//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Penelope Preda // Story: A Dodgy Business // by MLP-Silver-Quill //------------------------------// The carriage—Applejack knew it had some hi-faulting name—crept up on the ranch like a fox getting after a flock. Pink drapes masking the passenger. The two Varmin pulling it were plenty strong, though they looked none-too-happy. The one on the left was a surly-looking fella and thin as a reed dressed in trousers and suspenders. The other one wore a vest and tie that barely contained his muscles. Several more followed in the dust trail, running on all fours. Big Macintosh hung back a pace, always the careful watcher. Applejack and Clutterstep stood to either side of Ms. Jubilee. They waited at the road’s end, a good measure from the house. The carriage (was on the tip of her tongue. Applejack was sure), pulled to a stop and waited for the dust clouds to billow on past. Wind carried them over to Applejack’s brother, whose snout started twitching. Applejack eyed the escorts. The leader was still smirking like a knife, but he didn’t seem to eager to open that muzzle of his. Beside him were two youngins wearing blue or green overalls with holes cut in the bottoms to let out their tails. Most unsettling of all was the one hiding in the leader’s shadow. Kept hunkered low, its fur all jagged. Had red eyes surrounded by yellow and its mouth was peeled back in a constant grin. Thing moved like it was hopped on something. Applejack didn’t care to know what. When the last bit of dust passed, the drapes lifted away and a parasol hat emerged, followed by a dainty beak. Applejack hadn’t met more than one Griffon in her life, but she was pretty sure most didn’t look like the one emerging from the…whatever. She was all sleek and petit. Her pale feathers must have been brushed twenty times each, and the cream-colored fur at least a hundred times. Applejack couldn’t quite figure how the griffon had managed to slip white slippers over her paws without shredding them. Then again, that seemed pretty small compared to the white dress with pink lacing that covered most of her body except for the open back accommodating her wings. The griffon declined an offered paw by the head Varmin and instead landed with one graceful wing beat. She did accept an offered parasol with flower patterns and held it with one manicured talon. “Good morning to you, Ms. Jubliee.” “Ms. Preda.” A hundred unspoken insults followed after the two words. All of them said what Ms. Preda could do with her good morning and where she could stick it. The griffon smiled and shifted her eyes to Applejack and Big Macintosh. “And a fine morning to our new arrivals.” She inclined her head without losing her gaze. “Penelope Preda. Charmed, I’m sure.” “Howdy.” Applejack let the word trickle out. There was this weird feeling like she’d met the Rarity of the griffon kingdom. “I am so pleased to see you’ve found some new hooves for the orchards. I’m sure they’ll make up for the… slack around here.” She looked at Clutterstep. Clutterstep grinned back. “Love you too, Ms. Feather Duster.” The griffon’s emerald eyes narrowed. Ms. Jubilee said, “May I ask what brings you out to my ranch, Ms. Preda?” “Why, can’t an investor come to check up on her friend?” Penelope Preda moved with fluid grace. Maybe it was Clutterstep’s warning, but it did reminder Applejack of a snake. “I dare say that we won’t get to have these charming meetings for much longer.” She ambled up to Big Macintosh. “Oh my. You certainly are a fine catch. Like a big, red apple.” She leaned a might too close for Applejack’s taste. “Eeyup.” Big Macintosh gasped between trying to hold in a sneeze. Ms. Preda produced a kerchief and let it flutter on the wind until Big Macintosh snatched it out of the air. A cloud of dust tickled his nose and he blew into the lacy cloth. “Thanks.” He made to hand it back to Ms. Preda. The griffon recoiled and nearly missed a step. “Do keep it. Please.” Clutterstep laughed, earning him a fresh glare from both Ms. Preda and Ms. Jubilee. “What? You can’t pay for this kind of entertainment.” “A-hem.” Ms. Preda left Big Macintosh and the kerchief. She circled around Ms. Jubilee, all prowl again. “I just came to confirm our arrangement. Per our terms, I’ll have several representatives from Manehatten, Baltimare, and Las Pegasus present for the harvesting three days hence. I trust you’ll be able to turn over a sufficient product to clear your debt?” Ms. Jubilee stiffened at “debt”, but kept her poker face. “Three days. We’ll be ready.” “I am ever-so-pleased to hear