No one in Urban Fantasyland drives cars made at any point in the last two decades except for the occasional Elf (See Iron, Cold.) Almost without exception, they drive either:

1: A succession of clunkers that are held together by bailing wire and primer.

2: Carefully restored classics, with an emphasis on trunk space (Usually for filling with graveyard dirt, in the case of vampires.)

Some suspect the preference for much-restored older vehicles is part of a conspiracy by Dwarves, which is why they rarely appear in Urban Fantasyland; they’re all too busy working in the boutique auto parts cottage industry.

-Quote from an internally circulated employee email at Mystery Play LLC, presumably not for public consumption.

Honestly, the car exploding could have been part of the script- depending on the sort of spells our clients are good with, you can take risks like that. But I’m no magus, all I’ve got going for me is the fact that, like I said before, my grandfather married a trollwife from the Ironwoods. I didn’t really inherit any of her magical talent, and even if I had inherited it, she probably wouldn't have taught me. Anyway, I can’t cast a spell unless it’s from the sort of pre-charged items Lawson makes for the FX department.

But I am around seven and a half feet tall and my skin can’t be pierced by mortal arms. So you know, there are upsides. Like surviving a bomb that I was fairly certain wasn’t scheduled, based on hearing the chief and Lawson both yelling faintly in my earbud, which had survived thanks to being inside my ear. My ears were ringing, so I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, until it finally resolved as I stumbled away from the burning car, clothes on fire.

“Doyle! Doyle! Can you hear me. Is the glamour intact? The whole plan’ll be blown if he realizes it’s not Carrefour.” That was the boss. Lawson was more, “Ray! Are you okay? That was not one of ours. Of course the glamour’s intact, I made it.”

I looked down, and I still looked like the Criss character, albeit a version of him whose shirt had mostly burned off, and mumbled, “Yeah, s’intact. Head hurts.”

“Yeah, I bet. Listen, Doyle, Chauncey’s coming to get you. We’re revising the script so you’ll stay in the mansion overnight and meet your police contact in the morning. Just take it easy.”

I nodded, which probably showed how shaken up I was, since neither of them could actually see that. Chauncey ran out the side door, and staying in character, yelled, “Detective! Come with me,” and pulled my arm around his shoulders. I managed to walk along with him as Moira came running up, asking, “What happened?”

“Someone planted a bomb in the Detective’s car, Mrs. Delacourt. He’s lucky to be alive,” Chauncey answered for me.”

I gave her a glassy-eyed smile. “Don’t worry about it. Tough as old oak, that’s me.”

Moira shook her head, and almost, almost broke character. But she’s a pro. She straightened up, gave me a look from behind her veil, and directed, “Get him to the guest room. Then call a doctor to take care of him. He’ll stay here this evening. Have Evelyn stay as a chaperone if you’re worried about the impropriety.”

Chauncey just nodded. “Of course, mum.” He walked me down the hall to the guest room, and helped me settle on to the bed. The stories about him having been a real butler, maybe they were true, since he had me out of my burned clothes and under the blankets in what seemed like seconds, but I may have just lost consciousness. “Get some rest, detective. I’ll go call the doctor.”

He closed the door behind him. The bed was actually big enough for me to stretch out all the way in. My own bed at home isn’t big enough for that, awkward as it is to admit. I could hear Moira and Chauncey both talking in the hallway; it sounded like they had questions for the boss on what the hell was going on, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, nor what he was telling them in response.

Eventually, I drifted off, and only came to sometime after the sun had set and the doctor was in the middle of his examination.

Part of the by-laws that govern Mystery Plays is that anyone playing medical staff needs to be able to actually fill in as medical personnel- it saves time in a emergency to not have to round up extras in the cast to find out if one of them is a real doctor when you can just go to the guy who -looks- like a doctor and ask him and trust that he’ll have a rough idea of what he’s doing. Moira was standing behind him, waiting for the prognosis.

Since I was awake, he shined a light in my eyes. “Pupils are responding normally, so he probably doesn’t have a concussion, which I’d attribute to having a remarkably hard head. Your friend will be fine, Mrs. Delacourt.”

I would protest that characterization, but he wasn’t entirely entirely wrong. The doctor handed her a card. “He should be fine after a night’s rest. Call me if he’s taken any sort of downward turn by morning.”

Moira nodded, and after the doctor left, she took his place on the stool he’d been sitting on to examine me. “Thank god you’re alright. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you’d been hurt.”

I sat up, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I’ve...been through worse, to be honest, so don’t worry about it.”

She looked almost amused. “Worse than your car blowing up?”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Well, okay, maybe not worse, but almost as bad.”

“Still, maybe I should encourage you to take Bastienne’s offer instead. I don’t want my husband’s death to lead to anyone else getting hurt.” She placed a hand on my chest, running her hand down it lingeringly.

I shook my head, and smiled.. “Honestly, I must be doing something right if people keep trying to scare me off. I’ll keep working on the case, don’t worry, Mrs. Delacourt.”

“You nearly died in my house, you needn’t be so form…”

Someone in the doorway coughed. Moira flushed, visible even under her veil, and removed her hand. “This is Evelyn, the head maid. She’s staying as a chaperone, as having a strange man staying overnight so close to my husband’s funeral might be seen as...improper, even under the circumstances.”

