by T. E. Woods
“So you’re manning the bar.”
Clay’s smile was warm. “You’ll learn that, too. Being the owner isn’t all glitz and glam. Every screwup comes back to you. Sometimes you gotta cover. It’s not bad. Francie’s on, too. I’m just her backup. Now tell me about tonight. All good?”
“All good.”
“What’s the big story of the grand opening?”
“Mayor’s dead.”
Clay’s smile turned playful. “Your fancy chef poisoned him?”
“I’m serious. A couple of cops had to leave Ten-Ten when they got a call.”
“What happened?” Clay wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought Millerman was some kind of fitness fanatic. Always biking around the square in those tight shorts nobody looks good in. Forever running those 10Ks.”
“Beats me. I suppose we’ll read all about it in the morning paper. His wife was at Hush Money tonight. Waiting for him. None too pleased, either. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling now, knowing the reason he didn’t show was because he was dead.”
Clay excused himself to pour drinks for a couple at the other end of the bar. Sydney leaned back and listened to Slow Kick sing about how he needed his lady to give him a fourteenth chance. She sipped her wine and felt the tension of the day fall away. This place had that effect on her. She’d returned to Madison two years ago after eighteen months of traveling and heard about the blues club that had opened during her absence. The Low Down Blues had brilliant acoustics, and Clay had connections that allowed him not only to attract the best local talent but also to book major artists from Chicago, St. Louis, and New Orleans. She had quickly become a regular.
Slow Kick finished his tune and announced he was taking a break. Sydney joined the rest of Clay’s customers in generous applause. Then she settled back and watched Francie and Clay display an effortless choreography as they filled the wave of drink orders Slow Kick’s break had sparked. When their activity quieted to a more regular pace, Sydney saw Francie give Clay a shove and an encouraging grin. He untied his apron as he walked toward the stage, tossing it aside before he sat on the bench behind a Steinway baby grand. He adjusted the mike and leaned in.
“This one’s for a friend of mine. Lady’s starting a new adventure tonight.”
Clay flexed his fingers before laying them on the keys. Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes, and the room filled with the notes of a rippling concerto. Sydney recognized it as a piece by Erik Satie and wondered how this classical piece would go over with Low Down’s blues-loving crowd. But as they ceased their chatter and set their drinks aside, she realized they were as enthralled by Clay’s masterful musicianship as she was. His hands moved across the keyboard with effortless precision, commanding the magnificent instrument to produce a soul-soothing tapestry of celestial sound. Two minutes into the piece, Clay raised his head, opened his eyes, and shifted the pace of his play in a seamless segue to a swinging, laid-back Rat Pack tempo. He leaned into the mike and let his smooth tenor voice bring life to the words of an old Carolyn Leigh promise.
“The best is yet to come and, babe, won’t that be fine?”
Sydney let the music, the wine, and the comfort of the space sweep her away from the anxiety of opening night. Forty minutes later, as Slow Kick finished his last set, she realized she was relaxed enough to sleep.
“And remember,” Slow Kick announced as he packed away his guitar, “last call was two tunes ago. Ms. Francie don’t take to folks dawdling about when she’s trying to close up. No matter how big you tip her…and you best tip that woman good. Come back tomorrow if you’re so inclined. We’ll roll them blues a little farther on down the road for ya.”
The lights came up. Sydney tucked a twenty-dollar bill under her now-empty wineglass and bade good night to Francie, who was wiping down the far end of the bar.
“Tell Clay I appreciated the sentiment of his song,” she said.
“Tell him yourself. He told me not to let you go before he said good night.”
“That’s right.” Clay came up behind her. Sydney turned to face him, aware, as always, of how much she liked the way time was beginning to frost the ends of his thick, dark hair. “Got something for you, Syd.”
“Advice for my first Saturday night?”
