RARITY INVESTIGATIONS: A Manehattan Mystery Memoir

by TheGuineaPig45

Rating: teen
Tags: Profanity, Violence, Wonderbolts, Death, Alternate Universe, Main 6, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery, Spike, Rarity, Flim and Flam
Length: 10418

Working as a private eye is a solo job. Rarity doesn't have a partner, nor does she want one. She works alone. But when a traumatic event strikes the vast, vibrant streets of Manehattan, she'll need to rely on the ponies she least expected for help.

Manehattan, a city filled with life and excitement. Reporters for The Manehattan Times are looking for the big scoop that will make their careers. Rival gangs, the Apples and the Wonderbolts, are fighting for control over the city. Regular citizens are living off of booze and coffee, either partying through the night or staying in by themselves.

Private Eye Rarity has always been in the latter category. She works alone, and that works for her. The only constants in her life are Sassy Saddles, her secretary, Flam, her former client, and Spike, a reporter. No friends or family. Just her and her camera solving cases, day in and day out.

At least, until a simple case of infidelity turns into a night of trauma. Faced with a difficult task in an uncooperative city, Rarity is forced to do the one thing she's never done before...

Ask for help.

Published 2019-09-23 17:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-09-30 15:08:00 UTC

Day 1, Part 1: The Scent of Lavender

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.

Day 1, Part 2: The Ghost of Tenth Street

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.

Day 2, Part 1: The House of Dreamers

When I made it into my office the next morning, I lit two scented candles, hoping they would have double the soothing power. Instead, the smell overpowered the room and made me feel sick to my stomach.

I had just come back from a meeting with Cup Cake in the now-closed Sugarcube Corner. She had left her children with a relative in the nearby Fillydelphia, so it was just the two of us. Her makeup was smudged, her mane was tragically flat, and her cheeks were puffy with tears. We sat in the dark and drank pumpkin spice tea, the deceased stallion’s favorite. It was sort of like my normal morning routine, minus Sweetie Belle’s perfect mug.

Cup Cake’s voice was hoarse and quiet, and her speech was occupied with long pauses filled with thought. It didn't take a detective to figure out that she was on the brink of tears, although she was clearly trying to hold them back for my sake, much to my appreciation.

“Did Carrot Cake have any enemies you knew of?” I asked, sipping my tea. Often, pumpkin spice was too artificial for my taste, but this was strangely good. Perhaps it was homemade.

“No,” she replied, staring at her own reflection in the steeping liquid. “He was the sweetest pony I ever knew. A great father, a passionate lover, he was everything you could want in a stallion. He couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried.” This was a common response from the families of lost ones. Instead of writing it down, I simply added another sugarcube to my tea.

The rest of our talk was short, somber, solemn. She had hired me once again, this time to figure out who killed her husband. I vowed to do so, offered my condolences, made a plan to visit the Cakes’ apartment later, and went straight to my office. Sassy greeted me at the door.

“Oh my goodness, Rarity!” she chirped, looking up from the unorganized mess of post-it notes and papers on her desk. “I absolutely adore your ensemble today!” I was wearing a flamboyant crimson leather jacket I had gotten at a thrift store, alongside my typical black suede hat. It wasn’t a particularly interesting combination, but I accepted Sassy’s compliment anyway.

“Anypony request me while I was away?”

“Nope,” Sassy sighed, staring down at a post-it note that looked like her grocery list. Cherries. Pineapples. Apples. Bread. Cherries again, this time crossed out. “Although, to be fair, you were in The Manehattan Times this morning. Ponies know you just witnessed an absolutely dreadful tragedy.”

Shit. I knew Spike was at the scene of the crime last night, but I couldn’t remember what I had said to him. Great. If I had supplied him with the comment he’d been craving, it was over. The beast was fed, and now he’d be coming back for crumbs. Ugh.

“Which, by the way,” Sassy continued, offering me a polite pat on the back, “how are you holding up, dearest?”

“I’m fine.” That was a lie. I had only gotten two hours of sleep, if that, but I wasn’t about to have a therapy session with my secretary this early in the morning.

