Death Casts a Spell, Chapter 1

Welcome to a new section of The Tangled Web, where I will be showing you exactly how I plot, and write, mystery novels. Today I’m sharing with you Chapter 1 of my forthcoming book, Death Casts a Spell. Tomorrow, I’ll take you behind the scenes to discuss the very first step I always take when planning a novel.

When I moved to the big city and began working for Gallo Investigations, I was ready for danger. I’d read every issue of Black Mask I could get my hands on, so I had a pretty good idea of what to expect: late night stakeouts, boozy speakeasies, even shootouts. Okay, I hadn’t been in a shootout yet—but on the mean streets of South Side Chicago, one never knew.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a child. My nine-year-old cousin, Koko, had come into my life as quickly—and unforgettably—as a punch in the gut. She had been orphaned only days before I arrived, and as I worked to solve her father’s murder, I’d fallen for her. Slowly at first, then all at once. I was her guardian now, and I’d do anything to keep her safe.

So when I got a call from her that Thursday afternoon, asking me to come quickly, I hurried out to the address she gave me. It was a diner on Lincoln. I pushed through the double doors and found myself wreathed in a inviting mishmash of smells—burgers, potatoes, slightly burned coffee. And pie. Lots and lots of pie.

My stomach growled, and I steeled myself to ignore it. Just then, I felt I would have traded a year of my life for a piece of apple pie—but I couldn’t afford to trade any of the coins in my pocketbook. Pie typically cost a nickel a slice, and for Koko and me, every nickel was essential. If my cousin had already ordered, I’d pay—but I couldn’t afford to add anything to the tab.

I spotted Koko at a table in the back, sitting with another girl. I waved and hurried over, then stood before the booth looking down at the pair of them. They were a pretty contrast to each other: Koko’s sleek, dark hair and honeyed Japanese coloring against the other girl’s pale curls and bright blue eyes. Both wore the green-and-blue plaid uniforms of their school, St. Sebastian’s, and with their identical knee socks, they could have been a pair of bookends in a rather whimsical library. I couldn’t help but notice that they each had a slice of pie—and that both plates were largely uneaten.

I ignored the pie and slid into the booth beside Koko. She took a deep breath. “Kitty,” she said. “This is Eleanor. She’s got a case for you.”

“A case.” I looked from one serious face to the other, and couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a little younger than our usual clients,” I said, barely keeping a laugh out of my voice.

The blonde girl turned a vicious glare toward Koko. “I told you this was useless,” she said.

Koko shook her head. “It’s not useless,” she said. “Just explain. She’ll understand.”

I was touched by this testimonial, and made up my mind to be a little more approachable. “I would like to hear more,” I said. “Perhaps you might begin with your name?”

The blonde girl sighed. She picked up her fork and toyed with her pie, but didn’t take a bite. My stomach growled again, and I resolutely ignored it.

“My name’s Eleanor Jacoby,” the girl said. “My sister’s Jeannette. We haven’t heard from her since last Thursday.”

I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t sure what I had expected—a lost kitten, perhaps, or something stolen at school. Certainly nothing as serious as a missing person. “How old is Jeannette?” I asked.

“Sixteen.”

“What have the police found out?” I asked.

Eleanor shook her head. “Nobody’s called them.”

I blinked at that. “And your parents?” I said. “What are they doing to find your sister?”

Eleanor’s eyes slid away from mine, and she glared toward a corner of the diner. She didn’t answer. I opened my mouth to ask again, and was interrupted. “They don’t care,” she snapped, still scowling at nothing in particular.

“Why don’t they—”

“Because they Don’t. Care.” Eleanor met my eyes again, and the fierceness in her nine-year-old face took my breath away. “It was three days before I could even convince Mama that Jeannette was gone. That’s how long it took for her to take a break between parties and actually listen to something I had to say.”

I winced at that. “And your father?”

“In Europe, on business,” Eleanor said. “Just like always. I sent him a telegram. No response.”

“I see.” I wasn’t amused anymore. Still, if the Jacobys weren’t worried about their own daughter, it might be because they had information Eleanor lacked. Perhaps they knew that Jeanette had run off under her own power, and they simply hadn’t broken the news to their younger child yet. Or maybe they had sent her to live with a relative for some reason. If Jeanette had been seeing a boy they deemed inappropriate—or, worse, if she’d fallen pregnant—they might have a strong reason to send her away. “And you think the situation is more serious than they do.”

Eleanor nodded earnestly. “Jeannette wouldn’t leave without a note,” she said. “Even if she had to go, she would still let me know she was all right.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “And you’re coming to a private detective,” I said. “Not the police.” I didn’t really have to ask why. The police wouldn’t be any more likely to take Eleanor seriously that I had been. In fact, if Koko hadn’t orchestrated our meeting, I doubted I would have continued the conversation this far.

