On The Sly

On the Sly A Sylvia Wilson Mystery Wendy L. Koenig Copyright © 2022 Wendy L. Koenig 1 The door to my bar wouldn’t open. It had unlocked fine, but wouldn’t move, as if it had a hidden bolt. I glared at the sign on the door: “Smugglers, Sylvia Wilson proprietor”. I am Sylvia Wilson. This was my bar. It was 3 PM. Time to open; people would want a cold beverage while they waited out the soon-to-be rush hour traffic. This first Monday of September in St. Louis felt like early August. Shimmers from the triple digit heat rolled across the sidewalk and street. Rivers of sweat coursed down my forehead and face, soaking the neck of my tee-shirt, a new sleeveless I’d bought when visiting the Arch a week ago. It featured the famous landmark on a soft green background, and I hoped it wouldn’t stain. Shaking my head did nothing to help with the sweat. I balanced my groceries on my knee and rubbed the burn out of my eyes with the dry hem of my shirt. A car honked on its way past. I blindly turned and lifted my chin by way of greeting. Midwest politics. Or maybe I was flashing everyone. I shifted my three bags of food higher. The handle of my fourth bag had broken at the store, shattering a bottle of orange juice in the parking space next to mine. I’d picked up the glass shards, swore a lot, and piled the remaining groceries into the other three bags, making it impossible to carry them by the handles. Hence, I now had all three bags in my arms. First the orange juice, and now the door of my bar. My day was cursed before it even began. I yelled at the door, “Come on! You’re killing me, here!” The metal of the door was burning hot when I shoved all my weight against it. It didn’t budge. It was, of course, at that precise moment that my bladder chose to remind me of the seven samples of pumpkin-pie-spice latte I’d pinched from the barista at the grocery store. The whole reason for my parking in front in the first place. It would have been a straight line in the front door, past the bar where I could have dropped my three bags of groceries. Then down the hall, detour to the alarm for the split second it would take to turn it off, and into the bathroom. Growling my frustration at my bladder and the cursed day, I kicked the bottom of the door, collected my keys from the lock, and headed around the corner, glancing in the barred windows, though it was too dark to see anything inside. I rounded the second corner, nearly jogging toward the back door, gravel crunching under my feet. I should have parked back there and come in that way, instead of worrying about the few extra seconds it would take to double back after depositing the groceries on the bar. Just the exercise of the walk around the building drenched me. And I’d brought no spare clothes. At least the bar would be cool. I slid my key into the back door, only to discover it wasn’t locked. I’d definitely locked it when I closed. Someone had been in my bar. I shoved open the door, noting the alarm was disabled. Not bothering to turn on the back hall light nor shut the door behind me, I walked down the streak of light from the open door and dropped the groceries on the corner of the bar. Smugglers had always been like a secret lover to me, pulling me into its embrace. Yet today it felt… off. Silent. Sullen, almost. On a quick glance, I didn’t see anyone. I traveled back down the hall, did my bathroom business, came out, flicked on the hall light, shut the door, and turned up the air-conditioner. My gaze traveled down the hall, past the bathroom, past the wide open register, past the celery falling out of the wilted grocery bags onto the bar, to the dark open area beyond. Even from where I stood, looking through the dimness of that room, I could see something large blocking the front door. As I approached, I detoured briefly to the freezer to put away my newly purchased ice cream. Then I turned on the lights to the front room and saw a body jammed against the front door. And blood. Lots and lots of blood. In a lake on the floor. All over the door, the pool table, the wall. On the nearest tall tables and chairs. I couldn’t honestly see a single clean space within fifteen feet of the door. “Well, shit.” I shook my head and pressed my lips together. There would be no opening the bar today. Maybe not for the week. The body was lying on its side, facing the interior of the room. Beneath the ski mask, the neck was sliced wide open. Bulging eyes stared at me. For just a moment I froze and stared back. Even though I’d seen dead people before – my parents and grandparents – it had been at funeral homes. It was a whole different thing, staring me in the face. The heavy, coppery odor of blood hit me. Only so much more than just a cut finger. I swallowed hard a few times as my stomach seized at the smell. The dead person was most likely a man, judging by the size. He was big, somewhere around 180 lbs, but thick fleshy forearms didn’t really make me think of a body builder. There was no way he could possibly be alive, what with his larynx hanging out and all, but I watched his chest for movement anyway. I wanted to be able to say to any nightmares that might visit that there was nothing to be done. The chest was absolutely still; he was definitely dead. The lessons my