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“If there’s a lab, Shatley and Donovan will send it there. I, personally, can’t send it to a lab. And I want to keep this out of the hands of local police at all costs, given their current state.”

I patted the flat, dried bundle of evening primroses in my backpack.

“This will have to do!” I said as Vance and I left out bikes parked outside of the Chick-fil-A that Shatley had emailed me to meet them at.

We walked inside to the deliciously tantalizing smell of brine-soaked chicken filets and the sour note of LGBTAQ+ oppression.

I found them sitting in a red-painted booth at the far end of the establishment, away from the counter and most other diners. I led Vance over to their table and started signing.

‘D-O-N, this is V-A-N-C-E’ I spelled out slowly for accuracy, and for my sake.

“Shatley, this is Vance, a fellow PI working the case on behalf of both the Catholics and the Synagogue.” I explained.

Shatley confusedly started translating for his partner, then got up from his seat facing Donovan and whispered in my ear,

“Can we talk over there?” Indicating to the restroom, signs next to the kitchen.

“Sure.”

“Have a seat. We will be right back!” Shatley suggested pleasantly, offering his former seat to Vance, who sat down right away.

Shatley led me over to the restroom signs and we stopped in front of a cow with a sign on the wall.

“So explain it to me again?”

I was about to rehash the situation, but then I saw Vance, out of the corner of my eye, signing at breakneck speed. And it was the type of signing that only folks with massive rhinestone acrylics did, clicking and snapping their fingers dramatically. Except the effect was off-kilter, because instead of five-week acrylics, she had chartreuse painted nubs.

“Is she friendly? Or even going to help our investigation?” Shatley came up beside me and stood, probably translating the flourishing sign in his head.

“I don’t know yet.” I admitted honestly, “She is… resourceful. I think we should see what she’s done in the past.”

“We should ask for a resume.” Shatley agreed.

I looked over to Donovan and Vance, who were off in their world, signing quickly and audibly with gasps and big expressions. It was rare to see Donovan so engaged with anyone, if not to actively make their day slightly worse. But from what I understood, they were having a pretty fantastic conversation.

“We are going to meet with the Synagogue leaders and the Catholic Board of Property Management. Is it wise to bring her?”

“If she is still in good favor with them…”

“Vance!” I called, and she peeked over Donovan’s head.

“Have you met, or do you have a good relationship with either the synagogue or the church here in town?”

She nodded and stole a waffle fry from Donovan while he was turned.

“Yeah.” She said, chewing, “I’ve been working with them since day one. Do you want an in?”

“Do you, by chance, have a resume on you?” Shatley asked innocuously, coming back over to the bench and sitting down next to Donovan.

“Sure!” She said as she dug through her bag and produced a black fabric accordion folder from her backpack.

She thumbed through the tabs until I saw her hit ‘R’. Vance shuffled through those pages there and looked at us and cringed.

“Which one do you want?”

“How are they different?” Shatley asked.

“One of them highlights my excellent service to the Catholic church back home, and the other spells my name as Miryam.”

“That’s lying.” I was starting to see that maybe trusting this PI was like dealing with a live wire.

“Nope! Miryam is my actual name. I’m Jewish. But I shortened it to Mary for the Catholics. And I participated in the Catholic church at home! I was always doing community service in middle and high school.” Her face twisted uncomfortably. “It was religion that took me in when I lost my mom. So if catering to whoever gave me a hot meal and a roof over my head? I’d do it.”

She reached to her chest and gripped at a layered gold chain hanging from her neck. I caught a glimpse of a cross and an engraved pendant with a three-armed symbol before she tucked it back into her ribbed tank top.

“I will have a look at both, if you don’t mind?” Shatley said softly, holding out his hand for the papers.

Vance handed them over, and Shatley and Donovan read the contents, narrating for my benefit.

“This records mostly community service, and each religious order has its own list of her investigations. Such as thefts of church property and internal investigations. There are references down here.”

He looked at Vance, “Do you mind if I called them?”

“Please do.” She waved a welcoming arm, “I have one reference that is the same for both. She’s actually my longtime sponsor, and she’s a well-established former PI in LA. I did a year-long internship with her.”

“Detective Jenni Atkins…” Shatley read.

An embarrassing squeal of delight came out my nose, “Are you kidding? She’s famous! And you know her?” 

My words gushed out, and I moved to sit at Vance’s side, eager for more information. “Tell me, does she smell like lavender?”

“Yeah, she does? How do you–”

“I’ve been listening to her podcast and following her blogs for years! She’s a legend! She promotes some products through ads in her media, and one she comes back to often is Vandamonto, that perfume.”

“Oh, that’s why she wears that.” Vance shrugged again. “It never bothered me, so I never asked.”

“Have you worked on any cases with her?”

‘J’ Donovan signed with an upside down ‘V’ over it to mimic my hijab, my name, to get my attention.

When I looked at him, he signed, ‘NOPE’, which comprised him pinching the air around his nose, next flicking the invisible thing at me.

I was familiar with this slang term. Donovan’s seven-year-old taught him that, and he used it whenever he wanted to make someone get back on task. Which was a rude way to go about it, but effective at drawing your attention away from the subject.

“Right.” I mumbled, shrinking down, “I get it, back on track.”

“Of course, I have one of your referencees right here! Her name is Mary Vance? Of course you can talk to her.” Shatley handed his cell over to Vance, and we all looked at her with anticipation.

“Hi, Jenni. The true Shepherd is Haïta… yes, you too.”

I wondered if that was a code phrase, or an actual religious greeting. It was odd to be sure, and one I had not heard before. I had no idea who or what the Shepherd of Haïta was. It sounded like a messianic religion, which would make sense considering the adverb ‘true’. 

“Yes, I’m in Louisiana working on a murder case… yes, those.”