The Zombie Ball: The Eli Marks Mystery Series, #6

By John Gaspard

Meet Eli Marks: Full-time magician, part-time crime-solver. 

His greatest trick? Not becoming the next victim.

 

Eli's asked to perform his magic act at a swanky charity gala, The Zombie Ball– a former zombie pub crawl which has grown into an annual high-class social event. What begins as a typical stage show for Eli turns deadly when two of the evening's sponsors are found murdered under truly unusual circumstances.

 

Compounding this drama is the presence of Eli's ex-wife and her new husband, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. Under pressure to solve the crime before all the guests depart, Eli and his detective nemesis go head-to-head to uncover the bizarre clues that will unravel this macabre mystery.

 

This book is the perfect way to get into the Eli Marks series -- grab it today!

 

★★★★★

 

Praise for the Eli Marks Mystery Series

 

"I loved this book. From beginning to end I was hooked. The story is fantastic and the cast leaves you wanting to know more. I can't wait to read the next book in the series."  – Bookschellves 

 

"This is an instant classic, in a league with Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Arthur Conan Doyle." – Rosebud Book Reviews

 

"Has as many tricks up its sleeve as its likeable magician-hero. As the body count rises, so does the reading pleasure." – Dennis Palumbo, Author of the Daniel Rinaldi Mystery Series

 

"The author does a fantastic job juggling the separate plots and keeping readers' minds thoroughly engaged…and the pure entertainment of the industry will leave all readers hoping that there will be a 'number three' very soon." – Suspense Magazine

 

"The Ambitious Card is intelligently written and...entirely engrossing." – Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Gaspard
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201762698

John Gaspard

John is author of the Eli Marks mystery series as well as three other stand-alone novels, "The Greyhound of the Baskervilles," The Sword & Mr. Stone" and "The Ripperologists."He also writes the Como Lake Players mystery series, under the pen name Bobbie Raymond.In real life, John's not a magician, but he has directed six low-budget features that cost very little and made even less - that's no small trick. He's also written multiple books on the subject of low-budget filmmaking. Ironically, they've made more than the films.Those books ("Fast, Cheap and Under Control" and "Fast, Cheap and Written That Way") are available in eBook, Paperback and audiobook formats.John lives in Minnesota and shares his home with his lovely wife, several dogs, a few cats and a handful of pet allergies.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

M y, I have been going on and on, haven’t I?

Uncle Harry said this with a tone which seemed to anticipate an immediate Oh, goodness, no! response from his small audience. However, that rejoinder didn’t materialize, primarily because Harry had, in fact, been talking a blue streak.

Now don’t get me wrong–no one enjoys a Harry Marks story more than I do. However, I also like strawberries, but I have the good sense to stop eating them after a handful or two.

To be fair, Harry had simply been responding to a question–one of a long list he’d been patiently answering since yesterday afternoon and into the better part of today.

I would guess you must have more than enough for your article, Harry continued as he adjusted his position on the bar stool and took another short sip from his ginger ale. From my position behind the bar, I could see he was about ready for a refill, so I quickly prepared one and set it in front of him, whisking the empty glass away as I did.

His interviewer, an endlessly-patient young writer named Dustin, flipped quickly through his notebook. The small red light atop his digital recorder, which he had turned on yesterday and had kept running throughout that session and the one today, continued to blink patiently as well.

Just a couple more questions, Harry, Dustin said as he scanned his notes. He glanced up and smiled and then returned to the pad, flipping through the pages quickly. "There’s a story–perhaps apocryphal–about one of your many appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. It was in the early days of the show, when it was still shot in New York, and those tapes have long been lost."

Maybe a good thing, too, Harry said. I don’t remember my first couple appearances as being particularly stellar.

Well, I doubt that, Dustin continued. But, according to the story, your act produced a much-repeated remark from Mr. Carson.

I suppose it did, Harry said with a wry smile. Here’s what happened. Harry then launched into one of his–and my–favorite stories from his long, impressive career in magic.

I was doing some big illusions at the time, pretty fancy stuff, not as fancy as today but at the time it was the bee’s knees, Harry continued as he settled into recounting the tale. I had tapped Johnny’s sidekick, Ed McMahon, to assist me. It was a simple disappearance, with a nicely decked-out production cabinet. Johnny’s standing by, watching each step, as I help Ed into the cabinet. I close it up tight, I spin it around a couple times–Johnny’s lending a hand, like he always did. The man loved magic.