“Koko said you could help.”

“I see. You’re friends from school?” I asked.

Both girls nodded vaguely, but the way they avoided looking at one another confirmed what I’d already guessed. They weren’t friends. Koko had, as far as I knew, no close friends at school, just girls with whom she was more or less on a cordial basis. Since I’d become her guardian, I’d fulfilled most of the duties of a friend—I counseled her through her troubles, spent hours listening to radio dramas with her, walked downtown with her to catch the odd movie. I didn’t mind doing it—it was a great pleasure to be there to watch when Koko’s mask of reserve fell away and she talked and laughed like any other carefree child. But I often worried that I wasn’t enough—that she needed someone more her own age.

That someone wasn’t Eleanor Jacoby. From the stiff way they treated one another, I guessed that they didn’t even like each other much. I had to wonder how Koko even knew of the girl’s problem—and why she had offered to help.

I sighed and crooked a finger at my cousin. “Koko. A word?”

I got to my feet and retreated toward the restrooms, as far away from Eleanor as we could get. Koko followed me, and I pitched my voice in a whisper. “A nine-year-old can’t hire a private investigator, Koko,” I said. “She can’t pay us. Her parents would call us thieves, and rightly so.”

Koko didn’t argue with my point, but she didn’t concede it either. “She doesn’t have anyone else who will help her, Kitty.”

“I understand. But her grasp of the situation may not be complete. Even if Mr. Gallo and I find Jeannette, it may not be—er, appropriate?—for us to tell Eleanor why she’s gone.” I felt my face heating as I alluded to the possibility of pregnancy, hoping Koko would accept what I was saying without thinking too deeply about it.

Koko’s quick response gave me the disturbing feeling that perhaps she’d understood my meaning exactly. “That’s fine. You could still tell her if Jeannette’s okay.”

I spread my hands. “Koko, honestly. Why are you involved in this? Isn’t that one of the girls—” I left my sentence hanging, but Koko knew who I meant. Eleanor exactly fit the mold of the pretty, popular, wealthy girls who formed the nexus of the social hierarchy at St. Sebastian’s. Koko and I had taken to calling them the Shebas, and although this common slang term usually referred to adult women, it did nicely capture the confidence, stylishness, and social dominance of the clique. I glanced over at Eleanor where she still sat on the small sofa, trying to look as though she weren’t striving to overhear us. She had added elegant touches to her uniform, like the midnight blue velvet ribbon stretched across the crown of her pale blonde head. Exactly the sort of thing a Sheba would wear.

Koko nodded.

I leaned closer to her. “Then…why?” Koko wasn’t the only target of the Shebas’ teasing, or even the most frequent one. Koko wasn’t easy to tease. She tended to wall up inside herself when she felt troubled, cultivating a casual aloofness that operated as an armored shell. And though this reaction did, indeed, indicate that her emotions were churning very hard under the surface, it offered little in the way of entertainment value.

Still, there had been days when she had been furious at the behavior of the Shebas. There had been the time when they had made fun of her worn down shoes, which were badly scuffed at the toe. They couldn’t have known that she was deliberately refraining from mentioning them to me, in order not to strain our tight monthly budget—but they had homed in on her embarrassment about them all the same. And there had been the week that Koko had been picked last for every game. It was childish stuff, petty and banal, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.

So I was surprised to find Koko trying to help one of them. She, too, seemed to find it hard to explain. Finally, she shrugged. “She’s scared,” she said simply. “I heard her talking with her friends, in the bathroom. And I guess I felt sorry for her. Later, I—I told her you could investigate. No one else is going to help her.”

I nodded slowly. “And you think we can.”

“I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t.”

I knew that was true. Koko would never have mentioned her connection to a private detective, or indeed shared any personal information with Eleanor—not without a good reason. Not when it meant opening herself up to rejection, and possibly ridicule.

If it meant that much to her, there was nothing for me to do but jump in feet first. “All right.”

Koko put both her hands into mine—not a hug, but the best she would offer in public. I squeezed her hands. “If you think it’s that important, I trust you.”

A small sound made me look over at Eleanor. Her face was filled with tension and hope, but under these was something else—some emotion that was Eleanor Jacoby’s long acquaintance. It flared as she gazed at us, then receded too quickly for me to put a name on it. But it didn’t disappear; it lay there like a copperhead in tall grass—nearly invisible, but significant all the same.

Koko and walked back to the tabled and slid into the booth.

“Will you help me?” Eleanor asked.

I pulled Koko’s pie in front of me and picked up her fork. Then I gave Eleanor a serious nod. “Tell me more about your sister.”