by P. N. Elrod
The response as he took his bow was such that I knew he’d be headlining here shortly, if he wasn’t snapped up by some other entrepreneur in the meantime.
Then it was Bobbi’s turn. The red velvet stage curtains had been drawn shut to allow Waters to exit and the orchestra members to change their sheet music. When the curtains next opened, Bobbi was seated on the white baby grand piano, a single spot picking out all those rhinestones on her gown, making them ripple and spark. She seemed to be framed in silver fire. I heard a gleeful exclamation and single hand clap from one audience member: Joe James, who looked unconscionably pleased with himself at the effect.
Bobbi’s accompanist, Marza Chevreaux, did her job with her usual expertise, making it look easy. She framed the music around Bobbi’s singing, complementing rather than competing. She idolized Bobbi but didn’t much like me, though her attitude had guardedly softened over time. Bobbi and I had been together nearly a year now, and so far I’d not made her cry, something Marza had not expected.
They worked to good effect for the first few bars, then the orchestra leader gradually brought in more instruments to fill things out. I’d not been awake during the rehearsals, so the end result was a knockout to me. Bobbi was definitely the star of the show, not merely background music for the customers. No one was dancing; they were too busy listening.
Timed down to the minute, the lights came up at the end of Bobbi’s set, and the orchestra struck up a number chosen to coax people out of their applause and onto the floor. I figured it would be safe for me to venture backstage now and did so. Escott unobtrusively tagged along.
“You’ll chase her off if you’re too eager,” I told him out the side of my mouth.
“Nonsense. All performers appreciate congratulations from their peers.”
I grinned and left him to it, hunting around for Bobbi in the backstage melee. She was busy with one of the stage crew, gesturing at the curtains, then pointing toward the lights in an authoritative way, very much in her element. I waited until she was finished to offer her my own congratulations. They had to be brief; two other people came up to claim her attention, and she had to hurry off. She did cheerfully comment that I seemed a lot more relaxed. What pleased her, pleased me. I even caught Marza looking at me with—well, if it wasn’t exactly a benign expression, at least it wasn’t openly hostile. Maybe in a couple of decades she might even work up to a smile.
Escott returned wearing a peculiar face, as though he had a pineapple lodged halfway down his throat, but was strangely smug about it. “She’s agreed to a late-night dinner after the show.”
My God. He actually had a date. “Good. Enjoy yourselves.”
“There is a slight problem . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know of any decent places open that late. It would be most helpful if you could recommend one.”
After all this time, Bobbi and I had found several, so I named a few that might fill the bill for him. He was pathetically grateful for the information.
Back in the main room, I made more rounds and shook more hands. As Upshaw was away on the dance floor, I paused at Nevis’s table, suddenly conscious of the wire photos folded up in my pocket.
“Great show, Fleming,” he said, grinning. “I think you’ll make the rent this month with stuff like that to bring them in.”
As tonight’s party was private, I’d skipped the extra revenue of a cover charge, but my landlord didn’t need to be reminded. “Did you take care of your tour all right?” I noticed the bunch of flowers Rita had brought was gone.
She nodded. “Yeah. Booth showed me where it happened. It’s awful, not what I expected, but I donno what I thought would be there. What’s that big thing like a pot?”
I made an educated guess. “A cement mixer.”
“You gonna cover up the floor?”
“Yes.”
“Make it like new again, huh?”
Better then new, I hoped.
Rita got a speculative look. “Jack, I was wondering . . .”
“What?”
She fiddled with the clasp on her purse. “Well, I put the flowers there’n’ all, an’ I was wondering if you could leave ’em there, under the cement.”
For an instant I felt a strong tug within to tell her the real name of her friend, that the monster who’d masqueraded as Lena Ashley did not deserve to be mourned. I pushed it hastily off. Rita needed her illusion and so did Nevis. “Sure. I’ll have the workmen leave them alone. It’s a . . . a real sweet thought, Rita.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“Yeah,” said Nevis. “Thanks.”
Time to leave; I didn’t trust my face to conceal my inner discomfort, but I’d done the right thing. It would do no good for either of them to know the truth . . .
Oh, hell.
I should have said something to Blair as soon as he’d told me. He might not give the news to the papers right away, even with the joint crawling with reporters, but there was always later.
Eyes peeled for him, I searched the room. He was at the bar in the lobby. Malone was helping out there, just handing him something with ice and fizz.
“Have a root beer?” Blair asked genially, still on duty.
“I gotta favor to ask, if it’s not too late.”
Malone, alert to the tone of my voice, did a passable job of ignoring the conversation while soaking up every word.
Blair nodded to indicate he was willing to listen.
“Do the papers know about her real name yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there a way of keeping them from finding out?”
“Why do you want that?”
“The truth would hurt some friends of mine.”
He wasn’t too impressed. “How so?”
“They liked Lena; I think one of them even loved her. It would only hurt them to find out who she really was.”
The name caused Malone to drop his pretense of not listening.
