File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents (Reports 7-13) by Lemony Snicket

Author:Lemony Snicket
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction / Family / General (See Also Headings Under Social Issues), Juvenile Fiction / Mysteries & Detective Stories, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues / Adolescence
ISBN: 9780316284042
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2014-03-31T18:30:00+00:00

I turned my eyes to the blueberry-stained man and wondered if he would also proclaim his innocence. “I’d prefer you not look at me either,” he said, and coughed a little.

“Now, maybe it’s just because I’m tired,” Harvey Mitchum said, scratching his head. “I admit that Mimi and I stayed up very late watching a double feature of scary movies.”

“Something with zombies in the winter,” Mimi said, “and something with giant bugs. We were scared out of our minds, and we’ve been exhausted all day. But this crime has stumped us, Snicket.”

“Particularly Mimi,” Harvey said.

“Particularly you,” Mimi retorted.

“Particularly the way you snore,” Harvey said.

“Particularly the way you drip-dry your socks in the bathroom,” Mimi said.

“Those socks are part of my uniform, Mimi. If they’re not clean, the law won’t be clean.”

“I wear police socks, too,” Mimi said, “but I dry them in the machine.”

“Perhaps,” I said, before their argument took up the rest of my day, “I could question each of the suspects.”

“Ask them anything you want,” Harvey said with a dismissive gesture, like he was too tired to care about truth and justice and wanted to go home and watch some more giant bugs. In some ways, I could hardly blame him. It is more interesting to watch giant bugs and whatever they might do in a scary movie than to solve a minor and unimaginative crime. I looked at the three ragged men. All they wanted was to make French horns, and now they were in a jail cell in a town that was twisting itself into knots like the very instrument they manufactured. What will happen to them, I wondered, but it was not the question I asked.

I turned to the first brother. “Who is your favorite French writer?”

“Alain-Fournier,” the man said, fiddling with one of the buttons on his red coat.

I turned to the second brother. “Who is your favorite jazz saxophonist?”

“Harry Carney,” the man replied, brushing off his apron.

I turned to the third man. “And you,” I asked. “What is your favorite food?”

The man shrugged his shoulders and gave a sigh of resignation, a phrase which here means he gave up. Perhaps he felt guilty, or perhaps he had also stayed up too late, scared or worried, and did not have the energy to be as clever as some other criminals I had encountered. It was a moment before he spoke, but “Blueberry pies” is what he said.

I turned to the Mitchums, who glared back at me, impatient and tired as the law itself. “I’ve solved the case,” I told them.

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