Lady in Red

Shadows in the Night

The following evening, The Blue Note Club hummed with life, but the energy was different—heavier, like the city itself was mourning in its own muted way. The saxophone stood silent on the stage where Walter Devereaux usually found solace. Instead, he sat at the bar nursing a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the low light.

The woman in red had haunted his thoughts all day. Her absence was a void, and her tragic end felt personal, though they’d never exchanged a single word. Her death was more than just a headline waiting to be forgotten. It was a dissonant chord that refused to resolve.

The Blue Note wasn’t like most clubs in 1955 New Orleans. Walter’s family had always welcomed everyone—black or white, rich or poor—through its doors. His father used to say, “Music don’t see color, son, and neither do we.” The club had been a haven, a place where race didn’t dictate worth, and jazz flowed freely, unshackled by prejudice. Yet the world outside those doors was another story.

“Walt.” Gus’s voice broke through his thoughts. The older man leaned on the counter, his brow furrowed. “You’ve been staring at that glass for an hour. You alright?”

Walter didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened around the glass, the weight of the previous night settling in his chest. “They didn’t care, Gus. The cops. They looked at her like she was just… disposable.”

Gus sighed, wiping a glass with a rag. “It’s the way things are, Walt. Especially for a colored woman. You can’t fix the world, no matter how much you want to.”

Walter shook his head. “She was more than that. She had… a presence, Gus. A life. And they talked about her like she was already forgotten.”

Gus gave him a long look, his expression unreadable. “You knew her?”

“No,” Walter admitted, his voice low. “But I felt like I did. Every time I played, she was there. She was… listening. Not just to the music but to me.”

Gus set the glass down and crossed his arms. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Walt. You start asking questions, digging where you don’t belong… this city’s got a way of biting back.”

Walter downed the rest of his whiskey and stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Let it bite, Gus. Someone has to care.”

---

The second set was underway, and the club pulsed with the rhythm of a lively trumpet solo, but Walter couldn’t bring himself to join the band. Instead, he sat in her corner, the chair she always occupied empty across from him. The view of the stage was perfect from here. He imagined her sitting there, her dark eyes fixed on him, her presence filling the space like a melody.

He traced the rim of his empty glass with a finger, his thoughts clouded by the unanswered questions. Who was she? Why did she come here every weekend? And why had someone taken her life so brutally?

The sound of the door swinging open caught his attention. A man in a trench coat and fedora entered, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on Walter. He approached with deliberate steps, the worn soles of his shoes scuffing the hardwood floor.

“Walter Devereaux?” the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Walter nodded. “Who’s asking?”

“Detective Rourke,” the man said, flashing a badge. “Mind if I sit?”

Walter gestured to the chair across from him. “Go ahead.”

Rourke sat, pulling a notepad from his coat pocket. “I hear you knew the victim. The woman found near Nighthawk’s.”

“I didn’t know her,” Walter said, his tone firm. “She came here to listen to the music. That’s all.”