Commissioned Artwork by @PTGHO (Paz The Great Horned One)
Crystal Meadows Estate was a pocket of calm pressed against the city’s stone ribs. Mayor Bumble had claimed it for the public years ago, installing walking paths and a municipal park beside a natural lake reservoir. Golden shafts of light squeezed through gaps in the rocky mountain ceiling, alighting on the lake's pristine surface. On days like this, it looked like the sun itself had come to visit. The perfect day for an afternoon picnic.
A red squirrel wearing a hand-crafted, multi-pocketed coat and skirt sat under an imported oak tree and unpacked a large picnic basket. Nearby, the shouts of children playing tag tangled with the distant hum of the Caverlock streets beyond.
"Kids! Lunchtime!" Hazelnut called out.
They weren't her kids. In their building, neighbors took turns minding each other’s little ones. Hazelnut liked it that way—everyone looking out for everyone else. The sort of solidarity you didn’t see much anymore, like those Stoneroot types bickering in the press about blackouts.
The children gathered around and ate quietly. Peanut butter sandwiches had that effect. The distant jingle of an ice cream vendor slowly rose in volume as it rolled toward the park gates. The sticky, muffled chant of "ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM!" could not be ignored.
"Okay! Okay, but stay here. Everybody gets a cone. A small one or you'll ruin your appetites for dinner." A small collective groan went up in response. "Billy, you're the oldest so watch the young ones. Joey, eat your carrot sticks or your cone is mine. I'll be back in a flash."
At the cart, she was fishing through her coat for coins when something cold and heavy landed on her head with a plop. Vanilla dripped down between her ears. She looked up into the panicked eyes of a tall platypus holding an empty cone. "Oh my goodness! I am so sorry! Let me get that—" He blotted at her head with a pile of thin napkins, mashing the mess deeper into her fur. "Oh no, oh no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"
"It’s fine," Hazelnut said, laughing it off. "I needed a wash anyway." She studied him as she worked the ice cream free—broad shoulders, tight sleeve cuffs, handsome in a mortified way.
"I'll pay for a haircut! No, spa day! The deluxe package!" He just kept going. The poor guy really felt horrible about a little ice cream. She waved it off, accepted her cones and made to leave, but he thrust a business card into her paw.
Roy Groubledon
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Head of Security
Aethercorp
"Whatever I can do to make this right, just give me a call and I will get it for you. Really, again I am so sorry."
Back at the oak, the kids howled over her new "hairstyle." She shepherded them to the bus after dessert, returning each to their flats in the Caverlock complex before climbing to her own on the top floor.
A rinse under the faucet fixed her fur well enough. The day was still young—plenty of time to finish off that last roll of film. Photography, for Hazelnut, was more than a hobby. It was reconnaissance. Door latches. Blind corners. Guard routines. Anything that made life easier when she went to work at night.
Passing one of Crystal Meadows’ walled developments, she spotted a limo glide through the gates. Don Pazienza lounged in the back. Not his usual address. Interesting. Hazelnut grinned and flipped up the hood of her cloak, the enchantment swallowing her in shadow. A tall tree positioned across the street was perfect, so she scurried up and found a secure branch from which to steady her shots.
Through the viewfinder, she zoomed in on a bay window looking into an opulent den. Pazienza was talking to a rich-looking orange tabbi and helping himself to the host’s liquor. Wait a minute. She'd seen that cat around the nicer parts of town and judging from the look of the house and property, he had plenty of money to spare. If he was meeting with Pazienza, that meant dirt—and dirt she could sell.
She fired off several shots, snapping frames of the two suits until the roll wouldn't turn anymore. She waited, still and invisible, until the limo pulled away beneath her perch, then dropped to the ground and made for home.
An ugly sedan was parked outside her building. Philip Markey again. That damn weasel had been harassing the tenants about every little thing imaginable. The building supervisor had been handling him until the unexpected death of their son. They were the good kind of people that made sure others had enough to eat and a warm place to rest. The entire block mourned their loss.
The film roll weighed heavy in her pocket. She didn’t want to deal with Markey today. She slipped around back, scaling the rough-cut stone to reach her floor. An open window halfway up carried Markey’s voice outside.
"You're behind on the property taxes, Murray."
"I understand that Mr. Markey. We just need a little more time. There were the funeral costs and...I’m sure you heard the news about Brandon—"
"I'm not here for sob stories! If you don't have the money by the end of the month, I’m buying the building. When that happens, I suggest you all find a bridge to sleep under."
Hazelnut's stomach dropped. Those rumors of Markey liquidating his real estate investments were true. He was trying to evict them. A door slammed shut so she peered inside. John Murray stood alone, wringing the cap in his hands. She swung inside through the open window and softly called out for him.
"Hazelnut!" he gasped. "How much of that did you hear?"
"Enough," she said softly, taking his weathered paw. "Tell me the truth, John. How bad is it?"
His eyes dropped to the floor. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of everything."
She pulled her SlatePhone from yet another skirt pocket and texted her friend Illani. She was going to offer the photos to the highest bidder, but her newspaper friend deserved the first shot. The reply came quickly.
Grenda's Diner. Lunch tomorrow. Bring what you have.
Hazelnut smiled. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope yet.
