Ruth

“What’s all this?” Luke asks, gesturing to the mess on his desk (to which I claim no responsibility).

“Minutes,” I answer, flipping through the pages casually.

Okay, so maybe I claim some responsibility.

“What are you a secretary?” He jokes, sitting down in his chair as he takes a sip of stale coffee.

“You’re all the roles when you run your own detective agency,” I answer plainly.

He sets down his coffee with more force than needed.

“I thought I told you that was a bad idea.” Luke says, only a hint of anger seeping into his even tone.

“And yet I did it anyway,” I say, letting a dash of humor into my time just to spark his rage.

I’ve known him for a month and this has become my favorite hobby.

He was the one who found me, after the accident.

He says I was in the woods, unconscious. Although the idea of a cocky businessman wandering through the woods seems a bit…

Fabricated.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, subtly hinting to Luke.

He lets out an annoyed sound before checking his ancient watch.

“Oh,” He gasps, sounding like it took all of his ego. “I do actually.”

He leaves his mug on the desk.

Will he be back soon?

Not that I want him to, but he did choose to leave a hot liquid.

He exits the office with little ceremony, I’m already at his desk by the time the door closes.

I pull a pencil from the mess of paper on the desk, as I read through my list.

I don’t have that much to go on. While Cleese gave me a lot of information, it was scarcely useful.

The biggest one worth following being a possible lover.

But where to begin?

Investigation of Diana’s flat would require informing Cleese.

And while this will be a necessary step, I'd rather that for a later time. I’d also be lying if I say that Cleese was not a possible suspect.

For one thing, she waited a month before attempting to find her friend.

It could be nothing, or it could be everything.

…

“Name,” The receptionist asks, peering at me over her glasses. She’s in a purple dress which is pale from age, and her gray hair pinned back in rolls. All of which extenuated the frown lines framing her face.

“Lyhn Reed,” I lie.

While using a fake name was not internally necessary, what’s the fun of being a detective if you don’t use your resources.

“You’ll be on the second machine. Shadowing Ruth for the first month, followed by an evaluation of workmanship.” She drones on, handing me a small slip of paper.

Clearly, I have no intention of working here for a month, but there was no other way to gain access to the work floor.

“Through the door on the left,” She says, her eyes fixed on the girl behind me. “Next,” I hear her say as I walk through the door.

That wasn’t too hard.

I walk down the rickety stairs, to the busy floor. There are about 30 girls here, scattered around 3 different printing presses.

They’re large, taking up around ten feet with nine girls surrounding one. There’s a large roll of paper on one end, streaming through a series of gears.

It’s a massive piece of equipment, and I find it hard to picture Diana working one of these. With the way Cleese described her, it seems doubtful that she would risk ruining her outfits.

Ink would never come out, so why would she work here?

I pull out the small scrap of paper and pencil I’d hidden in the pocket of my skirt.

Oh the joys of pockets in women’s fashion, I hope they never dispose of them.

I write down a brief note.

Why here?

Was there a choice factor?

Could the Boyfriend be connected to this place?

These being an example of notes that are of use to me.

“Are you payed to take notes or to work?!” a man jabs from behind me. I turn to see a man dressed far nicer than anyone working on the floor could earn in a lifetime. With white hair peeking out from his hat.

The foreman.

An important figure to identify, he could have information about her. Although I doubt he’s a candidate for a boyfriend given his age.

Which is odd given his age and wealth. He could waste this much money on an outfit, why keep working into retirement.

Is he less rich than he appears or his greedy for more?

“Sorry, sir,” I say, hating every word. Although he’s not wrong, I need to find Ruth, apparently.

I walk over to the machine that seems to be the second, which like the others is surrounded by girls. Although one stands out, she has a swarm of other girls around and seems older.

18 or 19.

She has brown hair and skin pale from long hours of work. A stained and yellowed apron protecting a pale pink dress, both look as though they’ve been worn for years. Her tired blue eyes fixing on me.

“You new?” She asks.

I nod.

“Come here,” She gestures, tossing me an apron. “We’ll start with replication.”

…

We have a 20 minute break for lunch, all 30 girls lined up, waiting for food. I’m towards the end, next to a small girl, around 7 or so.

So far this attempt has resulted in nothing more than a soiled dress and a waste of time.

Unless, I plan on interviewing a 7 year old, nobody here would know about Diana.

Assuming she even worked here.

Ruth walks past, something hardly passable as food on her tray.

Or, maybe there is somebody.

“Ruth,” I say, just before she’s too far away.

She looks back with little interest.

“What?” She asks, seeing no need in hiding her annoyance.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, her loathing eyes now making this seem like a bad idea.

“Aren’t you all ready,” It's not a question.

“Who’s Diana Canmore?” I ask, watching her expression closely.

It remains blank.

“She worked here,” I add.

Her expression quickly changes, into one of recognition and shock. Then very very quickly confusions, her eyes locked on my face. All this before it turns back into a blank mask.

“Never heard of her.” She claims, with more conviction than she needed, before she quickly walks away.

A small smile hides in my expression at the unsaid information.

Ruth- knew her.

Withheld information.

Diana worked at the print shop.

Why?

I write with an arrow pointing to Diana’s name, this seems like less of a waste of time now.

Diana, where are you?