Suddenly, I feel like a special-effects editor on a big-budget movie. As seamlessly as Benjamin “buttoned” into an infant, the detritus of the cafeteria vanishes, and the dim lighting and smoky smell of an old juice joint engulfs me.
Sidney’s up on stage, skillfully working the keys of her saxophone.
I step forward and our eyes meet.
She pulls the mouthpiece out and wipes a smudge of red lipstick from the reed. “So you say you got my dress, eh, kid? Ya got the hips for it.” She nods appreciatively.
Admittedly, there’s a striking resemblance between our body types. “Oh, I’ve never worn it. It’s on display, like a museum piece. I mean, it’s about a hundred years old.”
A sharp pain stabs through her eyes, and she gently places her saxophone in its case. “A hundred years? Seems like yesterday.”
“What? What seems like yesterday?”
A thick cloud of cigar smoke wafts over me and sours my stomach. “You ask a lotta questions for a dame. You workin’ for the coppers?”
It’s the voice from the second floor. When I turn, I’m not surprised to see a mobster decked out in his finest.
“I’m here to chat with my great-great-great-great-aunt. What’s your story?”
The look of shock that grips the gangster’s face is priceless. “Hey. How come you ain’t afraid of me?”
My apologies, but I absolutely can’t resist. “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” If there was ever a perfect moment for a Ray Parker Jr. reprise, this is it.
The man puts the cigar in the corner of his mouth and reaches inside his coat.
“Let me save you the trouble, Scarface. Ghost guns don’t kill people. So you can tell me your story, or you can take a powder while I finish talking to my aunt.”
The color drains from his ghostly visage.
Of course, I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping ghost guns really can’t kill people.
“Do you know who I am, doll?”
“I absolutely do not, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”
He looks over his shoulder at the bartender, busy polishing the empty bar, and lifts his chin toward Sid. “Definitely got your moxie, eh?”
“Tell her what she wants to know, Harvey.”
He takes the cigar out of his mouth, squeaks his tongue over his teeth, and looks me up and down. “I bet you got some nice gams under those trousers.”
“Look, I’ve got some ancestry to unpack and a murder to solve, so how ’bout you leave my gams out of it and get to the point, Harvey.”
He whistles and nods. “Suit yourself. Name’s Harvey Moran. I run the Finger Lakes Gang. We control everything north of Chicago and east of the Mississippi. Including the hot maple comin’ in from those do-gooder Canadians.”
The amount of self-control required to prevent an outburst of laughter when he mentions the “hot maple,” is nearly beyond my capacity. I’m eager to pump him for information, though, so I pull out all the stops. “Hate to be the one to tell you, Harvey, but this don’t look like much of a gang. A saxophone player and a bartender. Where’s the rest of the Commission?”
He runs a hand along the brim of his black homburg hat. “The mouth on this broad. Your old man needs to get you in line.”
“Newsflash, I ain’t got an old man. I call the shots. Now, you can tell me what happened to your gang, or I can read about it on the internet. If you know what that is.”
“You can read all about me in the rags. I was famous for dodging bullets.”
There’s probably some truth to that. However, he clearly didn’t dodge that last bullet. The tough-guy act is trying my patience. “Sid, can you cut to the chase for me?”
She snaps the clasps closed on her saxophone case and steps down from the stage. Her black T-strap heels tap lightly on the floorboards. “It was Halloween night, 1927, and Harvey was celebrating a big get, you know? He finally locked down the syrup source in Canada and he had orders set all over the East Coast. It was the legitimate part of the grift that was gonna keep the flatfoots from sniffing out the rest, if you know what I mean?”
“I follow. What went wrong?”
Harvey suddenly finds his voice and takes over the story. “That good for nothin’ Auggie Van Meter was a sore loser. Me and all my boys was here at the Hot Dish takin’ a victory lap when Van Meter’s chopper squad opened fire with Thompson submachine guns, and— It was a bloodbath.”
