Braxton Snow P.I.
A Fantasy Novel
By
Danny Carl Estes
dannyestes.com
Edited by Kelly Lynne
Cover art design by Coy Koi
Furry art design by
Laura Weissenborn
Masha Taskbin
Garry-Ho
Niki Serenko
Nikita O’Neal
Tapcykreets
Mckenzie Sherard
Copyright 2017 by Danny Carl Estes
Danny Carl Estes Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite E-Book store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Word Count: 80,205
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1:Jobs Come and Go.
Chapter 2:Once Tweaked, Curiosity Guides the Nose.
Chapter 3:One Book, One Archeologist. What's Wrong with this Picture?
Chapter 4:A Room of Clues.
Chapter 5:Things Always Happen in Threes.
Chapter 6:A Bad Call.
Chapter 7:Time to Rethink My Life; Then Again?
Chapter 8:Mr. Nelson Plays His Card.
Chapter 9:A Caged Animal Can Turn Back The Clock.
Chapter 10:Obscurity Could Work.
Chapter 11:An Unwelcome Home Visit.
Chapter 12:An Alpha's Right Scorned By Family.
Chapter 13:The Archeologist Dream; Our Only Chance?
Chapter 14:Two Fables Equals One Answer
****
Chapter 1:
Jobs Come and Go
My place of business? That depended on who you asked. If you talked to any of the local residents, including myself, we'd all tell you North of Tigris street in Furlton City, a major metropolis at the south tip of Burrland, a semi-cold continent near the top of the world. But if you asked an old sect of scholars, whose arguable beliefs and low membership were fast becoming outdated by each newer generation of animals, they'd tell you the city of Furlton resided on a long dead ancient site known as Selfoss, Iceland, a city where the hairless apes once lived before they mysteriously vanished from life on this earth some ten thousand years ago.
So whether you called it Selfoss or Furlton, Iceland or Burrland, the name mattered not to me. Whatever the local mail service labeled my address was what I went by, that was if I wanted my mail delivered. Of course there were times I wished they would lose my mail. Anyway…I digress. My office, if you could call a janitor's closet an office in the twelve-story high rise, was on the fifth floor, south side, room 523 and ½. The other half of 523 was the male's relief station. I believe you can understand me now.
On this particular cool April night, I stood leaning on the window frame to look out the small open glass window by the use of my eggshell-tinted fingernail on the slatted blinds. It'd been one of those days where you wish you could take the law into your own two paws and shake the bejeezus out of it.
Some two hours ago, I'd finished my paperwork on Ms. Wibert's case file. She'd hired me last week to aid her fight against her ex-mate's claims on her four-year-old nestlings, a cute, male and female set of twins. Unfortunately, the paperwork she'd signed before the wedding was unbreakable. The documents plainly stipulated whichever parent held the better job toward maintaining a stable lifestyle, in case of a divorce, would inherit any and all Owlets derived from their union. There were, of course, stipulations. If the Owl with the better job lacked the impulse to raise the chicks, then the ex-spouse would inherit the responsibility; however, the welfare still fell on the shoulders of the other. But in this case, Mr. Wibert clearly wished to claim the Owlets. Thus Ms. Wibert hired me to ferret out, pardon the pun, any exceptions to the written document she could use to keep her chicks. What I found in my investigation was that even though he was a bastard owl from an orphanage, with some bad habits, nothing in the stipulations applied to him. I can tell you I bent the written rules as far as they would go without breaking the law to meet up with one or two laws.
With a long sigh, I glanced at the bright sky above, partially obscured by passing clouds and a flock of geese returning from their winter retreat.
At eighteen hundred, there would be another three to four hours of daylight left. Plenty of time for me to get home before night falls. I lowered my gaze to the traffic below and smelled the cascading scents borne on the wind that swirled into my office through the opening. Canines, Felines, Birds, Bears, Rabbits, Horses, Raccoons, Weasels and a sprinkling of Pandas passed relatively peaceably by each other like ants on the pedestrian walkways in front of the office buildings. Walkways were for those not so flush to hire a rickshaw or those who simply wished to walk and enjoy the nice weather. On the cobblestone street, rickshaws aplenty awaited to transport those animals who were better off or with average-paying jobs. Lastly came the occasional lone carriage for the upper crust, who ultimately made up the laws that all of us had to deal with.
Not that I was complaining much, mind you. Most laws were honestly set for all animals to abide by, but there were those few laws meant solely to protect the rich. Such as harsher jail terms on convicted animals who dared overstep their bounds against the higher echelon. However, I would argue that an animal convicted of killing another animal in the commitment of a crime should get the same sentence. Not a slap on the paw for harming an average animal while death sentences are passed out for harming the rich.
With a shake of my head to dislodge useless thoughts of local laws I held no hope of changing, I glanced up and down the street, feeling the cool air ruffle through the white fur around my muzzle, neck and exposed chest. Knock-off time for most working animals was seventeen hundred. For the most part, that was why I still lingered in my office. I really disliked shuffling around in traffic. Not that I was claustrophobic in any sense of the word. No, it was simply that I loathed the bombardment of scents that kept my primordial instincts constantly labeling threat or non-thereat due to the fact, in reality, I wasn't as civilized as the common animal living in the city.
