The rain was pouring down when my air taxi landed in Ponyville. Lightning not far off threw shadows across the town square for a moment, like zebra stripes appearing on a pony for a split second.
The afterimage of the illumination burned in my vision, but after a few moments I could see again by the thin bluish light of the moon. The houses of Ponyville were utilitarian to say the least, and during the day it’d probably have been a charming little contrast to the cheaper parts of Canterlot. Now, at night, it was unnerving, with no hustle and bustle. There wasn’t a sign of life to be seen.
If I wasn't here for a job, I wouldn't be here at all.
"Should've come tomorrow morning," I grouse.
"What?"
My stalwart assistant, Spike, is blinking at me with those round, innocent eyes. They're not as innocent as they used to be, but the kid's still got a chance to get out of this game without major psychological trauma.
I shake my head at him, and trudge on.
Me, I passed that point a few years back. 'Twilight Sparkle, Private Investigator' is what it says on my office door in Canterlot. I still remember when they painted it on the glass a few years back.
When I started, I was convinced I was going to do something good, something right. Be a champion for those who could not fight for themselves, save the girl and get the boy -- or maybe the other way around.
I was an idiot.
Most of my cases turned out to be games of petty shuffleboard -- this spouse wants proof that spouse is cheating, that spouse tries to bribe me into not revealing the photos, this other spouse wants to know more about that spouse because they're getting milked for their bits. It was always the same sob story.
Well, almost always.
The town's deserted at this time of night, even though it's not that late -- just an hour after sunset, the moon choked out by cloud cover.
No -- not deserted. I spot a figure moving out from between two buildings. From a distance, she looks gray in the lack of light; I trot closer, and see that she's actually pink. In the rain, her hair's soaked and hanging straight, and the dress she's wearing is sheer and clingy, revealing a flank with extra hip for the grip. A nice sight, but I didn't come to Ponyville for tourism's sake.
I'm planning my usual move with private citizens: Tell her I'm investigating something, try to look professional, and hope she assumes I'm a cop before she questions why I didn't flash a badge or tell her my name and rank.
So I move to make her acquaintance and get directions. "Excuse me," I say, putting on my best officer-of-the-peace expression.
She looks at me like I've got a second and third head sprouting off my neck, then bolts off like she's got a ten o'clock appointment and it's eleven-thirty. The pink chick had vamoosed faster than you could say the word go, and I was left alone in the rain with my boy Friday.
“Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do,” I groused out loud.
"Guess we're going to have to find Sweet Apple Acres on our own, huh?" Spike asked.
"You said it," I muttered.
* * *
By the time we'd gotten to Sweet Apple Acres, it was getting late for real. I was starting to think my luck was turning around, though -- the rain had let up. Turned out I was wrong.
Spike and I came to the front door, and I knocked, only for a gutteral growl to emanate from the door, as if a hellhound awaited us inside the farmhouse.
“Who’s there?” The voice that came was dripping suspicion.
Professionalism was the watchword. “Ma’am, we were asked to look into something here -- “
"You Royal Guards ain't comin' around here again!" Cute accent, I thought. It was a sweet Appaloosan melody of speech. The accent that lent itself to inaccuracy and florid aphorisms at times, but the beauty of the sound could not be argued.
The Royal Guards in question operated above local weatherponies. In theory, when weather patrols became corrupted, the Royal Guard looked into it. Some larger weather patrols had Internal Affairs departments, but Ponyville was not that moneyed. The ‘Royal’ part was about as meaningless as tits on a colt, considering that the last two princesses or queens or whatever had killed each other a thousand or so years ago. It wasn't exactly in the papers that morning, or in a file on my desk, so I didn't have any reason to give a shit.
The growling retreated, along with the silhouetted figure behind the screen door. The figure came back, became an orange shape; the orange shape trotted through the door, into the moonlight. The mare was not unattractive, especially with the flames of anger burning in her green eyes, but she didn’t look moneyed. Hard worker, judging by the outfit of overalls with grease, dirt, and grass ground into various stains. I prepared to back up -- or magic her legs out from under her -- if she charged to buck me.
"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Spike said. "We're not cops."
I groaned a little inside, but it sounded like being a flathoof wasn't going to get us anywhere anyway. "He's right, Ma’am. We're private investigators. I'm Twilight Sparkle. I received a message from an Applejack Apple requesting I meet her here."
