Last Call at the Blue Canary
The gin is blue, the band is hot, and the owner is very, very dead.
This is a real case written for a sample group of eight friends (their traits are on the cast cards). Yours would star your people. Read the opening, flip the cards, work through the clues, then accuse someone.
Jess “Color Code” Featherstone runs Featherstone & Sons Funeral Parlor by day and the Blue Canary by night, on the theory that both businesses deal with spirits. She knows every secret in the room and keeps the important ones in a ledger color coded in six shades of ink. Every debt, grudge and whisper is cross-referenced, highlighted and filed before you've finished confessing.
Chicago, 1927. Outside, it is a respectable funeral parlor. Inside, if you know which coffin to knock on, it is the Blue Canary: the bluest gin, the hottest band and the worst-kept secret on the South Side.
Tonight the club is three years old, and Jess “Color Code” Featherstone has thrown the kind of anniversary party that will be in the papers, one way or another. The band is swinging. The gin is flowing, and it is, as advertised, alarmingly blue. Earlier tonight, from behind the curtain, the Phantom Trumpet wailed “Lonesome Canary,” and everybody who owes Jess money has been pretending to have a wonderful time.
Then, at five past eleven, a scream cuts through the brass section. Jess “Color Code” Featherstone is found in the back office, slumped over the ledger, a shattered bottle of the house gin all over the desk. Lady Bird, the office canary, has stopped singing. For once in Jess's life, the funeral parlor did not have to send a car.
The doors are barred. The police are “on their way,” which in this neighborhood means after they finish their drinks. Everybody in this room had a reason to want Jess gone, and one of you had the knock, the nerve and a very good alibi.
Nobody leaves the Blue Canary until we know who did it.
Priya “Sourdough” Sullivan mixes the finest drinks in Chicago and remembers every order, every name and every secret confessed over the bar. Behind the bottles sits Gerald, a jar of bubbling sourdough starter she tends like her firstborn, and she swears he has heard every confession word for word. She rings up every drink on the register, out of what she calls “principle” and everyone else calls “cover.”
Tap to read their packet
Secret: You have been skimming from the till. Forty dollars this week. Jess noticed, wrote it in the ledger and told you to “expect a conversation Saturday.” Tonight is Saturday.
Story: “I was behind the bar from ten until the body turned up. Check the register tape. Or ask Gerald, but he only answers in bubbles.”
Tasha “Total Eclipse” Moreau leads the Canary Band and plays the trumpet like it owes her money. She has never met a power ballad she couldn't stretch into seven minutes, a key change and a standing ovation. She's famous for the “Phantom Trumpet” number: three minutes of solo trumpet played from behind a closed curtain, so the audience can only hear the legend.
Tap to read their packet
Secret: You found out this week that Jess is selling your band and your song to the Green Mill on Monday. You had a private record of “Lonesome Canary” pressed at Melody Mart, a little insurance in case you ever needed to be in two places at once. Tonight you needed to. Every great ballad has a twist in the bridge.
Story: “I was behind that curtain playing the Phantom Trumpet from 10:38 until the last note. Two hundred people heard me. Ask any of them.”
Sam “Fashionably Late” Vanderbilt is old money from the Gold Coast, here tonight to be thrilled, appalled and photographed in that order. They sweep in fifteen minutes behind everyone else, every time, with a breathless story about a runaway chauffeur or a misplaced tiara. Each excuse is more dazzling than the last, and somehow less convincing.
Tap to read their packet
Secret: You lost your grandmother's diamond-and-pearl brooch to Jess at cards and had to pawn it to the funeral parlor as collateral. If you cannot pay $2,000 by Friday, the brooch is gone, and so is your inheritance.
Story: “From 10:25 I was upstairs having my fortune told among the coffins. Ask Madame Zora. She'll tell you, for a fee. And darling, for once in my life, I have the exact times.”
Marcus “Marathon” McCready put up half the money for the funeral parlor and the club, and gets half the profits, a quarter of the credit and none of the fun. Always immaculate and famously quiet, except on the subject of the nine marathons he has run, which he will recount mile by mile. Rumor says there are running shoes under that suit, in case a copper ever wants a race.
Tap to read their packet
Secret: Jess took out a $50,000 life insurance policy last spring and named you as the beneficiary. Double indemnity, which means it pays twice if the death is not natural. You did not ask for it, but you are aware that this sounds exactly like something a murderer would say.
Story: “Between 10:30 and 11:00 I was circulating on the main floor and the bar. I toasted the anniversary at 10:45. There is a photograph. I've crossed finish lines with fewer witnesses.”
Owen “Hot Sauce” O'Malley brews the Blue Canary's signature blue gin in a location that is definitely not a bathtub. He carries a hip flask of homemade pepper tincture into every joint in town and swears the secret to his gin is “just a little kick.” Charming, sticky-fingered, and on first-name terms with every cop in the precinct, mostly through envelopes.
