Murder at The Blues Stop

by Wendy Byrne

  “Why do they both hate you so much?”

  “They both blame me for my mother’s death.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Are we good here?” He glanced around the room, anywhere but at me.

  “You’re quick. You must have had a lot of practice.” My inane comment was meant to distract from the pain I’d spotted in his eyes. Giving me that tidbit of information about his past had cost him dearly. And while I ached to ask more, I didn’t have the heart.

  “Courtesy of the military.” No doubt thankful for the change in topic, he seemed to relax. He picked up the three suitcases, wedging the smaller one under his right arm. “Let’s get going.”

  “Is the apartment by The Blues Stop?” I followed behind him, lugging a small shoulder duffel bag as we made our way toward the elevator.

  “Not close enough to walk, especially in those heels.” He pointed to my feet as he followed me into the elevator.

  I giggled. “You’re right about that. These shoes were definitely not made for walking.” To top off my statement, I wiggled my butt.

  ***

  I yawned, sat up against the brass bed frame, and surveyed the room. A warm breeze fluttered the white eyelet curtains, bringing in a whoosh of air saturated with the mingled smell of lake water and car exhaust, a strange combination, but not totally unpleasant.

  Shane O’Neil. I’d never met a man quite like him. And I’d certainly met more than my fair share of men.

  In fact, my bad choices in men were legendary in the Santos family. No one, not even my five-year-old niece Santana, let me forget it. More than likely, Santana had picked up the bad habit of questioning my choices in men from her mother. But still, it was a little humiliating to hear a kindergartner ask if my current boyfriend was gainfully employed.

  Instead of lingering on my shortcomings, I got out of bed and looked around. When I’d moved in at four in the morning, with exhaustion and tension dripping from every pore in my body, any place would have looked good. Seeing it now, I realized the apartment epitomized comfy. Small, homey, and sparsely furnished, it still had a good feel to it from the soft drape of the curtains to the overstuffed couch and to-die-for antique brass bed. Better even still, it had a walk-in closet and a clawfoot tub that I couldn’t wait to luxuriate in.

  Determined to make this gig work, I gathered my hair into a band, threw on a t-shirt, shorts, and a pair of flip-flops and walked down the narrow steps to the first floor. In the vestibule area, there were two doors: one leading outside and one with O’Neil & Ryan Investigations etched onto the glass. Both doors had key card access like in a hotel.

  With my stomach grumbling and my head pounding from caffeine depravation, I made my way across the street to the diner. At noon, the street was filled with cars, the sidewalks jammed with people, but aside from the fact that several other languages besides Spanish and English were being spoken, it felt like home in many ways.

  When I let myself inside the diner, a bell jangled overhead. Smells of strong coffee, pancakes, and sausages swirled in the air, made my stomach growl. Spotting an empty stool along the counter, I grabbed it before anyone else could.

  Seconds later, a waitress wearing a bright-blue shirt and a name tag that said ‘Doris’ came to take my order. “What’ll you have?”

  “First, I need to ask you to put it on Shane O’Neil’s tab. Is that okay?” Since Mr. Cranky Pants had made me leave the hotel, I wasn’t going to let him get out of feeding me.

  “We’ve got another one, Hank,” Doris shouted to a man visible in the open kitchen area behind her. “You’re the sixth new one this month. It’s amazing that guy doesn’t go broke.” She examined me for a few uncomfortable moments. “You’re much older than usual, and I’m not sure I need another waitress.”

  “Me? Waitress?” Her comment puzzled me for a second. “I don’t need a job. I’m singing for Shane at The Blues Stop. He’s put me in the apartment above his office and told me to come here for my meals.”

  She laughed. “Of course. I should have known.” She turned again to the man in back. “It’s that singer Shane told us about.”

  For somebody who didn’t do much talking, Shane sure had gotten the word out. Funny how he’d never let me see that side of him yesterday.

