by C. S. Poe
Calvin narrowed his eyes.
“Before the Flatiron Building actually existed.”
He was quiet, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Sweetheart… how the hell do you know that?” Calvin asked in such a calm, polite tone, it was nearly comical.
“You can sort of see the triangle shape of Fifth Avenue and Broadway in the background,” I explained. “The illumination just out of frame—a man named Amos Eno owned the property until his death in 1899, and he used to project images from a magic lantern onto a canvas screen hung from a shorter building. It was used for advertisements, news bulletins, and even election results.”
Calvin didn’t say anything.
I smiled.
He put an arm around my shoulders, drew me close, and asked, “Anything else I should know?”
“The phrase ‘twenty-three skidoo’ likely originated from the Flatiron’s Twenty-Third Street location.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a windy corner. It was suggested that men would stick around the Flatiron to watch women’s skirts get blown up so they could catch some hot ankle action.”
“Of course.”
“Police would have to chase them away.”
“Perverts.”
“Hence, twenty-three skidoo,” I concluded.
Calvin smiled and lowered his arm.
“What’re we going to do about the—” I paused when a customer walked by us. “M-u-r-d-e-r?” I spelled out.
“Nothing.”
“No, not nothing,” I answered.
“That’s about all that can be done, Seb.”
“I know a thing or two about handling evidence in a homicide,” I pointed out. Not that I was a detective or had a degree in forensics, but my ex-partner, Neil Millett, worked for the Crime Scene Unit of the NYPD. Four years of “tell me about your day” had taught me some. Like for example, there were records kept on homicides, even in the 1800s. And if it was an unsolved crime, that evidence was to remain in police possession until the cold case was a closed case.
“You know a thing or two about most everything,” Calvin replied simply. “Which is why it makes it next to impossible to argue that you’re wrong.”
“This is one of those moments I’m not sure if you’re complimenting me or not.”
“Who’s to say this wasn’t solved a long time ago?”
I stared at the Kinetoscope. Call it one of my hunches, but I suspected that wasn’t the case. Surely the evidence on film would have been used, even then, to catch the murderer. And after the crime was solved, it would have likely been destroyed by the police. Instead, over 120 years later, the footage was shipped to a moonlighting sleuth.
No explanation.
No reason.
No nothing.
“But what if it wasn’t solved?” I countered.
Calvin crossed his arms again. “The oldest evidence I’ve heard of being held by homicide detectives only went back to 1909. And that was in the ’20s, before complaints of sanitary conditions and limited space were taken into consideration.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hi, I’m Calvin Winter,” he stated, reaching a hand out to shake mine. “I’ve been an officer of the NYPD for ten years.”
“I’m ignoring the sarcasm only because I’m incredibly turned on by you spouting random facts at me,” I answered.
Calvin smirked. “I’ll remember that.”
I looked around the Emporium, did a quick headcount of customers, and made sure Max wasn’t inundated at the counter, before saying to Calvin, “So there wouldn’t be a forgotten box somewhere in the Property Clerk’s Office?” I tried.
Calvin shook his head. “There’s very little, in terms of cold cases, prior to the 1990s.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “A lot of reasons. Fires, auctions, improper storage and disposal… take your pick.”
“It feels wrong to not do something about it,” I said.
And thankfully Calvin agreed. “I know.”
“Maybe I’ll call the shipping company.”
“Seb—”
“Hey, as far as I am concerned, I’m being held responsible for the condition of the Kinetoscope,” I said quickly. “I need to find the owner.”
“But that’s all,” Calvin answered with a touch of reluctance. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I echoed.
“If I get a call from an irate clerk at the property office this afternoon, we’re going to have words.”
I DID not exasperate a property clerk.
Mostly because I had been too busy running a business that afternoon to dedicate any time to the task.
Oh, and I’d sworn off sleuthing. Of course.
“Boss.”
“What.”
“It’s quarter to six.”
I looked up from sorting mail at the counter.
Max was standing in front of the register. “Pete,” he reminded me.
“For fuck’s sake.” I set the stack of envelopes down and reached for the shop phone. “Remind me next year to tell the fair to go suck an egg.”
Max tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll update the lingo.”
I dialed Pete’s number and waited as the line rang. “I should have backed out of this event,” I told Max. “It’s been nothing but a headache for the past month.”
“Pete stopped answering calls from my cell once he figured out I worked for you.” Max put his arms on the counter. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“You had to have done something, because Greg is a bronze-level sponsor and he seems to be getting the princess treatment. You’re gold, and the fair isn’t touching you with a ten-foot pole.” He leaned close. “Did you spurn Pete’s advances?”
“He hasn’t been around to make an advance.” I hung up when I got said man’s voicemail. I dialed the number again and put the phone to my ear.
“Maybe Greg slept with him,” Max muttered. He grabbed the mail and sifted through it. “He’s way too hairy for me.”
“Insight into the inner workings of Max Ridley.”
