Chapter Text
Helen rifled through a stack of children’s paintings of snow scenes until her (now glitter-covered) keys fell out onto her desk.
“You’re headin’ out now?” Pamela asked, sticking her head into Helen’s classroom. Helen marvelled again at the small moments of everyday life that had felt so distant the last time she’d made this drive, when a return to in-person students and nosy co-workers had started to seem like an impossibility. It reminded her to smile gently at her colleague instead of rolling her eyes.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s a long drive up to New York.”
“You’ll get there well before Christmas,” Pamela said, wandering into the classroom and collecting an abandoned mitten from underneath a desk. She tossed it into the lost and found box.
“Well, it isn’t a Christmas party,” Helen said. She shook her keys with the resigned feeling that she’d have glitter on everything she owned soon anyway. “It’s a solstice party.” She found her water bottle behind a folder of permission slips and took a long drink.
“Folks in the city are awful queer about holidays,” Pamela said. Helen raised an eyebrow.
“Sure,” she said. “Because down here, everyone is so normal about ‘em.” Pamela laughed.
“That’s true,” she agreed. “Well, safe driving. You know how to drive in snow, right?” Helen considered the honest concern written across Pamela’s wrinkled face.
“I’ll manage,” she said. “I gotta go, Pam, but I’ll see you after the holidays.”
“Merry Christmas!” Pamela called after her as she darted out to her car. Her suitcase was already in the seat next to her, ready for a quick exit after the students’ early release. She slid into the driver’s seat, checking the mirrors and pausing to slide her favorite CD into the ageing stereo system.
Her phone buzzed. She frowned, fishing it out of her purse. It was a text in the group chat from Phillip, of all people.
Good afternoon, everyone. I apologize for the late notice, but something urgent has come up and we are unable to host you all for the solstice. Please know that it has nothing to do with any of you, and we look forward to reconnecting soon.
Helen put her car back into park, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Sure, Blanc tended to vanish from contact for weeks if he got a new case, but he was pretty good about reaching out beforehand. And he’d never had Phillip make his apologies before.
Another text popped up, this one from Jud in the group chat without the Blanc’s.
That seem strange to anyone else?
They’d chatted quite a bit over the last few years, even meeting up occasionally, and Helen smiled faintly as she pictured the frown lines that were surely visible on Jud’s face.
Blanc is always strange, Marta sent immediately. Her typing bubbles appeared and disappeared a few times. But this isn’t like him, she sent at last.
It wasn’t. And Blanc had promised Helen that she wouldn’t spend the holidays alone, though it was likely no one else knew that. Jud had his flock, and Marta her family, but Helen had returned from the Glass Onion to checked-out Zoom students and flighty co-workers who didn’t want anything to do with a teacher who’d helped bring down Miles Bron. Since then, Blanc had been a surprisingly stable presence, and introduced her to Marta and later Jud.
Something’s definitely wrong, she sent. He would have told me if he’d taken a case.
No one disputed it.
What should we do? Jud asked. I have until Christmas Eve before I have to be back.
I’m going to head there anyway, Helen typed, suddenly sure of it. I can find somewhere else to stay if they really can’t host.
It could be a personal thing, Jud sent. Maybe someone is sick? I’m not sure we should overstep.
I have a weird feeling about this, Marta sent. I’ll meet you there, Helen.
Helen put the car into drive, turned up her music, and started the long drive.
She’d planned to stop for the night, but much like the first desperate drive to Blanc’s apartment she passed through that town without stopping.
At a gas station, many hours later, she realized her phone had died and plugged it back in. It woke up with a flurry of buzzes and pings as messages in multiple chats started to come through.
In the chat with everyone, Jud had sent:
No worries, Phillip. Is everything alright?
Phillip had replied only with:
It’s fine.
In their private chat Jud and Marta had then gone back and forth.
Jud: I called Blanc and he didn’t pick up.
Marta: Phillip is being strange, too.
Jud: Who’s the closest?
Marta: Helen must still be driving. I’ll leave now.
Jud: Should we… call the cops?
Marta: Not yet. We don’t know anything, and we don’t want to get Blanc in trouble.
