Street lights flickered on outside the office building at the corner of Market and Main streets in Vermillion. The incandescent yellow glow of a second-floor office window reflected off the snow on the main drag in town like an after-hours beacon. Its sole occupant celebrated the end of another day with a drink and a cigar.
Chastity Delarue looked at the darkening sky outside her window, tilting as far back as she dared against the squeaking springs of her ancient leather office chair. The pace of recent business was a concern, but something always came along. For now, it was as slow as the arrival of a South Dakota Spring, when dirt-encrusted piles of snow crystals lingered like black mold near lamp posts and fire hydrants.
The pebbled glass in her office door and the odor of musty wood and cigar smoke in the foyer had a strangely calming effect on her more apprehensive clients. It was a soothing incense from a trip to another era, one populated by city-dwelling grandparents in old three flats. It also lent an appropriate air of mystery to her noirish setting. She drank from a cocktail glass filled with Southern Comfort over ice, dripping condensation on her desk each time she lifted it to her lips. She alternately sipped and launched a series of ethereal smoke rings after each drag on the cigar she held in her left hand. Confidence warmed her from head to toe, each in their own way. Smoke drifted across the office, creating a haze near the single word she viewed from her inverted perspective – “Office,” backward.
The door opened...
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