I spared him a glance. “You don’t repeat any of this.”
He gave that nervous tic. “No, sir.”
“It’s going to be a matter of public record in my report,” said Blair. “It already is with the people who identified the prints.”
“You can bury that part, make sure the papers don’t get hold of it. I know how those things work.”
“The public has a right to know who she was.”
“Gimme one good reason why. They poured out a barrel of sympathy for ‘Jane Poe’ and then Lena. How do you think they’d feel knowing they’d wasted it?”
He scowled.
“Come on, Blair. The public doesn’t have to know they were betrayed.”
He grunted. A neutral sound.
“Besides, these are hard times. Some of them spent good money sending flowers to Lena’s service. It made them feel better. You want to take that away from them?”
He rumbled now, but it was in a more positive tone. “I suppose I can fix things.”
“It’s not too late?”
“Just don’t expect me to repeat the favor.”
I had no fear of that. “You’re one in a million. From now on all your root beers are on the house.”
“Pah!” he said. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh.
“Mr. Fleming?” Malone. “What is it exactly I’m not supposed to repeat?”
I lowered my voice so the other staff wouldn’t hear. “That we found out Lena Ashley’s real name.”
“Oh? Who was she, then?”
It didn’t seem right to exclude him since he’d probably hear me speak about it in the future, so I pulled out the wire photo reports and allowed him a quick peek.
“Oh, dear God.” Even in such a truncated form, the basics of the case were ugly. He looked sick.
“You keep quiet about it. I don’t want Nevis or Rita hearing even a whisper. Ever.”
He shook his head. “N-no, of course not.”
I thanked Blair again, folded the bad news in
to a pocket, and went back to play host.
With the crisis out of the way, it was an easy enough job. The rest of the evening sped by so swift and effortless it worried me. I half expected the roof to fall in, things were going so well.
The second show was as successful as the first, the waitstaff ran their legs off keeping up with the drink orders, and it was with a shock I realized it was nearly two and time to close the doors. The orchestra played “Good Night, Sweetheart,” which signaled the beginning of the end. A large number of guests had already drifted homeward after the last stage act; this took care of the rest until the only ones remaining were Gordy’s party, Coldfield’s, Escott, Bobbi, and Lady Crymsyn. Malone had signed out the staff once they’d cleaned the bars and put the chairs on the tables. Sometime tomorrow a janitorial crew would come in to see to the floors and rest rooms. Malone stayed behind. The cash register receipts had to be counted, and he was still educating me in his system of bookkeeping.
He resumed his bartender duties one more time, though, as we gathered in the front lobby for a farewell drink. He opened a bottle of champagne, and I invited him to join with the rest of us in hoisting a glass as toasts were made. I participated as well, having nimbly snagged an empty glass, cupping it in my hand in such a way as to conceal its emptiness.
Miss LaBelle was at last able to break character as Lady Crymsyn to enthuse about the place and how much she’d enjoyed herself. “People acted like I’m the owner. I hope that’s all right, Mr. Fleming.”
“Call me Jack, and yes, that’s exactly what I was aiming for. You did a great job.”
She beamed, and Escott beamed at her. No kidding. It was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen from him. I’d have to talk to Coldfield later about this new side, just so I could stop gaping at it.
Miss LaBelle took a tiny sip of her champagne—I approved that she’d had nothing stronger than water the whole night—then regarded me seriously with a set of very intense hazel eyes. “There’s one thing I want to ask . . .”
“Sure, name it.”
“Has anyone died in this building?”
Conversation certainly did. There was a lengthy pause.
“Did I say something wrong?” She glanced around at our silent circle, confused.
Escott gallantly stepped into the breach. “Not at all, it was just a bit of a startlement. Have you not read the papers?”
“No, I’ve been too busy. What did I miss?”
In a few carefully chosen words, he explained about what had been found in the basement, making it seem like very old news. He didn’t include anything about the corpse there also wearing a red dress, and rightly so.
She digested the information thoughtfully. “How horrible, but I don’t think it’s quite right. Was there another death?”
“Several,” I said. “A gang skirmish. Some people were killed here.”
“That’s it, then,” she said decisively.
“What’s it?”
“That explains the ghost here in the lobby.”
Another long pause. Bobbi and Gordy looked at me. I’d also told Escott about the business with the lights, but he was too busy looking at Miss LaBelle. No one seemed too anxious to speak first.
Except me. After I’d swallowed my surprise. “Ghost?”
“Oh, I don’t expect anyone to believe me. I’ve had that all my life. But you’ve got a ghost.” Her utter ingenuousness was not something any actress could have faked, no matter how talented; she was completely sincere. Escott shifted slightly, his expression frozen into a small, tight smile. Maybe he was having second thoughts about wanting to keep company with her. That or wondering if he could overlook this eccentricity when weighed against her other obvious assets.
“Actually,” I put in at last, “I do believe you.”
“Oh, that’s very kind. Thank you.” And she seemed content to leave it at that.
