by Etta Faire
I looked around. A chill went up my spine. A low grumbling replaced the breathing. The wall seemed to be holding in its anger. I got the feeling it wanted to know what I had to say, though. I turned toward it.
“Hello, Drew,” I said, yelling out to her. “I know you’re here. I know you feel regret.” I motioned toward the horse. “You were angry when you killed Feldman. You wanted him to feel regret. You wanted him to know it was you. But he didn’t. That must’ve made you even angrier. You were supposed to be a team in life and on the investment. He was all you ever had in life, having been brought up in an orphanage.”
I picked the horse back up again. “Designing and making clothes was your passion, your one dream, and you were promised the opportunity to fulfill it, with your partner in life. You were saving for a dress shop. You both were. You from your meager seamstress job and Feldman from his writing and his wheeling and dealing.”
The opening in the back of the room grew larger, the breathing started up again. This time it was heavier and colder. I glanced over at Mr. Peters. He and Rosalie were standing right by the door, phones at the ready to call for help.
“I think we should go,” Mr. Peters said, his voice quivering.
I shook him off. I was just getting started. “It was supposed to be like Golden Promises. But when he sold the bar out from under you, you were out of luck, and desperate. Apparently, because no one bets on the girl, you were not going to get anything from your part of the investment.”
My eyes focused on the part of the brick wall that was still there, where words were forming.
Never. Never bet on the girl. Regret.
The lamp shot across the room, crashing by the front door. And Rosalie screamed. It was almost pitch black now despite my flashlight, making me realize just how much light that dim lamp was giving off.
I felt where to go, though. It was pulling me toward it.
“I know you won’t hurt me. You’re angry at Feldman. At life. Channel with me. Show me what happened. I’m guessing you had help that night. Was it Richie or Flo? You know you need closure too.”
The opening was pulsating now, with flaps that looked like the weird animated heart valves featured in high-school biology films. Every part of me said not to do this. A normal person would not walk toward a pulsating weird hole at the back of a room that smelled like sulphur. But I also knew I was not normal, and that I was going to do it.
Both Rosalie and Mr. Peters turned their flashlights on, illuminating my path as I walked toward the opening.
Rosalie screamed when she saw what I was doing. “Carly, it’s my job to tell you when you’re being stupid…”
“No it’s not. Nobody asked you to do that,” I replied.
“Well, you’re being stupid. And you know I can’t hold that in.”
“I don’t need you to tell me. And I don’t need you to watch. I’m going to be fine.” I tried to believe that, make my voice as confident as when I’d channeled with Feldman. I had to remember I had the power.
Still, I slowed my steps down. I was in no hurry to prove it to myself.
The room grew colder the closer I got to the pulsating hole. Shivering, I forced myself toward it, noticing for the first time that the snow-like particles floating and drifting in the blackness were ashes of burnt paper. Some still had the faint ink markings of words on them.
Rosalie yelled to me when I got to the edge. “Don’t you dare. That’s the gate to the hosts of evil…”
But I didn’t believe that’s what it was. This hole had been made by a rooting ghost. By Drew, trying to stop Feldman from making a backdoor and invading her space once again.
I let my mind go blank as I took a step into the cold darkness of the hole, barely registering the screams and gasps of my audience in the basement doorway.
I noticed the faint writing on one of the burnt pieces of floating paper said Golden Promises.
Chapter 29
A Convenient Logic
The room was bright and open, the tile along the kitchen counter a stark white, same as the walls and the appliances.
The smell of smoke was everywhere. I realized it was coming from me. I was inhaling it.
I was pretty sure I was Drew. I must’ve been Drew.
Tilting my head back, I blew smoke just above my face and watched it hang there a second before letting it fall against my eyes. I wanted the smoke to sting them. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I said, my voice feminine and low. “It sounded like you said Felds is selling his part of the bar. That’s crazy. He would have told me. We bought the bar together.”
