RARITY INVESTIGATIONS: A Manehattan Mystery Memoir

I wasn’t fond of using the Manehattan subway. It always smelled of urine, or body odor, or the rotten take-out some uncouth slob had brought on board. About once or twice a week, I was able to capture a seat, but today was not one of those days. I was squished between a pair of stallions, dangerously close to having one of their flanks in my face. Being trapped in the sea of smelly travelers was by far my least favorite part of solving any given case.

I got off at Fifth Avenue Plaza, a train station on the lower East side of Manehattan. Sugarcube Corner was supposedly a twenty-minute trot from here, but I could already tell it was going to feel longer than that. Despite the sun still blazing in the sky, the numerous bars were rife with the sounds of ponies partying their lives away, blasting the latest song everypony had heard, but nopony knew the words to. I imagined this was the scene Flam gravitated towards when he wasn’t pestering me.

As I passed each gentrified shop, only glancing at the ones that had dresses in their windows, I heard a familiar voice coming from a couple of steps behind me.

“Rarity! Rarity, wait up!”

I didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. Barely maintaining my composure, I sped up and continued walking. If I didn't bat an eye in his direction, maybe he’d go away.

“Rarity, stop! Hold on!”

No dice. Groaning, I turned to face him, and was met with an all-too-familiar overeager smile. Even worse, he was wearing his tan trenchcoat and a grey fedora. What a tragic combination.

“Hello, Spike,” I said, gritting my teeth. This was not a conversation I wanted to have, but I would rather this than let him follow me on a case. “Let me guess. You would like to interview me for The Manehattan Times?”

Spike’s wings suddenly protruded from the back of his outfit. About a month ago, I had discerned that that meant he was excited, alongside the little wag of his tail. “You know it!”

“We’ve been over this, darling. I want no affiliation with The Manehattan Times, or any press, for that matter. I’m a private investigator, not a public figure.”

The dragon’s ears dropped about an inch or so, but quickly sprung back into their usual sprightly place. “C’mon, Rarity! You took down the Flim Flam Brothers empire, but now witnesses are reporting that you’re working with one of them? Ponies are talking, and they want to know the scoop!” He pulled a notepad and quill similar to my own out of his trenchcoat, and stared at me intently. There was a sort of twinkle in his eyes that almost made me want to give him what he wanted. Almost.

“No comment,” I deadpanned, beginning to trot away from him again. As per usual, he flew beside me, still hoping he could draw something out of me. I almost always shook him off after a block or so.

“In that case, can I at least get your opinion on the newly elected Luna administration? Do you believe Luna and Twilight Sparkle’s second term will be as fruitful as their first?” He had to have known I wouldn’t dare step onto that minefield. “Anything on the gang war?” Nice try, Spike. “Your favorite color?” Nope. Even supplying the truth for a question as harmless as that one would open the gateway to more inquiries. Making sure my mouth elicited no response, not even a twitch, I kept moving at a brisk pace. “Favorite word?” He was reaching.

“It starts with N,” I said, still focused on the street ahead of me. Spike’s entire face lit up and he quickly started scribbling on his notepad. He was writing way too many words for the one letter I had given him.

“Go on,” he prompted, giddily squealing.

“Then O.”

“Continue.”

“That’s it.”

He looked down at his paper. “No,” he repeated aloud. Once it sunk it, he glared at me. “Haha. Very funny, Rarity.” Clearly, he wanted me to respond, but I kept silent and trotted away. “Come on! Give me something! I need a story!” I wanted to tell him to look for one elsewhere, but knew that would only fuel him further.

I maintained my pace, eventually leaving Spike in the dust. The youthful dragon took one last look at me, before finally shaking his head and turning away in defeat. Out of the myriad of reporters in Manehattan, I somehow only ever ran into him, no matter which part of the borough I was in. For a while, I was convinced he had bugged my office to always know where I would be, but I had done a thorough scan of my workplace and found nothing.

With Spike out of the way, my brain returned to its original focus: the case. My plan was to scout out Sugarcube Corner for a while, then discreetly follow Carrot Cake to his next location, whether it be to his house, or to his supposed affair. It would be my first time using my new camera, which was exciting, to say the least. The old one was too loud and almost compromised me when I was collecting evidence on Flim. This newer, sleeker digital model was quieter, albeit larger, and could store multiple pictures at a time. Out of my budget? Sure. Worth it? Definitely.

