The Shoemaker's Magician

Book 2: Chicago Saga

by Cynthia Pelayo

Genres: Hispanic & Latino; Supernatural suspense; Horror

Synopsis

"[A] delicious foray into the occult." - The New York Times

" This tale is a must-purchase for Pelayo’s gorgeously written love letter to horror movies and Chicago, a city brimming with eclectic tales, urban horrors, and palpable magic." - Library Journal, Starred Review

A fabled lost movie. An increasing body count. How much do you risk for art?

Paloma has been watching the Grand Vespertilio Show her entire life. Grand, America’s most beloved horror host showcases classic, low-budget and cult horror movies with a flourish, wearing his black tuxedo and hat, but Paloma has noticed something strange about Grand, stranger than his dark make-up and Gothic television set.

After Paloma’s husband, a homicide detective, discovers an obscure movie poster pinned on a mutilated corpse on stage at the Chicago Theater, she knows that the only person that can help solve this mystery is Grand. When another body appears at an abandoned historic movie palace the deaths prove to be connected to a silent film, lost to the ages, but somehow at the center of countless tragedies in Chicago.

The closer Paloma gets to Grand she discovers that his reach is far greater than her first love, horror movies, and even this film. And she soon becomes trapped between protecting a silent movie that’s contributed to so much death in her city and the life of her young son.

Release date: February 14, 2023

Publisher: Agora Books

Print pages: 303

Sample

 

CHAPTER 1

 

 

THURSDAY EVENING: SEBASTIAN

 

 

Another murder.

A homicide. And what is a homicide but the intended and calculated killing of another person? There are so many ways to describe the methods and madness in which a human being can kill another. Homicide. Murder. Manslaughter. And we can break down the category of manslaughter even further with voluntary, involuntary, and vehicular. How prescriptive. As if any of those terms lessens the fact that someone’s life was ultimately ended by someone else.

In all cases, we still have a body, like the one splayed before me. Arms and legs stretched out like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, or maybe like a snow angel. Or, perhaps, given the venue we are standing in, like a star.

I’m standing on the stage looking out at tiered rows of red-cushioned seats that stretch from the base of the stage to the exit doors in the back. Above, are more empty seats.

“What’s that level called?” I point my chin in the direction of the multilevel balcony.

Detective Gutierrez is looking down at his dark wool jacket, dusting off snowflakes. He reaches down and then brushes away any snow remaining on his slacks. Like me, he’s still wearing his outside gloves. It’s his first week on homicide and he already looks the part, nice dark pressed suit, dark jacket, dark dress shoes. We look like a couple of morticians standing next to each other.

“You’re going to get snow all over our crime scene,” I say.

He shoots me a narrow look. “It’s Chicago in January, Ramos. There’s no escaping this stuff.”

This is true.

Gutierrez takes a step downstage and points with one hand while loosening his black scarf with the other. “The level right above the main floor is the mezzanine, or box level. That’s the middle. Then right above that you’ve got the dress circle or first balcony.”

When Gutierrez got promoted to homicide, I knew I’d like working with him. He seems to know a little bit about everything, no matter how obscure, and if he doesn’t know it, he’ll figure it out.

I glance down at the mess around us, making sure to not step in anything that’s going to get bagged or tagged later. I start removing my gloves to trade them in for latex. I’m trying to process what he said. Mezzanine. Dress circle. Balcony. I can feel the muscles in my neck stiffening. “What?”

He clears his throat. “The third floor is called the mezzanine level. The fourth floor is called the dress circle or first balcony. The level right above that is called the upper balcony.”

Sometimes Gutierrez overcomplicates things. “Three balconies. Got it.”

The auditorium is wider than it is tall, and there’s so much red everywhere. Not just the seats, but the heavy, crimson curtains draped around exit doors and archways. The ceiling is a burst of gold, with hand-painted murals, and all along the cream-colored walls are decorative ornamental designs, floral medallions, cornice moldings, arches, and columns. That much I knew because I know Chicago architecture. It’s a passion. This town is a passion, and the historic Chicago Theater is a work of art.

Massive bronze crystal chandeliers hang along the space, highlighting the murals looking down on us. They remind me of blue, red, green, and gold stained glass that wraps around some churches. Pictures meant to tell a story.