I knew for sure I was Drew then. I tried to talk to her in our head. “Is this what you wanted to show me? I thought we were going to the night of Feldman’s death,” I said. She didn’t answer.
When our eyes stopped stinging, I was looking at Flo as she stood leaning over the counter in what was probably her kitchen. Her makeup was perfect, thick false-looking eyelashes, sculpted eyebrows. “Darling, it’s only together if you sign things together.” Her short, golden hair seemed to glisten in the light of the crystal chandelier just above our heads. Her kitchen was modern and sleek, just like her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you both put up money. But if he’s the only one with his Hancock on that paperwork then your share doesn’t count for anything.”
Drew waved the thought off. “It’s a speakeasy, an illegal club. There can’t be paperwork. It’s against the law.”
Her smile was crooked and confident. “There’s paperwork. Trust me. And it reads, ‘Drew gets nothing.’”
“He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“He’s a man. He doesn’t know not to. None of them do. They think your money is their money. But God forbid you try to touch their money. It’s a very convenient logic. Works really well for them.”
Drew shook her head, inhaling the cigarette deep into her lungs. I could tell by the way she was holding back the urge to cough, she didn’t smoke very often. “How do you even know? You’re rich.”
“My father owns everything, including my mother. It’s how he keeps us all on very short leashes.”
“Your leash doesn’t seem too short.”
Flo downed the clear drink in front of her that I was guessing wasn’t water. She opened a cabinet off to the side and grabbed a decorative bottle, pouring herself more, then she added a little more to Drew’s glass. “I found Daddy only pretends to dislike bailing me out. Having an unruly, young daughter is such a progressive problem to have.”
She ran a finger along the edge of her short glass then motioned around her kitchen and living room with it. From the countertops to the couch, everything was clean and white. “This apartment. This bottle.” She held up what was probably gin. “Only the well to do can afford luxurious problems like me. It’s given Daddy scads to talk about at all the best parties now. His out-of-control, modern daughter.” She leaned over the bar’s countertop that separated the kitchen from the dining area, her silky white blouse almost blending into the tile completely.
I listened to the thoughts floating around Drew’s head at the time. She was comparing her looks to Flo’s.
Flo was beautiful, all right. High cheekbones. The kind of short, cropped hair Drew wished she was daring and young enough to pull off. She was only about seven years older than Flo, but I could tell, Drew felt every one of those seven years.
Drew lowered her head, and I heard her thoughts clearly: When I cut my hair a year ago, Feldman accused me of trying to be a flapper, a radical. Like wanting independence and a fair share in life was a bad thing.
She’d ignored him at the time. But then maybe she’d been ignoring too much. His winks at other girls. His short temper. “Do you think Feldman has a girlfriend?”
“Oh darling, I have no idea. But you two aren’t married, and even if you were, that hardly means what it used to.”
“He said he’s not the marrying type.”
“Then you
knew what type you weren’t marrying.” Flo seemed to catch herself. She stood up and brushed the wrinkles from her top. “No offense. Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. I should have known. And now, I don’t even have a dime to show for it.” Drew put the cigarette out in the seashell ashtray in front of her and gulped down her last bits of gin. “Are you sure he’s selling the bar?”
“Not selling. Sold. To Doc. Used Henry Bowman’s lawyer. It won’t be final until December, but it’s a done deal.”
That did sound about right, but Drew didn’t want to hear it. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips.
“If you don’t believe me, ask Feldman.”
“No, I wouldn’t dare.”
“Why?”
“That would sound like I didn’t trust him.”
“Why do you care how it sounds? You don’t trust him. Hell, no one trusts him.” Flo lit a cigarette then searched one of the drawers in the kitchen cabinet. She finally pulled out a clunky wad of keys. “Look, I have to go. Marshall and I are taking the ponies out for a ride before autumn really sets in and it’s too cold to do that. Wanna come?”
