FPI -- Frilly Pantied Investigator / Chapter 1

Copyright 2018 by Heather Rose Brown

I had the idea for this story a long, long time ago, and it's one of my favorites! I still don't have an ending, but I do finally have an idea where it might go, so I rewrote the beginning here, and am working on adding a few more chapters. Enjoy!

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I had spread a brand new box of crayons around my coloring book, and was trying to decide if My Little Pony's mane should be orchid or lavender, when I heard the faint, unmistakable scritch of the lock to my apartment being picked. More out of instinct than any specific plan of action, I rolled towards my bedroom door, slid into a standing position, flattened myself against the wall, and switched off the light.

The almost imperceptible hiss of a muffled mini-saw slicing through my deadbolt with a well lubricated whisper blade told me I wasn't dealing with an amateur. Reaching under my skirt, I silently swore at the layers of lace before I found my weapon in the holster strapped around my carefully shaved thigh.

On the one hand, wearing a gun under a frilly, baby blue party dress felt odd ... even odder than wearing the dress. On the other hand, years of service in the Bureau had made carrying a weapon second nature to me; I felt naked without it. Before I could start getting seriously bitter about my forced "retirement", the sharp snick of a chain being cut snapped my attention back to the present.

The door creaked noisily as it opened. It was a creak I had purposely fostered for such an occasion. Light flooded the entry hall, followed by a shadow, which was my uninvited guest's first real mistake. My heart thumped under my ribcage as the shadow approached. An ancient floorboard in the hallway let out a low groan, and the shadow froze outside my door.

I held my breath, and hoped the thunder of my pulse could't been heard. The mother-of-pearl handle of my firearm was beginning to feel slick in my sweaty grip. After wiping a palm as quietly as anyone can on a starched linen apron, I shot an arm around the door frame, grabbed what felt like a handful of collar, and yanked hard.

Before he could react, I slammed him against the door, and shoved my weapon in his face. Yes ... I said he, him, and his. The hair and body language suggested female, but the general shape I could see under his heavy overcoat said male. At that particular moment, I was too pissed to be politically correct.

"Okay buddy," I said in a hoarse whisper, "you're seriously cutting into my playtime. Tell me who you are, and what you're doing here, before you're neck winds up enjoying a pleasant breeze."

My captive mumbled incoherently around a mouthful of steel. Realizing my mistake, I pulled the muzzle back a few inches. "Okay, try that again."

"Richard ... is that really you?"

I lifted the muzzle and pressed it against his forehead. "I'm the one asking the questions. So lets try this again. Who are you?"

"D-Don't you recognize me? It's your old boss, Barry."

I took a second look, and realized he was telling the truth. My former supervisor went cross-eyed as I released the safety. "You're not giving me a very good reason to not blow your head off."

"Please, I n-need your help."

"After the crap you put me through, you've got the nerve to come asking for help? Why the hell should I?"

"J-just. ..." Barry paused and closed his eyes. "Just open my coat. It'll explain everything."

I undid the top two buttons. Underneath, I found a pink peter-pan collar trimmed in white eyelet lace. "Okay," I said as I reset the safety and took a step back, "you've got my attention."

A sharp, hot pain blossomed at the back of my neck as he opened his mouth. If he said anything, I never heard it. I was too busy cursing the stupidity of leaving even part of my back exposed to an open door, and too numb to feel anything when I collapsed like a sack of majorette batons.