Dustin nodded. He had stopped taking notes and was enjoying the story, letting his recorder do the work.

So I open the door to the cabinet and of course Ed is gone, Harry continued. Johnny made some joke about checking a nearby bar to see if he’d materialized there, and that gets a nice laugh. And then I shut the cabinet door and we spin it again.

Harry took a long sip from his ginger ale and then continued his tale. Anyway, I rotate the cabinet back into position and as I’m reaching for the door handle, I say, ‘And here’s the part where I make Ed re-appear.’ And Johnny–god love him–grabbed my arm, pulled it back and said, ‘Hang on, Harry. Let’s not do anything hasty!’

The story produced the intended laugh, with Harry leading the charge. But the laugh from Dustin was genuine, as was mine–I not only loved the story, I loved hearing Harry tell it.

Dustin still wasn’t finished with the interview, though, and he offered another question to Harry, this one about the creation of one of Harry’s famous card moves, The Marks Pass.

I had spent the last day and a half listening in on this long-form interview, which Dustin explained would be a cover story in Genii magazine sometime in the next few months. As fascinating as the process was, I did have work I needed to attend to, so I quietly stepped away as Harry began to explain how his legendary card move had come to be.

I was still relatively new to the day-to-day process of owning a bar, including basic skills, such as how to find and train a daytime bartender. I had been struggling with that hiring situation for longer than I should have, glad that the magic store next door was being ably manned by my longtime friend, Nathan.

Although he was a fine magician, it turned out that Nathan is an even better magic shop proprietor. In fact, he had been doing a land-office business since he took over the day-to-day on the magic shop. So while he brought that store out of the red, I was doing my best to push the watering hole next door right back into it. But rather than brood on my poor business skills, I decided to attend to the business I currently had.

I checked in with the two other patrons in the bar, a couple who had come in for a late lunch and stayed to chat. They declined my offer to refresh their drinks, handed me a credit card and asked for the check. So I made my way back to the bar and cash register and rang up their order. I returned moments later with the credit card slip and a pen, reminding them again that there was no need to hurry away.

Next I gathered up the nut bowls on each of the tables and on the bar, and brought them back to the kitchen for cleaning. While there, I grabbed a stack of replacement bowls and went back to the bar, laying the dishes out in a line for easy filling.

Anyway, Harry was just saying, "I think the Marks Pass gets far more ink than it deserves. It’s a solid move, don’t get me wrong, but hardly up there with something really significant, like the Elmsley Count.

Now, he continued as he slid off the stool, I’ve got to take a short break. You know what they say: You don’t buy ginger ale, you rent it.

If the length of your bar tab is any indication, you don’t actually even rent it, I called after him, but he waved my comment away as he headed off to the men’s room.

You two seem to have a great relationship, Dustin said as he turned back toward me. I gestured toward his own beverage–an Arnie Palmer–and he nodded in thanks. I left the nut bowls for the moment and pulled the lemonade bottle from one of several small fridges under the bar.

Depends what day you encounter us, I said.

Well, I’ve seen you together for two days now and you seem to get along great, Dustin said. You live together, right?

I shook my head as I grabbed the pitcher of iced tea. We really haven’t since I was a teenager, I said. He and my late Aunt Alice took me in after my parents died. And then after high school, I rented the apartment above theirs. Over the magic shop next door. They were on the second floor, I was on the third.

Oh, I thought that was still the arrangement. Dustin made a note on his pad.

Well, it was for a few years. I moved back in after my divorce, which was right after Aunt Alice died. So for a couple years, I was back on the third floor, while he lived alone on the second, I explained. Then, earlier this year, we each got remarried and moved in with our spouses. That is, I added for clarification, "we moved in with our respective spouses. Different houses. Apart."

And we’re living happily ever after, Harry said from across the room as he made his way slowly back to the bar. I placed Dustin’s new Arnie Palmer in front of him and then ducked under the bar to search for a large bag I knew was there waiting for me.

Now, Dustin my young friend, tell me you’re done with your interrogation, Harry said as he returned to his bar stool. Surely there can’t be any more questions.

Maybe, maybe. Dustin dutifully paged through his notes again. Let’s see, we covered your early years, your touring days, your act with your wife, Alice, he said, flipping quickly through the pad. Your years as a magic store owner…

Recovering magic store owner, Harry corrected. That’s Eli’s problem now.

