One Little Elephant

Matilda sat forward on the bench and pried one swollen eye wide. The fake nails she'd paid a day's wages for at Pam's Polish Palace just that afternoon stabbed into tender flesh and she winced. Owning a detective agency was not nearly as simple as the instructor at Parson's Junior College had led her to believe. If she had the sense of a rock she'd return Mrs. Hasselburg's money and head straight to the nearest hospital. But she couldn’t continue waiting tables at Joe's Hole-in-the-Wall forever and it'd taken months to land this first case. So despite the fact that the obscenely wealthy Mrs. William Hassleburg the Third had offered her the insulting fee of twenty dollars to spy on, er, investigate her son, Mr. William Hasselburg the Fourth, Matilda was determined to give the woman her money's worth.

She straightened her spine. The Waltzing Matilda Agency had a reputation to uphold, or hopefully would after tonight. And thanks to the fact she'd had the good sense to refuse the tiny clutch Judy had insisted would complete her outfit, she'd fished an antihistamine from her gray detective’s tote as soon as the bee stung her. Well, at least as soon as she’d managed to climb out of the ditch her ancient VW bug had ended in when she'd panicked at the discovery of her tiny passenger. The instructor at PJC had been right. A well supplied detective’s tote was invaluable.

Matilda forced her eye open wide and inspected her clothing through a watery haze. The yellow light of the street lamp reflected dully off the clear plastic cleaner’s bag she’d cut arm holes in earlier and donned caftan-fashion to protect her sister’s expensive designer gown from a ride in the VW bug. The bag seemed whole. Matilda released a breath, reassured the gown still shimmered in pristine pink perfection beneath the plastic. Then she squinted in the direction of her feet. Though she couldn’t see them clearly, Judy's Prada heels were probably in similarly excellent condition. Matilda had removed them before setting a foot out of the car, perferring to hobble barefoot through rocks, burrs and potential snakes rather than face Judy's fashionista wrath. Once she'd climbed up onto the road she’d put them back on, but the four block walk to this bus stop couldn’t have harmed them much. Too bad Matilda couldn't say the same for her toes. Judy's shoe size, like the rest of Judy, was a good deal narrower than made Matilda comfortable.

“Lovely night for a stroll alone in the dark.” The man’s voice was oddly high, yet a man’s voice just the same.

Matilda’s head whipped around in the direction of the street lamp. Her fake nails dug deeper into her eyelid as she searched for the source of the voice. But the dull yellow pool of light beneath the street lamp was empty.

“The cemetery is just a block over. There are three new graves this week. The smell of fresh turned earth alone is worth the walk.”

Matilda’s heart pounded. The voice was clearly coming from the street lamp. But even with her limited sight she was certain both the pavement beneath the lamp and the sidewalk around it were empty.

“I’d be pleased to offer my escort. A woman can’t be too careful on a dark night like this.”

Behind her, Matilda felt a weight settle onto the bench.

Something that's helping me write today: the free and effective push I get to write when I open my email and find Dave Farland's Daily Kick in the Pants.