Chapter 3

July 1947

[Sur L'Autoroute | Miles Davis]

Saturday morning came and with it a feeling that I needed to apologize to the weatherman. Seems he was right, for once. We were going to meet a wild young lady by the name of Adrianne. She was a tropical storm cum hurricane gathering steam off the coast and rumor had it she couldn't wait for the debutante cotillion in the spring. She decided to throw a coming out party of her own in Metropolis, today. The threat of the Metropolis harbor expanding by a few dozen miles had two diametrically opposed responses from the citizens of Metropolis. Some were battening the hatches and stocking up on sterno, powdered milk, and Spam. The other half was hoarding rum, gin, and scotch. I knew which group I was in.

Stepping into the front office, I waved hello to Tina as best I could with two brown bags in my hands. She was busy on the phone and winked back at me, above a trademark toothy smile. I cocked my head in the direction of Artie's office with a questioning look. Tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Tina held up both hands and pointed at the clock. Artie wouldn't be in until 10. Fine, I had some time to think- a luxury.

I pulled my door halfway closed, put my packages down, and since I wasn't dressed "appropriately" for the nightclub yet, I took advantage of my slacks and kicked my brown and white spectators up on the edge of my desk. I hoped occupying my hands with mundane things like rolling paper and tobacco might yield some clever thoughts. My mind wandered quite a bit while my hands made busy refilling my cigarette case. In the end I had a baker's dozen of newly rolled cigarettes, but not even two thoughts to rub together. I tapped lucky cigarette number thirteen on my desk, lit it, and inhaled.

"Morning, San!" Tina said poking her head in my door. She was dressed in a brown and white plaid dress with a white collar and white gathered waist. "May I come in? Want some coffee?"

"Morning, Tina. My door's always open for you, even when it's not." I stood, swept the stray tobacco shreds into the wastebasket, and opened one of the paper bags on my desk. "Care to make it more interesting?" I held up two bottles of whiskey.

"I thought that might be your hurricane survival kit. I heard you clinking on the way in here," Tina smirked, setting the two mugs down on my desk.

"What's the point of surviving a world-ending storm if all the booze is gone?" I said, unscrewing the top of the bottle and pouring some in both mugs.

"Hey! Hey! Don't be stingy!" Tina teased. I added a little more and winked at her. Tina started working for us a few months after we opened the agency. We'd struck it rich finding Tina. Not only was she more efficient than a Harvard accountant, she had a winning personality, a way with clients, and she could find out more with a spin of the rotary phone than most private eyes could in a week of pounding shoe leather. Checking in with Tina meant we always knew the latest and more importantly, Artie and I always knew the other was safe.

She sat on the corner of my desk, took a sip of her coffee, and gave me a 'ok' sign with her fingers as she continued to drink.

"Knock! Knock!" Artie said stepping into my office. "Looks like I got here just in time for smokes and joe. Morning, Tina."

"Morning, Artie," Tina replied.

"Am I chopped liver over here? Do I get a 'morning'? This is my office isn't it?" I said noticing the sideways glance between the two of them.

"Morning, San," Artie said, sitting down in the chair directly in front of Tina. The two exchanged another smile.

"I'll…bring you a coffee," Tina said as she stood up and walked towards the door.

"Skip the coffee. Could you bring me the Pepto?" Artie called. He rubbed his stomach and looked at me.

"Tom's Diner last night on stakeout? You had the special, didn't you?" I chuckled recognizing the pained look on Artie's face. Despite knowing the dangers of Tom's meatball sandwich, Artie took the plunge and paid the price every time.

"I'm not feeling so special now," Artie replied. Tina returned, sitting the distinctive glass Silex coffee pot down on its stand. She then reached into the deep pockets of her dress, handing Artie a spoon and a bottle of the pink stuff. "Thanks." Artie went to the sink to take the medication.

"I can fill you in on the Anderson case," Tina said sitting down.

"Let's hear it. He'll catch up in a minute." I gestured towards Artie.

"Well," Tina began, "who do you want first, Mrs. or Mr. Anderson?"

"Dealer's choice," I replied.

"Change of pace, Mr. Anderson first then. Blaine Anderson goes by the stage name of Blaine Noir. Born and raised in San Francisco." Tina flipped through her yellow steno pad as she read. "Went to an all boy's prep school, then university in Michigan. Somewhere along the way he picked up magic and started an act with his cousin, Sebastian Anderson. Met Brittany Pierce and they came to Metropolis hoping to make it big."

"Apparently they did," Artie said.

"How long have they been married?" I asked. The brand of contempt I'd seen at rehearsals was usually the result of years of biting your tongue followed by a few years of eyeing your better half's neck.

"Two years this past June," said Tina.

The Andersons were learning quick. "And what about Mrs. Anderson?" I asked, standing to look out the window as Metropolis citizens ran to and fro with their hurricane preparations. I wondered if I should have taken the storm more seriously and bought more booze.

