by Ami Diane
Ella made a face. “Don’t say it that way. It sounds dirty.” She returned her attention to the barber. Above a sharp widow’s peak, his hair was slicked back, with what, Ella couldn’t be sure, but there was enough of it to rival the Exxon Valdez oil spill.
Not to be outdone, Wink rose and clucked her tongue like she was having a seizure. Chester rose on his hind legs, sniffed the air, then ran up Wink’s fuchsia velour tracksuit.
“Come on, Flo,” Wink said to her friend, “I need a wingtip.”
“Nope.” Ella shook her head. “It’s wingman. Why do I teach you these things?”
As her friends strode away, Flo stopping to pass out buttons, Ella mumbled, “You’d think she’d dress better while campaigning.”
Will chuckled. “Wink or Flo?”
Ella’s gaze flitted to Flo’s outfit. The woman had exchanged her usual Mr. Rogers sweater, trousers, and sensible shoes for a t-shirt with the words “Wink the Sink” painted on the front in dripping, crooked letters.
“Good point. Also, we really need to help Flo with her campaign slogans.”
At that moment, Sal’s lithe frame swept into their purview as he glided to their table. Ella couldn’t decide if his movements and appearance reminded her of a vampire or a graceful ice skater.
She snapped her fingers. “Count Chocula.”
“Pardon?” Sal’s eyebrows rose, his hand partially extended. She’d obviously interrupted his impending greeting.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of a breakfast cereal I very much miss.” Her gaze swept over him, and she added, “and it’s mascot.”
He seemed unsure what to do with this comment but gathered his composure quickly. “Yes, well, how are you two doing this fine evening?”
“Very well,” Will responded, shaking the barber’s proffered hand.
“Alright,” Ella said. “I have this rash…” She scratched her arm, even though it didn’t itch.
Sal stared at her. “Well… nice seeing you, both. I hope you enjoy your evening.” Hesitantly, he extended his hand to Ella.
She wondered if she’d be betraying Wink by shaking it but figured manners went a long way in this town. Also, there was the whole business about him skipping out on questioning the night of the party.
Her eyes fell to their clasped hands. Sal pulled back, but she tightened her grip, trying to get a better look at his skin.
“El,” Will hissed in her ear. “Let go of the man’s hand.”
She came to her senses and released him. Swiping his hand down his suit jacket, Sal’s plastered smile wavered.
“Your fingers are stained,” she observed.
“Yes, just like yours.”
Will straightened. “Recent ink from the looks of it.”
Sal’s smile slid away. “Yes. The sheriff stopped by—at my place of business, I might add—insisting that he fingerprint me. Like a common criminal.”
“How did you avoid it the night of the party?” Ella asked.
He appeared genuinely offended. “I wasn’t avoiding it. I felt under the weather and left, apparently missing all the excitement.”
“Yes, a dead man is exciting.” Will’s sardonic tone caused Sal to fumble through his next words.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What time did you begin to feel ill?” Ella asked.
“Since I got there, but I managed to persevere until around a little after seven o’clock.”
“How much after? Fifteen after?”
“Miss Barton, I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “I’m just saying, it’s a little convenient.”
“It most certainly wasn’t. What a prime opportunity to lead our people through a crisis, and I wasn’t there.”
“Well,” Will said, “they managed just fine.”
“Can anyone corroborate the time you left?”
The acting mayor’s eyes darted around. “Ms. Chilton, I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon me, I see some people I need to speak with….” He let the sentence die and scurried away.
“How about that? Patience was telling the truth. When I interviewed her at the party, she insinuated that Sal could alibi for her.” She turned to Will. “So, they were both in the dining room. Why would they lie about that?”
“To distance themselves from the crime scene.”
“You don’t suppose those two are… you know.” His expression said he didn’t. “An item,” she finished. “Together. Courting or whatever you call it around here.”
