Chapter Text
Chapter One: The News
Like any good journalist, Moxie made it her business, if not her solemn duty, to keep up with news from the city. She would skim the morning papers over breakfast; all of the good ones (of which there were few) and some of the mediocre ones (many), with a smattering of abysmal for good measure. Sometimes he had columns in the theatre review section and though they gave away nothing about what he was doing now beyond ‘theatre reviews’, she read them anyway, as if hoping for a detail. On this particular morning she picked one from the middle of the pile and unfolded it, sipping her tea as she did. Upon seeing the headline, her face, her hand shook, but she held the teacup tightly and set it down with caution, pouring over the article more intently.
“Oh Snicket, you fool,” she muttered. “What the hell have you got yourself into?”
‘Critic, Author, Arsonist?’ the headline read. The picture on the front page was familiar, more from author portraits than Moxie’s own firsthand experience of the man, so long ago. Despite her own curiosity, she couldn’t help wishing they’d put more effort into the alliteration. ‘Asshole’ would fit so perfectly well. Harsh though it was, it was the most fitting description for someone who pushed a man to his death and then vanished without much else, leaving more mysteries and questions in his wake, many of which Moxie hadn’t been able to answer even now.
According to the article, Snicket had been found at the scene of several fires but had got away, which shouldn’t have made Moxie feel such a rush of pride in her former associate and did. And she knew whatever the facts were, this newspaper the Daily Punctilio, was getting them all awry. As a member of VFD, there was no way Snicket would burn down any buildings, least of all a library among them. While there was a schism within VFD, Moxie knew, she also knew without a doubt on which side Snicket fell. He made questionable choices and he was a damned idiot but he was to the core a basically decent person who cared deeply about the right thing to do. He didn’t set those fires, someone had made it look like he had to force him on the run. They had to have a reason for it. Still, it was no real surprise to find out that, even now, Snicket was still making enemies, apparently on a larger scale than before.
They weren’t children anymore.
It wasn’t worth calling a meeting over; what could they do? Prove Snicket’s innocence? It was likely there were people already working on that, actual trained members of VFD. Find him? Good luck with that, Moxie had tried in vain before now. Besides, such an undertaking could compromise Snicket’s position. It was with a nagging, sickening feeling in her gut that Moxie made the decision to keep quiet. Instead, she ran an article about ‘notorious troublemaker’ Lemony Snicket whose days in Stain’d-by-the-Sea had been ‘coloured with chaos and crime’ (now that was how you alliterated), giving the piece a distinctly anti-Snicket feel in case anyone was watching. Satisfied with her handiwork, she sent it to print - with a tiny code at the end, in case by some chance he saw a copy, so he knew he could rely on her for help.
She read the case over again, from a number of papers and angles. One called for Snicket to hand himself over. One called for the press to re-evaluate their rapid conclusions. The case was complicated and not Moxie’s problem. Snicket wasn’t her problem. Not anymore, and he hadn’t been for a long time.
The first person to call her was Pip, though he clarified he was calling on behalf of his brother too, who was hovering over his shoulder and kept chiming in.
“Is it true? I heard on the radio that Snicket’s a wanted man.”
“Tell her about the passengers I had,” Squeak hissed.
“My brother had a fare this morning, two men in suits asking if we’d seen one Lemony Snicket. They said they were from some government agency. But they weren’t very convincing liars. One of them had no hands and until prosthetics improve, I doubt a double amputee would be able to get far in that sort of profession, if you follow.”
Moxie did. “I suppose they asked you to inform them if Snicket came by.”
“They said he was dangerous,” Squeak interjected. “No surprises there. And gave me a number to call, for a Detective Alton Cufo. They asked when I saw him last.”
Wrong question. “What did you tell them?”
“That we gave him a ride to catch a train out of town,” Squeak replied. “And we thought it better that he didn’t come back.”
Moxie nodded, even though she knew it was a highly redundant gesture on the phone. She nodded because she knew all gestures were redundant on the phone and it was not intended to be perceived by anyone, rather it was self-confirmation. “I wrote an article smearing his name. With any luck, nobody will suspect we’re on his side.”
“Do you think he did it?” Pip asked tentatively. “You always knew him best.”
“Inasmuch as anyone knew him,” Moxie muttered snidely. She sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t think he did it, no. He wouldn’t.”
Pip breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I thought so.”