Drew shook her head. She knew it wasn’t a real invitation. Only the rich got to do things like take the ponies out. “I’ve got the evening shift at Merlot’s. And Mr. Merlot told me not to be late again.”
“You’re too good for that old man’s dress shop. How many little old ladies come in there for ridiculous things like bustles or repairs for their outdated, humungous hats? You should have your own shop by now, sweetie.”
“That’s what we were saving for before Feldman went and partnered up with Henry Bowman for a little easy money bootlegging. Both of us saving. He told me it was an investment in us. I’m guessing he sold that bar for a lot more than he paid. Than we paid,” she corrected herself. “We both saved our money for it. He talked me into putting it into the speakeasy because Henry Bowman told him that kind of business was really going to take off during prohibition…”
Flo set the keys down and put her arm around Drew’s shoulder. She smelled like the time Drew was twelve and a rich lady came into the orphanage to make a contribution. It was the first time Drew realized money had a smell, and it wasn’t sweat.
Flo was talking. “I only know all of this because I adore art. And Terry’s a good artist when he’s sober. Feldman came to me asking about an art studio…”
“An art studio? For a good-for-nothing lush?”
“Probably why he’s doing it. He wants Terry to sober up and fly right.”
Drew grabbed the gin and poured a little more then downed it. It burned our throat without the tonic part and we made a face. “Well, it’s sending the rest of us straight to the bottle.” She practically gagged out the words.
“You know I’d help if I could. But my money’s daddy’s money. And Daddy doesn’t part with much. Do you have your own bank account?”
Drew shook her head. The sinking feeling in our stomach got worse.
“I’m afraid you haven’t much of a leg to stand on here. I heard from Daddy’s friend at the bank that Feldman already withdrew most the money Doc paid him for the bar. Looks like not all of it’s going to that art studio. Terry told me Feldman was taking him to the track this spring. He doesn’t know about the bar, but he’s very excited about the track.”
She leaned farther across the bar. “If I were you, I’d find what Feldman did with the cash before that gambler loses it all.”
Drew ran a nervous hand through her curls. “Then what? He’ll kill me if he finds out I took money.”
“He’ll kill you for taking your own money back? That sounds like that convenient male logic to me. Too bad you can’t beat him to that punch line. Kill him first.”
“Who says I can’t?”
Flo stopped in her tracks. A smile spread across her perfectly lined, red lips. “Now we’re talking.” She pushed her cigarette out and tossed her keys back into the drawer. “This suddenly became much more interesting than ponies. Marshall won’t mind if I’m late. He probably won’t even notice. He’s such a dear. Plus, he has his eye on one of the stablehands so he probably won’t even notice.”
Drew raised an eyebrow.
“Come on. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. My brother is the topic my father is desperately trying to avoid at parties. It’s why he loves having me, so that conversations won’t roll around to raving homosexuality. Not that they ever do. Never as much as I want them to, they don’t.”
Flo pulled Drew by the arm over to the couch, causing her to land hard along the stiff, over-stuffed cushions.
“I’m not really… doing this,” Drew said.
“Of course not. We’re just talking.”
Drew’s heart raced. This was so unlike her. Even joking around about something so horrible.
“When do you want to do it?” Flo asked.
Drew gulped. “Well, if I were really doing it, which I am not, Feldman’s got a poker party planned in December at the Bear Bird with all of his friends from high school. Doc’s going too. I guess now I know it’s really a last hoorah at the bar.”
“Typical gambler. We need a plan. Or, at least an objective to work off of.”
“I guess…” Drew began, stammering her words a little as sweat formed along her temple. “I would want him to know it was me, but only at the end when it’s too late to do anything about it.” She ran her hand over the pants she’d designed for herself. Woolen, practical ones that looked good on curves, not like the ones meant for men. The fabric scratched her palms a little. She should really make a pair in linen for spring. “And I would definitely want to make sure I didn’t get caught.”
“We won’t.”
“We?”