Sid sidles up next to him and squeezes his arm. “Harvey was tryin’ to go legit. He took real good care of his guys.” She pinches his cheek affectionately. “And he finally convinced me to make an honest man out of him.” Batting her eyelashes, she adjusts the diamond-studded fascinator clipped into her perfectly coiffed hair.
“So how many of your boys got filled full of lead that night?” The gangster vibe is irresistible. I’m struggling to maintain my twenty-first-century dialect.
Harvey tosses his cigar to the floor and grinds it under his heel. “All the good ones. Seven underbosses, Sidney’s band, and poor Billy.” He jerks a thumb toward the barkeep. “We never saw it comin’.”
I glance around the room and scrunch up my face in confusion. “So, where is everybody? If it was such a bloodbath, how come there are only three ghosts?”
Harvey steps up to me. “You callin’ me a liar? The All Saints’ Eve Massacre was the worst gangland hit in history, and you’re standin’ there, in a pair of men’s trousers, callin’ me out?”
He certainly has a fixation with me wearing pants, but that’s hardly the most pertinent piece of this puzzle. “Look, Mr. Moran, I’m not calling you anything. I’m asking you, where’s everybody else?”
The bartender finally pipes up. His thick Canadian accent is in stark contrast to Sid’s silky smooth tone and Harvey’s stereotypical Chicago hoodlum inflection.
“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, Miss. Name’s Billy Boothby. This here was my place. Harvey and his boys were my best customers. I made a cocktail exclusively for the Finger Lakes Gang, just for special occasions.” He sighs and polishes a bottle of ginger ale. “It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re stuck in limbo, or wherever this is, but the rest of the boys started to fade away. Seems like every ten years or so, on Halloween, we’d lose a couple more. Before long, it was only the three of us, and we can’t figure out why we’re still here.”
“Fair enough. But why haunt the asylum?”
Billy shrugs. “One day, it appeared. We were in the Hot Dish—and then we weren’t.”
“And the attacks? Your hauntings drove a bunch of people crazy and—”
Sid rushes to the rescue of her fellow specters. “Billy and I never did nothing on purpose, Mitzy. We avoid temptation as long as we can resist it. You gotta believe me. I play my saxophone, Billy mixes drinks and cleans stuff up. You know what I mean?”
“Not exactly. What are you saying?”
Harvey adjusts his wide tie and butts in with his oversimplified explanation. “It ain’t like we set out to turn people nuts. But once I saw what we could do . . . I got a reputation to protect. What are the boys gonna say if I let these chumps walk all over me?”
“Mr. Moran, you’re dead. Whatever reputation you had died with you. Driving people crazy enough to kill themselves is no legacy.”
Sid drags her fingers down Harvey’s arm, and her eyes widen pleadingly. “You gotta tell her. Please, Baby.”
“Tell me what?”
The hard lines in Harvey’s face soften and he puts an arm around Sid’s waist. “We got some kinda unfinished business, I figure. When we’d find a bumpkin that could hear or see us, we’d try to get them to help us figure out what we gotta do to take our final bow. Wasn’t like we was entertaining ourselves by trickin’ these fools into croakin’.” His nasty chuckle says otherwise.
“So you claim that the deaths at the asylum, the high school kids, and the girl last night—those were all accidents? Simply people who you thought could help you, and then the
y somehow wound up dead. That’s your story?”
Another cigar appears in Harvey’s right hand. Trimmed, lit, and with a swirl of sickly sweet smoke. “I had nothin’ to do with that girl last night. And you can put the screws to me if you don’t believe it.”
“I’ll pass.” Not that I’d even know the first thing about torturing a ghost, but Harvey doesn’t need to know that. “If you didn’t have anything to do with it, who did? Did you see what happened?”
Harvey shakes his head silently. “I don’t pay no attention to the palookas.”
Sid and Billy exchange an unreadable glance, and I’m sorry to report that my psychic senses deliver no enlightening information. Maybe they know something about the gunfire I thought I heard. I can almost hear Grams whispering her mantra about getting more flies with honey.
