The Empty Locket

A Chastity Jones Mystery

by November Christine

Memphis, Tennessee

1897

I’ve been serving spirits at Red’s Tavern since I was tall enough to see over the bar. I know every misfit and ne’er-do-well that frequents its “hallowed” halls. So imagine my surprise the day he came walking through the door. He was tall, with skin as smooth and dark as mahogany. There was an undeniable air of mystery and danger about him. He was the type I always warn myself to steer clear of, but never do.

“What can I get you?” I asked as he approached the bar.

“Answers, I hope,” he said. “And a shot of Jack, if it suits you ma’am.”

Ma’am... He was from the South—though I’d never seen him around these parts. Well-raised but not afraid of a fight, judging by the old scars on his knuckles.

“Whiskey we got,” I said, uncorking a fresh bottle. “Answers ain’t on the menu.”

“How about I trade you. You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours.”

“What makes you think I got questions?” I filled his glass to the brim.

“That.” His eyes fell upon my neck. A locket hung there, dangling from a tarnished strand of silver. This simple adornment was the only keepsake from my childhood as an orphan. But it had always held more mysteries than answers, for the picture inside the locket had gone missing long ago.

I shrugged. “It’s a necklace. Nothing special.”

The man reached in his pocket and produced a silver necklace, almost identical to mine. “Sure about that?” He flicked open the locket. My breath caught in my chest at the sight of the lovely, faded face staring back at me.

“Where did you get that?” I gasped, reaching for the locket.

As quick as a snake strike, his hand was around my wrist.

“Get your hands off me!” I demanded.

“A deal’s a deal,” the man said. “You answer my questions, I answer yours. Who’s the woman in the photograph?”

“I—I don’t know!” I stammered.

The man tightened his grip. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me who she is. I’m not leaving without a name!”

Suddenly the room fell silent. In the doorway stood a stocky copper-haired woman, her index finger on the trigger of a Remington. “This a friend of yours, Chastity?” she said, her Irish accent sharp as a whip.

He was most certainly not a friend. But a means to answers...perhaps. I considered my next move carefully.

PART II

“Put that thing away Red, before you blow both our heads off,” I said. “The gentleman was just leaving. Weren’t you, Mister...?”

“Jedediah Freeman,” he said, releasing my hand. My eyes followed the necklace as he returned it to his pocket. “I’ll be seeing you...Chastity,” he said, and left the bar.

Red lowered her rifle. “What in blue blazes was that about?”

“Don’t know,” I said, downing the untouched shot of Jack. “But I’m fixing to find out. I need the afternoon off.”

“Like hell, you do! I got a room full o’ thirsty men!”

Despite Red’s reputation for being a hard case, when it came to me, she was all bark and no bite.

“I’ll just be a few hours,” I promised.

“You can have the afternoon,” she grumbled. “But if I don’t see your skinny arse back here by sundown...”

I kissed Red’s leathery cheek and rushed out into the harsh June sunlight.

* * *

They say a frightened animal’s first instinct is to run home. I suppose I was no different—only, for me “home” wasn’t a place, a but a person. His name was Easter Boy. He was a thief, a card shark, and the smooth talkin-est conman this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

There was one particular place that enjoyed Easter Boy’s regular patronage. It was known simply as “Blanche’s.” On the record, Blanche’s was a boarding house for “enterprising” young ladies. But everyone knew the real occupation of the pretty young things residing there.

I approached the two-story plantation house and was met by a scantily clad girl lounging on the porch.

“Can’t go in there,” she cooed, fanning herself.

“Who’s gonna stop me?” I said, marching through the unlocked door.

It was like another world inside; antique handcrafted furniture, polished wood floors adorned with oriental rugs, heavy curtains drawn shut against the summer heat—and prying eyes.

“May I help you?” came a voice from above.

At the top of the staircase stood an attractive fair-skinned woman, her graying hair swooped up in a bun.

“You the owner of this…fine establishment?” I asked.

“Ms. Blanche du Bois,” she said, her voice sticky sweet like molasses. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“We can skip the pleasantries. I’m looking for a Creole fella goes by Easter Boy.”

Blanche’s thin lips forced a smile. “I’m afraid you won’t find him here, honey. We don’t service your kind.”

