Scent of a Rose

I knew this was a bad idea. Meeting mysterious people in mysterious places in the dead hours of the night was how chumps like me got murdered. 

I’d seen the aftermath of such ill conceived rendezvous first hand back when I worked homicide on the force. I’d never been to Baltimore before in my life, but one thing I could say for certain was it wasn’t my New York. Here I was: a nobody, a stranger in unfamiliar territory. I had no contacts, I didn’t know any ‘hidden gems,’ or the secrets only locals knew. 

I was back to square one. 

The chill wind blew against my fur and I pulled my trenchcoat - just a bit more snug. 

Oh, yeah, the name’s Skreet Snickertooth. I’m a rat. But more importantly I’m a private eye. 

I sniffed the air, catching the sickly sweet aroma of spilled beer and even less pleasant aromas. I shifted my gaze skyward to see a barely visible sliver of moon. I’d rarely felt lonelier or colder, even after a visit with a dame.

Part of me was still in disbelief that I had actually bought a train ticket and came out all this way. But there I was, all from a postmarked envelope and a perfumed scented letter. I couldn’t help but read it again.

Dear S.,

Come to the Red Lantern on Harbor Street. Midnight. Alone. I've got answers to the questions you've been asking about.

R.

It was signed only with a single initial: "R." I didn't know who "R" was, but they knew more about my business than I was comfortable with. The kind of details only someone on the inside would have. The kind of person who either wanted to help or bury me six feet under. As far as ‘the Red Lantern’ went, it must’ve been a bar.

It wasn’t too far of a walk and I didn’t know Baltimore, but my discerning eye recognized the joint for what it was: one of those places that catered to the city’s underbelly. The type of place where everyone had a secret and no one asked questions. The thought of walking into a situation like that, blind and alone, made my fur stand on end. But if "R" had the information I needed, it was a risk I had to take.

As I made my way down Harbor Street, the heavy fog began rolling in from the docks, giving the city an eerie, almost haunted feeling. The Red Lantern's neon sign flickered in the distance, casting a faint red glow across the wet pavement. I could hear the muted swing electro music playing inside. My ear twitched: with that sound quality it had to be coming from a record machine. 

My paw instinctively went to the butt of the snub nosed revolver tucked into my coat... Just in case. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. This could be a setup. It probably was a setup. But if there was even a chance that ‘R" had the answers I’d been chasing, I couldn’t afford to walk away.

I pushed open the door to the Red Lantern and stepped inside, letting the warmth and the scent of cheap whiskey wash over me. The place was dimly lit, with a few patrons hunched over their drinks at the bar, lost in their own worlds. In the back corner, a shadowy figure sat alone at a booth.

I knew without asking that this was "R".

I walked over, every instinct telling me to turn around and leave. But I’d come too far for that. I slid into the booth across from the figure, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

"R," I said, keeping my voice low as I pushed my fedora over my brow. "You’ve got some answers for me. I’m listening."

“I just might, Mr. S.,” the feminine voice replied. 

Oh, brother: Mysterious dames. I was like a magnet for them. 

My eyes adjusted and I could see that “R” was a female skunk in a once-elegant satin gown, with a coat draped over her shoulders. Her large tail had a few hairs out of place, but she carried herself with a grace that enhanced her faded elegance: an elegance that made her seem to rise above this place.

“‘R’?” Skreet asked. “You a Rose? Roberta? Rita?” 

“Call me whichever you’d like,” she replied, her voice taking on an amused tone. “It does not matter to me.”  

I smirked as I ran a finger along my muzzle. “I always did like roses, so a Rose you will be: ‘A Rose by any other name.’” 

A chuckle. “Are you a fan of the bard’s sonnets, Mr. Snickertooth?” 

“Just call me ‘Skreet,’ if you would be so kind.” Rose giggled. “So what is it you’ve got for me?”

Rose smiled. “Down to business now, eh? Very well.”  

Rose took a drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the air between us. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto mine.

"You've been asking questions about the Smythe case, haven’t you, Skreet?" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Digging where most wouldn’t dare. I’ve been keeping tabs on you."

I kept my face neutral, though my mind was racing. The Smythe case ruffled my fur: a nasty piece of work that had landed on my desk a few weeks ago. A wealthy raccoon industrialist, Douglas Smythe, was found dead on the front lawn of his penthouse. Officially, it was ruled an accident—fell from the balcony after a night of heavy drinking. 

It stunk like Rose didn’t, and skunks only stunk if they wanted to. 

There were too many loose ends: too many motives, too many greedy relatives, too many pieces of evidence that didn’t line up for me to buy the story the police were selling.

