Chapter 7
Rosings has a sort of romantic look when the sun goes down. Dimly lit, with strings of pink rose lights hanging throughout the little cafe, soft, slow jazz playing in the background; it's beautiful. A stark contrast to the loud, bustling Ball and Socket from Downstairs. A wooden platform serves as the stage, a mic downstage center and a little baby grand piano upstage left. Bonejangles would accompany Emily on the piano first, then close the night with a big sax solo.
Despite years of experience onstage, Emily feels nervous as she watches the other acts. Not because she's intimidated or shy, no, far from it. The thrill of performing again sends a thrill throughout her body.
And yet…
Bonejangles didn't realize what he'd done when he'd chosen their song. It's an original, something Emily had started to write while residing Downstairs, waiting for her love to come find her. She'd stopped after a while, but when Victor came she finally finished it, and the song became less about finding an ambiguous true love and more about him. She hadn't told Bonejangles when he'd found it, but he couldn't have possibly known anyway. She can't very well tell him now. She just hopes Victor doesn't figure it out.
"Up next, Emily Hunter and the Bone Daddy!"
Emily can't hold back a snicker, and her nerves dissolve a little. Of all the stage names, he goes with that. She rises, smoothing out her dress, a pale blue number that reaches her knees, and steps onstage. Bonejangles gives her hand a reassuring squeeze before going to sit behind the piano.
"Hello, all." she says, gracing everyone with a warm smile. She looks slightly above the crowd, because she knows if she looks down she'll find Victor's face. "I'll be singing Meant to Be."
Bonejangles begins playing the intro. Emily takes a deep breath, then begins to sing:
Love is nothing more than just a faraway dream
So I once believed as I lay beneath a tree
But dreams are beautiful to see
When you're lonely and longing
For someone to take you away into his arms
Hand outstretched, I never guessed
A ring would fall to me
A perfect fit, could this be it
My love for eternity
Together we danced beneath a full moon
I knew his love was true
Gazing into his eyes
Melting hopelessly, turning in his arms
After all this time
This must be meant to be
This must be meant to be
We're simply meant to be
Finally tearing her eyes away from the back wall she'd been staring at, her eyes find the crowd applauding with bright, smiling faces. But her eyes betray her and find the one face she had been trying to avoid during the song:
Victor's lips are parted in awe, a smile tugging at the corners while his eyes are slightly tearing up. Emily hopes it may be because of the candle centerpieces, but she can't help but think he must know, or at least suspect something. She bows, thanks the audience, and exits the stage to go sit down, purposefully beside Victoria this time. As she listens to the praise from the couple, she thinks, well, at least they enjoyed it.
Bonejangles stays to perform his set to close the night, moving from the piano to his sax sitting beside him.
"This one's an old fav of mine." he says with a big grin, taking center stage. "It's called Remains of the Day."
The brassy belts of the saxophone fill the room, accompanied by Bonejangles's vigorous stomping for lack of a drumbeat, and the audience soon gets up and starts dancing. Victor, having finally picked up some gentlemanlike grace, asks Victoria to dance.
"Oh, you know I don't dance to this kind of thing!" Victoria protests.
Victor shrugs. "It could be fun. It looks fairly simple."
"This seems more like Emily's cup of tea." Victoria says. "Go, on dance with her!" she says at his hesitation. "We're already married, Victor. It's alright."
Victor turns to her. "Would you like to?"
Emily hesitates for a second. I'd better do this. I don't want Victoria suspecting anything too. She plasters an eager smile on her face and springs from her seat. "I thought you'd never ask."
— — — — — —
Collin prints out yet another page to add to his files. He can't risk using the office printer, and if that means running his personal stores dry, so be it.
Emily Hunter is a stunner. Her photos are hardly anything compared to the real thing, but then again cameras were rubbish back then. There is no denying it. The evidence lines up, and according to those dates, Hunter has to be at least twenty-nine, not much of a story in regards to the age department, but that's not what he's focused on. He shuffles through the files he's spent hours poring over to have another look.
Some morbid soul called Margaret Finch had found Emily's body after the murder had taken place, but rather than report the death immediately to her parents, Finch instead took some photos from several different angles and posted them online to an ancient website called "Digg" along with some decent information. A clear stab wound beneath the right breast could be seen in one picture, a distinctive mark that couldn't fade away completely even if she had somehow survived the attack.
Finch had followed up with another article when the body disappeared the following day. They'd never found it, but her parents, having already disowned her for essentially scandalizing the family, didn't care much to do any real searching.
These articles have been goldmines so far. He scrolls through more related articles until he finds one on someone called Victor Van Dort, son of some unimportant fish merchants that might have had status at some point. That's not what grabs his attention. Despite being called a hoax several times in the comments, Collin isn't about to ignore this one.
After reading through pointless details about the venue choice, —a clear factor that obviously means this article was written by some silly blogger woman— he finally discovers the point. Van Dort was planning to wed Hunter, but plans went askew when his first fiancée arrived unceremoniously —"pun completely intended", ugh!— and disrupted the entire event. The woman had managed to capture a photo of Van Dort and Hunter. Though in black and white, the changes can clearly be seen from Hunter's living body and the deteriorating carcass she was in the picture, proof that she had been dead. A current picture of her now would seal the deal, and with all three, no one would be able to dispute him.
He glances at his clock. 8:30. Open mic is still going on. He may have the chance to get that photo tonight if he hurries.
The door slams shut as he rushes out. Rosings isn't that far.
— — — — —
Barkis has finally managed to make himself look presentable and unrecognizable in such a way that wouldn't warrant stares from everyone he passes. A beard took care of his large chin, hair dye turned his grey hair brown, better foundation covered the blue skin, concealer eliminated the scars and contacts concealed the yellow eyes. He now had on a long sleeved black shirt and pants as well as a pair of dress shoes. He looks normal now, and glad of it.
But what he would give for a beer!
Unfortunately, his victims had chosen a crowded, public place that also happens to be alcohol free. Coffee is a poor substitute, and his patience is wearing thin. He constantly has to remind himself to wait for the perfect moment. He only has one chance at this. One fatal shot, stab, or poisoning would call the attention of the Omniscience and send him straight back Downstairs.
Oh, he's going to strangle Bonejangles with that saxophone.
A flash and a low curse catches his attention. He turns to find a young man, probably in his twenties, with curly black hair and dark brown eyes full of frustration, a camera in his hands. He follows where the camera is aimed and finds it on Emily. What business could this boy have with her? He decides to investigate. Anyone who could possibly get in his way must be removed.
As he gets closer, he can see why the boy is frustrated. His hands are shaking, which is probably resulting in blurry pictures on his end. Idiot.
"What are you trying to do?" Barkis asks.
The boy narrows his eyes at him. "Go find your own story, you prat!" He immediately claps his hand over his mouth, as if he hadn't meant to say that. "Just go away." he grumbles.
Barkis snorts. If this boy has a tongue this loose, this shouldn't be too difficult. "I'm not even a reporter. That woman you're trying to photograph, I've got a bone to pick with her. So don't get in my way."
That got his attention. The boy turns his attention back to Barkis. "You know her?"
Barkis smirks. This is too easy.
He just might have found a new tool.