Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

In "Red Herrings Can't Swim," Nod Blake, a seasoned yet outmoded private eye, navigates the treacherous underbelly of 1979 Chicago. Tasked with solving murders that even the dead implore him to unravel, Blake finds himself amidst a sinister circus setting. As he grapples with life-threatening challenges and eccentric suspects, he faces a skeptical detective ready to accuse him. This thrilling murder mystery intertwines dark humor with a nostalgic nod to classic detective tales, where the chaos unleashed at Navy Pier's Big Top is just the beginning of his troubles.

Excerpt from Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2)

“If you’re ready… Take the hands of those seated on either side of you. And remember, no matter what happens, do not break the circle.”

I’d heard a variation of that line in every Vincent Price movie I’d ever seen. No doubt you have too. And you’ve seen the set-up; the dark foyer, the inner doorway covered in hanging beads, the darker room beyond surrounded by heavy blood red curtains, the round table (that should have been adorned with a crystal ball but, sadly, was not), the gullible nitwits seated in a circle. I was less than proud, I have to confess, being among the latter. But there I was sitting in at a séance.

If we back up a second I can explain. No, not so that it makes sense. How could it make any sense? But so you see how I got there. Then again, if you know anything about my work and life, you already have a good guess how I got there. In a word, Lisa Solomon. My secretary had an absolute knack for getting me into situations where I didn’t want to be.

You may or may not know that Lisa, in her overzealous desire to someday be a detective, recently involved me in a series of murders… I’ll spare you a rehash of the details. Suffice to say during that case, while chasing the bad guys, I managed to hit – and hurt – my head… repeatedly. And, as any good friend and confidant would, after we’d pulled my fat out of the fire and put the case to bed, Lisa insisted I go to the hospital. There was real concern, owing to the bizarre symptoms I was experiencing, I had done permanent damage to myself above the neck. What were the symptoms?

Pain, obviously, and swelling of my noggin, tingling nerves, heat flashes, vision problems and, oh yes, hallucinations of visitations, communications, and commiserations with the dead. Huh, you ask? Well you might. But, yes, the dead, specifically the victims in that last murder case had come to me in random psychic flashes and asked for my help in catching their killer. I know. Get a net, right? I was ready for the rubber room; I don’t dispute it. I may be crazy. But that was what had happened. In fact, it was worse. I had not only been talked to by the victims, I had relived their violent deaths. Scout’s honor. Somehow, and I haven’t the slightest notion how, the injuries to my head allowed me, strike that, forced me to repeatedly see – and to feel – their murders. I literally experienced being killed, in a wide variety of ways, over and over again.

After the dust cleared and the killers in that particular case were removed from polite society, and knowing my new and frightening ‘condition’ would certainly impact our relationship from then on, I sat Lisa down. I had a chat with her about what was happening inside my bruised noggin. I explained, as best I could with my limited knowledge, what I saw and heard when these psychic attacks came. I told her of the pain in the back of my head, the heat flashes, the blinding colored lights in my eyes. Then I went into the weird parts.

I explained as best I could that my physical surroundings actually changed. My location, regardless of my location, suddenly became the scene of a crime. I was instantly, and painfully, there with the victim. At first, I merely saw them being killed. In later flashes, the victims turned and spoke to me, personally, in the midst of their murders. There was no indication, I could see, that any of the dead heard my replies. But they spoke to me. In later flashes, the experience became more grueling as I began to take the place of the victims. On those psychic trips, I experienced their murders. You can say I dreamed it. But, if I did, they were nightmares repeated over again, one murder after another. I could go on, but why would I? It’s too idiotic and unbelievable to believe. So you’re either going with what I’m telling you on faith or you’ve already hollered ‘Bull’, and have abandoned the idea as fictional crap. Have it your way. For those still with me, no, outside of the brain injuries, I had no explanation for these hallucinations or any idea what brought them on. At times, it seemed the visions were initiated by my touching someone or something, but not always, and no particular person or thing when it did. As I said, they seemed to come at random. And, if you’re wondering, the answer is yes, they sucked. Being murdered is no fun at all.

