“Rat poison.”
“Rats are nasty.” She dimmed somewhat.
“Yeah, there’s an especially nasty one loose in town. Somebody laced the bombs will rat poison. We’re in big trouble.” Spats’ ugly face jumped across my thoughts.
I looked up at her sad glowing face; even she understood the gravity of the situation.
“Poisoned? Do you mean those baseball things?”
“Yes, those things. I made them. We might be closing… permanently.”
“How will we talk… if you’re not here?” Fanny had cued into the fact that closing the shop permanently might affect our budding relationship. “I mean...” She faded into grayscale and flickered erratically.
I should find Willie as fast as possible. She needed to move on...head to the Beyond. Hanging with me in a cell in the state prison wouldn’t be as homey as the Row. “I’ve been thinking. About Willie’s papa? Can you tell me about him?”
“He made me promise.”
“Who? What did he promise you?”
“Willie’s papa was a… a…” She twisted a tendril of hair. She was demure, almost bashful and the epitome of a lady, nothing like a scary ghost.
“Married man?” I guessed. “Is Doyle your maiden name?”
Poor thing, she had an affair with a married man, and now a hundred years later, she couldn’t admit to it. Should I tell her about today’s lax morals? Women have babies without marriage or a man and nobody cares.
“But… he was a… too.” She paced across the room, flickering nervously, fluttering the tissue papers on the workbench.
“A gangster?” Guessing Fanny’s problems was a relief from thinking about mine.
“I miss Angus so.” She turned like she was looking out the window that was no longer there and let a low mournful moan. Just when I thought she didn’t fit the mold for a typical ghost, she moaned eerily.
“Hush up. Keep it down, someone will hear you.”
She sighed and turned to face me. “Sorry.”
“Come sit.” I patted the sofa’s arm. “I know it’s hard remembering the past, but I need to ask more questions.”
“It’s so lonesome and boring without my Willie.” I understood that. Without Craig and Ally to fill my days, I long for them even more.
“Things are pretty boring now, aren’t they?” I asked.
“Not all things. I love to dance.” She resettled on the arm of the loveseat. The red bowtie flickered into view and she frowned over it.
“Sewing soothes you, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, it does.” Between two pinched fingers, she sewed with her nearly invisible needle and thread.
Mike’s photographic evidence of Fanny would blow the ghost hunting community away. We had a chapter here in Hot Springs—thankfully, Anita wasn’t a member—who investigated the hotels, theaters and bathhouses. They charged tourists exorbitant prices for ghost hunting tours. I never participated in a ghost hunt, mainly because I hadn’t believed in ghosts—until now. Do I believe in ghosts or am I humoring my imagination? Mike could’ve doctored the photos, but then, he isn’t that sophisticated.
“Tell me about your man?”
She smiled, but didn’t look up from her sewing. I watched her sew until the needle floated, landing back in her blouse. “He was a pretty boy.”
I gasped. “No! He wasn’t Pretty Boy Floyd, was he?”
“Who’s Floyd?” She shook her head.
Movies and television romanticized Pretty Boy Floyd’s bank robbery spree, but it wasn’t romantic in the least, it was fatal for him.
She touched her cheek and closed her eyes. “He was so handsome.” She brushed her hand over her loose chignon. “He had dark wavy hair... too long but I liked... running my hands.” She opened her eyes and they burned with ghostly tears.
I had to look away from her grief.
“His name was Angus Doherty. He made whiskey.” She didn’t hesitate telling me his name. I mentally repeated it. Anita would be so intrigued by this name, wanting to know where I learned about him. I needed to be very careful when I told Anita about Angus. My resolve was weakening about keeping Fanny a secret.
“Ah, a bootlegger?” I understood her need for privacy.
During prohibition, ordinary men fulfilled a service for the common man by making moonshine. Times were hard, but with liquor controlled by the government, it was even harder to acquire. There was big money in bootlegging and it made sense Angus would profit from making whiskey.