"Mrs. Anderson was born in California as well, but grew up in Scottsdale, outside of Phoenix. As far as I can tell she lived there right up until she met Blaine three years ago. They toured together as the "Noirs" for their magic act for a year before they were officially married."

"All this is from a few hours on the phone with the secretaries of Metropolis?" Artie asked.

"The secretaries, hairdressers, doormen, and accountants of Metropolis, Ann Arbor, Phoenix, and San Fran, Artie," Tina replied smiling. It was always Tina's assertion that the "invisible" people knew everything if you just asked them the right questions.

"Makes you worry what secrets Tina could tell, huh, Artie? You better make sure she gets that Christmas bonus," I said with a flick of my cigarette and a wink to Tina. "So life was lukewarm until he met she and then…" I said, hoping Tina had something that might help explain what I'd seen yesterday; the verbal joust or the revolver, take your pick.

"Four of them Britt, Blaine, Cousin Sebastian, and Britt's schoolyard chum, Sugar Motta, were 'Magie Noir'. Sugar and Sebastian were doubles for the Andersons in the act. From what I hear, nothing very special about the tricks themselves. The draw was that they put on like they were fresh from Paris-only spoke in French onstage."

"There's high demand for French magic acts in Metropolis?" I asked, standing to top off my drink with coffee instead of the whiskey I would have preferred were there not judgmental eyes present.

"Not by a longshot. They were on the verge of financial ruin until-"

"The windfall?" Artie prompted.

"The windfall," I repeated. "Any clues what that was?"

"Out of the blue, Mr. Anderson pays off all their bills, buys their apartment and the Soirées Noires. Since then, never a day late or a dime short to the milkman," Tina shrugged.

Artie whistled. "That's a nice pile of dough pays all that off at once. Apartment, uptown, that's gotta be worth at least $4000. See there, San? Someone already found Great Aunt Gertrude's will."

"At least," I agreed. "No clues at all where that kind of money came from?" I asked again.

Tina shook her head, "None, yet."

"Where are Sebastian and Sugar now? They get dumped along with the magic act? Au revoir as they say in gay Paris?" I said, taking a long drag off my cigarette and eyeing the time.

"Sebastian and Sugar, along with most of the stage crew from the old act, work for the club," Tina answered, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Hmm, I don't remember seeing any fellas with a family resemblance," I replied.

"Really?" Artie nudged Tina with an elbow and asked, "Say San, how many fellas were there in the Noir Orchestra?"

"The Orchestra? I'd say…ten? Is that about right?"

Artie winked at Tina, "Sure. Sure. Sounds good. How many chorus girls in the revue?"

"Six," I answered without pause.

Artie sniggered. "You can keep track of the exact number of girls but not the fellas, huh?"

"Well, the fellas were sitting down," I said trying to conceal a smile, knowing what Artie was getting at.

"The fellas were sitting down? What's that got to do with it?" Tina asked, seeing Artie chuckle.

"San, keeps track of the gams," Artie said. "No effort at all- steel trap," Artie said tapping his temple with his finger.

"Observe the legs and divide by two. Easy," I chuckled along with Artie.

There was a knock on the outside office door and Tina excused herself to answer it. Artie looked at me and squinted.

"Something still bothering you about this case, huh? What's on your mind, San?" he asked.

"Yeah, Artie. I-," I started to tell him about the rehearsal bickering and the thing that weighed heaviest on my mind, the piece in Mrs. Anderson's purse, when Tina knocked lightly before pushing the door open.

"New client, says the police won't help her," Tina said, sticking her head in the doorway of my office.

"Is she young and beautiful?" Artie asked.

"I don't know, I didn't ask her," Tina said, giving an exasperated sigh and walking back to the front office.

"I better go take care of this one. You've got enough beauties on your hands…six chorus girls, huh?" Artie said shaking his head as he left to greet the client.

I wasn't sure exactly what I had on my hands yet, but it was definitely troubling my mind. The angel on my shoulder was squawking up her own storm about the pretty dame with the legs, the lips, and the loaded gun. I wanted this case over sooner rather than later.

II

After discussing the new client with Artie and deciphering some of my notes for Tina, I took a walk to pick up some lunch for the three of us. What began with the idea of a short walk, fetching lunch, and a smoke, ended blocks away and 2 cigarettes shy of finishing the dozen I'd rolled this morning. Signs on restaurants and bars announced they were closing up shop early in Hurricane Adrianne's honor, talk about a killjoy. I liked the cool spring temperatures she'd sent ahead of her arrival, but frankly, Adrianne was beginning to sound more and more like the girl you didn't want to sit next to at the dinner party. There was an odd feeling in the air, the kind that made your skin itch, your neck hairs stand on edge, and your nerves jump for no particular reason you could put your thumb on. The tropical storm was on her way. Storms had a tendency to stir up things from the bottom of the ocean. Dark things, things sometimes better left where they were. I flipped a matchbook between my fingers; the trademark red and black colors of the Soirées Noires. I wondered what dark things we'd see tonight.