Lisa took in my explanation with wide eyes, made wider by her big round glasses, and a few silent nods (which, for her, was a phenomenally restrained response). I don’t know what I’d hoped to gain by telling her what had been happening. I do know what I feared I might lose in spilling the beans. But she was my secretary, and friend, and I thought she ought to know. In the end, she asked a few questions I couldn’t answer and we decided to keep on keeping on detecting. We both still needed to eat, after all. The subject of my malfunctioning noggin was filed away.

At least I thought so. Then I found out differently. You see, once I’d dumped the load on Lisa – and this I should have expected – she wanted to help. To that end she soon began needling me, resurrecting the discussion often, with out of the blue questions like, “Did you experience precognition when you were a kid?”

To which I would reply something like, “Outside of sensing the approach of a butt whipping, not that I know.”

Or repeatedly asking, “Did your parents have psychic visions?”

To which I’d answer some variation of, “My father could see his future with my mother. As evidenced by the good sense he showed in dying early to avoid it. My mother has no psychic ability. But she is superstitious. She sacrifices chickens to conjure winning Bingo numbers. It never works because she can’t hold off drinking the rum before the end of the ceremony. Does that count?”

I agree, I wasn’t being helpful. But we weren’t going to solve the ‘Mystery of Blake’s Head Thing’ by talking about it. And Lisa was getting on my nerves. She continued to nag and finally dragged me into the hospital to get my busted bean seen to. The plan was simple, scans, x-rays, and a brainstorming session with accredited members of the physicians’ neurological community. You saw the hash I made of that. But, if my hospital visit sounded like disastrous fun, you haven’t heard anything yet.

After another week of sawing on my last nerve, Lisa forced me into the lair of what she called an “expert at talking to the dead.” And so we’ve come full circle. She’d hauled my cookies to the salon of a spiritual medium in search of a séance.

Two women were already there, in the parlor, when we arrived. The older of the pair was a fleshy, snooty but well-turned out, version of every middle-aged woman that had ever run a shopping cart up my unsuspecting keister. Though the attitude suggested this one had money. No doubt Jeeves or Josette did her shopping for her. She wore a bright orange suit-thing and a matching pill box hat. Neither the flowers pinned below her shoulder nor the pearl baubles around her neck went with the outfit, and the assembled whole returned the favor by refusing to go with her blue hair. The other, a thirty-something brunette giving (or getting) security with a slim-fingered grip on the old hag’s arm, was a decidedly sleek looking model, gliding naturally and comfortably from kitten to cougar. The elements comprising her facial features were perfectly measured. Her eyelids, unencumbered by make-up, were lowered in what looked to be an attempt at demure. But they failed. At twice the size necessary for seeing, the eyes knew they were ideal for being seen. (I had an odd feeling I recognized her, but couldn’t come up with a name.) What I did know was – if she played her cards right – she could end up as my newest reason for staring sleeplessly at the bedroom ceiling.

The medium, stretching credulity by wearing a turban, and making it worse by calling himself Master Criswell, was no master when it came to scheduling. He’d penciled in both of our appointments for the same time. As the ladies arrived first, and were apparently socially something to write home about, Criswell asked if Lisa and I would mind waiting.

The suggestion didn’t appeal to me. I had no clue how long it would take him to do his thing, make his pitch, hook the ladies and reel them in. But I knew I didn’t want to wait hours for my chomp at the lure. I strongly suggested Lisa and I go. I may even have suggested the evening was “hog wash” and, if I did, probably too loudly. The old lady was annoyed and the medium appalled. The good looker, on the other hand, seemed mildly amused. She, the good looker that is, suggested we have a session together; one big happy group of strangers talking with the dear departed. ‘Mother’ baulked at the idea, but ‘Daughter Dear’ insisted. Resigned, the swami made a sweeping gesture toward the chairs around the table. I wasn’t up on my séance etiquette but, as we took our places, Criswell appeared okay with our remaining strangers as he made no effort to introduce anyone.

