by Angie Fox
“I need you with me, Verity,” Frankie said, all business as he approached the counter.
“Right,” I said, making my way over to Frankie. This was his show.
The flower man looked me up and down like he knew I was dating the fuzz. I pretended not to notice as I admired the ghostly display of heirloom seeds on the counter in front of us. The vintage packets reminded me of the old seed packets my grandmother had saved and reused for years when she harvested her seeds for replanting.
“I wish I could buy some of these,” I said, my fingers brushing close to the seeds, careful not to touch.
“Is she serious?” the florist asked.
Frankie ignored the question, and me. “We’re here to see the mayor,” he stated.
The man’s frown disappeared. “He’s in the back,” he said, nodding that way.
This was getting weirder and weirder.
With supreme effort, I kept my thoughts to myself as I followed Frankie around the counter, toward the rear of the store.
We passed another table of fancy flower arrangements. Behind it, a man with a shoulder holster strapped over his shirt and tie stood arranging a bouquet of calla lilies and hypericum berry.
“Would you like to see our pink peonies?” he asked, glaring at us.
Like we were criminals or something.
“They are lovely this time of year,” he added.
Frankie stopped dead in his tracks, and an unspoken message passed between the two. “I’d rather wear a daisy in my lapel,” Frankie stated.
The man nodded, tossed his flowers onto the counter, and led us deeper into the building. I didn’t detect anyone else in the back, but I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. The guy we followed was packing heat. His friend at the counter most likely had a gun as well. The rival gang controlled this establishment. That left us outnumbered already, at least on the inside.
I didn’t like it.
I was dying to ask Frankie where Lou could be. But seeing his stiff back and purposeful walk, I didn’t dare.
The frowning peony guy stopped in front of a stainless-steel walk-in cooler. Frankie gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and as the guy began to open the door, I decided I definitely did not want to see what waited inside.
Chapter Eight
Peony Guy pulled the pin out of the lock and swung open the steel door of the industrial refrigerator. I tried to appear relaxed.
Act casual, I repeated in my head like a mantra as I braced myself for a blast of cold air, along with whatever surprise waited inside. I might not be a hardened mobster like Frankie, but I knew enough to realize it wouldn’t be ribbons and daisies. I hoped it might be Frankie’s brother waiting for us. Frankie had a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps Lou did, too.
They could talk, we could make things right, and maybe Frankie wouldn’t need the squad of wiseguys waiting outside for something—anything—to go wrong.
Frankie stood passively, but I let out a gasp when I looked inside the fridge.
It stood empty.
There was no Lou, no flowers, no…anything. Bare walls and empty shelves greeted us, which was ten kinds of weird.
Even stranger, I’d expected a blast of cold air on the mortal realm or at least in the spirit world.
I focused hard to see past the ghostly illusion. Where on the ghostly side, I saw the stark gray lines of the steel box, I was heartened to see the real-life refrigeration unit stood far away, at the rear of a mostly empty, gutted kitchen.
Ahead of us, an industrial sink jutted from the wall, next to a darkened doorway.
Frankie gave a sharp nod to our host before stepping inside the empty steel box on the ghostly plane.
I didn’t know what game this was, but I found myself reluctant to follow.
First off, it seemed quite clear the peony guy didn’t plan to join us. And I certainly didn’t trust him not to lock us inside. Second, Frankie might be able to drift out through the stainless-steel side, but I couldn’t, not unless he turned off my power. And if he got shot and put out of commission, I’d be stuck.
Our host frowned as I retreated a step, then another.
“You going or not?” our host asked, his expression clouding over.
“Maybe.” As long as I could escape.
Theoretically, I’d have to pass through the side of the unit on the ghostly plane. It would be icy cold and painful, but doable.
The flower guy eased a hand to the gun in his holster. This was getting better and better.
“Verity,” Frankie hissed, craning his neck out at me, “come on.”
“Sure,” I said as if I hadn’t been stalling for all I was worth. I worried for my safety, but that included not getting in the middle of a shoot-out.
I directed a friendly smile toward the flower-shop guy, whom I also noticed had still not set foot inside the unit. “Would you like to join us?”
“Is she for real?” he asked.
“Yes, and she’s with me,” Frankie said, ushering me inside.
“I think he was about to pull a gun on us,” I whispered to my housemate. And before Frankie could even pretend to care (newsflash: he probably didn’t), our host slammed the door closed behind us.
“Ohmygosh!” My heart snagged in my throat. “I knew it.” I knew we were in trouble.
Cold fear gripped me as the peg lock slid into place.
“Will you stop being so jumpy?” Frankie snapped. “It’s fine!”
“Is it?” I turned to the ghost glowing gray in the dark. “Is it? Because I’m not used to being locked up.” We were trapped. With an armed guard outside. “I should have listened to my instincts instead of following you, who takes too many risks, carries too many weapons, and knows too many people who would lock us in a refrigerator!”
Frankie reared back. “Are you done?” he asked, clicking on a single-bulb light dangling from the ceiling. He appeared more annoyed than worried, which ticked me off all over again. “Look. It’s only an empty refrigerator.”
