[REFERENCE GUIDE]
Ms. Paint - world renowned investigator hercule poirot
Jane - international inspector jaques closeau
Dirk - esteemed robotiks engineer olivier charpuntier
Roxy - masterette spellcastress emolieir lecrepe
Jake - explorer extrodinaire kiquesand preime
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Doc's was unusually busy that afternoon. Suspiciously busy, I thought, but I didn't share my views with anyone. No one, that is, save for my mute partner in inspection, the world-renowned Investigator Hercule Poirot.
We had, Mr. Poirot and I, been investigating the uncanny event in our undercover civilian disguises. I, Inspector Jaques Closeau, was posing as an unassuming young diner chef, under the alias of a girl named Jane. Mr. Poirot, meanwhile, was cleverly disguised as a harmless lady as well, albeit one with an exoskeleton. His persona was named Ms. Paint, a name almost ingeniously simple with a temperament to match.
It seemed uncanny that the diner should be so crowded this specific day, at this specific time, of all the days and of all the times it could have been busy instead. I was hot on the trail of clues as to why that might be, or, at least, I would have been, were it not for the fact that my civilian cover, young miss Crocker, was hard at work, since she was the head chef at the diner that was currently and suspiciously busy. It was hot in the diner's kitchen, and were I not so preoccupied with the mystery of the afternoon crowd, I might have thought the heat was suspicious, too.
Young, sweet, harmless miss Crocker was busy pulling a freshly baked apple pie from the industrial-sized oven when my dear friend and longtime accomplice in detecting, the Masterette Spellcastress Emolieir Lecrepe, appeared in the window, through which miss Crocker could receive orders to fill. Madame Lecrepe, too, was undercover, posing as young Roxy Lalonde, a mild-mannered deception of her true and magical self.
Miss Lalonde passed an order to miss Crocker, which read vanilla shake, apple pie a la mode in pink, glittery, curly handwriting only Madame Lecrepe was capable of producing, and only I, Mr. Closeau, was capable of deciphering.
"Can you slip some ice cream on that pie?" She asked, which of course was code for 'the treasure is in the trap', which was, of course, code for 'explorer extrodinaire Kiquesand Preime is in the diner'. "It's for Rose, she's wearing a sweater, and in this heat!"
"Of course, of course," said mild-mannered miss Crocker. Sir Preime, or Jake English, was also the target of my investigations, but he was in on them, as well. It was all part of my ingenious plan. Glancing at the time-sensitive material in the corner of the kitchen, I said, "Is John here yet? I have something for him, if you could send him back when you see him?"
John was one of my many civilian connections. I had trusted him with the details of this particular mystery because in many ways we were similar, and I would need to be in two places at once to pull off the sort of investigative work this case would require.
Lecrepe leaned into the window, peering at me. "What's going on, J?" she asked. "Something up in ye olde Crockerland?"
I had not entrusted the case to my dear Spellcastress. At least, not yet. She was a good detective, but could be easily swayed. I couldn't risk the goons behind this case getting anything out of her until I had collected enough evidence. Thinking quickly, I diverted her attention.
"John's no Crocker," I sighed, turning away. "He doesn't even like cake."
Madame Lecrepe shrugged, and I knew I had been successful.
"Anyone else you want me to keep an eye out for, wink wink?" She giggled, leaning in even further. This was something she liked to do, try to get sensitive information out of me by flustering me with trivial talk of boys. Of course, the masterful Inspector Jaques Closeau was immune to such girlishness. Besides, I had no intentions of telling her who, exactly, I had been keeping my eye, private as it was, on, of late.
"Not unless you see a knight on a white horse," I said, very much doubting she would. Of course, there was always the chance. I did love a good cliche. She left then, with a few more knowing winks, and I sighed, turning to miss Crocker's cooling pie. Luckily for me, the Spellcastress was nowhere near the detective I was.
Madame Lecrepe wasn't the only one miss Crocker could receive order slips from. There were other employees at the diner, too, who kept her plenty busy. There was also Andrew, a man who made my skin crawl on occasion, Aranea, a lovely Troll lady who was rather more bearable when her mouth was shut, and, of course, another of my trusty friends, the esteemed Robotiks Engineer Olivier Charpuntier, otherwise known as Dirk Strider. He manned the soda counter out front, and sometimes passed along orders, as well.
Mr. Charpuntier, along with Madame Lecrepe, was not to know of my investigation, for it was he himself I was looking into. I had found out, barely a fortnight ago, that a certain bill of rights had passed, and there were some connections it held with my dear Engineer. I had decided to plan a surprise investigation (codename: "party") for him that very day, whereupon I could question him about the contents of the bill. Madame Lecrepe, who was usually somewhere in his vicinity, could not be trusted to keep her peace, and had been thusly expelled from the investigations. I was sure she would understand.
It was then, as I received back the pie a la mode and the shake from Mr. Charpuntier, that John walked into the kitchen, ever brisk and happy to help. Could a Human alive not like that in a person? I doubted it; though we weren't strictly related, I had found, more often than not, that my affections for him were quite maternal, or something rather like it. Sisterly? I hadn't yet found the time to investigate this far within myself.
"Hey, Jane!" he said, all smiles, as usual. "Guess what! I finally got Karkat to agree to let me show him all my favorite movies! I had to promise to watch his favorites next weekend, but this weekend he's all mine! And if I know him, he'll love my movies, which means I'll probably love his! Wow, this melding of the races thing is the best, isn't it?"
