job. A writing job.”
Helen raised a disbelieving eyebrow, then scoffed.
“A writing job? In New York? Doubt it,” she said; it probably would have sounded rude to Blanc if he wasn’t convinced that Helen was incapable of being rude on purpose. “This is the first callback I’ve had in months.”
He frowned.
He had been wondering why she hadn’t been in contact with him much since the case. The offer had been open to her as much as Jud and Marta, but most of the time she’d made some excuse– being booked up with some appointment or another, having interview after interview about what happened that night on the island.
Blanc hadn’t doubted that was true; in hindsight, though, he wondered if she hadn’t wanted to concern him with any long-term financial nerves.
Then again, he thought… based on the state of her room… if the envelope scheme had taught her cautiousness, it must have been relegated to financial over physical.
He shut the front door behind him, stepping tentatively around a pile of laundry that looked like it hadn't been touched in at least a year.
“Months?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes bitterly.
“I told you,” she said. “Nobody respectable wants to hire the girl involved in Kleargate.”
She said the last part with a hint of mockery in her voice; the corner of Blanc’s mouth quirked up. It had been a while, but he was glad she hadn’t lost her disdain for high society.
“It’s a good salary,” he said. “Client’s paying 20,000 for one book. You’ll be on a team, too– it’s practically already written.”
“Then why do they need me?” she asked, doing her best to mask her streak of insecurity with indifference.
“Because you’ve got spark.”
This finally made her stop in her tracks.
Blazer slung over her shoulder, she looked at Blanc– really looked at him.
“I’ve got a what now?”
“You’ve got spark!” he insisted. “These people, they– they’ve got a great story, a brilliant story, but they’re missing fun. They’re missing– what do you call it?-- missing personality. And you– you know all about personality.”
She gave another disbelieving smirk, though she continued to entertain him.
“I’m a third grade teacher. Only characters I know about are from storybooks and videogames.”
“Not true!” he objected. “When you became Andi on that island, you–”
…He hesitated, seeing her tense up at the mention of her sister; mentally, he hit himself.
Sore subject. Of course it was– no amount of time could heal that.
He continued, gentler.
“--when you… did that, you were amazing. Studied her to a tee; Helen, you became her.”
He gestured wildly. “It’s like– you were in that one musical my husband likes– what’s it called? The– ‘I could have danced all night’-- y’know– the, uh, the Fair Lady!”
She sighed.
“But that was Andi,” she protested. “And that was just Rich Bitch. I couldn’t do that for anyone else– hell, let alone a story.”
“Then you can be a muse!” he said. “The meat’s already there. All they need is personality. You’ve got bite– you’re exactly what they’re looking for.”
Helen peered up at him, clasping her hands around the bottle again.
“...I’m what they’re looking for?” she asked, confused. “Me? You’re sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I told them about you already– about the case, about your charm. They offered the 20,000 on the spot. Lots of opportunity for promotion, too, if you do a good job.”
For the first time, she seemed to genuinely consider it.
“...It’s not super stable,” she said, “but 20,000 is a lot.”
He nodded, sitting back on her sofa.
She stood, silent, for a moment– then, she turned to him.
“Do they need me right now?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said. “You have time to pack your things. It’s on the other side of town; I can drive you over.”
She thought about it.
Then, with that spark in her eyes Blanc had grown accustomed to--
“Do I have time to go to that interview first?”
He thought about it for a moment.
“Well, it depends,” he said, fishing for the remote from between empty alcohol bottles. “Can I use your Netflix?”
“You’re really going to sell it?” Blanc asked.
Marta nodded.
“It went well,” she said, taking a sip of wine as she peered down longingly at the book, “but I can’t make them go out of their way again for me.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll volunteer,” Blanc said. “I know Phillip would. He’s been itching to paint more cover art since you approved this one.”
He gestured to the book before him; no longer a manuscript, but a fully-finished hardback attributed to Harlan Thrombey. The name had been a suitable compromise– Jud and Andi had already insisted on pseudonyms for themselves, and Marta gained nothing from seeing her name everywhere on the news a second time, so it served the purpose well enough.
