Standing atop a hill at least half a mile from the amphitheater, the distant 80’s classics thrum through my head. The band isn’t overly popular, but they’re free, so the place is packed. The outskirts are the perfect place for an introvert like me. This is shaping up to be an extraordinary evening.
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I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.
But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.
“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”
No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”
I laid the photos out on the little café table in front of Marianne. “Can you tell me anything about any of these people?”
She ran her fingers over the faces. “They all look familiar, but I can’t say I actually know any of them.” She peered up at me.
“Whoever’s stealing from this factory won’t get away with it!” The accountant slammed his palm on his desk. A small mountain of spreadsheets fluttered to the floor.
I raised an eyebrow and sketched a hissing cat on my notepad.
“Now, Pete, calm down,” the foreman soothed.
“I am calm!” Spittle flew from Pete’s mouth.
Name’s Spade, Samara Spade. And much to Mom’s chagrin, I’m following in my Dod’s—dear old dad’s—footsteps.
Or at least attempting to. After my fiasco with the lion, I wondered if Dod would give me another case. For weeks, I did paperwork. Yawn.
Dod was off on another case when he came in. “I didn’t do it!”
She turns as I approach. Girl in a tan hoodie with wisps of long blond hair. The way her hood is up, I assume she’s wearing an IdentMask, and I’m right. Black haze conceals her face. Her eyes are red, glowing Xs, and her mouth a sewn-shut line. It’s a cheap, basic mask,
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This city was no place for a werewolf.
The sound of heavy boots thundered behind him, and Clawson Fangsworth dodged down a dark alleyway. His bare, hairy feet squelched in a puddle of questionable substance. There was the filth, for one thing. On all fours, any werewolf worth his silver bullets could outpace a copper on his tail
Eggs are magic.
They seem simple: shell, white, yolk. Cook them scrambled, fried, boiled.
But separate the parts and find complexity. Whites may be whipped into foam light as cloud and stable as glass. Yolks, yellow as sunshine, whipped with oil and lemon juice turn white, or whipped into a bechamel of butter, flour, milk,
The spectacular man could have seduced any lady at the fundraiser, but passing the others without a look, he sauntered up to Nora, a glass of champagne in each long-fingered hand, and, with a devilish grin, planted a soft kiss on her cheek. Nora quivered as heat spread outward from the kiss and set her heart to racing.
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“In this town, folks know better than to lie.”
I peer at the scruffy, middle-aged man over the top of my sunglasses. “P-pardon?”
“No need to take offense. I was only giving you some friendly advice.”
“And what happens if I lie? The lie police come drag me off?”
The man grimaces and glances over his shoulder, as if expecting someone.
My name is Spade. Samara Spade. Tonight was supposed to be my first undercover without Dod—dear old Dad, in other words. But I had backup. At least until someone slipped him a mickey.
The case started this morning. A lady—I’m still trying to get Dod not to call them dames—came into our office distraught.
The last wild guitar note faded from the hall. I let my leafy green shoulders relax, glad to be done with rehearsal for the day.
“Hey, nice work today, Tommo,” I said to my turnip drummer.
He clicked his drumsticks together and pointed them at me. “You too, buddy.”
“We’ve got this,” my guitarist Johnny Broccoli said. “We’re totally ready!”
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