The Phantom Chanteuse
At the dawn of jazz culture’s illicit dominance through underground gin joints and secret mob-run establishments, vivacious showgirl Amber LeClaire's star burned bright but fleeting as incarnation of the quintessential Jazz Age It Girl taking prohibition-era Chicago by storm. When vivacious blonde Amber took the stage crooning sultry lyrics clad in her trademark amber silk chiffon gowns with matching flappers, even the most hardened gangland cronies turned helplessly enthralled beneath her hypnotic spell weaving romance and style personified.
Some nights she would even dramatically produce polished fist-sized Baltic amber pendants evoking her stage name, provocatively fingering the translucent ornaments as she sang coquettish ballads driving soldiers and mobsters wild to pin one proudly on their lapels as souvenirs of Amber’s affection. Club Archangel owner Gus Angelo certainly encouraged such lusty displays attracting return patron interest to his posh albeit discreetly unlicensed Bronzeville hotspot catering to black market bankroll.
The singer and speakeasy thrived in risky harmony through the riotous mid 1920s. But one tension-fraught evening after her third heady encore beguiling the restless crowds, sharp-eyed Amber glimpsed imposing boss Angelo turn ashen hastily helping his lead investor stumble drunkenly outside where panicked bellows and screeching tires soon followed before only eerie silence echoed down the alleyway.
Angelo reappeared later ghostly somber and soaked with another man who refused introduction. After seeing massive packages being covertly loaded from a wet sedan trunk into Archangel's basement, intuitive Amber quietly connected dots - her boss secretly smuggled illicit amber through nightclubs to mask massive stockpiles amidst crowds and music unceasing. This scheme imperiled more than Amber's reputation however...it endangered her very life if she became perceived liability to Angelo’s illegal operation.
So discreet Amber carefully documented telltale details of the clandestine operation planning to anonymously send damning clues to federal agents who might finally shut down the speakeasy syndicate increasingly known for disappearing witnesses growing inconvenient. Some last late rehearsal adjusting choreography near storage rooms even glimpsed dusty crates stamped "Prima Lithuanian Amber Harvesting Co." She heard Angelo barking orders then slamming antiques over a heavy dragging sound from downstairs...as if struggling load something heavy accompanied by faint howls of protest before wet chopping noises stilled all cries.
Suddenly paling Amber realized the high stakes closing around her - tonight had not been drunken clumsiness, but rather a brutal assassination Angelo flippantly ordered. She had no time to lose dispatching all evidence off before meeting similar permanent fate! In her panicked rush crossing towards the sequined stage exit, a heel suddenly snagged sending the chanteuse sprawling forward. Screaming, Amber crashed face first through a whirling propeller blade from last act still gusting with powered momentum at waist height. Severed jugular veins rapidly drained the last of her life essence across the checkered parquet. Some older jazz musicians still solemnly recount hearing her wretched gurgling wails slowly fading to silence echoing throughout the sinisterly darkened speakeasy tunnels for several minutes after the dull thud announcing fate had claimed its songbird.
The official verdict recorded Amber's death as freak stage machinery accident. Gus Angelo sold Club Archangel months later claiming ghosts haunted its scandalous shadowy corners driving away the partying crowds with disembodied moans, levitating bottles, and astral music phenomena scaring off even the most ardent ghosts hunters by dawn. But eagle-eyed historians notice one thread tying curious antiquities robberies plaguing Illinois museums ever since... traces of spectral teardrop jewelry fragments that continually materialize suggesting a tragic phantom showgirl unable to let bygones bury the ugly truth in unmarked graves. Some even claim hearing familiar sultry ballad crooning from speakeasy basements when vintage whiskey decanters stir themselves unprompted. Is Amber eternally trying to piece together proof against those who forever silenced her song but not her enduring resonant spirit? The stranded soul seems to think so, as another beguiling amber amulet surfaces each Halloween mischievously placed before mobster portraits in the Chicago paranormal society exhibits hoping justice cannot elude forever...
