Chapter 3 - A Stolen Necklace

“I drew a map of Canada
O Canada
With your face sketched on it
Twice”

- The Mountain Goats

Jenny caught up with Ellen at the security door, where an elderly gentleman was slowly allowing them entry. If he had bothered to look at the fury in Ellen’s face, he would most likely have called the police. Ellen yanked the door open as the man made his way through, almost causing him to take a tumble. Jenny took him in her arms, apologized, and left him with his bewilderment.

Ellen shot up the stairs to the right of the lobby so quickly that Jenny couldn’t stop her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to anyway, but it would have been nice to have the choice. Jenny wasn’t at all convinced there was foul play involved, but doubted that Ellen would care. Ever since that night they solved the Case of the Burgundy Macaw, Ellen had been overly protective of Jenny. Jenny was sure that if there was one person who didn’t need a bodyguard, it was her, though she appreciated the sentiment.

Jenny caught her breath while waiting for the elevator.

A young man sidled up to Jenny as the elevator reached the ground floor. He held a hand up to his bristly, unshaven face, eyes narrowed in consternation. Beads of sweat had started to form on his brow, and as the doors opened he stole a quick glance over his shoulder to the street where Jenny had almost been crowned.

“Are you ok?” Jenny asked as they entered the elevator.

The man finally noticed her beside him, shook the dust from his mind and gave her a weak, unconvincing smile. “I’m not sure, but I think that’s my fern splattered all over the sidewalk in front of the building.”

Before the man with the fern could express the hope that no one was hurt, Jenny hit the “door open” button and grabbed him by the arm with a grip that made him wince. She had taken to bending steel nails in her pocket to strengthen her stubby little fingers for just such a situation. Jenny was sure she read about this form of exercise in a Little Lotta comic, but everyone insists she ripped it off of Sherlock Holmes. Whatever, Jenny was just surprised how often it came into play.

Jenny led the owner of the projectile fern carefully through the lobby door back outside where the rich dirt of the plant was already being blown about. She knelt down before the mess, dragging her hostage in her wake, and pushed him forward like a puppy about to have his nose rubbed in his mess. By this point his eyes were bugging clear out of his head, his other hand grasping her grip in shock. He was a regular guy with a regular guy’s haircut, showing no real distinctive features other then a slight propensity towards being ugly which he probably laughingly described as ruggedly handsome.

“This is your plant?” Jenny asked.

He stuttered out a response. “Y-y-yeah. What’s going on?”

“Your fern nearly killed me so my friend ran upstairs to rip your face off. She’s probably kicked your door in by now, so we only have a minutes to straighten this out. What’s your name?”

The man was one step behind Jenny while she spoke. His mind was only just rounding the corner on her statements about Ellen, his eyes on a circuit from the sidewalk to his balcony and back to Jenny. He wasn’t nearly quick enough about it. Jenny tightened her grip.

“Hunh?” The man exclaimed. “Uh, Mike. My name’s Mike.”

“Mike. That’s good.” Jenny liked to approach people she intended to intimidate on a personal level. It helped keep them from going completely in shock if Ellen decided to start breaking things. Jenny was happy to play both good cop and bad cop, but unfortunately she had to contend with maniac cop as a partner. Ellen’s maternal instincts were clearly off the chart.

“Listen, Mike. Where were you when all this happened?”

“I was getting groceries. Some lettuce and a bag of milk. From the store.” Mike lifted his grocery bag, half-torn from his header through the lobby door.

“Show me. Slowly.”

Mike opened the plastic bag, revealing the few items he had mentioned plus a small stick of butter. Jenny put her other hand on his shoulder and moved her face toward his.

“Mike,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me about the butter? What else are you holding back, Mike?”

Mike chewed his tongue trying to formulate an answer to Jenny’s question, when an incomprehensible roar coming from directly above their heads tore up and down the street, stopping pedestrians five blocks away dead in their tracks. Ellen shook one bloody fist at Mike, her soft, pale hair trailing behind her like willow branches in a hurricane. For just a heartbeat, Jenny was sure Ellen was going to forgo the stairs, and she would have to dodge yet one more piece of balcony detritus.