Onyx Webb: Book One Page 9

  In that moment, Catfish knew he could no longer postpone the inevitable; it was time to do what he should have done years earlier. He must do what he’d promised Jofranka so long ago, in this very room. He must tell Onyx everything.

  Then she’ll understand.

  Catfish walked to the door and called out after her: “Tomorrow, Jitterbug, on your birthday. We talk about it then.”

  Onyx kept walking.

  In three decades with his daughter, the only things Onyx had ever begged her father for were art supplies, a piano, and to marry Ulrich.

  Art supplies were easy.

  Giving his blessing to marry Ulrich was out of the question.

  A piano would have to suffice.

  It took three large men to transport the Blasius & Sons grand piano—which Catfish had ordered by sending a cable to the company in Philadelphia six weeks earlier—from the train platform forty-six miles away to the houseboat.

  Blasius & Sons were known for exceptional craftsmanship and celebrity endorsements, including that of Thomas Edison, who’d used a Blasius & Sons grand for his experiments with phonograph recordings. Or so the company’s newspaper advertisements claimed.

  Making things especially difficult was getting the monstrous piano onto the houseboat in the dark of night, without so much as a grunt or a groan. He wanted to avoid waking Onyx, making the piano a surprise gift when she awoke on the morning of her thirtieth birthday.

  Once the men left, Catfish made the rest of the preparations: writing out her card, putting candles on the cake, and decorating the entire place with red and purple crepe paper streamers.

  There was only one more thing to do.

  Catfish pried up several floorboards to expose a hidden compartment that held only one thing—Jofranka’s red leather keepsake box. It had been his wife’s dying wish that he give the box to Onyx when the appropriate time had arrived.

  It finally had.

  Besides the clothes on her back, the red keepsake box was the only thing Jofranka carried out of the woods with her after they’d gotten married.

  Catfish once asked Jofranka what was in the box.

  “Secrets,” was all his wife would say.

  Catfish never asked about the contents of the box again, nor did he ever look inside. It belonged to Onyx, not him.

  He placed the box on the piano next to the cake and birthday card, then tried to get some sleep.

  Onyx was usually an early riser, so Catfish was surprised when the clock struck nine the following morning, and she’d yet to come out of her room. He made his way down the hall and rapped on her door.

  Onyx didn’t answer.

  Catfish knocked again, still no response.

  Catfish opened the door and looked in. He could see Onyx lying motionless beneath the covers. “Jitterbug?” Catfish said.

  She did not respond.

  She did not move.

  Catfish’s heart began to race, something was wrong. He made his way to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers.

  Onyx wasn’t in the bed, just three large feather pillows.

  A quick look around the room confirmed Catfish’s worst fears—her clothing, photo albums, and other important belongings, as well as her suitcase—were gone.

  Oh, sweet child, what have you done?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Savannah, Georgia

  June 3, 1979

  Juniper had been awake for almost an hour, the drug she’d been given finally wearing off. She tried to move her arms, but they were strapped to a metal table.

  So were her legs.

  Though she was covered by a thin blanket, she could tell her clothes had been removed.

  She heard the sound of footsteps and moments later the door swung open. When the man entered the room, Juniper immediately noticed three things.

  First, the man was no longer in a wheelchair as he had been when she encountered him near the fountain in Forsyth Park.

  Second, he wasn’t overweight.

  Third, he seemed younger than the night before. It had all been a disguise. How could she have been so naive?

  “What’s your middle name?” he asked.

  “Who are you really?” Juniper asked. “Are you even with the police?”

  “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer,” he said. “What is your middle name?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Juniper replied.

  The man released a long breath. “Because I’d like to do some anagrams of your name. It’s a game where you mix up letters to spell other things. Please don’t make me ask again.”

  Juniper fought the urge to scream or cry or pull on her restraints, knowing it was probably what he wanted. “Is that what this is to you? A game?”

  “Tell me your middle name, Juniper, and I promise things will be okay,” he said, knowing the statement was a lie.

  Juniper knew it was a lie, too. Quinn had been right all along. There were evil people in the world, and you could never be too safe because you never really knew who you could trust.

  “How do you know my name?” Juniper asked.

  “I’ve been watching TV. I know everything about you. It seems you’re quite the celebrity. Juniper this, Juniper that. Maybe I’ll bring the TV down for you later, but first, tell me your God damn middle name.”

  There was an edge to his voice now.

  “Are you promising to let me go?” Juniper asked.

  “I can promise things will go better,” he said.

  Juniper didn’t want to find out what might happen if she pushed him too hard. “Ann,” she said finally.

  “With an ‘e’ on the end or without?”

  “Without,” Juniper said.

  There was a long silence, then he said: “My mother’s middle name was Ann. She was a saint who smelled like vanilla and loved me very much.”

  “You’re lucky,” Juniper said, trying to make a connection with him. “My mother usually smells like gin and…”

  “Did I ask about your mother?” the man snapped.

  “No, but—”

  The man leaned in close to Juniper, his face just inches from hers. Juniper froze. Strapped to the metal table as she was, there was nowhere she could go.

  “Did I ask about your mother?”

