by Ami Diane
“How about that drink, Flo? What’ll you have?”
“Vodka.”
“Vodka… martini?”
“Nope. Just vodka.”
“Of course. Wink?”
Wink’s hands ran down her dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “Nothing for me. Well, maybe a gin and tonic to help my nerves.”
Ella nodded before weaving through the throngs of people, stopping to answer questions in character, as she made her way to the bar.
Chapter 2
THE TIFFANY-STYLE banker’s lamp typically adorning the top of the check-in desk had been stowed away, as had the clutter littering the cherry wood surface. A few barstools of green felt had been placed on one side. Propped atop the center one, looking like an extra on the set of Cheers, sat a familiar face.
“Lou.” Ella greeted the mechanic with a nod. She’d gotten over blaming him for being the reason she was stranded in Keystone Village. Well, she still harbored a secret wish that he’d be left behind in a subsequent jump or eaten by a bear, but she was mostly over it.
The mechanic turned glazed eyes on her, his lips glistening with beer. “Edith?”
“Ella. Starting early, I see.”
“Gotta get the good stuff before it’s gone.”
“A fact of which I’m sure your liver’s grateful for.”
He squinted his watery eyes, working out her comment. He’d made a moderate attempt at dressing up, trading his grease-stained coveralls for a grease-stained button up with pit stains and trousers.
Having given up on deciphering her sardonic remark, he licked his lips. “How’s that ol’ car of yours treating ya? Ready to trade up?” He scratched a fold of skin on his neck.
“Just what in that metal carcass wasteland of a car lot of yours do you consider a ‘trade up’ from a vehicle with a functioning engine?”
He blinked. A vein on his forehead stood out.
She patted his arm. “Never mind. Don’t strain yourself, buddy.”
While they’d been talking, Patience stood on the other side of Ella and had been berating the bartender for his choice of occupation. When she paused mid-diatribe for breath, Ella put in Wink’s and Flo’s drink orders, drawing a glare from the mayoral candidate.
Ella smiled. “Know what, barkeep? I’ll have a margarita.”
His mouth turned down at the edges. “What’s in one of those?”
“Oh. Right. Probably wasn’t invented yet or not popular or something. Tequila and—”
“Keystone doesn’t have tequila. No one grows agave.”
“Ah, well then… Rum and Coke?”
“A Jump Stiddy. I like your style, doll.”
Ella cringed but let the reference slide.
She typically didn’t drink alcohol, but she did, however, enjoy the apoplectic reaction from Patience. Something about the woman crawled over Ella’s skin like a bad rash.
Beside her, the Puritan’s thick wool shift hung loose on her body, covered in various layers of petticoats. She wore woolen stockings that seemed to have been colored with cheap dye.
Tipping her head to take in the outfit in all its Colonial glory, Ella asked, “Aren’t you hot in that getup? Does it itch? It looks itchy.”
Patience pursed her lips.
From the dossier Ella had created, she knew the middle-aged woman to be from the 1690s, the days when witch burnings were in vogue. She’d been stranded in Keystone about five years back. And, judging by her current behavior and attire, she was struggling to acclimate to the town.
Patience took her puritanical Protestant convictions to a whole new level. She was unwavering and steadfast, and she wouldn’t relent until the whole town was converted, dry, and dressing like pilgrims.
What Ella couldn’t yet figure out was why the woman was running for mayor since it, quite literally, was against her religion. The woman’s participation alone in the previous town hall meeting went against the Puritan life—something about women in government or leadership positions or something. Ella’s guard had immediately gone up. The woman was up to something.
Patience’s eyes swept up and down Ella’s outfit, which by comparison, was rather scandalous, from the pinched, borrowed heels to her wayward curls.
Mercifully, the bartender placed three drinks in front of Ella.
“Have I not spake on such things?” Patience closed the distance to Ella in one skirted sweep of her dress. “Have I not entreated upon thee to turn from thy ways?”
