Spring 2025 blanketed Bloomfield Heights in magnolia blooms and a fresh wave of energy. The Reserve at Bloomfield Heights had become the talk of the town—a hotspot for food lovers, tastemakers, and celebrities alike. Aja’s curated seasonal menu, featuring dishes like miso-glazed halibut with collard green risotto and bourbon pecan peach cobbler, was lauded as revolutionary. But behind the applause, something darker brewed beneath the surface.
*The Mysterious Reservation
It began with a strange reservation.
Connie frowned as she read the name: Mr. Langston Blue. No phone number. No credit card on file. The table was requested for exactly 9:03 p.m.—a peculiar time. She brought the note to Aja.
“Does this ring any bells?” Connie asked.
Aja shook her head. “No, but I’ll bite. Let’s make sure it’s table 9. Window seat. Flowers.”
That Friday night, Mr. Blue arrived precisely on time. Tall, cocoa-skinned, with a tailored gray suit and sharp eyes, he carried a cane he didn’t seem to need and a hand-carved wooden box under his arm. He dined alone, ordering only the chef’s tasting menu and a glass of iced elderflower tea.
Halfway through his meal, he requested Aja.
She joined him cautiously, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Blue?”
He smiled. “Miss Aja. You’ve created something rare here. And rare things attract both blessings and danger.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He opened the box, revealing a faded leather journal, initials burned into the corner: C.W..
“I believe this belonged to the original landowner. I found it in an estate sale. You might want to read it before you renovate the wine cellar.”
Then he stood, left two crisp $100 bills, and disappeared into the spring night.
*The Cellar Truth
The next morning, Aja met with her contractor, Reggie—a man with whom she’d once shared a quiet fling that never fully died.
“Reggie, did y’all hit anything weird when you scoped the wine cellar?” she asked, clutching the journal Mr. Blue had given her.
Reggie scratched his beard. “Not yet, but we’re digging deeper this week. Why?”
Aja handed him the journal. The entries told of a man named Tommaso Giordano, a bootlegger from the 1930s who ran a whiskey distillery below what was now The Reserve. One entry detailed “secrets not meant to see the light,” and a map etched with an X directly under the back dining room.
That night, Reggie called her. “We found a false wall behind the cellar. There’s something behind it. You might want to come.”
*Buried Beneath
The false wall led to a narrow tunnel, dusty with time and heavy with secrets. Inside were shelves of broken bottles, old crates, and a locked iron door.
“I’m getting a locksmith,” Reggie said, eyes wide.
Three days later, the door creaked open to reveal… a forgotten speakeasy. Complete with a bar, velvet booths, and a crumbling piano. But what chilled Aja was the mural behind the bar—a Black woman painted in strokes of gold and red, her eyes eerily resembling Aja’s.
Connie gasped. “She looks like you.”
They searched the room, discovering an old ledger of names, codes, and dates. One entry was circled repeatedly: Lucille Greene – last delivery 1933.
“Was she a singer here?” Connie whispered. “Or… something else?”
*The Ghost in the Kitchen
Over the next few weeks, strange things started happening.
Aja’s prep knives went missing, only to reappear clean and neatly aligned. A tune—soft, jazzy, and melancholic—would play from the vents though no music was turned on. Jaylen, the youngest sous-chef, swore he saw a woman in red walking down the hallway after closing.
Connie, always pragmatic, dismissed it. “Old building quirks.”
But Aja wasn’t so sure.
She pulled out the journal again. Charles Winthrop had written about Lucille Greene: “She sang like heaven and knew every recipe my mother made. I fell in love with her. Until she betrayed me.”
No mention of what happened to her afterward.
*The Gala Setup
The Bloomfield Heights Spring Gala was around the corner, and The Reserve was tapped to cater the exclusive event. Aja threw herself into prep work, selecting a daring Creole-meets-fusion menu that would set tongues wagging.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling someone—or something—was watching.
One night, she stayed late alone. As she tasted a gumbo reduction, she heard humming. Soft. Sweet. Familiar. She turned—and saw the faint outline of a woman in a red dress, smiling.
Then, it vanished.
*Hidden Pages
A few days before the Gala, Jaylen found a bundle of letters hidden in the hollow of the speakeasy piano. They were from Lucille to Charles, each more desperate than the last.
“You said you’d marry me. That our children would run free here.”
“Why did you lie, Charles? Why lock me away?”
The final letter was a haunting scrawl: “If I die here, let someone remember me. Let her know.”
Aja held the letter to her heart, a chill creeping up her spine.
*Sabotage
The morning of the gala, chaos struck.
All the seafood deliveries were canceled due to a suspicious “contamination report.” Aja was furious—but calm. She quickly pivoted to land-based dishes using wild mushrooms, heritage pork, and foraged greens, impressing guests with the resilience and creativity.
But someone had clearly tried to sabotage the event.
CC pulled her aside. “You think it’s Tasha again?”
Tasha, the spurned ex-head chef of Privè, had recently opened a rival restaurant. And she was known to play dirty.
Aja didn’t answer. Her mind was back in the cellar… and on Lucille.
*The Letter
After the gala, Reggie returned with a surprise—he had a connection in city records who dug up the truth: Lucille Greene was never reported dead. No grave. No certificate.
Aja couldn’t rest.
That night, she lit a white candle in the speakeasy, placed Lucille’s letter beside it, and whispered, “You are not forgotten.”
The air shimmered. The candle flickered. And a single note from the piano echoed through the empty room.
Aja smiled. “Thank you.”
—
To Be Continued…
Thee Juju Aura 