“Thanks for the education, Dr. Death,” Archer said under his breath. Immediately, he looked from Gray to the crazy lady fate had visited on him. They both watched him expectantly.
He returned to Blades’s cryptic note:
Extensive damage could be consistent with alligator attack postmortem. Looking for further substantiation.
Provisional cause of death:
Crude removal of larynx.
Extensive blood loss.
Shock.
“Oh, my God,” he said, and was tempted to reach for the Bong vodka again. The beast who murdered her had cut out her voice.
Chapter 6
Finding out the name of the club where Amber had sung with her partner, Sidney, had been harder than Marley expected. The club wasn’t well-known and only after making call after call had she caught up with the duo. Marley didn’t expect to find out much, but she had to start somewhere and Scully’s Club seemed her only choice.
“You want me to wait?” the cab driver said.
Marley looked through the car window, making up her mind. “No, thanks,” she said finally and got out, paying him off quickly. It was really late and she might have been better waiting until the morning, but for Liza and Amber, every minute could count.
The entrance to Scully’s at the Hotel Camille was set back from the sidewalk just off the foot of Canal Street. Marley heard live music through the closed doors.
Not far from the river and barely on the edge of the Quarter, this had to be a minor foot-in-the-door place for fledgling musicians.
Her stomach squeezed, and letting the cab go didn’t seem such a good idea anymore, but she pushed on a polished brass handle and went in.
Inside the club, laughter and conversation came in bursts. Scents of beer, booze and perfume made her nose itch. The light was low, but not so low she couldn’t see clearly enough.
The bar dominated the middle of a big room decked out in green-and-white stripes, heavy chintz fabrics, crops of British hunting scenes on every wall and an overstuffed Victorian atmosphere. Men turned to look at her but Marley had expected that, coming here alone at almost midnight. But she was only blocks away from home and she’d get another cab when she left.
Accompanied by a pianist, a woman played a guitar and sang the blues. Nice voice. Not remarkable, but nice and mellow. She looked and sounded melancholy. The pianist was worth listening to on his own.
Marley went to the bar and climbed on a stool. She would rather have hidden herself in one of the curtained alcoves at the far end of the room, but that would not be the way to do what she’d come for: to find out what she could about Amber Lee.
Scully’s had been Amber’s last gig before she disappeared. The place wasn’t famous and neither were Amber and Sidney, but Marley had tracked them all down.
“This’ll help you make up your mind,” the bartender said with an Irish brogue. He opened a list of drinks in front of her. “Unless you already know, colleen.”
She smiled at him and decided he was about her age, but his worldly brown eyes had probably seen much more…of this world.
Marley looked at the list. “Only martinis?” She laughed. “Every kind of martini.”
The bartender put his elbows on the counter and crossed his forearms. “And every kind of gin. But if you don’t drink gin, try me with whatever takes your fancy.”
“I’m having one of these,” she said. “Kiwi and sour apple martini. That sounds good.” She wanted to fit in, preferably to just about disappear.
Sitting sideways on her stool, Marley watched the singer. Someone behind her tapped her shoulder and Marley glanced around.
A blond man, maybe in his forties, smiled at her from the next stool. “Is it okay if I hit on you?” he said, and giggled at his own brilliance.
Marley smiled politely and turned back to the singer.
Another tap on the shoulder.
This time she ignored him.
The bartender slid a large martini glass filled to the brim with a pale green drink toward her. In amber-shaded light the contents of the glass reminded her of other things, like a tunnel she’d swum through, and its consistency was as if it had been mixed with light oil. Pretty in a way.
A big hand shot out from beside her to throw down a fifty. “The lady’s drink is on me, Danny,” the blond man said. “Take it out of that.”
Marley rallied quickly and looked Danny in the eye. “I’ll be running my own tab,” she said, pleased that she could sound as if she did this sort of thing regularly.
“You’ve got it,” Danny said, ignoring Blondy’s money.
“What’s the singer’s name?” Marley asked.
Danny squinted, appeared to become distant. He looked past Marley. “That’s Sidney. She got the pianist for tonight. Amber, that’s her partner, she plays the keyboard—and sings, mind you. Now that girl’s got the voice of an angel.”
Marley turned back to stare at the singer. This was the Sidney of Amber and Sidney. Right there. It was far more than she had hoped for. She had to know where Amber lived, who her friends were, and at least something that would be useful in helping to find the woman. The police probably already knew the details, but they wouldn’t be sharing any information with her.
After making the mistake of being direct with him that afternoon, Detective Archer had treated her kindly enough, if a virtual pat on the head and a warning not to let what she saw on television fool with her imagination were kind.
Archer had warned Marley that people who tried to get attention by pretending to know something about a crime could get into big trouble. The tingling embarrassment she had felt then made a return appearance and she hunched her shoulders.
A cloth in Danny’s hands squeaked around the rim of a glass. When Marley looked at him, he was staring at her and frowning. He threw down the cloth and crossed his arms on the bar again, leaning closer to Marley. “It’s late,” he said. “Can you call someone to come and see you home when you’re ready?”
“I’ll be fine.” She smiled, liking him for the concern. “I’ll get a cab.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Having a martini,” she said. So she stuck out like a nun at a Chippendale show.
“Okay, have it your own way, then.”
“Thank you, though.” She smiled at him. “Does Sidney…Do Amber and Sidney sing here every night?”
“They used to,” he said, noncommittal. “Most nights, anyway.”
“When did they come back?”
“This is Sidney’s first night back since…Amber—you’ve heard of Amber before?”
“I have.” Nothing would be gained by pretending otherwise. “And I know she’s missing, but you talk as if she’s still here.”
He gave her a speculative stare and moved away to serve several other customers. For the time of night there was plenty of business around.
Sidney had a face not easily forgotten. Latin features and olive skin. Dark arched brows, large, heavily-lashed brown eyes, a narrow-bridged nose, fine, high cheekbones and jaw. Her hair shone honey-colored, but Marley didn’t think it was the natural color—it ought to be black. A lovely woman with a lovely figure—and something markedly aloof about her.
A different bartender asked if she wanted another drink. Marley looked at her almost untouched glass and shook her head.
“Can I talk to you?” Danny appeared at her right shoulder. He was anxious, everything about him troubled—and vigilant.
“Of course,” she told him, excited in case she was finally about to learn something useful.
He led her between round, brass-topped tables to one of the alcoves where looped and fringed draperies gave an impression of privacy for the table and banquettes inside. They slid onto seats upholstered in green cabbage-rose fabric.
“Are you here about Amber?” Danny said without preamble. “You don’t look like a cop, but that doesn’t mean you’re not one.”