//------------------------------// // Hot Shot and Ignis, in the Kitchen, With the Love Potion // Story: Murder on the Friendship Express! // by Shahrazad //------------------------------// The next car certainly smelled good; most kitchens do. This kitchen looked a bit unusual. It looked more like an assembly line. All the surfaces were shiny chrome, and each table had a miniature guard rail. Their function became obvious as the train rumbled down the track. Several small, glass jars of spices gently rattled against one rail at the edge of the counter. A large pot sat on the stove, and several more pots and pans hung from hooks dangling from the ceiling. Pinkie, still acting like a bloodhound, approached the stovetop and bit down on the lid covering the pot. She tossed the lid away like a frisbee, then looked into the pot with a wide grin punctuated by drool. Her smile didn't last long. “Hey, where’s the soup?” Whistle Stop shrugged. “Everypony ate it for dinner. I didn't make extra.” “What if it was poisoned?” Tiny asked with a giggle. “Oh, you’re so devious, Whistle Stop. Feed everyone the evidence, a brilliant way to get rid of it.” “Yeah… I don’t think so.” Pinkie shook her head. “If he poisoned all of the soup, wouldn't we all be dead? And if he only poisoned one bowl of soup, he wouldn't need to get rid of all of it, just the one bowl.” Pinkie sighed and took in a deep breath. Her bloodhound routine started up again, but this time, she acted like there was a pot of gold at the end of the trail. “I… smell… CHOCOLATE!” she exclaimed when she flung open the corner cabinet and found the desserts. Pinkie found custards, a rhubarb pie, a stack of donuts with sprinkles, and plenty of licorice. A box labeled “chocolate” hid behind the donuts. When Pinkie popped the top off, her smile vanished. “Heh, sorry Miss Detective,” Hot Shot piped up. “We swiped ‘em.” Pinkie gasped and said breathlessly, “You mean those chocolate wrappers in your bunk came from here? Where are the rest of them?” Pinkie frantically searched the cabinet, high and low. “We took all of them,” Hot Shot said with a shrug. He turned to Ignis, under his wing, and said, “Sweets for the sweet,” with a dopey smile on his face. She blushed, leaned into him, and said, “Oh, that’s… so kind. Did you get me flowers, too?” Hot Shot tilted his head at her. “No, I got you the chocolates. Chocolates, sweets, ya know?” Ignis tittered, rolling her eyes. “Oh Hot Shot, it’s a good thing I have enough brains for the two of us.” Hot Shot closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss, whispering, “I might not have the biggest brain, but I do have a big—” “HI!” Pinkie almost shouted. Hot Shot’s eyes popped open to find himself face-to-face with Pinkie, his lips still puckered. “Go monologue in the corner with this,” Pinkie chirped, and shoved a pony’s skull into Hot Shot’s face. He almost kissed it. He backpedaled, fumbling with the skull before catching it. Blinking several times with wide eyes, he sputtered, “Wh-what in T-tartarus? Who’s s-skull is this? How did you—? Ignis?” He sounded like a lost colt. Pinkie’s reply made Hot Shot’s expression even deeper. “You’d be surprised what you can find lying around in a graveyard at night under a willow tree.” Without further explanation, she turned to Ignis. “What’s your story, huh? You two just on a trip to get away from your parents?” Ol’ Bitty chimed in, “How can you know that? You have no idea who these two are!” “Yeah...” Slate added. Hot Shot sat in the corner staring at the skull. “Alas, poor pony. I have no idea who you are…” Pinkie shook her head. “That’s not true! I totally know about Ignis Lignum. She’s the heiress to the wealthy Lignum family fortune. Your mom and dad own Tinder Pine Lumber, one of the biggest logging companies in Equestria, right?” Ignis giggled and replied, “Yeah. TIMBER Pine Lumber is my dad’s company. That was just a misspelling when he applied for his business license.” Pinkie tilted her head, but continued to smile. “He doesn't really sound detail-oriented. How did he manage to make himself a multi-millionaire?” Slate’s breath hitched in his