Koda jumped back, shocked at what he was seeing.
But the girl didn’t move.
She just stood there looking at him as if fascinated at what she was seeing.
Then she simply faded away.
Though the Restoring Savannah banquet had formally come to an end, the evening was far from over. In fact, as far as Mika Flagler was concerned, the most important part of the evening was just getting started—a tradition that had become known as “Black Midnight” among the select-few committee members and high-value donors lucky enough to be invited to join her.
It started as an impromptu gathering, three years earlier when Mika invited a few people to share a bottle of rare cognac given to her by a friend. But, as is prone to happen in situations such as these, word got out and Mika suddenly found herself overwhelmed with requests to be included the next time. Mika saw the situation for what it was—another opportunity to place herself at the center of power.
The name “Black Midnight” came from the name of the cognac being shared—a Remy Martin “Black Pearl” Louis XIII cognac, one of the most expensive liqueurs in the world—at $50,000 per bottle. Packaged in a black-crystal Baccarat decanter, the cognac had been aged 115 years—with only 786 decanters produced.
Mika had called in numerous favors and managed to score six bottles. If this were not enough, Mika had the cognac served in black crystal nocturnes, mouth-blown by Swarovski’s top glassmaker in Austria.
The ante was upped the following year when Mika added one of the most expensive cigars in the world—a hand-rolled Honduran cigar called the Gurkha Black Dragon. Production of the 8½-inch, fifty-two-gauge smoke—made from the rarest tobaccos from across the globe—was limited to just one-hundred hand-carved boxes per year, with a hundred cigars in each. She had managed to get her hands on two boxes at $115,000 each.
Because Mika restricted attendance to just eighteen people, demand to be included had reached a fever pitch, exactly what she’d intended. This year there was a last- minute opening—Koda Mulvaney had been ceremoniously uninvited after embarrassing himself—and Mika—with his atrocious excuse for a speech.
Mika knew she’d take him back tomorrow—she tended to be forgiving when it came to men with a billion dollars at their disposal—but for tonight he could drink cheap swill with the rest of the riff-raff.
The person to fill the open spot was the evening’s Master of Ceremonies. The Southern Gentleman was not only somewhat of a celebrity, but he’d also worked his way into the social circles Mika cared about most—the rich and famous.
“Care to join a few of us in the lounge afterward?” she’d casually asked the man who billed himself as The Southern Gentleman.
“It would be my great honor, ma’am,” he drawled.
With all eighteen of the chosen gathered around her in the lounge, Mika looked at her watch and led the countdown: “Five… four… three… two… one… zero. Black Midnight has officially begun!” With great fanfare, the cognac was poured, and the cigars cut and lit.
Mika looked up and saw an uninvited guest walking in her direction.
Dane.
“Invitation only, Dane,” Mika said sharply.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying,” Dane replied. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen Koda. He never came to the room. I’ve looked everywhere, and he’s nowhere to be found.”
“How would I know?” Mika asked. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
“Excuse me,” the Southern Gentleman drawled, “but it seems Mr. Mulvaney is comin’ through the lobby door as we speak. And if you don’t mind me sayin’, it looks like your friend has just seen a ghost.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lake Ponchartrain, Louisiana
September 21, 1927
There were three events that made 1927 a memorable year for Onyx Webb.
The first event was the Great Flood, a disaster that decimated the bayou and surrounding area for hundreds of miles, setting in motion a mass exodus—including many of Onyx’s friends and neighbors—cutting the region’s population in half.
The second thing was an explosion of artistic creativity that possessed Onyx with a constant need to express herself—writing, drawing, painting, poetry, photography, singing—and any other art form imaginable. It was exactly what Onyx’s mother, Jofranka, said would happen.
“Onyx is half-ghost, Andre, the child of a human and a ghost,” Jofranka had told Catfish. “When the time comes, her need for energy will be insatiable—you must help her feed that need every way you can, for creative energy is the source of life.”
Catfish Webb did not want his daughter to be a half-ghost, whatever that would entail. He wanted Onyx to be 100 percent human—100 percent alive—like him.
Though he’d been warned, Catfish found himself in an ongoing state of denial, as if ignoring the truth would not make it so. So, when—at the age of twenty-nine—Onyx began begging Catfish to buy her pencils, paper, and other art supplies, he balked at the requests.
“A young woman needs to be out of doors,” Catfish told her, “in nature, child, not cooped up inside.”
“That’s the thing, Papa! I want to draw trees and deer and streams and rocks and birds and glorious sunsets!” Onyx exclaimed, twirling in circles in the old houseboat. “I want to capture every beautiful thing in all its majestic glory, Daddy, please please please please please!”
Catfish continued to avoid his daughter’s requests until one day she began ranting about wanting a piano.
“Fine, fine,” Catfish said. “I will get you some paints and a drawing canvas or two, but there’ll be no piano. A heavy thing like that could fall right through the floor into the swamp.”
There was something else that happened in 1927 that would have a profound impact on Onyx…
She met Ulrich.
Onyx was sitting on a stool with a canvas and her paints, directly across from the Tchefuncte River lighthouse on the northern shore of Lake Ponchartrain, when she saw him. Even from forty yards away she could tell the man was handsome, his bronzed muscles gleaming in the southern sun.
