RARITY INVESTIGATIONS: A Manehattan Mystery Memoir

The moment I lit the scented candle, its delicate aroma filled the room.

Lavender. My favorite scent. Perfect for clearing my mind. I took in one deep breath of the smell, then exhaled. I wanted to savor its calming nature as best as I could. After all, who knew when I would get another relaxing moment like this?

I made my way over to my desk and sat down in the comfortable, plush seat. Like the scented candle, that chair was in my office purely to soothe me, and maybe to remind me of the luxury my life once had. I sunk down into it, exhaling one last time to rid myself of yesterday’s stress and drama. Today was a new day, and as such, required a reset.

Sassy had placed a newspaper on my desk, which I lazily opened up. As per usual, it was the newest copy of The Manehattan Times, which, as per usual, was a lousy excuse for press. LUNA RE-ELECTED FOR GOVERNOR! No surprises there. MISSING UNICORN FOUND! Took them long enough. TRAPPED CAT ESCAPES TREE! Exactly the kind of news that the world needed to hear. It wasn’t long before the paper became the inaugural piece of trash in my new garbage bin.

I levitated my crystalline blue mug toward my lips and took a sip of the scalding chamomile tea. I couldn’t be bothered to let it cool down. Since my move to the city, I had found myself much more into the bitter taste of coffee anyway, but Sweetie Belle had told me that she made this mug specifically for tea, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. Thus, tea every morning, coffee every night, with a shot of whiskey every so often, then more coffee later.

I placed my mug back in its usual spot on my desk. Next to the picture of Ponyville, behind the sign that read my name. My desk was the neatest part of the office, solely because it was the only part that belonged only to me. Sassy Saddles couldn’t maintain a clean workspace for the life of her, and Flam’s constant intrusions made it difficult to keep the office looking nice. But this desk was purely my own, and I treated it like it was my daughter. A cleaning every day. A space for every trinket. Nothing went inside of it; everything stayed on top.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Right on schedule. I didn't bother opening the door. He’d come barging in a few seconds anyway,

“Good morning, Miss Rarity!” he yelled out, breaking the calming aura of the chair and scented candle. He stepped into my dimly lit office, donning that awful green and white striped turtleneck he always wore. And, again following the norm, he was levitating a bottle with some aged alcoholic beverage I could never identify. “Fancy a drink?”

I had once seen an Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet in his pocket, alongside a three year sobriety chip. How he had gathered those was the one mystery I hadn’t yet solved. “Honestly, Flam, it’s barely ten in the morning.” He jokingly rolled his eyes, much to my grievance. “And what did I tell you about that shirt?”

“That you would rather die than look at it again?” He winked at me and laughed. “Don’t worry, captain, I’ll take it off.” His horn began to glow green and the fabric abomination was lifted off his body, but I countered with my own magic to stop it midway.

“Ah, ah, ah! No nudity in my office!” I didn't have many rules for my clients, but that was one of them. “And no calling me captain, either. You don’t work for me, remember?”

Flam was like an ink stain on carpet. It is not easily removed, so after a while, you get used to it. But that doesn't change the fact that it’s still a stain.

“Correction, I don’t work for you yet,” Flam insisted, emphasizing the last word. “Give me time, and I’ll prove how much of an asset I can be to your team.” Without any sort of warning, he plopped his flank down on top of my desk, spilling my mug filled with hot tea. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care.

I shoved him off. “I don’t have a team. Sassy Saddles is my receptionist and secretary. Every case I solve, I solve by myself.” I paused, debating how far I should take my point. “You should know this, since you hired me to put your brother behind bars.”

Flam blinked, but otherwise seemed undisturbed by my statement. “And as a way to thank you for doing that, I now offer my services to you.” He hopped right back on my desk and leaned in close to my face. I could smell the vodka radiating through his breath.

“I don’t need a drunken con artist on my so-called ‘team’, thank you very much.”

We had a permutation of this talk nearly every day for the past week, so I had predicted that this wouldn’t discourage him. What I hadn’t predicted was the giant bin of newspaper clippings he then levitated onto my desk, once again disturbing its perfect surface display.

