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“There’s been a murder!”
Ford Phillips looked up. Cliff Calloway was standing before him, having essentially kicked the door of Fig and Ford’s office open.
“Has there?” Ford said, deadpan.
“Yes! The intern. I was on set and I asked for a cocktail but one didn’t instantly materialize in my hand, so I asked again. Still no cocktail.”
“What kind of cocktail?” Fig Wineshine asked with a smirk, leaning passive aggressively against the door frame. She had just walked in.
Ford rolled his eyes. “Sit down, both of you. Calloway, proceed.”
“And so I went to my dressing room and he wasn’t there. So I Ieft. I went into the alley a few minutes later to see if he was there and he was. Dead. Lying in a pool of his own blood. It was awful.” Cliff threw his head in his hands and began to sob.
“Uh, there, there,” Fig said awkwardly, patting his shoulder. She looked at Ford and mouthed, “What do we do?”
Ford poured a drink for all of them. “Pull yourself together, Calloway. When did this happen?”
“Just this morning.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
“You didn’t...cover up the body?” Fig asked Cliff, a little disgusted at the bloody corpse at her feet. Cliff shrugged.
Ford rolled up his sleeves and crouched over the intern’s body. He began counting the wounds in his back silently, and then looked up at Cliff and Fig. “He was stabbed.” He said.
“You think?” someone asked.
Fig and Ford looked at each other and simultaneously rolled their eyes. “Hello, Dash,” said Fig.
“Hiya. Didn’t suspect I’d follow you here, did ya?”
“You’re wearing a clown costume,” said Ford, “you’re about as subtle as a steamboat in a swimming pool. Scram, will you? I’m on a case.”
“ We’re on a case,” Fig corrected. “But yes. Scram.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, kids. I got an anonymous tip about this here body.” He held up a small piece of paper. “I could give it to you. For a price.”
“I’m not telling you how I narrate things in my head, Gunfire,” Ford said, just as Fig snatched it out of Dash’s hand.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Dash whined, but Fig, Ford and Cliff had already walked away.
“It just says to go to Bixby’s, and ‘all will be revealed,’” said Fig. “I’d better take that lead, Ford. I’m better in the social sphere than you. You should take the movie star back to his dressing room and search for clues.” She began to walk away, but she paused. “Get out of that trash can, Gunfire. I know you’re tailing me.” She left, and Dash Gunfire crawled out of the trash can and stumbled away.
“That kid’s going to get himself killed one day,” Ford thought to himself and walked back to Cliff’s dressing room to find the murderer.
Fig stepped into Bixby’s, the familiar sounds of the club filling her ears. She went to get a drink. “Bixby, is there any chance you could point me in the direction of one miss Vivian Nightingale? I’m on a case.”
“She’s about to perform.”
A spotlight hit the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen. She’s the Femme Fatale of Fresno. He’s a talented newcomer with the skills on the sax to stop you in your tracks. Miss Vivian Nightingale and Mister Guy Inferno.”
A man walked onstage, saxophone in hand. He looked at the crowd and winked at one of the female patrons. He began to play, and he was good. Very good. Vivian walked out and took the microphone in her hand and began to sing, and together, they sounded perfect. Fig squeezed her glass so tightly it almost broke. She could see why some women were fawning over Inferno-he had thick dark hair and sharp, icy eyes, but Fig only cared about Vivian.
“Have you found anything yet, Mr. Phillips?” Cliff asked for what seemed like the millionth time.
“If I had, Calloway, I wouldn’t still be here in your dressing room.”
Ford’s search had been a bust. He thought he saw a clue, a jacket a size too small for Cliff. “Why do you have a jacket that doesn’t fit you?”
“It’s not mine, Mr. Phillips,” Cliff said with a wink.
Ford’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, was it his? What was the intern’s name, anyway?”
“Rupert...or Roger, or Rex, or Robert. Something with an R. I don’t remember. He didn’t stay for breakfast, if you know what I’m saying. And yes, it was his.”
“So aside from the fact that there was a murder, you have nothing to tell me. Great,” Ford said, and he turned to leave. “Give me a call if anything changes in your story. I hope you realize you’re just as suspect as anyone else, Calloway.” But when Ford closed the door of Cliff’s dressing room, he noticed something on the floor. He hadn’t seen it before as he had entered from the back doorway, but there, on the ground, was a feather.
A nightingale feather.
