The Strange Case of Miss Lavinia Armitrage

The Innsmouth Diner

Innsmouth, Massachusetts

"Nathaniel Pickman Ward."

That's what the tiny, ornate letters spelled out on the faded yellow scrap of a business card that she had swiped from the wall of the Innsmouth Diner when she walked through the doors. Not really swiped, because it was pinned to the deteriorating corkboard near the front doors; along with myriad other desperate-looking business cards, sundry notices, and sketchy-looking advertisements.   There were the usual janitorial and maid services listed, along with an enterprising dog-walker, the requisite do-it-all handyman, an offer of all-occasion party catering, one shady-sounding ju-jitsu (just what was jiu-jitsu, anyway?) academy, and-

A business card offering the services of one "Nathaniel Pickman Ward."

She kind of liked the sound of that name; it sounded, what, legitimate? Mmmm...no. Real.  Yes, that was it. Real. It was a real name, like someone of character, someone that you could trust.  Of course, she couldn't trust anybody, at least not just yet.  But that's what she had been searching for, someone to trust, someone that could help her with her...problem. 

"Nathaniel Pickman Ward."

She turned the card over and over again.  A sudden chill went through her.  She looked around anxiously.  No one had seen her furtively snatch the card from the wall, although she was sure the sound that the pushpin had made when it hit the floor sounded like the chiming of a church bell in a cemetery.

And did the business card have a...smell?  She raised it to her delicate nose, just brushing her sullen lips, and inhaled...licorice?  Sort of, but mixed with a spicy, minty aroma, but then again an almost decayed, woodsy sort of smell.  It was unsettling. She decided that the card must have just absorbed that scent from hanging for who knows how long in this dark, smoky diner.

She looked around again.  Why had she even come in here?  She had been desperate, looking for help, from anyone, anywhere...and then the rain had started, and she darted through the doors of the Innsmouth Diner.  She had never even noticed this place before, and she'd been down this street numerous times; was it new?  It couldn't be, because the place looked like it had been here forever...

The music from the jukebox (they still have jukeboxes?) rose and fell, but she couldn't make out what was playing, something jazzy and old-timey? Anyway, as she took in her surroundings more fully, she noticed that many of the patrons were, like her, dressed all in black.  Several were definitely Goths, but not everyone.  She wasn't a Goth, not that there was anything wrong with that, it's just that she had more...eclectic tastes.  The waitresses and busboys were nondescript in their attire; the usual diner-chic shabbiness that pervaded establishments such as this was on full display at the Innsmouth Diner.  She looked again at the business card.

"Nathaniel Pickman Ward."

Below the name, it said "Investigator of the Unusual"; just below that, "Help for the Helpless".  And then, "Hope for the Hopeless". Cute. And at the very bottom, "Liquidator of Antiquities."  Hmm.  "Liquidator of antiquities?" She re-read the line.  Her left eyebrow shot up. What was that supposed to mean? "Liquidator of Antiquities?"  Was he an arranger of yard sales?  A master of flea markets?  Someone that helped solve mysteries whilst helping you dispose of your great-aunt's thimble collection?   It didn't make sense.  But then again, nothing was making sense, as of late. 

Examining the card, she saw that there was a scrolling kind of border around the edges of it that reminded her almost of...tentacles?  No, more like...yes, tentacles.  Or maybe jellyfish appendage-thingies.  She shuddered.  Why were the hairs on the back of her neck starting to rise?