Driven Press would like to announce that our
upcoming noir mystery novel
White with Fish, Red with Murder
by Harley Mazuk
to be released on 28 February 2017, is now
available for pre-order.
PRE-ORDER SALE SPECIAL OF $3.99 for the e-book
(regular price after release $5.99)
Blurb
San Francisco, 1948.
Frank Swiver is a down and out private eye with a taste for wine and women, not
necessarily in that order. Frank readily accepts an unexpected job offer from
well-known wine connoisseur General Lloyd F. Thursby to find the murderer of
his very good friend, Rusty O’Callaghan. Invited to attend an exclusive wine
tasting on Thursby’s private rail car, Frank takes along his
secretary-cum-lover Vera Peregrino to complete his cover. Thursby entices
his guests with the promise of a taste of a rare California wine: the
Ravensridge Blackbird Noir.
All does not go to
plan, though, when General Thursby is murdered before the wine tasting has even
begun. Frank is caught up in the allure of his former lover, Cicilia, who also
happens to be the dead Rusty O’Callaghan’s widow. Locked into the private
carriage until the passengers reach their destination, the guests proceed to
pull some corks and theorize who among them could be the killer.
When Vera is arrested
for Thursby’s murder, Frank must change his perceptions and find the real
killer, or lose both Cici and Vera . . . and maybe even his life.
Excerpt
There’s promise in
the air when you approach a passenger train from the platform. You can imagine
it’s carrying everyone you ever wanted to meet and the baggage cars are hauling
your dreams.
Steam coursed through the pipes along the undersides of the
cars, like blood through veins. Vera Peregrino and I strolled along the side of
the Southern Pacific Cascade on a foggy, damp April afternoon in Oakland until
we came to the last car. She pointed a lacquered red fingernail at Vieux Désirs
lettered in gold paint on its side.
The invitation in my pocket read: General Lloyd F. Thursby,
(U.S. Army, Ret.), requests the pleasure of your company, 1630 hours, 2 April,
1948, aboard his private railway car, Vieux Désirs. Thursby’s
private varnish had a canopy over an open rear platform, marking it as a coach
from an older era, but it appeared spic-and-span, with a fresh olive-green
paint job.
Vera was my secretary at Old Vine Detective Agency. She was
more than just my employee; we were friends, and I wanted to let her know I
cared. I bought Vera some calla lilies from a flower vendor alongside the
tracks. Her grateful smile showed straight white teeth between apple-red lips.
I paused alongside the track and with my thumbnail, slit the
cellophane on a new deck of Pall Malls. I prefer Camels, but the Pall Mall
package bears a Latin motto: In hoc signo vinces. My Latin’s a little
rusty—for all I know, it could have meant “Sign in here, Vince,” but whenever I
start a new case I buy Pall Malls and read the motto for good luck. I shook two
out, cupped my hands, lit them, and passed one to Vera, who was gazing at me
with a Mona Lisa grin.
The Southern Pacific conductor climbed down from the side door
of Vieux Désirs as we lingered a bit. He had a wad of tobacco in his jaw
and must have been waiting to spit while he’d been in the private car because
he let out a stream that sluiced between the train and the platform. He saw us
and touched his cap as he passed by, and I gave him a friendly nod. After he passed
me, he climbed back on board the train at the next door. From that I deduced
that the doors between Vieux Désirs and the rest of the train were
locked, which I understood to be common practice among the railroads when they
were hauling private cars.
My gear for the weekend was packed in a duffel bag slung over
my shoulder. I tossed it up on the landing and then held Vera’s bag and gave
her a hand up. Her cocktail dress was short enough that when she raised a knee
to climb the steps, she revealed some thigh up around her garter. As many times
as I saw it, it was inspiring, a thigh of beauty, and I gave her a wolf
whistle. She held the lilies across her legs with her right hand, and used her
left to grab the rail in the stairwell. When she got to the top step, she
winked at me as I climbed on board.
The door into the coach off the steel landing opened into a
galley. We’d gone in the service entrance. A stainless gas range dominated the
layout, nestled in between shiny cabinets like a king between two rooks. Pots,
pans, and cooking utensils dangled from hooks. Everything about the kitchen
spoke of efficiency and careful planning. It seemed as though we could count on
a good meal later tonight.
