Pretty Waiter Girls
A Helena Brandywine Adventure.
Book 1
By Greg Alldredge
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781973314448
Contact the author at
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@MrAlldredge on Twitter
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© 2018 Greg Alldredge
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Art by Ryn Katryn Digital Art.
For Chace and Sammi, never stop searching for the adventure.
Apocalypse "an uncovering" a disclosure of knowledge or revelation. In religious contexts, it is usually a disclosure of something hidden.
On the Coast:
Light Music:
Snob Hill:
Agnew’s:
Disguised:
Chinatown:
Barbary Coast:
Russian Invasion:
The Masque:
The Baths:
Brothers of Martinez:
Witches of Napa:
Mystery House:
Mister Wizard:
Doldrums:
Plague:
Madam:
Black Magic:
Committee of Vigilance:
Ship of Lost Children:
Wayward Women:
Sister Ping:
Apocalypse:
Preview “Fire Under the Mountain”
On the Coast:
Doyle glided his steam-powered two-wheeled Hero-cycle through the foggy congested streets of San Francisco. He could’ve walked to the most recent crime scene, but he promised his inventor friend to test his latest invention as often as he could. He had a list of significant concerns as he barely missed a beer wagon, blazing around it at fifteen miles an hour.
Doyle had to keep constant attention on the road, especially today, the visibility being measured in tens of feet. The streets overflowed with life, as fog, robbery, disease or even murder were not enough to keep people away from scratching out a living.
His mind wandered, how he missed the warmer June weather merely a few miles away near Mount Diablo and even in Santa Clara where he had spent most of his early adult years. However now he had taken this position in San Francisco, specifically the precinct which included Chinatown and the Barbary Coast.
That’s where he headed now. A body had been found in an alley off Pacific Street on the border between Chinatown and the Barbary. He suspected this was the third in a string of murders, the bodies all found in the same general location.
The cycle hit a giant pile of fresh Road-Apples, covering the right leg of his riding breeches in their foul smell and causing him to fishtail on the damp cobbles. Chaps, he thought, he needed some chaps or maybe half-chaps. The last thing he wanted was to arrive at a new crime scene smelling of a barn.
The detective navigated the steam-powered bicycle and parked behind a horse-drawn police wagon. He removed his leather helmet and brass goggles, black hair tumbling out, then stuffed the pair into his satchel. The alley was blocked with a line and a police guard, keeping the gawkers at bay while the men did their work. He smiled, happy to witness some of his suggested procedures had been followed.
Ducking under the line, and making his way down the alley he searched for any evidence that might be recognizable from the crime. He became instantly disappointed, there were many footprints in the lane. Doyle suspected most belonged to the people that found the body and the officers that later arrived. He scanned the area down to where the officers gathered, all standing around a rough wool blanket. Another crime scene ruined by the clods I work with, he thought, Judge not, lest ye be judged, he corrected himself swiftly.
A red notebook appeared in one hand, a fountain pen in the other, both a gift from his inventor friend. A marvelous item, a pen that wrote in invisible ink, read with a unique color of light. He took secret notes this way, like the four men who now stood directly over the victim, one eating a flaky muffin and dropping crumbs all over the area. At the top of the page, he wrote Friday, June sixteenth, eighteen hundred and ninety-nine, in an elegant well-trained script.
“Good day gentleman,” he used that term loosely. The police department was notorious for hiring officers with morals little better than the criminals they chased.
One waved a hand in front of his face, shooing a fly, while continuing to eat, the others grunted all manner of pleasantries. Doyle scanned the area, pretending to find things interesting while noting the officer’s badge numbers in his book. All would require more crime scene training. He planned to change the culture of the department if it killed him or them.
“Any clever deductions on the demise of our body?” the short chubby officer asked around his muffin, still more crumbs contaminating the scene.
Doyle fought the sudden urge to lash out at the fat patrolman, and his mocking of his technique and ability. He used the inspection of the overhead windows and the audience of faces watching the scene from above until lost in the mist, as a moment to calm himself before answering. “I have a few ideas, but I would be more interested to hear your outstanding theories on the subject, and would be willing to ascertain the validity of any hypotheses you mental giants would be prepared to propose.”
“What?” the crumb covered man asked.
“He wants to hear your ideas,” the voice came from behind a stack of boxes a dozen steps down the alley.
“Yes, any astute observations you wish to share?” Doyle asked again.
The man scratched his beard with the bread a few times, more crumbs falling, before answering, “Well, she was positively robbed first,” this drew a round of sniggers from the other three.
“Maybe it was one of those vampires!” a second added.
“Only if it wanted hair too,” another chimed in.
“Then maybe one of those wolf creatures!” the third man needed to join in the game.
“Yeah, with razors for claws,” with this muffin man stuffed the remainder into his mouth all at once to leave his hands free to make a gesture of claws.
Doyle feigned a laugh, making scribbles in his notebook.
“Just another whore been murdered for doing the