A handsome curly-haired bootlegger was far more romantic than a crazed bank robber, much less dangerous as well.
“He paid my rent. I couldn’t afford it otherwise. He had friends…” She flickered happier colors reminiscing.
Having a boyfriend who paid the rent near the Arlington and the old Southern Club would’ve been smart. To attract men with money who wanted to wear custom made shirts, she would’ve needed a prime location like this one.
“So, that’s who I need to find at the building department? Angus Daugherty?” If I ever go back to the building department. Hunting Angus wasn’t on my list of priorities, staying out of jail for poisoning Veronica Lake topped the list.
Despite the urgency of making calls about the shop’s dangerous bath bombs, finishing this business with Fanny felt more important. This evening might be our last opportunity to talk.
“Did he live here?”
“No. No. His… his family lived in Milwaukee. We met there.”
“He traveled between Hot Springs and there?” I was getting too comfortable, enjoying talking with Fanny and snuggled deeper into the sofa.
She and I sat chatting like old girlfriends. Technically, I was older than her. She was much older than me, but the length of time she has been dead didn’t count.
“Yes, he sold whiskey up and down the line. He made it… here... in the hills.” Fanny whispered, glancing toward the showroom.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to whisper. Prohibition was repealed.”
“Repealed? What does that mean?” she asked.
“Yep, it isn’t illegal to drink alcohol anymore. Repealed means the laws were changed. Did Willie know who his father was?”
Why hadn’t I asked that question before now? If I was to find the boy, I needed to know what he knew about himself. He might have taken his father’s name after Fanny passed.
“He knew him. But didn’t know he was his father… we protected—”
“Right, I understand. Do you think Angus would have adopted him after you were shot?”
“Oh no. His family… his wife wouldn’t have taken him in. That’s why it’s so important I find him. He was orphaned. I can’t rest until I know if he—”
“Survived?”
“If my murderer killed Willie….” She cradled her waist where the bullet passed through, rocking back and forth. “I don’t know what happened. He isn’t among the others.” She let out another mournful moan.
Goosebumps prickled my arm hair. “Don’t moan! It gives me the willies.”
“Willies?” Fanny asked, but didn’t stop rocking. “Like my boy.”
“Ah, no. Not like him. It’s just an expression. I have a friend who can help. She’s into genealogy.”
“What’s gene…?” Startled, Fanny floated off the loveseat toward the swinging doors. “Listen! There’s someone out front again. That horrid man is back rattling the doorknob.”
I jumped off the sofa. “No way. Not Mike again.”
19
John Lake
“That isn’t Mike.” I hunkered behind the swinging the doors watching a man cup his hands around his eyes and peer into the dark shop. Just when I had relaxed somewhat, another stranger knocked on the door.
“Jaysus! He looks different.” Fanny floated higher than me, watching over my shoulder.
The man moved back, grabbed the doorknob, rapping with his other hand. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“He’ll go away.” This man scared me in a
different way than Mike had; there was something off about his manner.
I took a quick inventory of his oddball appearance. The rolling carry-on suitcase he leaned upon might hold video equipment. Last thing I needed was news people nosing around. My image in the newspaper was bad enough, and I wasn’t about to talk to a television reporter. Even through the glass, I could see he was dressed in all black, wearing a greased back pompadour and dark sunglasses.
“He’s gotta be a reporter or somebody like that.”
“Hello?” he asked, rattling the doorknob.
“Persistent, ain’t he?” Fanny glimmered a cautionary yellow like a summer firefly. “Let him in. There’s something sad about him.”
“What? Do you know him? Is he a ghost?”
“He’s no ghost… not yet.” She passed through the wooden doors.
As easy I could, I pushed through the doors, but they still clacked. As soon as we were out of this bath bomb mess, I would ask Teddy to remove the annoyingly noisy doors from their hinges.
Hmm? Could he take them down before he goes to prison?
