Murder at The Blues Stop Read online

  Shane bolted from behind the bar to wedge himself between them, his arms keeping them at a distance. “Knock the fuck off.”

  While he had to intervene, I knew his interference would only escalate matters even more so. I sauntered over, convinced it would get really ugly within thirty seconds or less if I didn’t do something. Patrick and another guy stood on the periphery, not encouraging but also not stepping into the middle of things. More than likely, Patrick had every intention of letting Shane go down in a blaze of glory if it came to that.

  I gave Patrick my best scathing look and moved next to Shane. Nobody spoke, instead just glared like guys do, making my anxiety go through the roof.

  “Come on, fellows. My song wasn’t that bad, was it?” I touched one man’s arm, and he recoiled. “Keep this up and you guys are going to have to arrest yourselves.” I figured if I made it clear to everyone they were cops, they would stop. Either that or get even worse.

  Patrick finally spoke. “Knock it off, Dan.”

  The man in question—Dan—did a kind of a wobbly glare at the other guy. Then he turned his attention toward Shane and pointed. “You think you’re all-badass. But, Shane O’Neil, you’re a dead man.” With that, he turned and walked out the door.

  Holy crap. What was that all about? A shiver raced up my spine. I gulped and glanced toward Shane. Either he had ice water in his veins, or he had some kind of a death wish.

  I didn’t understand how the argument had gone from between the two cops to between the cop and Shane. Then it hit me. He was one of the guys from court earlier, the one Shane had words with. I didn’t recognize him at first because he wore jeans and a baseball cap. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d ended up at The Blues Stop tonight.

  The likelihood of something bad happening here seemed to be multiplying by the minute. Hightailing it out of Dodge seemed like an excellent idea right now. But due to stubbornness or nosiness or just plain craziness, I decided to stay put.

  One of the remaining cops motioned to Shane. “I need a beer.”

  “You’re cut off,” Shane said before walking away.

  “You can’t do that.”

  Shane didn’t respond. He went behind the bar, ignoring the guy’s rant which didn’t last long because the other men at the table managed to quiet him. Still, any moment the whole place could erupt into a giant fistfight like in those old westerns on TV.

  Instead of contemplating the perilousness of the situation, I made my way to the stage. “That was the most excitement I’ve had in a long while. But I think it’s time we get back to singing.”

  When the set finished and the music began to play, I felt like I could relax a little. Anxious for a breather, I slipped off to the dressing room. Most times I liked to hang out at the bar or with customers—or Shane—during breaks. Tonight I wanted to hibernate. Starting with the news of Annie, the night had catapulted into one gigantic disaster, and I had no doubt it would get worse before it got better.

  Lost in her own thoughts, Donna kept quiet, not in the mood for conversation. Instead of chatting, I had time to consider my options. If I hightailed it back to Florida, all I had to worry about was annoying lectures from my family. But listening to their lectures and not-so-thoughtful words of advice wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. But, as usual, I choose the path of least resistance, put in earbuds, hit the play button on my iPod, and let music drown out errant thoughts.

  As I tipped the chair back against the wall to relax, I spotted a piece of paper crumpled up in the corner behind the makeup table. I scooted off the chair, reached between the table and the wall, and grabbed it. ‘Ayudeme, por favor. Please help me.’

  What the hell? How long had that been there? More importantly, who left it there?

  A sick feeling lodged in the bottom of my stomach as I struggled to normalize the situation. Could it be a prank? I wanted it to be something innocent. A practical joke. At the same time, I knew…especially when I spotted what looked like droplets of dried blood not too far from where the note had been lying.

  Holy crap. What the hell was going on at this place?

  I glanced over at Donna, but she remained lost in thought, a tear running down her cheek every so often. Just as I was about to seek out Shane, Mack poked his head inside the door.

  “What’s this on the floor?” I pointed at the spot.

  He gave the stain a superficial glance, then shrugged. “Those cleaning people suck. I spilled some wine there about a week ago.” Without another word, he turned and left.

  Bar and spilled wine went together. It seemed feasible, even probable. I stared at the spot once again and reined in my overactive imagination, pushing down the thought that there could be any connection between the scribbled note I still held in my fingertips and the spot.

  I wanted to share my concerns with Donna and ask questions about the note, but I didn’t have the heart. “I’m sorry about Annie.”

  “She’d been getting better. She had a sponsor and went to the methadone clinic for treatment.” Donna shook her head. “Why didn’t she tell me she was struggling? I would have at least tried to help. Seeing her like that…” A tear hung at the edge of her eyelashes, finally slipping down her cheek.

  “You think it was drug deal gone bad?” I began to wonder about a lot of things that didn’t seem to add up. Getting beat up the way Annie had seemed more an act of vengeance than a drug deal gone bad. And then there was the note and the wine spot.

  “I’m not sure what to think. She swore to me she wasn’t using anymore, but if you ask me, methadone is almost as much of a crutch as heroin, just legalized.” She drew in a deep breath. “But she was acting strange the last couple of days before she disappeared. She didn’t want to talk about it, which surprised me. We were different kinds of people, but we were friends.” Donna gulped back some water. “It sucks that it happened to her.”

