The Conifers' Council

“Are you sure about this, Gumshoe?” Devon whispered, his breath clouding the air in front of my face. His nose, already a bit ruddy from the cold, twitched. He was never one for subtlety, which, frankly, made him an excellent foil to my own nuanced approach.

I shifted, feeling the rough bark of the hawthorn bush press against my cheek. My too-big, hand-me-down trench coat, a gift from my Uncle Gerald, smelled faintly of mothballs and old triumph. “Certain, Devon. Observe their shifty gazes. The way Alderman Grantham keeps adjusting his spectacles as if the very air itself is an incriminating document. It’s a classic tell. Guilty conscience, I call it.”

Grantham, the Alderman of Ward Three, a man whose face always looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon, passed a folder – a plain, manila folder – to Councilwoman Williamson. Williamson, who usually wore a permanent, slightly frantic smile at town meetings, looked like someone had just told her all the local bakeries had run out of crullers. Her hand trembled a bit as she took it.

“Still think they’re just talking about the community garden?” I murmured, adjusting the peak of my woollen detective cap. It was grey, too, to match the coat, and frankly, a bit itchy. The leaves, the last vestiges of Oakhaven’s vibrant autumn, crunched underfoot, a symphony of tiny betrayals. They really should be raked. A proper detective needs silence.

Devon sighed, a puff of visible annoyance. “Paulie, they’re adults. They talk about boring stuff. Budgets. Bylaws. Probably which brand of compost is best for zucchinis. Not… not secret stuff.” He fiddled with a loose thread on his worn rucksack strap, avoiding my gaze.

“Exactly!” I countered, a thrill running down my spine, ignoring the little scrape I got on my elbow from the hawthorn branch. This was it. The big one. “Boring stuff is their camouflage. While we, the vigilant, are lulled into a false sense of municipal security, they’re out here, exchanging… folders. Containing… who knows what! Evidence, Devon! Irrefutable, paper-based evidence!”

Williamson tucked the folder under her arm, clutching it tight like it was the last biscuit in Oakhaven. She nodded curtly to Grantham, who gave a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a flicker of something truly unpleasant, like finding a spider in your cereal. Then, they parted ways. Grantham strode off towards the main street, whistling a tuneless ditty that seemed particularly grating in the crisp morning air. Williamson, however, hesitated, glanced around with a darting, nervous energy, then headed towards the Oakhaven Town Hall, which stood just three blocks away.

The Pursuit

“Right,” I declared, pushing myself up, my knees cracking audibly. Not very stealthy, but then, my 'Discreet Surveillance' manual didn't cover creaky joints. “She’s leading us straight to the nest. The heart of the conspiracy.”

“Or to her office,” Devon muttered, already moving, always a step ahead even when he was complaining. He had this annoying habit of being physically competent while mentally a complete cynic.

The ground was damp, the mud clinging to the soles of my sensible, sturdy boots. The wind had picked up, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and a peculiar metallic tang from the old disused cannery by the river. A single, stubborn yellow maple leaf fluttered down from nowhere, landing squarely on my cap. I brushed it off, feeling its dry, brittle texture. Too much symbolism. Must stick to facts.

We kept our distance, weaving through the bare trees of Maplewood Park, then ducking behind a parked delivery van, its engine still rumbling faintly. Williamson walked with a brisk, determined pace, her shoulders hunched against the cold. She didn’t look back once. Professional. Or terrified.

“She’s a pro,” I whispered, almost to myself. “The kind who knows the score. But what score, Devon? What unwritten melody of municipal deceit is she humming?”

Devon just snorted. “Probably just trying to warm up. My fingers are freezing. Can we get hot chocolates after this? With those tiny marshmallows? Please?”

I glared at him. “A true detective never prioritises confectionery over justice! Though, admittedly, a sugary boost might sharpen the senses.” I considered it for a moment. “Fine. But only after we’ve cracked this open. This case is… it’s bigger than muffins, Devon.”

We reached the Town Hall. A grand, old brick building, usually bustling, but quiet now in the in-between time of late autumn, before the real winter rush of holiday planning. Williamson fumbled with her keys at the heavy oak doors, dropped them with a soft clatter that sounded like a gunshot to my hypersensitive ears, picked them up, and vanished inside. I could almost hear the 'Case Closed' music in my head, but something felt… off. There was a weird hum coming from inside the building, like old fluorescent lights arguing with each other.

