File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents by Lemony Snicket

Author:Lemony Snicket
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Conclusion: Small Sound

A hollow metal space will amplify small noises, such as the breathing of a young, frightened boy. Drumstick was hiding in the garbage can, dirty but grateful and seriously considering becoming a vegetarian.

8

Twelve Or Thirteen

“Lemony Snicket,” said Moxie Mallahan. She was talking to me. “Do you want to see something funny?”

It was an ordinary day, and Moxie had found me sitting on the lawn in front of one of Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s most impressive buildings, looking at a large object. The building had once been City Hall and was now a library in one half and a police station in the other. The lawn had once been pretty but was now scraggly, and the large object I was looking at had once been an enormous statue and was now a metal lump, following a suspicious explosion some years previous. The explosion and the lump were part of my biggest case, and on some ordinary days I liked to sit and look at the statue’s remains, hoping that a new clue would drop upon me. So far the only thing to drop upon me had been an acorn. An acorn was not a clue to anything, as far as I could tell. Something funny seemed like it could be a nice break.

“What kind of funny?” I asked her. “Funny like a clown onstage? Or funny like a clown hanging around the entrance to a bank?”

“The bank one.” Moxie sat down next to me and opened her typewriter case with a click.

“What’s the news, Moxie?”

“I was in the archives of The Stain’d Lighthouse,” she told me, “looking through the articles my mother wrote when she was still a reporter in town.”

“I bet she was a good one,” I said, “if her daughter is any indication.”

“I like to think I developed some of my journalism skills on my own,” Moxie said.

“I’m sure she’ll be very proud when she sees you again.”

She handed me an envelope. “In the meantime, take a look.”

“I don’t see anything funny about an envelope,” I said.

Moxie took off her hat and rolled her eyes. “And I don’t see anything funny about that remark,” she said. “Why don’t you look inside the envelope?”

“Good idea,” I said, but when I slid the crumpled newspaper article into my hands, I still didn’t see anything funny.

“Tepid Turnout for Frome Race,” I read out loud. “Only a dozen sledders competed in this year’s race down Homily Hill for the Ethan Frome Festival. Organizers said attendance at the auction was also a disappointment, despite such distinguished items as an oil painting of Gary Dorian, Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s famed cosmetician. Hot cider sales were also low. Complete story on page thirty-four.”

There wasn’t any more to it, so I turned my eyes to Moxie and shrugged.

“Don’t shrug at me, Snicket.”

“I shrug when there’s something to shrug about,” I explained. “I’m sorry it’s not a very interesting article, but it’s not your mother’s fault. It sounds like the Ethan Frome Festival wasn’t very interesting.”

“You’re wrong there,” Moxie said, her voice a little wistful.

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