“Happy Birthday to you!” Misha sang to Ray as she set a cake down on his desk in front of him. He gazed down at the red velvet, cream-cheese frosted birthday cake, Misha’s favorite flavor, not his, and a wisp of a smile ghosted his salt-and-pepper-goateed face.

“You shouldn’t have, Crawly,” he told her.

She put her hand on her ample hip, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her flesh, and tapped her silver-stilettoed heel on the pressboard floor. Her plucked eyebrow rose on her smooth, brown forehead and almost disappeared into the neat, ebony braids that had been pulled back into a pristine high ponytail. Her features were flawless, but the real reason she was the perfect assistant for Ray was because of her no-nonsense attitude.

“I’ve told you to call me Misha, or Mish. How would you like it if I called you Raymond? Or Mr. Knott?” she demanded. She didn’t even let him answer before she snapped out of the domineering pose she had struck and began cutting the cake. Her bracelets jingled and glinted in the low light of the office, and Ray was mesmerized for a moment before he responded. She was always so put together, which was the opposite of how he felt on a daily basis, scattered and barely there.

“That would be acceptable, given I am your employer and you my employee,” he responded at last. He brushed crumbs from one of the files that was lying on his desk and picked up the cake, moving it to the corner of his desk to avoid marring the pristine arrangement of his work.

“Mhmm, that’d be the day.” Her tone was drier than the Sahara, but he accepted the cake she thrust under his nose without responding to her obvious snark. He needed her as much as she needed this job, so he continued to take bites of the overly sweet confection.

“This is really good,” he told her instead, through a mouthful of too rich frosting. He could feel his arteries clogging already. Or perhaps that was his age, now that he had turned forty-five. Either way, he had to force the last few bites down through the gooey, paste-like frosting that clogged his throat.

“I know, right? My girl, Jacinta, makes the best red velvet cake. Of course, I tried to get her to give up the recipe, but she just wasn’t budging sharing the secret ingredient in her mama’s cream cheese frosting. I told her, ‘Girl, you can keep it. I’ll find one my own damn self!’” She took a bite of her own cake and closed her eyes in obvious pleasure.

Ray nodded his head, only processing about half of what she had said. He had met Jacinta the week that Misha had started working for him. That Friday, she had gone out with her posse of girls to celebrate being hired, and Ray had felt obligated to keep her on after that. Not that she proved to have any special skills at the time, despite her interesting resume. He hadn’t sussed out where she picked up typing skills at Mr. Foodie’s Supermarket downtown, working the cash register, but he supposed that sort of typing was a start, and she had grown marginally better.

He still wasn’t convinced she could file, despite being assured that the time she worked at Sahara’s Nail Salon across the parking lot from the supermarket was a type of filing. She seemed to have an issue with adhering to the basic rules of the filing cabinet, that is, alphabetical organization, but he supposed as long as she knew her system and procured a file when he asked for it, he couldn’t complain too much.

He knew Misha and he made an unlikely pair, with him being a forty-five-year-old, gay, white man, retired from the police force due to an injury, and her being a married, twenty-six-year-old, black woman with two kids and a doting husband. Keith was a good husband and loving father, and Ray was truly happy for them. They had it rough financially until Misha went back to work, but she was a hard worker, when she put her mind to it, and she enjoyed the freedom and independence it gave her from the house. That and she was amazing when it came to social media. Any time Ray asked her to social-media-stalk one of their perpetrators, she could dig up dirt faster than they could sweep it under the rug. It was essential to his private investigation business, Knott’s Investigation Services, so he kept her on. The only consequence to deciding to tolerate her haphazard alphabetizing skills was that he also had to tolerate insipid social practices like celebrating his birthday.

When he was done, he was glad it was over and he could stick the cake in the fridge out in the small kitchenette, where he was sure she would help herself on her many coffee breaks, and he could refrain from eating any more until it was gone. Before he could get out of his chair, Misha reached down next to where she was sitting and hoisted up a sparkly, bright gold gift, placing it on his desk.

“What’s this all about?” he asked incredulously. He had been adamant last year when she had gone overboard on this occasion that she not do it again but, here she was, not listening to him, which was one of her more polished skills.

“What do you think it is?” she demanded as he stared at the monstrosity, horror struck. Did she intend to go bigger and flashier every year? That would mean his tactic of giving her a hundred-dollar bonus on her birthday wouldn’t to continue to work. He thought it was an excellent system they had, thus ensuring he never had to go out and buy her a present himself. She came in sporting a new bag or pair of shoes the next day and all was well. She was messing with the system. That’s what this gift told him, and he didn’t want to open it.