I found myself at a grocer's a few blocks from the Soirées Noires, elbowing my way past the housewives carrying shopping bags filled to bursting with toilet paper, milk, and bread. I never understood what it was about a snowstorm or a hurricane that made that particular combination of groceries so desirable; my carnivore instincts needed more satisfaction than milk toast could offer. I headed to the deli counter and splurged on some liverwurst for our lunch. I claimed the last bag of Marvel bread from a woman foaming at the mouth as she stomped way with just three loaves in her cart. The canned food aisle was a wasteland, but I managed to pick up the last two tins of pork and beans from a bottom shelf figuring it couldn't hurt. Adding a bar of Ivory soap and some toothpaste, I headed for the clerk. Even with the tins going for twice their normal price, highway robbery in my mind, the total came to $2.85 so I added some pre-rolled cigarettes- $3 even.

The skies of Metropolis were looking even more sour when I left the grocer's; grey ragged-edged clouds replacing the fluffy cottonball white ones that always seemed out of place in the Metropolis sky. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, but you'd have had an easy time convincing me it was 1:30AM. The pleasant breeze that had been trying since last night to make it to wind status finally claimed its title. I buttoned my collar up and gave thanks for my slacks, as I saw the appropriately dressed women fighting to keep their hemlines decent in the gusty winds that swept down concrete canyons of Metropolis. I turned the corner in time to see the marquee being changed on the Soirées Noires- "Hurricane Party- live music, food, dancing and hurricane cocktails". Case or no case, it seemed like the Soirées Noires was the place to be tonight.

III

The winds of Adrianne were once again making their presence felt, as the black and white cab pulled up behind a cream-colored Buick Roadmaster coupe, Artie's pride and joy. The whitewalls looked as though they'd never known the insult of a speck of dust or dirt. And from the dark hardtop to the cream colored chassis to the plentiful chrome accents, the car gleamed like it was still on the showroom floor. Whichever woman wanted in Artie's life was going to have to accept that she may come in second to a three speed manual, eight cylinder inline engine, four wheeled beauty Artie secretly called Celine.

I tapped twice on the window, waiting for Artie to unlock the door, as he leaned over to look through the passenger's side window. Looking back over my shoulder at the front door of the nightclub, I ran my hands down the fitted bodice, the pinched waist and flared petticoat of the white cocktail dress. Although I'd felt fine at rehearsal yesterday, by the time the dinner crowd had rolled in, my Lois Lane get up felt very underdone. Tina had picked this out for me special, and although I'd deny doing it to my dying day, I couldn't help but give a small turn that fanned the petticoat around me like I'd seen the girls on the newsreels do. Something about a dress like that made a twirl compulsory, who was I to fight it? Turning back to the car, I was surprised to see Artie standing next to me, holding the car door open.

Artie whistled. "Santana, you look…"

"Appropriate?" I said smiling and punching him squarely in the chest as I tried my best to remember the graceful way to enter a car in a cocktail dress. I placed my purse on the red leather bench seat and before I could slide all the way in, Artie whistled again.

"Sweet Jesus, what a set you have!"

"You better be talking about my legs, Artie," I said looking up at him, laughing, and adjusting my bustier.

"A hot blooded American fella can't help but…" Artie started with the corn pone routine.

"Can it, Artie. Get in before the wind messes up my hair and I have to start again." I knew Artie was playing up to me but I didn't mind. I turned the rear view mirror to me as Artie climbed back into the car. I shook my head in wonder looking at my darkened and seemingly miles longer eyelashes, Tina had done amazing things with a damp brush and a little cake of black powder. The bright red lipstick was so beautifully applied it seemed a shame that most of it would end up marring the glass of a whiskey tumbler as soon as I had the chance.

"So far, nothing unusual. Hurricane party has earned them a bigger crowd than last night for sure," Artie said. He looked annoyed as he adjusted the rear view mirror away from me to once again reflect his rear window.

"What about the Andersons? Both inside?" I asked, looking across the street at the marquee and the first drops of rain that began to fall.

"Mrs. Anderson didn't leave after rehearsal this afternoon. Mr. Anderson ran home about 45 minutes ago. I'll head there next," Artie said, turning the key and bringing Celine to life.

"Drop me off in front?" I asked, cringing at the rain on the windshield.

"Sure, you'll check in with Tina for me? There's a phone booth just around the corner from the Anderson's apartment, I'll call at the top of the hour, you at the bottom, okay?"

I nodded and glanced at the time on the dashboard clock, 8:45, as Artie pulled around to the black and red awning below the billowing marquee of the Soirées Noires.

"There's a hurricane coming, Artie, so don't be heroic. Head back home if it gets bad, okay?" I said kissing him lightly on the cheek as I reached for the door.

"Are you kidding? The moment debris starts flying I'm taking this baby home," Artie said stroking the dashboard.