The cover pattern in question was a lovely piece; an image of foxglove in a field that didn't give too much away about the plot, but was just relevant enough to catch the eye of the regular reader. Phillip, himself, had been delighted by it-- and though Blanc himself had no eye for art, he'd been quite happy for him.
“I can give his name to whoever I sell it to,” Marta offered.
Blanc shook his head.
“It just wouldn’t be the same,” he said. “It’s not yours.”
Marta nodded, smiling wistfully.
“Well, I’m not a good storyteller.”
“Oh, no. You’re a good storyteller,” he said. “And you’re good with delegation. I can solve a case on my own, but you can’t tell a story without true introspection.”
She smiled– and, really, he knew he should leave it. This was Marta’s choice, Marta’s decision, and he was all for letting her make her own decision.
…But something prompted him to say just one more thing.
“You sure you’d never reconsider?” he asked. “Just one more book?”
She shook her head, shutting her eyes with a sense of control.
“Jud has the Parish,” she said. “Helen has her new job. You have your cases.”
“And you?”
Marta looked up suddenly.
“...Well, I…”
She froze suddenly, looking like a deer in the headlights.
Her lip wobbled a little; her eyes watered slightly.
Blanc frowned.
“Marta?”
Suddenly, she went pale; then, with a mortified gasp, she pressed a hand to her mouth and darted out of her seat.
“--Shit!!!”
Blanc rose after her, feet loud against the wooden floor; chairs rattled, doors swung open, and before Blanc knew it, he was rubbing her back as she puked into the toilet.
She fell to her knees; she dry-heaved, gasped for air;
then, swallowing tightly, she looked with mortification into the basin.
“...I’m sorry,” she breathed shakily. “I…”
She shuddered, silent; but Blanc’s eyes were firmly on her. He closed the door over, ajar; an odd sparkle of amusement graced his face.
“You little liar,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You have been reconsidering, haven’t you? You’re just too nervous to drag the others down by asking them for help.”
Marta shook slightly at the accusation, but she felt too groggy to lie. She slumped defeatedly against the toilet bowl.
“You don’t understand,” she said, quietly. “It’s not about that.”
Blanc looked at her– gentle, kind Marta, crumpled in a pile, teary-eyed– and knelt paternally beside her.
“Then make me understand,” he begged.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then,
“I read all of his books, Blanc,” she said quietly. “All of them. And what we published, it… it was great, but it wasn’t… him.”
She shook again, slightly– and for just a moment, Blanc saw a flicker of grief– grief for a lost friend, for someone dear– so profound and raw in her eyes that he felt blind for not ever having registered it properly before.
“Jud and Helen, they’re… they’re wonderful, but the foundation is wrong,” she managed; she struggled to keep her voice dignified, and the fear of not doing right by him seemed to flood its tone. “I’m not…”
She swallowed tight.
“I’m not Harlan.”
A silence passed over the two of them.
Then, with a gentleness in his voice,
“Horseshit.”
Marta sniffled.
“But I’m not,” she said, “I–”
“--Of course you’re not!”
His voice rose sharply; at the sound of his outrage, she looked up at him.
“Do you really think Harlan gave that company to you so you could make copies of his work?” he asked, voice sharp. “No. He gave it to you because you were a friend, Marta! He gave it to you because you’re a good person. He knew that whatever you’d do with it, whether your stories were Shakespeare or pure slop, you’d do it with integrity.”
He looked her in the eyes; then, seeing her expression, he softened.
“...Look,” he said. “You can sell the company, if you’d really like– give it away, hire others to oversee it. But don’t sell it because you think he’s not proud of you. The second you picked up that pen, the second you decided you wanted to carry on his legacy yourself and opened your door to these others– you already proved yourself.”
Marta’s expression relaxed; then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around his torso and buried herself in his chest.
A while passed, the two of them just sat together like that.
Then, in the silence–
“--You really think so?”
Blanc gave a gentle smile.
“I know so,” he said.
“...Now, are you going to help me drink the rest of that wine?”
Marta gave a sudden, genuine laugh– and a sudden feeling of satisfaction welled in Blanc’s chest. It was the same high he chased in all his cases; the satisfaction, the solution, the loose ends all being tied up.
To the next, he thought to himself, standing up to follow Marta– to the next.