I think you’re a perfectly normal human being. Selfish and ruthless when you want something. Generous and kindly when you’ve got it.
—Nightmare Alley, 1947
BEFORE THE LAST note faded, Billy Bastogne gave me his back. He pushed his way through the crowded dance floor, toward the giant plaster-of-Paris oyster.
Jack instructed me never to lose sight of Mr. Bastogne, but that proved to be impossible. As I watched helplessly, Billy went to a door behind the bandshell, unlocked it and was through in an instant.
Well, Jack believed I could handle this task, so there was no use dithering. I had no choice but to visit the Bower of Bliss to meet Billy Bastogne at the Lilac Garden.
I reached for another glass of champagne, then decided against it. Better to keep my head clear.
Bastogne said to meet him in ten minutes, but despite the fact that jewelry hung from every possible bauble-wearing part of my body, I didn’t have a watch. There wasn’t a clock in sight, either, so I counted down a few hundred seconds, squared my shoulders, and set off to find this Bower of Bliss.
A waiter directed me to a set of gold lamé curtains. I pushed through to find myself in a large circular space with curtained alcoves around the perimeter. In the center stood a naked Venus fountain of gurgling water that flowed into a pool filled with dozens of little fish.
Some of the alcoves were presumably occupied, with curtains drawn for privacy. The ones that stood open were empty. Each had a large love seat in a color appropriate to the name painted in gold cursive above. The Rose Garden displayed red velvet upholstery, crimson walls, and a dozen red blossoms in a large vase. The Sunflower Garden had a bright yellow theme with a glowing sun ornament on the wall. The curtains were drawn across the Daffodil and Orchid alcoves, but I could hear murmurs and laughter from behind their drapes.
I found the Lilac Garden’s violet curtains open. The love seat and walls were the same color purple as the New England asters in Dottie Willard’s backyard. I didn’t take that as a good omen. In fact, this whole Bower of Bliss thing gave me the willies. On top of that, I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched, yet whenever I looked around, I saw no one.
I almost regretted turning down that last glass of champagne, but I should have remembered that old saying: Be careful what you wish for, because suddenly Billy Bastogne was here, a bottle of champagne and two glasses in hand, a smirk on his sort-of-like Cesar Romero face. He seemed pleased to find me on the love seat and closed the curtains behind him. He remained standing, his back to the purple drapes, grinning like a cat who’d caught one of those little fishes in the fountain.
“I thought you and me might get acquainted before I show off the goods,” he purred.
I felt my eyes narrow suspiciously. “You thought wrong, buster. Show me the jewels right now or I’m out of here. And I doubt the Germantown gang will like my report.”
Billy patted his lapel. “Relax, Countess. I have them right here in my pocket—”
Abruptly, he stopped talking, his expression morphing into a combination of shock and confusion. He dropped his hands, bumping the table. The glasses shattered on the polished wood floor. The bottle struck heavily but didn’t break.
I jumped up in horror, watching Billy’s mouth gape like a dead mackerel before his body dropped facedown on the floor, an ice pick buried to its hilt in the back of his neck.
I was at his side when the curtains rustled beside my head—the killer was still on the other side of the thin material. I was about to tear aside that veil when a sucker punch slammed me, right through the curtain!
I saw stars, lots of them, and my knees gave—which turned out to be a lucky break. The second punch missed my face, to pound my shoulder instead, and that was enough to lay me flat.
I heard the curtains parting. I tried to move, to see my assailant, but the ermine cape was now tangled around me and fur covered half my face—which ultimately saved me.
The next blow was a kick to the head, and the thick ermine cushioned the worst. My attacker didn’t have a clue I wasn’t dead, because that vicious kick from a high-heeled shoe would have been more than enough to do the job if it had connected with my cranium.
Groggy as I was, I managed to catch sight of the murderer as she fished a tobacco pouch out of Billy Bastogne’s jacket. I heard the contents of that pouch rattle as she pushed through the curtain.
She was gone in an instant—but not before I got a good look at her.
I heard a shot coming from outside the Lilac Garden. A woman screamed. Then the purple curtain was ripped aside, and a tuxedo-clad waiter dropped to his knee beside me—no, not a waiter. It was—
“Jack,” I gasped. “Where did you come from?”
“I was watching you the whole time, doll. I even tried to get your attention when Billy ducked through that secret door behind the bandshell, but no dice.”
“You were double-crossed, Jack—”
“I know, honey. I saw her for myself. Phyllis Harmon killed Billy Bastogne. Then she took a shot at me.”
I tried to sit up, but everything spun. Was it the champagne or the blow to the head? Probably both.
“You better go catch her,” I said, forcing a smile.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
When Jack was gone, I managed to push myself into a sitting position, even as the room faded into a purple mist. Soon the haze was too thick to see my hands in front of my face, and my heart began to pound.
“Jack!” I called. “Jack, where are you? Come back!”
But he didn’t. I was alone and suddenly cold, so cold that I started to shiver.
I tried to stand but the floor dissolved and melted away, dropping me into a bottomless void. Kicking and thrashing, I fought to stay but the pull was too powerful. Descending through space and time, I shouted my objections, arms flailing, until the yawning darkness cut off my cries and swallowed me whole.