Unspoken, the acknowledgement that he was guilty of at least police obstruction most of the time and had definitely shielded all three of them from poorly timed police actions.
Jud: I’m still wrapping things up at Our Lady of Perpetual Grace. I can’t get away.
Marta: I’m on my way. I’ll be there in five hours.
That was the most recent message, and Helen checked the timestamp. Only fifteen minutes ago, which meant she would probably get there around the same time as Marta.
She called her, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she watched the gas meter run.
“Helen?” Marta answered immediately. “Are you there already?”
“I’m getting gas,” Helen said. “I’m about five hours out.”
“Me too,” Marta said. “I’m not sure what our plan is when we get there, though.”
“I know.” Helen had been thinking about pistol shots and poisoned drinks since she started driving.
“But what else can we do?” Marta continued, like she had borrowed the words right out of Helen’s head.
“I know,” Helen said again. “Is pepper spray legal in New York? I picked some up at the last gas station.”
“Helen, I’m from Boston. I have no idea. Google it.”
“Google it,” Helen muttered, putting the phone on speakerphone so she can type and talk. “You’re so helpful.” Marta laughed, a little of the strain fading from her tone.
“I have a stun gun,” she confessed. “After the first attempted break-in at the manor, Blanc gave it to me and helped me set up the licenses. Since he brought it with him, I’m assuming they’re legal in NYC.”
“They are not,” Helen said, juggling her phone awkwardly as she tried to close her gas tank. “Pepper spray is, at least specific kinds.” She let her voice turn sardonic. “I Googled it.”
“Where the hell did he buy it?” Marta mused. “Well, I didn’t bring it anyway. I was on the road before we realized Phillip was being so strange.”
“I’m leaving now,” Helen said. “I don’t have your fancy hands-free phone car setup-“
“It’s just a dashboard mount,” Marta interjected.
“-but I have to hang up while I drive. Should we meet outside their apartment?”
“Okay,” Marta said. “Drive safe.” Concern hung heavy in her tone, the assumption that none of them were voicing. Something had happened to Benoit Blanc.
When Helen pulled up, Marta’s car was in one of the guest spots. It was empty. Helen cursed under her breath, fumbling the pepper spray and her phone as she got out of the car and locked it behind her.
The doorman recognised her, giving her a smile as he let her in. The building had an eerie stillness to it, and Helen fidgeted nervously for the entire interminable elevator ride.
Finally, she stepped off onto the correct floor and bolted for the apartment door.
She knocked once, then thought of calling. She didn’t have time to reach for her phone, though, as the door flew open immediately. She whipped the pepper spray up, holding it out in front of her like a shield. On the other side of the door, Marta yelped and dodged to the side.
“It’s me!” she said. Helen lowered the small canister, adrenaline racing in her blood.
“Well?” she asked, stepping inside as Marta shut the door hastily behind her. Her expression was grim.
“It’s bad,” she said.
“He’s not-“ Helen had tried to prepare herself for it, the shock of a still, familiar body. She knew nothing she had done in the car would shield her, that the ache would ring through her bones just like it had done last time. But instant, warm sympathy chased some of the hardness from Marta’s expression.
“No, no,” she said hastily. “He’s not dead. But he’s missing. Come in here.”
With the world no longer narrowing down to a single point, Helen finally noticed the state of the apartment. It was absolutely trashed, potted plants smashed on the ground and the kitchen covered in flour and sugar that had apparently been poured out of the large jars.
“What happened?”
“I found it like this,” Phillip said, emerging out of the study. “I came home from the store and it was trashed.” His shirt was rumpled, his hair messy. He had dirt and flour on the knees of his pants, and bloodstains on one sleeve.
“Is he-“ Helen gestured at his sleeve. “Are you okay, Phillip?”
“I patched him up,” Marta said, settling a hand on the older man’s shoulder. It looked for a second like it was all that was tethering him.
“I cut my hand on some broken glass,” Phillip said. Helen eyed the bandages wrapped around his knuckles and the fist-sized hole in the office wall and didn’t say a word. “Anyway, this sort of thing has happened before. A lot. I knew some of you were leaving today, so I texted you and then started to check the usual suspects.” He leaned on the counter, glancing around at the chaos.