The inventor made a face somewhere between horror and food poisoning, then he seemed to consider it. “No.” He shook his head. “Definitely not.” His features shifted into that of horror once again. “Right?”
She couldn’t fight the shiver that racked her body. “I hope not.”
Will’s dimples stood out as he smiled and picked up his fork to resume excavating a sugar cookie from under his peach cobbler. After a moment of amiable silence, he said, “El? Who’s Count Chocula?”
Ella’s mouth dropped slightly before she remembered she’d just taken a bite of food and was probably showing him a mouthful of potato salad.
“Oh, wow. I don’t know if I want the responsibility of explaining to you such a glorious cereal and all the other sugary breakfast foods along with it that feed children across the nation in my time. That’s a lot of pressure.” Her cheeks puffed out as she blew out a breath. “Well, it’s like this—” Across the room, Lucky let out a loud, barking laugh, slapping his hand on his knee, as he talked with Sal.
A thought occurred to Ella. “Will, I don’t remember Lucky in your interview notes from Friday night.”
“Because I didn’t interview him.”
“Neither did I.”
They exchanged a look before twisting around to study the bar owner from afar.
“How do you suppose he slipped past us, too?” Will asked.
Ella shrugged. “What do you say we find out?”
Chapter 8
ELLA TOOK A long drought of punch for liquid courage, despite the fact that it hadn’t been spiked this time. As she stood, she traded the punch for Flo’s and took another long drink. It burned as it slid down her throat, causing her to cough.
“You know, one of these days, we should discuss having an intervention for that woman.”
Will held out his hand, allowing her to go first. “We tried once a few years back.”
Ella wove around the tables, glancing at the inventor over her shoulder. “What happened?”
“You know that wallpaper in the inn’s kitchen?”
Ella’s brows furrowed. “There’s no wallpaper. The walls are painted yellow. A banana, baby food yellow.”
“Exactly. It used to be wallpapered. Rose had it fixed up after Flo threatened to burn the place to the studs if we cut her off from her booze. She followed through on her threat.”
“She seriously set the inn on fire?”
“She claimed she was trying to fry up some eggs, but no one believes it. You, we’d believe. But not Flo.”
“Ha ha,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
As they reached Lucky’s table, Sal spotted them and skittered off to swarm someone else.
Dull gray light from a fading, foggy day lit the bar owner from behind. He looked up from his glass and coughed a greeting. “William. Ella, was it?”
She nodded then rested her hand on the chair beside him, shooting him a questioning look.
“Go ahead. Mrs. Lee was sitting there, but I think she wanted to get home to Mr. Lee.”
Ella sank to the chair, and Will slid in beside her, saying, “Ah, yes.”
Ella looked back and forth between them. “Is Mr. Lee ill?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking.” Leaning back, Lucky dug his fingers into his pumpkin-colored beard and scratched around. Then, he tapped a blue-stained index finger to his temple. “Man thinks he’s still in the war.”
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br /> “Ah, yes. The war.” She had no clue which war he was referring to, so she left it at that. “I noticed your fingers.”
Lucky looked down, his eyes widening slightly as if he were surprised to find them stained. He wiggled them in the air. “I suppose we’ll all walk around looking like we had a fight with a squid.”
It took Ella a moment to catch on. “Right, because they squirt ink. Clever.” She made a few noises with her mouth as if bored. “Anywho, random question, how is it you managed to get printed by Chapman, yet slip past either Will or me without being interviewed?”
Beside her, Will coughed, and she knew it was due to her lack of subtlety.
The bartender’s face remained friendly—the corner of his mouth curled up in what seemed to be an ever-present smirk—but Ella noticed how the smile lines at the corners of his eyes faded.
“After the sheriff took my prints, I remembered I had a couple of crates of my good stuff down in the basement. I got concerned about them when I heard that someone had used a gun to kill that dry crusader. You know what a bullet will do to a bottle of fine scotch?”