Be that as it may, I was here and abided by their rules, unlike those my cliental hired me out to investigate. The second reason I still resided in my small office was the fact my office glass door advertised that I was open until nineteen hundred. But then, as owner and sole proprietor of my business–if you could call a lone wolf employee that–my hours were as I wished.
I straightened out my light blue denim waistcoat and turned from the view to sit at my pine wood desk. A pull of the first drawer brought out my long-stemmed, S-shaped pipe, which I inspected and filled with a blend of spearmint and caffeine leaves. A small habit I allowed myself as a gentle reminder of a primitive lifestyle I once had.
I struck a match and puffed. With a shake of my paw to put out the match I popped it in a glazed white clay cup I'd filled with water to make certain no ember remained alive to incinerate my small office and the accumulation of fifteen years of cases. A couple more puffs and then I bit on the stem to work paws-free at straightening up Ms. Wibert's case file before I slid it into an addressed yellow envelope for delivery.
I looked at the breakdown of fees for my time. Two fifty a day for six days. Seven fifty for informati
on from corporations, neighbors and police records. Five hundred to loosen tongues. Another three twenty-five for an extra animal to keep track of Mr. Wibert while I broke into his new nest, his office and female-friend's nest for an inspection of any items or documents that could be used against him. Add ten percent tax on total transaction to pay the city's emergency personnel and city officials. All told, three thousand three hundred eighty-three bank notes, less of course my fee of five hundred due upon accepting the job.
I set my pencil down and looked at the portrait of the four of them together when they were a happy couple, or at least seemed to be. They looked a fine family. Ms. Wibert's big yellow and black eyes looked to be glowing in the portrait. So filled with love and pride.
For a brief moment I recalled similar eyes. Deep brown eyes that were filled with such pride after I'd passed the test of adulthood two years earlier than the normal passage at sixteen. I removed my pipe and closed my ice blue eyes before I pinched my snout to exile the image of my mother, which brought on pangs of homesickness and my feeling of loss when I left my family.
When I succeeded in banishing her image back into the past, I took a couple puffs on my pipe before I glanced at my paperwork and fees. All these bank notes wasted on me because Mr. Wibert wanted a younger Owlet companion with a better figure at his side after being promoted in his job.
I sighed and looked off at the opaque glass door some three meters distance {9'}. Owls were supposed to mate for life. So were a lot of animals, but that seemed to be a dying instinct. I let a snarl roll over my lips at how he'd used Ms. Wibert's bank account for schooling to advance in his career while denying her employment anywhere in order to keep their nest clean and watch over their chicks. It was a tactic used by driven males to climb the ladder of success that often times led to the wives being dumped for younger ones, like Ms. Wibert, in this case.
“Oh hell,” I said aloud, “I'm just a softy.” I took up my bill to Ms. Wibert, stamped it *Paid in Full* and tossed this copy into my accounting file. I then wrote out a new receipt, all fees paid, signed it, and slid it into the yellow envelop to be mailed to her on my way home. Although I could cheat myself out of my rightful fees, I could not do so with the city taxes. I wrote out a check for three hundred and eight bank notes, signed it and dropped it in the slot that would send it to the collection box downstairs. This would keep me in good standing with the city, but not with my bank account, which when I looked yesterday would cover the note but left me nearing double digits for the third time this year.
Annoyed at myself for my soft-heartedness, which was the real reason I left home when I was just fifteen, I sat back and puffed my pipe, allowing my eyes to unfocus and allow my mind's eye to bring up images of my parents and two younger twin sisters. Though my cubhood had been relatively simple, as the years passed I found my disposition balking concerning certain clan activities.
I remained lost in those memories until a sound outside in the corridor had my right ear swivel to the noise. A second later I brought my eyes up to a silhouette that arose on my door from the outside corridor. Curiosity gained my interest and I happily forgot about my family to watch the silhouette coalesce into roughly a female form as it drew closer.
It wasn't until the knees were backlit that I saw the cut of a dress stopping at mid-thigh. She turned slightly, casting a shadow of small breasts. With her sex confirmed, I sniffed the air to determine her animal family, but as yet the air unit over my head gave little scent for me to analyze. Of course it would help tremendously if the damn thing worked, I grumbled. I gave the unit a glare with a curled lip at the inefficiency of the maintenance crew who'd promised they'd have it fix last February. Disgruntled, I rolled my eyes and lowered my gaze to the female who stopped at my door to examine my name, hours, and, lower on the door still, my fees. This last information I'd added to my door to turn away unsure prospective clients. Although my fees were not outlandishly high, the mention of five hundred bank notes up front tended to cool the heels of those who had not truly considered the costs of hiring a private investigator.