“Something you’ll need more than that.” Clay pulled a wooden bat from behind his back. Tied with a red velvet ribbon.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a Louisville Slugger. Forty-six ounces of perfectly hewn ash.”
“I…gee…I guess I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t know what this is for, do you?”
“It’s a bat. One uses it to hit baseballs.”
Clay looked her up and down. Sydney felt a flush of heat under his appraising gaze.
“You don’t look like your typical ballplayer.”
“Now you notice.”
“Oh, I notice, Syd.” His gray eyes teased hers. “This is for you. You may own a joint that’s six leagues higher than mine, but it’s got a bar. And anybody with a bar needs a bat.”
“For what?”
“Enforcement.”
Sydney shook her head. “Hush Money’s for the Brie-and-Chablis crowd. I don’t think I’ll be needing any strong-arm tactics.”
He handed her the bat. “Trust me. I know what I’m doin’. Take that and tuck it behind the bar. Show everyone who works for you where it is. When you need it, and you’re gonna need it, it’ll be there. Then come back here after. I’ll buy you a drink and let you tell me the story.”
She felt the heft of the bat and chuckled at the thought of swinging it at one of Madison’s elite. “But I have two bars. What am I to do with only one bat?”
Clay shrugged. “You got Roscoe Donovan driving Ten-Ten. I’ll bet my liquor license he’s already got one stashed.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. She realized it was the first time he’d ever touched her. Her body’s instant response told her it would be okay if it wasn’t the last. “Congratulations, Sydney. Really. Big things are going to happen for you.”
He squeezed her shoulder, said good night, and walked away, calling out to Slow Kick to ask if he had a moment.
Sydney reached up to feel the spot on her shoulder he’d touched. Then she slid her velvet-bowed bat under her arm and headed home.
Chapter 6
FIVE WEEKS AGO
“You’re already twenty minutes late.” Phoebe Millerman stood in the doorway to her kitchen. “Can’t you grab another cup of coffee downtown?”
Roger Millerman looked up from his newspaper and peered at her over those half-moon reading glasses she hated so much. Phoebe knew her husband thought they made him look intelligent.
If you ever glanced toward a mirror, she thought, you’d see they make you look like the assistant accountant at a discount shoe warehouse.
“I’m the mayor. It would be pointless for them to start the meeting without me. Come. Sit. When’s the last time we had breakfast together?”
“The last election. You and me down at Mickey’s Dairy Bar, remember? Your campaign manager figured a photo of you sharing waffles with your wife would make you more appealing to conservative voters.”
Roger raised his eyebrow the way he always did whenever she cut through his line of bull.
“Well then,” he said. “It’s been too long. At least you can share a cup of coffee with me, can’t you?”
Phoebe sighed. Then she took a seat at the old maple table her grandmother had given them when they moved into their first home. Back then they’d used it as a dining table. Roger had laughed and said they’d tell all their friends it was an antique heirloom.
“We’ll be the only ones who know it’s just plain old,” he’d said.
That was more than twenty years ago.
They’d sat at this table every night during Roger’s first run for city alderman. She’d outline his schedule for the next day. He’d tell her who had promised campaign donations. Together
they’d strategize how best to get the word out that Roger had a vision for their Near West neighborhood. One that fit the desires of the people who lived on its quiet, tree-lined streets. One he’d make sure was taken into account as the city grew.
Their dining room table was grander now. Replaced two weeks before Roger had first been sworn in as mayor.
“We’ll be entertaining,” he’d told her. “We need something more stately.”
So her grandmother’s maple table was moved into the kitchen.
“I’ll be gone three days next week.” He poured her a cup of coffee from an insulated carafe. “Portland. They’ve had a light-rail service for several years now. It might be just the thing we need here. Connect the East Side with the West.”
“This trip just come up?”
“I scheduled it last week.” He gave her a quick wink. “You’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to chat with you about it.”
“I’m here every night.”
