"Matthew D." (propatria) wrote in repose, @ 2017-11-02 20:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, atticus mcvickers, janus allen, matt devlin, steve mcrory |
log: a nondescript brownstone, new york, ny
Who: Steve M, Atticus M, Janus A, Matt D
What: Tracking down a missing soldier.
Where: A nondescript brownstone in an affluent upper east side neighborhood.
When: Night
Warnings/Rating: N/A for now.
The flowers in front of #405 were wilting, now, after the first fall frosts. That was what first caught Mrs. Lyons attention.
Her next door neighbor, Mr. Jameson, was utterly proud of his perfectly beautiful flowers, a bright spot of green in an ocean of brick, wrought iron, and cement. He covered them in the cold, and pulled them inside when the weather turned - but not this year. This year, the tulips were left to wither out on the street, growing grey, then blackening at the edges from vivid yellows and reds, blue-veined ivory as creamy as porcelain. It was odd. Out of the ordinary.
The Jameson's weren't out of the ordinary - they were predictable people, with predictable routines. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson worked, and the little boy was cared for by his nanny until 3, when Mrs. Jameson came home.
Mrs. Lyons had seen them leave herself, but there had been something odd about it. Surely, one bag each wasn't enough luggage for a month-long stay in the Bahamas? The family always went on vacation in January - they asked Mrs. Lyons to watch their cat while they were gone. But there was no sign even of that lazy creature, a fat manx that lounged on sunny windowsills on cold afternoons. The curtains were pulled, and the house was dark and quiet. And why hadn't Mr. Jameson pulled his flowers in before they left?
If that wasn't enough, she was positive she'd heard someone rattling around on the roof of the building next door several times over the last few weeks. And music, from the roof, in the middle of the night, filtering through the ceiling of her third floor bedroom.
The brownstone at #405 was empty and shuttered, all day, all night. No one went in, no one twitched the curtains, and no one went out.
Something was wrong. She told the police so, but no one listened to an old lady with no family, especially not when she admitted the Jamesons had left on vacation as she watched from her picture window. The police reluctantly informed Mrs. Lyons that the Jamesons had not updated social media, or called their relatives, since leaving the country. Cause for suspicion, surely, but perhaps they were having such a wonderful time they couldn't be bothered. A police report was filed, and an officer knocked on the door, but there was no cause to knock it down until the month was good and out.
The month would be up next week. The Jamesons did always send her a postcard, knowing how she liked to think of warm places, despite her deathly fear of flights. No postcard, this time. No sweet little keychain or souvenir. And no cat in the window - that was what bothered her most.
Where was that cat?
At one in the morning, soft music could be heard playing on the roof of the brownstone.