“Dude, he’s got more hair on his feet than a hobbit.”
“Why are you looking at Pete’s feet?” I asked, staring hard at Max.
He shrugged. “It’s hard not to. He’s always got those neon pink flip-flops on. It’s like a moth to the flame—I can’t look away.”
I frowned when Pete’s voicemail message started once more. “Pete,” I said firmly after the beep. “It’s Sebastian Snow. From the Emporium—that place you promised to be at between eleven and threeish. It’s quarter to six and I’m going home.” I ended the call without saying anything else.
“Ish is a measurement of time found between ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and ‘this is who I am as a person,’” Max stated.
“Pete’s dead to me.”
“I can’t decide if your dad giving you the middle name Andrew contributed to your award-winning personality, or if he had a premonition as to the sort of man you’d become.”
Sebastian Andrew Snow.
SAS.
Those who knew my middle name eventually pointed that out.
Everyone was a comedian.
“Go sweep the floor.”
Max smirked and left the counter.
I began tidying up for the evening, but paused when I picked up the plastic sleeve with the shipping label for the Kinetoscope. I brought it close, retrieved the phone once again, and dialed the office number printed on the form.
“Barnes Brothers Shipping. We do the heavy lifting so you don’t have to. Save up to 15 percent on all packages shipped between now and May twelfth. Offer only valid with domestic ground service, maximum weight twenty pounds. Offer cannot be combined with other coupons. My name is Cindy, how can I help you?”
I held my breath.
“Hello?” she asked in the same bored, monotone voice as the monologue she’d just performed.
“Oh, is it my turn
?”
Cindy popped her gum loudly.
“My name is Sebastian Snow, I run an antique shop in the East Village. This morning I received a large crate that originated from your office.”
Pop, pop.
My left eye twitched. “There was no sender information.”
“And so what did you need?” she asked.
“Sender information.” Was there an echo in here?
“I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“Why? I was the recipient.”
“Our customer’s contact information is confidential.”
Pop.
“Cindy, was it?”
“Yeah,” she answered, unenthused.
“How about I just talk to your manager about this.”
“No can do, sorry.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s out.”
“And when will she return?”
“In like two weeks. She’s having a baby.” Cindy popped her gum again.
Sweet, merciful—
“Cindy,” I said firmly. “The package I received is a very rare and expensive artifact. This isn’t something I want to be responsible for. So may I please just read the tracking number to you and get some help finding out who the owner is?”
“What’s the tracking number, Mr. Sneeze?”
“Snow. My last name is Snow.”
“Sure.”
I pulled the phone away, gripped it in both hands, and strangled the life out of it. When I heard the plastic of the receiver crack, I eased up, cleared my throat, and put it to my ear before reciting the number.
Max glanced over at me a few times throughout the conversation as he made passes across the floor with the broom. I was listening to the click, click, click of long nails on a keyboard when Max stepped around me to collect the trash from underneath the counter.
“You’ve already accepted the package,” Cindy said after a minute.
“This morning,” I agreed.
“So if you don’t want it, you’ll have to pay for shipping it back to us, sir.”
“That’s not—have you been listening to me at all?”
“An oversized crate with insurance, inside pickup, and expedited delivery… the total comes out to four hundred twenty-five dollars and ninety-three cents.”
“Four hundred and twenty-five dollars?” I shouted.
“And ninety-three cents.”
“I don’t want to ship it back. I just want the sender’s phone number so I can ask them why they sent it to me in the first place! Am I supposed to sell it? Auction it? Use it for a coffee table?”
“That information is—”
“Confidential, I know!”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Oh my God. Cindy… please let me talk to someone else.”
“I’m the only one here.”
“Of course you are.”
“I can transfer you to the manager’s voicemail,” she offered before popping her gum. Again.
I took my glasses off and covered my face. “That she won’t check for two weeks?”
“The baby might be early.”
I laughed, in that weird way one did when they were losing their mind. “Sure. Transfer me.”
“Thank you for calling Barnes Brothers Shipping. Have a good night.”
Click.
Son of a bitch.
Max returned from tossing the garbage into the alley dumpster. He shut the back door and made his way toward the counter. “Get the owner’s name?”
“No,” I grumbled.
“So what do we do with the Kinetoscope?”
“Keep it until the owner contacts me themselves. Let’s move it behind the counter tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure thing.” Max glanced at the nearby wall clock and asked, “Do you need anything else?”
“No, you can get going. Thanks, Max.”
“Have a good night,” he called before exiting the front door.
I turned off the shop speakers, powered down my computer in the office, grabbed my shoulder bag, and shut the door. I left the bag on the counter, picked up a pair of gloves, walked to the Kinetoscope, and opened the cabinet. I crouched down and was weighing whether I wanted to unspool the hundred feet of film or keep it assembled, when the front door opened.
“We’re closed!” I called.
“That you, Snow?”