  “Do you think you could get me a cup of coffee?” While I waited, she hurried back and forth, calling out an endless series of orders to which Hank nodded in affirmation. The whole time, a buzz of conversation made the place seem to bubble with excitement.

  I really needed that coffee. Just as I was about to give up, Doris slid a cup in front of me, along with a small pitcher of cream and one of those glass-filled containers of sugar.

  I sipped under the watchful eye of Doris, allowing the caffeine to make its way through my system and recharge me before I spoke. “I’m glad Shane had a chance to tell you about me.”

  She rubbed her hands along her apron. “Stopped by early this morning. Said you were good. That if The Blues Stop wasn’t such a dive, he thought you’d probably bring in the crowds.”

  I couldn’t decide what surprised me more—that Shane had actually talked about me or that he’d said I was good. “I don’t know anything about Chicago, but I think if we could advertise somehow, it would bring people in.”

  The man next to me stopped eating his eggs and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What’s the name of the bar again?”

  Somehow that conversation evolved into my being coerced into giving an impromptu performance. Not that I minded it much. Used to displaying my talent, I didn’t require much prompting. Within two hours, I’d scribbled the address of The Blues Stop onto business cards, napkins, even on an arm of one of the patrons and was on my merry way.

  When I re-entered the building this time, I heard sounds coming from inside the office. The thought that Shane would be inside working made my heart beat faster, although I couldn’t figure out why. Aside from a lapse for a few seconds when he’d told me about his mother, he’d acted as if I had an STD.

  What the hell did I have to lose if I checked to see what he was up to? I knocked first, then opened the unlocked door and slipped inside.

  Instead of Shane, a young girl with dark-brown hair with golden highlights sat behind a desk typing away on a computer. She glanced up and smiled. “You must be Gabriella.”

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” It surprised me to see Shane had an assistant. He was such a control freak I figured he did everything himself.

  “I’m Cara. Shane’s off to meet a client.”

  “I just came from the diner.” I gestured across the street. “They all seemed to know Shane, but nobody in there has ever been to The Blues Stop.”

  Cara nodded. “Shane’s not encouraging business. But he did say you had an amazing voice.”

  Not interested in encouraging business seemed like an odd way to make money if you asked me. The guy must really want to dump the place regardless of any financial loss.

  “Really?” The fact that he’d complimented me twice to two different people took me by surprise.

  Cara took a bite of her sandwich. “How do you like the apartment?”

  “Very comfy.” I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot so I didn’t bother to add that it turned out to be more than I would have expected, given the circumstances.

  Cara gulped her can of diet soda. “I stayed there before I got married.”

  “You look too young to be married.” I figured the girl couldn’t be more than twenty-two or so.

  “James and I have been together since we were teenagers. You might say we grew up together. We both ran away from home and lived on the streets before Shane found us jobs.” Cara smiled and tapped her pen on top of the desk. “I love them both, Shane and Garrett. They saved our lives.”

  “How did you find them? Or was it vice versa?” I was curious. Was Shane some kind of weird cult leader who hooked people with his charm and charisma? Almost as quickly as the thought came to mind,
it vanished. Shane couldn’t muster up charisma even if a gun were held to his head.

  “Shane and Garrett were working the streets trying to find a missing fifteen-year-old girl. They asked us some questions and offered us money and food. Which we interpreted as weird at first, but then when we understood they genuinely wanted to help, we jumped on board and didn’t look back. They kind of informally adopted us, you might say. Shane’s always doing that kind of thing for kids on the street.”

  Certainly not at all what I’d expected. Now Doris’ earlier comment started to make sense. He must have a reputation for taking in strays and feeding them at the diner. “That surprises me.”

  Cara laughed. “I’ll admit he scared the crap out of me at first. But I learned that underneath it all, he’s a pussycat.”

  Not exactly the words I would have used to describe him, but to each his own. Clearly, Shane was perfect in this young girl’s eyes. No use trying to burst her bubble.

  I nodded as if I agreed. When the phone rang and Cara picked it up, I scanned the room. A series of windows covered with wooden blinds for privacy lined the front. Two small but comfortable-looking couches sat on either side of a dark-brown coffee table.

