Chapter 11: The Missing Package Mystery, Part 3 of 6
Ted Mosby shuffled into the mailroom, his brown eyes scanning for coffee, the buzz of fluorescents drilling into his skull.
The air was thick, musty with old envelopes, the scent clawing at his nose, a gritty dust coating his teeth.
His loafers scuffed the linoleum, each step jolting his tired legs, the peacoat heavy on his frame.
Another distraction. Seventy-thirty this is a waste, he thought, the dry scratch in his throat nagging as he bent, back twinging, to grab a brown hardcover book.
The stained cover—coffee splattered like a crime scene—drew him in, his fingers trembling slightly.
He meant to hand it to Ross, but the tiny, neat handwriting on the first page hooked him, a furious scrawl igniting his cheek with nervous energy.
"October 23rd: Rachel wore a new blouse. It was the color of a sunrise I will never see because I'm always here. Ross was also here. I hate Ross. I think he took the sugar packet that belongs to me. A simple sugar packet. What a fool."
This is it. The madman's mind, Ted mused, the heat prickling his neck, slipping the diary under his arm, the leather creaking.
Or just a guy needing a hobby, he added, trudging upstairs, the weight pressing his chest, collar adjusted again.
The group huddled around the coasters, voices a chaotic hum, Ted's mind hovering at sixty percent for a breakthrough.
"It has to be the coasters. The T. Pendergrass label, the size of the box," Monica declared, tapping the brass box with a pencil, the ping sharp in Ted's ears.
"A high-end gift. Someone stole it."
Chandler strolled over, dropping the diary onto the clue board with a thud, Ted's stomach lurching.
"We can stop theorizing about a professional art thief now," Chandler said, his tone dry, a flat counter to the room's energy.
"We have an internal suspect pool. A very, very blonde, very, very lonely suspect pool."
Monica snatched the book, her green eyes scanning, snapping to Gunther wiping the counter, his silence intense.
"Mailroom visits? Obsessive details about Rachel's clothing? He hates Ross over a sugar packet?" she whispered, voice a mix of suspense and fury, slicing Ted's focus.
Organized chaos. Evidence, she thought, her posture rigid, barking, "Gunther."
Gunther froze, pale blue eyes darting from Monica to the diary, lingering on Rachel with a flicker of longing, Ted's gut twisting.
"Gunther! Did you take the package? Did you even see the package?" Monica demanded, towering, the diary a weapon.
"I… I am always here. Rachel, she is… she is like… a beautiful, fleeting espresso shot," Gunther murmured, voice dropping, words stumbling shyly.
"I watch. I wipe. I do not… steal."
The loneliness in his plea hit Ted, a mirror to his own desperation, collar adjusted, skin hot.
"Monica, stop it," Rachel said, firm, stepping forward, her hand gentle on Gunther's arm, the fabric rough.
"He didn't take it. Look at him. He's just sad. He's not a thief. He's a barista with a… a rich inner life."
"He just wants to know about the sugar," she added, empathy a shield, her green eyes steady, Ted admiring her quietly.
Ross stomped his foot lightly, tie askew, irritation flaring in his brown eyes.
"This is beneath us! It's not Gunther! It's clearly a coded message!" he sputtered, voice rising, words tumbling.
"The architectural coasters, the missing package… it's a setup! A museum artifact is involved!"
Marshall clapped Ross's back, his laugh booming, a warm wave against Ted's cynicism.
"See, Ross, that's exactly what Bigfoot wants you to think!" Marshall said, green eyes alight with mischief.
"Bigfoot's a smart guy, he's probably using this package as a diversion to move a giant, frozen piece of evidence!"
Barney, smelling conflict and money, pulled out cash, slapping it onto the table, bills rustling loudly.
"Alright, alright, new betting pool! Thief's Identity! Gunther? Bigfoot? Or my theory: an incredibly hot Canadian Spy who just needed the brass coasters to weigh down a microfilm of the blueprints for a new, legendary sex-lair?"
Ted rubbed his neck, skin sweaty, calculating absurdity at eighty percent, the room spinning.
Lily watched the chaos—Barney's pool, Ross's pedantry, Rachel's defense—her green eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Wait, you guys," she said, cutting through, pointing to her mural, paint wet and glossy.
"I've been sketching the view from the mailroom window. See the way the light hits that fire escape?"
Phoebe rushed over, blonde hair flying, excitement palpable, making Ted's head spin.
"Oh, my God! The vision! What is it? Does the pigeon see the thief on the fire escape?"
Lily picked up a brush, adding a tiny shadow, bristles whispering against canvas.
"No, look at the railing. I painted the mailroom's back window," she said, steady, the words sinking into Ted.
"And I remember now, I noticed this tiny thing in the glass…"
She turned, face alight with triumph, flush stark against tension.
"It wasn't a window reflection. It was the glint of an antique silver locket in the sunlight, hanging out of the corner of one of the mailboxes, right before someone pulled it back in."
Monica straightened, pencil snapping back, her organizational instinct kicking in.
"A silver locket. Not brass coasters. A locket," she said, firm, the words a command.
"Gunther's innocent, but the clue is visual, not psychological. Evidence. We need to find the woman with the silver locket."
The betting pool faded, the room shifting to tense focus, Ted feeling the mystery's weight in his bones.
Maybe this is the piece I've been missing, he thought, the chill seeping through his peacoat, collar adjusted again.
Later, Ted sat with Gunther at the counter, the coffee machine's drone in his ears.
He offered a pastry, the buttery scent rising, Gunther nodding, their silence a fragile bridge.
Ted's fingers brushed his collar, the fabric rough, his mind drifting to the locket's story.
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