“She dropped something else,” Devon observed, ever the sharp-eyed one, despite his marshmallow fixation. He pointed to the top step, where a small, crumpled piece of paper lay half-hidden by a stray, wind-blown crisp packet.

The Crumpled Truth

My heart thumped a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. The moment of truth. I scurried up the steps, trying to look casual, like a small, intrepid pigeon. The cold stone of the steps sent a shiver up my spine. The hum from inside intensified as I got closer. I snatched up the paper. It was a flyer, creased and slightly damp, for the ‘Save the Oakhaven Heritage Mill’ campaign. Bland stuff, all about local history and community pride. But scrawled across the back, in a hurried, almost aggressive hand, were a series of notes.

My eyes darted across the messy script. ‘Grantham – zoning?’ ‘Williamson – %?’ ‘Mill – too valuable.’ ‘Vote Tuesday – secure majority.’ And then, a single, circled word, underlined twice: ‘DEVELOPERS.’

“Zoning? Percentages? Developers?” I read aloud, my voice barely a whisper. The hum from inside the Town Hall seemed to mock me now, a low, electronic growl. This was definitely not about zucchinis.

Devon had joined me on the steps, peering over my shoulder. “Looks like a shopping list for adults who are bad at shopping,” he said, but his tone had lost some of its usual jadedness. There was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes, a spark that usually only appeared when a new video game console was announced.

I smoothed the crumpled flyer, trying to make sense of the scribbles. The autumn chill, which had moments ago felt invigorating, now seemed to carry a weight, a heavy cloak of responsibility. The trees, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, stood like silent witnesses to the petty dramas of human ambition. The air was so clear, so sharp, that it felt like it could cut through lies. And suddenly, my little detective game felt less like a game.

This was bigger than Grantham's lemon face or Williamson's biscuit anxiety. This was about the Mill. The old Oakhaven Heritage Mill, the one our class had visited, where they still demonstrated how flour was ground, and where Mrs. Henderson from Grade Four had accidentally set off the fire alarm trying to use the antique bell. It was old, but it was *our* old. And someone, some 'Developers', wanted to do something with it. Something involving 'zoning' and 'percentages' and 'votes'. And Grantham and Williamson were in on it.

“This is… this is proper dodgy, Paulie,” Devon said, his voice quiet now, all marshmallow dreams forgotten. He looked at the Town Hall doors as if they might suddenly open and swallow us whole. “Like, grown-up dodgy.”

“Indeed, Devon,” I replied, my voice gaining a certain gravitas, as if I’d just solved the mystery of the missing moon. I folded the flyer carefully and tucked it into the breast pocket of my trench coat, right next to my emergency packet of ginger snaps. “This isn’t about schoolyard squabbles. This is about Oakhaven. About… about political shenanigans.” The word tasted important on my tongue. "And we, Devon, are the only ones who saw it."

I pulled out my small, dog-eared notebook, its cover damp from the morning air. My pencil, a stubby little thing, felt heavy and purposeful in my hand. The quiet after the leaf-crunching and whistling seemed to deepen, amplifying the distant rumble of a truck on the highway. I took a deep, bracing breath of the cold, clean air, the kind of air that promised fresh starts, but also, in its clarity, revealed all the murky details. I looked at Devon, who was still staring at the Town Hall, his expression a mixture of apprehension and reluctant excitement. "It's time, Devon. Time to get to the bottom of this. For the Mill. For Oakhaven. For… for justice!"

"So, what's first?" Devon asked, shivering slightly, but there was a new glint in his eye, the kind that said he was finally on board for the adventure, even if he still wanted hot chocolate.

I tapped my pencil against the notebook. "First, we analyse this data. Then, we find out exactly what 'zoning' means. And then, Devon, we find the Developers. They always leave a trail. A paper trail, probably. And if they're trying to sneak this past the town, then we'll be there to catch them. This is going to be bigger than 'The Case of the Missing Library Books'. Much, much bigger."

The autumn wind whistled around the corners of the Town Hall, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and impending investigations. This was just the beginning. I could feel it.

The game was afoot, and Oakhaven’s quiet calm was about to be thoroughly disturbed.

An Unseen Architect