He was also suspended a hundred feet in the air from a rope tethered to the railing atop the lighthouse, a bucket of whitewash hanging by his side. The irony that they were painting the lighthouse at the same time—even if painting it in different ways—was not lost on her.
“I’ve blossomed into a woman of marrying age, Daddy!” Onyx had declared to her father years earlier. “It’s time for me to find a man, bear children, go places, and have a life of my own.”
Every time Onyx broached the subject, Catfish simply put her off.
“What’s the rush, child? The right one’ll come along, and when he does, you’ll know. The right one just ain’t appeared yet is all.”
Onyx felt she’d waited long enough.
This was the one.
She just knew it.
Onyx continued painting, carefully applying the final few brushstrokes to her canvas and trying not to think about the man—as if that were possible—while the August sun beat down hard on her.
Eventually, the man climbed down off the lighthouse and made his way toward her. She worked hard to pretend she hadn’t seen him coming, continuing to paint until she was suddenly covered in shade.
Onyx looked up at the large, muscled man standing over her. “What are you painting?” he asked in a strong German accent, pronouncing the word what as vhat.
“I am painting you,” Onyx said.
“Me? Might I see your masterpiece?” the German asked as he stepped behind Onyx without waiting for her to answer.
Onyx waited in suspense for his response.
“It is nice but boring,” the German said, noticing a look of disappointment spreading on Onyx’s face. “Not the painting,” the German added quickly. “I mean the lighthouse is boring. The painting is marvelous, but the lighthouse is all white—no color, no pattern, nothing to draw the eye to a focal point.”
Onyx exha
led, realizing she had been holding her breath in anticipation of his response.
“I guess you are right,” Onyx said, her cheeks blushing.
“There is no guessing about it!” the German declared. “My father was a collector of fine art and taught me of such things.”
The handsome German extended his hand. “My name is Ulrich, Ulrich Schröder.”
“Onyx Webb,” Onyx said, taking Ulrich’s weather-worn hand in hers and shaking it.
“Well, Miss Webb, perhaps when you return tomorrow to finish your painting, the lighthouse will not be so boring.”
“But what if my painting is already complete, Mr. Schröder?” Onyx said playing along, having gained confidence by sensing his interest in her.
“That would be a tragedy for us both,” Ulrich said. “When fate draws two people together, it is the job of man to comply.”
Fate, thought Onyx.
Yes, it was fate.
The following day, when Onyx returned to the shore of Lake Ponchartrain, she saw that a two-foot-wide black stripe had been painted down the center of the lighthouse. Minutes later, as Onyx was setting up her easel, Ulrich approached carrying a basket of freshly made Natchitoches pies, cornbread, jellied preserves, and a bottle of wine.
“You see?” Ulrich said, spreading a blanket on the ground. “Your painting was incomplete.”
Other than her father, no man had ever lavished Onyx with such attention in all her twenty-nine years on Earth.
“If you are trying to get my attention, Ulrich Schröder,” Onyx said, her cheeks once again in full blush, “please know that you have succeeded.”
Chapter Twenty
Savannah, Georgia
June 3, 1979
Wyatt Scrogger was still hung over.
He’d been sound asleep when he thought he heard someone pounding on the door to his apartment. So he did what any self-respecting college student would do. He wrapped his pillow around his head and ignored it.
At least he tried to, but whoever it was continued pounding and then started calling his name. “Wyatt Scrogger, open up. Police.”
The last part got his attention.
4:42 p.m.
Wyatt answered Detective Leo Igler’s questions as fully and as honestly as was possible under the conditions, more accurately, his condition.
“So you say you arrived at Pinkie Masters about 8:15 p.m., had a few beers and then moved to where?” Leo asked.
“Like I said, I had a few too many to remember where I went,” Scrogger said. “I was celebrating the end of my junior year at South University of Pharmacy.”
“I thought you said you wanted to be a comedian?” Leo said.
“Yeah, well, my Dad’s a pharmacist and he figures that when I fail it will be good to have something to fall back on,” Scrogger said. “Before we go any further, could you please tell me what I’m doing here?”
“We’ll get to that,” Leo said. “Now, just so I’ve got this straight, you stopped by a friend’s house around 7:30, went home and had dinner, headed over to Pinkie’s on foot between 8:00 and 8:15, and after that you have no explanation for where you were or who you were with, correct?”
“Have you ever had a few too many beers, detective?” Scrogger asked. “What happens is that things get blurry and then hazy and then—wait, I think there’s a technical term for it—oh, yeah, it’s called being drunk. Am I being arrested for having gotten drunk last night and killing some brain cells?”
“Tell me about your answering machine,” Leo said.
“My answering machine?”
Leo remained silent, waited.
“I think it’s a Phone Mate Model 400-S,” Scrogger said, his mind beginning to race, his wheels turning, trying to figure out why the detective would ask about that.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot you were studying to become a comedian,” Leo said. “How about you tell me some of your funniest answering machine lines?”