  Juniper shook her head from side to side, doing her best to fight back the fear and the tears that she knew would eventually come.

  And now they did, a river of uncontrollable tears.

  He leaned back. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t cry. I used to cry when I wanted things to be different, and it never helped. Crying never solved a thing.”

  Sergent Elton Nahum sat at the kitchen table finishing his lunch—a tuna fish sandwich with sliced pickles on white bread with the crust trimmed off, just as his mother used to make—waiting for the local news to start.

  At the center of the table was a plastic cup filled with wooden Scrabble® letters. Nahum dumped the letters on the table and searched through them until he found the ones he needed:

  J-U-N-I-P-E-R A-N-N C-O-L-E

  Then Nahum began rearranging the letters to see what other combinations he could create…

  Penn Lace Junior…

  Sounded like a boy’s name, so he rearranged the letters again:

  Jenna Nicole Pru…

  He was pretty sure “Pru” wasn’t a word.

  Juno Linn Pearce.

  Better.

  Can Opener In Jul.

  The last one was pretty good, and he smiled. He moved the letters around again and the smile quickly faded:

  Rape Junno Cline.

  Nahum did not like rape. To his mind, rape was wrong, a barbaric act of violence carried out by someone who’d never found a more creative way of coping with their anger.

  Nahum downed the last of his A&W root beer just as WTOC-TV reporter Skylar Savage appeared on the TV screen.

  “Wyatt Allen Scrogger—who police say has been questioned once but remains only a person of int
erest—was brought in by the Savannah PD for additional questioning,” the blonde reporter said with significant drama, her hair flapping in the warm afternoon breeze.

  Skylar Savage. Nahum loathed the sight of her, with that enormous fake smile, a mouth filled with too many teeth, and her red lips that she undoubtedly painted on throughout the day.

  Who in the hell names their child Skylar, anyway? It sounded more like a car model than a girl’s name. Skylar probably wasn’t the reporter’s real name—just something the bimbo concocted as part of her quest to land an anchor position in a major market, like New York or Chicago, or perhaps Atlanta. Savannah was, after all, just a small-time, minor-league market at best.

  “Yes, Skylar, that’s right,” co-anchor Domingo Gutierrez replied from the studio, “but my sources at the Savannah PD say he’s been released, and still no charges have been filed.”

  Then Quinn Cole came on the screen and made a plea for information on his missing sister as throngs of volunteers searched one of the city’s many squares behind him.

  As pathetic as the girl’s brother looked on the TV, crying and begging, he was right. Juniper Cole was special.

  Nahum never met anyone like her before.

  She had a vibrancy in her that was hard to describe, as if someone had taken pure light and filled her soul with it.

  In that way, she was his polar opposite.

  Inside, he was nothing but darkness.

  Nahum grabbed his fake-belly pillow and shoved it up under his shirt. It was time to get back to his job at the Savannah P.D.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Savannah, Georgia

  January 30, 2010

  The manager of the Forsyth Park Hotel was waiting in the lobby when they arrived.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mulvaney, Mr. Luckner,” he said in a tone that made it clear he did not appreciate the scene the young men had made a week earlier in the hotel lobby bar. “You wish to discuss something of an urgent nature?”

  “I want to buy one of your mirrors,” Koda said. Four consecutive sleepless nights had driven Koda to the point where he could think of no other option.

  “One of our mirrors?” the hotel manager asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not in the position to explain,” Koda continued, pulling out his checkbook and pen. “I would appreciate it if you could just give me the price, so I can write you a check and get on my way.”

  “Hotel property is not for sale,” the hotel manager said.

  “Of course, it is,” Koda said. “Everything is for sale.”

  The hotel manager stayed silent.

  “I’ve had a rough week, and I’m in no mood for haggling,” Koda said. “Just tell me the price.”

  “Which mirror?”

  “In the hallway upstairs, near the piano lounge,” Koda said.

  “That mirror is a one-of-a-kind piece,” the hotel manager said. “I would think the price would be nothing short of $10,000, assuming the hotel…”

  “Is that your best price?” Koda asked.

  “It’s my only price,” the hotel manager said.

  Koda pulled out his cell phone, pressed a button and waited. “Hey, Mika. Listen, I’m here at the Forsyth to buy the mirror you wanted and the hotel manager says ten grand is the best he can do. Uh huh, uh huh, I’ll ask…”

  The hotel manager went gray.

  “Ms. Flagler wants to know if…”

  “Please tell Ms. Flagler I had no idea the mirror was for her,” the hotel manager said. “I’m sure we can go down to $5,000.”

  “He’s telling me $5,000 now,” Koda said into the phone, then made a face. “Uh huh, uh huh…”

  A look of realization—or perhaps it was a look of fear—flashed across the manager’s face. “Tell Ms. Flagler we’d be thrilled to offer the mirror as a gift for her years of patronage,” the hotel manager said. “Please ask her where she’d like it delivered.”

  “He says the hotel is gifting it to you,” Koda said into the phone. “Which house do you want it delivered to? Uh huh, uh huh, okay, will do—I love you too, sugar-lumps. Bye.”