“This is a bucket of unsolved mysteries and strange occurrences in Manehattan I’ve accumulated over the last week,” Flam spoke, his words ever so slightly slurred. “See? I could be of some use to you.” He laughed and jumped off my desk. “Take a peek, take your pick, and get back to me. See ya, Miss Rarity.”

I debated whether or not to thank him for the bucket of cases I would never solve, but by the time I reached an answer, he was already out the door. After releasing a heavy sigh, I removed the bin from my desk and began cleaning the mess he had created, starting with refilling my mug of tea.

A couple of hours went by, mostly filled with the escapades of Shadow Spade and reminders from Sassy Saddles to call back ponies who were late in paying me for my services. The past two weeks had been rife with cases, but I assumed I had hit a lull. Maybe Flam’s constant appearances in my office were turning ponies away.

That is, until somepony knocked on my door.

It was too early for Flam’s next inevitable intrusion, and I had told Sassy Saddles to just come inside whenever she needed me. This had to be a walk-in client. My favorite kind.

I ran my hooves through my mane, making sure it was presentable, then quickly applied a layer of cherry lipstick. My horn’s blue glow temporary lit up the room as I telekinetically opened the door.

Standing in the doorway was a portly middle-aged mare, sporting a dirty yellow apron and a light crimson mane that looked like a perfect swirl of soft serve ice cream. Immediately, I noticed a bead of sweat on her forehead, and a couple of small wrinkles under her eyes.

She was fully clothed, so I gestured for her to come inside. “Welcome, welcome,” I said, manipulating my tone to make it as warm as possible. “How are you today?”

“Um, I’ve been better,” my client said. She kept looking down at her hooves and shuffling around on the ground. “I have to pick the foals up from daycare soon, so I’ll try to make this quick. You’re Rarity, the private investigator, correct?”

I winked at her, trying to calm her nerves. “That I am. How did you hear about me, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Through some friends of mine. Erm, do you possibly remember Pinkie Pie? She recommended me to you. Said you were so helpful to her. The best in the business.”

I did, in fact, remember Pinkie Pie. She had come to me with a peculiar case. Rather than have me investigate a murder, a case of infedelity, or a theft, she wanted me to figure out who had eaten the last slice of cake at her birthday party. Admittedly, I was hesitant to take on her case, believing it to be infantile and meaningless, but I couldn’t resist the money she was offering. It actually ended up being a very informative exercise on reading ponies; ponies like to lie when it comes to dessert, apparently. And even better, most ponies have a tell. It was the only time I had ever had "fun" on a case, especially when it was revealed Pinkie herself had finished off her treat.

“She might have hyperbolized a smidge, but I am always happy to lend my services to ponies in need,” I continued, making an effort to shift the focus away from me and onto her. “Now, tell me, who are you and why have you sought me out?”

“Well.” The mare took a deep breath, still staring at the floor. “My name is Cup Cake. I’m a local baker in Downtown Manehattan. Do you know Sugarcube Corner?”

I didn't, but still nodded my head. I had gotten the sense that Cup Cake was trying to avoid telling me what I needed to know, so the faster I could get through any tangents, the better.

“I own and run it with my husband, Carrot Cake. We founded it a couple of years ago to follow our dreams of becoming the best bakers in Equestria!” She let out a wistful sigh. “Some call us ambitious, but you have to be in Manehattan, right? Anyway, it’s just a small business currently, but it provides enough to take care of our son and daughter. They’re just two years old. So cute and innocent at that age, eh?”

Again, another empty nod from me. I was beginning to grow tired of her constant sidetracking, so I briefly stopped listening to her words and began observing her body instead. Her apron alone told me more than anything she had said so far. In its fringe, there were the crusted remains of spit-up, so miniscule in amount she likely didn't notice it was there, proving she was telling the truth about her children. More obvious was the white powder in the center, likely all-purpose flour. It was still fresh, suggesting that she came to my office directly from the bakery; perhaps on a break or in the midst of fulfilling an order. I had also seen her apron in a Mare Mania magazine last month. It was not cheap, which either meant she had a lot of money or knew somepony who did.