We passed through a swinging door onto a spiffy hardwood floor,
mostly covered by a large and plush Persian rug. I’m no expert on Oriental
carpets, but I think it was the Ardabil mosque pattern, done in dark red and a
close, tight weave. It didn’t take an expert to tell it was genuine, old, and
expensive. There was that unmistakable je ne sais quoi in the way my
damp, dirty brogues skimmed across the pile.
A few lights were on in the lounge; I could see burgundy
wallpaper with dark wood trim. To my right were two dining tables, each with
four seats, and on the left an upright piano with a light oak finish. Beyond
that, a group of folks sat in the far end of the car. I led Vera partway down,
until the man facing us spoke.
“Ah, you must be Frank Swiver,” he said.
“I am, and this is Vera Peregrino.” There were nods and greetings,
and the man who had spoken rose. I strode across to shake his hand.
“Lloyd Thursby,” he said. He was an older gent with gray hair
and clear, alert blue eyes. He wore a camel hair topcoat draped on his
shoulders like a cape, over a dark brown, well-cut suit. He stood a couple of
inches taller than me, maybe six foot two, and he carried himself ramrod
straight, so he appeared even taller. I had the idea he was fit and powerful
for his age. “This is my majordomo,” he gestured at a man standing near the rear
corridor of the train car, “Fenwick.” He was younger and three or four inches
shorter than Thursby.
Fenwick stepped forward. “I’ll take your bags, sir.”
I gave him my duffel and Vera’s suitcase, and when he reached
out his arms to take them, his sleeves slid up, revealing thick, dark hair on
the backs of his wrists and hands. He carried the luggage into the corridor,
and his wrists stayed down out of his sleeves making his arms appear long and
apelike.
General Thursby held out his left hand toward a dame in a chair
on my right. “This is Sally DeBains.” She was well dressed and well coiffed,
fiftyish, and blond—though I suspected the hair color came out of a bottle.
“How do you do?” she said. She had plenty of ice on her
fingers, and I clasped the hand she extended and gave it a light kiss. I
thought about biting one of the rings, but she didn’t strike me as a big Three
Stooges fan.
“I’m well, thanks,” I replied. “How do you do?” More jewelry
drooped around her neck, and she obviously had gained a couple of pounds as she
aged. She may have been shaking her maracas a bit lower than she used to, but
she had probably been a hot number twenty years ago. For my money, she was
still hot enough.
Thursby stepped back toward his chair and extended his right
hand. “Over here, allow me to present Marcus Aurelius Wolff, our philosopher,
and a fellow collector.”
Wolff was a huge, fat man, whose bulk blocked much of the light
from the window behind him. His three-piece charcoal pinstriped suit oozed
polish and quality, and he held a pearl-gray hat in his lap. Although it was
cool, and I still had my trench coat on, the fat man was perspiring. He beamed
and drew a silk hanky out of his breast pocket, then wiped his bald head.
“An honor, sir, an honor to meet you,” said Wolff.
I assured him the honor was all mine. “A collector of what?” I
asked.
“Why wine, Swiver, wine, of course.” Thursby laughed. “That’s
what brings our little group together, you know. We taste wine, we savor it, we
debate about it.”
“And what do you do, sir?” Wolff asked me.
“I drink it.” I gave him a grin.
Thursby stepped in. “Frank is a writer working on my
biography.” Writer was as good as anything. General Thursby had enclosed a
hand-written note with his invitation:
Swiver,
I
hear you know a little about wine, but that’s not the only reason I’m inviting
you to my tasting. I’d like to hire you. I’ll brief you about the job on the
train. You can bring another operative if you like. Make it look as if you’re
along for the party—I don’t want to tip my hand. Whether you take the case or not, I’ll pay you for your
time and you’ll get to taste some good wines.
Thursby
That was all I knew; it wasn’t much, but it was enough to get
me there. I hadn’t had a case for weeks, other than the contract work at the hotel,
and I needed the money. He didn’t want to tip his hand. I would play along.
“Miss Peregrino is my research assistant,” I said. Vera smiled.
And so we circulated around the room and met the guests, and
Vera and I shook hands like a couple of politicians at the Orange County Fair.
And then as the introductions were coming to an end, I saw her,
to my left, by the piano. A short black dress, low cut, raven-dark hair,
emerald eyes that almost glowed, over robust cheekbones—it was Cicilia Ricci,
girl of my dreams.
