Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

It takes me a minute to master the Etch-a-Sketch-like controls, but before long I’m zooming through page after page of old newspapers. The All Saints’ Eve Massacre took place on October 31, 1927. The November first edition of the Pin Cherry Harbor Post carried a shocking headline and an explicit photograph above the fold.

  The chalk-stripe suit in the close-up is instantly recognizable. The article lists off Harvey Moran, his underbosses, the members of the jazz band, and owner and bartender William Robert Boothby as the victims of gunmen who motored past the Hot Dish and opened fire.

  The sensational story contains predictable references to ne’er-do-wells who live outside the law getting what they deserve. Surprisingly, the exercise in yellow journalism does not impugn Mr. Boothby. Instead, it heralds him as a vital member of the community and an innovative bartender who ran a respectable business, despite the limitations of prohibition.

  Sid’s accomplishments as a musician are briefly lauded, but her association as Harvey “The Smiling Sniper” Moran’s moll places a permanent stain on her reputation.

  For several days after the massacre, the front page continued to carry stories related to the Finger Lakes Gang and the ongoing investigation into the shooting. Local law enforcement placed August Van Meter under suspicion, but made no arrests.

  I tap notes into an app on my phone. According to the coroner, all the bodies were surrounded by broken glass, and several hands held the stems of coupe glasses, or shards of stems.

  Sid had mentioned they were celebrating the successful launch of Harvey’s legitimate business, but it seems unlikely that a rival gang would gun him down for going straight.

  Based on additional articles regarding the temperance movement, prohibition, and fishermen turning to rumrunning, I’m starting to piece together a larger picture of the Finger Lakes Gang’s operation.

  Who’s going to search the entire hull of a vessel filled with casks of maple syrup on the off chance of finding a few hidden crates of Canadian whiskey or highly prized British spirits?

  Harvey was a man ahead of his times. If he had lived longer, he may have been known for more than a spectacular death.

  Emotion tightens my throat at a photo of Sid’s saxophone. It’s exactly like the one she was playing. I mentally smack myself on the forehead. It is the one she was playing. There’s a strange surreal dizziness that grips me and my hand reaches toward the stark black-and-white image. I won’t tell her about the bullet holes in the precious instrument.

  I cringe as images of the weapons slide across the screen. A Thompson submachine gun, several handguns, two stiletto knives, and—

  The hairs on the back of my neck nearly ignite, and my entire body seems unable to move. The next caption reads, “Opal and diamond engagement ring found in the pocket of Harvey Moran’s suit during the postmortem.”

  Just like that, the pieces of the puzzle are sliding into place.

  4

  Today is Día de Muertos, and the veil between the worlds is still thin enough for me to accomplish my phantom-banishing task.

  I hurry back to the apartment and stuff supplies into my rucksack. Candy bars, chips, a bottle of water, and two flashlights. I’m no expert.

  “Grams, if I’m not back by morning, call Silas.”

  “I don’t like you going out there without your phone, dear.”

  “I get it, but I don’t have an extra one on me, and there’s no time to waste. I’ll leave my phone on the coffee table. All right?”

  Grams shakes her head and crosses her arms over her ample bosom. “It’s not like I can stop you.”

  “You’re not wrong. See you in the morning.”

  “Be careful, dear.”

  “Absolutely.”

  This third trip to the asylum is my least favorite. The first time I had a party to look forward to, the second time I was excited about the possibility of what I might discover, but this time I know exactly what I have to do and my stomach is churning mercilessly.

  The abandoned decorations fluttering in the eerie light of a gibbous moon create a terrifying tableau.

  I shoulder my rucksack and climb through a broken first-floor window.

  Clicking on the flashlight, I painstakingly pick my way through the rubble toward the crumbling cafeteria.

  “Sidney? Billy? Harvey?”

  Nada. Bupkus.

  There’s no sign of the speakeasy or the ghosts.

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Appealing to my great aunt worked last time. “Sidney, it’s Mitzy. I found the answer. I know how to get you all back to the other side. I mean, mostly.”

  The lighting roils, and the shift between worlds is abrupt.

  “Ya better not be bumpin’ gums, broad. I’ll fit you for a Chicago overcoat.”

  Ignoring Harvey’s threats, I head straight to the bar. “Billy, you said you made an exclusive cocktail for Harvey and his friends. I’m assuming you made it with bootlegged booze. Right?”

  Billy nods. “That’s right. The Finger Lakes Gang brought in all kinds of hard-to-find spirits during prohibition. I had secret compartments in the bar where I hid their stash. It was easier to make a living with one foot in the world of pop and tea, and the other in a gin joint. Harvey looked out for me and made sure I didn’t have any trouble with the coppers.”

  “Do you remember the drink you made that night? The night of the massacre?”

  Billy’s gaze drifts into the distance as he struggles to grasp the memory.

  “Let me refresh your memory. Harvey was going to propose to Sid—”

  Sid squeals, and her shoes click as she runs across the floor toward Harvey. “Is that true, big guy?”

  Harvey takes the cigar out of his mouth and nuzzles her neck. “I ain’t never been so dizzy for a dame, Sid.”

