On Lower Belgrave Street, there is a tiny office that hardly gets much notice from anyone. Of course, this makes a great deal of sense as the words CLOSED FOR REPAIRS are spray painted on the front window, but some people put things on their windows for strange reasons. Like those people who drive in front of you and have stickers that say BLACK SABBATH or I BRAKE FOR WHALES. As if there are going to be any whales in the middle of the road --
But that's not the point.
The point is, that while people were making sure to ignore the shop that was obviously closed, (but it really wasn't closed because some people think it's necessary to disguise certain types of businesses) Friday Lawrence was sitting inside it and praying that someone would come in... or call... or give her something to do other than type letters to her employer's mother. Being the secretary of a flamboyant Private Investigator was not at all what it was cracked up to be.
It wasn't that Brewster Ackerly-Tate was difficult, really. He was just...
"Miss Lawrence, wake up, dear... Mum will want to know all about my new kitten, Mr. Fluffenstuff..."
...Very, very strange.
Friday looked up at Detective Ackerly-Tate in immense puzzlement, and he looked down at her with a small degree of superiority... or maybe just giddiness that he had added another ball of fur to his collection of disgustingly sweet animals. Either way, she poised her hands above the keyboard of her laptop and raised an eyebrow.
"Dear Mumsey," said the Detective taking hold of the lapel of his suit coat with one hand, and waving the other one around madly. "Today I found the most adorable creature alive!"
Dear Mumsey, wrote Friday. Today I met the most interesting man -- and so attractive!
It didn't matter what she typed. She never sent the letters to his mother, on the account that she would never want to hear such things from her son, if she ever had one. So she entertained herself by writing anything she pleased and opening them when she was at home. More than once she had paused to wonder if Detective Ackerly-Tate could ever actually do any of the things she pretended he was doing.
Most of the time, the answer was yes.
"... He's orange and white, and has the most incredible blue eyes..."
He's very pale, with shocking orange hair, but he makes up for that with his incredibly sexy blue eyes...
And just as the Detective was getting to the part of the story where he adopted Mr. Fluffenstuff and bought him a lovely pink collar with a dainty little bow perched on top, a mysterious noise came from the area of a desk drawer.
Detective Ackerly-Tate paused, his finger pointed straight into the air. Friday held her breath, and waited...
B-r-r-r-r-r-ring!
The Detective lowered his eyebrows. "Is that," he said carefully, "the telephone?"
Friday opened the drawer from which the noise was making itself known, and found a gray, cordless phone receiver vibrating atop several magazines. She decided to do the bold, unthinkable thing and answer it.
"Brewster Ackerly-Tate, Private Investigator -- this is Friday, how may I help you?"
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "... I thought it was Tuesday,"
The voice of the man -- the older and easily confused -- she was speaking to sounded incredibly bewildered, and Friday chuckled to herself before she replied.
"It is Tuesday, sir, but this is Friday."
"... But you just said it was Tuesday!"
Before she could attempt to explain that Friday was her name, however, Detective Ackerly-Tate snatched the phone from her hands and proceeded to get information from whoever it was that needed his services.
"Detective Ackerly-Tate, speaking," he said in the usual, joyous tone. "Yes... Yes, I will travel... Of course." A pause. "US, you say? Smashing. Can-do, thank you very much for calling, sir. I will do my best to find her."
And then he turned off the phone.
"...So," Friday said.
"...So," the Detective said.
This was usually the way conversations went, when the two of them weren't busy writing letters to Mumsey. This was also one of the many reasons Friday was glad that she didn't have to work very often.
"So, who was that?"
"Customer," he replied lightly, as though they had customers all the time.
"And his name was...?"
"Thomas Swann," the Detective said. "We're leaving for the States tomorrow to try and find his daughter, Elizabeth."