“Well, I can see you and hear you, and I’m not going crazy. Maybe I can help you figure out your unfinished business in exchange for some information.”
The three ghosts flicker and vanish. “Hey—”
“Moon?”
My throat tightens and my mouth goes dry. How long has Erick been standing behind me? How much did he hear? Turning slowly, I paste on a fake smile. “Hey, Sheriff. Are you done with your investigation?”
“Who were you talking to? Did you say something about unfinished business?”
I step forward and push the corners of my strained smile up higher. “Hmmm? What? I don’t think— Is it lunchtime? Did you want me to meet you at Myrtle’s?” My voice is so high-pitched, my words are coming out too fast, and there are beads of sweat at my temple, despite the chill in the air.
“Are you feeling okay? You’re really acting strange.”
“I didn’t sleep great. Seeing that girl, and the whole thing last night . . . It was a lot, you know?”
A soft giggle drifts through the ether and my Aunt Sid whispers, “That’s it, doll. Keep him on the run.”
Erick takes my hand and pulls me out of the broken-down cafeteria. “Let’s get you out of here. I don’t think it’s a good idea to be wandering around this questionable structure. I still don’t understand why City Building and Safety gave Mumler the special event permit to hold a party in this place.”
Putting some extra wiggle in my waddle, I hustle toward the exit. “I know, right?”
3
Silas generously agrees to return to my apartment and discuss the specter situation at the asylum. Plus, Grams has some answering to do.
The puzzle of what keeps three ghosts trapped in a phantom speakeasy has my sleuthing brain whirring.
The unfinished business can’t possibly be something related to the Finger Lakes Gang. Harvey’s underbosses all crossed over. But according to Billy’s account, they didn’t cross over right away. Ghosts hanging around for varying amounts of time is a conundrum. Granted, I have roughly one year of experience in the realm of otherworldly transit, but the spirits I’ve known have only been released after their unfinished business is settled. With the singular exception of my grandmother, who plotted to remain on this side of the veil.
Parking in the garage at the rear of the bookstore, I tramp up the alley as a crack of thunder scares the bejeezus out of me. “Thank you very kindly, Thor, but I can do without a pants’ accident today.”
Silas harrumphs and shuffles toward the heavy metal door leading into the bookshop. “Surely this portends freezing sleet. My timing is most unfortunate.”
I flip my keyring around my finger and unlock the alleyway door. As we step inside, a second crack of thunder shakes the earth, and the heavens open to release a pelting of huge wet drops.
“I’d say your timing was perfect.” I toss my keys on the table in the back room and scour the cupboards. “Can I interest you in coffee or hot chocolate?”
The sullen jowls of my mentor lift minutely. “Cocoa sounds like the perfect thing.”
Before fate granted me a fortune, I garnered expert barista skills through a laundry list of low-paying jobs. Whipping up a hot chocolate is easy peasy.
“Follow me, Mr. Willoughby.”
We head upstairs and find Grams struggling with my rolling corkboard.
“Grams? Are you trying to set up the murder wall on your own?”
She frets and fusses, but her agitation disrupts her ability to affect matter on this plane.
I walk over to aid in positioning the board, which Twiggy insists that I use. My bossy volunteer employee refuses to allow any tacks in the Italian plaster.
“She’s right, dear.”
“Grams, we have a very strict policy about thought-dropping which you seem to have forgotten. If these lips aren’t moving, you don’t get to comment. Maybe energy is all swirled up in your dimension, but in my dimension my thoughts are private. Capisce?”
She chuckles. “Sorry, sweetie.”
Pyewacket slinks in and crouches under the settee. He has something in his mouth, which he will share with me in his own sweet time.
“First things first. The ghosts haunting the asylum are absolutely not patients. They died in the All Saints’ Eve Massacre in 1927. According to their story, there were originally thirteen souls, but over the years the others have all been able to cross over. Bartender Billy Boothby, mob boss Harvey Moran, and dear old aunt Sidney Mae Jensen are the only ones left.”
