Onyx Webb 10 Page 15

  God Bless the readers of the world.

  Stan Lee replaced the book on the shelf and began the long trip to the top of the lighthouse.

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 19, 2011 – 3:54 P.M. (PST)

  TARA GLANCED IN the Chrysler’s rearview mirror and saw the disaster that was her face. Eyes red and puffy, long black lines of mascara running down her cheeks. God, she was a mess.

  Tara knew that if she didn’t get control of her gambling, everything she worked for was about to go up in smoke.

  Again.

  Worse still, half the money wasn’t hers. It belonged to Onyx. Well, Onyx and Noah, now that they were married.

  And she’d lost most of it.

  Tara turned down the narrow dirt road and drove through the trees toward the lighthouse and wondered how many more paintings were left. Onyx hadn’t been painting as much lately—and Tara had been selling off the few that were left at a faster pace than usual.

  To support her habit.

  Tara parked the car and dug around in her purse for the spare key Onyx had given her two years earlier. Under normal circumstances, Tara would have called the lighthouse to warn them she was coming. But she knew that neither Onyx nor Noah was there—which was also partially her fault. At least the part that involved Onyx.

  Tara knew she’d been stupid to make a comment about Noah sacrificing his life for her. And giving up his chance at having a family. It wasn’t her place.

  Water under the bridge now, Tara thought. Something she couldn’t waste time thinking about. What mattered now was taking another group of canvases, getting them framed, and getting them sold as fast as possible to replace the money she’d lost.

  Jesus.

  Tara slid the key in the lock of the caretaker’s house, held her breath, and turned it.

  It opened.

  Tara went down the hall to the spare bedroom, the one used to store Onyx’s finished canvases, and opened the door. Fortunately, there was a sizeable stack of art to choose from, but most of the larger pieces—the stunning four-by-five-foot pieces that went for tens of thousands were long gone. All that remained were twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch pieces and eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch pieces, which was okay. Tara knew she could find buyers. But it was going to take a lot more of them to bring in the money to replace the missing $150,000.

  Tara dropped to her knees and began sorting through the stack, choosing an equal assortment of sunsets and seascapes, the two subjects that sold the best.

  Then she heard the wood floor creak behind her.

  Tara paused and listened.

  Everything was quiet.

  Tara went back to the paintings and then heard what sounded like a footstep on the floor behind her.

  What—?

  The cord dropped around Tara’s neck so quickly she had no time to react. No time to get her hands up. No time to get her fingers under the cord. No time for anything but to glance at the prosthetic legs on the floor behind her, standing over her—pulling tighter and tighter—until everything around her went black.

  Stan Lee had been atop the lighthouse, reading Onyx’s journal, which he discovered locked in a red leather case. He had to know what was in it. Ironically, breaking into the lighthouse was no big deal compared to breaking into the keepsake box.

  Reading the journals stored inside was an even greater invasion of the woman’s privacy, but, in for a dime, right?

  After three hours of reading, Stan Lee understood.

  Everything.

  About Onyx Webb. About ghosts. And he understood now why the FBI hadn’t chased him, coming up with the ridiculous story about the supposed gas leak.

  There had been no gas leak—there had been a ghost attack, as evidenced by the gray, lifeless bodies Stan Lee had stepped over, scattered throughout the mansion.

  Yes, Stan Lee finally understood. And it shook him to his core. Then he heard the car coming.

  Stan Lee didn’t know who the woman was, or why she was there. Or why she had a key to the caretaker’s house.

  It didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was that she was eliminated, which he’d just done.

  Stan Lee looked around for a purse but didn’t see one. So he went out to the woman’s car. Lo and behold, there it was on the front seat.

  Stan Lee opened the purse and found the woman’s wallet. Her name was Tara Schröder, and she lived in Portland. But what he was really looking for was her cell phone. With any luck, there was cell coverage out there. There was. He wanted to know who she called recently.

  The news was good.

