Submitted for the November 2023 prompt: Feasts with the Beasts

I don't advertise. Word-of-mouth works better.

 

Sure, my clientele tends to be a bit... different. But their money spends fine, and I never have to do divorce work.

 

The other day I got a call from... not an old client exactly, more like her pet. (Long story.) His friend needed some discreet help. Since he's a pink elephant, I expected something unusual. I was not disappointed.

 

Phil and Emma were a lovely young couple, fresh-faced and far too serious. We met in a diner off Lenox to avoid undue attention.

 

"We finished moving in on Thursday," he said. "Great house, good price, love the neighborhood. Trouble is, my cover's already blown."

 

"You mean—"

 

"Yep." He nodded ruefully. "The neighbors know we're aliens."

 

They were an observer team from our galactic neighbors, here undercover to monitor our progress. This was their first field posting since their graduation from the Academy. "And we've already screwed it up!" Phil complained. "The minute I report this, we'll be reassigned to permanent desk duty, I just know it!"

 

"Maybe keep your voice down, for starters," I suggested mildly. He flushed and sipped his coffee. His wife (they really are married) took over for him.

 

"It could have happened to anyone," she said. "He'd been hanging a painting in the front hall when the doorbell rang. But his holoprojector disguise was in power-saving mode, so when he answered the door, he accidentally showed his true face. The poor lady took one look, screamed, dropped her pie, and fainted dead away."

 

"And I love apple pie, too," Phil muttered.

 

"So maybe it was a Hallowe'en mask," I suggested. They swapped a look.

 

"Maybe you'd better see for yourself," he said.

 

We went into the bathroom. He showed me. I didn't scream or faint, but it's a good thing I wasn't holding a pie.

 

No simple mask would work; he just had too darn many moving parts. I told them to wait to report in, then went home to think it over. My nightmares were something special.

 

I phoned them early the next morning. "There are going to be some expenses," I began.

 

"Just what do you have in mind?" he asked dubiously.

 

"That's fine," Emma told me. "It's fine," she told Phil.

 

"Great. Meet at my office after work and we'll hammer out the details."

 

I got in touch with a specialist who owed me a favor, then went out to do some undercover work.

 

* * *

 

It really was a wonderful neighborhood, like Mayberry only rich. Everyone had lovely homes and well-tended lawns. I could sense their resale values sinking as I walked from house to house.

 

Cops have an acronym, GOYAKOD: Get Off Your Ass and Knock On Doors. You've got to talk to everyone in the neighborhood because you never know where that crucial next lead will come from. I've cracked more cases that way. Today was different, but I had to pretend it wasn't.

 

"Good morning, Ma'am. I'm canvassing the neighborhood, doing a routine check on your new neighbors. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

 

It's the first time I've ever been disguised as myself. Most asked for credentials before they'd let me in, and I had to call the licensing bureau to verify that I was a real P.I. Not that I blame them; it's a wise move, and the real surprise is that more people don't bother when you're in uniform. Honestly, a trenchcoat, fedora, clipboard, and an expression of terminal boredom would make a chimp look authentic.

 

My questions followed a written script, but the more important part was my answers, which I'd memorized. "Just routine, Ma'am. Prospective employer, Ma'am; I really shouldn't say more. Yes, another operative's doing their old neighborhood. Just being thorough, Ma'am."

 

Some were hostile, others more friendly. The best invited me in and offered me tea, lemonade, cookies, and in one case a shockingly frank proposal, which I dodged diplomatically. I left my clipboard behind whenever I used someone's bathroom, and three times I 'accidentally' dropped an authentic-looking clue. I never pressed, and I always left my card.

 

By dinnertime, everyone in the local gossip circle would put together the hints and conclude that Phil was looking for a job on a television sci-fi show.

 

That was the easy part.

 

* * *

 

I arranged the closing act for Sunday afternoon, when absolutely everyone ought to be home. It was a lovely day, sunny and quiet. A few kids were out riding bikes.

 

A police car cruised slowly down the suburban lane, followed by a large late-model Caddy. They parked on the street. Two uniformed cops (one was me) got out and walked up to ring the doorbell. A briefcase-wielding lawyer type looked on from the curb.

 

Phil played his part to perfection. After a few minutes of loud argument on the stoop ("Go right ahead and make a scene! I have nothing to hide!") he went back in and fetched the alien head.

 

The cop cost my client a thousand bucks, but that animatronic head was expensive as hell. Murray the prop man owes me one hell of a favor, but he doesn't work for free and I wouldn't ask him to. He spent three straight days getting it right. It was a dead ringer for Phil's real face, which meant a casual glance could turn a strong man's stomach.

 

Half an hour later, we boxed up the fake head, sealing it with bright yellow tape and a big "EVIDENCE" sticker.

 

Phil paid my bill plus expenses and a healthy bonus, and his troubles were over.

 

I, however, now had two problems. First was convincing Murray not to use the alien head prop in a real movie, so as to avoid a diplomatic incident. Second, I keep getting phone calls from that one housewife, inviting me back for "a follow-up session".

 

I'm running low on excuses.