Silas smooths his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “And the murders? They claim no knowledge of these murders?”
“Not exactly. They claim that very few people can see or hear them. When they come across one of these rare individuals, they desperately try to communicate and, unfortunately, end up driving people nuts.”
“And you believe their account to be true?”
“I guess. Why would they lie to me?”
“Why indeed?” Silas steeples his fingers and bounces his chin. “You know full well how to utilize your powers to evaluate the veracity of statements. Why would you not employ this?”
Oh brother, a lesson. “It doesn’t always work on ghosts, Silas. My mood ring was completely useless, and I was a little preoccupied with meeting Sid.”
Grams floats toward me and whispers, “So, the stories are true.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Well, you know how family legends get blown out of proportion over time. The evidence that Sidney died in the massacre was irrefutable. However, I was never sure about her ties to Harvey Moran. If she’s still there—”
“They’re definitely an item. Were they married?”
Grams drifts toward the ceiling and presses her hand to her chest. “No. I suppose they never had the chance. Why on earth she’d ever agree to marry a man like that, though, I have no idea.”
“You have no idea? Myrtle Isadora Johnson Linder Duncan Willamet Rogers, I’d say any woman who has married that many men and admittedly has a long list of special friends, must have some idea.”
She chuckles. “Guilty as charged.”
Silas slips on his special glasses and scans the room. “If you two are finished gossiping, we need to discuss our strategy.”
“Our strategy? Do we really need to do anything, Silas? I’ll definitely look into the girl’s murder but, if they’re not involved, what more is there to do?”
“Despite my affection for your grandmother, I cannot condone spirits roaming free on this side of the veil. Especially not one with such a dangerous past.”
“You mean Harvey?”
“Indeed.”
“Yeah, I don’t really trust that guy. The way he laughed about the dead girl’s ‘accident’ gave me the creeps.”
Silas sips his cocoa and two miniature marshmallows get stuck in his mustache.
I point and giggle, like a schoolgirl.
He wipes away the marshmallows and scolds me. “Mizithra Achelois Moon, you must focus. Whether or not Mr. Moran admits culpability, he and his cohorts are responsible for multiple deaths in the asylum over this past century. If their passage through the veil is
not facilitated, they will continue to destroy lives, whether intentionally or accidentally. You have a duty. You must take it seriously.”
“Copy that.” A tingling in my hippocampus tells me there’s a piece missing and I might know where to find it, but 1920s Pin Cherry history is not on the web. “I’m going to head over to the library and see if they have any of the original newspaper stories about the shooting. If it was the biggest hit in gangland history, there’s bound to be some record of it in the ‘rags’ Harvey mentioned.”
Pye chooses this moment to leap onto the coffee table and reveal his prize.
“A torn strip of yellowed paper with the words Boosey & Hawkes.” I shrug and tilt my head. “Consider it logged into evidence, Pye.” History has proven that my wild caracal’s clues, while initially confusing, always pay off. I give him a grateful scratch between the ears and announce, “I’m off to the library.”
Silas concurs. “A fine idea. I shall leave you to your investigation. Keep me informed.”
“Absolutely.” Halfway down the circular stairs, I pause. “Mr. Willoughby, would you mind telling me where I can find the library?”
His chuckles drift downward. “I believe you’re familiar with City Hall. The library is directly across the square. Inform Pyrrha that Silas Willoughby sent you and you should be well looked after.”
Luckily, he can’t see me roll my eyes. “Will do.”
* * *
The historic architecture of the library building is not as ostentatious as City Hall, but its interior holds far more intrigue. Thousands of beautiful books nestled in the stacks, and a grand staircase leading to the reference section and private reading rooms on the second floor.
I easily locate Pyrrha and drop Mr. Willoughby’s name.
She directs me to something called a microfilm machine.
I’m not sure what to expect, in the town that tech forgot, but she returns several minutes later with a stack of cartons containing spools of film. As she loads the first spool, she gives me a brief history on microforms, which I will spare you.
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