“Who did, then?” Squeak asked the wrong question. In her mind’s eye, an idiomatic expression which here means in her head, in her wildest imagination, Moxie pictured a young boy she had thought she used to know and never really did. She pictured him correcting Squeak for asking the wrong question. ‘That’s the wrong question’, he’d say, and then he’d ask the right one because he was Lemony Snicket and he was the sharpest of them all. Deny it though he might.
The right question wasn’t ‘who set all the fires?’ or ‘why would they frame Lemony Snicket?’ (the answer to the latter being, of course, because he was Lemony Snicket). The right question was ‘where is Lemony Snicket and what is he going to do next?’
Moxie was not Lemony Snicket and not entirely sure this actually was the right question and whether the right question should be ‘what can we do to help him?’ She therefore didn’t correct Squeak.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “But if anything, I probably blame Ellington Feint.”
-
The rest of the phone calls went along similar lines; people had been asking about Lemony Snicket around town. They’d asked Prosper Lost to keep an eye out in the hotel, they’d been seen colluding with the Mitchums. Cleo had warned her children about him and also the whole town in the process, Jake had added him to a list of banned patrons. Ornette had made an origami ‘wanted’ figure using several large sheets of intricately folded paper. Kellar had put up wanted posters around town and inserted a similar ad in the next issue of The Stain’d Lighthouse , again with a code hopefully only Snicket and Snicket alone would see. All of them were acting as hostile as possible, while attempting to still be of possible use to Snicket. All of them were eager to be of use if he needed them. This should have made Moxie feel sour and to a point it did. After all this time, they were still running around after Snicket, perfectly willing to put themselves on the line (Cleo and Jake had the children to worry about, so were less willing, but the others were ready as ever). And after all this time, Snicket remained his ridiculous, enigmatic self, holding himself aloof, distant.
He never contacted any of them. Rationally Moxie knew it wasn’t safe for him to, but it stung anyway, as much as it used to sting every time he went chasing Ellington Feint, against Moxie’s better judgement instead as paying attention to her loyal, unwavering feelings toward him. Now that had stung. Then he was gone and she’d missed him for so long, had read his columns and bought his books for a semblance of contact; that and she needed to keep up with the news and with regards the books, they were written by Snicket after all and so were bound to be good books.
The enquiring strangers called on Moxie last of all. They asked about the nature of her relationship with him, which she defined as business, back in the day. They asked when she had last seen him.
“I’ve not spoken to him since I was thirteen.”
“But you were associates?” the leader of the pair asked, single long eyebrow cocking.
Moxie shrugged carelessly. “I don’t think I want to be associated with someone who pushes men to their death and burns down buildings. Rest assured, gentleman, he will get no help from me .”
Because he won’t ask for it , she thought bitterly, turning this bitterness into venom and making it seem like she was angry at Snicket. It didn’t take much acting because she was, just not the same kind of anger she was framing it as. They left town not long after, convinced this was a place that thoroughly despised Lemony Snicket.
Moxie just had to hope they hadn’t done too good a job, and that Snicket could see their messages. If he was even looking for them.
She had to hope.
There was little enough else she could do.
-
Some time went by, with no word from Snicket. Though that was only to be expected. Silence from Snicket was the status quo. In fact, it had been over a year with only occasional updates in the news on how Snicket seemed to have eluded capture once again, gradually shifting from front page to a little way in. Of course he could give everyone the runaround. Hadn’t he had an unusual education?
It was some surprise, then, when Moxie recognised his picture on the front of the Daily Punctilio, that sincere face she could recognise elements of her old friend in (was he an old friend? She liked to think he was, that what they’d been had been stronger than mere associates, not that there was anything fundamentally weak about the bonds of association). She grabbed the paper keenly, this was after all incredibly important.
Her eyes landed on the headline and she recoiled in shock and horror.
Immediately she moved to the phone and called Cleo, for the simple reason that she could tell Jake too, kill two birds with one call, that and her name came first in the alphabet and it was as good a system as any. “Cleo. Have you seen the paper from the city?”
“No?”
“Meet at Hungry’s, ten o’clock.”
“Why-?” Cleo began.
“Kenneth Grahame,” Moxie replied simply and hung up.
Having ticked Cleo and Jake off, she dialled Kellar’s number next. He answered after a short time, sounding bleary and half-awake. “Hello? Who is this?”
“Kenneth Grahame,” Moxie answered. “Hungry’s, ten o’clock. We need to talk.”