throat. “D-did you say multi-millionaire? As in, MORE than one million bits?” Pinkie pulled out her pipe again and looked at Slate. “Yeah,” she deadpanned. “Well, then I don’t think she done it. Why would the pretty doll here try to whack Felix if she can just ask daddy for another cool mil?” Pinkie adjusted her hat. “We’ll see. There’s more than one reason to commit murder,” she stated simply, turning back to Ignis and Hot Shot. “I've gotta know… Do you have any feldspar?” Hot Shot rolled his eyes and mumbled to Ignis, “Airhead.” Ignis popped him with her elbow—hard. “She’s not an airhead,” she whispered back. “Let me handle this.” Hot Shot stood at attention, leaning slightly forward, as if he could guard Ignis from the questions Pinkie now started to rapid-fire at her. “Why and when did you steal all the chocolate? How long have you two been engaged? Does your father approve of you marrying a common lumberjack? Was Hot Shot fired for dating the boss’s daughter? What did you do when the lights went out? Did you try to poison Felix when you snuck into the kitchen? What are you celebrating? What have you two been doing inside your bunk with the cover’s drawn? And… do you think Felix’s death will speed up the payment to Tinder Pine Lumber?” The questions came so fast that Hot Shot felt dizzy. The train clacked over the tracks, making the entire car vibrate the lights flicker. Ignis smiled and replied without batting an eye. “You seem awfully well-informed about my… Daddy’s company.” Pinkie bounced in place. “Of course I am. I tasted the newspaper this morning!” Ignis coughed and rolled her eyes. “Of course you did.” “Yepperooni. I know Tinder Pine Lumber is in litigation with Sound Stables because Sound Stables refused to pay them for about a bajillion metric tons of construction lumber. Something about the wood being too green and soft. And I know Sound Stables is more than just one of Felix’s many clients. He’s a major stakeholder and manager of the company, right? I also know the stock price of Tinder Pine has dropped seventy-eight percent over the last ten months, when all that litigation started.” Most of the ponies in the room were staring at Pinkie. Ol’ Bitty was silently mouthing words like “client,” “cool mil,” “stakeholder,” and “seventy-eight percent,” but she squinted at Pinkie like she was a puzzle missing a half-dozen pieces. Only Ignis replied, and she did so without pause. “When we snuck away from the sleeping car, because we wanted some time alone with each other. Eight months. About as much as he approves of getting red-hot pokers jammed into his eyeballs. No, but only because I protected him. Stayed in my seat next to Hot Shot. Of course not, I don’t even care about the company, so why would I do that? Our imminent engagement.” Ignis glanced at Hot Shot and fluttered her lashes. “None of your business. And yes, I suspect Mommy and Daddy will be pleased to hear of this evening’s events.” Slate shook his head, and said what was on the minds of most of the ponies in the car. “Wait-wait-wait… What? What are you talking about?” Ignis smirked at Pinkie and said, “Well, that should about cover it.” Pinkie blew a few more bubbles on her pipe and rested her chin on her hoof. She sat in a plaid, overstuffed chair, which wasn’t there five seconds ago. Whistle Stop blinked several times at the chair, then poked it once, just to make sure it was real. Pinkie closed her eyes, removed the pipe from her mouth, and shook her head slowly. “Nope, not gonna cut it.” “You don’t follow?” Ignis asked quietly, her smirk growing just a bit wider. “No, I don’t,” Pinkie replied. “I mean, at LEAST one of those answers is a lie. What I don’t get is why you thought you could get away with it?” Ignis looked like she’d been slapped. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Hot Shot growled at Pinkie, “Stop it! Leave her alone!” The light’s flickered again as the train bounced over a rough section of track. Whistle Stop sneered and glanced at one of the lights. Pinkie quirked an eyebrow at him. “Stop what?” “Stop…” Hot Shot looked between Pinkie and Ignis. “Stop whatever it is you’re doing. You’re upsetting my fiancee. Don’t you know she’s delicate?” “Delicate as a bear trap,” Pinkie mumbled. She stood and walked to Hot Shot, who stood guard in front of Ignis. “Look, I just need to talk to Ignis for a little bit. I don’t want to embarrass you two when I ask her about… stuff. Why don’t you play with this super-awesome toy for a minute?” Pinkie suddenly wore a gigantic, oversized grin. She held out a small, red paddle ball with a target in the middle. “I’m not going to be distracted by—Ooooo, ball!” Hot Shot snatched the paddleball away from Pinkie and scampered off to the corner of the car. He proceeded to play with the paddle ball, and immediately achieved a new personal high score: two. The rest of the ponies in the car had their jaws on the floor. “Now, I just need to know a few things about what the two of you were doing alone together.” Pinkie’s request was given in the same tone she used to order sandwiches. Ignis blushed furiously, but leaned in and whispered in Pinkie’s ear. “Uh-huh… Yeah… Obviously… Uh-huh… That sounds uncomfortable… Uh-huh… I didn't know ponies could bend that way… Of course… That sounds totally hot and sweaty! Anything else?” Ignis shook her head, her cheeks still ruddy. She looked down and said no more. “I’m still not convinced one of you didn't kill Felix. How do I know you didn't poison him? And why did you have that special request for dinner?” Whistle Stop perked up. “What special request?” Without turning to face him, Pinkie replied, “I don’t know exactly. A salad, I think.” “She prefers a tossed salad as an after-dinner treat,” Hot Shot said, tossing away the paddleball. Slate snickered when Hot Shot said, “What? It’s just a tossed salad.” Ignis blushed. “I’m concerned she knew her tossed salad was poisoned,” Pinkie answered. She tilted her head at Hot Shot. “Fine, I’ll toss her a salad right now, and you can watch me. Will that satisfy you?” Hot Shot asked. Slate doubled over, laughing silently. Pinkie nodded. “I would be satisfied watching you toss her a salad.” Slate could hardly breathe; he had stuffed both front hooves in his mouth, and his eyes watered. Hot Shot darted to the kitchen counter where the spices sat. “I’ll show you how well I can toss a salad!” “Don’t forget the most important part: the creamy dressing!” Pinkie called to him. That was the last straw for Slate, who fell to the floor, bellowing with laughter. Ignis blushed so much, her entire face was red. “What?” Pinkie asked, looking at Slate. “It’s just a few leaves of lettuce, chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions. What’s the big deal?” Slate stood, wheezing. “N-nothing, sweetcheeks. You keep searching for the murderer. I’ll watch Hot Shot toss a salad.” He laughed again. “Oh, I get it,” Pinkie said, with a knowing look. “You’re one of those ponies.” Slate rocked back on his hooves. He swallowed and asked, “What do you mean?” Pinkie poked him in the ribs with a wry smile. “You like a special kind of tossed salad, don’t you?” A bead of sweat trickled down his face when Slate replied, “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Oh yeah, I can see it now. You, tossing a salad…” Slate glared at her. “Aren't you supposed to be trying to find a murderer?” “...WITH CROUTONS!” Pinkie exclaimed triumphantly with a hoof in the air. Slate stood, dumbstruck. “What a freak… So Hot Shot, how’s it going?” Tiny rubbed her temples and mumbled, “No shouting, please. Oh, my head. What was in that drink?” Hot Shot looked over his shoulder. “I’m just about ready. How does this taste, baby?” He offered a bit of the salad to Ignis. Ignis smiled, took a stride to reach him, and bit down on the morsel. She crunched it for a moment with her eyes closed. “It tastes like—” “Poison?” Ol’ Bitty quavered. “It needs pepper.” Ignis deadpanned, then gently put a hoof around Hot Shot. “Let me help you with that, Hot Stuff. It just needs a little more spice. Of course, you did better than Whistle Stop.” “Why thank—HEY!” Whistle Stop stomped a hoof. “I get plenty of compliments for my cooking! I never over- or under-cook, everything is right on time!” The train hit a particularly