I nodded as I pulled the bag from under the counter. I opened it and pulled out the scoop within.

I still hope to get some time with a few of the Minneapolis Mystics, Dustin continued. Gene Westlake and Sam Esbjornson and Abe Ackerman. For sidebar stuff.

They should all be here tonight, Harry said. Either to perform or to complain.

Or both, I offered.

Most likely both, Harry agreed.

Dustin gave his notes one final look and then snapped the notebook shut. Then I guess I just have one final question, he said as he turned from Harry to me. And it’s for you, Eli.

I was in the midst of scooping nuts from the bag and pouring them into the bowls lined up in front of me. I exchanged a quick look with Harry. Sure thing, I said.

Dustin looked around the room dramatically and then gestured to the scoop in my hand. So, tell me: what’s the deal with the nuts?

They’re not just nuts, Dustin. They’re filberts, Harry said.

I’ve been in a lot of bars over the years, Dustin said, although he hardly looked old enough to even be in this one. And I’ve seen lots of salty snacks handed out. Popcorn. Beer nuts. Pretzels. Peanuts in the shell, peanuts out of the shell. Potato chips. But this is a first. Never before have I seen a bar give away filberts. I mean, strictly filberts. Lots and lots of filberts.

We do it mostly for the performers, I began as I gestured to the small stage across the room. It was dark now, but it was lit up most nights with local–and occasionally nationally-known–magicians performing for our small but appreciative audiences.

Performers like filberts? Dustin asked.

No, performers like excuses, I explained. I set the scoop back into the bag.

You see, I continued, "years ago I was working at a benefit event. And the Chairwoman of the charity insisted on kicking off the evening with a song. Now, this was a woman who shouldn’t have been singing anything, but for some reason she picked I Will Survive. And she murdered it. I mean, it was a multi-car collision up on that stage. And when she came off, I did my best to compliment her. But she just shook her head, brushing off the praise, and said, ‘I would have been better, but I aspirated a filbert. Earlier.’"

Harry chortled at the memory. I love that, he said. Best excuse ever. ‘I aspirated a filbert. Earlier.’

Anyway, I said, Ever since then, that’s been my go-to response when I’ve had a bad show. I don’t complain about the crowd or the room or–heaven forbid–my material. I just shrug it off and say, I aspirated a filbert. Earlier."

Dustin smiled at the story and even went so far as to re-open his notebook and make a quick note.

But tell him the rest, Harry said, jabbing a finger in my direction. Tell him the rest of the story.

Dustin looked up. There’s more?

Tell him about the Zombie Ball, Harry continued.

Filberts and a Zombie Ball? Dustin said. That sounds intriguing.

This could be another one of your sidebars, Harry suggested to the writer.

It wasn’t the filberts or the Zombie Ball that made it quite so memorable, I said.

Then what was it?

The murders, I said flatly.

Dustin leaned in–so did Harry, even though he had heard this one before–as I recounted the odd sequence of events that had occurred at that fateful Zombie Ball.

CHAPTER ONE

Ireceived the call from my agent just as I was in the midst of unpacking.

Actually, I was in the midst of still unpacking.

I had been in the process of unpacking for several days, in part, I think, because I still didn’t believe I was once again living in the third-floor apartment above the Chicago Magic store on Chicago Avenue in South Minneapolis.

The short version was that my marriage to the dreaded Deirdre had imploded and I had retreated to my childhood home. I wasn’t really in the mood to review the long version, because I felt I was still in the midst of it.

As with all calls from my agent, Elaine, she was breathless and excited about the opportunity she was about to lay before me. I’d often felt that if Elaine sold me as energetically to clients as she sold herself to me, I’d have more gigs than I’d know what to do with.

Eli, you’re going to love this. It’s last minute, but it’s a great platform, she said after I’d answered the phone and we’d exchanged brief pleasantries. The room will be filled to capacity with both movers and shakers.

She went on to outline the gig: A last-minute replacement for the opening act at The Zombie Ball that night–a big, annual charity event in downtown Minneapolis. It had started, years and years before, as a zombie pub crawl where high-spirited drinkers dressed up as the undead and lumbered from bar to bar. Then they added the charitable component and over time it had grown into a highly-popular, high-end event. It was, surprisingly, a tough ticket to get.

Is this the thing where drunk rich people dress up like dead, rotting corpses and we’re supposed to try to tell the difference? I