“You don’t know the first thing about law, do you? Trust me. My family has had a lot of lawyers, so I know. Just telling me about this makes me an accomplice. I might as well have some fun and play along at this point. Plus, I’m practically mad about the idea. It’s so deliciously terrible. If I could at all trust Marshall, I’d get him in on it too. My brother adores stuff like this. But his mouth is larger than his gut. Let’s make a list of all the people going to the party. Then, we’ll pick someone to frame.”
“Wait, what? Why?”
“You should really get out more. This is what happens when you spend all your time around sewing machines and orphans.” She rolled her eyes. “All the best murders are pulled off because the murderer took the time to make the evidence point away from them and onto at least one other person.”
She opened a drawer on her coffee table and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “We’ll write out everything. Then, we’ll burn the notepad.” She squealed. “Isn’t this already a hoot?”
Drew’s stomach flopped. She liked her new friend, but what was she doing? She used to love Feldman. She still did. He was the one who’d lost all love for her. Lost his mind, really, and any sense of who they used to be. The dreams they used to share. He hadn’t even told her he sold the speakeasy. Plus, he’d been seen all over town with other women. How had she ignored so much?
“Poison is how a woman would kill her sweetie. So we’ll cross that off the list I haven’t started yet. A gun is far too noisy.” Flo bit the tip of her pencil. “I know. We’ll drug him. Then, you’ll slice his throat when the coast is clear. Don’t worry. I can teach you how to do that. Who should we frame?”
“Richie,” Drew found herself saying without a moment’s hesitation.
“Richie? The cop?”
Drew nodded. “He’s creepy, always asking me out. And he’s been taking far too much money from the whole neighborhood for protection, against the police showing up and raiding people.”
“You don’t say. Who knew he was that kind of a cop?”
“You wouldn’t know. The rich have their problems. And the rest of us have real ones. Richie is a problem for a lot of people in this town.”
“Done. Now for the plan.” She held up the pad of pap
er. “We’ll need gloves, a sharp knife, practice…”
Drew knew this was just for fun. She was definitely not going to let this get out of hand. No one was killing anyone. It was just a hoot to fantasize about it, like Flo said, that’s all.
“And don’t worry, darling. I have the best sleeping pills. They could knock out a race horse. I believe they have, actually…”
Sure, he looked at other women, but he loved her. She couldn’t have spent almost ten years with a man who didn’t love her. Who lied to her and never had any intention of helping her get a career going, a family, a life after the orphanage. Was he about to toss her out like a first draft of one of his manuscripts?
Being used and tossed out couldn’t be her ending. It wasn’t going to be. She might have a thing or two to add to the plot line.
Chapter 30
Closing Time
Drew never spoke to me in our combined conscience the whole time we were at Flo’s, not the way other ghosts had when I channeled with them. I had no idea why, maybe guilt or lack of trust. But she merely fast-forwarded her memories with me until we reached the night in question. The night she did Feldman in.
It was dark in the bar. Everyone else had gone to sleep after Terry and Feldman’s fight.
I could tell, in the back of her mind, she was still questioning things. Was she really going to go through with this? It had been such fun, her and Flo sharing in the secret, hiding the horse all over the club.
But it was now or never. Feldman thought Drew was asleep upstairs. But really, when she overheard Doc say he needed to talk to Feldman, she quickly brought down two glasses from the bar and began pouring their favorite drinks.
“I’d known the entire night that Feldman was going to eventually admit to selling the bar,” she finally said to me, her voice barely over a whisper. “He had to. But I kept thinking that when he did, he’d tell me he’d done it for us. Maybe show me where he’d hidden the money, or tell me that he wasn’t really buying an art studio.” She paused her memory to talk. The beer froze in mid air over the glass she was pouring it into. “But when he finally mentioned it, it was like he was being forced into admitting it after his fight with Terry. He never even mentioned us. It was then that I realized what we had wasn’t love anymore. I wondered if it ever had been. It felt more like we’d just been going through the motions of life the whole time.”