Tap to read their packet
Secret: Jess told you tonight that the club is switching suppliers and you are out. You lost your temper in the corridor around 10:15 and said something about Jess sleeping in one of the caskets upstairs. People heard. It looks bad.
Story: “From half past ten I was out in the alley loading crates. Ask the cop. Better yet, ask his wallet.”
Dev “Plot Hole” Delaney writes the most feared column in Chicago and has never once let the truth get in the way of a deadline. He can't hear an alibi without loudly listing every hole in it, which is great for the column and terrible for your evening. If you have a secret, it is already in his notebook, with the inconsistencies underlined.
Tap to read their packet
Secret: Jess was blackmailing you over a column you made up about an alderman: $500 by Saturday, or the editor finds out. Tonight is Saturday. Around 9:50 you snuck into the back office to find the blackmail letter, but it wasn't in the desk, and you left your press card behind like an amateur. A man who spots plot holes for a living, leaving his own calling card at the scene. Unforgivable writing.
Story: “After 10:20 I was at my usual table on the main floor, writing. Busy night. Lots of material.”
Round 1
The Doorman's Chalk Tally
Chalked on the back of a menu: “Through the beads, 10 to 11” Who | Marks Tasha (band room) | ||| Owen (to the alley door) | || Dev (snooping, again) | || Marcus | | Priya (with a tray) | || Sam (“looking for the powder room”) | | Nobody else. Not one. I was standing right there the whole hour. (Smudged chalk, initialed “L.” Beside Marcus's lone mark, someone has doodled a tiny running shoe with speed lines.)
Coroner's Field Notes
Cook County Coroner. Field notes, the Blue Canary, back office Deceased: Jess “Color Code” Featherstone Found: 11:05 p.m., slumped over desk ledger Cause: Single blow to the back of the head with a bottle of the club's house gin (dyed blue) Door: No forced entry. Bolt and peephole intact. Deceased unbolted it personally. Bottle shattered on impact; gin sprayed outward in a fan to shoulder height toward the door. Whoever swung it was soaked down the arm, no question. That blue dye does not wash out; ask any bootlegger. Staff say the deceased only ever unbolted for the office knock, and changed it at 10:00 every Saturday. So the visitor knew tonight's knock. Aside: the ledger under the deceased is kept in six colors of ink, with a legend inside the front cover. Most organized desk I have ever worked.
Coat Check Scribbles
(handwritten note on the back of a coat check pad) 9:52 Lady Bird singing. (Office door.) Who's bothering Jess now? 10:00 singing again. Everybody wants the new knock. 10:21 nothing. Somebody knocked and got turned away. Heard “not the press, sweetheart.” 10:40 singing! Somebody's going in. 10:41 a thump. Probably the band. Probably. 11:05 screaming. Not the bird. (Remember: the bird only sings when the office door opens.)
A Page Torn from a Reporter's Notepad
(handwritten note on a page torn from a reporter's notepad, found on the corridor floor) 10:15, corridor. Owen and Jess SHOUTING. Jess: “You're out. New supplier Monday.” Owen: “You cut me out and you'll be sleeping in one of your own boxes upstairs!” Jess laughed. Big mistake? HEADLINE: BATHTUB BARON BLOWS GASKET. (Too much? Never too much.) Backup: PEPPER KING SEES RED. 10:41: Phantom Trumpet suspiciously tidy tonight. Not one wrong note. Check if the trumpet has had lessons. (Not signed, but it is very obviously a reporter's handwriting.)
Carbon Copy of a Blackmail Letter
Carbon copy, found in the back office desk drawer Dear Dev, That charming item in your column about the alderman and the circus elephant: you and I both know there was no elephant. I'd hate for your editor to find out. Five hundred dollars, in cash, by Saturday night. Bring it to the office. You know the knock. Well. You know last week's knock. P.S. Before you write back listing the plot holes in this letter: there aren't any. Your biggest fan, Jess
Tonight's Setlist
THE CANARY BAND, Anniversary Night - 10:00 Ain't We Got Fun (full band) - 10:20 Bye Bye Blackbird - 10:38 LONESOME CANARY: the Phantom Trumpet. Tasha solo from behind the curtain, about 3 minutes. Curtain STAYS CLOSED. The Phantom never bows. (Same as always. Do not touch the curtain.) - 10:42 Intermission (band gets ONE drink each, Tasha) - 11:00 Sweet Georgia Brown Penciled in the margin, in the piano player's handwriting: “3 min 10 sec on the nose tonight?? Not one wrong note. In three years Tasha has never played it the same way twice.” Stapled to the corner, an old request slip in Tasha's loopy hand: “Add my big ballad. Key change, wind machine, the works.” Underneath, in pencil: “We do not own a wind machine, Tasha.”