“And last, this is Cicilia O’Callaghan,” the general went on.
“Cicilia—”
“We’ve met.” A chill ran up my spine.
“Hello, Frank. It’s been a while.”
“Fourteen years. You look good, Cicilia.” The widow
O’Callaghan, formerly Cicilia Ricci. Her hair was cut a little shorter than
when I knew her—wavy on top, parted in the middle, and falling down to her
shoulder blades in curls. Her dark eyebrows curved high over her big eyes in
graceful roman arches. She’d been seventeen when I met her; she’d be thirty-two
now. No longer a budding teenager but a woman in her prime, and more ravishing
than ever, if that was possible.
“You look well too, Frank.” Her voice was deep, smoky,
seductive. It was Cici’s normal voice.
I shook another Pall Mall out of the pack and fumbled with a
box of wooden matches like a nine-year-old trying to light up in the
schoolyard. “Having a little trouble, Frank?” Vera noticed. She tilted her head
down and to her right, and angled an eye up at me, amused. She relieved me of
the matches, struck one and held it out, steadying my hand as I lit up.
C’mon, Swiver, get a grip on yourself. You’re on a case. I clenched and unclenched my fists, and
turned away from Cicilia to face the general.
Vera stepped forward and sunk down onto the settee. I chose the
chair on the aisle by Cicilia. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, welcome,” said
Thursby, returning to his seat. “It’s nearly 1700 hours, and the Cascade will
be departing soon. On time, I’m assured. Our tasting this evening will begin at
1900.”
Fenwick had deposited our bags, crossed back through the lounge
and was now coming out with a tray, which he put on the low table in front of
Vera. “But for now, we have coffee, tea, and Fenwick will be opening some
sparkling wine—Cava,” Thursby continued.
I knew Cava from my years in Catalonia. A cork popped over my
right shoulder, and Fenwick came around with glasses and a thick green bottle.
I took some bubbly, as did three other guests. Thursby and Vera had tea; Cici
drank coffee.
Thursby continued, “Tonight my friends, I’ll be pouring a
selection of wines for your enjoyment. Our theme will be comparing California
wines and French wines. I have chosen the best from old world and new, and I
leave it to you to decide: is one better than the other? Or are they simply
different styles?”
“I’m sure it will soon be clear enough which is better,” said
John McQuade. He was a sour-looking gent next to Sally, who hadn’t said much to
me but leered at Vera during the introductions.
“Yes?” said Thursby. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Perhaps there
will be some surprises. At any rate, I hope you’ll find them all worthwhile.
We’ll be serving the wines blind, so you’ll be judging them based on your
impressions of what’s in the glass, but without further knowledge of who made
them, or where.” He sipped his tea. “And for the highlight of the evening, I’m
pleased to be able to pour from a magnum of the latest vintage of Ravensridge
Wines Blackbird.”
“That would be the ‘45?” asked Wolff.
“Yes, Marcus, the 1945 vintage. Many of you know the Blackbird
is the rarest of California wines, bottled only in magnums—one and a half liter
bottles—and I’m one of the fortunate few to whom it’s allocated.
“We thank our friend, Joe Damas, the distributor, for that.” He
raised his teacup in a little salute to Joe, on the settee next to Vera. Joe
raised his champagne saucer in reply, as smoke trailed up from the cigarette in
his mouth toward his half-closed eyes.
“Pardon me, General,” Vera said, “the Blackbird you’re talking
about, is that from the vineyard out on River Road in Sonoma?” Fenwick was just
pouring for McQuade and arched an eyebrow at Vera.
General Thursby hesitated. “Yes, it is, Miss Peregrino. Do you
know the wine?”
“Well, no,” she answered. “I’ve never had the wine, but the
vineyard was part of the old Fenucchi spread, right?”
Thursby blinked his blue eyes. “Yes.”
“It’s adjacent to my dad’s ranch,” said Vera with a natural
smile. “I grew up next door, practically in the shadow of Blackbird Hill.”
“My God. It’s a small world.” Thursby’s eyes were fixed on Vera
now. Vera was a tall attractive woman with golden-brown hair. She was an eyeful
in that red dress, but Thursby wasn’t ogling her the way most men do. He was
studying her, concentrating on taking her in.
“I even know the legend of the Blackbird,” Vera said.