that.” Ms. Preda’s tail swayed over the orchard view. “I must confess that I harbored some doubts. There’s just so much here to harvest.” “Get!” Applejack whirled around to see one of the Varmin—the burly one—being expelled from the house. For all the being’s size, Big Macintosh was bigger and stronger. Her brother followed the Varmin out of the house and only stopped when the prowler rejoined the hissing group. Applejack hadn’t noticed him break away. Ms. Jubilee’s scowl went from the cronies to their boss. “My workers can handle it just fine. A good deal better than your thugs could.” The Varmin all traded looks. “Heee-sh-sh-sh-sh!” the twitchy-looking one pawed at something in the air. “Oh, they’re not meant for ranch work.” said Ms. Preda. “Nor am I, to be fair. No, if the worst should happen and I must claim my collateral, I think I’ll sell this place to that fellow from Los Pegasus I mentioned. He expressed an interest in opening up a new casino chain on the frontier.” Ms. Jubilee’s tension slacked and her eyes shrank. “You’d… you’d tear down my orchards?” “To the last root.” “Now hold on!” snapped Applejack. “This here’s good land. There ain’t no reason—” “I have no interest for digging in the dirt and getting all sweaty.” Ms. Preda’s words cut through Applejack’s anger. “No cherries or apples or any other crop. It’s rather, well, filthy.” She shuddered. “You should start a snake farm.” Clutterstep gained everyone’s attention. “You know, have the family out.” It might have been the wind, but Applejack could swear she heard Ms. Preda growl while her Varmin fought to cover grins. Ms. Preda recovered and said, “We seem to be losing what little civility remains in this conversation.” She turned and glided into the— “Rickshaw!” exclaimed Applejack. Every creature, from griffon to pony, glanced her way. She blushed and offered a grin. “The name… couldn’t quite remember.” Ms. Preda rolled her eyes. “I wish you and your help the best of luck. See you in three days.” She and her escorts were off not long after and none too soon. Applejack watched them race off the property, a fresh unease in her gut. “Clutter!” Ms. Jubilee whirled on her hired help. “Didn’t I tell you not to engage that witch?” Clutterstep just shrugged. “Did I ask her to marry me?” That brought Ms. Jubilee up short. “What? No!” “Then we’re not engaged.” He smiled, and after a moment Ms. Jubilee chuckled. It rumbled out from her belly and out her muzzle, then grew into a guffaw. For the first time since stepping off the train, Applejack saw her friend genuinely happy. That was worth all the apples in the world. “Oh, you are incorrigible!” Ms. Jubilee wiped at a tear and kept on laughing. Applejack couldn’t resist. All the laughter filtered in through her ears and filled up her belly until she had to start laughing too. Pretty soon Big Macintosh and Clutterstep added their own. After a full minute, Ms. Jubilee sobered up. “But it’s not a good idea to egg her on.” “What’s she gonna do? Eat me? I’ve been threatened by worse.” He nodded at Big Macintosh. “I think we should be more worried for Big M. Or should I call you Red Apple?” “Nnope!” That brought on a fresh round of laughter. They returned to the house, this time with Clutterstep alongside. Applejack kept pace next to him. “Been threatened by carnivores a lot, have ya?” “More than average, I think.” Clutterstep stared at the ceiling. “There was a yeti in the Crystal Mountains that thought I’d make a good snack. Oh! And there was this hydra near Hollow Shades that was literally fighting itself over my calorie count. Then there was the dragon near White Tail Woods—” “There ain’t no dragons near White Tail Woods.” said Applejack. “Not since that tragic logging incident.” Clutterstep nodded sadly. “Poor thing may never belch fire again.” Applejack couldn’t make head nor tail of this pony. Not quite Pinkie Pie-level odd, but a good deal more than she could focus on right then. They gathered around the card table and Ms. Jubilee brought out a map of the property. Applejack studied the layout. Ms. Jubilee had done a good job of marking which fields were ripe and ready, which had already been harvested, and which trees were freshly planted. The cherry orchards were spread out nice and even, but favoring the back of the property near the cherry sorting line. “And we need to harvest all this in three days?” said Applejack. “Uh, left that bit out, didn’t I?” said Ms. Jubilee. “Eeyup.” It took a week and a half to harvest Sweet Apple Acre’s fields. Cherry Hill Ranch was about half that size. Still, it was a tall order. “We’ll start on the northern fields.” said Applejack. “Looks like most of them have been harvested, so we can finish them up today. We’ll have to divide up and tackle the southern and western fields in pairs if we wanna get ‘em all done. And since the east field is almost all ripe, we can save that for the final push.” Then Applejack realized what she was doing. Dictating a plan to the ranch’s owner. Why, if someone had come on to Sweet Apple Acres and talked that way to her, she’d run them right off. Ms. Jubilee must have seen something in Applejack’s expression. “Don’t you fret, Applejack. Like I said, I waited too long to call for help. You plan however works best for you. If something doesn’t work, I’ll let y’all know.” Applejack thanked her friend with a smile. “Are you sure there ain’t any favors you could call in from the townsfolk? Even for a day?” “Afraid not, dear.” Ms. Jubilee’s shoulders slumped and she seemed to be speaking at a wake. “The sheriff’s in Penelope Preda’s pocket—” “Nice alliteration.” said Clutterstep. “And everypony’s ‘fraid she might go after them next.” Applejack pressed her hooves to the table. “Well, we ain’t scared of a griffon or her thugs. We’re gonna harvest this whole ranch in three days and show that lady just what Earth Ponies can do!” XXXXXX Rawley Ratsnout coughed on a dust cloud from Ms. Preda’s rickshaw (blimey, that bumpkin pony was right. It was a funny word). They were back in front of Preda Hall, which went by a different name when the owner wasn’t listening: The Meat Pit. Rawley made to open the Rickshaw’s door, but Harumphy—that rind-swiping tail-cutter—was at the front. He bounded the shorter distance and opened the door open with a graceful bow. “Welcome home, m’lady.” Silly bloke didn’t open the door halfway before Ms. Preda kicked it away and clocked him in the snout. Harumphy toppled over and gained a round of laughter from the lads. That all fell silent when Ms. Preda pounced free and landed with her wings expanded. They reached as far as the rickshaw and were often the last sound creatures heard before becoming lunch. Ms. Preda scowled at Harumphy. “Ugh, just look at you. I declare, hasn’t a single one of you ever heard of a bath?” Rawley and company had heard of bath water plenty. In the same way that children heard of dreamstalkers, boogeyponies, and the tooth fairy (who in the world would swipe something and then pay for it?). Ms. Preda stalked over and slipped a talon under one of Harumphy’s suspenders and gave a tug. The fabric parted clean without trying to stretch. “And such tacky clothing. Honestly, can y’all even begin to understand how embarrassing it is to have such shoddy-looking escorts. Makes a girl ashamed just to step out the front door.” She padded away from Harumphy, reached for her kerchief, and remembered what that big red pony had done with it. The growl from her throat went right through Rawley’s bones. She slipped it back out of hearing and settled on a delicate cough. “I shall be in my office. Do... dust something!” She stalked into the Meat Pit and shook the foundation when her office door slammed. Rawley’s mates held their breaths for a tick before breaking back into laughter. “She got you good, Harumphy.” said Whiskers. He was a decent bloke by local standards. Even offered Harumphy a paw, which the other stupidly accepted. “Right then.” said Rawley as his mates gathered round. “What’ve we got, my lads?” Little Scamp and Scrap whispered between each other before each pulled out a fork and spoon with little cherries emblems in the handles. “What?” said Rawley. “No knife?” “He was gonna grab the knife.” Scamp pointed at Scrap. “Was not. He was.” Scrap pointed to Scamp. “You ruddy liar!” “You tosser!” The fork and spoon when skywards as the two of them lunged at each other and started swinging paws. Rawley rolled his eyes while the two of them kicked up a fresh dust cloud. Not wanting to waste a half-good swipe, he caught the utensils mid-air and tucked them into his vest. “You next, Whiskers.” The giant bloke reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a comb, then held up a trowel. “Oy!” Harumphy checked the sagging half of his trousers and came up with nothing. Shouldn’t have taken that offered paw. “Not bad.” said Rawley. “Would have gotten a plate too.” said Whiskers, “If that red bloke hadn’t kicked me out.” “Ah, well, ce la ve, as them Prance ponies say.” Rawley smiled at his chief rival. “Guess there’s no point in asking you.” Harumphy’s glare promised that, one day, Rawley would be stuck in a corner with something horrible bearing down on