I tuned back into her ramblings when she was talking about somepony named Pound Cake’s first steps. She could probably tell I wasn’t fully listening, as when we made eye contact once again, her whole face resembled a ripe tomato.

“Sorry,” she apologized, her voice growing quieter. “I got a little off topic there.” I grinned at her to let her know she had done nothing wrong. “The truth is, I’m a little nervous. Hiring a P.I.? Nopony does that! What am I thinking? I’m probably just paranoid.”

“You’d be surprised how many ponies require my services, and how many times their suspicions are proven right.”

Cup Cake gulped and continued shuffling her hooves against the creaky wooden floorboards. That was probably her tell. “Well, in that case… Oh, I’m just going to come out and say it. I think my husband is cheating on me.

Ah. An infidelity case. By far my most common. I levitated a notepad and quill from my polished desk and began taking notes. “Why do you think so?”

“Um, he’s been acting a little… strange. He goes out late at night and comes home early in the morning almost everyday. He says he’s putting in extra hours at the shop, but I don’t know. I haven’t seen the fruits of that supposed labor.” I nodded, just to let her know I was still paying attention. “In fact, I’ve seen the opposite. His work has become sloppy. Yesterday, he mixed up the sugar and salt! Not once has that happened in our fifteen years of marriage!” She paused, still rubbing her hoof on the ground. “But the one that stuck out to me most… he can’t look Pound and Pumpkin in the eyes anymore. They want to play with him, but he always comes up with some excuse and sulks away. He used to spend every waking moment with them, but now… he’s so distant.”

I scribbled down the highlights in my notes, then nodded my head. I had solved a hundred cases just like this one, and, unfortunate as it was, the client was nearly always right. Still, this required further investigation.

“I believe I’ve heard enough,” I said, stretching out my back legs. It felt good to work again. “There’s a good chance this will be an open-and-shut case, but I’m happy to look into the possibilities and assist you in any way I can.” I trotted over to my client, handing her a sheet of paper with a bunch of financial jargon. “Those are my working rates. If you have any trouble meeting them, I’m always open to working out an alternate payment plan.”

Cup Cake slowly scanned the paper. Judging by the price of her apron, I was ninety-nine percent sure she would accept the rate as it was. Turns out, I was correct.

“This is good,” she eventually replied, after a second or two of deliberation. “I can do this. Thank you so much, detective.”

I chuckled, then sat back down in my seat, accepting its soft touch. “Please, call me Rarity. Now, there are a few things I need before I can help. Do you happen to have a picture of him and an address?”

“Are you planning a stakeout?”

“Something like that.”

She messed around with the pocket of her apron, then pulled out a black and white photo of her husband from her wallet. He looked like a fairly unassuming stallion. Slim, freckled, cheerful. I put it on my desk, then waited as she wrote her address down on a sheet of paper and placed it before me.

“Thank you again, Rarity,” Cup Cake repeated, smiling and giving me an enthusiastic hoofshake. “I trust my husband wholeheartedly, but--”

I had heard this line so many times before, and never once was it true. If they really trusted their spouse, why call on me?

“I’m sure you’re just being paranoid,” I lied, holding the door open for her as she walked out. “Everything will be fine. Just go about your normal life and leave this up to me. I’ll figure this out for you.”

She gave me a weak smile, then went on her way. Infidelity cases were hard. Not because they were difficult to solve; in fact, they were quite the opposite. All I had to do was follow the pony in question around or stage a fake date with them, and I had all the information I needed. No, the hard part was seeing my clients break down when their suspicions were true.

Perhaps that’s why I interacted only with Sassy Saddles and Flam regularly. They were simple, easy to understand, easy to deal with. I lived for their small talk. No tears, no anger, no expectations. We knew where we stood, and that was that. Sassy and I kept the detective business running. Flam and I had our dialogue, annoying as it was. And I solved cases in fashion-forward outfits. If that was the sum of my life, I would be okay with that.

I gently placed the picture and address into the pocket of my tailored maroon jacket, put on my black suede hat, and grabbed my camera bag. My schedule was clear for the rest of the day, so there was no need to hesitate. I shut the office door behind me, lingering only to look at the bold purple words engraved in the wood. RARITY INVESTIGATIONS.

I had done it.