“Miss LaBelle—”
“Sherry.”
“Sherry, would you please tell us more about the ghost?”
“I don’t know that much. She’s here in the lobby, mostly by that bar.” Malone, caught between amusement and apprehension, looked around. “She’s here?” he asked.
“More over that way,” said Sherry, indicating a spot just to his right. He, too, put on a tight smile and moved out from behind the bar altogether.
“Er—what does she look like?” Tic.
Her brow puckered. “It’s not like she’s anything I can describe. It’s really hard, like trying to explain color to a blind person. I just know that she’s there but not in a physical sense.”
“Is she scary?” asked Adelle Taylor, hanging on every word.
“Not at all. She’s just there. I get the impression she likes what you’ve done with the place, Jack.”
“Thank her for me,” I said in a faint voice.
“She heard you. I think she likes you a lot, too.”
“Oh. Uh, that’s nice.”
Sherry blinked and stared at the bar area, concentrating. “She . . . she’s sorry about not being able to help more when you were hurt. What does that mean?”
Gordy shot me a look. I felt my mouth drop open, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “Oh, jeez,” he muttered.
“And she’s saying something about some grenades. That she didn’t know about them until it was too late, or she’d have warned you.”
“Oh, jeez,” I echoed.
“Yes, she was pretty upset by that but glad no one was hurt this time.”
“Sherry . . . could you ask if she left the whiskey on the bar last week ?”
“She heard you. Yes, she did, but she didn’t know that you don’t drink that. She just wanted to make friends.”
“Oh, jeez.” I had gooseflesh creeping on my arms. Honest-to-God gooseflesh.
“This is fascinating,” Escott said. To his credit, he did appear to be fascinated. He must have made a decision about Sherry, and it had been in her favor.
Now where had I seen that earnest, inquiring expression on him before? Then I abruptly realized his interest was genuine, beyond his current infatuation. He’d looked just like that during our first interview in his office last August after he’d swiped my home earth to ensure that I would talk to him.
“I should very much like to hear more about this gift of yours,” he said.
“Just don’t make fun of me for it.”
“Certainly not.”
Ah, what the hell. He believed in vampires, why not ghosts? Why not in a pretty young girl who talked to them?
“I wish I could see ghosts,” said Adelle.
Sherry’s eyes flashed at her. “No, you don’t!”
“Why? Do they scare you?”
“No, but some of them can be terribly annoying.”
“This is a very strange conversation,” said Coldfield. His luscious date nodded cautious agreement.
Sherry giggled. “Yes, it is. I’m sorry.”
My proposal for another round of champagne met with relieved agreement and worked to bring things back to normal again. At least no one suggested we try having a séance. There was a general change in the crowd as the ladies trooped off to a rest room. God knows what they would be talking about there. Escott looked at his watch.
“You can sleep in tomorrow,” I reminded him.
“Hm.” He’d gone a touch dubious, now, which was deadly to any budding romance.
“You don’t seem to mind that she’s a medium.”
“She did not once mention that word, nor shall I,” he said, sounding huffed.
“Sure, after all, there are more things in heaven and earth—like me for instance. Besides, she’s quite a good-looker. You can talk acting, not metaphysics.”
He raised an eyebrow. A warning.
I backed off with a grin, my job done. She’d ceased to be a scientific inquiry and was firmly back to being a romantic conquest.
“Heard you got a break,” Gordy said. He was addressing me.
&nbs
p; “Huh?”
“When you were talking with Blair.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
His mouth thinned. A smile. “I’m a medium.”
I glanced over at his bodyguards, obviously the source of his information. “They look more large than medium to me.”
Now his head bobbed slightly back and forth. Laughter. “So what’s the story?”
Apparently Escott had been keeping Coldfield up-to-date on matters at my club. Both leaned in to hear better.
“Okay, but this stuff doesn’t go past the door. I don’t want Nevis and especially Rita learning about it. I made an arrangement with Blair to keep it out of the papers.”
They murmured assent to my condition, then I produced the wire photo articles and delivered the news about Lena’s real name. Shocked silence for a moment, then some quiet remarks of disbelief.
“How’d she end up here?” Coldfield wanted to know.
“On the run from the New York cops,” said Gordy. “What I don’t get is how she hooked up with Nevis. He’s not on the side of the law, but he’d draw the line at this.”
“Nevis couldn’t have known,” I said. “Same for Rita.”
“I fear I am unfamiliar with this case,” said Escott. “I was out of the country at the time.”
As I’d read it all by now, my memory was fresh with the facts. I filled him in.
In 1923 Helen Crespi, then a sweet sixteen, married Walter Tielli. By 1929, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she had two children and sudden widowhood when her husband was killed in a construction accident. His insurance company had crashed along with the rest of Wall Street, leaving her a worthless policy. She scrabbled along on what little she could make as a shopgirl. Compared to the rest of the country, she was lucky; she had a job, but the wear of working twelve hours a day selling trinkets at a five-and-dime got to her. After a few months she wanted out.
