Red Plum Parasol
Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist and am not making any profits from writing this fic.
When Cho returned from the kitchenette, he was just in time to catch his phone ringing. He was a few steps from his desk when he noticed something: a small yellow ball, soft and fluffy, resting harmlessly next to his electronic pencil sharpener. The toy chick had not been there before he went on his break.
The line of Cho's spine lengthened a fraction of an inch. The handset reverberated again.
In two short strides he was back in his chair. The chick was deposited in the adjacent trash can with one hand, while he picked up the receiver with the other.
"Cho," he stated blandly.
"It's Lisbon. I need you to check if the suspect had any accounts under the name of 'Clemence'- We're looking for a large transaction in the last six days."
"On it, Boss."
"We'll be back in about two hours."
No delay in response. "Ok." He hung up.
Lisbon noted that he was still being a hair's breadth more efficient than usual. This was not good. As she sat back in her carseat, she couldn't suppress a frown. This was as close to a full-blown argument that Cho and her had ever had.
A guilty little shadow spilled across her thoughts. No, she thought. She had to remain steadfast.
She was preparing him.
The SUV manoeuvred another deep slope in the narrow country road before the freeway fell into sight. The small town of Greenburg was now left far behind, obscured from view by the richly forested mountains. VanPelt held the steering wheel solidly, inwardly wincing whenever the car hit uneven ground.
"You're doing fine, VanPelt," Lisbon said warmly, from her seat behind the driver. She decided to stretch out her legs as she had the seat all to herself. They'd done a lot of walking today. Uphill. Downhill. And on rough terrain. If she was tired she wondered how Jane had faired.
She sneaked a glance at her consultant, sat upfront next to VanPelt. He looked relaxed, thoughtful. His gaze drawn to the vibrant heavily-leaved trees and vast grassy fields that rushed by his window. His suit was more crumpled than usual, but he didn't seem tired. Lisbon smiled at how he sat not with the air of another passenger, but someone being chauffeur-driven.
The events of the day washed over her.
The victim's home had been an eye-opener: a secluded glass and wood cube slotted into the side of a densely wooded hill. Mrs Rose, the victim's widow was a quietly alluring woman with creamy white, unblemished skin and large black eyes, slightly too large for her face. Though her eyelashes and eyebrows were fair, her hair was dyed a deep black. Jane had been enchanted/ disturbed by the woman's expansive collection of ornamental Japanese parasols.
In the main lounge, the paper sunshades dominated every inch of wall-space. He saw that they were stripped of their bamboo handles so that they could be mounted flat against the wall, forming rows of intricately painted circles. The colours were exquisite- plum reds with a sprinkling of delicate white cherry blossom, deep vivid blues. He ran a finger over the folds of an apple green one. The paper had a pleasing roughness.
The sheer number of parasols, however, was overwhelming. It looked like an armoury of paper shields.
Rigsby sat on a plump white couch, trying to take it all in.
"Do you like my collection, Agent Rigsby," Mrs Rose asked as she passed him a glass of chilled water.
"They're very nice, ma'am," he nodded in gratitude for the drink. She smiled warmly at him and popped a bright green cocktail umbrella in his glass. Jane smirked.
In the car, Rigsby tried to suppress a grunt of pain as VanPelt negotiated another pothole on the mountain road. Lisbon took pity on him and shrugged out of her jacket, balling it and wordlessly handing it over the headrest to him. He smiled sheepishly.
"Thanks, Boss," he said, as he put it under his ankle. She nodded and turned to face the front again. Jane had watched the entire exchange in the rear view mirror. His mischievous eyes tried to catch Lisbon's, but she pointedly ignored him.
"Those painkillers kicked in yet?" she asked.
"I think-yeah", he said, slowly pulling up the hem of his pants leg. "It's pretty swollen." VanPelt took her attention off the road for a second to throw him a sympathetic, that's-too-bad smile. Jane's grin grew to an indecent proportion.
"Yup," said Jane, appearing to look nonchalantly out of the passenger window. "Having the tip of an ornamental parasol being shoved into your ankle will do that to you."
Rigsby's hand twitched and he opened his mouth to say something, but VanPelt slapped Jane's arm. He gave a surprised yelp.
"Not nice, Jane," she chided.
"Just making a basic physiological observation, my dear Grace," he said, seemingly in all seriousness. A few more trees whizzed by. Grace adjusted the air-conditioning.
"And she was fair as is the rose in May," Jane spoke with a deep, affected timbre. Lisbon tried to appear wary, but was secretly impressed.
"Poetry corner. Nice." she quipped, deadpan.
"An elegant lady. A sociopath of course," he mused, "but not our usual, run-of-the-mill murderess." His features softened slightly in thought.
"Such a delicate little thing. Very genteel, didn't you think, Rigsby?" Jane curled his head around his headrest, his face beaming. He poked the ceiling of the car with his fingers.
"Jane," Lisbon growled.
"Don't worry, Rigsby. Nobody at the station need know who was responsible for your-," he waved his hand in the general direction of Rigsby's foot, "-assault". He didn't bother to keep out the hint of amusement from his voice.
"Well, actually they will, Jane," Lisbon started. "Rigsby will be making a full report." Rigsby looked slightly panicked.
Lisbon looked at his crestfallen face. She couldn't help but think that underneath the obvious physical pain, something else had hurt Rigsby today. She wanted to console him.
"You arrested her, Rigsby- in the end, I mean. That's all I'm interested in. That's all anyone should be interested in." Lisbon eyed Jane for the last sentence. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling warmly. Beautifully inappropriate. He settled back in his seat as a glittering lake swung into view. He marvelled at the expanse of clear water.
"And such thin wrists," he murmured.
Rigsby groaned. Pitifully.
Lisbon found it hard to deny her guilt in the episode. She thumbed the edge of her blackberry, ensconced once again in her thoughts. She had realised, almost as soon as Jane had, that Mrs Rose was implicated in her husband's murder. Perhaps she should have warned Rigsby, when he accompanied Mrs. Rose to the station. The widow had been told it was to identify her husband's bloodied watch. It was a lie.
Jane had waited until he was sure the pair were close to the lake- and in reach of Mrs Rose's boat, before he rang them. Rigsby had relayed Jane's news to the widow: a new witness had given a crystal-clear description of her husband's attacker. Her response had been as fast as it had been brutal.
Rigsby had always had a soft spot for damsels in distress. Lisbon thought it was endearing. He was a good detective, but he'd missed the signs today, the cracks in the widow's facade. She had a ruthlessness that spiked the sweeping softness of her timid appearance.
It had gone unnoticed by Rigsby. He had a tendency to idealise the delicate feminine creatures who occasionally crossed his path, saw only their rose-petal fragility. After today, he'd probably be more observant.
Lisbon felt bad for him. It was hard to bury a lifetime's way of seeing and understanding the world around you. Her stomach felt hollow and she hoped that the case-closed pizza would help a bit. But she knew hunger wasn't the root cause of her unease.
The guilty shadow didn't recede from her mind, so she refocused her thoughts.
It was a hard lesson, but Rigsby had to be ready.
She was preparing him.
Quote, "And she was fair as is the rose in May." -Geoffrey Chaucer