Round 2
Telephone Operator's Log
Illinois Bell, Calumet Exchange. Operator's call record Line: CALumet 4417 (Featherstone & Sons, rear office) Connected: 10:39 p.m. Disconnected: 10:41 p.m., line dropped Operator: No. 14, M. Kowalski Caller: Get me the Green Mill, sweetheart. The manager. Tell him Monday's deal is on. Operator: One moment, please. Caller: Hold on, somebody's knocking. Right knock, too. Just a second. Caller: (muffled) Oh. It's you. Shouldn't you be... Operator: Hello? Hello, are you there? Note: Sound of glass breaking. Line went dead 10:41. Thought it was a party. Reported after hearing the news.
Matchbook from the Victim's Pocket
(handwritten note on the inside flap of a Blue Canary matchbook) KNOCK from 10 tonight: two shorts, one long, two shorts. Told at 10: Tasha, Owen, Marcus, Priya. NOBODY ELSE. Definitely not the press. Not Sam either, that one's a customer, not business. (In Jess's handwriting, which slopes like a guilty conscience. Every name is underlined in its own color of ink. On a matchbook.)
The Beat Cop's Notebook
Patrolman's notebook. Saturday. 10:30: Alley behind the funeral home. Owen loading crates marked MEDICINAL TONIC. Very medicinal. Clinks. 10:40: Collected the usual envelope from Owen. Counted it twice. Short again. Stood there arguing about it until near 10:50. 10:50: Owen still loading. Told Owen to stop humming. Did not stop humming. 11:10: Commotion inside. Not my beat. Technically. (Page is dog-eared. Somebody has written “$$” next to the 10:40 entry. In the bottom margin: a doodle of a chili pepper wearing a patrolman's cap, labeled “O'MALLEY: ALL KICK.”)
Bar Register Tape
THE BLUE CANARY (front bar) Register 2. Keys: #1 Jess, #2 Priya. NOBODY ELSE TOUCHES IT. Anniversary night 10:31 #2 GIN RICKEY x2 .70 10:38 #2 SIDECAR .45 10:40 #2 BEE'S KNEES x3 1.05 10:42 #2 BLUE CANARY SPECIAL .60 10:44 #2 SODA (for the band, ha) .05 TOTAL TAPE CONTINUES Key #2 has to be held down while ringing. Can't ring it from across the room. Can't ring it from the back office, either. Torn off and stuffed under the bar mat
Life Insurance Policy
Prairie Mutual Life Assurance Co. Policy No. 4417-C Insured: Jess “Color Code” Featherstone Beneficiary: Marcus “Marathon” McCready Amount: $50,000 Double indemnity: YES: pays $100,000 in the event of accidental or violent death Issued: March of this year Stamped PAID IN FULL. Someone has underlined “violent death” twice in pencil. Clipped to the top, a filing tab in Jess's green ink: “INSURANCE (dull, important, do not lose).”
Pawn Ticket
FEATHERSTONE & SONS. Collateral Receipt No. 88 Received from: Sam “Fashionably Late” Vanderbilt Item: One diamond-and-pearl brooch, very old, very family Against: Card debt, $2,000 Redeem by: Friday, or it's mine HELD IN OFFICE SAFE. Penciled beneath: “Friday means Friday. Not Friday plus a story about a chauffeur and a tiara.”
Round 3
Record Shop Receipt
MELODY MART Records & Gramophones 47 State Street, Chicago Tuesday of this week Private pressing, 10-inch, 1 copy only: “LONESOME CANARY” (trumpet solo, 3 min 10 sec), perf. Tasha “Total Eclipse” Moreau $4.00 Steel needles, LOUD TONE, box of 100 .25 TOTAL $4.25 CASH Thank you! Every record sounds exactly the same every time, guaranteed. Found crumpled in the band room wastebasket
Coat Check Ledger
Coat Check Ledger, Anniversary Night (taken as evidence) Time | Ticket | Item | Note 9:10 | 41 | Fox fur stole | Gorgeous. Do NOT try it on. (Tried it on.) 9:25 | 52 | White satin wrap | Marcus. Gloves stayed on. Wrap stayed with me all night. 9:40 | 57 | Pearl-handled umbrella | Sam. Not raining. Rich people. 10:46 | BAND | Spare band jacket (No. 3) OUT | Tasha took it at intermission. Left white dinner jacket with me, right sleeve SOAKED. Bright blue. Said it was ink. Ink doesn't smell like juniper. 11:00 | | | Still the only swap all night. Every other coat is on its hook, exactly where it was hung. The stained jacket is still on hook 13. Unlucky number. For somebody. (Margin doodle next to ticket 57: a little umbrella with a speech bubble. “You will NOT believe what my chauffeur did.”)