  I snap my fingers twice to get Billy’s attention. “Hey, I need you to make that drink. Three of ’em. Can you do that?”

  The sadness in Billy’s eyes tells me he’s stuck on this side for more reasons than making drinks. His quiet, regretful voice replies, “Sure, miss, I can do that.”

  Making my way toward Harvey and Sid, I launch into the next part of my plan. “Sid, can you give Harvey and me some space?”

  She winks and returns to her saxophone.

  “You got the ring?”

  Harvey’s eyes briefly fog over, and then the mists lift. He pats the pocket of his suit coat and a flicker of life’s fire dances in his eyes. “Yeah, I got the ice.”

  “Good. Do you remember the toast?”

  He takes a puff of his cigar and shakes his head. “What toast? What are you chinning about, doll?”

  “If I’m right about this, you were in the middle of making a speech when Auggie’s boys made Swiss cheese out of this place. It ended as badly as any toast ever could. I need you to make that toast again, but I need you to do it right this time, Harve. Can you manage that?”

  The corners of his mouth drop for a moment, and I feel the heaviness of his heart as he watches his best boys mowed down before him.

  “If you can do this, Harvey, I promise you and Sid can crossover. But, you gotta make a good toast this time. Got it?”

  His chest swells, he pulls the cigar out of his mouth and nods. The intensity in his eyes shows me exactly how he became the boss of the Finger Lakes Gang. “I got it. One last toast, and then we dust out.”

  I attempt to clap him on the shoulder, but my hand passes straight through.

  Approaching the stage, I wait while Sid lovingly polishes her saxophone. In the case, I see a slotted envelope with the words Boosey & Hawkes. “What’s that?”

  She follows my pointing finger and picks up the paper packet. “These? Spare reeds for my sax.”

  Pyewacket was right. She’s the key to everything. “Sid, it was an honor to meet you. I promise, I’ll never forget you. I wish we had more time, but . . . I need you to do me a huge favor, no questions asked.”

  She tenderly lays the saxophone in its case, and when she turns
toward me, her black-rimmed eyes are spilling over with ghostly tears.

  I step onto the stage and move toward her. “Sidney Mae Jensen, Harvey Moran is going to propose to you. I need you to answer from your heart. That’s the only way this unfinished business can end. If you can do that, if you can truly answer from your heart, you can cross over.”

  Sidney swipes a finger under each eye and nods obediently.

  And away we go. “Billy, you got those drinks ready?”

  His eyes dim with sadness, but he’s a solid guy. A man of his word. He’s made the drinks and placed the three coupe glasses, filled with his signature cocktail, on a tray. He crosses the room to the stage.

  Sidney takes a glass, but avoids his gaze.

  Billy walks to Harvey, who eagerly scoops up some stemware. Returning to the bar, he sets down the tray and reluctantly picks up the last glass.

  “All right, it’s up to you, Harvey. Let’s hear that toast.”

  Harvey tosses his cigar into an ashtray and shoves his right hand into the pocket of his suit. His left hand holds the drink aloft as he gives his toast. “Yous are the best bunch of boys this side of Chicago. And now it’s time for the king to take his queen.” Harvey pulls his hand out of his pocket and flips open the ring box to reveal the opal and diamond ring I saw earlier today in the photo. “Sidney Mae Jensen, you’re a heckuva broad, with a great set of gams. Would ya do me the honor of makin’ me the happiest man in all of gangland?”

  Sidney smiles through her tears and steps off the dais.

  As she walks toward him, Harvey lifts his glass. “Three cheers for the world’s best dame.”

  They all take a sip of their cocktails.

  Sidney closes the distance and reaches for the ring box with her left hand. She snaps the cover closed. “I’m sorry, Harvey. As much as I love your gumption, you’re not the man I wanna spend my afterlife with. If the last hundred years ain’t taught me that, they ain’t taught me nothin’.” She breezes past Harvey and approaches the bar.

  Billy holds his breath as she sashays behind the oak planks. “Billy Boothby, you wanna join me in an eternity of excess?”

  He blushes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Sid and Billy clink their glasses, down their drinks, and kiss passionately.

  Harvey smashes his glass on the floor.

  That’s my cue. “I bet it’s frustrating for such a powerful crime boss to feel completely impotent.”

  He glares at me and his lip twitches.

  “After you convinced Dr. Dallenford to hang himself, it must have given you quite a thrill. Did Nurse Fenton jump willingly, or did you give her a push?”

  His lip curls angrily. “You must be gowed-up. I never touched nobody. The chumps get scared, that’s all.”

  Stepping closer, I increase the pressure. “How long did you have to hold the reverend under before his final baptism took hold?”

  Harvey’s fists ball up and he leans toward me. “I warned you ’bout that mouth.”

  This next part is admittedly a crapshoot. “That poor high school girl was strangled. Big meat hooks like yours would do the trick in no time.”

  He clenches his jaw and shakes his head, but he turns to make one last plea. “Sid, doll, don’t throw your life away on that two-bit barman.”

  Tears stream down Sidney’s face, and she buries her head in Billy’s chest.

  And now, for all the marbles. “That machine-gun fire last night was all a cover-up, wasn’t it? You wanted to be able to tell Sid that the goofy chump was scared and jumped, but that’s not what happened, is it, Harvey?”

  Sid gasps. “Harvey, is that true? Is it all true?”

  His false smile wavers, and he snarls his reply. “Why should them palookas have a life I never had? We coulda been legends, babe.”

  “Did you push that poor gal?” She covers her strawberry mouth with a shaking hand.

  “She had it comin’. Who’s gonna miss a good for nothin’ broad peddlin’ dope?”

  Sid shakes her head in disbelief and clings to Billy.

  Harvey reaches inside his coat, but before he can exact his revenge, otherworldly flames lick upward and swallow his ghost.

  I jump back and avert my gaze until the inferno dissipates.

  “Thanks, kid. Billy and I can never repay you for what you did.”

  “I was after vindication for all those forgotten souls. No payment necessary.”

  Billy holds Sid close and whispers in her ear.

  She grins and nods. “Maybe not, but that red dress you mentioned . . . Check the hidden pocket in the décolletage. Should be a rock the size of Gibraltar. Harvey stole it from Van Meter’s main squeeze. Maybe you can get it back to her family? That oughta count for somethin’.”

  “You made the right choice, Sid. I knew you were too good for Harvey the first time I met ya.”

  Her tinkling laughter fills the room. “You and me both, kid.”

  A twinkle of fairy lights flickers and blinks out of existence, and asylum debris stands on the spot where Sidney and Billy embraced the truth.

  Tears are streaming down my face. Three people I barely knew have ended a century of wandering.

  Their business is finally finished.

  No point in staying in this creeptastic place any longer than necessary. I hightail it out of the asylum and exceed a few speed limits on the way.

  I can’t protect my psychic secrets and reveal the real killer behind Kenadi Mumler’s murder to Sheriff Harper, but justice was served—paranormal style.

  Grams will be thrilled that I lived to tell the tale, and Silas will insist on revealing the lesson in all of this, but my takeaway is that there’s no rest for the wicked—or, in my case, the naughty-adjacent!

  I sure hope Auggie Van Meter’s descendants didn’t follow in the family business. I’m absolutely going to return that heirloom diamond, but I could happily live the rest of my life never seeing another mobster.

  To paraphrase the dark bard, “All that we see or seem . . . might be the ghosts of Halloween!”

  * * *

  The End

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  When town medium Connie convinces her spirit sister Sage to spend Halloween at a talk by her favourite author, she has no idea that he's the prime suspect in the murder of his former co-writer. With no shortage of motive, can Connie clear the name of her beloved author, or will there be a plot twist?

  1

  “I can’t believe you’ve talked me into this,” Sage stuck out her bottom lip and floated across the bedroom.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re always saying we should do more things together. You know, quality sister time and all that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she huffed. “Let me clarify. When I said things, I meant fun things. Things we’d actually, like, enjoy.”

  “I will enjoy this,” I teased.

  She humphed.

  “Come on, give it a chance,” I asked.

  “It’s Halloween!” She exclaimed. “We should be doing trick-or-treat, not going to a stuffy author talk.”

  “We’ll be home in time to trick-or-treat,” I said. “And the date was out of my control. For some reason, Bob Balli
nger didn’t check my availability when he arranged his book tour.”

  Sage rolled her eyes. “Fine. But we need to be home early. This is literally the worst way we could spend Halloween.”

  “You’re so dramatic!” I laughed as I applied a layer of lip gloss, then immediately wiped it off and tried a more natural colour. “Bob Ballinger’s one of the greatest authors of our time, Sage. It’s an honour to see him.”

  “Remind me to be excited,” she slurred, then flopped down on the bed. Her ghostly frame sank into the quilt and she closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

  I watched her for a moment, a smile across my face. Sometimes I remembered how lucky I was to get to spend my sister’s afterlife with her, quite literally, floating around the house. Mystic Springs was a special place, where the living and the dead existed - mainly - in harmony.

  “Shall I read you some of his work?” I offered. I’d always believed that every subject was interesting once you knew enough about it. Maybe Sage just needed to hear his words.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’d hate to fall asleep for real. Ugh, hold on. Is that what he’ll be doing tonight? Reading his own writing? What even happens at these kind of things?”

  I spun around to look at her, my eyes wide, and with a reminder that her eternal company wasn’t always quite as peachy as it might sound. “Are you kidding me? You’ve never been to an author talk?”

  “Why would I?” She sat up on the bed and shrugged her shoulders. Her hair had been ruffled by the quilt and somehow looked even better than it had before she’d laid down. If I’d done that, the result would have been more dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards.

  “I despair with you sometimes,” I joked. “Are you sure we’re sisters?”

  “I do wonder,” she agreed. “I think my real-life sister would take me to concerts and things. Billy Joel, now there’s someone I’d give up trick or treating for.”

  I smiled. Growing up, her bedroom had been covered with posters of whoever her latest obsession had been.