“Alright alright - is everything alright?” Three alrights in one sentence. That was sloppy.
“No,” Moxie replied, and then hung up. The phone rang urgently and she ignored it, keying in Ornette’s number instead. “Ornette. Get to Hungry’s by ten. This is about Kenneth Grahame.”
“By that you mean Le-” mony Snicket, don’t you? was how the sentence would end and both of them knew it.
“Yes,” Moxie answered, and hung up.
The same happened with Pip and Squeak - called them, gave the meeting, namedropped Kenneth Grahame and hung up without another word. They were ready. She studied the article while her phone rang pleadingly and she resolutely ignored it.
‘Author and fugitive Lemony Snicket dead’. She didn’t believe it but reading on she felt her heart sink and what hope she had falter. The evidence seemed pretty conclusive. But Snicket couldn’t just die like that. He was too good at what he did, too sharp. He couldn’t just die, except he could and except he had. Had he? She called a few contacts she had in the industry, fact checking. All of them confirmed the articles. She tried to call other associates linked to Snicket through VFD but she didn’t know all the numbers and didn’t know if she could trust some of them and disqualified them on that count, and in the end she could only get through to one of them for sure. His sister. Kit.
“Your brother-” she started.
“Which?” Kit asked sharply. “The living one or otherwise?”
“So it’s true?”
Kit was silent. “It...seems to be. I looked into it. He’s not been seen, he had no way of escape this time. He’s not been in touch with anyone. Not even Beatrice. He’s gone. My baby brother.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He always spoke very highly of you, Miss Mallahan.”
“He didn’t like to talk about you.”
“I suppose he wouldn’t,” Kit sounded amused rather than offended. “L could be so sensitive about some things. He’d throw a fit if I called him L, for instance. Which was why I did it, I suppose.”
The thought of an indignant Lemony being offended at his sister giving him an affectionate nickname made Moxie smile despite herself. “He was something else, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He was.”
“I can’t help feeling like I could have done more-” Moxie began.
“How do you think I feel?” Kit retorted. “He was my little brother! Our parents told me to look after him.”
“He always did what he wanted,” Moxie remarked.
“No,” Kit corrected. “He did what he had to, whether he wanted to or not. He did what needed doing, no matter what anyone else said or how scared he was. He was so, so stubborn. I didn’t see him frequently, or at all lately. I thought I missed him. I was wrong. I miss him now.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Moxie.
Kit scoffed. “Not directly. But I’ll always feel guilty. Jacques is torn up over it too. It’s the line of work, isn’t it? We’re all in danger and you can forget it sometimes and then when you let yourself get complacent…” she trailing off.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Moxie said sincerely.
Kit was quiet. “Thank you,” she replied, and there was an awkward silence chasming between them, the kind of silence where both had things they wanted to say but neither knew quite how to say them. Pretty soon they made their goodbyes and ended the call, Moxie putting her phone back on the hook and staring grimly back at the article. She checked her watch. Her watch told her it was almost nine o’clock. One hour until the meeting. Her concentration was too fragmented to continue studying the newspapers or to do anything that required any concentration at all, even a simple crossword - she was yet to struggle with any from the Daily Punctilio, but even that wasn’t something she felt up to today.
She tried to busy herself with a million mindless distractions, tidy up, do the dishes, but she kept being drawn back to the papers, to that brutal headline that kept punching her in the heart.
It hit home. Her friend was dead. He’d once called her his prime associate. She’d pushed him away, rejected him and he was gone. She’d always wanted to speak to him again, to reconcile maybe and now she had no chance. He was gone.
No tears, Moxie , she told herself in young Lemony’s voice inside her head. Cry later. Right now you have to keep it together and make sure the others know.
With that she set off down to Hungry’s for the ten o’clock meeting, feeling very much like the bearer of bad news. She felt like this because she was.
She was about to drop a bombshell on them.
Cry later , she told herself in her own voice inside her head, straightening up, pulling herself together, and other synonyms for putting on a show that was actually a complicated way of coping. Coping is a process that here means adjusting to deal with grief so it does not take you with it. Grief is an all-consuming thing if you let it be, it can make good people do terrible things and bad people do even worse, or it can change them for the better or it might not change them at all and only cause a hole to open in the heart that rained tears each and every night. So people find ways of coping. This was one of those methods.
Postpone emotions for a more convenient time.
And then cry later.