I looked up at the source of the noise. Evelyn was being played by Vivian Reynolds, the boss’s wife and about the only person who can keep him in line when he starts getting too creative with the script. She actually started as the editor for the videos on the company website, and still runs that department, but as she got older she was grew into the perfect look for the sort of “Iron-willed older woman” that you want for witches, elderly governesses taking troublesome children to hand, head maids, and schoolmarms. Moira went on. “She’s married to Mr. Chauncey, you see.” She turned to Vivian. “You needed worry, Evelyn, I was just leaving. Mr. Criss needs his bedrest.” She turned to me, standing up. “I’ll see you in the morning? I’ll arrange for you to use one of our cars for the rest of as a replacement for yours.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Delacroix.” I settle back in the bed. Vivian shot me another dirty look, and shut the door sharply as soon as Moira was out of it. I’m pretty sure I heard the lock latch. Not really a surprise- as far as I knew, they probably thought I was some privileged rich asshole playing detective, and I wouldn’t trust our usual client list not to go wandering around the house on their own.

Besides, the bed was comfortable, and I was as tired as, well, a man who’d found a dead body in the morning and a car explosion in the afternoon. I slept.

The next morning, I was feeling a lot better, and was woken up by Vivian unlocking and knocking on the door. “Please do not get out of bed, I know you’re not decent under there yet. I’ll set some clothes in the chair by the door.”

She stalked in, keeping me in view at all times, and did as good as she said, putting a bundle on the chair. Once she’d closed the door behind her, I got up and went over to check the bundle; there was a note attached.

“My dearest husband filled me in last night so we’d have the right size prepared for you. Good luck, Ray - Viv.”

Things I learned that day while getting dressed: Vivian Reynolds, professional film editor and forever typecast hard-nosed matron, dots her eyes with hearts. I decided I was going to do my best to forget that particular detail if at all possible, and crumpled up the note.

Once I was dressed, it was Chauncey’s turn to knock on the door. “Mrs. Delacourt is waiting for you in the dining room, Detective. She wants to discuss your plans for today and make sure you have something to eat before you depart.

“...Right. That was good timing.” I double-checked that everything was buttoned up, and let Chauncey escort me to the dining room.

I was expecting a giant table with a lot of extra chairs and room to hold a dozen. The usual setpiece. What I got was a lot more intimate- a private room with no outside-facing windows and a table for two.

And Moira hadn’t exactly gotten dressed to play her part- Or rather she was playing her part by not being fully dressed- She was lounging in a short green silk robe, one leg crossed over the other and posed carefully to be on display. She had a steaming cup in her hands, her eyes closed as she inhaled from it. Once again I was reminded that our regular clients were often guys who hadn’t been around around women they weren’t related to for most of their lives. (And were probably expected to marry a cousin to keep the magic in their family.)

Chauncey cleared his throat and announced me. “Detective Criss, Mum.” Moira looked up and dropped into character. “Mr. Criss! Please, do sit down. The coffee is heavenly, try some.

I nodded to Chauncey, and did as I was told, sitting across from Moira. “Mrs. Delacourt. Good morning.”

“Much recovered, thank you. I don’t suppose you had any luck finding out who planted that bomb?”

Moira shook her head. “I’m afraid not. There’s a security camera that covers that spot, but no one went near your car between you coming in and you going back out, at least not that we can see.”

I scratched my chin, and finally took a sip of the coffee. She wasn’t just acting when she said that, at least. It was damned good. “Could be invisibility, could be apportation. I’d lean towards the former. Anyone who could teleport a bomb into place probably wouldn’t be doing hits.”

She smiled a little. “I’ll take your word for it. I’m not very experienced in these matters. So what are you planning to do today?”

“I mentioned my contact before- I’m going to get a look at the autopsy report, and once I see what’s in that, I know where I’ll go from there.”

And hopefully we’d be able to catch the killer in the act soon so I could stop playing the detective and get back to regular work, but I didn’t say that part out loud.

Moira put her cup down, leaning forward. “Please, do let me know what you find out. I just want to know for sure whether my husband died naturally or if someone killed him.”

“Of course, Mrs. Delacourt. I’ll find out the truth, one way or the other.”

Once breakfast was over, I stood up, and so did Moira, stepping over to me. “Thank you again for agreeing to take my case, and for sticking with it, even after...everything that’s happen. Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” She clasped her hands around one of mine, and leaned in again for another kiss on the cheek, forcing me into another duck and stand up to maintain the illusion.

“She stepped back again, hearing footsteps in the hallway before Chauncey came in and announced, “The car is ready for the detective.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to get it back to you in one piece, but…” I glanced in the direction I thought the pieces of my car would have been in. “Not sure I can guarantee that, unfortunately.”

Moira shook her head. “Just be careful, and stay alive to figure this out.”

“That’s the plan, Mrs. Delacourt,” and with that, I followed Chauncey to the garage, to see what new car props had prepared for me.

It was another convertible, which I figured was going to happen, a bright red thing from the fifties with tailfins.

I muttered into the com once I was alone. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“We wanted to give you a car that can’t be bombed again, so this one’s haunted. The ghost’ll keep anyone who tries to plant a bomb on it at bay, and if they try and trash it it can self-repair.”

I thunked my head against the steering wheel. “Of course it is.” then I sighed, patted the car in what I hoped was a reassuring fashion, and said “At least you’ve got legroom.”