The day broke reluctantly, its pale light smothered by thick gray clouds that promised rain. The city stirred to life with groaning engines, murmured conversations, and the ever-present hum of secrets. Walter stood on the front steps of his house, pulling his coat tighter against the cold breeze as Detective Rourke’s sedan rolled to a stop in front of him.
Rourke leaned out of the open window. “You ready for this?”
Walter climbed into the passenger seat, his blue eyes narrowing. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s see what Eloise Batiste has to say.”
----
The apothecary was tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, wedged between a boarded-up pawnshop and a crumbling tenement building. Its peeling sign read Batiste Botanicals & Remedies, and the scent of herbs and incense wafted faintly through the air. The windows were smeared with dust and grime, and the door creaked in protest as Walter and Rourke stepped inside.
The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the mingling aromas of dried plants, oils, and something metallic that clung to the nostrils. Shelves lined with jars and bottles surrounded a counter cluttered with handwritten labels and apothecary tools.
Eloise Batiste stood behind the counter, her sharp eyes fixed on them the moment they entered. She was a striking woman in her early 40s, with a proud bearing and a gaze that seemed to see straight through a person. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her hands were busy sorting dried herbs into bundles. She wore a plain, practical dress and an expression that warned against wasting her time.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had little patience for pleasantries.
Rourke stepped forward. “Ms. Batiste, we’re here to ask you about Esther St. Clair. I understand the two of you were close.”
Eloise’s expression didn’t waver, but her hands paused, just for a second, before resuming their task. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Walter raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “You don’t know Esther? That’s strange. Word is she used to come here all the time.”
“People talk,” Eloise said coldly, her eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t mean they know what they’re saying.”
Rourke sighed, pulling out his badge. “Ms. Batiste, we’re not here to cause trouble. We just need information. Esther’s dead, and we’re trying to figure out what happened to her.”
Eloise’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t reply.
Walter studied her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then he leaned on the counter, his tone quiet but firm. “You know, Ms. Batiste, I’ve seen this before. People who think staying quiet will protect them. But silence doesn’t bring justice. And it doesn’t honor the memory of someone you cared about. If you know something, anything, about Esther, and you keep it to yourself… Well, you’ll have to live with that.”
Eloise stiffened, her eyes flashing with anger. “Don’t you dare come in here and try to guilt me—”
“Why not?” Walter interrupted, his voice rising. “You loved her, didn’t you? She trusted you. And now she’s gone, and the people who did it are still out there. If you stay silent, you’re letting them win. Is that what Esther would want?”
For a long moment, Eloise glared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, she exhaled sharply and threw the bundle of herbs onto the counter. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
Walter didn’t flinch.
Eloise leaned against the counter, her expression bitter. “Esther was… a firecracker. Always full of life, always laughing, even when she had no reason to. But she was secretive, too. She didn’t let people get too close—not even me. Said it was safer that way.”
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Lady in Red
General Fiction"I can't let it go in vain." In the dim, smoky haze of the 1950s jazz scene, Walter Devereaux, a gifted saxophonist and club owner, poured his soul into the music that filled the walls of The Blue Note Club. Every weekend, his eyes would search for...