Applejack Apple was not one of my previous clients, but I'd had enough clientele of her sort -- ponies that had money and petty needs. She had plenty of the former; a farm that had once been one of the top twenty apple producers in Equestria had, with Applejack’s special touch, become one of the top five, and eaten a few competitors here and there. I was fully expecting Applejack Apple to request what I liked to call the 'Honeymoon Special': Follow a paramour around, find out who else they're paramouring with, then get photographs that showed as much skin and bodily fluids as possible. She wasn't married, but that didn't mean she didn't have a colt or two on the side -- or even a mare or two.
"Finally. You took your sweet time gettin' here." She shook her head. "I'm Applejack Apple."
"You are Applejack Apple, owner of Sweet Apple Acres," I said. I did my best to keep from letting the doubt creep into my voice.
"I am."
"You’ll have to forgive me. You don’t quite look how I expected." It was the truth.
"I don't look soft, you mean." She came a little closer, brow furrowing. "I'm not. I work like everybody else here, I just have to handle the books and the decisions on top of that."
"Certainly quite a workload," I said, half playing along, half wondering if it was true. Applejack Apple was an unknown quantity; most of her family was in Appleloosa, but word was she’d been estranged from the bulk of them for years. If it wasn’t a lie, then she was the only pony with money I'd ever seen who was crazy enough to keep working an honest job in spite of it. If it was a joke, then I might as well make myself the butt of it and get this over with.
"I'm a touch curious why you couldn't get your flank here a sight faster," she said, and with that, I believed her. I'd heard that assertive tone before, and had come from my clients every time. After you'd thrown enough money at enough problems, you started to think it commanded respect, not mere obedience.
"I’m certainly sorry; I only got the message three hours ago. Generally, I recommend that if a client wants to get immediate face time, they come to my offices in Canterlot. I do understand that’s not always an option, but I don’t have control over the messenger services.”
She eyed me for a moment, then shrugged. "Farm business takes up all my time. People who I need to see, they come to see me."
"As I said, I understand. Perhaps we should discuss this inside, though? No details were given in the message."
She grimaced a little. "That’s because it’s not something I want to see splashed in the headlines tomorrow. My brother's disappeared, and I need him found fast."
I looked at Spike, and he had the same thought in his eyes that I had in my head. This might actually be interesting.
"Come with me. We'll talk in my office," The Town Boss said, and trotted into the darkness of the farmhouse.
I had been dead sure she had a marital problem she wanted to throw bits at.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
* * *
When we got to the door of her office, a voice called out like dried sandpaper.
“Young’n!”
I took a look in the direction it came. The farmhouse was a web of shadows and gloom in the darkness of a rainy night, and the shape coming down the stairs was that of a mare, but it was all I could make out.
“Granny,” Ms. Apple called back, a cautious note in her voice. “It’s all right. You can go back to sleep. It’s the detective I sent for.”
“Mmmmhm,” the figure responded. Light caught on her eyes, for just a moment, and I couldn’t help but wonder what expression was on that face. Older mares in general had a canny air about them, but old mares of money were far cannier than most.
The office was surprisingly spacious; it had a distinct scent of stale paperwork and some milk someone had spilled ages ago and never quite gotten cleaned out of the carpet.
Crop reports were tacked up on one entire wall. The whole office was easily twice the size of my own, but then again, I didn't have an apple empire to run, did I? I just had a half dozen cases and a handful of regular clients with silly little marital problems.
It didn't look like I'd expected a millionaire's office to look, but I didn't really have anything else to compare it to. Most of my clients came to visit me at my office.
Boss settled into a comfortable chair behind her desk; I seated myself into one of the chairs in front of it.
"My brother, Big Macintosh, has been missin' for a few days." She plopped a couple photographs on the desk, images of a red colt with blonde mane. The look on his face was inscrutable, and I'd be lying if I said he wasn't a looker, but I got through with colts a long time ago. Well, mostly.
"I take it your brother doesn't have a head for business, Ms. Apple?"
She shifted a little behind the desk. "Not so much that, but -- well, the Apple family's rather traditional. Momma Winesap left the business to me, and Daddy Cortland wasn't a slouch, but -- well, colts."
'Traditional' was a polite way of saying that her mother thought what a lot of mares thought -- that the males were too hormone-driven for things like 'business', or 'magic', or 'math'. Personally, I'd been doublecrossed by one too many stallions to think they weren't capable of it, but I'd never seen that many stallion accountants, either.
"Well, with all due respect, Miss Apple, I think there’s a good chance your brother’s out enjoying himself a bit somewhere. Perhaps he’s simply decided to keep it between himself and one of his friends?" I couldn't help but poke a little, just to see what notions Boss herself held on the matter.
"’Friends’. I know what you’re saying! He is not that sort of colt!" she growled. "Macintosh is a very private stallion, and I won't claim he has his share of secrets, but that's one thing that's not a possibility."