  File cabinets lined a wall behind three desks. Cara sat at one of the desks. There was no real clutter to speak of, except for a stack of papers.

  Several licenses hung on the wall and one lone photograph. Curious, I walked over to examine it. Two men in Army fatigues posed outside a barracks-like structure, which had a Red Cross flag hanging outside. Younger by anywhere between five and ten years, Shane was one of the men. The other man must be Garrett, the partner both Cara and Shane talked about.

  Both men had their arms crossed against their chests, but only one was smiling—and it wasn’t Shane.

  “Is this other guy Garrett?” I pointed to the picture.

  Cara nodded. “It was taken not long after—” Her words stopped abruptly, as if she’d said too much, even though she really hadn’t said anything.

  Although I’d known Cara less than five minutes, I already knew I wouldn’t get anything out of her. Cara’s loyalty was clear. Nothing would get past her lips without a thorough screening process somewhere inside her head.

  ***

  I would be the first to admit I felt relieved when Shane called to say he couldn’t give me a ride because he had an appointment. I didn’t know why he felt compelled to pick me up and drop me off each night except for the fact he was a frickin’ control freak. Then again, maybe he didn’t trust me, or didn’t want to pay for a cab ride, or a combination of all of the above.

  But I knew an opportunity when I saw one. As soon as I got to The Blues Stop, I reeled Mack into my web of deception. “Is there a music system we could use in-between sets?” I didn’t need to tell him Shane had already put the kibosh on the idea.

  He nodded. “And tons of CDs.”

  With more people, a little more ambiance, this could be a fun place despite Shane’s less than welcoming demeanor. “Just what I need.”

  “If you want to pick some out, they’re in a box in the back of your dressing room.”

  “Excellent.”

  Before I could get away, he touched my arm. Immediately, the ‘yuck’ vibe skittered along my spine.

  Mack’s tendency to be touchy-feely bothered me. Unlike Shane, he didn’t lay all his cards on the table. From his flashy clothes to his dodge and weave bravado, I knew instinctively I couldn’t trust him.

  “I know Shane’s been rough on you. I’d understand if you wanted to finish your contract early. I could find a new singer. Not as good as you I’m sure, but ...” Mack shrugged, looking the tiniest bit guilty. “I wouldn’t charge you a penalty fee or nothing.”

  I eyed him for a few seconds, trying to decide if he felt sorry for me or had suddenly gone loco. More likely he’d been coerced onto Shane’s ‘let’s save a few bucks’ bandwagon. “I haven’t met a man yet who could scare me away.”

  Mack bought my machismo act hook, line, and sinker. I knew better than to try that line with Shane, however. I probably wouldn’t have been able to finish the sentence before he called me on it.

  But it didn’t matter now because Shane wasn’t here. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes before seven on a Tuesday night and the twenty or so tables were nearly filled. A few stragglers sat at the bar.

  While the place was small, it made it easier for me to play off the audience. Chatting with people as I moved from table to table fell within my comfort zone. I worked my way into the audience as I sang, teasing and flirting along the way. It’s what I did best.

  I perched my backside onto the corner of a table and crossed my legs, bouncing the top one up and down. “What can I sing for you tonight?”

  “How about ‘Turn Me On’ by Nora Jones?”

  Perfect. I glanced at Donna who nodded in confirmation. “I can do that.”

  A sultry tale ripe with passion, the song winds its way through the ups and downs of a relationship as a woman waits for her man to come back. Definitely something I’d done a few million times.

  Judging by the hearty round of applause, I knew I’d captured the essence of the song, which made me feel on top of my game. I gave a polite bow and said, “I guess I can relate to that song more than I’d care to admit.” I laughed. “But heads-up, fellows. When a woman says turn me on, it doesn’t mean a tongue and a tweak, if you know what I mean.”

  A few snickers rose from the audience. One man shouted, “Don’t worry, Gabriella, I know exactly what I’m doing. How about a date?”