  I could only nod in affirmation. While I didn’t know Annie personally, I did have up close and personal knowledge of drug addiction. I’d lived with a drug addict of a boyfriend for a long time. In my experience, most of the time they were nice people who’d gotten off on the wrong path. I would bet Annie was the same.

  But why had she been killed? If, in fact, Annie had been in recovery and going through a methadone clinic, why would she be searching for drugs? Could it be that she had seen or heard something she shouldn’t have? Then again, maybe Annie had lied to Donna. Perhaps she had disappeared because she’d gone back to drug use and ceased caring about anything else including The Blues Stop.

  When living with Terry, my drug-addict-ex-boyfriend, I hadn’t recognized that he was still using until the evidence slapped me in the face. Maybe Donna had been as bad as I had been in recognizing what was really going on. Addicts were good at hiding the truth until they got caught. Then they’d squirm, deny, and blame everyone but themselves for what happened. I knew the ritual all too well.

  Would anyone ever know what had happened to poor Annie? Would the police continue to pepper Shane with questions until he finally lost his temper and got arrested?

  And what, if any, role had Mack played in what happened? I couldn’t help thinking of him differently after what I’d seen in the alley. No doubt he was guilty of something, but I didn’t know what.

  Donna’s hands shook as we got up to go back on stage. I took her hand. “Why don’t you go home early? I can handle this last set alone.”

  The tears started to flow again. “Are you sure?” When I nodded, she continued, “but could I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you mind coming with me tomorrow to snoop around about Annie? I’m sure the police aren’t going to do anything about it. They’ll chalk it up to a druggie’s inconsequential death. I can’t let it...”

  “No problem.” I wanted to suggest Shane’s help as well with him being the private dick, not me. But whether oversight or intentional, the idea didn’t seem to be on Donna’s radar at the moment.
So for once in my life, I went with the flow, consoling myself with the thought that Donna trusted me enough to think I could help.

  Mack peeked his head inside the dressing room. “What’s going on?”

  “Donna’s sick. She’s got to go home.” I chewed my lip. “Is there a guitar somewhere around here? I’m better on that than the keyboard.”

  He gave me a weird look, then shrugged. “In the back hall closet.”

  I followed him there and got the guitar. While it had definitely seen better days, with a little tuning, I could make it work.

  When I returned to the stage, I was surprised but relieved to find Patrick and his friends gone. I figured they’d stick around to the bitter end, if only to finish off this crazy night with a bang.

  Thankfully, the night petered out uneventfully, although Mack acted weirder than usual. I tried to ignore him as much as I could but noticed he watched me more closely than normal. I wondered if our encounter in the alley still bothered him.

  More than likely he’d been smoking weed or doing some coke and thought if I told Shane, he’d be fired on the spot. Which he probably would. I had more than enough trouble dealing with Shane. I didn’t need an angry Mack on my back as well.

  Then again, Mack hadn’t seemed overly weird when I’d asked him about the spot on the floor. Spilled wine made a lot more sense than dried blood. And the note was probably nothing.

  Satisfied things were hunky dory again, and that Shane would be taking me home as per usual, I walked up to the bar after the club closed.

  Before I even got close to the bar, Shane blurted, “You screwing my brother?”

  “Excuse me?” That wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting.

  In fact, I’d had this lovely fantasy in my head in which Shane would confide in me and divulge all about O’Brien and his threat. And I’d tell him about the weird note and spot, and we’d laugh about my overactive imagination. Then we’d work together to figure out what was really going on. Instead, I’d gotten Mr. Crazy Paranoid Macho Man once again.

  “He had his hands all over you while you were dancing.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Not that I care. I just want to know if the asshole is going to come sniffing around here often.”

  Where was all this coming from? Had some kind of weird spell been placed on this club, or had I somehow been transported to an alternate universe where everyone was crazy, cranky, and paranoid? “Don’t be ridiculous. He was drunk.”

  “I didn’t see you fighting him off.”

  “Not that it’s any business of yours, but there was nothing to fight off.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re doing the O’Neil brothers comparison. You won’t be the first. It happened when we were in high school too.”

  “You’re in a foul mood and taking it out on me. I’m sorry your singer was killed. I’m sorry you, for some reason, feel responsible. I’m sorry a cop wants to see you dead. I’m sorry Tony got stabbed. But don’t think you can catch me in the middle of your drama.” I pulled the strap of my purse onto my shoulder. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take a cab home.”

  I stormed out, half expecting him to stop me and apologize. At least in my fantasy version, he did. Instead, Mack followed me out.

  “I’ll give you a ride, Gabriella.”

  Like hell. “No, thanks.” I flagged down a passing cab. Still steaming from Shane’s over-the-top behavior, it took me a few minutes to recognize I was being followed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I wouldn’t have noticed except I kept glancing out the rear window with the crazy, optimistic idea that Shane might have reconsidered his earlier irrational behavior and come after me to apologize. But the car behind us wasn’t the low-slung profile of his Porsche.