Flash Photograph: the Bandstand, 10:40
PHOTOGRAPH. The bandstand mid-number, piano player in the foreground looking deeply moved. The curtain at the back has gapped open by about a foot in a draft. Through the gap, in the flash: a gramophone with its horn turned toward the curtain, a record spinning, and an empty wooden chair with a gleaming trumpet resting on the seat. No trumpeter anywhere. Caption: “The Phantom Trumpet in full cry!” (Note to self: reshoot. The curtain gapped.) Developed print. Back stamped: 10:40 p.m.
Flash Photograph: The Anniversary Toast, 10:45
PHOTOGRAPH. Marcus “Marathon” McCready at the bar, glass raised, in head-to-toe white satin and white gloves. Every inch of it gleams under the flash. Not a speck, not a drop, not a single blue spot anywhere. Caption: “Snow White toasts three more years at the Blue Canary.” (Nine marathons, zero spills.) Developed print. Back stamped: 10:45 p.m.
A Page from the Victim's Ledger
Private ledger, last page (blue gin stain across the corner) Item | Note Band + “Lonesome Canary” rights | SOLD to the Green Mill, $9,000. Signing Monday. Tasha doesn't know. Ha! Till, register 2 | Short $40 AGAIN. Priya. Conversation Saturday. New gin supplier | Starts Monday. Tell the old one tonight. Stand near the door. Insurance | Paid up. Somebody's going to be very rich someday. Not me. Ink smeared where a hand came down on it.
Madame Zora's Appointment Book
Madame Zora, Seer. Appointments, Saturday 10:00: Gentleman worried about his hairline. Told him the spirits say hats. 10:25 to 10:45: Sam. Full spread. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE THREE TIMES IN A ROW. Never seen it. Shuffled twice. Still the Wheel. Sam did not leave the chair once; kept squealing. 11:00: Free. Spirits restless. Kitchen out of shortbread. Fee for Sam: $3. Received: a promise. (Again.) Sam also explained missing last week's reading: a runaway chauffeur AND a misplaced tiara. Drew a card on it. The Chariot. Of course.
Who did it?
Pick one. No pressure. (Some pressure.)
It was Tasha “Total Eclipse” Moreau.
Three facts about the killer, from the evidence: the killer was in the back office at 10:40, when Jess's phone call was cut off. The killer knew tonight's knock, because Jess only unbolted the door for it. And the killer was soaked down the arm with the Blue Canary's blue gin, a dye that does not wash out.
Now the eliminations. Owen “Hot Sauce” O'Malley made threats, but the beat cop's notebook puts Owen in the alley at 10:40, arguing over a short envelope. Hot temper, cold trail. Dev “Plot Hole” Delaney had a blackmail motive, but the matchbook proves Dev never got the new knock, and the coat check heard Jess turn the press away. For once, the hole is in the case against Dev. Marcus “Marathon” McCready stood to collect $100,000, but the 10:45 photograph shows Marcus in spotless white satin five minutes after the blue gin flew. Nine marathons, zero stains. The register tape shows Priya “Sourdough” Sullivan ringing drinks at the bar at 10:38, 10:40 and 10:42, and key #2 has to be held down to ring. Gerald stands by her. He has no choice. He's a jar. Madame Zora's book has Sam “Fashionably Late” Vanderbilt upstairs, in the chair, from 10:25 to 10:45. For once, nobody needs Sam's excuse. The appointment book did the talking.
Which leaves the person with the best alibi in the house. The setlist says Tasha was alone behind a closed curtain playing the Phantom Trumpet from 10:38. But the record shop receipt shows Tasha had that exact solo pressed onto a record this week. The piano player's margin note says the solo ran 3 minutes 10 seconds on the nose without one wrong note, the exact length of that record, for the first time in three years. And the photographer's 10:40 flash caught the gap in the curtain: a gramophone playing, and the trumpet resting on an empty chair.
That was the showstopper. Every eye in the room was on the curtain, and nobody but the camera thought to look behind it.
Tasha started the record, slipped into the corridor, gave the knock Jess had shared at ten, and heard the last words Jess ever said: “Oh. It's you. Shouldn't you be...” on stage. One swing, a fan of blue gin, and a dash back behind the curtain before the record's last note. The Phantom never bows, so nobody saw the sleeve. At intermission Tasha traded a blue-soaked white jacket for the spare band jacket and told the coat check it was ink. Ink does not smell like juniper.
The motive is on the last page of the ledger, color coded, naturally: Jess was selling Tasha's band and Tasha's song to the Green Mill on Monday. Tasha just made sure the deal was off. The Phantom never bows. Tonight, she can take one.
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