“That’s funny, I thought silver was the only color that concerned ‘your kind.’ JULIUS MAURICE DUCHAMP III!” My voice reverberated through the walls. “Kindly bring your sorry high yellow behind to the foyer!”

A door at the end of the hall opened. Easter Boy, his shirt half unbuttoned, leaned out. “Who out here usin’ mah government name?” His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Well, if it isn’t Chastity Jones.”

“Outside!” I said, heading for the door. By the time my feet hit the lawn, Easter Boy was hot on my heels.

“Chastity, hold on a damn minute!” He grabbed my waist and spun me around to face him. “This ain’t what it looks like.”

“It never is.” I dangled my necklace in front of him.

“Dis what you came all de way out here for?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips. “Or maybe you just miss me.”

I crossed my arms. “You gonna help me or not?”

Easter Boy took the necklace, examining it with the eyes of a seasoned thief. “Look like real silver. Nice engraving. Might bring in a pretty penny from the right buyer…You ain’t sellin’ it are ya? Ain’t dis your prized possession?"

“It’s my only possession. There’s a difference. Look inside.”

He opened the locket. “Huh... An inscription. ‘C.M.H.’”

I nodded. “I can’t be sure, but I think it might be my mother’s initials.”

Easter Boy shook his head. “Hate to disappoint you, chère. C.M.H. ain’t a person. I seen dese initials on de opium I sometime smuggle from that crazy house in Southaven. Dis de trademark for Craven Mental Hospital.”

I took the necklace back. “A mental hospital? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Might make more sense if you told me what dis all about—Hey, where you goin’? Chastity!”

His voice echoed after me to no avail. I was already halfway down the road, my mind racing as fast as my feet.

PART III

I had nearly reached Red’s when, without warning, a mob of masked white men descended on the square. A brick whizzed by me, crashing through a nearby store window. The only colored market in town was set on fire—sending men, women, and children fleeing in terror. I was knocked down in the confusion, hitting my head. A warm trickle of blood made its way down my face and onto the cobblestone. I looked up and saw the silhouette of a man on horseback reaching for me. Then everything went black.

I awakened in a log cabin—a far cry from the dingy one-room apartment I kept above Red’s Tavern. It was eerily quiet, except for the ominous ticking of a cuckoo clock on the wall. I tried to stand, sending pain shooting through my skull.

“Relax, or you’ll make it worse,” came a voice from behind me.

I spun around, fearing it was one of the masked men from town. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Jedediah, the man from the bar.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, seeing the panic in my eyes.

“Then what am I doing here?” I shot back.

“You nearly got trampled. I needed to get you somewhere safe, so I could tend to that wound. This is my cabin.” Jedediah took a damp towel and gently dabbed the cut on my head.

I tensed at his touch, but didn’t pull away. “What happened out there?”

“Race riot,” he answered. “It was bound to happen once the news got out.”

“What news?” I asked.

“A woman was found murdered.”

“This is Memphis. Women turn up dead ‘round here every day.”

“This isn’t just any woman. Ever heard the name Cherry Mae Craven?”

My ears pricked up. Cherry Mae was the adopted daughter of Mayor Craven and his wealthy heiress wife. Ever since Cherry Mae had come of age, the Craven’s only child had developed a taste for scandal. It sounded like her appetites had finally come back to bite her.

“According to the Memphis Gazette, Cherry Mae went missing a week ago,” Jedediah went on. “Cops blew it off at first. Figured it was another one of her exploits. Then, a few days ago her body turned up in the swamp on the colored side of town. Now there’s a target on every Negro in Memphis.”

A noise came from outside, startling me.

“That’s just Sadie,” Jedediah said. “She gets restless.”

I went to the door and looked outside. A beautiful chocolate brown mare stood in the grass.

“She’s gorgeous,” I said, starting toward her.

“Careful,” Jedediah warned. “She’s a wild one. Runs from anyone who gets too close.”

“Smart girl,” I said, reaching out my hand. The horse sniffed me, neighed lightly, and lowered her head so I could stroke her.

Jedediah joined me at Sadie’s side. “It’s like she knows you.”

I looked at the handsome stranger. “Who are you, really? Why did you come looking for me at Red’s?”

Jedediah paused. “That locket I showed you belonged to someone very close to me. Her name was Mercy. A year ago, she was found murdered. Stabbed to death. I promised myself I’d find out who did it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. But what’s your lady friend got to do with me?”