I perked up a little and peered over the table blocking me from view. “Pete?”
Short and stocky, middle-aged, with a thick, bushy beard, and polo shirt with the collar turned up like a frat boy, Pete White waved. “Hey!” He walked down the aisle toward me.
“Did you get my message?” I asked, returning my attention to the film.
“Hmm… I don’t think so. When did you leave it?”
“About three hours after you were supposed to be here,” I replied flippantly.
“I’ve been having trouble with this phone. It’s old.”
“Get a new one,” I muttered.
“Holy cow,” Pete said from behind me. He gasped almost comically. “Is that a Kinetoscope?”
I looked over my shoulder again. He was gazing down at me from the other side of the table. “Yes,” I answered.
“Is it a replica?”
“Original,” I corrected.
“And with footage?”
“It’s the knockout round of the Leonard-Cushing fight.”
“Gol-ly,” he whispered, his eyes wide.
“Golly?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You auditioning for a reboot of Leave It to Beaver?”
Pete finally pried his gaze from the Kinetoscope and looked at me. “You shouldn’t swear in the presence of someone you like, Snow,” he answered.
Oh Jesus. This suddenly brought legitimacy to Max’s claim that Greg might have slept with Pete to have gotten his shit organized at the fair before me. “Like… as a person…?”
“Aw, come on. I know you’re into guys. I saw that picture on your desk when I was here a few weeks back.”
I got to my feet and turned to face him. “The one of the redhead with his arm around me?”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah…,” I drew out. “That’s my boyfriend.”
“So what?”
I gave Pete what I felt was very clearly a are-you-fucking-kidding-me expression. “Wow. Really? You’re four days and three hours late picking up my collection, and the only thing you care about is whether I’m the sort of guy who might be into side action?”
“Can’t fault me for trying.”
“It’s extremely unprofessional of you,” I replied.
“You haven’t said no yet.”
“No way in hell, Pete,” I answered. “How’s that?”
He shrugged. “Your loss. By the way, I can’t pick up the collection,” he said, without skipping a beat.
“What?”
“I don’t have the van.”
“Th-then why are you here?” I nearly shouted.
“To tell you.” Pete smiled and rolled his eyes, like, duh.
I was ready to rip into Pete and smack that smug grin off his dopey face. I was frustrated and fed up, sick over the huge amount of money I’d shelled out, only to be treated like crap by the organizers. But at the same time, I didn’t even want to bother wasting my energy on him when I knew it’d go through one ear and right out the other.
“You know what, Pete? Forget it.”
“Don’t you even—”
“Nope.”
“—care—”
“No.”
“—why I can’t—”
“Do I need to say no in another fucking language?” I snapped. “I should have stayed home today.” I got down in front of the Kinetoscope again.
There was a pregnant pause between us.
“So you want help getting the collection to the fair tomorrow?” Pete asked, his voice sounding loud in the silent shop.
I let out a breath. “
I’ll get it there myself.”
“I thought you didn’t drive?”
“I thought you didn’t have a van?” I countered, sounding extremely bitchy.
“It’ll be available tomorrow.”
I knocked my forehead against the cabinet. “I’ll ask my boyfriend to drive me.”
“You know,” Pete began, “you should bring this movie with you. That’d really draw a crowd. I wasn’t even aware the knockout round of that match still existed.”
I raised my head but didn’t look at him. “It’s manufactured for a Kinetoscope, Pete. It can’t be viewed by a mass audience. Also, it’s not even mine, so that’s out of the question.”
“I’ve got a guy.”
I gradually turned around at that statement. “You’ve got a guy. A guy for what?”
“That’s 35mm, yeah? A contact of mine in Midtown professionally digitizes old film footage. We could get a screen set up and project it at your table.”
“You haven’t been able to drive 2.9 miles to pick up some boxes since last weekend, but you’ve got a guy who will digitize 120-year-old footage overnight? Pete, get out so I can lock the door.”
Chapter Three
“I BLAME you for all this,” I said on the phone as I hiked up the stairs to our fourth-floor apartment.
My antiquing buddy, Aubrey Grant, formerly of New York, who now ran a historical home in the Florida Keys, scoffed loudly over the line. “How’s any of this dysfunctional mess my fault?”
“You convinced me that sponsoring the fair was a good idea.”
“It was! I didn’t know they had so many new team members this year who apparently can’t find their own fucking asses with a flashlight.”
“I dumped five grand into this event, and you aren’t even coming up for it.”
“Also not my fault.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Are you getting winded from stairs?” Aubrey asked.
“I’m mad at you—would you focus?” I took a breath before starting up the final set.
“The nonprofit board decided not to fund my trip to the city. I have to save my vacation time for apartment hunting in August.”
“You do remember that August in New York City is like slowly suffocating in a bag of hot garbage left in the subway, yeah?”
“Have you ever smelled low tide in ninety-degree weather with 90 percent humidity?” Aubrey countered.