“Open it!” she said, through a mouthful of cake, as she kicked her heels up. He glared at her, then begrudgingly reached across the desk and dragged the offensive parcel towards him. The more agitated he became, the more excited she grew. He first grabbed the card from the top of the bag and slit the envelope with his silver, emerald-inlaid letter opener, which had been his father’s. He drew out the card and read the sweet verse on the inside, then stared stupidly at the two tickets that had dropped onto the desk. They were for weekend passes to an up and coming winery in Napa Valley.

“Lascivious Libations,” he said numbly.

“Yeah, that’s just the name of the brand. The farm they grow the grapes and stuff on is something pretty, like Valiant Vines or something like that.”

“Why, then, would they name their brand in such a way as to equate their wine with sex and smut?”

“’Cause when you’re drinking wine, and you’re with your boo, a little something-something’s about to get all smutty up in there.”

“Please, for the love of God, Misha, never mention the words ‘boo’ or ‘something-something’ ever again. The name for the wine is preposterous, as is the equation of the farm to such a lofty reputation. One cannot simply stake the claim that their farm is in anyway honorable or valiant just because the name sounds superior.”

“Alright, alright, Mr. Judge, Jury, and Executioner. Someone’s in a state today. Your daddy’s British is showing, using words like ‘preposterous.’ No one talks like that anymore. If that wine-loving farm owner wants to name their farm Valor Vines, or whatever, I say strut your stuff!”

Ray wanted to bang his head against the desk multiple times. He’d got her rolling now. He wondered how long it would take to stop her. She must have watched those damn movies with her kids. Jesse, her oldest, was eight and, according to her, the biggest geek this side of Comic-Con. He and his friends loved Dungeons and Dragons and all that role-playing game stuff that Ray simply didn’t get.

“Besides,” she continued, “You’re always having a drink after we solve a case. I know how you do. You can’t fool me. You need to stock up on your supply somewhere. You might as well get a bottle of the good stuff while you’re out there in the rich people country.”

“I drink Scotch, Misha.”

“So?”

“Thank you for the tickets, it was very kind of you.”

“That’s what I thought you was going to say.”

Ray bit the inside of his cheek so hard he wasn’t sure if he broke the skin. He reached for the bag and pulled out the tissue paper on top. When he next placed his hand in the bag, he groaned inwardly as he guessed what was inside.

He pulled out a light tan fedora with a black band around the base. The felt was soft under his fingers, and the designer on the tag was one of the best hat makers in the city. He placed it on his desk and stared at it.

“Now you can look like Sherlock Holmes!” Misha cried happily, setting her cake plate on one of his neat piles of folders.

“Sherlock Holmes wore a deerstalker cap,” Ray said dryly.

“So, what’s the difference?” she asked.

She went around his desk and picked up the hat, fussing over his head, placing it just so as he sat perfectly still, counting backwards from one hundred in his head. It was a technique his therapist had taught him after he had been knifed in the face by a perpetrator, thus causing him to have slightly blurred vision in his right eye. The scar ran the length of his cheek and ended off of his chin, giving him a sinister look. He was able to partially hide it with a goatee, which is why he grew one, but it didn’t change the fact that he was now a private investigator instead of a detective on the police force.

Now he just felt like he was being mocked, although he knew that wasn’t Misha’s way. She was the kindest and most doting person when she cared about someone. And when she didn’t, that person better pray there was a rock they could crawl under and hide from her. Which was why Ray next said, “Never mind. Thank you for the hat, Misha.”

She beamed at him, her white teeth flashing and lifting her features into a radiant smile. “You look…dastardly. Wait, no. Derelict. No, that’s not right either.”

Ray could see why her filing system might be haphazard. “I know you aren’t trying to tell me I look evil and run down, Misha. Perhaps you mean dashing?” he asked hopefully. With her, it was hit or miss. She could very well mean the former two adjectives.

“Yeah, that’s the one!” She clapped her hands together, and Ray let his hand wander up as he lightly prodded the atrocity on top of his head. He wondered if he could get away with wearing it, then resigned himself to putting it back in the bag and forgetting he owned it by next week. He figured that would give her time to pick on some other aspect of his wardrobe and forget about this fiasco. He shuddered at the thought that Captain Liam Ferguson at the precinct might catch him wearing it.

As if reading his mind Misha said, “Oh, I can’t wait to see what Captain Ferguson says. You should wear it when you take him to the wine tasting!”

“Who says I’m taking him?” Ray demanded.

“Oh, please, we both know he’s the only other friend you have besides me. Who else are you going to take? And maybe if the two of you get a little tipsy, there’ll be that something-something, you know? Now hold still. I want a new picture with your hat to put on your Facebook page.” She pointed her camera at him, and he covered his head with his arms.

“No! No Facebook pictures and nonsense. I’ve told you that!”

“Oh, come on. It promotes a good image for the business,” she insisted.