I approached the door, noticing a new closed sign hanging on a suction cup attached to the glass. Sandy must’ve purchased it because I didn’t remember it. She had secretly been in the shop, checking out things, just like me. The convenient sign helped, and I pointed at it. “We’re closed.”
“Sorry. I don’t want to intrude, but…” He pressed closer speaking through the glass. “I’m looking for my daughter.”
Daughter? Who could be his daughter?
Fanny floated beside me, tilting her head. “He’s a goner. See what he wants.”
“A goner?” I wouldn’t ask what she meant. Again, against my better judgement, I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to another stranger.
“Hello. May I help you?” I stood in the doorway and blocked his entrance. “Who is your daughter?”
He pulled off his dark sunglasses; his eye sockets were as black as his shirt. “Was. Veronica Lake.”
Oh, no! I did not see that coming. My hackles prickled.
“May I come in? You sold soap to my daughter before she died, didn’t you?” A drop of sweat dripped from the tip the man’s pitted nose.
Veronica Lake’s father? Impossible.
Dick must’ve informed her next of kin. It was the decent thing to do. But why would he come here? My knees quivered, reminding me of my role in her death. I made plenty of mistakes. The mountain of excuses, for not telling Dick everything I saw and knew, weighed on my conscience.
Worse than that, I should’ve called the police to help Veronica when I could. If I factor in Teddy, who was one of my best friends, I practically helped murder this man’s child.
“Yes, I did. I’m real, real sorry. I didn’t…” Words couldn’t express my sorrow.
The man’s presence made the facts all too real.
“Come in.” I stepped out of the door.
“Please.” He teetered over the low threshold, rolling his bag into the shop. “Don’t apologize.” He wheezed, coughing into his sleeve. “Sorry… sorry.” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket. “I’m John Lake, the nightclub owner.” He paused, wiping sweat from his face. Granted, the stifling Arkansas humidity was overwhelming, but he was sweating profusely.
“I’m a has-been. Veronica’s. In London. I named my club after her. Ever heard of the club?”
My lip curled hearing the unlikely story. “Do you mean London, Arkansas?”
London, Arkansas sets due north of Hot Springs, a sleepy replica of every other small town in the state. If there was a nightclub in the town, it was a large secret.
He fought off another coughing fit, but managed to say, “No, England.”
“No kidding?”
I had no idea how long it took to fly from England, but he looked bad enough to have done it. He offered me his hand, and mesmerized by his presence, I took his offer, but winced back from his ice-cold fingers. Sweating profusely and cold to the touch was Sweating profusely and cold to the touch was a bad omen.A
I mustered an inkling of ladylike manners and made a curtsey. For heaven’s sake, he wasn’t the Queen. I blushed. “Nice to meet you. I’m Pattianna Fuqua. Owner of this shop.”
“Likewise.”
“‘Fraid I haven’t heard of the club. Veronica’s, huh?”
Grimacing a pained smile, he said, “Yes, I had a mad crush on Veronica Lake’s image. The epitome of beauty if you ask me.”
Fanny whispered, “Who’s Veronica Lake?” Reminding me she was still there.
He turned like he heard her whisper. “I was a real wise ass back then. Hindsight isn’t twenty-twenty, but it sure sharpens your mistakes.”
My ear detected a slight Southern twang. “Where is your club?”
“Was. Suburb of London. We shut it down. Morris kidnapped… he brought Veronica to the States.” He grasped the bag’s handle, turning a ghostly white and his knees buckled.
“Whoa, mister.” I grabbed at him, but he swayed out of my reach. If he passed out… I didn’t have a single nursing skill in which to revive him.
He patted his brow with the handkerchief until he rallied. “I believe she was murdered by—”
I buckled back, not expecting him to say anything about murder and showed him my palm. “Nope. Wait. You shouldn’t say anything. Don’t tell…”
I took baby steps backward until I bumped into the counter. I was in enough of a mess without hearing his confession “The police? Have you talked Dick Strand, our sheriff?”
He wheezed. “Indeed. Over the phone. Imbecile.” His eyelids narrowed. “Pardon my lack of… of… you know.”
