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“Sure,” Jeffrey said.
This was a bit of a block in the road.
Even still, it wasn’t enough to make him give up.
“A few people said that she even delivered them news that eventually came true,” the man continued. “And this made even more people head her way. You know how news spreads. It’s such a thing, isn’t it? She never needed to advertise herself, force anyone her way, I guess because so many people are fascinated with the future anyway. Me, I’m not so fascinated with it. I’m happy with the here-and-now. The past didn’t give me anything I didn’t use. You know?”
**
Outside, Charlotte remained apprehensive. She hadn’t thought through what she might do when Jeffrey disappeared, but as she waited, she felt continually out in the open, a bit awkward in her body.
She decided to walk towards the far end of the block, perhaps pace for a moment, then return to the brasserie once more. But as she shot in that direction, a burly-looking man cut through the back property of another business and appeared before her. Immediately, she stopped short, her hands turning into fists.
The man before her was the investigator into Brooks’ murder. Charles Baxter.
Within seconds, he stood before her. Their eyes held onto one another’s. Charlotte could feel it: her cheeks burned brightly with embarrassment.
“Good afternoon, Charlotte,” Charles Baxter said.
“And to you,” she returned. Her voice quivered. Before this, Charlotte wouldn’t have said that she was frightened of Charles Baxter at all. After all, weren’t they meant to be on the same team? But there was something about the investigator’s eyes. Something that told her he’d been watching her.
She couldn’t fully explain, even to herself, why she felt this way.
“This is quite a surprise, finding you here outside the brasserie,” Charles Baxter said. “I must admit, I didn’t expect it.”
“I didn’t expect to see you, either,” Charlotte said. Again, she couldn’t control her voice at all.
“Why, may I ask, are you here? So alone and without a chaperone?” he asked.
This was a difficult question to answer. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned her eyes towards the fabric store. “My chaperone is just there, shopping for fabric for her wedding gown.”
“I see. And why aren’t you there with her?”
“It’s a bit of a complicated story,” Charlotte said. She delivered a large smile, praying that this would shift the mood of their conversation.
“And why is that?”
“My mother has enraged the fabric store owner,” she recited.
“Enraged?”
“She has got into so many tiffs with him it seems that every member of our family has been forbidden,” Charlotte said.
“That’s an outlandish sentiment. Are you quite sure?”
“Incredibly. When I walked in just minutes ago, he informed me that I had to leave. I’ve just walked this main street for a good while, waiting for my chaperone and my dear friend to finish.”
“That’s troubling,” Charles Baxter said.
“Perhaps. But not as troubling as my dear cousin’s murder,” she returned. “I don’t suppose you’ve found any new news? The lady who wrote that love letter, perhaps?”
Charles Baxter tilted his head. “Unfortunately, that letter proved itself to be a dead end.”
“How on earth could a letter like that be a dead end?” Charlotte demanded suddenly.
“It simply is.”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched with rage. “Mr Baxter, I must inform you that you’re incorrect. That letter opens up the truth behind Brooks’ murder. I know it.”