I stepped into my office and sat down in my chair. It was the same plush chair I regularly adored, but today, it felt less comfortable. I adjusted myself in the seat, pressing my back against the soft cushions, but to no avail. With the sickening stench of double lavender flooding my nostrils, I grabbed my camera and began scanning the photos I had taken the night before. Carrot Cake talking to customers, serving exquisite red velvet cupcakes with perfectly piped frosting, looking at the clock. Not much to take from there, at least, not at first glance.

Another push of a button, and there was the picture of Carrot Cake standing in the doorway of the building where he met his demise. A shiver went down my spine. I closed my eyes, trying to recall that moment, but all I could conjure up was the image of his corpse. Lying on the ground. Motionless. Bloody. Dead. My heart started racing.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Flam. For the first time, I genuinely was grateful for one of his intrusions.

“Come in,” I said, despite knowing he would do so anyway. Right on schedule, Flam entered the room, wearing a neon green sweater depicting an ornately decorated Hearth’s Warming tree and levitating a bottle of white wine. His look was nothing short of a mess, but I suppose that was the norm.

“Good morning, Miss Rarity!” he boomed, his words slightly more slurred than usual. As he made his way over to my desk, he tripped on his own hooves, but caught himself before doing any major damage. Clearly, he was tipsy. “Fancy a drink?”

I rolled my eyes. “Hearth’s Warming Eve isn’t for another five months. Did you forget to do your laundry again?” He shook his head, before letting a quiet belch loose and blinking several times, as if he was trying to prevent himself from drifting to sleep. I was used to his normal drunken antics, but he seemed different today.

“Excuse me,” he said, pounding his chest. “I was out drinking later than usual last night. The Happy Hayburger karaoke scene is quite convivial.” He lazily shook himself out, then took his usual spot atop my desk. “So, have you looked through that bucket of potential cases I gave you yet?”

Too tired to shove him back to the floor, I simply shot Flam a glare. “I’m guessing you haven’t read the latest issue of The Manehattan Times.”

He let out a hearty laugh. “Rarity, I’m lucky if I even know what time it is.”

“I’m in the process of investigating a murder.” On a regular day, I would’ve kept this information from him, but in my tired stupor, it just slipped out. His eyes widened with intrigue. Already, I could tell I was going to regret that. “Which means I don’t have time for your drunken shenanigans.”

With a big dumb grin on his face, he hurriedly hopped off my desk and leaned his face in toward mine. His breath smelled like a mix of vodka and mouthwash. “This is perfect!”

“It’s perfect that an innocent stallion got murdered?”

He cleared his throat and stepped back, blushing. “Uh, no. This is the perfect opportunity for me to show you how much of an asset I could be to your team!” I grimaced on impulse, but he kept going. “Come on, let me help you investigate! With me as your assistant, we could crack this thing wide open!”

I shook my head and put my camera bag into its designated bag. “I’m fairly certain I can ‘crack this thing wide open’ without the help of barely-functioning alcoholic, thank you very much.” I got out of my chair and started heading for the door, but Flam blocked my path and pouted his lip. He was the spitting image of a sad puppy, but these elite persuasion techniques were lost on me. “Ugh. Don’t be petty. You have no experience.”

“I’ll learn! Please!”

I was about to levitate him to the side and leave, but I made the mistake of subconsciously closing my eyes. Where there should have been darkness emerged that image once more. Deceased Carrot Cake. Lying on the pavement. Knife in his neck. Surrounded by a pool of red. When my eyes reopened, I found myself on the wooden floor of my office, with sweat beading down my forehead. I didn't remember falling.

Flam’s voice echoed in the space above me. “Whoa, are you okay, Miss Rarity?” He was holding out his hoof to help me up. “You just collapsed all of a sudden!”

“I’m fine.” I knew Flam could tell that was a lie, but I didn't want to admit my struggle to him. I ignored the hoof he was holding out and helped myself back up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to Carrot Cake’s house to find a clue as to who killed him.”

I tried to leave again, but Flam still blocked my path. He had never been this aggravating before. “Not alone, you’re not. Miss Rarity, with all due respect, after watching you faint, I can’t in good conscience let you go out on your own. What if you get hurt?”

“I can take care of myself.”

Flam chuckled, and wrapped one of his front legs around me in a strange half-hug. I tried to wiggle my way out, but his grip was surprisingly strong for somepony so slim. “Of course you can. But wouldn’t it be nice to have somepony else watching your back for once? Helping you sift through evidence? Providing a second perspective?”