As I continued toward the confectionary, I began taking note of the graffiti plastered on every brick wall and mailbox. Rotten fruits, warm colors, round lines. This was Apple territory, much to my relief. The Apple gang had requested my services once to find out who defaced their hideout, and while they weren’t able to properly pay my rates, Applejack, their leader, did ensure that I would be safe if I ever needed to enter their turf. She also said that I could call her whenever I was in trouble and the whole gang would provide me with protection and muscle. Not that I needed it. I tried to avoid physical conflict as best I could, since it always tore my dresses or jackets. As great as sewing was, I simply didn't have the time to always be mending my disguises and uniforms.

One last corner to turn, and I had arrived.

Sugarcube Corner was a sprightly establishment on the corner of an otherwise dead street. A brown and white awning greeted its customers into an eyesore of yellow and pink accents and pastry decorations. The building gave off a confusing aroma of chocolate and yeast, but otherwise seemed harmless. Customers entered and exited regularly, prompting me to believe the shop was worth whatever investment the Cakes had put in.

I didn't want to draw attention to myself this early on, so I stationed myself across the street and occasionally looked through the window. Carrot Cake was positioned at his desk. He looked almost exactly like he did in the picture, only, his mane was more frazzled and there were more wrinkles under his eyes. The smile he so boldly wore in the image was lost as well, replaced with a blank expression. He looked like a corpse that somepony had forgotten to bury.

I snapped a quick picture of him talking to a stallion with a gold tooth. While I didn't have any particular interest in the customer, I thought it would be good to accumulate as much information as I could about Carrot’s daily life, including ponies he talked to, in the event that the case took an unexpected turn. Stealthily, my camera procured a total of five candids, which I deemed enough for the current moment in time.

The sign on the door noted that Sugarcube Corner was open until eight o’clock, which meant I had time to kill before I could tail Carrot Cake. There was a petite coffee shop across the street, which felt like fate. The new case had interrupted my normal daily flow, so I hadn’t had my daily dose of caffeine yet. I went inside, ordered my usual cappuccino with cinnamon, sat down by a window facing Sugarcube Corner, and patiently waited.

It was moments like these that reminded me how much I loved coffee.

The sky had turned dark alongside the neon “OPEN” sign in the confectionery’s window.

I had consumed three cappuccinos, taken two more pictures, and talked to no one as I waited. Carrot Cake’s actions had been fairly docile during his shift; he lamely chatted with customers, served them the baked goods they desired, and occasionally went into the kitchen to check on a loaf of bread he unveiled in the last hour of my stakeout.

There was only one thing that struck me as strange. Despite always conversing with his patronage, he never looked a single one of them in the eye. Cup Cake had described this phenomenon to me earlier, in regards to their children, but it was different to watch in person. Carrot Cake actively diverted his eyes from those around him, and his breathing got heavier anything somepony looked at him longer than a second or two. I couldn’t see his hooves behind the counter, but when he briefly left to use the lavatory, I got a quick peek of his body language. His hooves scraped the ground, and he bit his lip constantly. A nervous tell, just like his wife.

Now that the shop was closed, Carrot Cake replaced his dusty jacket with a smooth, brown leather jacket. I intently watched as he left the shop, locked the door, and started down the street. One… Two… Three… I counted to twelve, my lucky number, before leaving the coffee shop and following the stallion.

The first infidelity case I had ever taken, the mare I was following lead me to a bar. Within twenty minutes, she was snogging with somepony who wasn’t her wife, so it was over very fast. The second time was harder. I posed as a fake date to catch a stallion cheating, but for our first three outings, everything seemed completely platonic. However, the night he took me to a hotel room, I finally had all the evidence I needed to satisfy his wife, and then some. I was confident this one would be just as simple to solve as the others; it was just a matter of how long it was going to take.

Carrot Cake began walking up Fifth Street, which didn't surprise me. Fifth Street had a large party scene, so he could be meeting a date at a bar, or, alternatively, at one of the six much quieter cafés. Happy Hayburger had karaoke after ten, so he could be getting wasted in order to fully experience it.

