Chapter Eleven
The Nightly Discord
All the news unfit for large publications
Notorious Criminal Arrested nearby Rogueport
“Notorious criminal, arsonist, mass-murderer, escape artist, ironworker, inventress, among other occupations, Violet Baudelaire, aged something right under 21, was arrested this Thursday at the local Anxious Clown franchise restaurant in Rogueport after a realtor recognized her because of an earlier news article in the very same large publication from the City which this journalist will not name for personal reasons. The very same realtor called the police. When this journalist interviewed the realtor, she said “No comment!” in a very rude manner. Violet Baudelaire has been locked up in the Police Station of Rogueport to await transfer and trial.”As soon as he had finished reading it, Duncan Quagmire had wished he hadn’t. Of course, the Quagmire triplets knew now it was always worse to not know. Quigley Quagmire, his brother, the eldest triplet by a margin of five minutes, was particularly dismayed. “I never heard of this paper, the Discord, but if it’s anything like the Punctilio, we should take it with a grain of salt,” Duncan said reasonably, a word which here means “in a charateristic chivalrous and sensitive mannerwhich was very true to who Duncan is as a person”, as he comforted his brother, Quigley Quagmire, who had particular reasons to be distraught at those dreadful – and hopefully, fake – news.
“You’re right. Even if Violet had been arrested, she’d find a way to break out. You remember. She did it before, and another time. And
another.” Quigley was not wrong.
In the lives of the orphans, both Baudelaire and Quagmire, only sorrow and misfortune were a constant. In everything else, their lives were a swirling chaos of abyssal despair. Abyssal of course is a word which here means “bottomless “, or, “profound.” But this had also given them an edge in situations most adults would implode under like a condemned building lined with explosive charges in strategic places in their infra-structure. When it came to infra-structure, it took a lot more than a dubious report on an unknown paper from a town they’d never heard of to shake their foundations.
“We have to tell Isadora. Where is she?”
“She was called to do some favor the Casanovas. I know.” Duncan saw Quigley’s face become dismayed and distraught again. He himself felt only exhaustion. The uncertainty of their goals, their future, their very lives. It was taking his toll, and Duncan had also been waiting tables while his brother and sister found themselves in grisly situations that were grisly for different, but equally as grisly, reasons.
Then the door opened and Isadora came in. Quigley and Duncan saw blood on her maid uniform, and ran toward her. “Isadora, did they hurt you?”
“What happened?”
“We need to leave. Now.” Isadora went to the cabinet and opened it. “This blood isn’t mine. I just had to clean up a…crime scene. The Casanovas, they… They’re on a rampage, and if we’re here any second longer, we’ll get caught up in it. We have to leave, let’s go!” Isadora rummaged through other employees possessions kept in the common cabinet where employees of Roadkill Restaurant had to store their personal belongings. The Quagmires had arrived at the Restaurant with not even the clothes on their backs, as they had arrived in hospital gowns, and their clothes along with their other possessions, had remained in the hazardous, ruined and cursed Lugae Laboratory.
“What did they do?” Duncan asked, but Isadora was throwing clothes their way. “Quick, there’s no time, get dressed. We need to leave, and I’m not kidding.” Quigley grabbed her wrist as gently as he could, and lifted the Discord article to Isadora’s eye level. The headline grabbed her attention, and Quigley let go of her wrist and got down on one knee, grabbing a hat.
“Well, what do you think?” Duncan asked. “It’s certainly jibberish. You can’t possibly believe this article. Violet? Arrested in Rogueport? Why would she be there? We cannot know if there is the slightest bit of truth in this.”
“It’s a lead, it’s all I’m saying.” Duncan had a hunch, that which we in the journalistic field often experience when we pursue a story that is gripping, a word which here means “attention-grabbing.”
“I doubt it. I’ve never heard of Rogueport before coming here and I never heard of this Nightly Discord but I don’t believe it for a second.”
“And why are we running away? The party is still going on. And what did you mean by crime scene?” Quigley inquired, which means, asked, his sister. Her fearful green eyes turned to meet her brothers. “Oh…That’s right…I forgot to say…I’m sorry my nerves are quite frayed after…” Isadora then closed her eyes, turning very pale. Her knees wobbled and she fell, but fortunately, Quigley acted fast enough. Isadora had fainted, which was unusual, considering her life, but entirely understandable, given the recent events and her immediate circumstances. Quigley laid his sister on the couch, and Duncan removed her shoes. “Isadora, are you alright? Isadora? What’s wrong?” Quigley tried to shake her awake, but Duncan stopped him. Isadora was opening her eyes.
