By Rachel Kimberly Hastings
Of all the underground clubs in this sodden sponge of a city, it had to be that one.
I tugged my fedora lower over my brows, but it did little to block out the damp chill of the October night. My neck prickled as I surveyed the disturbing sight splayed out on the alley’s cracked asphalt. The body was that of canary Minerva Cochabon, still dressed in the revealing red number she loved to flaunt during secret shows like tonight’s. No more would she grace that mildewed stage with her dangerous heels and shapely ankles. I shook my head, cutting off that train of thought, and entered through the unlabeled metal door of the brick warehouse-turned-speakeasy.
I pulled out my wire-bound notepad and fountain pen. “Time of death was reported as shortly after midnight.”
The proprietor, Amos Glover, was a balding coot with a lazy eye. He worried a stained towel between his hands and smelled of gin. “Jim! You’ve been a loyal customer for years. You wouldn’t turn us in over something like this, would ya?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Gloves. Course I’d never rat on you, but it’s out of my hands. After this ruckus, the fuzz knows all about your little joint here. And the law is clear.” I flicked my fingernail against an empty gin bottle on the counter. “I’m just here about the dame. Now, what happened at midnight?”
“R-right. She was singin’ something slow and haunting for the last song of the evening. Real lovely.” He sniffed. “It’s the end of an era, Jim.”
I glanced across the room, where several tables had been overturned. Broken glass littered the floor. He had a point. The speakeasy’s days of glory had come to an abrupt end along with Minerva. Keep it together. There would be other places where one could toss back a shot of something strong. “Continue,” I prompted.
Amos scratched his head. “See, that’s where it gets dicey. In the middle of her song… Nah, you’ll think I’m off my rocker.”
I pinned him with the knowing glare I was famous for down at HQ.
“All right. Jeez!” He cleared his throat. “Think I need another drink if you’re gonna put the screws on me like that.”
“Stop stalling.”
“It’s like those old folktales kids like to scare each other with,” he said, his voice serious. “The Witching Hour. The air turned cold as January in Buffalo. Right in the middle of her song. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, like a nightmare choking the life out of you.” He shuddered, rubbed his neck. “Then something blew out all the candles, the lights exploded, Minerva screamed. All went amuck.”
The lantern on the counter next to us flickered. I turned it toward me. Is the gas faulty, or is it my imagination?
Amos continued. “We thought the cops had cut the power. The panic caused this mess. But there weren’t no cops in the alley, and there she was, somehow dead outside even though she’d been singing her little heart out onstage moments before. Real strange.” He paused. “Figure out what killed her?”
I shook my head. “No marks, no sign of strangling or knife wounds. They’ll have to do an autopsy to confirm, but so far looks like no poison, either. Almost like she died of fright.”
Amos twitched. Ah. So he did know something.
“The Witching Hour, hmm?” I mused, leaning in close. “They say it’s when the veil between worlds turns thin, but then who opened the door?”
He lowered his eyes. “Minerva might have been involved in some… shady dealings with a fortune-teller from the East Side. The rumor goes that she cheated the woman out of a promised amount of money. Think the fortune-teller was into that hoodoo voodoo stuff? A vengeful witch or somethin’?” He paled. “You don’t think this place was cursed, do you?”
The lantern flame flickered again.
“Well,” I said, “I’m sorry, Amos. You didn’t deserve to get caught up in this mess.” I picked up my hat from the countertop. “But I can’t let word of this get out. There’s dangerous folk out there.”
Amos stumbled backward. “W-what?”
I flashed my silver-coated badge in his direction. “Reserve Investigator, Paranormal division, affectionately known as R.I.P. for short. Oh, don’t look so green, Gloves. I’m not gonna ice you.” I pulled out my forked wand and pointed the double end at his bulging eyes. “I’m one of the good guys.”
He crumpled over the counter in a sudden doze. I nudged the empty gin bottle closer to his hand. To the coppers, it would appear he’d drunk himself into a stupor. By the time he awoke, he’d be in the can.
“Minerva,” I whispered. “You back with me now?”
You always were too patient with that man.
I ignored the chiding tone as her voice echoed between my ears. “You make me act like a common gumshoe to get answers when you already had a suspect? Couldn’t you have stepped in to speed things up, partner?”
Cold fingers trailed teasingly up my neck. But I love watching you work.
“It was the fortune-teller, then?”
Please. Anyone strong enough to blow my cover among the living like this has to be a witch.
I clicked my tongue. “You certainly know how to make enemies, sweetheart.”
Ugh, now I’ll have to start all over. The “club singer” identity was the bee’s knees for stakeouts in seedy haunts. I’ll be hard-pressed to find another host body with ankles like that.
I smirked and settled my hat on my head. “All right, ghosty-girlie, let’s go find your murderer.”
An invisible, icy hand slipped through the crook of my arm, and together we went out into the brisk night air.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This was clever! I did not see the twist coming! Love the noir atmosphere.
Great atmosphere, interesting characters.
Surprise ending, very well done.
Woah! I totally did NOT see that twist coming!