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“You’re back.”
“Humph.”
“Oh, dear. How was the case?”
“Dumb.”
As grumpy as he is, Blanc comes to an abrupt stop in the doorway of the kitchen and proffers his cheek for a kiss. Then he frowns down at Phillip’s apron, which is mint green and covered with pictures of llamas wearing chef’s hats. He is attempting barbecue ribs for dinner, and several of the llamas are smeared in a gory mix of ketchup and molasses.
“You had a different apron before I left.”
“Well, you are the world’s greatest detective—trust you to notice.”
Blanc gives him one of those baleful basset hound looks and storms off.
“I am going to draw a bath,” he announces with the usual melodrama and melancholy.
“The old one caught fire,” Philip admits, calling at his back. “And this was the first one available via Prime delivery—don’t you want to hear the story?”
“You threw it down on the counter in a fit of emotion, failing to notice the burner was still on, as you have done half a dozen times since this whole thing started.”
He slams the door behind him, and there is the sound of water rushing through the pipes.
“Yes, but this time it was a fit of triumph, rather than despair. Would you like some sourdough toast?”
The bathroom door creaks open, a small, pathetic sound that softens the edges of Philip’s mouth. It has been nice to have the apartment to himself for a few days—nice to have a little breathing room for the first time in two months, nice to clear out the bathroom properly—but better to have Blanc back.
“Yes. Please.”
***
Philip always stood up when someone entered his office, and extended a hand to shake and greeted them by name—that was only polite. Normally he managed to do so without knocking over the cup of coffee on his desk, and immediately stumbling in an attempt to right it, and spluttering “You must be Mr. Benoit” like an idiot. But really, how much poise could one expect to have when faced with a gaze like that? There were Siberian huskies who would whimper and develop self-confidence issues when confronted with those eyes—and that was before he even noticed the excellent pairing of a violet paisley tie and a polka dot pocket square. It took incredible confidence to pull off a look like that. Really, it was an intensely sexy combination, the kind one rarely had to deal with in the workplace.
“Please, call me Blanc,” the man mumbled in response, blinking like he’d just been hit, and then he muttered “Oh, lord,” and whipped the pocket square out, dabbing the thin fabric ineffectively at the coffee spill as if it could possibly help.
They sat down, eventually, and stopped bumbling around and had a very sensible discussion on copyright law. Philip was lucky that the issue Blanc laid in front of him was so mind-numbingly simple—there was no conceivable case to be made for fair use, which the detective remarked gravely gave someone a very good motive for murder.
“Gosh, how thrilling,” Philip said, leaning back in his chair. “Of all the legal jurisdictions, I would have guessed this the least likely to intersect with a murder. But if I’ve been of any assistance at all, I’m glad.”
“You have been very helpful, Mr. Duff, very helpful indeed. As a matter of fact, I wonder if I might get your phone number, so I can keep you updated on the case—let you know if this lead pans out, ask any follow-up questions, and such.”
“You already have my phone number. You called it to set up this meeting.”
“Oh.” The tips of his ears went red when he was embarrassed. It was, somehow, more attractive than his eyes. “Yes, that is true.”
“If you’re asking if you can call me again… then yes, you can. I’d like that very much.”
The detective looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then he sat forward in his chair.
“Mr. Duff—”
“Philip, please.”
“Philip, it seems to me that we may have gotten our wires crossed, here. You see, I couldn’t help but notice there is a newsletter peaking out of that tray over yonder from GBNA, which I believe stands for the Gay Birders of North America, which was the basis of my asking for your phone number. I thought perhaps we could get a coffee or a drink to talk about personal matters as well as the case.”
“Yes,” Philip said, slowly. “I think we’re on the same page so far.”
“Excellent. Then is there some particular reason you’d like me to continue to contact you by having the receptionist transfer me to your work landline, rather than giving me your personal number?”
He had the distinct feeling that his cheeks had gone as red as Blanc’s ears, and that it was nowhere near as flattering.
“Oh dear,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m beginning to think a coffee date would actually be a rather terrible idea. I’m quite flustered by you, Mr— excuse me. Benoit.”
“Likewise,” the detective said, eyes sparkling. “And as I said earlier—call me Blanc.”
***
He toasts three slices of bread. He does it properly, whips up some ricotta and drizzles the nice olive oil and cracks fresh pepper and salt. There’s half a bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge that he glances at, but he decides against it—Blanc doesn’t need encouragement to soak that long. He took the scented candle out of the room for similar reasons. The bluetooth speaker remains, though, and is dutifully playing Blanc’s Broadway medley on shuffle when Philip nudges the door open. “Song on the Sand” from La Cage transitions to the opening number from Into the Woods, and he sits on the toilet lid and holds up the plate. One slice of toast is for himself, and he crunches it with a resurgence of satisfaction.
“Thanks, sugar bear.”
Blanc is taking a proper bath, not soaking for pure pleasure—his hair is wet, and he has to wipe soap off his hands before he can take the toast. He is effusive in his praise when he tries it. Philip can tell he’s still distracted, but the effort is appreciated.