Ella took a drought from her drink, watching the candidate over the rim of her glass. “Probably. You said a lot of different things about a lot of different sins at the town meeting. I’m not going to lie. I stopped listening when you called Pauline a charlatan and witch for practicing medicine.”
The bartender smirked behind a neatly trimmed red beard. “You’re new,” he said, drawing her attention away from Patience. His fiery hair was slicked back, thinning around the crown, and reflected the amber light cast by the chandelier and sconces.
Ella tipped her hand back and forth. “Sort of. I arrived around Thanksgiving.” She introduced herself, and he clutched her hand in a firm grip.
“Lucky Costello.”
“Lucky, huh? Remind me not to play poker against you.” She squinted and clicked her fingers. “Lucky… Lucky… hey, you’re the bartender at the Half Penny aren’t you?”
“And owner.” His chest inflated.
“Rose roped you in tonight? What’d she promise you?”
“Two weeks’ worth of home cooked meals.”
With the lull in conversation, Patience took up her running monologue again about how Lucky was going to hell. Ella had almost forgotten she was there.
She was in the middle of working out a plan to rid Lucky of the woman, one that didn’t involve bodily harm, when another candidate appeared.
Charles Wilson wore a grave expression, hands tucked into his lapels. She’d seen him speak once—at the town hall meeting—and wasn’t too keen to hear anything out of his mouth again, his platform remarkably similar to Patience’s. He also had a tendency to stab a sausage finger at the audience while orating.
“My fellow candidate here is correct.” He leveled that thick finger at Lucky. “I’m not going to stop until this entire town is dry.”
Ella breathed out, “Hello, Prohibitionist. Wait—no. Wrong word. Prohibitor?”
On her other side, Lou appeared genuinely offended. “Why’d you wanna do a thing like that, Charles? Pff, dry town.” He let out a noise that was probably meant to be a grunt of dismay but came out more of a gurgle. After tipping back his glass, he wiped a stained sleeve across his wet lips. “Well, I ain’t gonna stop until you withdraw from the race.”
When Lou had stood up at the meeting, announcing that he was running against Charles, Ella hadn’t taken him seriously. In fact, most present hadn’t until he added his name to the ballot and began passing out handmade leaflets. She still wasn’t sure what issue he was pushing or if Lou even knew what issue he was pushing.
She had the impression his motive ran deeper, down to principles. Charles’s very beliefs were an affront to Lou, evident not only in the mechanic’s manner in speaking with the man but also by the button currently pinned to his wrinkled shirt that read, “Chuck It Charles.” Given that this was Lou who had come up with the slogan, Ella thought it quite clever.
Lucky threw his rag over his shoulder in the manner in which most bartenders do. “Give it a rest, Charles. I’m not going anywhere.”
Charles’s jaw twitched and spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. Ella felt the moment prime to give them a history lesson. “I don’t know what era you gentlemen are from…” She paused and made a sweeping gesture at Patience. “You, I know what black stain of history you’re from, so I’ll include you in this. But just so you’re all aware, the country tried outlawing booze, remember? Even this murder mystery game we’re playing now—or supposed to be playing—is set during this dark era of history. The cou
ntry tried it. It was a wonderful experiment. But it failed.”
“Wasn’t given enough time.” Charles teetered on his feet and licked his lips, some of the color returning to his face. “Do you know how many families are ripped apart by alcohol in this town?”
“No,” Ella admitted.
“It’s the scourge of humanity.”
“He spaketh the truth,” Patience chimed in.
“Okay, Plymouth Rock.” Ella shrugged in Lucky’s direction with an apologetic smile. “I tried. You’re on your own. Good luck, but with your name, maybe you won’t need it?”
Balancing the three drinks in her hands, she left the candidates to verbally duke it out and slid through the crowd until she’d located both Wink and Flo. The diner owner accepted her drink with a “thanks” then carried on her conversation with two other people about the energy crisis without breaking stride.