Jedediah reached out, his finger landing lightly on my necklace. “Mercy didn’t like to talk about her past. Never mentioned her mother or father. But she always said that somewhere out there…she had a sister.”

Suddenly, the piercing pain in my head came roaring back. I buckled and sank to the ground.

“I got you,” Jedediah whispered, catching my fall. “Let’s get you back inside. You need rest.”

It was night when I awakened. The cabin was dark except for the flicker of an oil lamp on the wall. I could just make out Jedediah asleep by the window. The moonlight fell upon him like silver on a dark lake.

I wanted to wake him, tell him about the plan brewing in my mind. But I couldn’t risk him standing in my way. So I rose and silently slipped out the front door. Sadie was waiting in the darkness. She didn’t bristle or fight as I climbed onto her saddle. We rode clear through the night, the first thin rays of sunrise greeting us as we galloped past a signpost that read, 1 mile: Craven Mental Hospital.

PART IV

The towering asylum looked like something between a castle and a prison. Its dark windows seemed to watch me like sleepless eyes. As Sadie and I trotted up to the iron gates surrounding the estate, I felt Sadie go stiff. Something—or someone—was spooking her.

“Shhh…it’s okay girl,” I whispered in her ear.

Sadie wasn’t convinced. She neighed and reared up in the air, tossing me face first in the dirt. I picked myself up just in time to see Sadie galloping away without me.

“Dammit,” I muttered.

“Shouldn’t swear,” said a small childlike voice.

A startled yelp escaped my lips. I could’ve sworn I was alone, and yet, standing barefoot in the grass was a pale woman with dark hair. A white hospital gown draped her thin frame.

“Who are you?” I asked, half afraid she was a ghost.

“They call me Mouse, ‘cause I’m quiet as can be, can’t catch me.” She giggled to herself. Then she knelt at the foot of the gate and rolled away a large stone, revealing a hand-dug tunnel. I watched in amazement as the tiny woman scurried effortlessly to the other side. “Come on!” she called to me. “You don’t want to miss pudding.” Then she bounded up the hill where Craven Mental Hospital stood.

Can’t argue with pudding, I thought.

It was clear Mouse’s secret passageway wasn’t built for my bustled skirts and curvy frame. I was, however, quite good at climbing—a skill left over from my days as a street thief. I gripped the rails and shimmied up and over the gate. As I landed on the other side, I saw Mouse slipping inside the arched doorway of the hospital.

“Thanks for waiting,” I grumbled.

I was breathless by the time I trudged up the steep hill to the entrance. Thankfully, Mouse had left the door open a crack. I peeked inside and spied a burly man sitting guard in the lobby. He appeared to be asleep.

“Psst!” a voice beckoned from inside. I could see Mouse at the far end of the lobby. She waved for me to follow, then disappeared around the corner.

I crept past the guard and down the dark hallway. I found Mouse crouched in a corner holding a half-eaten cup of pudding. “Want some? There’s a treat inside.” She stuck out her tongue, revealing a bright blue capsule.

“I’ll pass,” I said, kneeling beside her. “But…maybe you can help me find someone.”

Mouse’s face lit up. “Like hide-and-seek? Oh, I do love games!”

“Yes, just like hide-and-seek. I’m looking for a friend, but I don’t know which wing they’re in. Do you know where I might find that information?”

“There.” Mouse pointed down a long hall of steel doors. I could hear the wailing and moaning of the unfortunate souls inside. It chilled me to the bone.

“Are you certain…?” I asked. But Mouse had disappeared without so much as a peep.

I steeled my nerves and entered the dark corridor. The cell doors bore no names, only numbers. You would’ve thought these rooms held livestock instead of people. Finally, where the hall reached its end, I came to a wooden door with a sign that read: RECORDS. This was what I had come for. I hurriedly fished a pin out of my hair and slipped it into the locked door. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, I was inside.

The tiny room was filled from floor to ceiling with patient records, the sorting of which seemed to have no rhyme or reason. I hunted until I found a box labeled 1872—the year I was born. The box must’ve held hundreds of patient files, but none matched the mysterious woman from Mercy’s locket.

