by Jean Pamplin
“There is no party. We’re closed.” Kelly persisted.
Maeve surveyed her surroundings. “If we’re on street level, what have you done with the clothing emporium that was here?” She touched the back of a sofa. “Mitzey, feel this material. It’s weird.”
“You feel it. I think I’m going home. I have a headache.”
“Finally,” Kelly breathed out. Forget the sheriff, I’ve got to get these loonies gone. “Let me unlock the door.” She hesitated. “By the way, how’d you get in that stairwell in the first place?”
“The outside entrance.”
Kelly didn’t have a chance to say that door was barricaded from inside. Mitzey started out of the building, then awkwardly reversed when an SUV thundered by.
“Maeve, I feel faint.” Thud. The floor welcomed the woman in silk to its concrete embrace.
“Mitzey. Oh, Mitzey! Now what? Your family will whip me if I don’t get you home in one piece. We’re supposed to be sipping soda at the Clairmore, not alcohol at the Speakeasy. This is the strangest night. We should be in a clothing store on the ground level.” Maeve patted Mitzey’s hand before she glanced beyond the still-open door. Her current position revealed an eyeful of large rubber tires hitting pavement. A monster truck’s enhanced muffler screamed and...thunk.
Now Kelly had two women on the floor.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” She sank to her knees like she had many a time. Jesus. Where did these women come from? You said I could buy this building. You helped me put in the coffee shop. Help me out here, Lord. What’s going on?
Elliott poked his head in the open door. “Hey, Kelly, I hoped you’d still be open. Bud said you need to re-ink an old typewriter ribbon. I think I can help you.” His stoic, slender form stepped over Mitzey’s arm. No excitement, no panic, he just snapped his suspender and looked straight at Kelly. “Need any help?”
Kelly jumped off her knees. “Of course I do, Elliott. Apparently you have women laying around on a daily basis, or you’d be a little more excited, instead of just casually stepping over them. Yes, you can help. You’re young and able. Help me.” Anxiety edged Kelly’s voice.
Lord, if you sent this guy, I’m having a little trouble seeing it. He’s not reacting like a normal human and I, on the other hand, am falling quickly into a panic. Kelly pointed to the floor with a flourished pump of her arm.
“Looks like they’re still alive. No murder, then.”
Elliott, in what Kelly saw as some kind of weird Sherlock Holmes composure, pulled a length of yellow caution ribbon out of his pocket, ready to barricade an incident zone.
“Do you have chalk to mark their positions?” Kelly quipped. Exasperation flushed her face.
Elliott apologized with all seriousness. “No, sorry. I usually carry some but didn’t expect to come upon a crime scene. Lucky I had this caution tape in my back pocket.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t a crime scene—at least not yet.” Kelly pulled the ribbon from Elliott’s hands and closed the door. At the man’s obvious disapproval, she felt obligated to explain. “Bad publicity to have yellow caution ribbon warning people away.”
He shrugged. “So I take it these two didn’t commit a crime.”
“No. I mean, well, not that I can come up with. They’ve fainted. It appears the cars racing by startled them and they passed out.” Kelly watched Elliott’s eyes scan the bodies. Is this guy for real? Apparently, I’ve missed this side of him.
“Were you having a 1930s costume party?” He asked.
Let me think...Peter Sellers? Sherlock Holmes? “No.” Kelly answered more sharply than intended. “They keep talking about the Speakeasy, but I don’t think it’s my Speakeasy.” She hesitated. “Maybe they escaped an asylum, or they traveled through time. What do you think?”
“No asylum near—and the ability to time travel is thus far an unproven theory. I’ve learned, however, to examine all information before making a statement.” He stepped back. “Can’t interview them in their present condition. While we wait, show me the ribbon you want inked.”
“What? Shouldn’t we call a doctor, or at least, the sheriff?”
“If you want.” Elliott slightly raised his shoulders. “But without a crime, what can the police do? A faint is not a doctor-required problem. Cool towels applied would probably revive them.”
Elliott lost his concentration when he spied her typewriter. “Cool machine.” He touched the black-enameled bosom and clicked the bra strap, watching the roller dash to the left. The Royal’s keys moved beneath his fingers, printing incomplete letters on the white paper. He lifted the lid. “Looks like none of the letter tabs or arms are bent.” With his nose buried in the Royal’s innards, his voice sounded hollow. “I think I see something aglow.” He poked at the machine just as Kelly walked by with wet kitchen cloths.
The examiner jerked back like he’d been snake bit. The lights flickered. Kelly jumped and lashed out with her towels. “What? What?”
“This thing bit me.” Elliott shook his fingers. “That was more than just static electricity.”
“Probably slapped you ‘cause you stuck your nose too close.”
Elliott ignored Kelly’s warped humor. Instead, phone in hand, he snapped a picture of the machine, comparing it to listings of old Royals. “Might be an early 1930 model.”
Elliott would fit in an old Speakeasy crowd. Skinny enough to need suspenders, but a vest? “Where’d you get that vest, Elliott?”
“At the Three French Hens. Cindy manipulates anything she gets in, and I liked this little metal gadget she pinned on the pocket. I usually pin it to my suspender, kind of a good-luck piece.”
Kelly looked closer at the brassy looking numbered disc, a weird little piece. She filed a mental note to ask Cindy about it—later.
His attention back on the Royal, Elliott cautiously avoided touching the machine. “Did the thing shock you when you were typing? Here,” he motioned to Kelly, “you type something.”
Wet towels still in hand, fainted females on the floor, her mouth agape, Kelly obeyed the order. Every letter she typed corresponded to the key hit. Nothing shocked her, except maybe the unexplainable young man beside her.
“Hmmm, it seems we have a mystery.”
A loud moan echoed. Kelly stumbled trying to get around Elliott. Tossing the wet cloth to the side, she bent over to smooth Mitzey’s dress back over her knees before Elliott’s sharp investigative eyes honed in.
In the expressionless attitude Kelly was beginning to expect, Elliott spoke first. “Well, ladies, welcome to the Speakeasy. How many fingers do I have up?”
Maeve now held the damp cloth to her head, but still answered correctly. Mitzey gave a crooked smile and shrugged.
“Who is our president?”
“Hoover, of course,” Maeve answered.
Mitzey gave no answer, just another sweet smile. Elliott took his time turning back toward Maeve.
“Okay, what’s today’s date?”
“Saturday, June 11th.”
“What year?”
Maeve puffed an exasperated breath. “1932, of course.”
“Interesting.” Elliott’s attention strayed and swept over Mitzey’s pink silk outfit.
No wonder the Royal bit him. “What’s interesting?” Kelly spoke louder than intended to break whatever attraction spell was hovering over Elliott.
“It appears we have visitors.” Elliott paused. “From 1932.”
About the Author
Jean Pamplin’s imagination captures thoughts like a butterfly net. Is it any wonder she took up writing? Historical fiction is a favorite genre in a career that spans non-fiction to dimensional shifts. She founded the decades old Franklin County Arts Alliance and North East Texas Writers Organization to encourage creativity, a natural expression seeded in by God’s creation of the world.
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