Flo, on the other hand, swiped her drink and chugged it before asking Ella what had taken her so long.
“You’re welcome.” Ella turned away, searching for Will again.
It took several minutes of wandering, mostly because she stopped to answer questions about the murder, but eventually, she located him in the library. Clusters of people loitered about, either reading the hundreds of spines or chatted as they floated in and out through the French doors that opened to the conservatory.
“Look at you in your tailcoats.” Ella pinched Will’s arm. “You look like a penguin.”
“Thanks, mate.”
She grimaced. “What is that? Is that supposed to be an Australian accent?”
“I was going for Irish.” When he caught Ella’s expression he added, “No? Lose the accent?”
“I mean, unless you like sounding like Crocodile Dundee….” She knew the reference was lost on him. “Yeah, lose the accent. Wait, why do you even need an accent when you are from the 1920s?”
He shrugged.
They walked the perimeter of the two-story room together, scanning the books. Ella was as familiar with this room and the adjoining conservatory as she was her bedroom upstairs. She’d spent hours running her fingers along the spines, searching for her next read, immersing herself in other worlds as she let the scent of their pages wash over her.
“So, what do you think?” she asked. When he didn’t respond, she clarified. “About the game. This is your era, man.” She sashayed her hips. “Did I get the costume right?”
His dimples deepened. “You remind me of the dames I’d see at nightclubs.”
“Thanks?”
He laughed, the rich sound sending her pulse soaring. “So, who’re you supposed to be?”
“Pretty Pauley. You?”
“Benjamin the Butler, at your service.” He made an extravagant wave of his hands and bowed deeply.
“Careful. Don’t slip a disc. Benjamin the Butler, huh? Rose sure likes her alliteration.”
They made another lap, ambling and filling the air with small talk, consisting mostly of his latest invention that sounded an awful lot like a microwave. After she cautioned him against harmful radiation from such experiments, another gaggle of women—this time in their forties—approached, all smiles, and asked several questions about Sam Savage and Mad Dog Nelson.
Since most of their questions were directed at Will, Ella slipped out and wandered down the hallway. She passed black and white photographs that clung to the wall amid tapestries. Never having looked at them before, she paused at one, staring at a couple standing side-by-side.
Another picture, turning dark at the bottom from age, had two boys. One had his arm draped over the other’s shoulder. Something in the modeling of the first boy’s features, the deep-set eyes and strong brow bone even at that age, was familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Both boys’ faces were full of mischief, wonder, and an endless future before them.
Were all of the photos along the wall either Rose’s or Jimmy’s relatives or had they come with the mansion?
She continued on, pausing again when she caught heated voices ricocheting out of the study. The room had two doors. One led to the entrance hall and the other to the hallway she was in. Her steps stuttered to a stop. There were probably nearly a hundred guests inside the inn, but something about the voices gave her pause.
Patience’s distinct dialect and enunciation were clear over the ragtime tune playing in the background, but there was a second voice, rich, deeper, and full of gravitas.
Charles.
Apparently, they’d continued their conversation from the bar and had migrated to the study. She wondered how Lucky had finally gotten rid of them.
She was just about to continue walking when there was a pause between songs on the record, and the end of Charles’s discourse broke through the din.
“If they only knew what you were doing….” His tone was threatening. There was a clapping sound like someone being slapped.
“May the Lord smite thee,” Patience said in a shrill, barely contained rage.
Footsteps sounded a moment before Ella realized they were headed her way. She hurriedly spun, pretending she’d been going the opposite direction. After a couple of breaths, she glanced back over her shoulder to see Charles retreating down the hallway before he ducked into the parlor.
Ella crept back along the wall, passing an older woman who shot her an odd look. Inside the study, Patience stood near the fire, her cheeks practically glowing with anger and heat. Her eyes connected with Ella’s briefly, then she jumped and fled through the other door like a wounded animal.
