Another Day in Paradise

Another Day in Paradise (300 words)

Life as a private detective is tough. Sometimes the work dries up, disappears, and it starts to feel as though you’ll never work again. You begin to question why you got into it in the first place.

It was a hot day in June. My office was like an oven. I was sitting in front of a cheap desk fan and munching on an orange. My last client had paid me with two crates of oranges instead of cash. I’d eaten them for breakfast every day for two months and could swear my skin was turning orange. It had a nice glow.

I threw the peel at the waist basket and missed. Typical.

Maybe I should plant a few seeds to start an orange farm. Nah, don’t have the knees for that kind of work.

I spent the better part of the afternoon chasing a fly around the office. Wham! Miss. Wham! Miss. Wham! Miss. Give up.

As evening came around, the whiskey bottle in my desk drawer started calling to me. I don’t drink on the job, but when there’s no sign of work on the horizon -- well, why not?

As I reached for the bottle, a knock came at the door. Three big knocks. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the knocker was a huge, angry bear, but that would be ridiculous.

I straightened myself out, cleared my throat, and said, “Enter.”

The door flew open at speed, almost coming off its hinges, but no-one was there. Then there were footsteps that led to my desk. A few papers on the desk rustled in a non-existent breeze.

“Hi,” said no-one.

“Um,” I said.

“I want to hire your services to solve a murder.”

I decided to entertain whatever this was.

“Whose murder?”

“Mine,” said no-one.

***