“Sorry, I got dizzy…I had to clean up a lot of blood…They…They killed someone.” Isadora mumbled, her eyes uncharacteristically feeble. Duncan approached and placed the back of his hand on her forehead. “She’s burning up. Dammit. Maybe she’s dehydrated? Or maybe it’s low blood sugar? I’ll go get her some things, you stay here with her. Give her some water. I’ll be right back.” Duncan rushed out of the room, and Quigley stayed beside his sister. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
“Not long… But if you’d been in that room, you would be feeling sick too. The Casanovas. They killed Felix’s, I mean, Ramsay’s, no, I mean-“ Quigley placed his hand on Isadora’s shoulder and pulled a blanket over her. “Calm down, let me get you some water.” Quigley went to a nearby table and grabbed a water pitcher and a cup that was lying there, left over from dinner, probably. Isadora sipped the water and seemed to recover some of her color. “Can you find me something to eat? I don’t remember the last time I ate anything.” Quigley smiled. “Sure. Anything for you.” And went to find something for his sister to eat.
As Quigley tended to his ailing, but now seemingly recovering sister, Duncan had gone up to the kitchen. He seemed to recall a cabinet with a red cross on it which might prove helpful to Isadora. Unfortunately, Duncan had choosen an specially unfortunate time to visit the kitchen, because it was at that time that a vicious villain had decided to escape the restaurant through the very same way the Quagmires had arrived. Unfortunately for him, his own enemies were one step ahead the whole time.
Duncan was mercifully well-placed; the medical cabinet was nearby the walk-in refrigerator, but behind a row of supply shelves, in a dark and often overlooked corner of the kitchen where anyone ever rarely went, by the fusebox and the pipe that carried steam from the cauldron in the basement, heating up the restaurant, which was bustling with guests, both of the invited and uninvited sort, where all sorts of schemes unfolded like cards in a good game of blackjack. But, like blackjack, restaurants are also unpredictable, and no part of a restaurant is more unpredictable than it’s kitchen. And no restaurant kitchen was ever as unpredictable, as the kitchen of Restaurant Roadkill on 1366 Roadkill Road near Chaotic Crossing, where Roadkill Road met the Haughty Highway, a dreary and desolate patch of land on the way to a nearby town the Quagmires were soon to be well-acquainted with, to their great dismay.
No. It does not do to dwell on the blights of their future, when the blight of now is so ever-present. You see, for Duncan to be of able and sound body and mind to know that, hearing steps toward the kitchen, he should probably croutch, and hide from the view of the person entering the kitchen now, a tall man wearing a purple suit under what was a very poorly-fitted winter coat and an even more ill-fitting hat. The man looked one way, then the other, before taking slow, deliberate steps towards the opposite end of the kitchen. The man made it to the door that led to the backyard of the Restaurant, overlooking the woods and the still burning, blighted area where once stood the dreadful laboratory of
Gothic Works.
The man tried opening the door, but he had failed to notice something about the door. It was not quite locked, as it happens, but more so sealed. Sealed with a device that should be familiar to you if, like me, you have also pursued information on the whereabouts of the Baudelaires and the mountain of sorrow, grief, disgrace and despair that followed them like a curse, a ghost, or a cloud of overpriced perfume.
“Going somewhere?” A familiar voice asked. Duncan couldn’t see, but he could tell who it was. The silky, sultry voice of one Caterina Casanova was within earshot. Duncan heard the man turn, take one step toward the voice then one step back with the other foot. “Oh yes. I am to post my review of the restaurant to my employers in the mail post-haste. It has to be in print by four past midnight. Tell Valentina I’m sorry I couldn’t stay but the restaurant is wonderful. Now, if you’d be so kind as to unlock this door for me. I parked my car out back, and-‘
“Car? You don’t have a car,” Caterina said. It was a strange sentence. Duncan perked his ears up. He had no idea what was going on at the time. “I do, actually. A Dodge challenger with a purple paintjob. It was a gift from a former fling. Famous. Can’t say who it was, in fact. I will say that she was in many movies such as Zombies In The Snow and Realtors in the Cave”
“You talk a lot more than I seem to remember. But then again, that’s part of you.” Caterina spoke and once again Duncan had the distinct impression of hearing two people seemingly talking to each other but in a way that made them seem as If they were having entire different conversations. He’d have been particularly interested to know, that the man standing in the kitchen that he thought was Ramsay Norris, famous food critic and Daily Punctilio staff, was not, in fact Ramsay Norris, famous food critic and Daily Punctilio staff, but an entirely different person by the name of Felix Casanova, brother to Caterina and her siblings, Carlo and Carlotta.