him; and if that something wasn’t Harumphy then he’d bloody well make sure he was controlling it. Rawley took a moment to compose himself before turning to the last member of his happy troop. He didn’t like to look Twitch in the eye. Had this weird feeling that Twitch was looking straight through him. Plus his eyes couldn’t stay still. “And?” “Tsh-sh-sh-sh!” Twitch’s paws traveled the entire length of his body, twice, before pulled out a red cherry and a yellow one. Where he had kept them was a matter of debate, what with his lack of clothes and all. Barely had time to take in the sight before he gobbled them up. His lips made a creepy smacking. “Right...” Rawley cleared his throat. “Well, can’t fault the survival instinct, eh lads? But I’ll claim top scavenge for this round.” He reached into the inner pockets of his vest and flourished a yellow scarf with hoof-stitched cherries and leafs tracing the edge. “Old bat’s got a bit of an obsession, wouldn’t you say?” Whisker squinted at the waving fabric. “How’d you snag that?” “Followed you in and nipped it whilst ol’ big red was giving you the toss.” Rawley winked. Best time to steal was when another thief was getting caught. “Now, lads, we all know what a state the Missus gets in when she’s upset. Something about that disaster area they call Clutterstep. Gets her skirt right in a twist.” He turned at the doorstep, gave them his most winning smile. “And since she feels so much better after a good cleaning, and ol’ Harumphy failed to turn anything up, I say he should be the one to dust the Pit top to bottom.” Everyone but the weakest link cheered. Rawley, by the by, slipped into the mansion and found his way to the mistress’ main office. Needed to get the group back in her good graces, and nothing did that like a bit of snatch. Her slam had broken the lock, so the door was open just a crack. Rawley knocked. “Enter.” Rawley slipped inside, keeping to the shadow of the griffin bust. Nasty looking bit of work. Some long-lost conqueror, if he remembered right. Ms. Preda sat at a massive oak table loaded with papers and ledgers. A bottle of disinfectant waited within reach. She wrote in a book with a quill (not of her own stock). The sharp scribbles sounded like scratches in Rawley’s brain, mixing with the constant ticking of the ornate clock in the corner. Ms. Preda didn’t look up from her book. “You must have something good to risk coming in here.” Rawley crossed the distance, stepping over the Manticore rug. Technically, it wasn’t a crime to own such a rug. Just a crime to sell it. The beast’s tail hung over the fireplace, surrounded by pictures of ponies who’d lost their jobs or homes. Quieter than a last breath, Rawley lay the scarf on the desk. Ms. Preda glanced up from her book, narrowed her eyes at the fabric, and set the quill on top of the ink well. “This is what you bring me?” Rawley held up his bowler hat like a shield. “Beggin’ your pardon, mum. It was the best we could find.” “And just where were you looking? Cherry Jubilee’s dressing room? Her coat rack? Did ya’ll ever consider checking her office? Maybe find a deed, or some juicy bit of gossip?” “N... no, mum.” Students of the Sneak didn’t go for the good stuff in broad daylight. Especially not with so many eyes on the grounds. Ms. Preda didn’t appreciate the art of the Sneak, even though Rawley’s mates had brought her plenty of goods in the past. “Get out.” Rawley nodded and reached for the scaf. “Leave it.” A hundred nick-nacks and babbles called out for a good swiping, but Rawley ignored them. Nothing in that room was half so valuable as the beating he’d avoid by leaving Ms. Preda’s office. Rawley paused at call from outside. Voices of the townsfolk in the streets. It kept growing until the whole of Dodge Junction was in a fuss. Even Ms. Preda stepped away from her desk. She peeked through a pink curtain and scowled at the ponies. “Now what in the four winds has got all of them stirred up?” XXXXXX It took an hour before Applejack could admit her plan wasn’t going to fly. Harvesting the northern field was taking a lot longer than expected. Cherries were more delicate than apples, and Big Macintosh was just out of his element. His first few tries were messy at best. One solid kick had flung a branch-full at Applejack, staining her coat all kinds of crimson. “It’ll wash off.” Applejack consoled her brother while thinking back to the mess her friends had caused on the cherry picking line. “Just hold back on the kicks. Pretend that the trees are more saplings, like little Figgus back home.” That had set him up right. Before