He pushed his plate of toast and eggs aside. “Can we not do this, please? I’d hoped we could have a pleasant breakfast together. If you’re not up to that, can we please share at least a cup of coffee without you nagging or needing?”
She felt the sting of his criticism square in her gut. A sense of shame immediately followed it. She picked up her mug and cupped it in her hands, hoping the warmth would ease her discomfort.
“We don’t get out enough.” His tone was cheery again. She knew that was the closest she’d get to an apology. “How about we do dinner one night next week. Just you and me. You can bring me up to date on all the doings in your life. Tell me what’s got you coming and going out of this house like you’re the busiest buzzer in the hive. How’s that sound?”
Sounds like you need another picture in the paper.
“We got a card the other day,” she said. “Some new restaurant’s opening down on the square. It’s called Hush Money. Isn’t that clever? Cecile says the chef is supposed to be some kind of famous. Seems like the thing for the mayor to be at on opening night.”
Roger nodded. “I’ve seen the renovation they’re doing. Building used to be a bank. When’s it opening?”
“First Friday in June. No reservations. That’s different, isn’t it?”
“That’s more than a month away. Can’t I get a date with my best girl before that?”
Phoebe’s breath left her. A cold shiver raced down her spine. She set her mug down before her suddenly weak arms failed beneath its weight.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Who’s who?”
“You know damn well who. Who’s the woman you’re sleeping with these days?”
Roger shook his head. Slowly. Like he was already tired of the conversation she had just now begun.
“Phoebe, stop.”
“Don’t tell me to stop!” She was surprised at the fury in her voice. “You haven’t shown one bit of interest in me or what I’m doing in months. Now you’re off to Portland but want to make sure we’re seen in public. I know the pattern, Roger. I’ve lived through it too many times. Somebody’s seen you with her. You’re worried about rumors and want to send a message that all’s well on the home front. Who is she?”
He wiped his lips with one of the monogrammed napkins her cousin had embroidered for them as a wedding gift. The fabric, once the color of clover in May, had faded to a dingy gray after so many years of service. He pushed himself back from the table and stood.
“I have a meeting. As you pointed out, I’m already late.”
Phoebe stood and blocked his exit.
“Who is she? I have a right to know who’s fucking my husband!”
He grabbed her by both arms, his fingers digging deep as he shifted her out of his way.
“I mean it!” She was shrieking now. “You sure as hell aren’t sleeping with me! Tell me who it is you are!”
“Leave it alone, Phoebe.”
“Just tell me her name!”
He stepped toward her. The anger in his eyes was enough to force her back several steps. Oddly, when he spoke, his voice was calm.
“Take a look at yourself, Phoebe. I mean it. Go stand in front of a mirror and take a good long look at those fifty extra pounds you’re carrying. See those floating tents you call dresses. Those god-awful leather sandals you insist are so comfortable. Look long and hard. Then give me the name of anyone who would blame me for reaching for something more readily identifiable as female.”
“You’re a bastard,” she whispered.
“Some women have the excuse of pregnancy to explain their descent into dowdiness. But you don’t have that, do you?”
Shame washed over her again. Hot. Smothering. Urging her to disappear.
“You need to settle down. Learn to live the life you have,” he continued. “You’re the mayor’s wife. You could make something of that if you let yourself crawl out of that bastion of self-pity you’ve spent so many years constructing. And if things go the way I think they’re going to, you could be the next first lady of the great state of Wisconsin.” His voice twisted into a sneer. “You might be surprised what women would be willing to do to fill that role.”
He walked away. Then, at the door, he stopped.
“I leave for Portland on Saturday morning. Make a reservation for the two of us for dinner on Friday night. Pick a place on the North Side. It’s been too long since I’ve been seen there. Call my office and tell them where you’ve chosen. They’ll let the press know.”
He left before she had a chance to refuse.
Chapter 7
NOW
It was the noise that roused her. She’d been asleep. She wished the noise would go away so she could sleep again.
