A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 6
The Last Honest Man in Pellerin
Felix did not go home.
He should have. His apartment was twenty minutes away, a small one-bedroom above a laundromat that smelled perpetually of lavender softener and regret. His recording booth was waiting. Chapter Twelve of Blood on the Viscount’s Cravat was still unfinished, and his editor had sent three increasingly urgent emails with subject lines like “Felix??” and “Deadline??” and “I will cry??”
But Felix knew that if he went home, he would lose momentum. He would sit on his couch, eat the leftover Thai food, and talk himself out of being involved. He would convince himself that the police were competent, that the mystery would solve itself, that he was just a narrator and not a detective and that the note saying ASK THE NARRATOR was probably just a prank or a coincidence or something he could safely ignore.
And then Priya would be arrested. And the pendant would never be found. And four million dollars would disappear into someone’s offshore account, and Felix would spend the rest of his life wondering what would have happened if he had asked one more question.
He couldn’t live with that. He’d spent too many years living with what if already.
So instead of going home, Felix walked three blocks east to a coffee shop called The Last Honest Man.
It was his favorite place in Pellerin—not because the coffee was exceptional (it was fine, aggressively fine), but because the owner, a retired philosophy professor named Emmett Park, had decorated the walls with framed quotations from dead thinkers and the tables with small placards that said things like “Decaf is a lie you tell yourself.” It was the kind of place where no one bothered you, where the Wi-Fi password was wittgenstein, and where Felix had written most of his abandoned dissertation and recorded several audiobook chapters in the back booth before he’d built his home studio.
The coffee shop was half-empty at 2:15 PM. A few students hunched over laptops. An elderly man read a newspaper—an actual paper newspaper, which Felix found touching and slightly absurd. Behind the counter, Emmett Park was polishing espresso machine parts with the focused intensity of a man who had decided that cleanliness was the only reliable form of control.
Emmett looked up as Felix walked in. He was sixty-four, with a shaved head, wire-rimmed glasses, and the kind of face that had been carved by decades of grading papers and smoking pipes. He and Felix had a relationship built on mutual silence and occasional philosophical debates about the nature of truth. Emmett was the only person in Pellerin who knew Felix had dropped out of his PhD program, and the only person who had never once asked why.
“You look like a man who found something he wasn’t looking for,” Emmett said.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Coffee?”
“Black. Large. And one of those almond croissants that’s been sitting in the case for three days.”
Emmett raised an eyebrow. “The stale ones?”
“They’re the only ones with any character.”
Emmett nodded as if this made perfect sense. He poured the coffee, plated a croissant that looked like it had been through a war, and slid both across the counter. “Back booth. I’ll bring the bottle of hot sauce. You look like you need it.”
Felix took the coffee and the croissant and walked to the back booth—the one tucked between a bookshelf of used paperbacks and a framed quotation from Simone Weil: “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
He sat down, pulled out his phone, and started making a list.
THE GREYFIELD STAR THEFT – KNOWN FACTS
- Theft occurred between 10:00 AM and 10:07 AM.
- Biometric pad was clean (no thumbprint).
- Emergency override key exists – held in bank safe deposit box.
- Retired security director (name?) now in Costa Rica.
- Chicken bone left in display case – cleaned, prepared, not random.
- Note taped under pedestal: ASK THE NARRATOR.
- Footprints in room: three sets (Dr. Ashworth, thief, Priya?).
- Davis Blaine claims affair with Priya.
- Harrison Blaine (board president) has financial troubles.
- Pendant insured for $4 million.
QUESTIONS
- Who knew I would be at the museum today?
- Margo (called me)
- Dr. Ashworth (asked for me)
- Anyone who overheard either of them
- Who knew about the emergency key?
- Dr. Ashworth
- Retired security director
- Possibly others (bank employees? board members?)
- Why a chicken bone?
- Symbolism? (wishbone = wishes? fragility?)
- Calling card? (signature of a specific thief?)
- Distraction? (makes case seem bizarre, less serious?)
- Who benefits from the theft?
- Harrison Blaine (insurance payout)
- Dr. Ashworth? (if she’s in on it)
- Priya? (if she’s desperate)
- Someone else entirely?
- Why involve me?
- To frame me?
- To use me as an unwitting investigator?
- Because the thief knows I’m observant and wants me to notice something specific?
Felix stared at the list. It was a mess. Too many questions, not enough answers. He needed more information. He needed to talk to people the police hadn’t interviewed yet. He needed to see the museum’s security footage—if there was any—and the bank’s records for the safe deposit box.
He needed a partner. Not a detective partner—he wasn’t ready for that—but someone who knew the museum, knew the staff, and might be willing to talk off the record.
Priya, he thought. If she’s innocent, she’ll talk to me. If she’s guilty, talking to me will tell me something.