I turn my back to the empty seats to face the reason we’re all here tonight.

I’ve seen a lot of death, people frozen dead in alleys, kids stuffed in trashcans, torsos in abandoned buildings, gunshot victims still clutching their wounds where they took their last breath on a sidewalk, and more. Always so much more to look back on; a collection of people obliterated. I especially hate it when we have to pull someone out of the Chicago River. Bloated limbs. Skin slippage. Oozing.

It’s a horror show.

Now, this. I cannot even

begin to piece together the type of person that could and would want to do this. Perhaps the word “piece” here is insensitive. I can already feel Gutierrez’s eyes on me, but I don’t know what to say. This is an awful end, lying in one’s own piss, shit, and blood, where just outside a bright marquee highlighted State Street. Right now, an audience should be speaking in hushed tones, above the crackle of snack bags, as the curtain is pulled back and performers hit the stage, and not me standing here staring down another body.

“Are those Reese’s Pieces?” Gutierrez is shoving his winter gloves in his coat pocket now.

I nod. All of that candy makes this seem even more surreal.

We hear the doors leading to the lobby open. My gaze remains fixed on the yellow, orange, and brown discs of candy sprinkled atop and around the butchered corpse still wearing the bottom half of their theater manager uniform.

Boxes of M&Ms, Skittles, Snickers, Sour Patch Kids, and Twizzlers were emptied on the stage, their contents soaking in the thick red liquid on the floor.

“Dammit,” I say through clenched teeth.

“What?” Gutierrez asks.

“Twizzlers are my favorite, and this asshole has gone and ruined them for me.”

Puddles of liquid had spilled out from soda cans that were opened and tossed across the stage, and then there’s popcorn. It’s everywhere like confetti.

When we arrived at the entrance of the theater, Officer Jones and his partner Officer Delgado insisted we dig out plastic coverings from our car and slip them on our shoes. I figured, okay, maybe there’s a little blood. Maybe there’s shell casings. What I didn’t expect was that there’d be corn kernels everywhere. Every step we take there’s another crunch beneath our feet as we walk carefully across the hardwood floor.

“What’s that smell?” Gutierrez asks.

“Buttered popcorn and urine,” I say a little too quickly, but then catch a hint of something else. Wood polish. “Smells like the floor was just polished recently.”

“Detective Ramos…” one of the uniforms below the stage says. I can already tell by the dazed look on Officer Jones’s face, the sheen above his upper lip

, and between the heat from the lights above and the smells of chocolate and popcorn mixed with fecal matter that he’s not going to be able to hold it in much longer. I can always tell a rookie by how quickly their color shifts when they see a body for the first time.

“Jones!” his partner calls behind him as she sees him sway. She grabs his shoulder, spins him around, and lets go just as Jones vomits down the front of his jacket, covering his badge.

I tilt my head to the ceiling and let out a heavy sign. This is going to be a long night. I focus on Officer Delgado. “Get your partner back to the station.”

Gutierrez has got a stupid grin on his face. “The show’s obviously canceled tonight, right?”

“The show never ends for us,” I say. “We gotta get those people out of here,” I say, referring to the crowd standing outside in the negative wind chill on State Street.

I look around, searching for my new friend. “Officer Delgado!”

“Yeah, detective?” She’s by the exit doors now, holding one door open as Officer Jones exits.

I shout. “None of those people outside entered the building, right?”

“Right, detective. They were all lined up waiting for the doors to open.”

From behind me, Gutierrez says, “Are you really going to have them put up yellow tape all along the outside of the theater?”

I turn around and eye him. “You got a better idea?”

He lowers his eyes back to the mess we need to deal with, and I know what he’s thinking. Downtown. Tourists. Media attention. And especially after last year, the mayor is not going to be happy.

“Delgado!” I call once more. “Are you sure everything inside has been secured as well?”

She hesitates. “It’s a huge space. We’ll double check we got everything.”

“Your team better triple check, because this is gonna be a…” I pause, looking around. Then groan. “This is gonna be a thing.” We all know what that means. McCarthy, the mayor, and the media, our three favorite M’s, are going to be all over this within the next few minutes.