So her brother's an exception. Yeah, that figures. She bought into her mother's stuff to some degree. Sure, poking the client a little was a risk, but you'd be surprised how often the clients are guilty of something you need to know to resolve their case. Otherwise, they'd usually go to the cops by this point in their little crisis, especially if it’s not marital. It always pays to know the client better. "If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll be happy to look into it for you. I really just didn’t want to set you up for disappointment, if it turns out to be someone trying to upset you, or even a prank in poor taste." The diplomatic tone was taking more effort on my part by now.
"Take a look at this." She threw down a letter. It was typed; I didn't recognize the font, but I could tell that the paper had already been looked at quite a bit. A sliver of the corner was cut away, typical for paper analysis, and there was a section of one letter missing, typical for ink analysis.
It read:
FOR THE APPLE’S SAFE RETURN
HALF A MILLION IN SMALL BITS
HAVE IT READY BY SATURDAY
WE WILL BE IN TOUCH
It was unsigned.
I shrugged. "A mare with a big company gets big problems. You probably get a thousand of those a day, I figure. What made this one stand out to you?"
"The way it was delivered," Boss said, and her lips tightened for a moment. Guilt was on her face, but what did that mean?
I looked at her, gave a slight nod of implied empathy, and watched.
“It came with a piece of hide.” Boss didn’t get to be one of the highest apple producers in Equestria playing nice. Maybe she felt a lot of guilt. “Small, but the coloration was the same red as Mac’s cutie mark, and the blood test came back positive. It’s his. I’m not waitin’ around for the DNA to get back.”
Maybe this was some scheme of hers that had gone south. Of course, one bit and a maybe will buy you a cup of coffee and not much else. I needed more information to narrow down these speculations, so I just let her keep talking.
"Now, my brother's no slouch in a fight; he'll buck with the best of 'em. But these ponies mean business. If he's off gallivantin' somewhere, I want him back here. And if they've got him, I want you to find the sons of bitches."
I nodded. At the very least, I could get paid for looking into it. "My rate is -- "
She shook her head firmly. "I don't care. I'm good for it. Send a bill, and it'll get paid. Just find him."
"I'm on the case," I murmured back.
As I made my exit, I pondered. Getting a blank check was as sweet as cake, but I knew her kind. Blame had to be laid somewhere, with a power-player. She wanted blood, and if it turned out that her brother was already horsemeat in a ditch, she might well decide my blood would do.
Of course, there was always the chance it'd go the other way. I might just find Macintosh, and the kidnappers would get their hooves on me. Cutie marks weren’t something you just cut up; it meant business. It was the calling card of professional ransom artists, the sort that put you down for dirt naps if your family didn’t pay up -- or if some wannabe hero came snooping around and got caught.
That was a notion that gave even me pause.
* * *
“We’re taking it, huh?” Spike asked as soon as we were out of earshot of the front porch.
“Damn straight, kiddo. At the very least, it should prove interesting.”
He smiled at me. “You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The look like you were hooked. I can always tell when you’re actually interested in a case.”
I thought about asking him why he was looking at me in the first place, but I let it go, and we traveled in silence towards Ponyville proper.
Once we got to the east side entrance, I found myself face to face, as sudden as sudden gets, with a zap apple maned mare that flashed a badge.
“Police. Up against the wall.”
I did as I was told and Spike followed suit. Hooves and claws set against stone wall, and we waited. It was hardly the first time a weathermare had thought the two of us suspicious.
Her hooves moved over my sides, patting down, and found the bulge of my .45, easy peasy. She chuckled. “Well, well. What are you doing snooping around this late, and with a piece no less?”
The tone told me there was definite authority behind it. “Returning from seeing a client. I was hired by Applejack Apple, and this firearm’s concealed permit is in my inside pocket. I need it for my work.”
Zap Apple’s brow furrowed deeper as she pulled out the paper and examined it. “Twilight Sparkle? Hired to do what? What is your work?”
“The first part’s between myself and Miss Apple, I believe. That’s the ‘private’ part of ‘private investigator’, which is the answer to your second inquiry.” I tucked my documentation and my proof-of-P. I. back where they belonged.
“You’re a private investigator?”
I flashed my license, and nodded at Spike. He fumbled a little, then held up a matching one. “Not just me, the kid too.”
"Well, well, Miss Apple’s opened up with a pair of snoops." Her face did something inscrutable in the faint illumination of my hornlight, and for a moment I thought I saw a flicker of fear in the expression. “I’m going to check on that. If I find out you’re lying, you’re going to be in trouble.”