Exactly. It offered no easy escape. “Even if I walk right through the wall and shock myself from here to next month, Peony Guy could be waiting out there to shoot me.” Worse, I didn’t know what a zap like that could do to me. Touching small objects on the ghostly plane could be jarring enough. The wall might be big enough to electrocute me. Think. I had to think. “Maybe I could touch the wall,” I whispered to him. “Maybe I can make this whole fridge disappear. That might freak the ghosts out enough not to kill me.”
“Really?” Frankie lowered his chin to stare at me. “Because I’m ready to kill you right now.” He turned and started walking deeper into the refrigeration unit.
Lovely.
“You’d better not disappear on me.” Even if he didn’t, I didn’t appreciate him walking away. I spread my hands out, gathering my courage. Ghostly objects didn’t stand a chance when I touched them. They always disappeared after a few minutes, not returning until sometime later. Only I’d never tried to make anything this big disappear.
“Halt! Don’t you dare.” Frankie turned and pointed a finger at me. “You do one thing to mess this up and I’ll never forgive you.”
Mess this up? In case he hadn’t noticed, “We are trapped.”
“I am trapped,” he insisted. “You are merely locked in a refrigeration unit. And I don’t want to explain to Connor O’Malley why you made a key part of his business vanish, even if it comes back at some point later on.”
“I—” I would have said something brilliant if I could have thought of a word to say when Frankie opened up a door at the other end of the refrigeration unit. Beyond it stood a lit stairwell.
“You gonna keep staring?” he asked. “Because I was under the impression you were eager to leave.”
The jerk.
I walked past him into the stairwell, sparing him a chilly glance. “You could have mentioned how this worked before we got here.” It wasn’t like my fridge at home had a back door.
“Y
ou’re usually a little more put together,” he grumbled, closing the door behind us.
Frankie might have a point for once. I liked to be in charge of our adventures. I wanted to have as much information as possible so I could anticipate any complications. That way, we could do our best to stay out of trouble. But Frankie and the South Town Boys? They actually enjoyed it when life went off the rails. “This is my first gangster job,” I reminded him, hoping I wouldn’t regret helping.
If I was honest with myself, I already did.
We stood on a small enclosed hallway landing, with stairs leading up and down. It smelled of old brick and mildew and glowed ghostly gray.
It was haunted.
At least that meant I didn’t need my flashlight…
“This way,” Frankie said, leading us down toward the basement.
“Why does it always have to be the basement?” I mused, navigating down the narrow steps, wishing I could have changed out of my heels.
Frankie shrugged. “It’s the best place for a blind tiger.”
I stopped. “You didn’t say anything about animals.”
“What?” he squinted up at me.
“Is it a live tiger or a ghost tiger?” I asked.
He barked out a laugh, and for a second he almost relaxed as he leaned his shoulders against the wall. “A blind tiger is a speakeasy.”
“Ah,” I said, wishing I could take back the last ten minutes of my life. So that was why the wiseguys had a flower shop up front. They were using it as a cover for their illegal operations.
“Were the guys in the flower shop part of your gang?” I asked, wondering why the South Town Boys would have pulled a gun on one of their own.
“Nah.” Frankie waved me off. “We’re not the only show in town, just the biggest. This place here, the Volstead Riot, is run by the Clifton’s Rats. It opened on January 17, 1920,” he said with a flourish. “Since then, it’s been a party every night.”
“And some people say small towns are boring.” Sugarland never ceased to surprise me. No wonder so many of the dead around here refused to pass on.
“Enough,” he said, adjusting his hat. “Let’s go find Lou.”
I steeled myself. “I’m ready.”
The stairwell ended at a wooden door. Frankie rapped three times, and when a small opening slid open at eye level, he whispered a word.
It must have been a good one because the door swung open, and jazz music, laughter, and raucous party noises poured out.
They were playing “Anything Goes.”
I braced a hand over my chest. “I love that song.”
It reminded me of Indiana Jones.
Then it hit me. We were going into a real speakeasy, not like in a movie, and not like the one I’d visited before where we had to investigate a murder and the ghosts were angry.
This was a real party.
“Try to act cool,” Frankie cautioned.
“Okay.” I grinned.
“Never mind,” he muttered. “Now remember, not everybody in here is friendly.”
“As if I’d forget.” I never let my guard down completely. Frankie had taken me to plenty of places that had been fun at first but had turned dangerous fast.
Frankie let me enter first, and I felt like I’d stepped back in time.
The ladies wore feathers and rhinestone-studded headpieces; the men sported crisp white shirts and ties. I fit right in with my magnolia print dress. I touched a hand to the sprig of flowers in my hair. The place was packed with people talking and flirting and weaving in and out of the crowd. A wood bar ran up the right side of the room, with bottles and mixers lining the back.
A corset check stood next to the coat check, which struck me as ten shades of strange. But before I thought to ask, my attention was captured by the band on a wood stage opposite the bar, a four-piece number with a leggy singer backed up by bass, drums, and a pianist playing for tips.
The good citizens of Sugarland danced up front, on the sides, and among the tables packing the middle—men without hats and ladies swinging pearls.