  Koda clicked off. “Mika says I should just take it with me.”

  “You and Mika sounded pretty lovey-dovey,” Dane said once they were outside. “I didn’t even know you two were talking after the speech thing.”

  “We aren’t,” Koda said. “I was talking to my voicemail.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chicago, Illinois

  October 28, 1929

  The Roaring Twenties were a time of massive wealth and extreme excess. Unfortunately, none of that wealth or excess seemed to make its way to Onyx and Ulrich.

  The problems between them started the very first night after Onyx had packed her things and snuck away in the middle of the night two years earlier. When they boarded the train in New Orleans, bound for Chicago, Ulrich suggested they spend a few extra dollars and get a sleeper car.

  “Who wants to sit out here with the rabble when we can travel in luxury?” Ulrich asked. But when Ulrich pulled off his shirt and started to undo the buckle on his belt, Onyx realized his true motive was not luxury but, rather, of a carnal nature.

  “Ulrich, what are you doing?” Onyx asked.

  Ulrich shot Onyx a quizzical look. “We can’t be very good together in the bed with our clothes on, can we?”

  “Listen, Ulrich, I do love you but—”

  “Yes, you love me. And I love you,” Ulrich said, reaching a hand toward Onyx’s breast, which she quickly slapped away.

  “You wish to sleep with me, Ulrich? These are my terms,” Onyx said, much to Ulrich’s amusement. “We will lie together once we are husband and wife, not a minute before.”

  “Are you finished?” Ulrich asked.

  “No,” Onyx said. “I will also not marry a man who is not gainfully employed. So, Ulrich Schröder, I suggest you look for a job the minute we get off the train, and then make your proposal. Until that time, enjoy the luxury of your sleeping car.” Onyx closed the door behind her, leaving the half-dressed German to ponder what had just happened.

  Ulrich apparently got the message. Four days after their arrival, he had secured a job installing windows at the Steven’s Hotel on Chicago’s lakeshore. The largest and most expensive hotel in the world—with almost 3,000 rooms—The Stevens had become the epicenter of the exciting, bustling metropolis.

  With his job papers in hand, Ulrich immediately asked Onyx for her hand. Two days later—January 6, 1928—they were married by a justice of the peace.

  But now, twenty-one months later—on what should have been one of the best days of her life—Onyx found herself sitting on the edge of the bed in a small downtown Chicago hotel room, waiting for Ulrich to finally turn up. It was times like these that Onyx questioned why she’d run off with the man.

  For almost two years, Onyx had socked away every dollar she made waiting tables at the Oak Room, dancing as part of a stage show review at Chicago’s Chez Paree nightclub—along with whatever meager amount she could siphon from Ulrich’s weekly paycheck—she was able to cobble enough for the down payment on their first home. It was a single-level bungalow in the 6200 block of W. Byron Street, not far from Mt. Olive Cemetery and the Dunning Asylum. She would finally have a home.

  The mistake Onyx made was asking Ulrich to get the cashier’s check for $900 from the bank and bring it with him to the closing.

  Ulrich never arrived.

  At one o’clock in the morning the door to the room swung open, and Ulrich came in carrying roses and singing loudly…

  “Blue skies, smilin’ at me, Nothin’ but blue skies do I see…”

  Onyx sat up in bed. “You’re drunk.”

  It was the Prohibition era, with laws making alcohol consumption illegal sweeping the country, but that didn’t mean there weren’t ways to get a drink if one was so inclined. Onyx learned early that Ulrich was so inclined virtually every day of the week.

  “Yes, drunk with possibilities
.” Ulrich said, tossing the flowers on the bed. “Today I met a man…”

  “You missed the closing, Ulrich,” Onyx said, forcing down the anger that was beginning to rise in her throat.

  “Yes, yes,” Ulrich slurred. “But I am trying to tell you, Onyx, I met a man…”

  “In a pig bar, no doubt,” Onyx said.

  Though Onyx had never visited one of the hundreds of illegal watering holes scattered throughout the city of Chicago, she knew there were two types of bars.

  The first was the speakeasy, which catered to the upper-crust of society, with passwords that changed daily required for entry.

  The second type of establishment was the pig bar. These were low-class places that exploited a loop-hole in the law forbidding the sale of alcoholic beverages by charging twenty-five cents to glimpse an attraction—such as a pig—and then providing the customer with a gratuitous shot of gin, thus circumventing the law.

  “Yes, he was in a bar, so what?” Ulrich said. “He’s a very important business man…”

  “An important man?” Onyx said. “An important man who you met in a pig bar? Listen to yourself, Ulrich.”

  “He works for the Chicago Stock Exchange, Onyx, and he told me of a once in a lifetime opportunity, so I invested…”

  Onyx lowered her head and began to cry; there was no need to hear the rest of the story. “Get it back, Ulrich. First thing in the morning, you go to this man…”

  “Damn it, Onyx!” Ulrich shouted. “I am the man of this family! You think Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Carnegie made their fortunes playing it safe? I am telling you, the stocks he told me of will make us millions. Then I will buy you all the houses you want, more houses than we can even live in!”