“Misha, you told me the only three people who have liked the page are you, Keith, and Liam. There is nothing to promote. You all know about the business already.”

She sat in the chair opposite him again and pouted. He sighed and folded his hands on his desk as she happily snapped the picture and began swiping and tapping on the opposite side of her bejeweled pink phone case.

“We must get back to work. This has all been erm…very nice. Yes, very nice of you.”

“Oh, please, we both know you suffered through it on my behalf,” she chastised him.

She really is a bright, intelligent woman, Ray thought to himself. She had been taking night classes at the local university and was only a year away from her bachelor’s degree in business and communications. He worried what might happen after she finished. As much as he grumped about her all-too-modern ways, claiming she was one of the leading issues with this generation’s set of problems, he didn’t want to lose her.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook for my bonus next month on my birthday. Lord knows what you would attempt to buy with it if you actually brought in a present,” she told him.

He sighed and felt a moment of relief at his reprieve from the raised standards of gift giving, then turned his attention back to the file in front of him.

“Did you type up a followup report for the Emerson case?” he asked.

“Mhmm.” She pointed her manicured nail at him. He wondered how Misha typed so fast. “Word is, Juan Emerson got busted at the rehab center that they sent him to, so his bail conditions were broken. He’s back inside. Ralph has the kids, and the judge signed over full custody to him,” Misha told him.

Ray opened the file to find the report, but it wasn’t there. Ralph had come to him some months ago, wanting his husband followed. He suspected cheating, but what Ray had found was worse. Juan was addicted to drugs and selling himself to make the money to support his addiction so Ralph wouldn’t find out about it. They had two children together through a legitimate insemination program. Both kids had the same mother, but the little one-year-old, Anita, was Juan’s, and three-year-old Carlos was Ralph’s. It had been a tough case, and Ralph had said he would support Juan through rehab and counseling so they could be a family together again. Now it seemed Juan was too far gone and had been selling drugs or himself inside the rehab center. It was a shame. He had hopes for the family. And he had a soft spot for them, considering they were a nontraditional family. Liam had done everything he could when Ray brought him the evidence to make the arrest. He had pushed the judge for rehab and counseling, but Juan had just broken it. He was glad the judge recognized that Ralph was still on the up and up. Men’s parental rights were hard to argue for, and the initial inclination would have been to give the kids to the mother, but Ralph had fought for them.

“Okay, that’s a shame then. But I think we can close the case and file it as soon as the report is filed in here. Which is where?” He looked up at Misha who was taking care of the cake, plates, and forks.

“Oh, it’s on the computer waiting to print.”

“And that will be when?” he asked.

“As soon as the printer has more ink.”

Ray gritted his teeth. “Did you order anymore?”

“No, I’m leaving early to hit Staples on the way home. I’ll print it tomorrow.”

“We have an office supply delivery service for such things, Misha,” he said, with a hint of warning in his tone. He lost it quickly when she whirled on him, giving him the look she gave her kids when they ran roughshod over his office.

“How am I supposed to know when the ink is getting low? X-ray vision?”

“The indicator light on the front of the printer,” he said evenly.

“That’s what that light is for?” she asked.

“Please leave my office now.”

She didn’t have to leave or respond, because he was saved by the jingling of the bell that hung above the door, letting them know someone had just entered the reception area. He rose from his desk, quickly removed the hat, and rumpled his hair back into its usual salt-and-pepper state of messiness. He walked into the waiting area with Misha, clacking noisily in her heels, hot on his tail.

“Can I help you?” He held out his hand to the harried and tired looking man.

He was a bit taller than Ray’s five foot eight, and he had been gazing around the cedar-wood office and taking in the placards of accreditation hanging on the walls. He took note of Misha’s messy desk and drooping plant and raised his eyebrows, but clasped Ray’s hand and said, “I’m looking for a P.I. who can find the person who has been harassing my fiancé, Derrick, and me since we moved into the Highland Estates a few weeks ago.”

“What kind of harassment?” Ray asked, but he already had an idea.

“The kind I’m told you specialize in, Mr. Knott. We’ve had bricks thrown through our windows a few times now, ever since we hosted a barbecue for the neighbors in the area. We were the only gay couple there. I think it’s someone from the gated community who doesn’t want us there.”

“Alright, come into my office and tell me all about it. When we’re done, Misha here will draw up the paperwork for you and your fiancé, and over the next few days we can set something…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Knott. I don’t have a few days. Your reputation is that you will help gay couples. At least that’s what a friend of a friend of Ralph Emerson said. He couldn’t speak highly enough of you. The problem is, I only have two weeks. Then Derrick and I are supposed to be married. But if we can’t catch who is doing this, Derrick will leave me and go back to our old place across town. I can pay anything you want, money isn’t an issue, but please, I can’t lose Derrick. He’s the love of my life.”