Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  “Was he in a lot of pain?” Logan had to know.

  “I think he was beyond that, if that makes sense. He was unconscious at first. Then he opened his eyes. I did my best, but there was no way anyone could have saved him. He was too far gone.”

  “You stayed with him till the end?”

  She gave him a small smile. “I held his hand.”

  Logan nodded. At least Jimmy wasn’t alone.

  They looked at each other and a warmth flowed between them. Logan looked away, trying to gather his thoughts.

  “He spoke to me,” she said.

  “Sounds like Jimmy. He always wanted the last word.” Why was he trying to make light of it? “What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘Tell Logan, “Emer-Old.”’ I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but that’s what he said, and then he died. He used all his strength to get those words out.”

  The message made sense to Logan; crazy sense, but sense all the same. He nodded, not wanting to share his thoughts.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  The lines around Logan’s eyes crinkled. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  She shook her head. “The message was for you.” She turned and looked towards the stage.

  He took her arm. “Maggy, were you and Jimmy lovers?”

  “No.” The look she gave him was like a shot of good cognac, filled with heat and complexity. And hot . . . so hot it burned. The woman knew how to use words, but she knew even better— how not to.

  She nodded towards the stage. “I have to go.”

  “Last set?”

  She nodded, while her eyes still played with his.

  “I’ll stay.”

  She gave him a promising smile, then turned and walked away. Long, blond curls bounced down her back to her waist, and below that her wide hips and round ass swayed its way to the stage.

  “Emer-Old?” What had Jimmy gotten into?

  11

  The world’s most famous and popular language is music. Psy

  Many of the regulars at the Black Cat made a point of staying to the end of the night to hear Maggy sing her last song. With her sultry, honey-dipped voice she put everything she had left into it. Joe said her finales kept the men warm for the night, and then some. Tonight Maggy planned to sing the classic, “I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

  She waited for the room to hush and then she said, “This song’s for Jimmy Daniels.”

  Looking over at Joe to steady her nerves, she saw his weathered face break into a wide smile that warmed her from the outside in, like a tropical wave. Despite all his health problems Joe never complained, never weighed anyone down. Seeing him in the audience eased her nerves and brought out the best in her voice.

  Waiting for the growing expectation of the crowd to hit its peak, she took a sip of water. She could feel a different kind of hunger from Logan. Each fueled her in its own way.

  Logan Daniels looked like a good port in a storm: strong, confident, and commanding. Good for a one-night stand. His eyes slid over her body warming every dirty thought crossing her mind. The last thing she needed was a broken man. She had trouble enough piecing together her own fragments. Still, something about Logan pulled her. She gave Logan a nod.

  Tossing her mane of thick curls behind her, she started to sing. Her voice pulled the audience in with its trembling longing. It was everything they expected and more. Putting her soul into her voice had become easy, thanks to Joe’s coaching.

  The image of Jimmy bleeding to his death in the alley grabbed her, but she didn’t push it away; she used it, holding nothing back. The crowd went silent.

  By the end she’d emptied herself, exhausted by the experience of channelling all her feelings into her voice. She lived for the experience. Some people have religion, some people politics . . . she had music. It was all about the music. The crowd cheered their appreciation.

  As she packed up her guitar she wondered if Logan would understand her. But did it matter, when she only wanted a hook-up? Nothing more.

  She gave him her ‘come hither’ look, a look as old as time. And he came to her.

  ***

  At her place, she locked the door behind them and leaned her guitar against the wall. After lighting the candle on her kitchen table she turned to face him and started unbuttoning her blouse.

  He took her into his arms, and pulled her close. His five o’clock shadow brushed against her cheek, lighting every nerve ending in her body. Heat flowed through her system pooling in lower belly. He even smelled sexy.

  Gently he kissed her mouth, igniting a flame of desire. It had been so long since she had been with a man. Too long. She opened her mouth to his and he deepened their kiss.

  His large hands roamed over her and he pulled her even closer. She moaned as his hardness pushed against her.