"Celine?" I smirked. Artie mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger and aimed at me. Levity hit the floor like a lead balloon as I was reminded why I was standing on the curb in a cocktail dress waiting for a hurricane to come. Once again, before I could act, Artie was standing outside holding the door for me. "Stay safe, Art?" I said, wiping off the lipstick I'd left on his cheek.

"You too, San," Artie saluted playfully as he maneuvered with his cane back around the car and behind the wheel again. He waved as he turned the car around in the street to head towards the Anderson's apartment.

The doorman had decided to perform his duties from inside the club this evening. As I reached the bottom step descending to the club, the door opened and the doorman extended a hand as he greeted me. Feeling the chill of the air conditioner on my bare shoulders, I elected to keep my wrap. I surveyed the crowd as I walked to the phone to check in. Artie's estimation of the crowd was right. It seemed I was in good company with the half of Metropolis that believed high spirits were essential to surviving a hurricane. The dance floor had been pared down to less than half its usual size to allow more tables on the main floor before the stage. The mezzanine and second floor that usually only accommodated a single row of tables next to the railing overlooking the stage was now two rows deep. After quickly checking in for both of us with Tina, I waited for a hostess to show me to a table. To my great fortune, I was seated at a table on the mezzanine within shouting distance from the bar. Not that I would ever shout for a drink, that would be unladylike, I'd be much more inclined to throw something at the bartender first.

"Care for a hurricane cocktail tonight?" asked a waitress, who suddenly appeared at my side dressed in a white tuxedo shirt, red vest and red and black bowtie.

"I hate to be naïve, but what's in it?"

"Oh! It's all the rage in New Orleans- and they know a thing a two about hurricanes," she said enthusiastically. "It's dark rum, light rum, passion fruit juice, and a touch of lime juice. First one's on the house," she smiled.

"Who can refuse an offer like that?" I replied.

"No one yet, we can barely keep up," she said pointing at a crate of limes being stacked next to the bar. The wait staff seemed unusually busy and the twin bars on either side of the mezzanine level were double staffed with two bartenders each.

I turned towards the stage as the waitress walked away to get my drink. The houselights dimmed indicating the show was about to start. I was ready to count how many men there were in the Noir Orchestra when I noticed they were dressed in cowboy shirts instead of black dinner jackets. The waitress returned and I asked, "What's with the outfits tonight?"

"Oh, that's Tex Williams and his band," she replied setting my pink hurricane cocktail down in front of me. "They couldn't get out of town on account of the storm so they offered to open tonight." My face must have been a blank because she nudged me with her elbow and continued. "You know their song, it's been on the Hit Parade." I shook my head. "Oh, you know it, "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! That cigarette!"" she sang tunelessly, making it evident why she was part of the waitstaff and not the revue.

As if on cue, the double bass began to sound and the man I assumed was Tex Williams stepped to the microphone.

[Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! | Tex Williams]

Now I'm a feller with a heart of gold
And the ways of a gentleman I've been told
The kind of guy that wouldn't even harm a flea
But if me and a certain character met
The guy that invented the cigarette
I'd murder that son-of-a-gun in the first degree
It ain't cuz I don't smoke myself
And I don't reckon that it'll harm your health
Smoked all my life and I ain't dead yet
But nicotine slaves are all the same
At a pettin' party or a poker game
Everything gotta stop while they have a cigarette
Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette
Puff, puff, puff and if you smoke yourself to death
Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate
That you hate to make him wait
But you just gotta have another cigarette

The music wasn't much to my taste, but I took the suggestion and lit up a cigarette as I sipped my cocktail and let my eyes wander around the club for signs of Mrs. Anderson or perhaps Sebastian Anderson. After a few minutes it was time to check in with Tina again. My how time flew when you were having rum.

The club doors opened and a slim man dressed in an overcoat and a dark colored fedora appeared to be blown in with a gust of wind that caused half the club to shiver. "I'll take your coat and hat, Mr. Anderson," the doorman said, reaching for the garments. The man was soaked head to toe, but instead of removing his coat and hat, he seemed to pull them on tighter as he waved off the doorman and headed in my direction. As he walked and shook hands with patrons rising to greet him, I could see the trademark red glasses and thousand watt smile of Blaine Anderson. Something on the main floor caught his eye and he paused stepping closer to the mezzanine railing only a few feet away from my table. Looking on the dance floor, I spotted Mrs. Anderson in her red sequined gown, her waved blonde hair glowing from the reflected stage lights. Even without the ample slits of her gown making a show of her infamous legs, her dancer training was evident in the way she glided amongst the guests, shaking hands. With the only smile in the room that outshone Mr. Anderson's, I wondered if even the Pepsodent girl could compete. I turned back to Mr. Anderson, who stood motionless. If I wasn't mistaken the look on his face was wistful, the contempt I'd seen the day before nowhere in sight. Whatever state of reverie he was in ended abruptly and he turned back in my direction heading for the stairs leading down to the stage below.