He was about to text Margo for Priya’s number when Emmett appeared at the table with a small bottle of hot sauce and a second cup of coffee.
“You’re not drinking that first one fast enough,” Emmett said, setting down the cup. “That’s how I know you’re in trouble. You usually drink coffee like it’s a life-saving medication.”
Felix smiled despite himself. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re making lists on your phone. You only make lists when you’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an obvious answer.” Emmett sat down across from him—something he never did. The old professor folded his hands on the table and looked at Felix with those sharp, kind eyes. “I heard about the museum. It’s all over the local news. A pendant stolen. A chicken bone left behind. They’re saying it’s an inside job.”
“It probably is.”
“And you were there.”
“I was there.”
Emmett nodded slowly. “The note,” he said. “Ask the narrator. I saw that on the news, too. They didn’t name you, but there aren’t that many narrators in Pellerin.”
Felix’s stomach tightened. “It was on the news?”
“Local affiliate. Someone from the police department leaked it. Or maybe the museum. Hard to say.” Emmett leaned back. “Felix, if people know about that note, they’re going to start asking questions about you. You need to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“No, you’re not. You’re cautious. There’s a difference. Cautious people avoid risk. Careful people manage it. You’re about to do something risky, and I want to make sure you’re managing it properly.”
Felix looked at the old professor. Emmett Park had been a philosophy professor for thirty-eight years before retiring and opening a coffee shop. He had seen students cheat, lie, steal, and betray one another. He had seen the worst of human nature and the best of it, often in the same semester. And he had never, in all the years Felix had known him, given advice that wasn’t worth taking.
“What do you think I should do?” Felix asked.
Emmett considered the question. “I think you should figure out who wrote that note before they figure out what to do with you. Someone brought you into this for a reason. That reason is either benevolent or malevolent. Either way, you need to understand it before you act.”
“And how do I do that?”
“By asking the right person the right question.” Emmett stood up. “There’s a woman who comes in here every Tuesday and Thursday. Retired librarian. Name’s Helen Cho. She used to work at the museum—archives, not curatorial. She knows more about the Greyfield collection than anyone because she cataloged it when it first arrived. She’ll be here at 4:00. Talk to her.”
Felix blinked. “You’re just now mentioning this?”
“I’m mentioning it now because you need it now. Before, you didn’t.” Emmett picked up the empty coffee cup. “Finish your croissant. It’s been sitting in the case for four days, not three. Even more character.”
He walked back to the counter, leaving Felix alone with his list and his thoughts.
At 3:47 PM, Felix’s phone buzzed.
He expected a text from Margo or maybe Detective Rivas. Instead, the caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize—local area code, but no name.
He answered. “Felix Greer.”
“Mr. Greer.” The voice was female, middle-aged, and carefully neutral. “My name is Helen Cho. Emmett Park gave me your number. He said you had questions about the Greyfield Star.”
Felix sat up straighter. “I do. He mentioned you used to work in the museum archives.”
“For twenty-three years. I retired last spring. I still consult occasionally, but mostly I stay home and read books that don’t have due dates.” There was a dry humor in her voice, the kind that came from decades of dealing with academic egos. “Emmett said you were the narrator. The one from the audio guides.”
“That’s me.”
“And the note. Ask the narrator. He said that was about you as well.”
“It was.”
A pause. Then Helen Cho said, “I don’t know who wrote that note or why. But I do know something about the Greyfield Star that might help you. Something that isn’t in any of the museum’s public records.”
Felix’s pulse quickened. “What is it?”
“Not over the phone. Meet me at the coffee shop at 4:00. I’ll be the woman with the tote bag and the suspicious expression. And Felix?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t bring anyone else. This isn’t a story. This is a warning.”
The line went dead.
Felix stared at his phone for a long moment. Then he looked at his list, at the unanswered questions, at the chicken bone he couldn’t stop thinking about.
A warning, Helen Cho had said. Not information. Not a clue. A warning.
He thought about Davis Blaine’s confession. About Harrison Blaine’s financial troubles. About the retired security director in Costa Rica. About the clean biometric pad and the wishbone and the note that had turned him from an invisible observer into a visible target.
Then he thought about the last line of every mystery novel he had ever narrated: The truth will out.
But first, Felix thought, the truth had to survive long enough to be found.
He pulled out his phone and started a new voice memo.
“Chapter Six,” he said quietly. “A retired librarian named Helen Cho claims to have information about the Greyfield Star that isn’t in any public record. She won’t share it over the phone. She wants to meet in person. She says it’s a warning, not a story.”
“Warnings are interesting,” Felix continued. “Stories are told to entertain. Warnings are told to protect. The question is: what does Helen Cho think I need protection from?”
He looked at the framed quotation on the wall above his booth. Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.
“I’m about to find out,” he said. “And I have a feeling that whatever she tells me is going to make this case a lot more complicated—and a lot more dangerous.”