The Clever Detective

by Linsey Lanier

This month, Nicki Salcedo has challenged us to write a contempor-ized fairy tale. That’s a challenge! But I’m game. Since I like romance and mysteries stories, I decided to combine it all in the presentation below about a young, hard-bitten female PI who finds herself in an unusual world.

Hope it brightens your day.

The Clever Detective

I should have known it was going to be a weirder-than-average day when my new client’s address turned out to be a hollow tree with a door carved in its side, à la the Keebler cookie elves.

I really should have known it, when I knocked on the door, it opened slowly, and I was pulled into a dark tunnel.

I found myself hurtling down an almost vertical dirt path, skipping over rocks and dirt patches like Indiana Jones. I hit bottom with a thud.

Six years as a private investigator and I’d never fallen down a tree before.

I caught my breath, got to my feet and dusted myself off. Good thing I never dress up for work. My old jeans and boots were none the worse for wear.

I was wondering how I’d get back up to the surface when I noticed the flicker of golden sconces on the wall. I turned and saw I was standing in a large, high-ceilinged chamber lined with dark marble. A long red carpet lead to a set of steps, in front of a platform on which was a big gilded chair. On the chair sat a man in a purple robe with fur on the sleeves. He had something golden on his head. He was crying.

“Hello?” I took out the note from my pocket and squinted at it in the dim light. “Are you Mr., uh, King?”

His head popped up with a scowl. “Who are you?”

I stepped forward, extending a hand. “Stacey Alexander. Private Detective. Are you Mr. King?”

He frowned at my hand like it was a skunk. I put it down again.

“I am King Thrugood.”

My secretary was never good with names. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Thrugood.”

“No,” he bellowed. “King Thrugood.”

So the gold thing on his head was a crown. Okay. I’d worked with eccentric clients before. “Mr., I mean, King Thrugood, you called my office and asked to see me?” I usually saw people in my office. But the caller had insisted he couldn’t leave his home. I was beginning to think I shouldn’t have made an exception.

“Yes, Miss –”

“Alexander. Detective Alexander.” Two could play the title game. “What seems to be your problem?”

Thrugood shook his head and laid a hand against his brow. “Detective Alexander, it’s my son.”

“What about your son?”

“He’s been abducted.”

“Abducted? How do you know?”

“He’s been gone three days.”

That didn’t prove anything, but I decided to humor him for a bit. “Do you have any idea who might have nabbed your son?”

He made a coughing sound. “Of course, I do. The Dragon.”

I thought a moment. “The Black Dragons? The Chinese street gang? They’re a pretty violent bunch.” And they trafficked drugs. “You think they’ve got your son?”

He put his hand to his nose and shook his head. “No, not a street gang. The Dragon. It’s The Dragon who has my son, Detective Alexander.”

I was beginning to think it might be my new client who was into drugs. Still, if his son was involved in a gang, he’d need help. “Did they contact you? Do they want ransom?”

He uttered a low moan, like his liver was ailing him. “No. No. It’s a creature. A fire-breathing lizard. I can’t believe you have never heard of The Dragon.”

Only when my mother read me to sleep when I was a kid. I just stared at him.

“You must find my son. Please, help me, Detective Alexander.” He laid his head on his royal sleeve and began to weep like a child. Jeez.

“Okay, okay.” A crying client always got to me. “You said you saw your son three days ago?”

He lifted his head, hope in his eyes. “Yes.”

There was a lot a street gang could do to somebody in three days. I was worried for the kid. If he was still alive.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

Thirty-two? Four years ahead of me. A little old for a gang member. “Do you have a picture of him?”

He waved a regal hand.

I turned and saw a portrait on the wall of a young man in a get up similar to the king’s. That was my client’s son? Man, he was a looker. Dark wavy hair, deep-blue, lady-killer eyes, a smile to die for, strong and muscular. He seemed like he could take care of himself. Guy that good-looking probably liked to party. Maybe he was somewhere sleeping off a hangover.

“What’s his usual whereabouts?”

“Pardon me?”

“Where does he hang out? What does he typically do all day?”

“He wanders about, checking up on our subjects.”

Subjects? I wish this guy would knock off the royalty act. “Where does he wander about?”

“In the kingdom, of course.”

I looked around. All I saw was this fairly dank room. I was pretty sure by now the man was a raving lunatic. I put a hand on my hip. “And where is this ‘kingdom?’”

He waved a hand and a door I hadn’t noticed before creaked slowly open, spilling bright sunlight into the chamber. “Why, right through here.”

I swallowed the lump that had suddenly materialized in my throat and stepped toward the opening.

< Sorry. This post is too long. To read the rest, go to this page on my web site. >