Murder at The Blues Stop
MURDER
AT THE
BLUES STOP
Wendy Byrne
Copyright © 2019 Wendy Byrne
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-578-51214-3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my critique partners Barb, Dyanne and Lauren for helping me with this story from the beginning. They're the best.
DEDICATION
To women like Gabriella who finally find their voice and recognize the strength that's been in them all along.
CHAPTER ONE
I shifted, clumsily finding the right gear. The Porsche responded with a lurch, the wheels spinning for a second or two before taking hold on the slick pavement. At three a.m. on a Thursday morning, I-294 North, the highway connecting Illinois with Wisconsin, was nearly deserted. After a glance in the rearview mirror, I drew in a long, deep breath.
My passenger moaned in his seat, excruciating pain etched on his face. At least he was still alive. For a terrifying couple of minutes, I wasn’t sure he was still breathing.
Despite the circumstances, I nearly smiled envisioning the headline: Gabriella Santos Saves Shane O’Neil
I imagined the details that would follow: Gabriella Santos, stiletto-wearing blues singer, courageously saves big bad Shane O’Neil, all six foot four inches and two hundred pounds of him. Then again, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.
G.I. Jane I wasn’t. But still, by some kind of miracle, I’d pulled it off. At least for the time being.
Apprehensive after everything I’d gone through in the last several hours, I peeked at his still form. He definitely needed a doctor. But before he passed out, I had promised him no cops and no hospital. Since we had both been preoccupied dodging bullets at the time, I hadn’t asked for an explanation. For the time being, I felt obligated to honor his wishes. Fighting the urge to poke him just to hear him moan so I’d know he was still alive, I settled for finding a centimeter of skin not bruised or swollen and touched it. When he felt warm but not feverish, I let out a sigh of relief.
Since leaving Florida a month ago, I’d been followed, mugged, threatened, and shot at. I wasn’t in law enforcement like my brothers. I wasn’t even gainfully employed most of the time. I was a blues singer, flitting from one gig to another, never quite knowing where I’d find myself.
But the very last place I would have expected to be during the early morning hours of August twenty-fourth was running from a carload of bad guys with a nearly dead man sitting next to me. How could I possibly take care of a half-dead guy when I couldn’t even take care of myself?
It had all started mere weeks ago when I entered The Blues Stop that humid August afternoon . . .
***
For me, getting ready for my first gig in Chicago took hours. Finally, I decided on a tailored silk paisley vest and paired it with a short jeans skirt. At five foot nine, several feet of tanned legs peeked from beneath the bottom fringe. To show off sculpted and toned arms, I wore a coiled metal armband around my left bicep. On my right arm, I wore fifteen thin bracelets that dangled somewhere between my elbow and wrist. In the V of my vest rested silver chains of varying lengths.
Satisfied with my sultry-blues-singer look, I left the hotel and hopped into a cab. Fifteen minutes and twenty dollars later, I yanked open the door to The Blues Stop on North Wells Street at exactly five minutes to four on August first. With one last fluff of my long, unruly black hair, I sashayed inside in a pair of to-die-for Jimmy Choos.
In contrast to the bright afternoon sun, the inside of the club seemed almost cave-like. A blast of cool, air-conditioned air brought out goose bumps on my exposed arms. Chairs were still stacked upside down on small round tabletops, evidence a cleaning crew had been hard at work some time earlier. The scents of disinfectant and wood polish hung in the air, providing the illusion of cleanliness.
“Hello?” A hint of trepidation slithered along my back as I ventured farther inside, my four-inch heels echoing in the intimate confines.
Reaching the bar, I ran my hand down the polished wood and sat on one of the stools. Spinning it around, I faced the small stage. Considering I’d accepted the gig sight unseen, so far it didn’t look too bad. That nagging feeling playing the keyboard of my spine I chalked up to the eerie silence.
I heard male voices right before the back door was flung open and two arguing men rushed inside. Instead of making my presence known, I crossed my legs and waited. Sooner or later they’d figure out they weren’t alone.
“You don’t make decisions like hiring a singer without consulting me. I’m the owner, not you. We’re not making enough money to justify the expense. Besides, we have Donna.” The taller man spoke.
“Donna only plays the keyboard. We need a singer. You haven’t been around long enough to know they come and go like that.” The shorter guy snapped his fingers.
“That’s because you keep hiring junkies. No self-respecting singer is going to work in a dive like this.”
I slid off the stool and stood. With hands firmly placed at my hips, I interrupted, “I take exception to that comment.”
They stopped arguing and whirled in my direction. After a second or two of hesitation, the taller man approached, his stare boring a hole straight through me.
“And you are?” He let the question dangle in the air, half question, half threat.