long he’d be a natural. Far worse was Clutterstep. Poor boy just didn’t seem to have it in him. Applejack watched from behind cover as he set a basked underneath a set of branches that were far too high. Then he walked to trunk and kicked it with too much force and off-center aim. The cherries hanging on the opposite side tumbled down and burst. Clutterstep gave a tch and moved the basket, then tried again. This time several cherries landed on his noggin. He ran a tongue along his lips as the juice ran down his face, then spat. “Yuck!” “Yuck?” Applejack approached him and took a closer look at the berries lodged in his mane. The skin was ripe and fresh, but the core was pure brown and reeked. Uneasy, Applejack went to fetch Ms. Jubilee, who went stark white when she saw the stains on Applejack’s coat. “Celestia save us, it finally happened! What did Clutterstep do? Are you dizzy? Feeling faint? Don’t worry, dearie, I’ll fetch the doctor!” “It’s cherry stains.” said Applejack and showed her the ruined cherry. Ms. Jubilee’s eyes went wide the moment she saw the dark core. “Brown rot! Oh, of all the things!” They had to gather Big Macintosh go through every basket they’d picked. “It’s a disease that targets cherry trees. Gets into the branches, the leafs, even the fruit. And it doesn’t show itself until the cherries shrivel up.” They wasted a good hour-and-a-half inspecting baskets for signs of brown rot. Apparently it could spread like wildfire. Then Big Macintosh had to take shears to the sickly tree and cut away any branch that showed signs. They’d have to burn them. “I’ll do it.” said Clutterstep. “Not for all the bits in the world!” Ms. Jubilee snatched a set of matches from him and turned them over to Big Macintosh. Her brother carted the branches off to the fire pit. Not wanting to miss out, Clutterstep volunteered to tag along. “It’ll be fine.” Applejack assured Ms. Jubilee, who looked to be back on the brink of tears. “It only got a few berries, and it looks like we caught it before it could spread to the rest of the orchard.” Ms. Jubilee sniffed and nodded. “It’s just… can you imagine what might’ve happened if it had spread? We’d lose half the crop. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if those Varmin slipped off at tainted one of the trees. Be just their style.” “Now, now.” Applejack kept her voice calm, the way Granny Smith used to lecture her. “We can’t go blaming every ill on them.” “Oh, you’d be surprised.” There was ice in Ms. Jubilee’s voice. “Did you know I can’t find my dress scarf anywhere? Was lying right on my bed this morning, now it’s gone! Didn’t even see ‘em sneak into my home and they’ve gone and swiped my favorite—” Applejack glanced over Ms. Jubilee’s shoulder. “I know you’re upset and all, but did you really have to call in the sheriff over that?” “Sheriff? Why would I call the sheriff? Why, that cowardly numbskull couldn’t—” Ms. Jubilee turned around when somepony cleared his throat. The town sheriff waited, all business-like. The air around Ms. Jubilee cooled. She approached the stallion, stiff as a plow’s line. “Sheriff Lucky Roll, you have business here?” The sheriff took off his hat and held it over his badge. “Afternoon, Ms. Jubilee.” When she didn’t return the greeting, he coughed into his hoof and donned the hat again. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I need to ask after one of your trees.” Ms. Jubilee swept a hoof over the orchards. “Which one?” “The one that was launched skywards around 8:15 this morning.” Oh, land sakes! Applejack fought to keep herself composed. Clutterstep and Big Macintosh came up from the orchards. “Hey, Rolls.” “Clutterstep.” said the Sheriff. Not unkindly, but there was a note of accusation. “You happen to know anything about a wayward tree trunk from this morning?” “Oh, uh…” Clutterstep scratched at his main. “Well, I might know something about it. Though knowing and causing are completely different things. I mean, I know when it’s going to rain, but you don’t see any Pegasus wings on me, do you?” The sheriff held a silence that could break stone. Clutterstep broke out in a sweat, a condemned pony’s grin stretched across his snout. The Sheriff’s tone was steady as the sunrise. “Boy, did you launch a cherry tree a little after 8:15 this morning?” Clutterstep deflated like one of Pinkie Pie’s balloons. “Yes sir. No pony’s hurt, are they?” “Actually,” the sheriff addressed both Clutterstep and Ms. Jubilee, “your cherry tree helped break up a robbery. I need you to come down and confirm that it was your tree that caught them Grumble Brothers.”