  There was only one call made or received from the woman’s phone over the previous twenty-four hours.

  Stan Lee dialed the number and waited. A moment later, a woman answered. “Schröder Gallery. This is Marissa. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, Marissa. It seems your owner left her cell phone at my coffee shop a few minutes ago, and I’d love to return it to her. Do you have any idea where she may have been going today? Maybe I can drive it over to her?”

  “Hang on,” Marissa said. A moment later, she came back on the line. “No, no one has any idea where Tara is today. She’s off. Let me give you the address here at the gallery, and you can—”

  Stan Lee hung up.

  Chances were good that no one knew Tara Schröder had been going to the lighthouse.

  Good.

  Stan Lee liked it at the lighthouse, and he’d only begun to dig into Onyx’s journals. He didn’t want to rush off if he could help it.

  Now, what to do with the woman’s body?

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  FEBRUARY 21, 2011

  BECAUSE FAT SAL’S was closed on Mondays, Alistar and Noah agreed to meet there at one for lunch. Neither knew the other was going to bring someone with them. Noah brought Alec, and Alistar brought his musical cohort, jazz and blues legend Walter “Chicken Legs” Washington—who had to be older than Alistar. He was at least in his mid-eighties.

  As it turned out, Chicken Legs got his nickname not because he had thin, boney legs—which he did—but because he’d served two years at Holman Correctional for stealing a bucket of fried chicken from a KFC outside Birmingham, Alabama, in 1958.

  The best part of the four of them being together was that all their secrets were out in the open.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Chicken Legs said. “Alistar faked his death, which I already knew. Rock star Alec, he’s dying because he drinks like I wish I still could. And Noah here is married to a ghost who ran out on him. That about it?”

  “Yeah, that’s about it,” Alec said.

  “Damn! How come all you white boys got better stories than me?” Chicken Legs said. All four men broke into laughter, and whatever remaining tension may have existed disappeared entirely.

  “So why is this place called Fat Sal’s Freezer?” Noah said.

  Alistar looked over at Chicken Legs. “You were here, Chick. You tell them,” Alistar said.

  “After I got out of the joint, I made my way up here to Chicago. The blues scene was catching hold, and I thought maybe I could make it playing guitar. Turns out I was wrong, so I got a job doing dishes right here in this building. At that time, The Purple Pig was owned by a local mobster name Sal Tombo, a big man—fatter than any man you probably ever saw—so big he could barely fit in a booth, even with the table pulled all the way out.”

  “So that’s where the name Fat Sal’s came from,” Noah said.

  “Um hum,” Chicken Legs said. “Lots of small time mobsters in and out of the place back then, every hour of the day. Even some of the big boys dropped in. Frank Nitti used to come in all the time. It was fun watching Fat Sal kiss Nitti’s ass. Most of ‘em just nickel and dime players, though. Like Chuckie Bags, who was Fat Sal’s muscle. And “Milwaukee Phil” Spilatro, little punk-ass kid used to run money up and down from—”

  “Milwaukee?” Noah said.

  “Don’t go being no smarta
ss, not if you want me to finish the story.”

  “Sorry,” Noah said.

  “Anyway, where was I?”

  “Milwaukee Phil,” Alistar said.

  “Yeah, Philly, well he was connected to the Spilatro family from Las Vegas,” Chicken Legs said. “That made Phil untouchable. Only problem was, couple of guys broke the rules and screwed Milwaukee Phil but good. July 22, 1963. Yep, they screwed Phil but good.”

  “You remember the exact date?” Alec asked.

  “Be hard to forget,” Chicken Legs said. “That was the night of the Liston-Patterson fight. All the smart money was on Patterson, but Sonny Liston knocked Floyd out in the first round. I remember ‘cause I had two week’s pay on Patterson. Hurt like hell.”

  “What does this have to do with Milwaukee Phil?” Noah asked.

  “Phil was up north, making his rounds, picking up the money from the local bookies—then bringing it down here to the Pig where it was to be counted and split. But the money didn’t make it. Phil got robbed.”