“I never knew this happened in my little town,” I said, easing into the melee, ducking past a man so he wouldn’t touch me. I mean, there had been an exhibit on prohibition at the library once, and there were a couple of faded photographs, and a pencil drawing or two, but nothing like this. “I wish I could take a picture.” Only the camera couldn’t see what I could.
Nobody did, save for the dead.
“I’m getting a drink,” Frankie said, heading straight for the bar.
“I’m with you.” I followed, raising my arms to avoid touching anyone. “Do you see Lou?” I asked, searching the party. When he didn’t answer, I asked him again.
Frankie held up a finger for the bartender. “Cutty and water,” he said, turning around as the young man in a white apron and a black bow tie went to fetch it. He looked like a youthful Nathan Fillion.
“Play it cool,” my gangster said, scanning the crowd.
“I thought I was,” I told him, shimmying sideways to avoid a drunk flapper. The overlarge ostrich feather on her headband whisked past my cheek and gave me a ghostly chill. I’d have to stay out of the heavier crowds, or I was going to get creamed. “The trick is, I’m not sure what your brother looks like.”
“I’ll spot him if he’s here,” Frankie said, tossing a wad of bills on the bar and grabbing his drink. “Your job is to blend in and be ready in case I need live backup.”
“Live backup for what?” I still wasn’t sure how my living and breathing would help him.
“Trust me, I’ll let you know,” he said, distracted by someone in the crowd.
Great. Because I loved surprises.
I scanned to see what had captured Frankie’s attention when I caught the eye of a woman in a flowing light gray gown, one shoulder bare. She noticed me the same time I did her. I couldn’t miss her headpiece, either, which looked like the crown on the Statue of Liberty.
“I love your hat,” I mouthed to her.
She started coming straight for us.
Whoops. I hoped I’d done the right thing by being friendly.
Frankie slammed his drink on the bar. “Wait here,” he said, striding forward to meet her.
From Frankie’s intense stare, she might very well be an ex-girlfriend. She seemed the type of girl who would date a gangster.
She looked to be about my age, her blond hair arranged in tight curls close to her head and her lips stained dark. I watched as Frankie walked straight past her and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.
Oh my. So she was coming for me. The woman continued her advance and pursed her lips as she leaned against the bar next to me.
She had a worldly look about her and a challenging gleam in her eye. “Are you going to vote tomorrow?” she demanded, tilting her head.
She might very well have mistaken me for someone else. I stared at her earrings, which resembled a cascade of stars. “I didn’t know there was voting tomorrow,” I managed, lest she start quizzing me further.
“You’ve got to vote,” she said, drawing so close I felt her chill. “We can vote now. It’s our right.”
I could certainly get on board with that. “I’ve never skipped once. Neither has my mother or my grandmother.” I’d been taught right.
She smiled at that. “My grandmother was afraid the first time. She worried it wasn’t ladylike. Tomorrow, she’ll be first in line.”
Good for her. “Can you believe it took till 1920?”
She cocked her head and stared at me.
Whoops. I supposed that wasn’t overly long ago for her.
She leaned in so close I could smell the gin on her. “Am I drunk, or are you alive?”
“I’m alive,” I said. “And you very possibly could be drunk.”
A giggle bubbled out of her. “Oh, my word. Only in Sugarland.” She spared a glance and a wink at the bartender, who slid her a French 75 in a tall, stemmed glass. “So…how? Why?” she asked. “
Although I admit you blend in well.”
“It looked like a fun party,” I said.
She lifted her glass in a quick toast before taking a healthy sip.
“You want to dance?” she asked. “I noticed your fella wandered off.” She pointed toward the front of the floor. “My friends are up there. Plus”—she pointed to the piano player at the front—“that’s Jelly Roll Morton, traveling through up to Memphis. We’ve only got him one night.”
It took everything I had not to grab her arm. “I’ve heard of him. He was my grandpa’s favorite.” I searched the crowd, and sure enough, there he was. The man himself, with slicked-back hair and magic fingers, pounded the keys. I turned to her. “You’re telling me I can dance to the real Jelly Roll Morton.”
“Not if you keep standing there.” She laughed.
“Okay, but I can’t touch anybody out there,” I confessed. “I am alive.”
“I know.” She waved a hand. “That’s why I felt sorry for you.”
I wasn’t above a pity dance at that point.
“Stick close to me and my friends,” she said, following my glance toward where Frankie had disappeared. “He’ll see where you went.”
True. If Frankie could find Lou in this crowd, he could spot me on a dance floor. I’d be up front, enjoying live music from the man I’d only seen on the History Channel and listened to on my grandpa’s old records.
Frankie owed me this. After all the times he’d disappeared during my ghost-hunting jobs, the least he could do was let me have this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“Let’s go,” I said.
She grinned and grabbed her drink. “I’m Ruth,” she called back and started deftly parting the crowd for me. It was nice. She was way more considerate than Frankie.
“I’m Verity,” I hollered over the music, dodging a four-top of laughing couples, with an extra lady sitting on the table.
Then Jelly Roll launched into “My Home is in a Southern Town.”