"Maybe I’ve been looking into it," I replied cautiously. "But you didn’t drag me all the way to Baltimore to tell me things I already know, did you?"

"No," Rose said, leaning in slightly. "I brought you here because I have information that the cops don’t. Things that might explain why a man like Smythe met such an untimely end."

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope, sliding it across the table to me. I hesitated for a moment before picking it up and slipping it into my coat.

"Smythe wasn’t just an industrialist," Rose continued. "He was involved in something much bigger. Something that got him killed. What’s in that envelope... it’s part of the puzzle. A piece that might help you see the bigger picture. Smythe had enemies—powerful ones. They wanted something he had, and they were willing to kill for it."

"And what exactly did Smythe have?" I asked, keeping my tone even.

Rose stubbed out her cigarette, a wry smile playing on her muzzle. "Now, Skreet - if I gave you all the answers, where would the fun be in that? Let’s just say it’s something that could shift the balance of power in this city—maybe even beyond it. The kind of thing people kill for."

She leaned back in her seat, her eyes never leaving mine. "But be careful, Skreet. You’re stepping into dangerous territory. The people behind Smythe’s death won’t hesitate to silence anyone who gets too close to the truth, even a rat like you."

I gave a slight nod, my mind already working through the implications. This wasn’t just about a dead raccoon industrialist anymore. It was bigger - much bigger, if Rose was honest. And if Rose was telling the truth, I was now caught in the middle of it.

"Let’s say I buy this line," I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Let’s say I trust a random dame in a fog-drenched city who won’t tell me her real name. What’s in it for you? Why are you helping?” Bad cop. “Feeling generous? Trying to make up for killing a husband or two?"

If Rose was intimidated she didn’t show it. The skunk’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Let’s just say I have my reasons. Reasons that don’t concern you, Skreet. But if you do manage to put the pieces together… well, maybe we can help each other out."

With that, she stood up, her big black-and-white tail swishing behind her as she prepared to leave. "Good luck, Mr. Snickertooth. You’re going to need it."

And just like that, she was gone with but a rustle of fabric, leaving me alone in the dimly lit booth with more questions than I had answers. I glanced down at the envelope she’d given me, feeling its weight in my hand. Whatever was inside, it could either crack this case wide open... or bury me under a mountain of trouble.

I counted my heartbeats as they slowed. After I counted to thirty I zipped out to follow her. Through the mist I could see her getting in a cab down the street and heading back to the center of Baltimore.

Something told me I shouldn’t open that envelope till I was alone. I bought a gin and tonic and downed it before I left. As I walked the foggy streets I became more and more interested in my mysterious friend and tried to piece together anything that could lead me back to her.

I mean, anything that could help track her down again.

My hotel room was bare, scattered with the notes I had left there. Smythe was a big shot in the construction industry, and his death had sent the newspapers reeling. Within a day the police had called it a suicide.

Something didn’t add up. 

I turned my attention to the envelope, a shiver of apprehension caused my fur to stand on end. As I slid my claw beneath the flap and opened it, my ears flattening against my skull. 

A large gold key and five photos fell from the envelope. I tapped a claw against my incisors as I studied the objects. The key was first. It had an intricate design and a small symbol: a thorny vine forming what appeared to be something like a plus sign. 

I had seen it somewhere before: the cluttered desk that was my mind began to sift through files upon it as I examined the photos next.

There was Smythe - the raccoon had a lipstick-drawn ‘X’ over his photo. I studied the other beasts: a stately hare that I knew was big on Wall Street. Next was a fierce coyote chomping a cigar - I didn’t recognize him. Last was a more familiar image: a cat senator who had made some waves.

That thorny vine symbol flashed back into my mind. 

The Ashfall club. 

Some male only club for the rich and powerful. I’d always written it off as some club for chauvinists to meet up and stroke each other's egos: Take that comment how you’d like. 

Nothing against it, you see - just not my beverage of choice. 

My eyes went back to the photos, and I could see that each of the beasts in the photos had some accessory displaying the same symbol. I grinned. 

“Another puzzle piece falls into place.” 

All four of these beasts were members of that exclusive club, and now one was dead. 

Had the raccoon broken some fraternal law? Did he know something the others didn’t? Or was the club itself being targeted? 

The key in my hand would open some sort of vault at that Ashfall club. The real question was where? The key looked to be a unique piece, made to open some kind of special safe, possibly in the office of a member? 

I guess that was the next step, finding a member of this club. For a ‘secret society,’ they were pretty blatant about membership. I looked at the clock, it would have to wait for later. My mind had grown numb and I needed the sweet embrace of slumber.

I fell into an uneasy sleep full of strange symbols, skunk dames, and golden keys.