The Amazing Adventures of Miss Ariana Okata

Demons-R-Us

As I continued to peer through Veronica's townhouse kitchen window, I felt it was as good a moment as any to use the device I'd brought with me all the way from Vancouver; a Demon-o-Meter. I'd ordered it off the internet from Ghosts-R-Us, a company that sells ghost hunting/ghost busting/mediumistic accoutrements for budding psychic detectives like me.

I pressed the "ON" switch of the Demon-o-Meter, at which point a little green light on top began blinking, and pointed it directly at Veronica, through the kitchen window, for a reading. I watched the little screen on the front, as a stainless steel needle began to move across the gauge. According to this piece of sophisticated technology, which according to the insert was designed in Transylvania (though stamped "Made in China" on the back in microscopic letters), Veronica rated only a Demonic Mood, not a Full Demon.

Once, when Juan (this, I decided on a psychic gut hunch, was Veronica's new husband's name) accidentally bumped into her leg in his growing excitement, the meter spiked up to Demon First Class, which was at the bottom of the full Demon spectrum, and I also thought I caught a glimpse of some steam rising from her curly blonde hair, which I assumed was a wig. When Juan begged for her forgiveness and started kissing her feet and licking her ankles, an activity which their beagle then took much delight in copying, the needle slowly descended back down to Demonic Mood, then continued to plummet down further to Diva. Apparently, all was forgiven, at least in the world of diapered men and bustier-wearing demons. I was beginning to wonder if Veronica really was a Demon from the 7th Realm of Hell, or just a garden-variety rich cougar with somewhat demonic genes and definitely-demonic moods. But those red eyes of her were a giveaway. Perhaps she was merely one of those demons whose bark was worse than her bite; at least, I hoped so.

Feeling rather concerned for the diapered spouse's wellbeing and thus feeling the need to document the goings-on for future possible divorce proceedings, I grabbed my iPhone out of my bag and started taking pictures. Unfortunately, in my haste, I'd forgotten to shut off the flash feature, and my first photograph lit up the outside of the kitchen window. Veronica's head immediately swiveled to look at the flash of light, her red eyes clashing with the white flash, and I immediately pulled back and started climbing down from the fence. Then I fell the rest of the way, which wasn't very far since I'd only been looking through a first-floor window (thank goodness). I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and began running the hell out of there. As my stiletto heels were not made for short-distance sprinting, I removed them and ran the rest of the way down the street in my bare feet. True, the street was still damp from the sprinkle of rain earlier, but luckily Chestnut Crescent was kept so clean you could practically eat off it. I would have given it a shot, too, if I'd had enough time. Every block of London must have a fish and chips stand, though I didn't notice any in the posh parts.

By the time I'd run two or three blocks I realized that I must have been in better shape than I'd thought, as I was scarcely out of breath. I turned then to look back but saw no one, not even the little beagle, pursuing me. Considering their state of undress, they'd probably thought twice about running out into the street, lest the neighbours saw them and drummed them out of town for being such deviants. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps they were just too lazy to give chase.

I caught a cab and arrived back at the hotel flushed from the unexpected exercise and from excitement over nearly being caught on my first official surveillance. I was now a tried and true private detective! I even had naughty surveillance photos to start my file with. I'd been bitten by the Private Eye bug, and I had to have more.

I slipped into my evening bubble bath with some of that Bubbles Galore Potion No. 5 (this time I did catch a glimpse of Constable Daniel in the shower, but only managed to get an all-too-brief view of his soaped up, bulging muscles; that is, before those particular bubbles popped, dammit!) and poured myself a glass of Merlot. Still in the tub, I called Daniel for our nightly chat. I didn't mention having recently caught a glimpse of him showering, but believe me, it was very much on my mind. It was around mid-afternoon, Van time.