Officers Delgado and Jones exit the theater as more uniforms enter.

I hear Gutierrez’s phone start vibrating, one text after the other. I’m sure it’s Commander McCarthy on his way, probably texting while speeding through red lights, trying to hurry up and get here to try to control this situation, but it’s already out of control.

Gutierrez reaches for his phone and confirms my suspicion. “McCarthy’s on his way,” he says, and shoves his phone back in his jacket.

With each text alert’s buzz, I can sense McCarthy’s blood pressure increasing. Then the noise stops.

“Either he’s parking, or he finally had that heart attack he said we’ve all been trying to give him,” I say, patting my coat pockets, wondering why he hadn’t messaged me, but my empty pockets give me my answer. “I think I left my phone in the car.”

“And your gloves too.” Gutierrez hands me a pair of latex gloves.

He’s already turning out to be the best work husband I could ask for. My last partner lasted less than a year, but maybe Gutierrez will hang around a little longer, considering all the good work he did in Humboldt Park last year.

“Guess I should message Hector?” Gutierrez says.

I slip on the gloves and say, “I think you need to text Hector and tell him we’re not going to be home for a while.”

“Already on it,” he says, tapping away at his screen.

“Can you let Polly know for me?”

“Letting her know too.”

This is the feature program for our evening, and probably for the next few nights. I know by looking at the scene that this isn’t the work of a disgruntled employee or an upset theatergoer. This goes far beyond what I’ve ever seen in my decade on the job. This is dramatic. This is deviant.

This is disturbed.

I look up to the last point that the theater manager saw before she died, a collection of bright stage lights that are managed by the control booth above the balcony. This woman bled out front stage center to an empty house. Who wants to die at work, especially like this?

“You said when we parked you got engaged here,” Gutierrez says.

“Phantom of the Opera during intermission. It was December of 1999. Days before all of that Y2K insanity.”

Like a good detective he already had his small notebook out ready to record details. “Sounds like it was special.”

“It was. We were kids. Eighteen and nineteen.”

“And now this…” Gutierrez kneels, careful to not get in the mess. “I can’t even begin to guess what did this.”

The white name tag which had likely originally been pinned to the front of her black jacket read Robin Betancourt. It was now pressed into her open right palm.

Gutierrez stood. “A scalpel. There’s definitely at least some surgical training.”

“Maybe, or lots of YouTube videos,” I say, taking in the shape and skill of the Y incision, a deep line beginning at the top of each shoulder and running down the chest to just above Robin’s pubic bone. An autopsy cut. The flaps of skin were pulled back to expose the entire chest cavity, for easy display of the lungs, liver, intestines, and more. The killer pulled back the flesh from her chest and then pinned it into her armpits so that all would remain exposed.

“YouTube videos about how to do an autopsy?”

“There’s something for everybody on the internet,” I say.

“What do you make of that?” Gutierrez motions to what I assume are her jacket and shirt, folded neatly next to the steps leading up to the stage.

“He probably had a

gun and orders her to the stage. At first maybe she thinks it’s a robbery or a sexual assault, but this is neither. He demands she remove her jacket, then shirt, and then bra. The killer wants all of her exposed.”

Gutierrez takes a step back, kicking an M&M that rolls off the stage. “Our killer’s creative.”

The medical examiner is not going to be happy with this one, especially since part of their job has been started for them. No one expects to receive a body with a post-mortem examination in progress.

“Do you think she was dead first?” Gutierrez asks, and I know he doesn’t want the answer. I don’t even want to begin to think of the terror Robin lived through in her final moments, experiencing her chest cavity being hacked away and pinned back onto herself.

The sprays of blood, like red glitter, stretching far across the floor suggest her heart was still beating furiously as she was being ripped open. The victim was conscious as her flesh was opened like a curtain. The pain must have been excruciating, and I can only hope that shock, that biological wave of confusion, punctuated by a rapid heartbeat, cold sweat, and dizziness carried her away before she died from the deep gash that nearly decapitated her.

“What do you think did that?” I say of the wound in her neck. I scan the stage and then add, “Never mind. Looks like they used the popcorn scoop.” The device is covered in blood and hair, and is resting inside an empty tub of popcorn near her foot.