The song ended to astounding applause. Fig clapped sarcastically, if that’s possible. After it had died down and Vivian and Guy left the stage, Fig went to talk to Vivian. She found the two in the dressing room, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. Fig cleared her throat and leaned in the doorway. “Miss Nightingale. Mr. Inferno.”
“Miss Wineshine. What happened?” Vivian asked. Fig wouldn’t come to talk to her unless it was for a case.
“Can I talk to you alone?”
“Pardon me, Miss...Wineshine, was it? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” said Guy, his voice smooth and cold.
Fig rolled her eyes and waved away the smoke. “I know who you are. That’s good enough for me.”
Vivian shook her head just slightly. “Guy, Fig Wineshine. Reporter for the Twinkletown Times.”
“Former reporter,” added Fig. “I don’t do that anymore.”
Vivian went on. “Miss Wineshine, Guy Inferno.” She turned to him. “Excuse us, darling.”
Guy stood to leave, but took his time walking out. Like the world was his oyster but he ordered clams.
“I got an anonymous tip that I’d find some information on this murder case here. Know anything, Miss Nightingale?”
“Why would I?”
“Whenever Bixby’s is roped into a case, you seem to get tied up as well.”
“Who was the victim?”
“An intern to some showbiz types.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Are you involved with Inferno?”
“That hardly seems relevant, Fig.”
“It’s a murder case. Everything’s relevant.”
“Fine. If you must know, we are. Happy?”
“Can I have your autograph?” Fig asked.
“If I give you an autograph will you leave?” asked Vivian, glaring at Fig. She took out a pen and Fig handed her a piece of paper. She signed it and gave it to Fig. “Now, can you please leave? Guy’s waiting. Have a good night, Miss Wineshine.”
“You too. Keep your eyes and ears open, Nightingale. Give me a call if anything goes down further than a power drill on a sponge cake.” She left, with nothing but a cookie in hand and a heart that wasn’t broken, but certainly a little cracked around the edges.
Back at the office, Fig and Ford went over what they got.
“A nightingale feather. Calloway and the intern had something fishy going on, and I don’t mean the kind from the ocean. Judging by the tip, I think this has something to do with Vivian,” Ford said.
“That’s what I thought. The bird herself has been seeing Guy Inferno, some smooth talking saxophone. Doesn’t know anything about the tip,” said Fig.
“What you got in your cookie holders?”
“Nothing.”
“Fig.”
“Fine. Her autograph. Just for laughs.”
Ford grabbed the paper out of Fig’s hand. He took the tip from the table and held them next to each other. “Now wait just a hot minute. Now wait for it to cool off. These two papers have one thing in common. They have the same handwriting.”
Fig dropped her cigarette. “If Nightingale wrote the tip, and there’s a nightingale feather left at the scene of the crime…”
“You don’t think it was her, did you? She’s Vivian Nightingale, her career relies too heavily on her reputation. Besides, who in their right mind would leave a tip if they were the killer?”
“Someone who wants to get caught.”
Ford went to talk to Guy Inferno the next day. He didn’t tell Fig, but something was up. He could smell it. He had a hunch that somehow, this elusive sax player was involved.
It had nothing to do with hoping to see Vivian.
Nothing at all.
“Mr. Inferno,” Ford said, having cornered Guy into his dressing room after a performance. Vivian, however, wasn’t there.
“That’s me. And you are?”
“Ford Phillips.” Ford didn’t like this Guy Inferno character one bit. He was too aware, too confident, too sure the world was in his hand. Ford never cared much for the casanova types. He crossed his arms and sat down across from Guy. “I have a few questions regarding a murder case. Word on the street is you’ve been squatting at Bixby’s and that’s just where my partner and I got a tip regarding the murder. Do you know anything about a murder on the MGM lot, Mr. Inferno?”
Guy smiled, as if in his head he was narrating his opinions on Ford. “Nothing at all, Mr. Phillips. Can I call you Ford?”
“No.”
“Ooh, prickly. Alright. Well, ‘Mr. Phillips,’ I personally have nothing to do with the murder, but I know someone who might.”
“Spill.”
“A dame I know, she was heading off to the lot just two days ago or so.” He took out a cigarette and a lighter, and bent down to reach the flame. He looked up. “Is that important, Mr. Phillips?”
“Does this dame have a name?”
Inferno exhaled, a puff of dark smoke filling the space between the two men. “We all have names, Ford. Does it really matter what hers is?”