“Break it the same as a bottle of cheap beer?” Ella guessed.
He nodded. “Though, ain’t no such thing as a cheap beer here, doll.” He kicked a leg out and reclined further, appraising her. “Mrs. Faraday doesn’t allot for much space to grow hops in the greenhouses, and I don’t have room at my place to do it.”
“So,” Will said, drumming his fingers on the table, fixing Lucky with a hard stare, “you were more concerned about your booze than the man dead beside it, that right?”
Lucky’s eyes hardened, his lips pressed together. No one spoke for an uncomfortably interminable length of time. Ella feared if she didn’t intervene, they’d have a staring contest that would last through July.
Clearing her throat, she asked, “Where were you that night between 7:10 and 7:20?”
Slowly, the bartender rounded on her. “Behind the bar. The only time I left it was after that man had been killed, and Chapman took over.”
“Did you notice anything suspicious or strange?”
He barked out a laugh. “In this town? Of course, I did. That councilwoman—what’s her name? Patience? Yeah, after calling me all sorts of names, she wandered off, singing a hymn. Oh, then a squirrel in coattails and a top hat took a whiz in Lou’s beer. And that Viking guy drank all my ale and kept shouting, ‘skull!’ or something.”
“So… nothing unusual?” At the dark storm that passed over Lucky’s countenance, Ella dropped her gaze and traced a scratch on the table with her finger. “And it’s skál, by the way. It’s Old Norse for cheers.”
“I don’t care. The man cost me a small fortune.”
Will tilted his head. “Weren’t the candidates providing the libations?”
“Well, yes.” Lucky’s face reddened, the color clashing with his hair.
With no more questions and nothing else to say, Ella and Will rose from the table and returned to their own.
That evening, instead of the usual musical accompaniment of either a piano or fiddle and an off-key singer, the high school’s drama club performed a skit that was either a scene from Romeo and Juliet or a variety show. Ella wasn’t sure which because it contained characters from the play but also had them performing talents. When Romeo drank the poison, a young boy came out on a unicycle, juggling.
Eventually, she stopped trying to figure it out, sat back, and enjoyed the performances, laughing along with Will under their breaths. After the actors took their bows and ran off stage, Ella and Will rehashed their favorite moments of the play/talent show.
As the evening wound down, their conversation turned more serious. They bounced around theories about the murder in hushed tones while Ella made notes in her phone until it was time to head home.
Later that night, Ella awoke from a fitful sleep. She rolled over beneath her silk comforter and was just drifting off to sleep again when a shuffling noise came from the hallway preceded by the sound of a door shutting. The shuffling resolved into muffled footsteps that passed her door.
Rolling the other way, she glanced at the time on her phone’s display. It was 2:00 am. Who in the blazes would be up at this hour?
There was only one answer to that question, of course, as only one other person lived on the second floor now that Edwin had left.
Ella’s ears strained, listening for the bathroom door as she figured Flo was up for a midnight call to nature. Sleep fought at the edges of her consciousness, tugging her eyes closed. Several minutes passed without the sound of a toilet flushing.
Her eyes popped open. Come to think of it, she’d never heard the bathroom door close in the first place.
Wide awake now, Ella rolled out of bed and padded across the wooden floor in her socks. If Flo thought she could steal into the night and eat the spaghetti leftovers, she had a wicked surprise headed her way.
In the entrance hall downstairs, the faint light from the street lamps seeped through the windows, providing enough visibility to guide Ella across the expansive room.
As she reached the hallway that led to the kitchen, music drifted through the night air. Her feet stilled, and she placed a hand on the wall for support.
That haunting, scratchy, tinny operetta drifted from ahead like a siren calling to a sailor. Her breath froze in her chest, and a shiver ran up her spine.
Had Flo started the gramophone?
Try as she might, Ella couldn’t conceive of a single reason for her friend to wander to the basement at such an ungodly hour to play a record. Even if she’d had a hankering for music, why not use the record player in the parlor as it was made a few decades later and had a wider selection of records sitting next to it?