I had nearly given up when I came across a newspaper article crumpled at the bottom of the box. It was brown and water damaged, but I could just make out the headline: “SCANDAL: The Psych Ward Seven.”

Suddenly I heard rustling outside the door. I hid the paper in my corset. The door burst open and a large man in a white uniform barged in.

“What’re you doing out of your cell?” the man barked.

“You don’t understand. I’m not a patient!” I insisted.

“If I had a nickel for every nutcase that tried that one. Hey Carl! We got a runner!”

Another orderly, even larger than the first, appeared in the doorway. There was nowhere to run.

“Stay away from me!” I screamed. But it was no use. I could smell the stench of their sweat as they pinned me to the floor.

“Don’t you worry,” one of them said, brandishing a tranquilizer needle. “We’re gonna take real good care of you.”

“Now that ain’t no way to treat a lady,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

I could hardly believe my eyes. It was Easter Boy.

PART V

What Easter Boy lacked in brute strength, he made up for in speed and cunning. With the help of his lightning fast left hook, the scrappy Creole made short work of the orderlies, leaving both men knocked out on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” I gasped.

“I could ask you de same thing,” Easter Boy said, pulling me up with ease.

I could feel myself shaking in his arms. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“You had that look in your eye when you took off. Like a woman on a mission. I knew those initials in your locket had something to do with it.”

I tried to straighten my rumpled attire. “I suppose this is the part where you tell me what a stupid idea this was?”

“Nope,” Easter Boy said. “Dis the part where we get de hell outta here. Come on!”

Unlike the rest of the asylum, there were no bars on the window in the Records room. Easter Boy used his elbow to break out the glass and hoisted me through, then leapt nimbly from the window.

“How’re we getting back to Memphis?” I asked as we ran for the iron gates.

“Same way I got here,” Easter Boy said with a sly grin. It was then that I noticed a horse drawn funeral hearse waiting at the entrance.

“Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

Easter Boy chuckled. “It’s de perfect disguise. Just your everyday run o’ de mill body dealer, coming to pick up his wares.”

“And who do I play in this scheme?” I retorted.

“Somebody gotta be de corpse.”

I punched his shoulder teasingly and jumped in the carriage. “I’m starting to remember why I dissolved our relationship.”

Easter Boy climbed in the other side. “You play coy, je t’aime, but you an’ me make a damn good team.”

Then he snapped the reins and away we sped to Memphis.

PART VI

“Where have you been?” Red blared the moment Easter Boy and I set foot inside the bar. “Don’t tell me you’re takin’ up with this scoundrel again!”

“It’s a long story. Pour me a drink, will ya, Red?”

Red pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “I would ask what you’ve been up to, but I’ve got a pretty good idea—thanks to your old friend.”

I took a swig straight from the bottle. “What friend?”

“The one whose horse you stole,” said a familiar voice.

My stomach sank. Sitting at the bar was Jedediah. He didn’t look pleased.

“I was going to bring her right back,” I said. “She got spooked and ran off—”

“—and came straight back home,” Jedediah finished.

“Ain’t you gonna introduce me to your…friend?” Easter Boy interrupted. “Nice to make your acquaintance. They call me Easter Boy.”

“Interesting name,” Jedediah said flatly.

Red turned to me, “All right, lassie. Explain yourself!”

“Start with why you ran off with no explanation,” Jedediah added.

I took a long breath. “For as long as I can remember I’ve been haunted by the same dream. In the dream I’m a child again, hiding under the kitchen table. I can hear a man and a woman arguing. The woman tells the man to stay back. I can tell she’s scared. I peek out from under the table and see the man grab the woman by the neck. She screams—then I wake up and I realize the screams are my own.” I looked at Jedediah. “I always told myself it was just a nightmare… Then you showed up with that locket. The woman in the picture—she’s the woman in my dreams.”

“You think dis lady connected to Craven Mental Hospital?” Easter Boy asked.

“That’s what I went there to find out.” I hesitantly revealed the newspaper article I had hidden in my corset. “This may be nothing—”

“Well, let’s see it.” Red grabbed the paper and began to read aloud, “…Scandal has visited Craven Mental Hospital as seven patients have been found to be with child, despite having no access to outside visitors…”

“Sound like somebody was playin’ doctor with de patients,” Easter Boy said.

“Who would do something like that?” I asked.