I sat up and palmed my pipe. A glance on the clock to my left, slightly obscured by a growing layer of smoke, showed two minutes to nineteen hundred. She turned her wrist, obviously taking note of the time on her watch. Her long bushy tail twitched and I thought I caught movement of her ears, which poked out of shoulder-length hair, if I wasn't mistaken. Still figuring out her species for the sport of it, I nixed a raccoon, being her snout was too short. A red panda didn't seem to fit for the same reason. Which left the obvious Canine family, as she definitely wasn't of the Feline or Mustelid family, being her snout was too long. Of course the Canine family was big, about forty or so known variations of us in all. Including myself. But as most had tails as bushy as hers, I was left having to gain more visual clues. Oh well…
I puffed on my pipe, content to watch her as she turned her head and stepped closer to the glass door. She used her right paw to shade the light of the hallway from her eyes after shifting her hair out of the way, trying to see inside my office. Her ears laid back in annoyance when she straightened up. I could imagine a few choice words running across her mind. My glass door allowed me to see silhouettes in the corridor but denied the same type of information looking in, especially as I sat behind and to the side of my desk lamp, which put a glare of light between us to obscure my image. With a turn of her wrist to check her watch once more, she made a decision.
It's well documented that young females of every species learn how to manipulate males by observing their mothers in their daily manipulation of fathers with their soft eyes, shapely bodies and a lilting voices. This female outside my door proved her growing knowledge in these antics when she cupped her breasts to shift them up then moved her shoulder straps to her biceps to allow enough slack to pull her dress down to expose a larger portion of her breasts. She gave a quick shake of her tail and head to fluff out the hair and then she knocked on the door before she pushed the long handle down to open it. She leaned in at an angle that would allow any occupants to have a good view of her cleavage.
“Hello, Mr. Snow? Are you in here?”
The small amount of light from outside my window and that of my desk lamp revealed she was of the Vulpes Genus. Specifically, a Red Fox, the most common species of her kind. Presently she wore her flowing red hair brushed over her shoulder with a little cascading over her left eye, a tint of green color covering several strands. She also used green highlights in a pinstripe across her brows that ran down and along her snout until contacting her small black nose, which she'd tinted green as well. Nose-dying was a cosmetic procedure the college females started five years ago. Her right ear held two gold and silver earrings. Around her figure she wore a bright yellow and white summer dress. Her lowering of the dress a third the way down her breasts allowed me to see her lighter yellow lacy bra and its straps going up over her shoulders. In effect, by simply lowering the dress she had changed her modest young lady looks to that of the modern teenaged female firmly in the phase of experimenting in the art of male control with feminine wiles. Her reddish brown eyes, whether real or tinted, shifted to the lower intensity of light in my office. She swung open the door, filling up the vacancy. I saw a brass ring and matching bracelet around her left middle finger and wrist. She also wore an ankle bracelet and middle toe sliver ringlet.
“Mr. Snow, I hope I'm not disturbing you.”
Her vulpes features stood out plainly with the obstacle between us removed. She stood an average height for females of her family at one hundred forty-five centimeters, {4'9”}; males stood one hundred fifty-six centimeters on average, {5'1”}. Her entrance showed her body covered in long, groomed, healthy red, brown and white fur, so I could assume she was moderately well-off. The tips of her ears sported long black strands of fur, while the underneath of her muzzle was bathed in clean white fur that plunged down her neck and disappeared inside the dress to reemerge on her thighs and end at her knees, where blac
k and red fur flowed to the tips of her toes.
As she sought to charm me into taking up her case, I decided to see how committed she was by acting the part of a normal male.
“Not at all, kitten. Please come in and have a seat.” I stood to my full height of one hundred eighty-four centimeters, {6'}, and indicated the chair opposite my desk. “Be so kind as to close the door, kitten.” The term kitten really referred to young teenaged felines, but of late it was a local term used for adolescent females of all families; Canines, Felines, Bears, Owls, and so forth. Why was any animal's guess. With a mental shrug at the reason, I looked her over and placed her age as early twenties, so I watched for any irritation on her part in my use of the word. A flick of the tip of her tail and an ear twitch showed I'd hit the mark. Now let's see if she really wishes to continue this masquerade.
She did as asked and tried to look nonchalant in her travels to the pine chair I'd indicated for my shorter cliental. She easily let her tail fall in-between the V in the chair back, and after using her paws to smooth her dress out, slowly sat down, purposely allowing my eyes a good view of how her breasts filled out her bra.
“Thank you Mr. Snow,” she said once settled and crossed her legs. “I'm at my wits' end and really need someone's help.”
“Help is what I supply, kitten,” I said and sat, taking a hold of my pipe to add more leaves. “So tell me, what can I do for you?” I drew a couple of puffs to ignite the newly-added dry leaves.
She folded her paws on her knee to draw my attention to her nice legs and the fact her dress had pulled up her thigh so I could see how toned she kept herself.
“It's my uncle, Mr. Snow. He's been missing for a month now and no one knows where he is.”
She moved her paws closer to her torso, feigning she didn't know her paws rolled her dress a little further up her thigh in the movement.
Braxton Snow P.I. (The Snow Adventures Book 1) Page 1