Ella teetered on her feet, waffling between following the music again or running back up to her room and hiding under the covers. The last time she heard this song, she’d discovered a dead body.
She’d just plunged forward a step when the music stopped. She caught the sound of distant footsteps ascending the basement stairs.
Crap, crap, crap.
Ella dodged for the nearest doorway which happened to be the drawing room. She hastily closed the door, leaving a sliver of an opening.
The footsteps grew nearer, and Ella retreated further behind the door so as not to be backlit from the room’s windows.
She glanced around the room. She’d only been in it a couple of times and wasn’t sure what its purpose was, but she’d read enough Jane Austen novels to know that it wasn’t a room for drawing and art.
Outside, the footsteps reached a crescendo then dropped off quickly. Ella peered through the crack as the figure passed, unsurprised to spot Flo’s crazy hair and slightly stooped shoulders.
Ella had been harboring a secret hope that the woman had been up ghost hunting, as was her way, but she was conspicuously unburdened of any of her instruments. That would’ve solved the mystery, and Ella could’ve gone back to bed.
As she listened for the familiar creak of the floorboards above indicating Flo had gone upstairs, Ella considered her next move. The smart decision would be to wait until morning, not that it made a difference in the visibility downstairs, but it felt marginally less I’m-going-to-die-a-horrible-death.
Maybe it was the fact that she was tired and didn’t have caffeine in her system, thereby impairing her judgment, but she threw caution to the breeze from the furnace and tiptoed down the hallway. She briefly fled back to the entrance hall to retrieve one of the flashlights Rose and Jimmy kept there before plunging in the direction of the basement door.
Before she knew it, she stood at the top of the basement stairs, peering into the darkness. The light in her hands flickered as if afraid of what lay ahead.
“I know, I know,” she whispered. “Very stupid of me.”
Everything seemed normal when she reached the bottom—aside from the puddle of congealed blood and crates of booze not normally down there.
She wondered whe
n Chapman would have the place cleaned and when Lucky could get his stuff. As she sidestepped the crimson mess, it occurred to her that the reason for the crazy woman’s late-night foray was to nip at Lucky’s stash. The free booze was a temptation few could resist, let alone a borderline alcoholic.
Ella splayed the light over the crates, noting that they seemed unmolested. The corners of her mouth turned down, and she focused the beam on the phonograph against the far wall.
The sound of her socks over the concrete whispered through the stuffy air as she stopped short in front of the device. She’d been a bit preoccupied the other night to get a good look at the phonograph, what with a dead body and being accused of murder and all.
She moved the light to her left hand and picked up the needle on the player with her right before placing it on the outer edge of the record.
Nothing happened.
She immediately realized her mistake. The phonograph was old, made of a faded oak storage box with iron fittings and a hand crank. The horn arched over the table, blossoming like a flower, etched with filigrees.
The crank felt cold to the touch as she turned it. Then, she lifted the toner arm and placed the needle at the edge of the spinning record. Crackles like footsteps over dried leaves whispered from the horn.
Then, that angelic voice came out, causing her skin to prickle. The musician was either singing Italian or Latin, but the lyrics were too difficult for her to pick out definitively.
Ella watched the record turn. The melody rode along the motes in her flashlight as it washed over her.
A mechanical groan came from the brick wall behind the player.
She leaped back and dropped the light. It spun, turning the basement into a disco party.
Cursing, Ella bent and floundered for the flashlight, all the while very aware that the wall was still groaning.
She scooped up the light, her hands trembling, and stabbed it towards the wall behind the phonograph.
“‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,’” she whispered, quoting Ghost Busters. Her throat closed as she continued to scrabble back a good ten feet.
Metallic scraping noises continued to issue from the brick, like metal grating against metal. The ruckus and subsequent tinny groaning drowned out the music.