“Cut the fat, Inferno. Tell me her name or you’re a suspect. You have a motive. You’re new in town, maybe you wanted his job. Maybe you wanted what he and Cliff Calloway had. Who knows. But we need answers.”
“I can’t reveal her name. I’m seeing her.” Guy was, remarkably, getting flustered. Just barely.
“Maybe the intern owed you money and was taking too long. Maybe you and he are on opposite sides of a generations-old mob deal. Maybe your sister ran off with his brother. I need info and I’m feeling creative.” Ford shrugged. “A man has died. Spill.”
“Fine! Vivian Nightingale. Her name is Vivian Nightingale.” Guy’s eyes blazed. Ford knew it was because the usually cool, self assured Guy Inferno had been thwarted. But-Vivian Nightingale? It all added up. But why? Why would she murder someone?
“Thanks for all your help, Mr. Inferno,” said Ford, standing. He walked to the door but was stopped when Guy spoke again.
“Let’s keep me out of this case, alright? I didn’t talk to you. I didn’t give Vivian up. I was never here. Got it?”
Ford, still facing away from Guy, gritted his teeth. The impenetrable cool had returned. “Got it.”
That night, Fig and Ford sat in their office, two glasses of scotch seeming to never empty in front of them. They were quiet, thinking. The only sounds were the clinking of the glass bottle against the table and the flick of a cigarette lighter. Finally, Fig spoke.
“It can’t be Vivian.”
Ford laughed, but he didn’t find it funny. “It adds up, Fig. And I was always good at math.”
“But...why would she kill someone?”
“You said it yourself. Maybe she wants to get caught.”
Fig had had a lot to drink and her mind was very foggy, so she let herself say, “I loved her, you know.”
Ford shrugged. “So did I, Wineshine. So did I.”
They sat like that for a while. Once again in silence and cigarette smoke, but they weren’t thinking about the case. They were too tired and drunk for that. They were thinking about the woman they loved and the blood on her hands.
“I guess we have to confront her,” said Ford.
“I’ll bake some cookies.”
The Hollywood sun bled into the office of Ford Phillips and Fig Wineshine. The two P.I.s had fallen asleep there, and they weren’t ready to face the day. Hungover and heartbroken, they woke up.
“The worst part about the morning is the morning,” Fig grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“I’d drink to that, but I’m already drunk,” replied Ford, retying his day-old tie.
Today, Vivian Nightingale would sing her final song. Then, she’d be sent to prison for murder.
Hollywood.
The two, after a considerable amount of time recovering (mostly) from the previous night, set off to Bixby’s Lounge.
Time to hear the nightingale sing.
“I got the drop on ya, Ford. Lady Ford.”
“Dash, we’ve known you were tailing us the whole time. This case doesn’t concern you,” said Ford, his voice stained with anger and stale scotch.
“Call me Lady Ford again, Gunfire, and I’ll be sure gunfire is the last thing you hear,” Fig hissed as the house lights dimmed. They heard Dash stomp away, grumbling.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you know her, you love her, you want to steal her shoes, Miss Vivian Nightingale.”
Vivian walked out in a sparkling green dress. She was singing solo this time, accompanied only by the piano. Good. Both Fig and Ford didn’t want to deal with Guy Inferno and what he meant. Vivian, as usual, began to sing.
Fig wouldn’t let herself feel what she felt. “She sounds good,” was all she said. They would a wait a while and then confront her. That was the plan.
Ford remembered the case brought to his office in the form of Vivian Nightingale last December. “Mr. Phillips, something terrible has happened.” Vivian’s voice still rang in his head.
All too quickly, the song ended. The siren walked off the stage, her curls trailing behind her. Fig and Ford came out of their trance.
It was time.
Fig and Ford approached Vivian’s dressing room. All that stood in their way was a curtain. A curtain and painful feelings. They both took a deep breath. Fig’s hand found Ford’s and she squeezed it. “You and me, buddy. We’re okay,” she whispered. She let go of Ford’s hand. Ford yanked the curtain open.
Vivian wasn’t there.
But, to their horror, someone else was. Dash Gunfire.
Lying face down in a crimson pool of his own blood.
“I told you, Phillips, he’ll get himself killed,” Ford said so quietly Fig wasn’t sure he’d said it at all.
“It wasn’t his field. He bit off more than he could chew,” said Fig. She took the white tablecloth from the small table in the back of Vivian’s dressing room and gingerly placed it over Dash. Immediately, it began to absorb the blood, deep red rosettes forming over every gash.