Mother took the opposite side of the table as far from me as she could get. She wanted, it seemed, to speak with her late son and didn’t want me getting in the way. Daughter Dear, who was in actuality daughter-in-law dear, would talk with her late husband if and when Mother surrendered the phone. She took the seat to my right with less enthusiasm than one might expect of a true believer. Lisa pushed her big glasses up on her nose, plunked herself down on my left – between me and Mother – and pushed her glasses up again.

As he lowered the lights, Criswell gave a little speech about those that had crossed over and his special connection to them. It was all I could do not to laugh. I had a few special connections to the dead myself and had half a mind to ask him if he’d like to trade. The guy looked like a magician in a Muscular Dystrophy backyard carnival. The turban was bad enough but, from neck to floor, he also wore a dark blue silk robe decorated with random hieroglyphics sewn in gold thread. They weren’t crescent moons and stars but they should have been. If I had to guess, I’d imagine the nearest he’d ever gotten to the orient was the middle east of Chicago, Hyde Park maybe. Still, the show went on. He lit a couple of candles and reminded us, particularly me (though I may have been taking it too personally), of the seriousness of our endeavor. He took his seat between the old biddy and my new heart throb. He stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles, gyrated a bit, did some heavy breathing, then sang a little a cappella ditty in a language that was news to me to get himself in the mood.

It was all a bit goofy but, I admit, I wasn’t shocked by any of it. Lisa had given me a heads-up. She warned me Criswell would have his own way of conducting his voodoo, that he might have to sing, or chant, or play records, or dance; that he would have to go through some mumbo jumbo in order to contact his go between to the other side. To hear the voices of the dead, she said, he needed to enter their plain. It seemed like a lot of work to me. All I had to do was slam my head on something hard.

But my babbling is taking you away from the moment. Criswell apparently found the zone because, suddenly, he was speaking in some other guy’s voice. I couldn’t place it exactly but it reminded me of nothing so much as a villain from Johnny Quest.

Then all kinds of odd happenings began to take place. The candles somehow snuffed themselves out and the room fell into darkness. Out of nowhere a trumpet blared which, truth be told, I didn’t care for a bit. The swami threw his head back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, with his spine as straight as an arrow. A light flared, from where I wasn’t sure, illuminating a green mist swirling above and behind his head. The Quest villain vanished as, suddenly, Criswell was muttering in what sounded like a Brooklyn accent. I sighed and bit my tongue not to groan.

Then, as reported, in what seemed his own voice, the medium said, “If you’re ready… Take the hands of those seated on either side of you. And remember, no matter what happens, do not break the circle.”

Lisa excitedly reached out. I took her hand and got a chill. There was nothing mystic in that, my secretary’s hands were always cold. Then I grasped the invitingly warm hand of the lady beside me. Instantly, and without warning, I felt as if I’d been cracked on the back of my head with a hammer.

No, I wasn’t assaulted; at least not from without. I was experiencing another of the flashes I’d first encountered on my last case. Apparently, they were with me to stay. I should have told you, that’s how the psychic visions came – with a vicious blow. I’d never mentioned it to anyone but, privately, I’d begun to think of it as being ‘thunderstruck’. I’d never had the experience, but couldn’t help but think that’s what it was like to be struck by lightning in a thunderstorm. The nape of my neck was burning. A kaleidoscope of colors exploded behind my eyes. My chair vanished and I was falling through the dark. As I fell, I strained to see anything in the pitch blackness.

I heard it before I saw it. Water! I heard the tumultuous splashing of water that, if it really existed, was as dark as my surroundings. Slowly I made out ripples on a surface far below. But a surface of what? A pool? A lake? A sea? I had no clue. The splashing went on.