“Certainly, officer.” I only had to grit my teeth a little to get it out politely. “I’ll be staying at the local accommodations until the end of the week. Twilight Sparkle, room 208.”
She narrowed her eyes a moment, then gave a faint snort and took off like a gunshot.
“That cop’s sure in a hurry to get somewhere,” Spike mumbled as we resumed walking towards town. “She must be diligent.”
“That’s probably it, little guy.” Might as well let him entertain that delusion. I knew better. The Apples practically owned Ponyville, and that meant they had indirect funding control over the weather patrol. More likely, though, they had rather direct control via bribery. There was rich, and there was wealthy.
The Apples were the latter.
* * *
I was dead tired by the time I got into the Ponyville Inn. Spike had his room, and I had mine -- and that suited me just fine. Last thing I needed was a sweet kid getting all doe-eyed on me and making a stupid zig when he should smartly zag.
I stripped my rainslick coat and holster off. My piece was a .45 automatic with good balance and a wood mouthgrip. It was backup, if a magic missile or a fireball didn't slow down my problem -- or if I met something impervious to magic. Not that I was a slouch with the spells, though. Little Spike in the other room? I hatched him. Believe it or not, I spent time as a student at the Royal Academy of Magic.
The name was another holdover from years past, considering the lack of royal anything to be an academy of. The Academy was no joke, though; it was hardcore stuff, and it usually prepared you for a life of active spellwork. Plenty of their alumni were working in law enforcement, and plenty more were private sector, either in research or in security.
Some -- usually the ones not good enough for those fates -- ended up beat cops, graveyard shift guards, or even private investigators.
If they could see me now, I thought, settling into a chair and teasing an Alpaca out of the pack. I'd been the head of my class, gotten job offers from research institutions and corporate Canterlot interests -- and now I was working a job most of them wouldn't have taken if their mother had four broken legs.
I stuck the cigarette in the corner of my mouth and lit it with a little spark from my horn. As I took a drag, the light flared in front of my face. Smoke trailed upwards; through it, I caught sight of motion out of the corner of my eye and flicked my gaze to the window.
There was the silhouette of a pony out on the balcony.
I felt along my side for my .45 immediately, and came up bubkes. It was still on the dresser, across the room. That's okay, I thought. I can talk with my horn and hooves if I need to. I watched the sliding glass door take its sweet time to move along the track.
"Show yourself," I growled, letting my horn give a warning glow.
"Well, aren’t you forward," the silhouette murmured. The voice was a mare's, playful with an edge, a straight razor with bunnies on the handle. “I like that in a mare.”
"I like answers. Who are you?" I readied a fireball, and the glow of it illuminated her face. I recognized her immediately. It was the mare I'd seen earlier, the pink one that split like lickety when she saw me, before I could ask for directions.
“Awwww, I’m sort of . . . the welcoming committee.”
I dissipated the fireball energy into harmless aether, and shook my head. All the dames in this town are crazy, I thought. "You shouldn't be here, little filly," I said as I tapped ashes off my smoke. "Why don't you run along now, to whatever it was you were running to earlier."
She trotted towards me, and there was a definite sway in her deliciously curved hips, one that was hard to look away from. Her hair was straight and long, and hung down; it was an elegant look. "Running really isn’t my thing, most of the time. I like parties, see. And I was thinking I'd throw you a little party," she whispered, her lips pursing into a pout.
I pulled my eyes up to meet hers. "Don't need a party. You should scram, before I talk to someone about an intruder."
She arched an eyebrow and trotted closer. "You might like it more than you’d think. Besides, I promise it'll be nice and private. Just between you . . . and me."
I ran a hoof through my mane, pushing a stray hair from my face. I drew on the cigarette, and she was close enough now that the flare of light shone on her face as well. "Private can mean a lot of things," I shrugged. "Are we talking VIP private?" I kept on her pink eyes and let a little smile play on my lips. "Or are we talking champagne room private?"
Her smile spread out. "Champagne room," she whispered.
I won't lie -- she was starting to get to me. Maybe she was dangerous, maybe she was just ditzy, but either way there was warmth creeping up my neck, and down in other places.
"Now, why would you be looking to have a party with me?" I asked, taking my hat off. I'd made the decision, I was just trying to justify it in my head. "I can't think I captivated you with florid speech, seeing as how I barely got word one out before you beat feet."
"Maybe it's because you're just passing through," she whispered. "A dangerous mare from the big city."
I liked that answer. I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, let her see a smile, and leaned in to kiss pouty pink lips.
What the hell, I thought. I'll blow this town by the end of the week.