“A monster,” Red said with disgust. “It says Mayor Craven was working with the police to catch the culprit.”

Mayor Craven. That name kept popping up at every turn.

Suddenly the tavern door swung open. In walked a man in a police uniform. His pale eyes surveyed the bar. “Which one of you is Jedediah Freeman?”

“Who’s asking?” Red shot back.

“Officer Kowalski, Memphis Police. That’s who.”

Red crossed her arms. “I run a clean establishment, officer. You won’t find any rabble within these walls.”

Kowalski smirked. “I’m not here about the common crooks you serve in this den of sin. The man I’m looking for is a dangerous criminal, wanted for the murder of his wife, Mercy Freeman.”

I shot Jedediah a look. “Your wife?”

“It’s him. He’s the one you want.” Red jerked a thumb towards Jedediah.

I looked at Red, betrayed. “What are you doing?”

“Protecting you, lass. You’ve got a bad habit of fallin’ for unscrupulous men, and I won’t have ya getting hurt,” she cut her eyes toward Easter Boy, “...again.”

“It’s all right.” Jedediah said, standing up. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“That’s a good man. Always better to come in without a fight.” Kowalski took Jedediah by the arm.

Suddenly Jedediah turned to me, his voice urgent. “I should have never kept things locked away from you, Chastity. I shouldn’t have kept my heart on the shelf.”

“Let’s go Romeo,” Kowalski said, ushering Jedediah toward the door. Then the officer stopped short. “I almost forgot; someone paid an unannounced visit to Craven Mental Hospital this morning. Anyone involved should think twice before sticking their nose in business that doesn’t concern them–unless they’d like to become a permanent resident.”

And with that warning, Kowalski and Jedediah were gone.

PART VII

Kowalski hauled Jedediah away so quickly, he wasn’t able to see to Sadie. So against my better judgment—and despite Red’s protestations—I rode her back to Jedediah’s homestead.

As Sadie and I trotted up to the cabin, I realized it had been forever since I’d had a decent meal. Surely Jedediah wouldn’t mind if I came inside for a bite to eat. I felt a bit like Goldilocks, entering unbidden. I half expected to find someone inside. But the cabin was as quiet as a mouse.

I wandered into the kitchen and imagined being the lady of the house. Only, the lady of the house was dead. Murdered, to be precise. Why hadn’t Jedediah told me the whole story?

“What else are you keeping from me?” I whispered to myself. My empty stomach grumbled in reply. I began rifling through the cabinets for a crust of bread, a bit of jerky; anything to take on the long walk back to town. As I searched, Jedediah’s parting words crept into my mind: I shouldn’t have kept my heart locked away on the shelf… Had Jedediah been trying to tell me something?

Trusting my instincts, I renewed my search, emptying the cabinet. Nothing. Frustrated, I slammed my hand on the shelf. To my surprise it slid out, revealing a hidden slit in the wall.

“Son of a gun!” I gasped. I nervously reached inside. At first I felt nothing but dirt and cobwebs. Then my fingers brushed against what felt like loose papers. I pulled them out. The sunlight pouring in from the window revealed them to be newspaper clippings. They weren’t old and discolored, like the article I had found at Craven Hospital. These were recent. And they all centered around Cherry Mae Craven’s murder. Why would Jedediah have these–unless he was connected to Cherry Mae’s death?

I ran my hand along the inside of the compartment once more. Sure enough, there was one scrap of newspaper I had missed. Mercy Freeman, age 25, found stabbed to death, the headline read. But it wasn’t the article that caught my attention. It was the photograph of the woman in question…

Turn the key for a crucial clue!

PART VIII

* * *

The horse drawn buggy let me out in front of a large two-story building downtown. MEMPHIS GAZETTE was etched proudly above the door. The office, bustling with white men in tailored suits, immediately went quiet when I entered.

“Can I…help you?” asked one of the men.

“I’d like to speak with one of your reporters.” I replied. “A Ms. Mary Carmichael.”

“I see,” he said. “Wait here.” He walked to a small corner office, leaned in and said something I couldn’t hear. Seconds later, a woman came to the door. The first thing I noticed was her unconventional attire; a high collared dress shirt, vest and tie, complete with men’s trousers. She peered at me with intense interest, then beckoned me to come in.

“Thank you for seeing me Ms. Carmichael,” I said, entering the cramped, somewhat untidy office. “My name’s Chastity Jones.”