“Windy?”
The voice sounded muffled. Far away. Then the noise came again.
I should know what that sound is. Her brain continued to taunt her.
“Windy? You in there? Open up. I gotta get to the bank before Frank gets home.”
She looked around the room and experienced the same sense of belonging she’d felt the night before.
This is my bedroom. This is where I live.
The sound came again. A wisp of fog lifted in her recollection.
That’s knocking. On a door.
“Damn it, Windy! I’m using the key! I get opening-night celebrations and all, but you gotta wake up!”
Her body raged against her when she tried to sit. Like she’d lain in one spot so long any fluid lubricating her joints had dried up. The ache in her bones complemented a stabbing pain in her head. She squinted tired eyes against sunlight blazing through the window.
A different sound came. This one she knew.
“Mommy! Mommy! Look what I made!”
A door opening. Footsteps. Running.
Another set of footsteps. Slower.
“Windy? You still in bed?”
A little girl tumbled into the room. Light brown hair. Soft. With curls gathered into a thick ponytail. Brown eyes seemingly too large for her delicate face. Eyes suddenly wide with fear.
“Mommy!”
In an instant her confusion lifted. The dripping dam of her mind burst, broken apart by the sight of her daughter and flooding her with recollections and remorse.
A woman stopped midstep as she entered the room. She recognized her, too. Aubree Daniels. She lived two doors down. Nice enough to watch Gabby when she had to work. Too good for that son of a bitch Frank.
Windy Fields tried to offer her neighbor and daughter a reassuring smile. The effort overwhelmed her and accentuated the pain inside her skull.
“What the hell happened?” Aubree hurried toward her. “Windy! You’re a mess! What’s wrong? Were you mugged or something? This damned neighborhood. It’s getting so a person can’t walk down the street.” Aubree knelt by the side of the bed and held Windy’s head in both hands. “Honey, what is this? What happened?”
“You’re muddy, Mommy!” Gabby jumped onto the bed and crawled behind her mother. “An
d you got leaves and burrs on you. Did you sleep outside, Mommy? Without me?”
Windy groaned in pain as her daughter’s movement rocked the bed.
“Gabby, honey, go put your backpack in your bedroom.” Aubree’s eyes stayed on Windy as she spoke. “Then be a big girl and get a bottle of Coke from the fridge, okay? Mommy looks like she could use a little treat.”
“Did you go camping, Mommy?”
“Gabby!” Aubree’s tone reflected her years of experience working in daycare centers. “Get your things to your room. Now!”
Gabby hopped off the bed and out of the room without a murmur of protest. Aubree waited until she was gone.
“What happened, sweetie?” she whispered. “You want I should call the cops?”
Windy tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.
“No,” she finally managed to croak. “No.”
“You got blood all caked up in your hair!” Aubree stood to get a better look. “And a goose egg that just won’t quit. Gabby’s right. You got sticks and mud all over your back. Not to mention the front of your…” Aubree’s whisper grew more urgent. “That’s not mud. On your blouse. That’s not mud!” She began to fumble with buttons but Windy pushed her hands away.
“Honey, that’s blood on you.” Aubree wasn’t whispering anymore. “You’re hurt. You gotta let me take a look and see how bad this is.”
“I’m okay. I just need a shower is all.”
“Like hell that’s all you need. What the hell happened to you?”
“Mommy! Mommy!” Gabby’s voice called out from the front room. “There’s police cars outside! Two police cars! Come see!”
Aubree turned, but Windy grabbed her arm before she could leave the room.
“Let me get them.” Aubree squirmed but Windy held tight. “If you won’t tell me what happened, at least let them take you to the hospital or something.”
“I don’t need them,” Windy insisted. “I need a shower and I need a nap.”
Aubree looked down at Windy’s grip. “You’re scaring me. What’s got you so spooked?”
A loud bang on the front door startled them both. Windy lost her hold and Aubree stepped back.