“Hello, hello, hello.” A man’s voice was heard and Duncan heard more steps entering the kitchen. “I’ve waited a long time for tonight. We all have. Haven’t we, dear sisters?” Carlo Casanova asked. “Oh yes. A long, long time.” Carlotta Casanova had entered the kitchen. Duncan wondered where on Earth were the kitchen staff. There was no one to be seen, and he could feel an uneasiness, a growing tension that did not bode well.
“I’m sorry, do you read my column? Is that it? Perhaps you are fans, and want me to visit your restaurant to review it, is that right? I’m sure it can be arranged. Give the address to my assistant, Glenn, and he’ll let you know who to call at the Punctilio. I’m sorry but I have to be off, I really do must mail this envelope.”
“He’s still going. Incredible.” Carlo uttered in bafflement. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.” Ramsay’s voice betrayed a sense of growing suspicion, but by then it was too late. “Drop the act. Valentina is not here to protect you. And neither is she.”
That sentence made no sense to Duncan, but it would, in time. Because in time, Isadora Quagmire would inform her siblings of the true identity of the man posing as Ramsay Norris, famous food critic and Daily Punctilio staff, to really be no other than one Felix Casanova, who you, dear reader, will remember to be the closest associate of Esmé Squalor in the dreadful series that preceded this one.
“You see, I thought long and hard about what to do with you once we’d find you but having you here now, I just have no idea how to proceed.” Caterina Casanova, unlike her sibling and now mortal enemy, Felix, felt no need for pretense. She had her own roundabout way of doing things, and delighted to delay the moment. “Umberto.” Caterina uttered the name, summoning the large servant of the Casanovas. He entered the kitchen and the room’s atmosphere became even more tense.
“I’m sorry, I have never seen you people before coming here. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I am Ramsay Norris, famous food critic and Daily Punctilio staff, I have a card that says so.” Duncan couldn’t contain a sneer of disgust, forgetting his circumstances for a dark moment. “Wait, what was that?” Carlotta asked. Duncan had no choice and let out a heartily meow, as best as he could. “Oh, it’s just a cat. It’s probably good to have cats in a restaurant. They help catch the rats. You see, Ramsay, when we knew you’d be coming here, we sent a few cats ahead to make sure we’d catch you alone. And now we did. And you will be answering for your crimes, but not before you reveal to us the true whereabouts of your…associate. She will pay, just like you, for taking Father’s life.”
“You seem to be mistaken.” Ramsay had dropped his act, whatever it was. His voice was still the same, but he sounded different, as if he had changed into a completely different personality. Which, I am sure you know, he had. “You seem to be under the illusion that I will cooperate. I have nothing to lose and I will reveal nothing. You are insects to me and to my supperiors.”
“Insects, are we? Well, tell that to your dear assistant when you join him in the afterlife.” Carlo threatened. “I see. So that is that then.”
“Even now, your lack of a heart disgusts me. You associated with that young man for a long time. He worshipped and followed you everywhere you went. And now we killed him, and you do not show an ounce of soul or humanity. You, my dear, are truly lost. Beyond all forgiveness or understanding. I have seen monsters before. But I’d never thought you’d stoop this low.” Caterina’s voice was almost pained, in the way that any other woman’s voice would sound pained if she knew one of her siblings and her father’s murderer to be an even worse monster than in her own nightmares.
“Don’t make me laugh. You don’t care about me. You never did. Not until I killed him. That got your attention, didn’t it? I could have let him live. I should have, really, if it meant you three coming after me. I knew this would happen.”
“And yet you came here all the same. I wonder why. Makes me think if killing you here and now really is our best course of action.” Caterina pondered.
“Now is not the time to ponder over our actions, now is the time to act, Caterina. Let me at him and I will avenge Father and restore our family’s honor.” Carlo volunteered. The man who claimed to be Ramsay Norris chuckled. “Carlo. Ever so trigger-happy. Tell me, how did it feel when he left everything to Caterina? Why do you run after her like a dog or a servant? You are pathetic. And you. There’s no ammount of surgery, fashion or makeup that can make you even the slightest bit as beautiful as our dear Caterina here. I may have killed him, but you two need to really question who has hurt you more in your lives. Me, or Caterina, who wears the crown so gracefully.
“I did wonder about it. It did not seem right for her to inherit our Father’s Estate. She is a woman, after all. Women belong in the kitchen, or in a secretary desk, not running our business and money-laundering!”
“I don’t seem to recall you doing much running our business or money-laundering, Carlo. Pipe down and remember who is addressing you. I asked Caterina to get you out of jail, don’t make me regret it now.” Carlotta sounded unexpectedly reasonable and made sense, which as a strange notion for Duncan, who had only heard her proclaim herself to be the most beautiful woman in the world and that without even attending the Miss Solar System Pageant.