  “By who, another mobster?” Alec asked.

  “Uh uh,” Chicken Legs said. “That would have set off a mob war, and nobody wanted that. Fat Sal thought it was an inside job, pulled off by one of his men, Tommy Bilazzo—and Tommy’s friend, Declan Mulvaney.”

  Noah and Alec turned and looked at each other. “Are you serious?” Noah said.

  “Serious as a heart attack,” Chicken Legs said.

  “So what happened?” Alec said.

  “What happened is Declan Mulvaney used the stolen cash as seed money to buy up land in Orlando before the mouse could get its hands on it, and he got rich.”

  “And Tommy?” Noah asked.

  “Fat Sal put a hit out on Tommy. I know because Chuckie Bags bragged about the job. Killed the man in his own apartment. Cut him up, stuffed the parts in suitcases, and tossed them in the lake out at Bachelor’s Grove—behind the old cemetery out there. Chuckie must have weighed the cases down with bricks, cause, to the best of my knowledge, those suitcases ain’t never come back up.”

  Again, Alec and Noah looked at each other. “Well, now we know how Tommy and Declan were connected,” Noah said.

  “Yeah, and how the Mulvaneys got their money,” Alec added.

  “What are you talking about?” Alistar said.

  “Nothing,” Noah said, signaling to Alec to keep quiet.

  “Well, you’re gonna want to hear the end of the story,” Chicken Legs said.

  “There’s more?” Alec asked.

  “Oh, yeah—and it’s going to curl your hair, but good.”

  The waitress from Saturday night came down with a tray of sandwiches and placed them on the table, winked at Alec, and left.

  “Oh, I see you met Shereen,” Chicken Legs said once the waitress had gone back upstairs. “Sweet thing, that girl. You tell her you’re dying?”

  “No,” Alec said. “Well, I could have. I was drunk.”

  “Well, you should—if you’re gonna see her again,” Chicken Legs said. “I know Shereen. She gets attached to people right quick. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Good to know,” Alec said.

  “You were about to tell us the rest of the story,” Alec said.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Chicken Legs said. “Tommy Bilazzo. One day, a few years after Chuckie Bags bragged about taking Tommy out—sometime in the spring of 1970, I think it was—I was in the upstairs kitchen doing dishes, and in he walks.”

  “Tommy walked into the restaurant?” Noah said.

  “Uh huh,” Chicken Legs said. “I saw him plain as day. He looked at me and put his finger up against his lips like he was tellin’ me to be quiet. I was scared out of my wits. I knew he had to be a ghost.”

  “Then what happened?” Alec asked.

  “Tommy asked if I knew where Sal and Chuckie were, and I told him they were downstairs doing inventory in the walk-in freezer. Tommy went downstairs. A few minutes later, Tommy comes up and tells me not to let anyone open the freezer until the next morning.”

  “Jesus,” Noah said.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Chicken Legs said.

  Alec leaned forward. “Tommy Bilazzo locked them in the freezer?”

  “Yep. Froze them two boys up like popsicles right over there,” Chicken Legs said, pointing to the corner of the club. “That’s where the freezer used to sit, right where the stage is now.”

  “And that’s why the place is called Fat Sal’s Freezer,” Alistar said.

  “Tommy Bilazzo wasn’t done, though. Couple days later, I read in the paper that Rocky Dredge was found dead in his bowling alley under mysterious circumstances—like all the life had been drained out of him. I knew it had to be Tommy. Rumor always had it that Rocky killed a pretty young dancer that worked for him. And not just any dancer. She was Declan Mulvaney’s girl. Revenge is what it was. The universe’s way of saying, gotcha!”

  “What about Milwaukee Phil? Tommy get him too?” Noah asked.

  “You know, he disappeared way before Tommy came back. No one had any idea about Phil and the sad truth was, I don’t think anyone cared all that much to go lookin’.”