I stood extending a hand as he approached and began, "Mr. Anderson, please to meet-"

He grasped my hand limply and replied, "Enjoy the show," as he, in his wet overcoat, brushed past me without missing a step. A lesser ego might have taken offense, but somewhere inside I was glad to have a bit of justification for my distaste for the man. Since the first words out of his mouth yesterday at rehearsal, I'd felt an instant dislike for him. Sure, I didn't know anything about their marriage and it was obvious Mrs. Anderson gave as good as she got, but something about the way he spoke to her struck me the wrong way and I was having trouble rooting for the home team with all my heart. I saw Mr. Anderson pause once more, before disappearing down the stairs.

The crowd applauded as the Tex Miller song ended and a young man dressed in the Noir Orchestra black dinner jacket complete with red vest and bowtie approached the silver microphone centerstage applauding. "Tex Miller, everyone! Coming to the stage, the Blaine Noir Orchestra featuring Britt Noir! We have a special treat for you tonight so order another cocktail and get settled in quick!" The Noir Orchestra filed on stage as the house lights were raised momentarily to make the delivery of pink cocktails and cigarettes easier for the waiters and cigarette girls.

I caught the attention of a waiter and ordered a whiskey sour. I could play the pretty drink game, but bourbon was feeling more my poison of choice tonight. I pulled a cigarette from the case in my purse and before I could put it to my lips, two waiters offered lighters. I'd underestimated the effect of a cocktail dress and artfully applied make-up, maybe it was worth the plucking, preening, and headache after all. Accepting a light from one of the waiters, I smiled and thanked them both. After a few more minutes, the house lights began to dim again.

Mr. Anderson took the stage and bowed towards the audience before turning back to the orchestra. After a moment, the spotlight followed the red glittering vision of Mrs. Anderson as she walked towards center stage. As she passed Mr. Anderson she seemed to hesitate and I saw Mr. Anderson place a hand on her arm and speak into her ear. Still smiling at the audience, I could make out her lips moving as she took a step back, freeing her arm from his grip. I ignored the arrival of my drink and leaned forward trying to translate what had just happened. Mrs. Anderson arrived at her gleaming microphone and spoke.

"Good evening, Metropolis! I'm glad the storm has blown you our way. I hope we can keep you amused until the Ark arrives," she said with a chuckle and smile that didn't betray any other emotions she might be feeling. Mr. Anderson tipped his head slightly and raised his hands to the orchestra. As his hands fell, the piano and strings began and after a beat, Mrs. Anderson joined.

[Stormy Weather | sung as in version by Sarah Vaughan Introduction to Sarah Vaughan]
I don't know why, I don't know why
There's no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together
Keeps on raining all the time, all the time

The song was familiar to everyone in the room, a song from a movie a few years ago, but the change in the tempo and the sincere heartbreak in Mrs. Anderson's voice made most people forget their drinks, smokes, and dates, all listening mouths agape.

Life is bare
Gloom and misery everywhere
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together
Keeps on raining all the time

I can't go on
Everything I have is gone
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together
Keeps on raining all the time
It's raining, raining all the time
It's raining, it's raining
It rains all day and it rains all night
It just rains all the time

Without even a pause, Mrs. Anderson stepped back from the microphone and walked quickly offstage. The crowd applauded and some stood, assuming an encore was imminent. Mr. Anderson motioned for one of his orchestra members to take his place conducting and exited the stage. Before the audience had time to question what was happening, the loud bash and crash of the drummer the orchestra had auditioned the previous day caught everyone's attention. His drumsticks were a blur as he assaulted the drums with the ferocity of a boxer beating down his opponent. The rest of the orchestra seemed to be as spellbound as the audience, allowing the drums what must have been a solid 3 minutes of abuse before the horns and piano jumped into the race.

I extinguished my cigarette and the rest of my drink and started for the back stairs leading to the stage. I was halfway to the stairs when I glanced back at the door for the time- bottom of the hour, time to check in with Tina. I hesitated, wanting to get backstage and find out what had the Andersons in such a hurry to exit stage left they didn't even wait for the applause. I walked quickly to the coat check and dialed the phone.

"Tina? It's San."

"Right on time. How's the hurricane party?" Tina asked.

"I thought it was swell, but the Andersons don't seem to be enjoying it much. Did Artie check in?"

"No, I'm starting to worry," Tina replied.

"Mr. Anderson is here, so he should be heading back to the office to drop you off at home. He's probably right outside the office wrapping Celine in cottonballs." I said.

"Still want Artie there at midnight?"

"Tell him to cool his heels in the office a bit, the party's still going strong right now. I'll check in again at half past and let him know."

"Okay, Santana. 'Night, honey," Tina said.

"'Night, Tina," I said replacing the receiver on the hook.

I made my way backstage and found the Andersons' dressing rooms as I had the afternoon before. There were few people walking around backstage so I paused outside of Mr. Anderson's door hoping to hear what might be going on inside. After a moment without a peep, I knocked lightly on Mrs. Anderson's door. I could faintly hear Mrs. Anderson's voice but not what she was saying or who was responding. I knocked again and called, "Mrs. Anderson, it's me Santana Lopez. Are you okay?"