  This was what she needed. Oh, hell, yeah. Exactly what she needed. Simple sex. Fast and hard and easy. A horizontal mambo with no strings attached.

  No strings? Wait. Who was she kidding? Sex always came with strings. Sometimes they were visible and sometimes they weren’t, but they were always there. She pulled away from him.

  His eyes met hers. “What’s wrong?” he asked with a voice husky and rough with need. “I thought you wanted . . . “

  Heat coursed through her body, a primal heat that said, Oh yeah baby, you are exactly what I want. She straightened her blouse and started doing up the buttons from the top.

  “I don’t know you.” She cleared her throat, attempting to gather her thoughts from a desire-riddled brain. The air between them, electric with currents of passion, nudged at her resolve.

  He grumbled and leaned towards her. “I can fix that,” he whispered in her ear.

  “No.” She did up another couple buttons. “I thought I wanted this, but I don’t.” Their combustible chemistry was unsettling.

  She put her hand on his chest and pushed him back a bit. “Neither of us needs this tonight.” Yes, the sex would be a good release, but the left over emotions would be messy. She held his stare in the flickering candlelight.

  He tilted his head and gave her a killer smile that warmed her body right down to her pinky toes.

  “Logan . . . “ She meant to say, “Logan, no,” but somehow the second part of the sentence didn’t come out.

  He touched his forehead with hers. His fingers settled on her hips and they felt like fire. Lust, pure, potent lust, surged inside her, urging her on like an animal in heat. It was just biology. She needed to ignore it.

  But why ignore it? A simple night of sex. Why the hell not? They could figure out the consequences later. Nah, that was just her libido talking. She knew better.

  Maggy took a step back wanting control, but his hands stayed on her body. Two adults enjoying each other’s company. She swallowed. All she had to do was say yes.

  They stood looking at one another, a momentary impasse of unresolved passion, locked in an awareness of each other’s needs.

  “Maggy . . . “

  The neediness of his voice, a desperation born of more than passion, re-triggered a wave of caution as cold as ice in her mind, cooling her overheated body. What was she doing? She hardly knew this man. Her life was a mess. His life was a mess. She took a quick breath and pulled back. “It’s time for you to go.” She folded her arms around herself. “I’m sorry. This just doesn’t feel right.”

  It would have been easier if Logan had said something nasty to her before he left, but he didn’t. Grabbing his jacket, he left without a word, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ***

  She threw her pillow at the wall for the fourth time. Her body wanted him. But it wasn’t right. You’d think she’d have more sense. The last thing she needed right now was a fling with a needy man. But wasn’t she equally needy? What a time to be out of batteries.

  Damn, the craving for sex reared itself at the worst times. Her love of men would be the death of her yet. She retrieved the pillow
and tossed it onto her couch.

  He was hot, so hot . . . in so many ways. The visceral memory of his hands on her body burned. Damn he was good. She ached for him in every way a woman can ache—and then some.

  12

  Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. Ludwig van Beethoven

  The noise that woke Maggy wasn’t loud, just out of place. Way out of place. She rolled over and checked her clock: 8:00 a.m., too early for any of her friends to visit. They knew she worked late. They knew she hated mornings. Who else would step on her barge without permission? The small sound seemed to ricochet in her tiny home. Footsteps?

  She sat up. Daylight peaked through the edges of her blinds. Did she lock the door when Logan left? She couldn’t remember.

  Reaching for her cell phone, she cursed her stupidity a second time. It was dead. How could she be so dumb? She had forgotten to plug it in. Now what? A shuffling sound. Her pulse quickened. She strained to hear more as she plugged in her phone.

  Nothing.

  If she ran, she’d make it down the ladder and to the door to lock it in a minute. But how much good would that do? It would be easy for someone to break through the window beside the door. If only she’d listened to Mei and put up strong, wooden shutters last month, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. And she had called her friend paranoid. She hated it, when Mei was right.

