Read Online Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) by Vicky Loebel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicky Loebel
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another deal with Hans in the near future…assuming Clara didn’t die in the even nearer future from forfeiting ten pints of Woodsen blood.
Such sober reflections occupied my thoughts during the short walk from the Ninepin Fellowship to my own modest stone-decorated bungalow, and you may rest assured a fair number of Benjamin teeth were ground together en route .
Nevertheless, the day was sunny. July breezes stirred the air. Robins twittered merrily on high, and a certain inner wisdom whispered that Clara could have done worse than start her supernatural career in an altruistic attempt to relieve Beau Beauregard’s suffering.
The result of all this physical and mental exercise was that by the time I rolled my red Nash touring sedan out of its garage, the cheerful Benjamin temperament was largely restored. Yes, we had a corpse on our hands—two, counting Beau—and no, I hadn’t missed the fact my blood was as much Woodsen as Clara’s, the only difference being that my mother had defied family tradition by taking her husband’s name and bearing a son.
Against these heavy concerns was weighed the fact that Blindour’s Bakery, halfway between my own door and the coven, discounts their wares each day precisely at noon. I made my way along streets cluttered with party-goers, purchased two cheese danish for the price of one, and was happily anticipating my first bite as I motored the Nash into the sloping gravel alley behind the Falstaff Ninepin Fellowship building.
Oddly, a Ford delivery van was blocking the coven.
Even more oddly, two brawny strangers were loading crates into the van.
I parked the Nash three doors uphill, slipped out to chock the wheels, and ducked around the wood and mesh chicken coop behind Aimsley’s Dry Goods.
Keeping one eye on the hens—no redhead is ever safe near poultry—I cast the other below. Someone was passing brandy bottles up through the coal chute and into the arms of two men who were, in turn, packing the bottles in crates and loading crates into the van.
In short, the Fellowship was being burgled. I wondered if this was some mad scheme of Clara’s. Had she decided to sell Priscilla’s liquor after all? Bribed someone to dispose of Mr. Vargas’ body?
The flow of brandy halted. The men gathered, talking, at the coal chute. My stomach rumbled. I was just about to fetch the cheese danish out of my car and circle around through the dry goods building to check with Clara when the delivery van popped open and, creaking heavily, disgorged Stoneface Gibraltar.
Well, well .
The gangster joined his men. “Whaddaya mean, he attacked you?”
A man’s head and shoulders emerged from the coal chute. “Lemme out!” His face was bloody. “Ya gotta lemme out!”
Stoneface pushed him down. “Go get him.”
The head popped out again. “I ain’t kidding.” The man scrambled desperately. “I ain’t going back!”
“What’s happening?” a woman asked from the delivery van.
Stoneface lifted the bleeding man out of the coal chute. The fellow clutched his cheek and began sobbing drunkenly against the van.
“Okay, that’s it.” The gangster made a slicing gesture. “We’re done. Pack up.”
The passenger door opened. A pair of shapely rolled-stockinged legs descended onto the running board. They were followed, to my surprise, by the even shapelier person of young Luella Umbridge. Black hair, lustrous brown skin, enormous eyes containing—I knew—mysterious flecks of green, she looked stunning, as usual, in a broad-belted orange and yellow geometric print and matching cloche hat.
“What’s happening?” she asked again.
The basement man stopped crying. He raised both arms, flailed wildly, and then slid straight-legged down the side of the van to the ground.
Luella bent over him. “What’s going on? Where’s George?” She turned to Stoneface and they began a low debate.
Luella Umbridge. That changed things, changed them a lot.
Luella and my cousin had a pact, a
Such sober reflections occupied my thoughts during the short walk from the Ninepin Fellowship to my own modest stone-decorated bungalow, and you may rest assured a fair number of Benjamin teeth were ground together en route .
Nevertheless, the day was sunny. July breezes stirred the air. Robins twittered merrily on high, and a certain inner wisdom whispered that Clara could have done worse than start her supernatural career in an altruistic attempt to relieve Beau Beauregard’s suffering.
The result of all this physical and mental exercise was that by the time I rolled my red Nash touring sedan out of its garage, the cheerful Benjamin temperament was largely restored. Yes, we had a corpse on our hands—two, counting Beau—and no, I hadn’t missed the fact my blood was as much Woodsen as Clara’s, the only difference being that my mother had defied family tradition by taking her husband’s name and bearing a son.
Against these heavy concerns was weighed the fact that Blindour’s Bakery, halfway between my own door and the coven, discounts their wares each day precisely at noon. I made my way along streets cluttered with party-goers, purchased two cheese danish for the price of one, and was happily anticipating my first bite as I motored the Nash into the sloping gravel alley behind the Falstaff Ninepin Fellowship building.
Oddly, a Ford delivery van was blocking the coven.
Even more oddly, two brawny strangers were loading crates into the van.
I parked the Nash three doors uphill, slipped out to chock the wheels, and ducked around the wood and mesh chicken coop behind Aimsley’s Dry Goods.
Keeping one eye on the hens—no redhead is ever safe near poultry—I cast the other below. Someone was passing brandy bottles up through the coal chute and into the arms of two men who were, in turn, packing the bottles in crates and loading crates into the van.
In short, the Fellowship was being burgled. I wondered if this was some mad scheme of Clara’s. Had she decided to sell Priscilla’s liquor after all? Bribed someone to dispose of Mr. Vargas’ body?
The flow of brandy halted. The men gathered, talking, at the coal chute. My stomach rumbled. I was just about to fetch the cheese danish out of my car and circle around through the dry goods building to check with Clara when the delivery van popped open and, creaking heavily, disgorged Stoneface Gibraltar.
Well, well .
The gangster joined his men. “Whaddaya mean, he attacked you?”
A man’s head and shoulders emerged from the coal chute. “Lemme out!” His face was bloody. “Ya gotta lemme out!”
Stoneface pushed him down. “Go get him.”
The head popped out again. “I ain’t kidding.” The man scrambled desperately. “I ain’t going back!”
“What’s happening?” a woman asked from the delivery van.
Stoneface lifted the bleeding man out of the coal chute. The fellow clutched his cheek and began sobbing drunkenly against the van.
“Okay, that’s it.” The gangster made a slicing gesture. “We’re done. Pack up.”
The passenger door opened. A pair of shapely rolled-stockinged legs descended onto the running board. They were followed, to my surprise, by the even shapelier person of young Luella Umbridge. Black hair, lustrous brown skin, enormous eyes containing—I knew—mysterious flecks of green, she looked stunning, as usual, in a broad-belted orange and yellow geometric print and matching cloche hat.
“What’s happening?” she asked again.
The basement man stopped crying. He raised both arms, flailed wildly, and then slid straight-legged down the side of the van to the ground.
Luella bent over him. “What’s going on? Where’s George?” She turned to Stoneface and they began a low debate.
Luella Umbridge. That changed things, changed them a lot.
Luella and my cousin had a pact, a
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