They stood in silence for a moment, but then Ford said, “We have to find Vivian. Before she kills again.”
The back door to Vivian’s dressing room was open, splatters of blood making a trail to the alley behind Bixby’s. Fig and Ford, refusing to turn back, followed them. They walked the bloody pathway to an entrance to a condemned apartment. It had been condemned for twenty years, a hotspot for those unfortunate enough to lose their homes in the Great Depression. But it hadn’t been occupied for two years. The door was just so slightly ajar, the drops of blood continued inside. Fig and Ford went in.
The place was dusty, cobwebs were everywhere, but Ford had foolishly forgotten to bring a flashlight. They could only rely on the midday sunlight peering in through the aged windows to see the footprints on the ground. They weren’t heels, but then, as Fig knew, it’s nearly impossible to do anything in high-heeled shoes except look pretty. Vivian probably changed into slippers or something like that.
They walked with the blood and footprints down the eerie hallway and came to a door where the blood stopped and the prints were halfway complete. Fig and Ford opened the door. And there was Vivian. With a knife to her neck. The knife in the hand of Guy Inferno.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wineshine. Mister Phillips.”
“Guy? But-” Fig began.
“I understand, darling,” Guy said. His blade was wet with Dash’s blood. Ford’s eyes fell to it. “I know, Ford. I only meant to kill that meaningless intern, but that idiot detective stood in my way. And I don’t let people stand in my way.”
Ford went to get Vivian away from that knife, but Guy pulled the blade closer. “Don’t move a step closer. You’ve seen what I can do, Phillips, and I swear to god I’ll do it again.” His voice was dangerous and barely grasping to his usual cool when he said that.
“If he was so meaningless, why’d you kill him?” Fig asked, her face red with anger. How could she have been so stupid? Of course it was Guy Inferno, suave new saxophone player. It was almost funny how obvious he was. Almost.
“The same reason you thought Vivian did it. I wanted to get caught.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Ford growled. “You’ve left a bloody trail, footprints, evidence.”
“Lucky for me DNA won’t be discovered for another twelve years.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, I suppose I owe you an explanation, and although I’ve never cared much for the silver screen, I understand the bad guy monologues just before the story ends.”
“How does this one end?” Fig asked, looking directly into Vivian’s eyes. Vivian looked away.
“Darling, I’m on the edge of my seat. We’ll have to wait and see. I had heard a lot of great things about the incredible Ford Phillips. Less about his sidekick, Fig, but that was all I needed. I knew you had ties to Calloway, and he had ties to the intern. I found him outside, and then he was done with. I wanted to meet you, Ford. Just an interested party. Anyway, after I knew I’d get your attention I got together with Vivian. I asked her to do me a favor. Write a note about Bixby’s, how ‘all would be revealed.’ I slipped it in Gunfire’s pocket when he was stopping by Bixby’s, looking for you. Kind of a longshot, but it worked. Just in case, however, I had to really plant the seed of doubt about Vivian in your mind. Hence the feather. I had to plant it myself, which was less than ideal, but you have to make some sacrifices for such a beautifully orchestrated crime.
“After that, I decided it was time to introduce myself. I told Vivian not to tell anyone about the note, and she didn’t. Don’t worry Viv, I still like you. What we had was just short of real. But when I met Fig, I knew she loved Vivian.” Fig’s eyes widened and she took and involuntary step back. Guy continued. “Vivian giving you her autograph was just plain luck. When you put those pieces together, Ford came to see me. It became pretty clear that he loved Vivian too. He was so aggressive. I sold her out. She never went to the lot. It looks like you too were just so blinded by heartbreak, or something stupid like that. I was going to let you look for Vivian only to find me with a knife to her neck, but that other P.I. was there. And here we are.”
“The footprints...how did you only make one set of footprints?” Ford asked.
“I don’t think you understand what I can do, Phillips.”
“What now?” Vivian asked quietly.
“Now?” Guy said. “Now, I leave. I let you go, grab my saxophone, and leave you all with two dead bodies.” He took the knife away from Vivian, a red stripe of Dash’s blood on her neck. She stumbled and fell into Ford. He caught her. Guy went to the corner of the room and picked up his saxophone in its case. He began to walk toward the window, where he would escape. “Goodbye, Ford. Oh, and stay out of my way.” And with that, he was gone.
“Let’s get a drink,” Fig said.