“Okay,” Scrogger said. “Hello, you’ve reached the Scrogg. You have the right to remain silent, but if you do, it’s going to be hard to return your call.”
“That’s pretty good, kid” Leo said. “You got any more?”
“More? I got a million of them,” Scrogger said with a certain amount of pride. “Hello, this is Death. I am not in right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll be right with you. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, bet you’re wondering…”
“How about drugging girls,” Leo said, interrupting Scrogger. “You know, so you can abduct them and maybe have sex with them? You got anything like that?” Leo asked.
Scrogger went silent. “What is this about?”
Leo reached into his desk and produced a tape recorder and set it on the middle of his desk. He placed his index finger on the play button and paused for dramatic effect.
“Before we came out to roust you from your nap, we tried to reach you by phone. Of course, you didn’t answer, but your machine did. I found the message to be very interesting, so I called back and taped it. But to be honest, kid, I didn’t think it was very funny under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?” Scrogger asked. “What…?”
“When was the last time you say you saw Juniper Cole, Mr. Scrogger?”
“Juniper? I told you I stopped by her house, I mean Quinn’s house, last night. About 7:30, what in the hell is this about?”
“And you claim you didn’t see Miss Cole after that?” Leo asked.
“No, I mean yes, I didn’t see Juniper after that,” Scrogger said. “Did something happen to Juniper?”
Leo lowered his index finger and pushed the recorder’s play button. “Hey, you’ve reached the Scrogg. I’m probably in a bar trying to get a girl to sleep with me. But as the saying goes: Roses impress, liquor works fine, but if in a rush, use ketamine.”
Beep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Orlando, Florida
January 25, 2010
It had been two days since the Restoring Savannah banquet, and the girl in the mirror was all Koda could talk about.
“Think what you want, Dane, but I saw her,” Koda said for the third time, getting up from the leather sofa in the apartment in the 55 West building and starting to pace.
“You gotta get a grip, man,” Dane said. “Mika is still fuming about your speech, and I don’t want to be around when word gets back to your dad.”
“I saw her, Dane.”
“How many vodkas did you have?” Dane asked. “Five?”
“I… saw… her,” Koda said again.
“Okay, okay. You saw a girl in a mirror,” Dane said. “But I don’t get why you’re so freaked out?”
“We’re best friends, right, Dane?” Koda asked.
“You gotta ask?” Dane was tempted to mention the fact that Koda had punched him in the face when they were at the bar at the Forsyth Park Hotel, but didn’t.
“And in the four years you’ve known me, have I ever lied to you?” Koda asked. “About anything?”
Dane shook his head. Like most people, Koda Mulvaney had character flaws, but being a liar was not among them.
“Then listen to what I’m saying, okay?” Koda said. “I’m not telling you I saw a girl’s reflection in a mirror—I’m telling you I saw a girl in a mirror. She was in… the… glass.”
Dane went silent and took in what he’d just been told. “Okay, what color was her hair?
“Gray.”
“So it was an old woman,” Dane said.
“No,” Koda said, shaking his head. “She was young, like late teens or early twenties maybe.”
“With gray hair?”
“Not just her hair,” Koda said. “Her face, her clothes, everything. It was all gray.”
“A gray girl in a gray place with gray clothing,” Dane repeated, trying to make sense of it. “What was she wearing?”
“I’m not sure,” Koda said. “Wait.” Koda closed his eyes, tried to summon a mental image in his mind. “A dress. N
o, not a dress. A fancy gown, like someone would wear to a wedding.”
“Weren’t there a couple of weddings…?”
“Don’t go there,” Koda said.
“Okay, okay,” Dane said. “Did she say anything?”
Koda shook his head from side to side.
“Was she pretty?” Dane asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Koda said. “But there was something else…”
“What?”
“It’s hard to explain, to put into words,” Koda said, closing his eyes again, trying to form a picture of the girl in his mind. “It was her eyes. There was something in her eyes—a combination of innocence and confusion—like she was…”
“Lost?” Dane asked.
“No, not lost,” Koda said. “Like she was dead.”
That night Dane took a shower and headed over to DJ’s Chophouse down the block on Church Street, hoping the pretty brunette bartender he’d met a few weeks earlier—Robyn—happened to be working.
Koda stayed home in bed, tossing and turning, thinking about a girl too. The girl in the mirror.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lake Ponchartrain, Louisiana
December 30, 1927
“Tell me why, Daddy?” Onyx demanded, tears streaming down her face. “Ulrich is a good man, and I love him—and he loves me.”
“Because I am your father, and I forbid it!” Catfish said.
“Say it, Daddy,” Onyx said.
“Say what?”
“It’s because he’s German,” Onyx said.
“That’s not the reason, Jitterbug,” Catfish said. “Besides, you hardly know the man.”
“You only knew Mama for a week, Daddy,” Onyx said. “There’s only one other thing it can be. You want to keep me to yourself. To replace Mama. Well, I won’t let you steal my life from me. I am twenty-nine years of age. I want to travel, I want to paint, I want to have children—I refuse to die a spinster doing laundry for her daddy in the swamp!” Onyx said, then stormed from the houseboat.
Onyx Webb: Book One Page 8