"Santana, yes. Yes, I'm fine. I'm- I'm busy right now, could you come back later?" Mrs. Anderson replied.

I don't know what it was but something in her voice told me she was anything but fine so I persisted. "Mrs. Anderson, this can't wait. I need to talk to you about our conversation yesterday."

"Our conversation?" I heard Mrs. Anderson speak again, too softly for me to make out and then she spoke again from what I could tell was very close to the door. "What conversation?"

"Mrs. Anderson, the article I'm writing for the Metropolis City Section," I replied, pausing. "Mrs. Anderson, if you don't have time to talk, I can always do my interview with Mr. Anderson tonight and talk to you-"

"No, no, it's fine. Please, come in," Mrs. Anderson called from behind the door.

I heard the click of the door unlocking and I turned the knob to enter. I had barely stepped inside the door when I noticed a figure dressed in a black dinner jacket crumpled across the white chaise lounge.

"Santana!" I heard Mrs. Anderson say.

Before I could turn back to the door, I saw a flash of lighting and felt the room turn on its side. My brain had time to register the hot white pain across the back of my skull as my eyes saw a flash of red and the room went black.

IV

I lay on the floor of Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, reflecting on the good and the bad of the situation. The good was that I was reflecting, so barring some sort of purgatory, the particulars of which I'd left in Sunday school along with my fear of nuns with rulers, I was still alive. The bad was that the doctor was going to have a hard time telling the difference between my head and a birthday piñata. Despite my best efforts, consciousness slipped through my fingers like that last tiny wet sliver of soap in the bath. Kaleidoscope images twisted and tumbled before my eyes and then drifted away like mirages. Voices and muffled music played at the wrong speed. The only thing I was sure of was the color red. Mrs. Anderson's peaceful white sanctuary was a red razed battlefield.

I was told later they used smelling salts to revive me, but it felt more like a sucker punch to the jaw. Given that Police Chief Finn Hudson was standing over me when I woke, both are equally likely, maybe even the punch by a nose. I knew I should be thankful for waking up at all, I'm not exactly sure my attacker intended it that way, but Hudson's mug inches from mine as my first fuzzy vision was making me want to recount those blessings.

"Well, well, Miss Lopez." Hudson began, fussing with the brass buttons on his ridiculously ornate uniform, designed specifically to prevent the wearer from being useful. "Seems every time I turn over a rock in this town, there you are."

"You're a swell guy, Hudson. A gentleman like you always knows the polite way to kick a girl when she's down," I said. My eyes started to focus again and there was Hudson, just as I remembered him, a face only a mother could love… on payday. "Now that you've come to my rescue, mind telling me the nature of the rock I was under? I'd like to ask for my money back on that ride."

"Are you saying you don't know where you are, Miss Lopez?" Hudson's eyebrow raised as his lips drew into a displeased pout. "I find you in the middle of a murder scene and you don't know where you are. Curiosity is getting the better of me."

My first instinct was to stand up bolt straight. Hudson must have been used to this response as his hand settled on my shoulder preventing me from rising. I tried to look left and right around him, Hudson shifted his weight, blocking my view. I recognized the chair I was sitting in, the back was pressed against the edge of Mrs. Anderson's dressing table. I turned to the mirror. Hudson dominated my field of vision, but I caught glimpses of policeman in their black uniforms furiously taking notes and snapping pictures, they scurried about like the unwanted picnic guests they were.

"I don't know if you missed the announcement, Hudsy, but I was lumped over the head. I don't remember anything other than seeing Orion and the Big and Little Dippers, they send their regards," I said, looking at him in the mirror. "Then I wake to the heavenly vision that is your beautiful kisser."

"Miss Lopez, given your present position, I advise you not to antagonize me."

I gave up trying to make out what was happening in the room and turned my attention to my reflection. A hair-thin tributary of blood had dried running from my hairline to my eyebrow. I rubbed it away with my fingertip and went searching for the source. The instant my fingers touched the back of my head I yelped in pain. The blood-matted hair was doing a poor job of protecting an egg-shaped lump on the back of my head. "My present position is what exactly? In need of a licensed physician?"

"Don't worry, Miss Lopez, a doctor is on his way. I'm afraid you're going to need stitches."

"Smashing, no pun intended," I replied. "Tell him to ask the bartender for a whiskey anesthetic on the way. And like that, my chances of making Metropolis' best coiffed list are dashed. I'll have you know I was in contention for-" As I turned to address Hudson, I caught sight of a solid block of dark red running down the side of my formerly white cocktail dress. I wouldn't consider myself a fainting violet at the sight of blood, but I must admit the sight of myself covered in it gave me great pause.

Hudson saw my sheet white face and replied, "Lieutenant Karofsky!" A black uniformed bruiser goose-stepped to Hudson's side. "Make a note of this, Miss Lopez is speechless. No one down at the station will believe it," Hudson continued. Karofsky, who much like Hudson, didn't appear to be chock full of IQ points to spare, looked confused.