I’d been around clubs long enough to know all managers were variations of the same thing, idiots and bigger idiots. I had a pretty good idea where this guy fit into the continuum. Instead of pondering the thought, I held out my hand. “Gabriella Santos, your new singer.”
He grumbled something which sounded like a string of very inventive curses before he blew out a breath and placed his hands at his hips. “There’s been a mistake. We changed our minds. We don’t need a singer after all.”
I hadn’t come all this way just to return home with my tail between my legs. At least not if I could help it. “But I distinctly heard this nice gentleman say you did.” I pointed to the shorter guy and gave him a flirtatious smile.
“Mack.” From the fake gold Rolex on his wrist, to the gold chain around his neck, to the vibrant-blue shirt, this guy’s wardrobe screamed, ‘Look at me.’
“Mack said your singer left.” Barring getting fired right now, I wasn’t leaving town. Besides, I had a point to prove to myself and my family.
The tall guy scowled, which he seemed to do quite often based on the last few moments. “Off on a binge, and I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
The idea that I had to coerce him in order to sing here rankled me. I was good. Not Billie Holiday good, but I could hold my own. Geez, the lengths I had to go to in order to prove myself.
When I’d found out my old manager, Vic, had been taking more than his fair share of
my profits for years, I’d fired him on the spot. But good old Vic had showed me. Irate, he’d blacklisted me in every club in South Florida, telling them I was a diva, a Whitney Houston wannabe, without the talent. Needless to say, that didn’t bode well for getting gigs. So I did the only thing I could—I got out of Dodge.
The idea that my brother Enrique might possibly have been right when he told me not to take this gig in Chicago loomed large in my mind. I wanted to invoke his name and recite a litany of his accomplishments as a DEA agent in order to get this bozo to follow through with what he’d promised.
But I wouldn’t. Because somehow, someway, Enrique would find out about it, proving once again to him, his wife Sammie, and the remainder of my family, that I couldn’t make it on my own.
Mr. Cranky Pants narrowed his eyes. Reluctance showed in his slow move toward grasping the hand I’d stuck out. “Shane O’Neil. And I’m telling you again, I don’t need a singer.”
“And I’m telling you I expect you to honor your commitment.” This back and forth was ridiculous. Maybe Vic had actually earned more than his fair share if this guy was indicative of how club managers operated. My demo tape, combined with the fact he had no one else available to sing, should be enough to convince him to at least give me a try.
“The last singer we had used the back room to shoot up heroin between sets.”
“You’ve watched way too many made-for-TV movies. Not all blues singers are junkies.”
He eyeballed me from head to toe. “Don’t see any track marks on your arms, but the light in here isn’t the best.”
Had he just called me a junkie? “Then maybe we should go outside in the daylight.”
Shane reached out and grabbed my wrist, signaling in no uncertain terms he had every intention of taking me up on my offer. He pulled me into the sunlight of the warm August afternoon.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted. When I could focus again, Shane towered over me, glaring.
Despite the scowl on his face, I felt gentleness in the touch of his fingertips. He probed the length of my arms, paying particular attention to the inside of my elbow, poking at the skin, looking for telltale track marks I might have disguised.
When he finished, his eyes rose to meet mine, his hands still holding on to my wrists. Absolutely mesmerizing, his eyes were the deepest, darkest blue I’d ever seen. The stark contrast with his coal-black hair made them compelling and, wonder of all wonders, made him seem a tad vulnerable.
His face itself was nothing to dismiss either. Sharp angles and strong edges brought a distinct maleness to his features. If he didn’t have such a cranky disposition, he’d be downright gorgeous.
“You don’t look like a druggie.” The comment rolled off his tongue as easily as if he were remarking about the weather.
That forced my mind back into focus. “Just because I’m a blues singer doesn’t mean I’m a junkie. In fact, I barely drink.” This guy seemed to be looking for an excuse to fire me, and I was determined not to give him one.
He eyed me as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. “Keep it that way if you want to stay employed.” He placed his hands on his hips, notching up the intimidation factor once again. “What hotel are we paying for?”
“The Holiday Inn on Michigan Avenue.”
“Not anymore. There’s a vacant apartment above my office. You’re going to stay there.”
“But there’s no room service.” Not only was this guy cranky, he was cheap.
“No, but there’s a nice twenty-four-hour diner across the street. I’ll have them run a tab for you.”
“What about maid service?”
His jaw clenched tight as he folded his arms across his chest. “You’ll have to do your own cleaning up.”
“Who’s going to move my stuff?”
“You and I, right after your last set.” For the first time since we’d met, he looked me up and down in a way that felt sexual rather than intimidating. “For all this trouble, I hope to God your voice matches the way you look.”
Saving face was all about gritting my teeth and bearing it. “Are you kidding? Once the crowds start rolling in, you’ll want to sign me up for another month. In which case, I’ll agree only if you reserve a room for me at the Ritz Carlton.”