However, without so much as a glance at the glimmering buildings of neon lights and boisterous sounds, he turned onto Sixth Street. Sixth Street, compared to the energy of its neighbor, was a ghost town. Mostly apartments on top of smaller businesses, it was heaven for the middle-class. Yet, Carrot kept going.

I was worried he had seen me and was trying to lure me off his trail, but that couldn’t be. He hadn’t once looked behind him the whole walk; his focus rested solely on the streets ahead of him. Even the ponies passing him, staring at his limp walk, noticing his heavy breathing, wondering if they should help, didn't matter. Carrot Cake was like a ghost, floating through the city. Assuming I was correct, cheating was definitely giving him more anxiety than it was worth.

Seventh Street, Eighth Street, Ninth… he just kept trancing through Manehattan streets like a zompony. We were beginning to reach the parts of the city that weren’t rife with shops, but were instead abandoned by the populace, and thus adopted by the fearsome Wonderbolt gang. The Apples and the Wonderbolts were always fighting over “turf” throughout the city, regularly engaging in needlessly violent escapades to assert their dominance. To the best of my knowledge, the Apples were winning. Most ponies steered clear of it as best they could.

Personally, I had only interacted with the Wonderbolts once. On my first day moving to Manehattan, my naïvety led me to Tenth Street, where their supposed “hideout” lies, and a mare with a rainbow mane pulled a serrated knife on me and stole my wallet. Quite the fun welcome wagon.

That’s probably why my heart started racing when Carrot Cake turned down the exact same street.

Tenth was a long road of decaying brick buildings which never seemed illuminated. Though I had seldom seen any signs of life on the block, trash bags continuously piled up on street corners, creating a foul smell not dissimilar to the one of the subway. Although, thanks to my unfortunate mugging, I had discovered the one advantage of being on Tenth Street: the sewer caps were always loose, meaning they were the perfect tool for making a getaway. Already, I was taking mental notes of their positions. Just in case.

We had been walking for about thirteen minutes when Carrot finally stopped in front of a five-story condemned for unsafe amounts of mold. Immediately, his hooves began shuffling across the broken concrete sidewalk, just like his wife, and he simply stared at the long line of barred up windows above him. There was only one window I could see through, but it appeared uninhabited.

My twelve second delay had put me somewhere around twenty feet behind him, but the night’s darkness combined with the street’s lack of luminescence made him seem like a hazy fog in the distance. I squinted and saw him knock on the door, enacting the wrath of the cloud of dust. As he coughed, the door opened and he stepped inside. Though he had clearly been afraid before, his tell had vanished with this last action. There was no fear. No hesitation.

I snapped exactly one picture of this moment.

Once he was inside the abandoned building and I was out of his line of sight, I dashed over to the door. Unfortunately, it had locked behind him, so I took a step back and looked up at the one untouched window, straight above me on the second story. Since all the other windows were blocked with wooden slabs and the door was locked, that window was my best bet. There was no movement I could see, but I had my camera prepared, just in case.

About ten minutes went by with nothing. My mind was racing with theories. Perhaps him and his mistress were entertaining themselves on a different floor. But why would a date want to meet him in such an unsanitary building? Something wasn’t adding up. Especially because we were in Wonderbolt territory. Unless he was cheating with a Wonderbolt, this made no sense.

I only wish I had realized that sooner.

It was only fifteen seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

I had been waiting at that window for around eight minutes when a dim light appeared in the window. This was it. The truth was about to come out. Armed with my camera, I stared at the fragile glass, waiting for the perfect shot. It never came.

Carrot Cake appeared in the window, but only for a second or two. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but his mouth was wide open, suggesting he was yelling. There was somepony else beside him, standing just outside of my view.

Then, there was a knife.

The sound of shattering glass.

Carrot shouting.

A hard thud on the concrete pavement.

A gasp from me.

The frantic hoofsteps of the assailant running away.

My careful hoofsteps approaching Carrot.

Me leaning in close to check if he was breathing, but making sure not to tamper with the body.

It was at that moment when my worst fears were realized. Carrot Cake was dead.

And I had just witnessed a murder.

I couldn’t recall most of the night following that. All I could remember were colors.

