Fraudulent Death, Draft 01, CH 25 (Patreon)

Marlot sat, watching the house. His instinct was to go there, knock and demand to see the package Mirden Mixcoat called him about. He’d set a foot out of the car when he wondered if that might not be him barging in to get what he wanted again. He’d called Trembor to get his opinion, but his buffer answered.

Now he was unsure what he should do. If the package had been sent by Hardir Mixcoat, it was linked to his case so he could make demands, but the family had just lost their mother. He wanted a second opinion on his plan of action.

What did it say about his relationship with his lion that for the years he’d known him, he’d basically ignored his advice anytime he said not to barge into other people’s lives to get what he wanted?

“That I can be a self-centered asshole, probably.” He took a breath and exited the car. “You can’t do this, Marlot. Just remember there are cubs there who have lost their mother, they won’t be as understanding about it as her older son.”

He buzzed the door and tried to make himself seem understanding. Her son hadn’t seemed particularly responsible, but Marlot had only seen him or a minute or so. For all he knew, he could be—

“Yes?” a female wolf asked. She was in her mid-twenties, her fur red, with only hits of brown. Her appearance threw Marlot, and he forgot what he’d planned to say. “Look,” she said, visibly keeping her annoyance under control. “If you’re here because of my mother, she died yesterday. Whatever she said, there’s nothing I can do about it.” She looked over her shoulder and Marlot realized there was quiet crying coming from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” Marlot managed to say and fumbled for his ID. “You’re her daughter, the eldest. I’m Registered Investigator Marlot Blackclaw.”

“I am.” She studied the ID. “Are there irregularities with my mother’s death?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’m here…” he faltered. How much should he tell her? She was already dealing with the fallout of her mother’s death. Normally he’d just dump everything on her and ignore the disaster that caused. “She called me yesterday, sometime before her death, and said she’d received a package that’s relating to a case I’m investigating.”

“The dad lookalike!” a male said from the living room. “I told you about that, Jar.”

Jar. Jareth, Mirden had said her oldest daughter was called that.

She rubbed her temple. “Okay, so she called you.”

“I’m wondering if you know where that package is.” She fixed her gaze on him, and Marlot decided running away might be a good idea.

“You’re kidding, right? Do you have any idea what it’s like to deal with five cubs who lost their mother and are too young to understand why? The only thing me and Brathen have been doing for the last eight hours is trying to explain and comfort them. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time or interest to rummage around the house to look for some package.”

Marlot almost told her he could do it, but caught himself. They were grieving. Was his need to figure out what that package had to do with his case more important? His instinct screamed yes. But he decided that was his usual need to get things his way.

“Can I send you my information? In case you do find it when things calm down?”

Jareth looked like she’d rather slam the door in his face, but after letting out a slow breath, she took her pad out and Marlot sent her his contact. She closed the door before he could add anything.

At least she hadn’t slammed it, he told himself as he headed to the car.

He leaned against the door and raised his head, letting the sun warm him. What could he do without it? Nothing was the obvious answer.

How had she known it was from her husband? He’d written his name on it. He might even have written his address; some of the older folks back at the commune did that because back before the mail system was fully automated, packages tended to end up in strange places. Having the provenance on them meant they would be returned if, for some reason, it wasn’t delivered.

The automated system.

He took his pad out and searched for the mail office’s number. The system tracked every step in a package’s movement. It might have the provenance, or at least a smaller area to search for where Hardir had lived.

“I’m RI Blackclaw,” Marlot said, then gave his number. “I need to find out where a package originated from.”

“What’s the transit number?” the bored male asked.

“I don’t have it.”

“I’m sorry, without a transit number I can’t—”

“Look, I know you can. I have the destination address, you can do a search for that.”

“Sir, without a transit—”

“Listen to me carefully.” Marlot’s lips stretched in a smile, his desire to get his way pushing to the surface and feeling no need to stop it. “You don’t want me to have to show up and track you down in that office.” He wasn’t talking to a person, he was talking to the representative of a government organization. “So you’re going to do the search and track it back to its origin point. If I need to go and help you, the department will need to find someone to sit at your desk.” He had the authority to get him to strip and dance on his desk if he could find a way to justify it as part of his investigation.

The imagery made him smile, as did the fear in the male’s voice as he hurried to do as he was told.