  “I think one of the customers from the bar is following us. Could you drive around a bit and try to lose them before you drop me off? I don’t need all the barflies in town to know where I’m staying.” Another reason I should be staying in a hotel. They had security to make this kind of thing a non-issue. But nooooo, Shane had to be a cheapskate. With some effort, I willed my mind away from him and onto the present situation.

  The cabbie glanced in his rearview mirror and nodded. “Sure thing. As long as you’re paying, we’ll do the tour. I’ll show you all the spots where movies in Chicago have been filmed, everything from The Blues Brothers to Batman . . .”

  The cabbie’s rambling relaxed me. He continued to talk while we drove toward downtown, circling Michigan Avenue, then entering a ramp leading to a cavernous maze of underground streets. The area was nearly deserted, and I gave another quick look behind. Not a headlight in sight.

  This cabbie was good.

  ***

  Sleeping was overrated. At least that’s what I told myself as I tossed and turned most of the night. I vacillated between believing I had imagined being followed to hearing a whole slew of unexplained noises during the course of the night. I probably had no more than four hours of sleep when I slipped from beneath the covers. I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and visited the diner for a couple of cups of coffee.

  An hour later, wired on caffeine, I contemplated how much damage I could do on my credit cards. I’d never been to Michigan Avenue and heard the shopping there was to-die-for. Before I had a chance to put that excellent idea into motion, my phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Gabriella, this is Donna.”

  “How are you?” Silly question, but I had to ask if nothing more than to be polite.

  “Like crap.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t let what happened to Annie go.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Last night when Donna mentioned her hare-brained idea, I had contemplated mentioning it to Shane. That idea went to hell when he acted like an ass. Now poor Donna was stuck with me as a partner.

  “I need to get some questions answered. Annie’s death doesn’t add up.”

  “Maybe when you’re feeling better we can ask around.” I thrived on procrastinating and leaned toward being selfish most times. Plus, I had visions of a great new dress and a pair of shoes waiting for me somewhere on the Magnificent Mile.

  “No, I can’t stop thinking about her. I need to do it today. Will you come with me?”

  “Now? Ah...sure...but are you up to it?”

  “I have no choice. I’ll come pick you up in fifteen minutes.” Without another word, I hung up.

  After taking the quickest shower on record, I rummaged through my clothes to find a detectivey-looking outfit. In the end, I decided on jeans and a t-shirt, mimicking Shane’s normal attire, except I wore a great pair of wedge sandals.

  I glanced out the window and spotted Donna’s white Altima at the curb. At this point, I couldn’t back out so tromped down the stairs. As I headed toward her car, I put a smile on my face and opened the passenger door. But one look at Donna and I had an overwhelming urge to send her right back home.

  “Good morning.” She looked like hell, and it was on the tip on my tongue to ask again if we should do this another day. Before I could, she put the car into drive and pulled away.

  “Stress makes me nauseous, but once I get some answers, I’ll be fine and my stomach will settle down. Let’s start with her drug counselor at Haymarket. Maybe we can get them to tell us something.”

  I didn’t want to burst her bubble and mention the confidentiality issue. I’d had enough experience with those sorts of things to know that a drug counselor never talked to anybody about a client unless all the proper forms had been signed. Then again, I wasn’t sure if confidentiality still came into play when the person in question was deceased. I got the sense Donna wouldn’t let this go until she got some answers, so I let the matter drop.

  She negotiated her way through the streets and made it to the drug rehab place in about ten minutes. The small crowd of people mingling outside eyed us suspiciously as we got out of the car and walked through the front door.

  Inside, t
he place appeared run-down, needing both a good cleaning and a fresh coat of paint. Walls had yellowed from years of neglect, plus copious amounts of cigarette smoke. Cubbyhole offices lined the perimeter. But it seemed like everyone working there was either on the phone or talking to someone inside their office. A lone receptionist with really bad hair answered the constantly ringing phone.

  Finally, the gum-chewing receptionist with big hair had a break from the nonstop calls and looked at us. “Are you two here for drug testing?”

  While I shook my head in disbelief, Donna responded, “We’d like to talk to Annie Taylor’s counselor.”

  “You two don’t look like cops.”

  But we look like druggies?

  “We’re not. We’re friends of the deceased.”

  “Annie’s dead?” The woman seemed shocked. “I thought she was going to make it.”

  “The cops haven’t been here?”

  “Not that I know of. Let me get Gina. She might be able to help you more.”

  We waited in silence a few minutes as the receptionist went to one of the offices, then motioned us over.

  A woman with short dark hair stood when we walked inside. “I’m Gina. Have a seat. Lucy tells me you two are here about Annie Taylor.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame what happened to her. Even though relapse is a part of the recovery process, it still gets me every time I hear about it, especially when Annie was doing so well.”

  Donna nodded. “That’s what I thought too.” She stopped and gulped as if fighting back the nausea along with the tears. “Was she friendly with anyone here that we could talk to?”

  “She had a sponsor.” Gina glanced around as if she was divulging a national secret. “Her name is Vanessa Young. I’m not sure where she lives, but she works as a waitress at Johnny’s on Canal.”

  Donna stood, and I followed suit. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’ll let me know if you find out anything, won’t you? Annie was a good kid. She was excited about this great guy she was seeing.”