  Alec and Noah exchanged another look but said nothing.

  “Welcome to Chicago,” Alistar said.

  “Now that I told you the whole story, let me ask you boys something?” Chicken Legs said.

  “Sure,” Noah said.

  “Ali tells me the two of you play music—that right?”

  “Yeah, a bit,” Alec said.

  “Well, how about the two of you join us for a set on Friday night?” Chicken Legs asked. “Nothing too fancy, just jam a bit, the four of us.”

  “Don’t you have other acts lined up?” Alec said.

  “Chick owns Fat Sal’s,” Alistar said. “And most of the buildings for two blocks in every direction.”

  “No shit,” Alec said.

  “How’d you manage that?” Noah asked.

  “One nickel at a time,” Chicken Legs said. “There’s a lot a person can do with a stack of nickels and a bit of patience. One day I’m washing Fat Sal’s dishes—the next, I’m signing payroll checks. Now these scrawny little chicken legs of mine can do just about anything they damn well please.”

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 23, 2011

  ONYX WALKED DOWN the beach—along the water beneath the cliffs—wondering why she hadn’t taken the girl. Though she already knew. She’d listened to the voice in her head. It was time to let go. Like Ben Greenwald, she was done. 120 years was long enough.

  She was ready.

  Onyx stopped and looked up toward the top of the cliffs to take one last look at the lighthouse.

  So many years she’d fought to keep it, to protect it—her most valuable possession—but now the truth hit her like a sledgehammer. She had never possessed the lighthouse.

  It had possessed her.

  This was not to say the lighthouse wasn’t a place of meaning.

  It was.

  The lighthouse was the place she’d felt the happiest since having left the bayou…

  It was the place she’d finally stood up to Ulrich…

  It was the place her father had died in her arms and had been laid to rest, along with her best friend, Katherine, and Poe…

  It was where she’d met Alistar Ashley, her unlikely protector for almost twenty years…

  And, finally, it was the place she’d married Noah, promising to be with him for the rest of his life. But now? Now it was just a thing, like any other thing—a stack of bricks covered in paint with a metal staircase winding 103 steps up to a flame she would never light again.

  Onyx had decided to let the lighthouse go.

  And, in an odd way, it was letting go of her.

  Onyx walked for what felt like hours until she heard the barking of seals off in the distance.

  From the caves.

  In all the years she’d inhabited the cove, the Sea Lion Caves were the one place she’d never gone.<
br />
  She’d almost gone, with Noah and Clay and Tara—the night they’d taken the drive in Tara’s car, the four of them with the top down and their hair blowing in the wind.

  Onyx couldn’t feel the cold air on her skin the way the others could, but she could imagine it.

  She’d had such experiences when she was alive.

  That’s what life was about.

  The small moments.

  Simple moments of joy like that one.

  The sound of the seals barking and waves crashing on the rocks grew louder as Onyx approached the caves.

  No one would find her there, deep inside the caves, away from even the tourists who stopped in day after day.

  It was a place where she could sit and be alone.

  And wait.

  That’s right, the voice in her head said again. You don’t need to go on. It’s been long enough. There’s no reason to stay any more. It’s time.

  It’s time.

  It’s time.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  FEBRUARY 24, 2011

  THE IDEA THAT Tara missed her date with Clay ten days earlier didn’t bother him. It should have, but it didn’t. If he had died from the curse, he really didn’t want Tara getting caught in the possible crossfire.

  But now Tara was refusing to return his calls altogether.

  Clay’s greatest fears were confirmed when he drove to the gallery in Portland and was stunned to see the walls virtually void of art.

  “Where are all the paintings, Marissa?” Clay asked.

  “I don’t know,” Marissa said. “Ask Tara.”

  “Okay, is she here?” Clay asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Do you know where she is?” Clay asked.

  “No idea,” Marissa said. “Do you? She didn’t come in to sign checks for payday, and I’ve been covering all her shifts. People are pretty upset.”