Leather Britches
The sky was a spectacular array of pinks and purples, the air was fragrant with the scent of pine needles, the stifling heat of the day had softened into a faint evening breeze, and I was lounging on an overstuffed wicker sofa on the front porch of my cottage with my two pups, Mischief and Mayhem, thoroughly enjoying doing nothing. And then I heard voices.
For clarification, my name is Cathleen Flanagan. I'm thirty-three, never married, white, female, and make my living as a private investigator in Washington, D.C. I was born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, and traded one capital for another five years ago. There's an interesting story behind my move, but we'll save that for another time.
"Crap!" the woman exclaimed. In the oncoming darkness I could just barely make out that she was rummaging in what appeared to be a small purse. Her companion, a man who I took to be either her boyfriend or husband, looked at her anxiously as they stood on the front porch of the cottage directly across the way.
"It’s not here. I know I put it in my purse, but it's not here now," she said.
"Look again, Charli," said the man. "It must be there somewhere."
"I've looked and looked, Fin. Here, you look," she said as she dumped the contents of her purse onto the wicker porch chair.