I sighed. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. As long as Carrot Cake’s dead body was flashing in my mind, I wasn’t capable of performing my best work. Already, I couldn’t remember what happened last night after witnessing the murder. What if I forgot a crucial piece of evidence? The chances were too high. It had become clear that I needed help, and as much as he annoyed me, Flam was the only pony offering. I bit my lip and nodded my head.

“Welcome to the ‘team’,” I moaned through gritted teeth.

Flam’s reaction was similar to that of somepony who just won the lottery. His smile seemed to extend past his cheeks, and he pranced around my office, giggling and almost spilling the melted wax my scented candles had produced. There had never been this much energy and enthusiasm in my office. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

“Oh, thank you so much, Miss Rarity!” Flam laughed, shaking my hooves. The alcohol in his breath filled my nose. I nearly gagged. “You won’t regret this.”

Too late.

The taxi ride to the Cakes’ apartment had been relatively tame, all things considered. While I sat in my seat, camera bag in between my legs, Flam just quietly looked through the window. I had wholly expected him to talk my ear off about some party he went to or a new drink he had discovered, but instead, he simply watched the street signs pass by. Second Street, Third Street, Fourth Street, Fifth Street. We had gone through nearly all of the Apples’ territory before we finally stopped.

After paying the driver with an array of shiny bits, Flam and I stood in front of the large, three-story brick apartment. Its location was a side street diverging off Fifth known as “Mane Way”, which consisted solely of apartment buildings and bodegas. Cup Cake was busy planning funeral arrangements for her husband, so she gave me her keys and permission to turn her house upside down, so long as I reported what I had found.

Before I went inside, I reviewed the facts in my head. Cup Cake thought Carrot Cake was cheating on her, which hadn’t been proved or disproved yet. All I knew was that Carrot Cake intentionally went into the abandoned building, though he was clearly scared, and the door opened when he knocked, which meant somepony was expecting him.

If he was indeed having an affair, it was possible the pony he was cheating with invited him to the building and ultimately killed him. However, if Cup Cake’s hunch was wrong, and he was going to that building for a different reason, then this could be a deeper case then initially expected.

Regardless, in my mind, the first step to cracking the case was finding a motivation; either a reason somepony would want to kill Carrot Cake, or the reason he went into the abandoned building. Hopefully, searching the apartment would shed some light on either, if not both.

Flam and I entered the building and walked up two flights of dusty stairs in silence. Occasionally, he’d lose his footing and nearly topple down the steps from own drunken state, but for the most part, he seemed more focused and relaxed than usual. He reminded me of Sweetie Belle, in a way. Normally childish, bouncy, and way too easily excitable, but serious when it counted.

“We’re here.”

On the third floor of the complex, there was a hall with three doors on each side, each marked “3” with a letter following them. 3A, 3B, 3C, 3D, 3E. Strangely enough, 3F was skipped, and replaced by 3G, the apartment Carrot Cake had resided in.

The Cakes’ home was, as expected, in a state of disarray. The living room floor was littered with children’s toys and unfinished coloring books, alongside a selection of colored pencils, crayons, and markers which appeared to resemble the entire visible color spectrum. It was like the exact opposite of my neatly organized, greatly cared for desk.

Flam took one step inside, and immediately squashed an abandoned slice of lemon cake with his hoof. “Eugh,” he gagged, sticking his tongue out. Alongside the food on the floor, their rosy pink curtains were billowing from the air of the open windows, indicating Cup Cake had left the house in a rush after hearing what happened to her husband. I don’t recall seeing her children at the crime scene last night, but their “drawings” -- really, just black squiggly lines on white paper -- were wrinkled with hoofprints, suggesting they were left in a hurry, too.

As I began to carefully maneuver my way through the sea of hoof-hurting objects, I scanned the apartment at a surface level. Each doorway was blocked with a baby gate, and the outlets were covered with duct tape. Desks were covered with recipes for pumpkin cakes, cherry cupcakes, lemon tarts, apple bread. Photos hung on the wall of their family. Carrot was grinning from ear to ear in all of them.

“So, what are we lookin’ for, Miss Rarity?” Flam asked me, attempting to sit on the torn up couch, but instead piercing his flank on an Ahuizotl action figure. He winced with pain.