I smiled at him, used to his aimless chatter. I was also used to enduring burns of varying severity with a smile, which I was doing with ease as he talked. I had just burned my wrist on the edge of the stove for about the hundredth time.
Dousing my wrist with cold water in the sink and activating my civilian cover, I said, "What'll you show him first? Ghostbusters?"
"Yeah! Maybe," he said, beaming with excitement. "That, or maybe Hook? Or Ghost Dad? I think he would love Ghostbusters, though! I mean, it's got all the best things: ghosts, slime, marshmallow men, Slimer? Oh, he's awesome, and, you know, there's plenty of romance in there, too, so I'm sure he'll like it."
"I sure did," miss Crocker said, as I fished an ice pack out of the freezer. "I like Egon the best; he's so cute. I love his glasses, and his little hair, and how he's always so serious about everything, and how girls make him kind of nervous? Adorable!"
John laughed, making choking motions. "Gag me," he said. "So how about that party?"
Eyes widened, I made shushing motions, pointing towards Dirk's window. "You mean the investigation," I said. Since Mr. Charpuniter wasn't in on the ruse, he would, understandably, assume any talk of a "party" meant we were actually planning such an event.
"Right, the investigation," John nodded. "I forgot, you're being all, 'doodly doo! I'm an elderly British man!' about this, aren't you? Well, how are we going to, um, set up for the investigation while the diner is open?"
"We're not," I said. "It's just getting too crowded in here. I need you to dust for fingerprints or something upstairs for me." This of course meant he should be moving the time-sensitive material, the documents and caution tape and all that, upstairs, where no one could confuse bubble pipes for party hats. "And I'm not 'elderly', I'm distinguished. And the names are clearly French."
"Yeah, yeah. 'Elderly', 'distinguished', same difference. You said upstairs?" he squinted at me. "Is that code too, or...?"
"No, I mean actually upstairs. I already asked Doc to talk to the tenants, and there's plenty of room for the stuff if you just leave it in the hallway by the door. That way it will be out of the way and no one will mess with it."
"Riiiiiiiight," he winked, gathering up as much of the decorations-I mean, top-secret files-as his arms could hold. "Hey, we should-"
"Fill a bucket with confetti and prop it up over a door? Way ahead of you," I said, giving in to my inner prank master and pointing to where I already had one prepared and stored under the dishwasher. "We'd better keep that one in here, though. You know how those Trolls can be."
"If I had a boonbuck for every time I had to sacrifice a perfect opportunity for a joke just to respect some Troll's culture..." he said, trailing off ominously as he exited the kitchen.
I shook my head. What an excitable guy. Sometimes I wondered how he had so many friends, being so hyper all the time. Whatever. I, Inspecter Jaques Closeau, had bigger irons in the fire.
Speaking of fire, I turned around just in time to see Mr. Poirot waving frantically at a pan on the stove, leaping with flames. It looked like he was trying to fan it out with his hands.
Leaping into action, I clamped a lid over the whole pan, as Mr. Charpuntier had taught me just days ago. I was in the middle of explaining to Mr. Poirot how to deal with grease fires when I tuned my detective ears to the snatches of conversation that could be heard through the window located just behind Mr. Charpuntier's counter. I had learned many a secret by my simple eavesdropping trick, as I did then, when I leaned in to discern what could be the cause of two male voices, raised in passion, catching my attention. I let Poirot handle the other orders in the meantime; he was an ideal assistant for such times.
I peered through the counter window to see what all the commotion was about, and saw young Dave Strider up at the counter, his mouth a firm, angry line. Mr. Charpuntier stood before him, partially blocking my view, his shoulders set in an angry, tense position.
"Come on! Why can't you do this one thing for me, it's not like it's any different from what you do every single day," Dave was saying. He held something clenched in his fist, I noticed curiously. "You won't even have to take off that stupid bow tie."
"Hell no," Mr. Charpuntier said. "If you think for one moment that I'm going to do anything for your sorry ass, you'd better think again. I'm not going to help you do anything except your homework, so I suggest you sit back down and focus on your date."
"But-" Dave began, clearly glaring.
"But?" Charpuntier prompted.
"But that's not fair! She's not your girlfriend, is she? That makes her fair game, right?"
"Wrong," the robotics master said, bristling. "Jane isn't just some toy for you to play with, like you do all those Trolls. And John. And Jade. And... I don't even care who else. Just not Jane. Not. Jane."
"Sure thing, Mr. Crocker," Dave glowered, and I could see the tension rise in Mr. Charpuntier's shoulders.
Then Madame Lecrepe appeared like Wonder Woman, with a whoosh and a bang and a flourish. "Hey, Dirkums! Hiya, Dave!"
I withdrew from my eavesdropping, having heard enough. So Dave was into me, huh? Hmmmmm. I, Inspector Jaques Closeau, was intrigued. Dave had sort of created a reputation for himself, one that involved what the Trolls usually referred to as "pailing". I wasn't too clear on what that was, exactly, but any gumshoe worth his salt could tell you that meant Troll sex. I decided then, as I stood in the kitchen with frosting in my hair (I only just noticed it then), I wouldn't write the youngest Strider off just yet, but I wouldn't make it easy for him, either. This had, indeed, proven to be a very interesting day, and it was barely getting started, as far as my investigations were concerned.