rough patch of tracks and the lights flickered on and off every second. Whistle Stop sighed; Pinkie watched him cross the car like a choppy stop-motion video, and adjust the gas line valve. The lights flickered once more before they returned to normal. Tiny blinked several times. “Great, now I have a headache.” Ignis rolled her eyes at Whistle Stop. “Yeah, your soups are okay, but your salads are bland. You don’t cook a salad, you just have to add the right ingredients in the right amounts and mix them. Here, taste.” She walked right up to Whistle Stop and stuffed a morsel in his mouth. “Hey, I know how to—oh, oh wow, that is good. The p-pepper real-lly… r-r-really… ah-ACHOO!” Whistle Stop blew a male sneeze, that is to say, a sneeze designed to clear nasal passages, or drain pipes clogged with cement. Ignis winced. “S-sorry!” Whistle Stop pulled out his pocket square and wiped Ignis all over her face, neck, and chest. Hot Shot nearly tackled him, but instead he opted to simply shove him away—hard. “Hooves off, buddy, unless you wanna tangle with me!” He crouched and spread his wings, ready to pounce. Whistle Stop held his hooves up to shield himself from the other stallion. Ignis ran a hoof gently along Hot Shot’s wing. Pinkie could see the shiver start at his pinions and run all the way to his spine and down his tail. “Shhhh… Everything is alright now, Hot Shot,” Ignis cooed. “There’s no need for more violence.” Pinkie was back in the chair, puffing away at her pipe. With so many bubbles in the air, it was getting difficult to actually see her. “Hey, Miss Detective?” Slate called out into the cloud of bubbles. “Are you getting anywhere?” “Yepperooni,” Pinkie said, standing right behind him. Slate jumped and swung his head around to find pinkie scratching her chin again. “Hmmm, interesting… it all fits. Still need the most important question answered, though…” Slate swallowed and asked, “Do you mean to say you know who done it?” Pinkie popped the pipe out of her mouth and replied, “Almost. I've got a few theories as to exactly how it happened. We’re going to have to keep moving. I have an idea that might make the killer reveal themselves.” Slate’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “And, the killer has the dough?” he asked breathlessly. “Oh yeah, the killer took the bond for sure. I don’t know if he or she still has it, but they definitely took it,” Pinkie answered. “There’s two more things I need. Number one: get perspective from Quiet Quill to make sure I didn't miss anything, and to confirm a few things.” Pinkie pointed at Quiet Quill, hiding in the back of the group, still writing in her notebook. Slate smirked. “I don’t think she’ll answer your questions.” Pinkie shrugged and replied, “She doesn't need to. She’s been writing everything down in her diary.” Slate’s eyes darted between Quill and Pinkie. “Wait, you mean that’s not a novel she’s writing?” “Nope, that’s her diary. She’s pretty observant, too. Number two: I need to check with the engineer to confirm something.” “He’s not the killer, is he?” Slate looked forward, towards the front of the train, like his gaze could burn a hole through all that metal. “Hee-hee-hee! Not a chance!” Pinkie giggled. “Oh…” Pinkie’s hair deflated as she looked at the rest of the ponies. “We should hurry, we’re running out of time.” Slate tilted his head at her. “What do you—” Whistle Stop stumbled to Pinkie, swaying unevenly on his hooves. “Excuse me, Miss Detective, but can we move along into the next car? I think I need to lay down. I’m… not feeling well.” Pinkie huffed, “Well, that’s just great. Now I’m going to have to figure out how—Wait a minute! That’s it!” “What? What’s it? Did you solve the mystery?” Pinkie bounced in place and exclaimed, “Nope, but I’m about to! Everypony, LET’S GO!” Slate led them into the next car, with Pinkie supporting Whistle Stop. “Sorry about this,” Whistle Stop apologized. “I just don’t handle stress so well, and this evening has been, well, stressful. I think I need to lie down.” “It’s okay,” Pinkie whispered to him. “But can we hurry? We’re almost out of time, and the killer is getting away!”