I levitated one of the many family portraits toward me, taking in the admittedly adorable display of affection. The two adult Cakes were kissing, each holding a small, blinking foal too young to know how to smile for the camera. “He was just pursuing the Equestrian Dream. Starting a family, owning a successful business...” I said aloud, though I hadn’t intended to. “Why would anypony want to murder him?”

“The Equestrian Dream is dead,” Flam suddenly blurted out, finally making himself comfortable between a stack of month-old magazines and a foal’s xylophone. “Society has changed since the golden age. Hard work doesn't help you succeed anymore. No, now, you have to resort to unconventional methods to get what you want.” He stole the picture from my aura with his own and brought it close to his face. With a laugh, he tossed it straight into the mess of donkey stuffed animals. “I’m sure Carrot owed somepony money or was smuggling drugs on the side.”

My eyebrows instinctively raised at him. “I was asking rhetorically, but thanks for your input.” I began scanning the room once again, taking note of the smells. Apple pie, baby powder, Juniper Phoenix, day-old pizza. “We need hard evidence, not conjecture.”

Flam sighed and halfheartedly lifted up the couch cushion he was sitting on, as if he were looking for a clue. I began opening and closing every drawer of every desk, sifting through old candy wrappers, mildew stained clothes, more recipes, and a couple of bank statements. Notably, there was a drawer of just three or four credit cards, presumably maxed out. I kept looking.

“Found something!” Flam called out, which I highly doubted, considering how he hadn’t lifted himself off the couch. I decided to entertain him by checking out his “discovery”, which ended up being a bottle of Juniper Phoenix that his tail had been covering. Unbeknownst to him, I had already taken note of the cologne from the room’s smell, but I praised him for his contribution anyway. The resulting smile was smug, as if he were a foal in school who knew the answer to a question before anypony else. “What does this mean, Miss Rarity?”

“Juniper Phoenix is a specialty brand, typically used for night outings,” I responded, tapping into my mental catalogue of perfumes and colognes, which was unfortunately used less than I would’ve liked. “Cup Cake said Carrot was going out late and coming back early, so it’s not far-fetched to assume he put this on before his excursions, whatever they were.” I closed my eyes again, this time on purpose, hoping to review the crime scene. While the image had toned down in vividness, I still could picture Carrot’s body melting onto the pavement. It was all I needed. “Although, I don’t recall smelling cologne on him last night. Perhaps his most recent outing was of a different nature.”

“Let’s keep looking.”

Flam began looking under the couch, which I’m sure was to be the pinnacle of his work thus far, while I started searching the bookshelves. Most of the books were for foals: “Daring Do Takes A Bath,” “Dragons, Dragons, Dragons,” and “Equestrian History for Babies,” to name a few. However, there was one thick, light blue book with no text on its spine. Curious, I opened it and was met with a beige piece of paper containing only the word “Carrot” scrawled in orange ink. Flipping to the next page, there were several pictures of Carrot haphazardly glued to flimsy pages. Clearly, this was a photo album.

Jackpot.

While a majority of the pictures were more daft, cutesy family portraits, there were a couple that featured other ponies. Him smiling and eating chocolate cupcakes with a yellow earth pony stallion. Him and a group of unicorns and pegasi at a Buckball game, faces smeared with makeup, a picture which notably didn't include Carrot himself. There was also a photo of him shaking a magenta hoof, but other pony was cut off.

The word “Friends” was calligraphed in blue ink on the bottom of the page. His hoofwriting was impeccable, each curve a delicate line of grace and intent. I could see why he decorated pastries for a living. The perfectionist in me was getting jealous.

I looked over to Flam to share my findings, but he had vacated the couch and was nowhere to be seen, much to my alarm. “Flam?!” Was he behind the couch? No. In the kitchen? Nope. The bathroom? Of course not. “Flam?!” I could feel the sweat sliding down my forehead. Where did he go?!

“Rarity, come here!”

His voice. What a relief. I followed the sound into the Cakes’ bedroom, an almost exact mirror image of the living room, only with a torn up bed instead of a beaten couch. There he was, sitting on the floor with that same smug smile, levitating a folder.