  I’d found out early on in my career that intimate spaces made people feel free to voice their opinions. Luckily, I’d perfected the art of flirtatious repartee.

  As I strolled toward the man’s table, I noticed Shane had arrived and taken his usual position behind the bar, relegating Mack to ‘gofer’ duties. If the influx of customers surprised Shane, I couldn’t tell by his expression. Instead, he seemed laser-focused on me.

  Reaching the table, I said, “Now that’s a mighty tempting offer, sir, but I don’t date customers.” I ran my fingers down the man’s shoulder. “Besides, I’m only going to be here for a couple more weeks. Just until the end of August.”

  I gave Shane a quick glance to make sure he hadn’t decided to fire me on the spot. So far so good. Although the intensity of his glare had inched up considerably in the last few seconds.

  “But if I left, I wouldn’t be a customer, would I?” the man countered, bringing my attention back to him and off Shane.

  I sashayed a little closer. I’d worked in bars so long I’d developed my own breathalyzer system, ranging from zero for sober to ten for being inches away from passing out. I figured this guy at about a five and therefore safe. Anything above a seven, and I steered clear.

  I paused to give the impression I was contemplating his suggestion. “That’s true, but I also don’t date bankers, too boring. Lawyers—do I really have to explain that one? Managers, too anal. Accountants, ditto on the boring. Doctors, that God complex and all. Salesmen, too slick. Anyone in the construction field, too flirty.” Figuring I’d covered all professions, I let out a smile. “That only leaves cops.”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “Hmmm. But I also don’t date married, engaged, or otherwise attached men, and I’m betting you’re one of those.”

  The guy gave a guilty nod while I shimmied away. “Am I good or what?”

  “You didn’t say anything about teachers.” The room acoustics were so right on nobody had to shout to be heard.

  “Oh, honey, I’m a high-maintenance gal. These shoes are four-hundred-dollar Manalo Blahniks.” I pointed toward my feet, a wicked smile on my face. “Not meaning to sound shallow, but I know what teachers make. That would never work.” I sauntered over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “But you’re mighty cute.”

  Another guy spoke from the back. “We don’t have to date. I could be one of your groupies.”

  God, th
is was fun. “Shane frowns on those.” I pointed toward him as he stared at me from behind the bar. Speaking in a conspiratorial whisper into the microphone, I said, “He’s a bit of a curmudgeon.”

  I smiled when Shane gave me the death stare in return.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With Van Morrison singing in the background, I hunted through the crowd for a likely candidate for what I had in mind. If nothing else, I wanted to prove to Shane that people would enjoy listening and dancing to music in-between sets. Finally, I spotted a potential candidate.

  I half danced, half shimmied my way over just as Van Morrison began to sing ‘Brown-eyed Girl.’ The guy looked harmless, not too inebriated, and kind of cute.

  I grabbed the blonde guy’s hand. “This is my song. Dance with me.” When the guy stood, I continued, “Full disclosure. I like to lead.” I motioned to the remainder of the crowd. “Join us. Who can resist a Van Morrison tune?”

  The guy smirked and grasped my hand. I brought him onto the small stage that doubled as an impromptu dance floor. Although a calculated risk, I found the guy to be a competent dancer, and, more importantly, not too handsy.

  After the song finished, I spared a glance at Shane, hoping maybe he didn’t care about what I’d orchestrated behind his back. If I was really lucky, maybe he’d see the benefit of what I’d done.

  One look gave me the answer. And it wasn’t pretty.

  It might be my imagination, but it looked as if there was a vein pulsing in the middle of his forehead, one that seemed seconds away from bursting. That couldn’t be good. Plus, he was giving me the super-duper death stare from behind the bar.

  When the Van Morrison selection changed to ‘Someone Like You,’ it seemed only natural for me to crook my finger at him. When things started to go downhill, my policy was always to push the envelope. He couldn’t very well strangle me in front of all these people, could he?