In Jimmy McSwain’s world, death is ever-present, a concept that both taunts and defines him. Now it’s about to consume him. A new client has come to Finley Investigations with a strange request: stop her husband from killing himself.
But it isn’t so simple a request. Nick Juneau is ill and doesn’t want those around him to watch him suffer. What can a seasoned private eye like Finn Sullivan and his apprentice do for this family? Before they can confront him, Jimmy is tasked with trailing Nick, who disappears for hours at a time without explanation.
Jimmy has lots to learn about being a private investigator. The art of surveillance, finding one clue and understanding how it unlocks more pieces of an unsolvable puzzle, keeping to the job at hand. Stopping one man from doing something regretful doesn’t mean he has to save the world.
Jimmy closed his mouth, looked over at Finn for advice, or maybe a reaction. But Finn was focused on his guest. Maybe working his brain for a reasonable excuse as to why they had been following her.
“Ms. Juneau, there’s no cause for alarm ...”
“You were having me trailed? I thought I was coming here with honest intentions, and this is how you treat me? Like I’m the criminal?” Her voice cracked. “Uh, I think I’ve wasted my time coming ... all this way.” She started to get up when Finn asked her, pleasantly, if she would allow them to explain, which left her somewhere between sitting and standing, an awkward stance for an awkward situation. At last, she settled back down. Arms crossed, purse tight against her lap, basically saying “this better be good.”
“It’s standard procedure for us to ...”
Jimmy didn’t think Finn’s approach Finn was the right one, like he was about to admit not trusting this potential piece of business. Without thinking of the consequences, he cut off his boss and said, “It’s actually my fault.”
Finn stopped. Glared up at Jimmy to the point he could feel intense heat coming off him.
Better than the frigid cold outside. Right? No.
“Yes, Ms. Juneau, that was me on the train platform. I was waiting for you to arrive, and it was me who trailed you once you hit the sidewalk. As Mr. Sullivan stated, he’s hired me as an apprentice, which means I’m still learning. It was my idea to follow you -- not because there was anything to be suspicious about; why would there be? No, it was me just trying to hone some skills, surveillance in this case, and, well, apparently, I still need some practice.”
The arms loosened around her body, a slight smile crossing her face.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, young man. The reason I noticed you was ... oh, I can’t say.”
Finn edged forward from his chair, as though waiting to hear what she couldn’t say.
Jimmy feared that what she had to say might be embarrassing. Which is why Finn, smiling, wanted to hear.
“As Jimmy’s boss, it would be helpful to know what made you notice him,” he said, a way to prompt her.
“This is silly, now,” Ms. Juneau said. “He reminded me of my son’s ... uh, boyfriend. You know, because he’s cute.”
Three reactions: her sheepish look down; Jimmy’s face blushing; Finn’s barrel laugh.
The laugh lasted the longest, almost unnecessarily. Sure, it was funny, ironic almost, and it just made Jimmy feel foolish to still be standing there after having taken the blame for the fuck up but somehow being embarrassed about these unexpected developments. The truth of the matter was this: private eyes were tough; they weren’t cute.
“Oh, Ms. Juneau, I thank you very much for that laugh, I think we all needed to release the tension. And might I add, very well done. McSwain, you hear that? She says you’re cute.”
“I heard, sir.”
“A great quality in a private investigator,” Finn said, his voice deadpan.
“In this weather, you should be wearing a hat.” This from Ms. Juneau.
Maggie McSwain couldn’t have said it better. But the moment was over, and Finn picked up from the last segue.
“And speaking of private investigators,” Finn said, “Ms. Juneau, what do you say we move back to the business which has brought you here. And I suggest we cut out this Ms. and Mr. stuff. I’m Finn. He’s Jimmy.”
“I’m Vivie,” she said. “My mother -- a self-admitted Francophile -- named me Jenevieve, with a J, which wasn’t easy to spell when I was a child, so when I turned eighteen, I shortened it. Vivie, or even Viv. It would’ve been simpler to just name me Vivian.” She paused, almost as if she needed a deep breath to let go of something that was still an issue now, even into her fifties. Some things from childhood never leave us, Jimmy thought. Everyone has a story. Everyone has their demons.
“Fine, Viv, it is,” Finn said. “Now, what can Finley Investigations help you with?”
“My husband,” she said, then quieted. Words seemed to be forming on her lips, only to be stuck on her tongue.
“Is he cheating on you?” Finn prompted. Going with the stereotype.
A sharp laugh escaped her mouth. “Oh, heavens no. Not Nick. He’d never.”
“Then what is it?”
She fidgeted in her seat. Perhaps realizing there was no going back. She’d come all this way to seek help, and that help could only come from being honest about her motives. Neither Jimmy nor Finn spoke, hoping the expanding silence would prompt her to give up her secret. She steeled herself. Finally, she spoke.
“My husband is dying,” she said. “And I think he wants nothing more. To be dead.”