  If she screamed someone might hear. But it could make the intruder more aggressive.

  The distinct sound of light footsteps on her barge came to her door and stopped outside. She gulped.

  Three knocks. “Maggy? You awake?” Mei’s voice.

  “Yeah,” Maggy called out as she ran a shaking hand through her tangled hair.

  “You better come out.”

  Maggy opened the door and squinted as sunlight flooded into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Mei smelled of jasmine. She had pulled her long, shiny black hair into a high pony tail, which would look casual on ordinary women, but looked stunning on her. She had perfect skin, a tiny nose and dark eyes that always held mischief. But at the moment they also looked pissed off. “We’re having a dock meeting at The Skuttlebut. There’s been some weird stuff happening on the docks. I’ve been texting and phoning you, but you didn’t answer.”

  “When’s the meeting?”

  “In ten minutes.”

  “Ten?” Maggy groaned. “I’ll get dressed. Thanks.”

  “Sure.” But Mei didn’t leave.

  “What?”

  “Who was that guy hanging around your barge?”

  A tingling sensation crawled across Maggy’s skull. “When?”

  “Just now. I thought he might be a friend of yours and would have introduced myself, but he flew out of here as soon as I walked up.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Mei scrunched up her mouth. “Like a regular dock guy: jeans a hoody and a black toque. I didn’t see his face.”

  Maggy shrugged, but she could feel Mei’s eyes staring her down. “Honestly, I don’t know. A noise woke me up and I was about to come to the door to check it out.”

  Mei tilted her head. “Maybe you got a stalker from the bar.”

  A stalker? That was more than possible. It could even have been Frank with his beer breath. Maggy shivered. But Frank would never blend with the locals. No matter which way she turned this puzzle it came out wrong. Was Edgar right? Was she in danger? A single drop of cold sweat trickled down her back. “Who knows? Some creepy fan could be checking me out.”

  Mei wrinkled her nose. “The glamour of being a star, eh.” She shrugged. “See ya at the café.” She walked away with the grace of a ballerina, and Maggy had to stop herself from asking her to stay to keep her company. Really, she needed to get a grip. Too many late nights was playing on her nerves. The guy could be a salesman, or someone with the wrong address. Just because he came to her door. . . didn’t mean he was a murderer.

  Still, she wondered. On her way to the meeting Maggy stopped at a pay phone and dialed Inspector Peterson’s number. She hated cops with a passion, and for good reason, but it was time she talked to him. The beginning of a serious migraine sat in the spot between her eyes. Damn that alley.

  “Peterson,” he said.

  “This is an anonymous caller,” she said, muffling her voice.

  “I don’t like anonymous.” His voice sounded like gravel being kicked around, just the way she remembered it.

  “The Black Cat murder’s linked to Brother XII’s buried treasure.”

  “And I’m a Martian with two dicks.” He hung up.

  That didn’t go well. Why the hell can’t cops listen?

  ***

  Smokey, an old hippy who’d lived on Granville Island since its latest rebirth in the 70s owned and operated The Skuttlebut Café. Set a couple hundred yards in from the docks in the lower floor of a century-old, red-brick warehouse, her diner had become a gathering place for locals. It had a down-home granola feel to it, wooden tables covered in blue and white gingham table clothes and decent coffee. Not great coffee, but drinkable.

  Unless there was a hockey game on, her sound system played classic rock and roll in the afternoon, but Gordon Lightfoot dominated her morning playlist. Smokey got her name from the days when she sang with a rock band. No one knew her birth name and given her personality, no one asked.

  It was hard for Maggy to believe her community was holding a formal meeting. Dock people rarely gathered for such things. They drank beer together on occasion, and when any excuse came along for a celebration, they’d hold wild parties, that no one talked about afterwards, but they weren’t the “let’s have an agenda” kind of gang. They were great neighbors and interesting people, but definitely not committee types.