Carmichael sat on the edge of her desk, arms crossed. “How can I help you, Chastity Jones?”

“My whole life I believed I was an orphan with no family. Now I find out I had a twin sister. A woman named Mercy Freeman. She was found stabbed to death a year ago on the southside of Memphis. But you know all about that.” I showed her the clipping I had found at Jedediah’s cabin. “This is your article, is it not?”

“That it is.” Carmichael held up the article, comparing Mercy’s likeness to mine. “So you’re the missing sister. I always hoped you would show up one day.”

She dug a folder out of her desk and handed it to me. Inside was a stack of what appeared to be mugshots. They were of women of all ages and races.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“They’re the women that were violated while in the custody of Craven Mental Hospital.” Carmichael answered. “‘The Psych Ward Seven.’ Their names and faces were never released to the public.”

“But what do these women have to do with me? With Mercy?”

Carmichael pointed out a picture of a colored woman. She looked like she would’ve been pretty if life had been kinder.

“Patient 132. Legal name, Elizabeth Dunn. On February 18, 1872, she gave birth to two healthy baby girls, 4 minutes apart. This is your mother, Chastity.”

I stared at the photo, dumbfounded. “No…I remember the woman who took care of me. This isn’t her.”

Carmichael fished another file out of her folder. Inside was a picture of a smiling woman in a nurse uniform. She was holding two identical babies. I recognized her immediately. Hers was the face inside Mercy’s locket.

“Her name is Tabitha Brown. She was a nurse at Craven Mental Hospital. When the ‘The Psych Ward Seven” scandal became public, Nurse Brown was tasked with getting rid of the evidence.”

“I reckon by “evidence,” you mean the babies,” I surmised.

Carmichael nodded. “Most of them were shipped off to local orphanages. But she must’ve taken a liking to you and your sister. She adopted and raised you both as her own. A few years later she started seeing a local blacksmith named Buck Dither. According to police records Buck was in and out of jail, a drinker with a hell of a temper. Apparently Tabitha tried to break it off one night, and in a fit of rage Buck strangled Tabitha to death. Buck was sent to the Big House, while you and your sister were sent to separate orphanages. You couldn’t have been more than 4 years old.”

“Jesus…” I whispered.

“You look faint,” Carmichael said, ushering me to sit. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Got anything stronger?”

Carmichael poured us two glasses of Scotch.

“My sister’s murder, is it somehow connected to the hospital?” I asked.

“According to Craven Mental Hospital’s records, there were 6 surviving offspring of the Psych Ward Seven. Well, not anymore. Over the past year and a half, 3 of the 6 have turned up dead. Mercy Freeman, a Mississippi man named Carver Dunham, and now Cherry Mae Craven.”

I nearly choked on my Scotch. Cherry Mae was one of the Psych Ward Seven babies? “This could all be coincidence. The victims are of different sexes, races, and social status. They have almost nothing in common.”

“That’s what I thought,” Carmichael said. “Until I dug a little deeper. All three coroner’s reports listed “sharp force trauma” as the cause of death. They were all stabbed. But there was one detail the cops withheld. All three victims also had high concentrations of sedatives in their system.”

“They were drugged,” I said. “But who could be behind this?”

“Whoever he is, you should keep your wits about you, Chastity Jones.” Carmichael said solemnly. “You’re one of the few surviving Psych Ward babies. That means you could be next.”

NOW’S YOUR CHANCE

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PART IX

It was evening by the time I returned to my room above Red’s Tavern. Everything was just as I had left it; the small unmade bed, the writing desk by the window, and in the corner, an old ragtime piano left by a previous tenant. Exhausted, I loosened my dress and relaxed onto my creaky old mattress.

I noticed a half empty shot of whiskey sitting on the windowsill. Not being one to waste good alcohol, I gulped it down and rose to visit the water closet. Immediately, the room started to spin. I sank to the floor. Only then did I notice a pair of bare feet standing in my doorway. I had seen those feet before, padding noiselessly around the grounds of Craven Mental Hospital.

It was Mouse. She must’ve snuck in the back of the hearse and ridden all the way back to Memphis with us. The killer had been right under our noses the whole time.