“How?” Gutierrez’s mouth falls wide open.

The stainless-steel scoop is sharp enough, especially if directing the right amount of pressure against someone’s flesh. Anything with a dull blade can decapitate you, if someone is determined enough to try.

“Anything is possible if you’re committed.”

“What do you think about that?” Gutierrez motions to the smears around the victim. A circle within a circle, symbols or letters all painted with what looks like the victim’s blood. It looks like the killer used their fingers to draw the design.

“I think we’re not going to be sleeping for a while.”

From somewhere be

hind us in the seats I hear a cough. I wasn’t expecting a reunion.

“Officer Jones, we’ve got enough vomit over here,” I say, not even turning around. I’m too focused on trying to make out the characters around our victim. “I told you to get back to the station.”

It’s Officer Delgado. She’s holding a cellphone. “Your phone, Detective Ramos. You dropped it in the lobby.”

“Just leave it there,” I say, pointing to one of the front seats. “I’ll grab it when I’m done here.”

She pauses for a moment before setting it down.

“What now?” I throw my hands up. I can feel a migraine blooming above my left eye.
      She presses her lips together tightly and then says. “Do you think…? I mean…”
      “Get it out, officer!”

Officer Delgado stands rigid. “Do you think she may know anything about this?”

“Oh hell.” I feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head. I did not want to talk about her today or any day. “She is not here, and if you mention her again you can join her.”

“Sorry, detective,” Officer Delgado says, and rushes to the exit.

Gutierrez is standing beside me now. He raises his arm and points to what each of us are avoiding. The laminated black and white poster pinned to the dead woman’s groin. “What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know,” I say, already dreading asking the only person I know who’s an expert in this area.

“It looks like a horror movie poster.”

“The Chicago Theater is only a performing arts theater. They don’t show movies here, right?”

Gutierrez wrinkles his brow. “It used to show movies, a long time ago.”

Not a single spot of blood appears on the poster’s surface. The killer took great care here, highlighting what needed to be known and shown. They want us to know that this poster is special, that this poster is a clue.

This movie

poster is the star of the show, and the body on display and everything to come is just a side character.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

 

FRIDAY EARly morning: Paloma

 

 

I’m sitting up in bed and jotting down notes on my tablet. It’s dark and quiet except for the soft blue glow of the device and the tapping of my digital pen against the glass.

I don’t mind sitting in the darkness. Most people need a light on at night to feel safe. For me, it’s only ever felt safe in the dark. I should be asleep, but Bass is still not home, and as I started drifting away to sleep, I was pulled back to the memory of that old apartment and that horrible life.

Why can’t I stop thinking about them?

My brother Noel once told me that death is just one of the many guarantees along this line that is life. We are born, and there is pleasure and suffering dotted along the linear path that ends only one way for us, for me, for everyone. The end. There is no pause. We all will die. There is no rewinding the cassette in the VCR.

We only play forward.

He said that when we were teenagers, desperate to leave that cramped and hot apartment where we were constantly beaten by parents who could not l

ove us the way we begged and longed to be loved.

Now Noel rarely returns my calls.

It’s funny how you can go through so much with a person, someone who’s a major part of your life for a time, but then one day something happens, and that intense bond is forever severed.

My messages to him go unread for days or weeks. I know he’s busy, but what I know most of all is that he just wants to forget. I do too.

The wind picks up outside, whooshing and whistling competing against the blare of an ambulance that passes by slowly through accumulating snow. Our first snowstorm of the season.

I turn to my notes and hate that I’m planning on talking soon about something I love so much. When we talk about what we adore, that’s when we open ourselves up to hurt, because we expose our cracks to everyone.

I know what most people will say, that they’re dusty, dated tropes and monsters. How can something so old be relevant? But the newness of a thing does not dictate its value. These fictional creatures who emerged from their dark, dank lairs birthed from minds that lived long ago are the very reason I’m alive today.

The heater kicks on again, after turning off just a few moments ago. This house never seems to get warm enough. It always feels like the outside is begging to come in. One day I wonder if it will just enter unannounced.