“The board?” Marta prompted, and he nodded. They led Helen into the study, which was usually dominated by a huge, intricate world map on one wall. Now the map had been turned around to reveal a list, hundreds of items written in Blanc’s spidery handwriting. Many of them had been crossed off.
“He keeps a list of people he’s pissed off enough they might retaliate,” Phillip said. With a deep sigh, he added “It’s sorted by date.” Helen stepped closer and squinted at the entries. Sure enough, ‘Miles Bron, 2020’ was written neatly amongst the others. Below that, all of the Shitheads were listed as well. Marta stepped up next to her, tapping a finger on ‘Thrombey family, 2019’ for a moment.
“I’ve been going through and investigating them,” Phillips said, waving a black dry-erase pen. Helen switched her focus, looking at some of the crossed-out items.
“Chicago Mafia?” Marta read, voice rising with concern. “KGB?”
“Charles from two floors down,” Helen read, and Phillip shook his head.
“Don’t ask,” he said with a sigh. He collapsed into the one cleared chair in the room, running his uninjured hand through his hair and consequently dusting it with flour. “I’ve checked all the usual places he vanishes to, and there’s nothing. No one knows where he went, no new project captured his attention, no one heard about a new case, and his phone was on the kitchen table when I got back.”
“Whoever trashed this place didn’t take his phone?” Helen asked, taking the notebook out of her jacket pocket. “That seems strange.”
“I didn’t see any signs of a struggle,” Marta said, with a pained glance at Phillip. “No, y'know, blood or anything.”
“He didn’t leave me a note, not even in our usual secret places,” Phillip added. “So he didn’t leave on his own. Someone was with him.”
“Someone was with him when he left,” Helen mused, tapping her pencil against the pad of paper. “Someone he didn’t trust enough to leave a note in front of, but he trusted enough to leave without a struggle.”
“A client,” Marta and Phillip said in unison.
“A trap,” Helen added. “But surely he would have worked out that it was a trap?”
“If the client was really in trouble,” Phillip said, shoulders curling inward the slightest amount. “Knowing it was a trap wouldn’t stop him, the big lump.” His voice cracked on the last word
“Okay,” Marta said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We have a lot of people with motive, but we think whoever he left with came in here. Shouldn’t we call the police now, have them look for evidence?”
Phillip reached out, tapping a bandaged finger against a name on the list.
“This is the New York City Police Commissioner,” he said. “Blanc worked a case around racial profiling a few months ago. You’ll find big names from the FBI on here too.”
“I thought he worked for the police, loosely?” Helen said, surprised.
“He’s technically a private investigator,” Phillip said. “Honestly, he’s probably pissed off half the cops in the city. They let him assist because they know he’s damn good at his job and because he’s hard to keep out of a crime scene. He’s always said-“ he hesitated, his voice taking on a ghost of Blanc’s drawl. “I am accountable to the police and the courts, but I don’t work for them.”
“We’ll find him,” Marta said firmly. “He’s helped enough people. We can find some who are ready to help him back.” Helen nodded, tapping one hand consideringly against the back of the list. Something cold brushed against her finger.
“Can you turn the map back around?” Helen asked. Marta and Phillip moved quickly, lifting and flipping the unwieldy canvas. Under Helen’s finger, something metal was pressed into the map, torn through the canvas so only the edge shone amongst the gilding. Marta stepped forward, taking tweezers out of the open first aid kit on the table and pulling gently at the object. It came free easily, a coin. Helen’s stomach sank as she recognised it.
“Oh, he was always fidgeting with that,” Marta said softly. “During the whole case.” It wasn’t American currency, but before Helen could get a clear look at it Phillip took it in gentle fingers.
“I gave it to him,” he said. “I joked that he must be wearing through the pound coin he was always playing with. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him put it down idly.”
Helen was examining the map.
“You still haven’t,” she said, tapping her finger on the hole the coin had left in the map. “England. That’s somewhere to start.”