Mouse shut the door behind her. A scalpel glinted in her small pale hand. “When I saw you outside the hospital gates, I thought you were a ghost,” Mouse said. “I was sure I had killed you already.”

“That was my sister, you lunatic!” I said through gritted teeth. I flopped over on my stomach, desperately trying to crawl across the floor. If only I could reach the piano…

“I wouldn’t bother trying to escape,” Mouse said calmly. “I put a lot of medicine in your whiskey.”

My mind flashed back to the hospital, and the bright blue pill on Mouse’s tongue.

“Why are you doing this?” I pleaded.

“You’re not supposed to be here. You’re an abomination. We all are.”

We? The pieces were slowly falling into place.

“My mother was one of The Cursed Seven,” Mouse continued. “That’s what Sister Magdalene called them. She ran the orphanage that took me in as a baby. But she never loved me. She said there was something wrong with me. Then she had her…accident. I really didn’t mean to stab her so many times. But don’t worry, I’ve gotten much better with practice.”

“Help!” I screamed weakly.

Having finally made it to the piano, I reached up and slammed the keys. A racket of dissonant notes filled the air. Instantly, the door flew open and in burst a flame-haired woman toting a shotgun. Red had heard the signal, thank God.

“Drop the knife or get a chest full of lead, you wee devil!”

The scalpel slipped from Mouse’s fingers and clattered on the floor. “Am I in trouble?”

“Aye, lass. A shyte load of trouble.” Red answered, kicking the scalpel out of the woman’s reach. “Face to the floor.”

Mouse got down as Red instructed.

“Easter Boy, get up here! Chastity’s plan worked! Barely—but it worked.”

I heard the sound of heavy footfall on the stairs. Suddenly I was swept up in Easter Boy’s arms. “I gotcha, chère. Don’ you worry.”

“Get Chastity downstairs,” Red said. “And tell those layabouts at the bar to go fetch the police. We just caught ourselves a killer.”

PART X

A week had passed, and I was back to tending bar. With Mouse—real name Abigail Codger—off the streets, it seemed like things were finally getting back to normal. Then one steamy afternoon, in walked Jedediah, looking just as handsome as the day we met. And for the first time, he was smiling.

“I hear I have you to thank for my release,” he said.

“Red and Easter Boy played their part too. Not to mention those clues you led me to.”

“So, how’d you know Mouse was the killer?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t. But I had an idea why the killer had escaped detection for so long. People assume murderers are driven by violence and rage. But this killer didn’t use brute force. They put their victims to sleep, then did the deed quick and painless. It was almost…merciful. That’s how I knew the killer was a woman.”

“Pretty slick thinking,” Jedediah said, resting his hand on mine. “It’s good to see you again, Chastity.”

I tried to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. “You know there can never be anything between us, right? I’ll never be Mercy. I may have her face, but I’m not her.”

Jedediah nodded. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” He took Mercy’s necklace from his pocket and placed it in my hand.

I opened the locket and was surprised to find there were now two pictures inside: one of my “mother,” Tabitha, and the other of my mirror image, Mercy. I shook my head. “I can’t keep this…”

“Mercy would’ve wanted you to have it,” Jedediah insisted. “To remember her by.”

I closed the locket. “I’m not sure I want to remember. I just want to put all this behind me.”

Suddenly a short, sturdy-looking colored woman burst through the doors, flooding the bar with sunlight. She held a large basket in one hand, and a copy of the Memphis Gazette in the other.

“You the lady detective all the papers are talkin’ about?” she asked, holding up the paper. There I was, on the front page, receiving a medal of courage.

“That was a one-time thing,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m just a barmaid.”

“Barmaid or not, I need your help. Someone’s stolen my baby!”

I looked down at the basket. It was covered by a soft blue blanket. I could hear cooing noises coming from inside. “Ma’am, if this is some kind of joke—”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” The woman pulled back the blanket. To my surprise, a chubby baby boy, blue-eyed and pink as a rose, stared up at me. “That is NOT my baby…” She pulled the blanket back further, revealing that the baby rested on a bed of crisp 100 dollar bills. “And THIS is most certainly not my money!”

Flabbergasted, I turned to Jedediah.

“Don’t look at me,” Jedediah said, barely hiding a grin. “You’re the lady detective.”

Needless to say, this was the beginning of a whole new adventure.

But that’s a story for another day…