  She had lived in her houseboat at the Shady Lane Marina for six months. No one seemed to know the official origin of its name, but there were lots of stories. It had twenty houseboats at the moment. Some city planners called it the Dogpatch Everyone knew everyone else and secrets were rare. But the laid-back attitude of the community made it comfortable to live in and it fit her like a well-worn, leather mukluk. Without anyone saying it, everyone knew the cardinal rule: “live and let live.”

  Beside her houseboat community was the Blue Heron Marina, a private docking area for thirty upscale yachts and sailboats. She knew a few people from over there, but most of them only came to their boats when the weather and stock market were good.

  Catching up on her text messages, she gathered this meeting would involve all the people from both marinas, because some idiot had been messing with property in both locations. It had started with minor stuff and escalated to a fire set on one boat this week. The worst fear of anyone on boats, if you ignored mythical squid legends, is fire. There would be a good turnout.

  When she opened the door of the café Maggy almost fell over. At least thirty people crammed into the small space. It looked like almost every house from ‘Shady Lane’ was represented, and at least half the boats from the Blue Heron. Mei sat near the front.

  Maggy chose to sit near the door. If her headache worsened, she could slip out. Smokey wearing her blue Go Canucks apron plunked a big mug of coffee in front of her. It was her favorite cup. On the side there was one line, “Don’t mess with me.” Black fluid rippled over the edges of the cup and onto the table. Maggy used a napkin to clean the mess and took a long drink. Yup, good enough and just what her headache needed. For good measure she knocked back a couple pain killers from her purse.

  Loud, anxious chatter filled the room; conversations laced with anger and fear. She didn’t need to hear every word spoken to gauge the worry in the crowd. It showed in their drawn faces and the way they leaned towards each other, as if proximity could keep out the darkness of the world.

  Hunter stood up, and the crowd hushed, stopping their conversations in mid-sentence. She’d never thought of Hunter as a leader; a protector yes—he loved his boating community—but not a leader. But t
his crowd gave him credence.

  Hunter ran a successful sailing charter from a thirty six foot sailboat docked at the Blue Heron marina. Besides that, the man was a bit of a puzzle. One, she had often dreamed about unraveling. Six foot, well-built and with a wide smile, he had to be the hottest single man on the docks. He had honest, dark blue eyes that could heat an igloo for a month, cocoa colored skin and wavy black hair. He got his eyes from his Irish father and his skin color from his Haida mother, but there was that missing piece of the puzzle she wondered about. Hunter had an aloofness that went beyond being cool and into the zone of scary. Clearly he had a past.

  Hunter started talking. “Just to bring everyone up to speed there have been four events now. Last Monday two kayaks were stolen from Huey’s yacht. Tuesday, Lopez’s houseboat at the Shady Lane marina was set on fire. We got the fire out before it hit the gas tanks. Two hundred dollars was taken.” The crowd grumbled. “Last Wednesday, the Franklyn’s twenty-four-foot sloop was cast adrift in the middle of the night.” The grumbling grew louder. “And Thursday, Elena’s yacht had a galley fire.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” called out one person in the crowd.

  “We have to get to the bottom of this,” said another.

  The crowd’s response had escalated as Hunter detailed the catastrophes. Concern swelled like a tsunami. Maggy’s head pounded.

  Hunter raised his hand and once again they went quiet. “Someone is sabotaging our community. And each time they strike, they hit harder.”

  “You’re makin’ too much of it,” yelled Smokey by the counter. “Each incident is different. They’re not the same.”

  “They’re escalating.” Hunter stared her down.

  “Bullshit.” Smokey rolled her eyes. “I betcha a loony Elena the nymphet over there set her boat on fire to get your sweet ass on her boat.”

  A buck! Only Smokey would place such a bet.

  The crowd went silent, looking back and forth between Smokey, Hunter and Elena.

  Elena stood up and shifted her shoulders, drawing everyone’s eyes to her over-flowing bikini top, peeking through her open sailing jacket. Maggy blinked. Does the bitch ever give it a rest? A bikini top in November?