How To Fake Your Death

How To Flirt (Seriously, Please, Teach Me How)

Jean really decided to appear when he was least wanted. Cléo immediately scowled as he entered the room and Bart folded his arms across his chest, his bicep muscles bulging through his cardigan. That's what I loved about Bart; on the surface, he was cute and soft in his fluffy cardigans and tiny man-buns and his quirky socks, but, if you made him mad, you'd be exposed to Angry Bart. No one likes Angry Bart.

Jean wore a blue silk suit and his polished shoes clicked against the tiled floor as he let himself in. He walked in with less suave than usual, which made me uneasy. Bart took a step toward him, which made Jean shrink backwards. Even though there was not a significant height difference when next to Bart, Jean had an air of impishness. He looked minuscule.

"Where were you this morning? Where did you stay?" Bart asked. His tone was rather accusatory for such a mundane question.

Jean cleared his throat, "At my home. I live here, you know." He turned towards me, "I believe it was my handkerchief, that gave it away, miss Southwood?" He gestured towards the paisley handkerchief which was nestled in the top pocket of his jacket. It was the one he had worn the same day I had met him, in Paris. I nodded.

"So, you want us to fake your death, huh?" Bart said.

"More like I need you to fake my death," Jean corrected. "To be honest, I thought I had extra time before they found me. But, this morning I received this." He reached into the inside of his jacket and removed an envelope.

I took it from him. The envelope felt old and frail and looked as if a Kindergartener had used a teabag to age the paper for a school project. It had a red seal, the size of a five-pound coin, stamped onto it, with the figure of a stalking tigress engraved into the wax. Jan had opened it already so I flipped it open. Inside was a note. Carefully, I extricated it from the interior. I unfolded it and read the inside aloud, "You're dead."

"How eloquent of them," Cléo said, "Doesn't leave much room for interpretation, does it?" She had started to spin her cane around as if she was P.T Barnum. I was afraid that this cane would result in a couple of new hobbies.

"Well, that's my cousin," I placed the note back inside the envelope, "He was never great at eloquence."

"Remind me how you two are related again?" Cléo asked, twiddling the cane.

I sighed. I did not really like talking about my family. "Well, my grandmother moved from India to England and met my grandfather there. He had come from Sierra-Leone and was the founder of the Jade Tigress. My grandmother came from a line of private criminals. So, romance inevitably blossomed from their love for anarchy. They had three children, including my mother. Then, my grandfather took his family to Sierra-Leone for a year, where my mother fell in love with his right-hand man. But, my father has three brothers. Tejan is the son of the youngest. There. Boring."

"I think its kinda sweet." Cléo smiled, allowing her dimples to make their much-loved appearance, "Tell me, does everyone in your family fall for someone who participates in illegal shenanigans?"

I stared at her. She stared back. After a moment of silence, I inhaled sharply, "You mean our past?"

"Referring to it as our past makes it sound so final. There's nothing final about-" she started. Before she could finish Bart snatched her cane and tossed it to the other side of the room. It clattered the floor.

"Can we please leave the flirtation for later?! We are in the midst of a murderer!"

"Bart, you are always in the presence of a murderer. Me." I retorted, rather annoyed that he hadn't let Cléo finish her sentence. "In fact, you are a murderer, too, Bart. Stop being a hypocrite." I grabbed at the hospital blanket in frustration.

"Yeah, Bart, stop being such a hypocrite," Cléo reiterated as she limped over to her cane. If I had been able to stand on my own without tearing my stitches and encouraging internal bleeding, I would have gotten it for her. You know, like a romantic. Stupid knife wounds.

Bart bit down on his lip and I knew that there was very little keeping him from tripping up Cléo. "So," he turned his attention back on Jean, "How do you want to do this."

"Maybe just take out an obituary notice in the newspaper. Nothing big." He answered.

I chuckled (which hurt. A lot.). "Nothing big? Do you know anything about faking your death? Especially if you're doing it to avoid being killed? You have to go big. I'm talking front page big."

"She's right," Bart said, "It has to garner an audience, media attention, police..." His voice trailed off and he made eye contact with me and I saw his light up, "We should throw in a real corpse!"

"I'm thinking; police stand-off. And possibly a fire. Incineration would account for the lack of a whole cadaver."

Jean played with his collar, uncomfortably, "Okay, well, I'll leave the scheming up to you."

"Jean, when it comes to faking your death, you are far from being a novice." I pointed out.

"There' just a lot riding on this, okay? Can I have some water?" He asked. Cléo passed him the bottle of water she had given me earlier and I tried not to feel upset. Jean whipped out his handkerchief, releasing a powerful magnolia scent, and wiped down the bottle. Cléo's face blanched. At first, I thought that she was horrified that this man had disrespected her like this. Then, I thought, maybe she was extremely displeased about how he had paired a blue silk suit with a purple silk handkerchief. But, I quickly put it out of mind.

"I think I am going home to ponder mortality and the inescapable possibility of death. I will catch up with you guys later," Jean announced. He made his way to the door, which took a while as he tried to stay as far away from Bart as possible.

Once he had left and the door slid closed, Bart relaxed and unfolded his arms, "I hate that guy."

"Guys," Cléo's voice trembled, "I think he's hiding something."

"Yeah, duh," Bart pouted, "Honestly, Cléo, you do know who that man is, right?"

"No, that's not what I mean. Just, that perfume. I know someone who uses it."

"Yeah, and? It's a perfume."

Cléo inhaled, "No, I would know that perfume anywhere. Only my assistant wears that perfume. I think he is holding Eulalie hostage."