Since Ella had been heading to the entrance hall anyway, she followed, making sure to keep a cushion of space between them. The last thing she needed was Patience’s wrath and accusations of being a stalker.
The hall was an electric buzz of music, laughter, and conversation as people swept about. She lost sight of Patience for a moment then caught a flash of the woman’s white linen apron as she ducked into the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen.
A battle waged inside Ella. She really didn’t want to aggravate the councilwoman, but on the other hand, her gut squirmed, uneasy with the pioneer wandering the mansion unaccompanied.
Her decision made, Ella dodged through the crowd and hurried towards the hallway—no easy feat in heels. She rounded the corner just as Patience slipped into the dining room. Rose had turned that room into a refreshment lounge of sorts, putting out a spread that was supposed to be just appetizers but appeared more like a meal fit for royalty.
Ella slowed past the open doorway, shooting a furtive glance inside. The councilwoman had her back to the hall and hovered near the pickled trout. Beyond Ella’s purview came giggling which told her that there were other people in the room.
If Patience would be amongst other guests, there wasn’t much need for Ella to tail her. She buried her suspicions and internally scolded herself for being so paranoid.
With a shove, she pushed in the kitchen door and slipped inside for a reprieve from the noise. Canary yellow walls and cabinets above a black-and-white checkered floor greeted her. In the mornings, pre-coffee and with the sun glaring in through the picture window, the bright, bold colors hurt her eyes.
However, on an evening like this one, dark and gloomy, she found the room rather cheery. She poured a cup of decaf coffee from the percolator on the stove and perched on top of a bar stool behind the island.
What had Charles and Patience been arguing about? She would’ve thought the two candidates got along splendidly, cut from the same cloth as they were.
She wiled away a few more minutes, ruminating, before feeling guilty that she wasn’t participating in the murder mystery party. From the character sheet Rose had handed her, she knew Pretty Pauley wasn’t the killer, so it wasn’t like she could be that helpful to others solving the case.
At least this was one dead body and crime she wouldn’t have to solve. Not like she’d had to solve the others, though, really. Chapman would’ve found the killer… eventually. She was confid
ent in his gunslinging, antiquated law dog skills. Well, fairly confident. Confident adjacent.
She pulled out her phone to play a game but stopped when she noted that it was 7:20. She really should get back out there. It wasn’t until that moment, broken out of her reverie, that she realized someone was singing, separate and incongruous with the ragtime music.
Curious, she pushed open the kitchen door, and the sound increased from a whispering it-might-be-in-her-head level to something more substantial. She pushed her ear forward and homed in on the noise, surprised to find it wasn’t coming from the dining room or entrance hall.
She followed the haunting melody to a door and pressed her ear against the wood. An instant cold sweat broke out over her back. A male tenor sang operetta, which ordinarily would have been beautiful were it not for the scratchy, tinny quality accompanying it.
The hairs on her arms stood up. She pulled her ear away from the door and stared at it. The music was coming from the basement.
Every made-for-TV horror movie and her instincts told her to run, to leave the mystery for someone else. But her curiosity wouldn’t let it go.
The hinges squealed as she opened the door and held her breath. With each ancient board that groaned underfoot as she descended the basement steps, Ella cursed herself for not running.
The music was definitely coming from the bowels of dust and concrete ahead. It grew in both volume and eeriness. The light from the open doorway above faded, and darkness encroached on her like a presence. Only one of the two lone light bulbs was lit, buzzing, unable to pierce the shadows save for a pool of light.
Ella swallowed.
The source of the noise was an old phonograph against the far wall, playing a scratched disc. The needle moved inward abruptly, and the operetta died, leaving her with a smothering silence.
“Hello?” she called softly, but the chasm of the room swallowed her voice.
As she shuffled forward, her toe stubbed on a stack of crates set in the middle of the floor, not usually there. Bottles clinked inside. This must be where the bartender was storing his stock for the night.