“Guess what I’m thinking about,” he says.
“Mamma Mia,” Blanc says promptly. “You watched the first movie and half of the second while I was gone, and now you’re wondering if it’s appropriate to propose we go back to Greece on vacation once travel is more permissible, given that I have quite clearly had such a wretched time there.”
“It’s a good guess. I watched three-quarters of Mamma Mia 2, for the record, and I would have finished it except the bread— it’s not important. But no. I was thinking of our first date. When you took me to see Sweeney Todd and revealed that the composer you had previously thought to have a very good motive for murder over copyright violation was Stephen bloody Sondheim, who was so relieved when you changed your tune and proved him innocent that he gave you free tickets. To Sweeney Todd, the musical with perhaps the highest murder count of any in history. It’s taken me quite some time to fully realize all the levels on which it was an absurd outing.”
Blanc smiles, a soft, gentle smile that crinkles his face in all the right places. He finishes a piece of toast and slumps down in the bath, tilting his head in Philip’s direction. Philip, taking the unsubtle hint, cards his fingers through wet hair.
“I almost got that poor girl killed yesterday,” he says quietly. Philip’s heart gives a nasty throb at the unwelcome reminder that Blanc’s job is dangerous, that he’s not showing up to complete puzzles in the abstract.
“But you didn’t,” he repeats in a similar tone. “You did something ingeniously clever at the last moment that saved her, and it’s not worth thinking about the alternative.”
Blanc shakes his head.
“It was pure dumb luck that saved her. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Did you find out who did it? Did she get the answers she was asking for?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, like he had philosophical thoughts about whether it mattered or not. Philip kissed his forehead.
“Then it sounds like a job well done. Do try not to drown yourself, darling. I will be leaving for my proscribed walk in an hour, and the ribs will be ready for dinner forty-five minutes after that. It would be my pleasure to have you join me for either one. Although if you choose to stuff yourself on the remnants of the best sourdough in the city, I shall not blame you.”
“Thank you, peach.”
“You are most welcome.”
***
Blanc led him around the apartment with a fervor that even the most deranged real estate agent could rarely muster, his eyes bright and his arms flying about as he waxed poetic on the soundness of construction, the ingenious layout of the rooms, the heights of comfort and elegance they could achieve once they repainted the living room and tore out the god-awful tile in the bathroom. Philip followed from room to room, his heart sinking with each step even though he knew it was completely unfair and fatalistic and Blanc would be devastated if he admitted any part of his hesitation.
“Now,” Blanc said, coming to a halt in the middle of the apartment with his right arm outstretched. “Before I show you the piece de resistance, the thing that may very well blow everything we have seen thus far out of the water—tell me truthfully, what are your thoughts so far?”
“I think…” He hesitated. “I think I’m very surprised you found it so soon. It took you three months to buy a new cell phone and then practically three days to go from ‘let’s move in together’ to ‘I’ve found a new apartment.’”
“Cell phones are boring. Real estate—now, real estate is a challenge, a case nearly as complex as any I have ever faced. Would you agree, though, that the conclusion has proved successful?”
“It’s a very nice apartment.”
Damning with faint praise. He winced as the words fall in the space between them, and some of the sparkle went out of Blanc’s eyes.
“You don’t like it.”
“I like my apartment.”
“As you should—it’s a very nice apartment, and yet when I raised the suggestion of moving in to one of our pre-established domiciles, it was your idea to begin looking anew.”
“I know.” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “I know I did, Blanc, but… oh, hell. The truth is, I’m an old bachelor and I’m set in my ways, and this is all happening very fast.”
They were approaching their three-year anniversary. This was not fast, but Blanc didn’t try to argue. He sank down onto the sofa, the air gone out of his sails. Philip sat, too, and took hold of his hand and squeezed, a silent apology.
“I understand,” Blanc said after a moment. “I can be a difficult man to live with. The odd hours, you know, and the singing, and I’ve never managed to cook a meal without using every pot and pan in the kitchen somehow, and the smoking—if I promised to only smoke outside—?”
“You’d never keep that promise, darling.”
“Well, except on very special occasions. And even then I’d open a window.”
“It’s not the cigars I have a problem with, Blanc. I mean I don’t have a problem with anything, except—well, I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on with all this. You’re the world’s preeminent private detective and you jet around the world solving fascinating cases and meeting fascinating people, and I’m…” He shrugged. “I’m not a bad catch, I’ll admit that. For an average person living an average life, I understand my appeal perfectly. As it is, I find it necessary to-to retreat, every once in a while, to my own space where I can adjust focus. Recalibrate normalcy, so I don’t develop a complex about being the most ordinary thing in your extraordinary life.”