McQuade rolled his eyes, but Wolff said, “Oh, do tell it, Miss
Peregrino.”
“Well, I used to hear about it as a little girl.
I remember one time I was out there in the west block with Pop. I was about
nine, so it was during Prohibition. ‘Vera,’ he says, ‘look up there.’ He
pointed to an eastern-facing slope on the Fenucchi land.”
Vera raised her eyes to the ceiling of the car,
as if she were gazing at a distant slope. “Pop showed me a hillside field of
thick, gnarly vines, what the old timers called nero misto, mixed black
grapes. It was nearly the middle of the day, but the slope was so steep, the
vines still cast shadows, twisted shadows like an old witch’s fingers. ‘Vito
Fenucchi planted that vineyard, around 1890,’ Pop said. Mr. Fenucchi was our
neighbor. I used to play with their son, Niccolò.”
Vera paused recalling her childhood. Then,
raising a dramatic finger to point at the ceiling as if it were the vineyard,
“Pop told me to look up on top of the hill. I saw a tall eucalyptus tree. I waited
for my eyes to adjust to the sunlight and the distance, and when they did, in
the top of the tree I saw it, and it was thrilling—a huge blackbird!”
Vera was just telling it in her friendly
down-home way, but she had cast a spell over the room. Except for Cici—I saw
her eyes were on me when I stole a glance her way. She had crossed her legs,
and her short black dress was sliding up past her knee. I turned away and
yanked on an earlobe. When was the last time I had gazed at those gams? 1934?
Fourteen years later, I remembered every inch, every sinuous curve.
“Yes,” said Thursby,
“it’s a great black falcon. That’s where the Blackbird vineyard gets its name.
Fog protects those old vines from the morning sun, and when the fog burns off,
you’ll see that black falcon watching over the vineyard, watching in silence,
perched in that eucalyptus tree, high on the top of the hill above the vines.”
“And no one knows where the blackbird comes from.” Vera glanced
my way now. Maybe she wondered what was wrong with my ear. I let go of my
earlobe and released a deep breath. “No one knows what year it first appeared.
But the grapes it watches over are the best in California, year after year.
Zinfandel, petite sirah, Alicante, carignane—that’s nero misto, you
know? The fruit ripens slowly and late, and it is so rich, so concentrated, so
dark, and so good.” The room was quiet.
“Well,” I interjected, breaking the spell, “if it’s that good,
we’re in for a treat tonight.”
McQuade snorted as if he didn’t believe it.
“Oh, keep an open mind, Mr. McQuade,” said Wolff. “A wonderful
story the way you tell it, Miss Peregrino. How exciting to grow up in such a
legendary place.”
“And that same bird is there, every year, every day, from bud
break in the spring until the last bunches are harvested—sometimes in October,”
said Vera. “It’s true. I used to see the black falcon up there all the time
when I was a little girl.”
True or not, it was the sort of story that you’d want to spread
around if you owned the vineyard—a legend like that could inspire the
imagination, maybe drive up the price.
Then the Cascade chugged out of the station, and even though it
was smooth, almost imperceptible at first, it seemed enough to shake Thursby
out of his reverie. Fenwick cleared his throat.
“Well,”
said the general, “I foresee a late night for us, and I’m not as young as I
used to be. I’m going to my cabin to rest a bit. I invite you all to make
yourselves comfortable in your rooms, or avail yourselves of more tea. Thank
you for joining me tonight, and I’ll see you in a couple hours.” He picked up a
leather dispatch case that rested against his chair, turned, and headed up the
corridor.
---
White with Fish, Red with Murder e-book is available for pre-order from the following vendors:
Print copies will be available at booksellers' online stores soon.
Author
Harley Mazuk was born in Cleveland, the son of a blue-collar
worker, and majored in English literature at Hiram College in Ohio and
Elphinstone College, Bombay U.
Harley worked as a record salesman (vinyl) and later toiled for
the US Government in computer programming and in communications, where he honed
his writing style as an editor and content provider for official web sites.
He began writing the Frank Swiver series of private eye stories in
2010 and has published four stories in Ellery
Queen Mystery Magazine. His novelettes and flash fiction have appeared in
Dead Guns Press and Shotgun Honey.
Harley’s passions are writing, reading, his family, peace, Italian
cars, and California wine. He and his wife Anastasia live in Maryland, where
they have raised two children.
Find
Harley at:
