was wondering what to call you.”
“Call me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you mean what name to use.”
“Exactly.”
“Georgie is fine.”
“Mind another question?”
“No.”
“What do your other initials stand for, the S and the B ?”
She grinned impishly and took a long sip of her cocktail. “I’m afraid I prefer to keep that little secret to myself,” she said, more to the glass than to me.
“As you wish,” I said. If it was important for her to maintain a veil of secrecy about it, so be it.
“Maybe the slain earl’s murderer has struck again,” she offered absently.
I smiled and said, “Actually, that would be preferable. I’d prefer a ghostly killer to a flesh-and-blood one.”
Her face became animated. “As would I,” she said as though my comment had opened a floodgate of thoughts within her. “So many people are cynical when it comes to ghosts, Jessica. I’m not one of them. Are you?”
“I suppose my view is that I have no reason not to believe in them. Like extraterrestrial creatures. I doubt if they’re there, but since I really don’t know whether they are or not, I have to assume they could be.”
She said nothing, as though pondering the mysteries of the universe. I took the moment to look at her more closely. The conversation about ghosts seemed apt. GSB Wick had a “ghostly” quality about her, a not-of-this-world aura—the milky white skin stretched tight over her cheekbones, the bloodred lipstick that made her mouth seem larger than it really was, the raven hair and slightly garish green eye shadow with its tiny sparkles above small, piercing black eyes that seemed to focus on something only she could see.
“Once ah had a lover who looked very much like the young man slain here tonight,” she said, her Southern accent deepening, making her sound like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire .
“Oh?”
“Yes, a fine, handsome young man with a wonderful future in the theater.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I said nothing.
“We were very much in love until—”
She paused. Was she about to cry? I had the distinct feeling that she now was gazing into some private world unavailable to me, or anyone else for that matter.
“Until he was cut down in the prime of his youth.” Her expression brightened. “Oh, mah, what a splendid boy he was. When he comes to visit, he always brings me flowers and says the sweetest things.”
“I, um—”
She sensed my discomfort, turned to face me, and said, “Ah imagine you think I’m strange, Jessica.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “As I mentioned before, I don’t dismiss any possibilities in this world, not when I don’t have facts to back me up.” I conspicuously looked at my watch. “I think it’s time for this lady to call it a night.”
Her response was to wave the young bartender over to the booth. When he arrived she said, “Ah would be much obliged if you would make me one more of these heavenly drinks.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m closed.”
She placed a bony hand on his, smiled sweetly, and said, “Considerin’ what’s happened here this evening, certainly you can make an exception for a lonely old woman.”
He looked to me. I smiled and said, “It would be a true act of kindness.”
He nodded, smiled, and said to Georgie, “One Bacardi cocktail coming up.”
Chapter Eleven
A certain era is considered to be the “Golden Age”
of murder mysteries. Was it the 1920s through
the 1940s? The 1950s until the late 1970s? Or the
1980s through the mid-1990s?
I was happy to get to my room, kick off my shoes, and reflect on what had transpired that day. I sat at a small desk in the corner, pulled a sheet of hotel stationery from the drawer, and began to make notes. I’d just gotten started when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, this is Detective Ladd. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all. I just got here.”
“Got a few minutes?”
“Of
“Call me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you mean what name to use.”
“Exactly.”
“Georgie is fine.”
“Mind another question?”
“No.”
“What do your other initials stand for, the S and the B ?”
She grinned impishly and took a long sip of her cocktail. “I’m afraid I prefer to keep that little secret to myself,” she said, more to the glass than to me.
“As you wish,” I said. If it was important for her to maintain a veil of secrecy about it, so be it.
“Maybe the slain earl’s murderer has struck again,” she offered absently.
I smiled and said, “Actually, that would be preferable. I’d prefer a ghostly killer to a flesh-and-blood one.”
Her face became animated. “As would I,” she said as though my comment had opened a floodgate of thoughts within her. “So many people are cynical when it comes to ghosts, Jessica. I’m not one of them. Are you?”
“I suppose my view is that I have no reason not to believe in them. Like extraterrestrial creatures. I doubt if they’re there, but since I really don’t know whether they are or not, I have to assume they could be.”
She said nothing, as though pondering the mysteries of the universe. I took the moment to look at her more closely. The conversation about ghosts seemed apt. GSB Wick had a “ghostly” quality about her, a not-of-this-world aura—the milky white skin stretched tight over her cheekbones, the bloodred lipstick that made her mouth seem larger than it really was, the raven hair and slightly garish green eye shadow with its tiny sparkles above small, piercing black eyes that seemed to focus on something only she could see.
“Once ah had a lover who looked very much like the young man slain here tonight,” she said, her Southern accent deepening, making her sound like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire .
“Oh?”
“Yes, a fine, handsome young man with a wonderful future in the theater.”
I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I said nothing.
“We were very much in love until—”
She paused. Was she about to cry? I had the distinct feeling that she now was gazing into some private world unavailable to me, or anyone else for that matter.
“Until he was cut down in the prime of his youth.” Her expression brightened. “Oh, mah, what a splendid boy he was. When he comes to visit, he always brings me flowers and says the sweetest things.”
“I, um—”
She sensed my discomfort, turned to face me, and said, “Ah imagine you think I’m strange, Jessica.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “As I mentioned before, I don’t dismiss any possibilities in this world, not when I don’t have facts to back me up.” I conspicuously looked at my watch. “I think it’s time for this lady to call it a night.”
Her response was to wave the young bartender over to the booth. When he arrived she said, “Ah would be much obliged if you would make me one more of these heavenly drinks.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m closed.”
She placed a bony hand on his, smiled sweetly, and said, “Considerin’ what’s happened here this evening, certainly you can make an exception for a lonely old woman.”
He looked to me. I smiled and said, “It would be a true act of kindness.”
He nodded, smiled, and said to Georgie, “One Bacardi cocktail coming up.”
Chapter Eleven
A certain era is considered to be the “Golden Age”
of murder mysteries. Was it the 1920s through
the 1940s? The 1950s until the late 1970s? Or the
1980s through the mid-1990s?
I was happy to get to my room, kick off my shoes, and reflect on what had transpired that day. I sat at a small desk in the corner, pulled a sheet of hotel stationery from the drawer, and began to make notes. I’d just gotten started when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, this is Detective Ladd. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, not at all. I just got here.”
“Got a few minutes?”
“Of
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