“Honeypie. Oh, sweetheart, this is a serious crossing of the wires.” Blanc jumped up and began pacing, the lines of his forehead set in fierce concentration. “No, no, no—you have to understand that the very fact of your ordinariness is the extraordinary thing about your appeal. I spend a fair portion of my life plunging the depths of human depravity, cruelty, greed, and pettiness, mired in all the snares that extraordinary intelligence and cunning can devise. And when one emerges from the muck of such immorality, there is nothing more satisfying than an ordinary intelligence paired with extraordinary good sense and kindness. You are an intelligent man, there is no denying that, and the intelligence that concerns itself with the intricacies of copyright law, bird identification, and couponing is a balm to my agitated soul.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers spread, painfully earnest.
“Are you being patronizing?”
“Never.”
“Hm.” He stood and slipped both hands in the back pockets of Blanc’s trousers, tilting his head up. “You won’t get bored of me?”
“I could never.”
“But will you constantly be bringing cases home? And having people over—grateful Sondheims and the other Top Ten cleverest detectives in the world, people who will make me feel stupid?”
“You like Stephen.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, and I promise, I will never prioritize the relative intelligence of our guests over their good manners.”
“And this isn’t about the fact that you’ve gotten to age forty without having developed an efficient chore schedule?”
“I have only gotten to age thirty-nine without having developed an efficient chore schedule,” Blanc said sternly. “And I will happily fulfill my end of the bargain with regards to yours, if I have the pleasure of cohabitating with you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“…I will grudgingly fulfill about three-quarters of my end of the bargain. And make up for the rest with regular gifts for no good reason and my superior cocktail-making abilities.”
“All right.” He gave Blanc a quick peck on the lips and took a deep breath. “What’s this piece de resistance, then?”
It was a balcony. A lovely, cast-iron balcony with window boxes and enough room for a little breakfast table, with a lovely view over the street and into the bakery on the corner. Blanc had already done the reconnaissance—it sold a marvelous array of croissants. If Philip had had any doubts when he saw it, Blanc was right. This would have blown them right away.
***
They eat dinner on the balcony. It’s hardly the most romantic dinner anyone’s ever eaten, as the ribs are appropriately sloppy and a few minutes in they’re interrupted by the chorus of applause for any theoretical nurses in the area and pinot grigio does not pair well with anything he’s chosen. But it’s pleasant nonetheless, and Blanc vents about the utter stupidity of the case in a way that manages to be both cathartic for himself and entertaining for his audience.
“Maybe there is genius in simplicity,” Philip says at the end.
“Not in this case.”
“If I were going to commit murder, I think triggering someone’s life-threatening allergy is exactly how I would go about it. It would be so easy to pass off as an accident.”
“You are teasing me,” Blanc accuses. “Because if you are not teasing me, then I am sorry my dear but this may be the end.”
“Maybe I’m teasing you,” Philip relents with a smile. He finishes the last of the wine. “Although that reminds me—when things calm down a little, don’t you think it’s about time we get married?”
Blanc pauses halfway through a rib.
“Pardon?”
“Well, we meant to in 2015, you remember, except you were called away on that business with the bludgeoned corpse and the albatross, and since then we shy away at anything that might be deemed a ‘fuss.’ Well, I’ve heard it’s becoming quite fashionable for people to have virtual weddings these days, which would cut out a great deal of the fuss. All we need is an outdoor space on a nice day, an officiant, two witnesses, and a webcam for our unlimited virtual guest list.”
Blanc sets down the rib. His eyes are glistening with emotion.
“Philip, my dear one. I would kiss your hand, if my own were not covered in this delicious homemade barbecue sauce. I—well, I don’t know what to say.”
“Heavens. You don’t mean I’ve managed to surprise the great Benoit Blanc?”
“Oh yes you have. A marvelous surprise.”
“Some detective you are.”
***
[excerpt from A Gentleman Sleuth, by Jeremy Woodward]
When he is not out solving the world’s most devious cases, Blanc lives in an urbane, eclectic apartment with his partner, Philip, a lawyer who asked that his name be withheld for privacy reasons. They met—unsurprisingly—while Blanc was working a case that touched on Philip’s area of expertise. Since then, Blanc’s “better half,” as he calls him fondly, has remained several steps removed from the business of crime-solving. When there is no murder afoot, Blanc enjoys cooking Mediterranean food, reading any paperback he can get his hands on, and taking long nature walks with his partner.
However, when asked to comment on his experience as an openly gay sleuth, Blanc demurred. “I do hope, of course, that my unflagging pursuit of the truth might be an inspiration to all, but I can’t say that ‘LGBT people can’t be private detectives’ is a stereotype I have devoted conscious effort to refuting. I have my suspicions about both Sherlock Holmes and Monsieur Hercule Poirot.”
As for Philip, he says that, after fourteen years, the mystery has long gone out of their relationship.
“He’s brilliant, of course,” he said as he came out onto the balcony of the apartment with a fresh pot of tea. “But he takes too long in the bath and doesn’t mop up the water, and is fussy over the laundry and forgets my colleagues’ names at the office Christmas party, just like anyone would.”
Blanc didn’t seem offended by this frank comment, and when Philip had left again, I asked him if he was bothered by it.
“Oh, no, not at all. I know he doesn’t mean any harm—and besides, as a detective it is imperative to maintain good control over one’s ego, rather than the other way around.”
[end of excerpt]