“I’ll forgive this outburst, Carlo, but just this once. And if I hear you talk about women in that way again I’ll have Umberto here remind you that I am your sister but I am also your boss, and I can throw you in the furnace with him if I see fit to do so. Now are you through attempting to overthrow me or can we get on with our revenge?”
Carlo coughed, and fell silent. Duncan shuddered, hiding behind the cluttered supply shelves.
“Men.” Caterina snarled. “Now where were we? Ah, yes. Your impending demise. At our dear Umberto’s hand, no less. Quite poetic, right? A henchman, killed by my henchman. Say your prayers-“
And it is here and now, dear reader that I must interrupt this narrative to deliver some dreadful news. You would be forgiven for thinking that this was it for the dreadful, notorious Felix Casanova and his treacherous never ending supply of disguises. For such an evil man to meet his end by the hand of a former employee of his own, in the grimy kitchen of a roadside restaurant in a county where no one ever went of their own accord, would truly be quite poetic. But alas this is a tale of unfortunate events and it’s my duty to inform you the very dreadful event that took place in the restaurant was not the death of a food critic, which in any other restaurant, would spell doom, but the death of an entirely different person, who had been in the wrong place, at the right time. Their death by electrocution burned the fuses and the Restaurant was plunged into darkness. There was a confusion of screams, voices, loud noises and alarm sounds. Steps ran up the basement staircase and through the foyer, toward the main ballroom and then, outside. Steps that ran in a pair, and towards the woods, belonging to a certain dubious duo of even more dubious character and intentions. Their assigment, complete, they stole into the night, a phrase which here means “sneaked away in the dark like thieves”. The lights came back, and Duncan heard the Casanovas cry out in dark surprise.
“He’s gone! Where is he? Find him! Umberto! Find him and kill him on sight! Leave no stone unturned, leave no corner unchecked! I will see him die before my eyes or my name is not Caterina Casanova!”
The Casanovas left the kitchen, leaving the corner where Duncan stood mercifully unchecked. Within minutes, the kitchen was swarmed with staff, who were running around trying to make sense of what was happening all around the restaurant. A guest was not answering his door or phone. A lady noticed her pearl necklace had gone missing in the dark. A dog, or something not entirely unlike a dog, had wandered in knocked several guests over in the ballroom while panting breathlessly. Upstairs, a letter and a hairpin had gone missing, for different reasons, from different rooms. Several lightbulbs had exploded, and the phone was dead. All this commotion was terribly frustrating for all the guests and workers except the select few who knew what was going on. Duncan wasted no time in getting to his siblings as quickly as he could, but luckily, Isadora had begun feeling better and the three Quagmire triplets reunited at the bottom of the servant staircase in the first floor.
“Here, I brought you a change of clothes. We’re not staying one minute longer in this restaurant.” Quigley said to Duncan, and Duncan changed quickly while giving his siblings a general account of the events at the kitchen. “It was Felix Casanova. Ramsay Norris…he is Felix Casanova. Years ago, he was an associate of our enemies. Specially of Esmé’s. If anyone knows where she is, it’s him. They must have taken their time with him because they want to find her too.” Isadora explained. “You’d think Esmé would have turned up by now, what with all that has been going on in the world.”
“It has been two years and no one’s heard of her. Don’t you find it oddly curious? That one of the center pieces of this puzzle has been out of sight and mind for so long? Makes one think, right? How did she manage it? Where even is she?” Quigley turned to the wall. He saw something he’d never noticed before. It was up on a notice board of sorts, something meant only for the staff to see. A map of the nearby area. The restaurant on 1366 Roadkill Road, the nearby Chaotic Crossing, and the Haughty Highway. But it wasn’t the map that intrigued Quigley this time, and Quigley was quite interested in cartography. It was the ad printed on the side of the map that had caught his attention. It was an ad with the picture of a building that was familiar.
‘Glass Gymnastics. 333, Gloomy Grove. This isn’t too far away. Wait.” Quigley produced the photo of Nemo Vladmiroff. “See this? This building looks exactly like the one in the picture. If we go anywhere tonight, I say we go there. It’s not too far, and if we run now, we might be able to get away under the cover of night.”
Under the cover of night is an expression which here means “to utilize of the night’s characteristic darkness to make an escape”, something which, if you are familiar with our sort of life, happens quite often, and in this particular night, had already happened. For you see, Rose Hawthorne and her brother, Liam were already gone under the cover of night, but they had also attracted the worst kind of attention. The attention of people in a certain crime syndicate, who had very specific instructions concerning survivors of the Lugae Laboratory disaster. And these people, they were none other than
Gothic Works.