“I do know.” Dick’s personality lacked a decent jail side manner. He simply did not care if potential criminals liked him, and he thought everyone was a potential criminal.
“What exactly is it that I can do for you?” I asked.
He wiped his face again. “I’ve only just landed at Little—”
“Rock.” I finished his sentence, and he bowed gratefully.
“The Sheriff filled me in on my daughter’s last whereabouts. Said she visited this shop before she returned to the Arlington to perform… and died afterwards in your bath bombs.”
Cringe! I should buy a gun. If I had known how dangerous the Row would be, I would’ve armed myself in advance.
I listened as my voice quivered. “My bath bombs?” I didn’t want the tainted products to be related to me, since it felt as if, I was to blame.
News travels fast. Dick notified him before the toxicology report had come back, otherwise, he wouldn’t have arrived so soon.
“Who told you about the bath bombs?”
He hacked deeply and couldn’t answer my question.
Fanny floated, circling him. “He’s a goner.”
“Hush!” I hissed. “Don’t say that.”
The man didn’t seem to notice my outburst at Fanny.
Instead, he swayed. “I need a private investigator.” With each word, he grew closer to swooning, more breathless with each ragged gasp, edging toward a collapse. “And a lawyer.”
What made me forget my Southern manners? Anita would have my hide for acting so rudely. “I have a sofa. Why don’t you come into my back room, rest a bit?”
I headed for the swinging doors, “C’mere.” I jerked my chin at him.
His mournful gaze brimmed with tears. “I had to hurry back home. To be near her. She was all I had left…”
Back home? Was he from Hot Springs? My thoughts turned to whom he might be related to in town. If he was a native, Veronica might be too.
“Come sit. I’ll get you some water.” Stepping through the swinging doors, I held them open for him. “Over here.”
He hesitated, pushing the bag forward a few inches.
“It’s okay. C’mon.” I waved him on.
He was taking a chance coming to the Row. For all he knew, I might be the murderer.
“Oh, all right. Suppose it can�
��t hurt.” He squeezed past me and staggered toward the loveseat. The sofa sighed, enveloping him in shabby comfort.
Remembering Sandy’s number one piece of nursing advice, I got a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and twisted off its lid. As frail as he was, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to open it himself.
“Here drink this.”
“Thank you.” He took the bottle, resting his head on the sofa back, and upended it to drink.
I pushed an empty ingredient container, the only one the CSI folks didn’t confiscate, closer to the sofa. “Put your feet up.”
He finished half of the water and put the bottle between his hip and the sofa arm. With his hands clasped behind a knee, he lifted one foot up onto the container. Sighing, he stripped off his hair, exposing his ghastly white bald head.
I couldn’t contain my gasp. “Oh, my!” He looked more unsightly and pale. The black wig was disgusting.
“Gahd. He’s wearing a black cat!” Fanny flickered beside the sofa.
He chuckled like he heard her. “Chemo. I’m clean of hair. It was a secret I’ve kept from… Veronica.” Beads of sweat formed on his bald head, and they got heavy and flowed downward.
Cancer treatment explained his weakness, pallor and baldhead. I grabbed some paper towels and wet them. “Here use these.” I held out the wet towels.
“Thank you for the place to rest.” Closing his eyes, he swiped the cool towels over his face leaving them on his head and sunk deeper into the ragged sofa. Seconds later, he either nodded off or passed out.
His shallow breaths meant he was alive, but his pallor made me nervous.
Fanny asked, “What’s chemo? I can feel him coming. He’s dying.”
“Never mind what chemo is. You hush. He might hear you!”
“I can’t hush. I know people… ghosts… at the hotel. I could ask around for the fellow. Time is short.”
I leaned against the workbench to think.
She was right, from the look of the man, he wasn’t long for this world. It took every ounce of his strength to get this far. I needed to help him, but couldn’t decide my best course of action. I couldn’t call Teddy. And I wouldn’t call Dick.
Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 14