Then I heard a great painful gasp. I saw, and could just begin to make out, a familiar shape beneath me. I was still falling through black space, so it must have been beneath me. The bust of a man. No, not a bust, but a live man from the shoulders up. A man sunk nearly to his chin and bobbing in black water. He didn’t have a face, not that I could make out. But he must have had a mouth because I could hear him choking, gurgling, spitting mouthfuls of water and foam, trying desperately to catch a breath. He groaned. He cried in pain. But words seemed beyond him. Then he jerked violently and went still.

There followed a pause, pregnant with silence, damp, and cold. My world as I tumbled downward was blackness, the man in the water, and nothing more. Then he jerked awake, or back to life, or back to motion, slapping the surface and kicking in the water. Still he had no face but, finally, he had words as pained and helpless as they were. He screamed, “Help!” Which seemed in order considering his circumstances. Then, weakly, he began to beg, “Help… me! Down… here...”

There was no strength in his voice. The poor guy was drowning. I didn’t know who he was, where he was, or how he’d gotten there. But there could be no doubt. The man was drowning. Mind you, all this time I’d been falling through the dark, tumbling toward him. Then I splashed down.

My altered reality was altered again. The first part of the hallucination had been startling. This new change was terrifying. I was suddenly on the edge of consciousness. My head was splitting, in the back as always on these psychic journeys but, now, on the left side of my forehead too. An all new stabbing pain. I was in the black cold water myself. I gagged. I choked. I sputtered and coughed. The drowning man was gone. I had taken his place. And, sisters and brothers, I was drowning.

Then my surroundings changed again. I was still in the dark (though not as dark) but the silence had gone. A horn blared; the blast of a trumpet loud enough to raise the dead. It took a second to recognize it as the same horn we’d all heard at the start of the séance. This was not, however, the fleeting greeting from one of Criswell’s dear departed as before. Nor was it a diverting little blast of sound to hide the hiss of a green mist released into the room by a charlatan (a thought that had, I confess, occurred to the cynic in me). The trumpet blare this time was continuous and ear-splitting.

I realized the thunderstrike vision had passed. I was back in the real world. The blaring trumpet was genuine and, as usual, I was to blame. When the psychic attack had come I had fallen out of my chair. Now, as I came back to reality, I found that I’d landed underneath Criswell’s table. I had a hold on the solitary center pedestal and was sitting at the medium’s feet. Make that the bogus medium.

That wasn’t a cynical accusation and it wasn’t a guess. I was sitting – painfully – on a panel of foot operated switches wired into the floor. These, obviously, controlled the supposed ‘evidences’ of contact with those that had passed over. For example, the ghostly blaring trumpet. One of the switches was goosing me sharply and, I realized, it was me blowing the trumpet with my rear end. It was a hustle, the whole séance; one big plastic banana, phony pony show. A second switch, no doubt, snuffed the candles on command. A third, it seemed likely, flooded the ceiling in green light. A fourth, I would bet, sent a cloud of mist swirling above our heads. Disoriented as I was, I moved to kill the horn and rescue my tender derriere. In doing so, I pressed another switch that unleashed what was apparently meant to be a chorus of crying ‘dead’ children. You can imagine how many friends I was making.

Above the table, the old lady screamed in outraged horror, “Why… I never!”

I agreed. With a face full of her fat ankles it was a first for me too.

The cougar said something, I’m not sure what or to whom. Then Lisa appeared. She dropped to the floor beside me, grabbed me by the arm, and was trying to pull me to my feet. She was a girl of action and it was a nice thought but, in reality, not a good plan. I couldn’t stand. I was still under the table.

“Get off!” The medium shouted, kicking me in the back. “Get off me!”

Long story short. The old lady left the place in tears with her pill box hat askew on her blue hair. I felt bad about that. Her daughter-in-law slinked sinuously out after her wearing the same amused look as earlier in the evening, only more so. I felt worse about that. Criswell, his turban unwinding, stood in the entrance – now the site of hasty exits – begging his disheartened customers to come back. It looked to be no use. They appeared to have sworn off his services for good.

The phony medium’s plea to Lisa and I was shorter. “Get out,” he cried. “Get out. Get out!”