"Sir?" Karofsky asked.

"Never mind Lieutenant," Hudson said, waving the confused officer away. "Don't worry, Miss Lopez, we've been thorough, the only injury you have is that gash on your head. The blood is not yours."

"Who's is it? Where's Mrs. Anderson? Mr. Anderson? Who was murdered?"

"Miss Lopez! You forget which of us is wearing the badge," Hudson replied tapping his tin star. "I'll be asking the questions and you'll be answering them. What were you doing here tonight?"

"Did you see the sign out front, there was a hurricane party! Oh, weren't you invited Hudsy?" I said, feeling my side and legs to be sure Hudson was right and this blood wasn't mine. Thankfully confirmed, I needed to know where Mrs. Anderson was and if she was okay. I tried once more to stand.

"Lopez, sit!" Hudson put both hands on my shoulders. "You will answer my questions or the Lieutenant here will be gifting you with a pair of handcuffs that won't match your dress," Hudson said with a decidedly unamusing chuckle.

"Lay another fingerprint on me and you'll be talking to my lawyer, Hudson. Exactly what reason are you holding me?"

Hudson took a step back so that the chaise in the center of the room was visible. There sat a woman with tangled blonde hair. Her red gown torn. Her face smeared with black streaks from where her eye makeup had run. Her eyes rimmed in red. Mrs. Anderson sobbed silently, looking at the floor. My eyes followed hers and there on the floor, in the middle of Mrs. Anderson pristine white dressing room, was a pool of blood atop which lay a sheet draped form that appeared to be a body.

"Britt!" I called out, forgetting for a moment the formalities. She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. It was then that I noticed her hands. Worse than my dress, her hands were stained red with blood. She opened her mouth to speak and lifted her hands as if to ask for an explanation. Before she could say anything an officer placed handcuffs on her wrists, helped her stand, and guided her towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder at me pleading with her eyes for help. "Don't say anything! Don't say anything!" I shouted.

"Good! If you both resist this will be more fun for me," Hudson smiled. "Santana Lopez, you are being held for questioning in the investigation of the death of Mr. Blaine Anderson."

V

I was spared the metal tennis bracelets as I was escorted into the Metropolis Sixth Precinct, home to our glorious, and somewhat notorious, men in black. Normally the clamor of phones ringing and each officer speaking louder to be heard over the next made it impossible to think, a none-too-desirable trait in a police station, but the hurricane had knocked out all phone service and the bullpen was uncharacteristically quiet. As such, all eyes were on me as I entered in my dual personality cocktail dress: side one sophisticated socialite, side two manicured murderess. I knew a few of the beat uniforms quite well and reassured them it wasn't me that had lost a few quarts on my dress.

I was told this visit was purely voluntary; I was free to leave at any time, but having a female uniform spot welded to my side at all times made my stay seem slightly less than congenial. After a visit from the physician, I was issued what looked like a set of white pajamas to change into; my blood-soaked cocktail dress stuffed in a paper bag. I was mentally composing a letter of accommodation for Hudson's superior hospitality when I caught sight of the writing on the breastpocket of the pajamas- Metropolis Psychiatric Ward. Hudson, sometimes I didn't give him enough credit for being the fount of wit he was. As the uniform delivered me to Lt. Karofsky, the majority of the squad room stood up and applauded my new attire- a few "it's about time" remarks thrown in for good measure. If I hadn't drunk the majority of them under the table or beaten them at billards, the comments might have hurt my feelings.

Karofsky ushered me into Chief Hudson's office and offered me a glass of water. I ordered something stronger, but he must have mixed up the order; I let him know his tip would not be forthcoming.

"Thanks for the snappy threads, Hudsy. Were they out of straitjackets?" I said, taking my familiar seat in front of his desk. Why Hudson found it necessary to upset the digestion of visitors with a large portrait of himself hung behind his desk I'll never know.

"There weren't any in your size, Lopez. Believe me, I checked," Hudson replied, not looking up from whatever he was writing.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of professional courtesy," Hudson started, stressing the word professional as if he didn't really believe it. "What were you doing at the Soirées Noires last night?"

"I told you, there was a hurricane party. Forgetting to wear your earplugs on the gun range, Hudsy or just not getting all that wax in the morning?"

"Lopez, you're not helping endear yourself to me," Hudson replied.

"It's been a long time since I burst into tears because someone didn't like me, Hudson. What is it exactly you want to know from me? I told you I was beaned in the head and then it was lights out until you so majestically materialized," I said.

"Were you working for Mrs. Anderson? She says you were," Hudson said, flipping through a notepad.

"If she says so, then I was. Why ask me?"

"The word of woman accused of murdering her husband isn't exactly legal tender, Lopez. What did she hire you for?"

"That, Hudson, is privileged information. Check the door again when you come by, private investigations."