Angrily, I picked up a stuffed octopus from the floor at tossed it at his face. “Flam, you scared me half to death!” He barely flinched. “If you want to be my assistant, you can’t just disappear without telling me! We’re supposed to be a--” Realizing what I was about to say, I simply shut my mouth, and took in a deep breath through my nostrils. Phew. “Nevermind. What did you find?”

Flam opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “‘Dear Sweetcakes,’” he read aloud, squinting at the cursive letters. “‘You looked absolutely stunning last night. Can’t believe it’s almost been two months. Whenever we’re apart, it’s like hell on earth. Hopefully, we can meet up again soon. I’d love to treat you to a nice meal at The Tasty Treat, or a crappy meal at The Happy Hayburger. Whichever you prefer. Can’t wait for your next letter. Love you.’” Flam handed me the letter. It was dated about a week ago, and was signed only with a simple sketch of a pegasus wing. Intriguing.

“There’s about thirty more letters in this folder, all in the same vein,” Flam continued, scanning through the others. “From the looks of it, he really was having an affair.”

“Huh.” Cup Cake’s hunch was right, which didn't surprise me. If anything, I was a little disappointed that somepony who seemed as modest and innocent as Carrot would do something like this. Why cheat when you have such a loving family? Romance never made any sense to me. Perhaps Fluttershy could help me understand, if I ever talked to her again.

Using my magic, I took all the letters and laid them on the bed in an array of neatly organized rows and columns, then skimmed them for information. Each had the exact same signature, with no name and a drawing of a wing, and a request to meet up at a restaurant, bar, or sporting event of some sort. The earliest letter was dated for about a month ago, and, after putting them in order, I noticed there was one for every day since. Except one.

“No letter for yesterday,” I observed, taking photos of the unique signature. “The day he died. Uh, where did you find these?”

Flam cleared his throat and scratched his mustache. “The folder was taped to the bottom of the bed frame, Miss Rarity. Really good spot to hide stuff from your wife.” I raised an eyebrow at him, signaling a need for explanation. “Look, I’ll admit it. I needed a place to sleep off my drunkenness, but I accidentally I rolled off the bed and saw the folder. Turns out it was fruitful.” He looked at me, as if he were waiting for validation, which I didn't offer. “I guess this means he went out to meet his lover last night, and she killed him.”

I shook my head. “There’s no motivation in that. Besides, unless there’s a letter from last night, we have no way of knowing what his plans were.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a paper shredder in the corner of the room, and checked inside the basket. Sure enough, there were scraps of the same color and style of paper as the letters. I sighed. “Hmm. It appears the most recent letter contained something he didn't want anypony to know.”

Flam yawned. “Maybe it was a threat from the mistress. Maybe he was going to meet her at that creepy building last night to fill her demands or something.”

“No, we can’t assume that the pony he was having an affair with is the same one who murdered him,” I pointed out. “While it’s a possibility, there are a number of other reasons he could’ve gone to Tenth Street. After all, he didn't have Juniper Phoenix on, so perhaps he wasn't planning to meet a date. Our evidence is simply too circumstantial right now.” While I was talking, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the wing drawing. It was not as perfect as Carrot’s calligraphy, but it was a visually pleasing use of blue ink nevertheless. “Although, we should figure out who this secret lover is. Even if they’re not the murderer, they could have valuable information. The wing suggests they’re a pegasus, but that could also be their cutie mark.”

I thought back to the pictures in the photo album. There were none of him alone with a pegasus, which would make sense, because he wouldn’t want to put his affair in a family picture book. However, there was that one shot of him shaking a magenta hoof. Could that be her?

“We need more information about Carrot Cake,” I concluded. Lighting the room with the light blue glow of my horn, I neatly placed the letters back into the folder in order. “Who he truly was, how he spent his time, and more importantly, who he spent it with. Perhaps one of his friends has seen his mistress before, or knows a reason why somepony would want to kill him.”

Flam nodded his head and laid down on the bed, as if he were about to fall asleep. “Okay, but that requires finding out who his friends were and interrogating them.”

I quickly grabbed my camera and began looking through the pictures I had taken yesterday. Most of them were of Carrot Cake by himself in Sugarcube Corner, but there was one of him talking to a stallion with a gold tooth. I looked at that one, then at the photo of Carrot eating cupcakes with an earth pony from the album. They were the same pony.

I tipped my hat at Flam and started out the door. “I think I may have found one.”