“Don’t count on it.”
I followed him back inside, but he didn’t so much as hold the door open for me. More than likely he would have locked me out if he thought he could get away with it.
While I didn’t expect politeness, the guy seemed to be going out of his way to be rude. Then again, maybe that was his natural state, in which case it would be a hell of a long month.
***
For some reason, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. He was one of the few men I’d ever met who seemed to gloss over the way I looked and honed in on what lay beneath my exterior, be it good or bad. It was as if he were peeling off a superficial layer of skin to examine what made me tick like some kind of science experiment.
“What’s with that Shane guy?” I asked the keyboard player, Donna, who’d arrived about five minutes ago.
She shrugged. After turning around to be sure Shane and Mack were both occupied in back, she answered. “He and his partner Garrett Ryan inherited the place when Walt Cummings, the owner, disappeared.”
“Really?” Now that I knew he wasn’t here willingly, his bad attitude made more sense.
“Walt was going through a nasty divorce and hired Shane and Garrett to do some detective work. Along with a retainer, he gave them a quit claim deed to this property as collateral. One of the checks he gave them bounced, and then Walt headed for parts unknown with a slew of creditors chasing him. Shane and Garrett were the lucky ones. At least they got this place for their trouble.”
I mulled over the scenario she’d described. Now it all made a bit of sense. “He does look more like a detective than a bar owner. But you’d think he’d at least try to be friendly.”
“As long as you’re here when you’re supposed to be, he’s fine. Besides, both Shane and Garrett make themselves scarce. Neither one sticks around past eight or so. For the most part, they leave things up to Mack.”
“If he hates being here so much, why doesn’t he sell it?”
“They’ve got it up for sale, but no takers yet.” Donna adjusted her seat behind the keyboard. “Most of the popular bars are a little farther south, closer to Lincoln Park or Wrigleyville. This place has some potential, but it’s off the beaten path.” She smiled, and her whole face lit up. “With your amazing voice, I have a feeling things might change around here for the better.”
“I’ll only be here a month.”
“A lot can happen in a month.”
CHAPTER TWO
He made me nervous. And he knew it. And unless I missed my guess, he got a vicarious thrill out of it.
Music had been a part of my life for as far back as I could remember. Despite that, for perhaps the first time ever, a hint of stage fright seeped inside, shaking my confidence. No doubt Mr. Cranky Pants was responsible.
A trickle of sweat traversed my spinal column. Fanning myself with a piece of paper, I wished somebody would lower the air conditioning about ten degrees. But considering that might cost a few extra dollars, fat chance that would happen.
Instead, I made do, drew the hair away from my neck, and held a sliver of ice to the skin. It didn’t work all that well, especially when Shane glowered at me with that scowl firmly affixed to his face.
After the initial crankiness, he seemed to have settled into a perpetual state of pissed off. While he didn’t say much, his piercing eyes told the story. He didn’t want me here, didn’t think he needed me, and was hatching a plan to get rid of me as soon as possible. Little did he know I had a stubborn streak a mile long, especially when it came to proving a point.
To show Shane I couldn’t be intimidated, I scowled back at him before adjusting the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Gabriella Santo
s, brought here by the very generous owner of The Blues Stop,” I stopped to give him a game-on wink, “all the way from Florida.” Smiling, I tried to keep my nerves at bay. “Based on the weather outside, I feel right at home.”
“You should try being here in January,” a man shouted from the audience.
My flirtatious side kick-started to life. “I’m a hot-blooded woman, but even I can’t generate enough heat to counteract a thirty-below wind chill.” He responded with a chuckle, and I continued, “With the help of Donna, my accompanist, we’ll weave our way through the greats—Billie Holiday, Dinah Washington, Ella Fitzgerald, and some Koko Taylor. Being in a blues town like Chicago, I have some big shoes to fill, but I’m going to try. Hopefully, you’ll think I do them justice.”
At that point, I got down to business and did what I did best. Any nervousness I had experienced earlier melted away as quickly as it had come. Before I knew it, I had the first set of the evening under my belt.
I strutted toward Shane with an enormous told-you-I-was-good grin on my face. Maybe he’d manage to drop a compliment or two in my direction. Based on the dour expression on his face, that wouldn’t happen any time soon.
“Could I have some water, no ice, with a slice of lemon?”
He motioned toward Mack. “He could have gotten that for you and brought it to your dressing room.”
Mack slid into the seat next to me. “Incredible voice, Gabriella. Sounds even better than on your demo tapes and video.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet of you to say.”
Shane grumbled. “If you’re not too busy feeding our star’s ego, Mack, maybe you could re-stock the beer case. We’re running a little low.”
Irritated, I drummed my fingers along the bartop and glanced around. “You should play music between sets. Some people might want to dance.”
“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”