We wanted this classic frame Chicago house because of its history, and because Bass believes there’s something special about original Chicago architecture, and I agree. This is in part why we love this city, because one can always sense the past radiating in the present.

A shiver creeps up my neck. I remember being this cold in our old apartment as a kid. Noel would walk into my room, reach for a VHS tape, and we’d throw all of the blankets on the floor, sit down atop of them, and turn to the screen. On many nights like that he’d find me looking at his swollen cheek or I’d find him staring at my purple eyes, and he’d just say:

“Let’s put on a horror movie and forget.”

And that’s all we co

uld do.

We’d lean on one another, brother and sister with blankets wrapped around our shoulders, lost in the flickering images sweeping across a screen, all the while hoping the impressions of handprints across our faces or pierced flesh from our mother’s nails dug into our forearms wouldn’t be seen at school in the morning. And even if they were seen at school by an adult, no one would say anything. No one cared. No one ever cared.

So that’s how our youth passed, in front of the television in a darkened room, fearful for when our mother would strike again. Like Hansel and Gretel, we held on to one another and we protected each other from the witch, but after we defeated her, Hansel left.

I look at the time and know I should probably get up and get some work done in my office instead of sitting here allowing my thoughts to race. I reach for a glass of water on the nightstand and take a long gulp. My mind is already spinning with all of the work I have before me, including the email I have been putting off sending for weeks.

What is the saying? Never meet your heroes or you might be disappointed. Or is it just never meet your heroes? That was my fear, that in meeting my hero, not just another fellow horror host, but the horror host, my reality would somehow fracture. That’s how high of a pedestal I put him.

How could anyone meet those expectations for me? Even if I emailed him now requesting an interview, I doubt he’d agree. Grand no longer granted interviews. His public appearances had been relegated to the stuff of myth and legend, going viral on social media.

 

Grand was spotted at Calumet Fisheries ordering smoked trout to go.

I saw Grand today at

Graceland Cemetery. He was standing face-to-face with Eternal Silence.

Grand was seen driving down Lake Shore Drive in his black 1968 Cadillac Miller-Meteor.

 

In each and every sighting he was pictured in his stage makeup. What made Grand that much more mysterious is that no picture existed without him in his signature ghoul face. He was seen outside the same way he was seen on his program every Saturday night, with his face painted a dead gray, his cheekbones and jaw contoured in varying degrees of black, and harsh dark lines drawn around his eyes and nose.

Every city has their local celebrities—news reporters, baseball, basketball, and football players, local actors, and even the charismatic car salesman with the annoying commercial and accompanying jingle that gets embedded into your brain, the dreaded earworm.

Chicago has Grand.

My phone rattles on the nightstand. I reach for it and open the text message.

 

Gutierrez: It’s G. Bass can’t find his phone. We’re safe but going to be working late.

 

Working late? It was already past three in the morning. For years it had gone like this, me hoping that Bass’s schedule would fall into some type of routine, but there was no normality when his entire job meant unraveling why people had been murdered.

I set my tablet aside and sit up in bed.

I respond.

 

I’m awake. What happened?

 

He responds:

A call downtown.

 

Downtown meant high profile. Downtown meant more pressure. Downtown meant Bass would not be home for a very long time.

I grab my phone and turn on its flashlight and slip out of bed. It was useless to pretend lik

e I was going to get any sleep tonight. In the hallway, I stop at the first door to my left. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and place my hand against the door, listening, as if feeling for a heartbeat.

I open the door a crack and feel the ice-cold wind circling his room. I turn off the phone’s light and use the illumination of his nightlight, a glowing turtle that projects green stars onto his ceiling. I push back the blue curtains and lower the window which had been raised an inch. The window closes with a thud, and I turn the latch, locking it.

“Mom?” his voice squeaks

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I whisper. “It’s freezing in here.” I look out the glass, into the ash-gray light, and know there is no way he could have opened this heavy window on his own. The latch is out of his reach for my little boy’s height. “You didn’t open the window, right, baby?”

“No,” he says as he pulls the covers up to his chin. His long brown hair rests against his pillow and his eyes are wide open now. In this light he still looks like a chubby-faced toddler, ...