Lots of red and blue, which I assumed meant the Manehattan Police Department had arrived and taken the body away. There was pink, which might have been Cup Cake’s mane. I think she had been crying. Purple was definitely Spike. I remember hearing his voice asking questions about the murder for a front page story, and how it disgusted me. There was also green, but I couldn’t attribute it to anything at the time.

It was about eleven o’clock, which was my normal bedtime, but I found that I was incapable of closing my eyes. At the same time, I was also incapable of getting out of bed. I was like a fully conscious corpse. Cases usually didn't shake me up this much, but I also usually wasn’t witnessing murders first-hoof. This was different.

Using every available muscle in my body, I managed to shift my blanket over my head, thus plunging myself into a world of darkness. Normally, that helped me sleep, but this time, no dice. I was just alone in the pitch black world.

Fluttershy wasn’t home, which wasn’t surprising to me in the slightest. In theory, she was my roommate, but not so much in practice. Whenever I was at work, she was in the house, and whenever I was at home, she was out doing Celestia knows what. And even when we were together, she was so shy and reserved that we barely talked. The only thing I knew about her was that she liked animals, and that she apparently had a pet rabbit named Angel. Despite living in the same room as her, I had never seen the rodent once.

The only time we had a substantial interaction that lasted longer than twenty seconds was about two weeks ago. I was reviewing the surveillance photos I had taken for the Flim Flam Brothers case when Fluttershy creaked open the door and sat on my bed without my permission.

“Uh-- Um-- Am I interrupting something?” she had asked, her voice soft and shaky. She was, in fact, interrupting something, but since that was the first time either of us had ever made an effort to speak to each other, so I decided to indulge her.

“Not really. Is everything alright, darling?” I moved my photos under a pillow so she couldn’t see them.

“Well, actually, n-no.” Her hooves began obsessively stroking her long, flowing pink mane, causing a couple of strands to fall over her left eye. “Erm, Rarity, I need some… some…” Her inability to communicate was a tad frustrating, but it was nothing I hadn’t seen before from the clients in my office. I patiently waited for her to get it out. “Well, you see, I need some… dating advice.”

I nearly choked on my own saliva. Why would she ask me, the pony she barely knew, for something that personal? Besides, I hadn’t dated since I left Ponyville. What was I supposed to know?

“My new boyfriend,” Fluttershy continued, “he’s a bit… eccentric. I’m not sure what he’s going to expect on the fifth date.”

The fifth date? My goodness, I was not equipped to have this conversation. “Just, uh, show him a good time,” I replied, faking a grin. “Just like you would with anypony else.”

Fluttershy’s face was near entirely enveloped by her mane at this point. “That’s the problem.” Her voice was barely a whisper at this point. “He’s not exactly a pony.”

The conversation came to a screeching halt after that.

There was an indescribable feeling about solitude, especially after experiencing a traumatic event. Just being able to process your emotions and feel, without anypony telling you how you’re supposed to deal. How you’re supposed to cope. It was beautiful and pitiful. Joyful and depressing. I hadn’t felt this way since Sweetie Belle.

As I lay in bed, my mind kept going back to Carrot Cake. Watching him be defenestrated. Hearing his body, still dressed in that handsome leather jacket, hit the ground like a buckball. Seeing him lay there, motionless. My brain hadn’t really processed it yet. I didn't know this stallion, and yet, I wept for him. Being a private investigator, I intentionally tried not to connect too much with my clients, to remain as unbiased as possible. But this was different. I was there. I felt involved. It was personal.

I had snapped one photo of the incident. The hoof holding the knife just a millisecond before it was plunged into Carrot’s neck. It was dark and blurry, but it was all I had. The hoof -- or possibly the fabric that covered it, I couldn’t tell from the picture -- was a dark blue. That’s it. All I had was a color.

Cup Cake, in her frenzied fray of feelings, approached me at the scene of the crime. Our conversation was brief, but profound. In my post-traumatic haze, I couldn’t remember all the words she had said. But one phrase stuck with me.

“Find the bastard who killed my husband.”

Perhaps I should have dropped the case then and there, went to therapy to deal with my newfound trauma and guilt, and not gotten myself involved any further. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No, tomorrow, I was going to get up, have my cup of tea, put on a red leather jacket, and find the pony that killed Carrot Cake.

And that was final.