"She came to us a month ago about threatening letters. Said she needed protection for herself and Mr. Anderson," Hudson said, looking over the top of his reading glasses.

"And you gave her such peace of mind she came to us."

"And now her husband is dead. It's not a banner day for either of us, Lopez," Hudson said with sincerity. I nodded my head conceding the point. "Is there anything you can tell us that might help?"

My mind flashed to the feel of the cold revolver barrel in her purse against my hand. Instinct told me to keep this card in my hand until I knew what Hudson was holding. "Help what? Send her upriver? You asking me to convict her for you?"

"Lopez, you, she, and her dead husband were found in a locked room. She was bloodied and holding a knife, the broken tip of which was lodged in her husband's back. Are you saying you did it?" Hudson studied my face carefully.

"What does she say?" I asked, trying not to betray my own thoughts.

"She says she was drugged and doesn't remember much of last night at all. And what she does remember doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't make sense?" I asked.

"That's enough of the one way street, Lopez. If you've got information to the contrary, now's the time to be a good citizen and come forward. Her alibi has as many holes in it as a fishing net."

Hudson continued with his best solo good cop-bad cop routine, but when it became clear I wasn't just giving him the usual runaround and honestly didn't have any memory of the evening after lights out in Mrs. Anderson's dressing room, he told me to stay in town, pointed the way out, and slammed the door on my shoulder blades.

Since I couldn't call for a taxi, Karofsky offered to give me a ride if I could wait a few minutes. It was either walk or wait, so I took the time to catch up with the uniforms I palled around with from time to time. None of them had more information on the Anderson case than Hudson had already shared with me. When the police were summoned to break into the dressing rooms, they found three people on the floor: me with a rendering of the Grand Canyon on my head, Mrs. Anderson with a broken bloody knife in hand, and Mr. Anderson with the tip of a knife protruding from one of the many knife wounds on his now dead body. Locked room, dead husband, wife holding the murder weapon, open and shut case, one of the uniforms said. Open and shut, life was never that simple.

Some might have found it rude, but I was thankful Karofsky didn't make small talk driving me back to the office. I wasn't in the mood to debate politics or pick over the latest box scores. Most people would have headed home after a night like I'd had, but I knew word of the murder would be all over the papers and with the phone lines down I wanted to save Artie and Tina some undue grief. If I knew Artie he'd probably been pacing for hours. My eyes took in the mess of a party Hurricane Adrianne had thrown. Either by excellent planning or pure luck, Metropolis had escaped relatively unscathed. A few downed telephone poles, a broken window here and there, but for the most part, trash tumbleweeds were the worst of it. Adrianne wasn't so big a party girl after all.

IV

I climbed the stairs up to the office landing, the images and sounds of the last few days running though my head like unruly school kids, refusing to sit still for even a moment so I could take roll call. I tried my best to take stock of what I knew. I had very little to show for the visit to the police station that a primer on police procedurals couldn't have accomplished in less time and with a good nap at the end. Somewhere in the locked safe that was my head I had the answers to all this, I'd had a front row seat to a murder. I just needed to remember.

I must have burst through the door of the office because Tina looked shocked and very much taken off guard at seeing me. It wasn't everyday what looked like and escaped mental patient came barging through the office door.

"Tina, morning, Angel," I said as I closed the door behind me and started towards my office. "Could you bring me some coffee right away and get ready to take some notes? And could you do something with this?" I said handing her the paper bag with my bloody dress in it.

"Santana, I-" Tina's eyes widened as she looked at me, apparently stunned by the contents of the bag.

"Oh! Sorry! Tina, it's okay, it's not my blood. I'm fine. I'll get cleaned up in a jiff. Give me 15 minutes then send in coffee. Wait another 10 and then send in Artie. Let him know I'm okay, will you?" Before Tina could answer I was in my office, quickly discarding the looney loungers and washing up in the sink. I even did my best to brush my hair, careful not to hit the new cross stitch in my scalp. Dressed in one of the suits I kept in the office, I sat down at my desk and laced up my shoes.

"Tina? That coffee?" I walked out to see Tina hadn't moved and was still staring into the paper bag. "Just drop it for the incinerator, it's ruined. That's positive reinforcement for ya, a gal dresses up all lady like and what does it buy her?" I was halfway back to my office door when I heard a sob erupt from Tina.

"Santana!"

"Tina? What gives? I'm okay. I promise you. A little worse for wear but fine." I kneeled at Tina's side as she wiped her face with a handkerchief. "Tina, talk to me?"

"Oh, Santana," she sobbed leaning into me with a hug, her tears wetting the collar of my shirt.

"Tina, darling, I'm okay. Look at me, will you? I'm fine," I said as I stroked her hair.

"Santana, it's Artie. He's been shot."

A/N: Thank you so much for the encouragement! Thank you reviewers and readers!

Big thanks for making this happen to: NEMO(!), Snixx, Nayshen, Mar, and Blueashke.

Thanks to Foss for listening to my rants and always steering me back on track. All my love.