Although Lane normally kept information to himself, until his story went to print, this case was different. He wasn’t certain how much would go to print. That could very well depend upon Henry. The FBI was stingy with what they allowed to be released as public information.
“Yes.” He sat in the chair next to hers. After a moment of pondering as to where to start explaining all Victoria had told him, Lane let out a sigh. It truly didn’t matter where he started. He knew Patsy, and she was going to ask questions until all the holes were filled in.
“The timing of my visit couldn’t have been better because Victoria was mad at him because several people, including herself, had gotten sick.”
“From drinking too much?” Patsy asked.
“That may have been the case for a few people, but Victoria claimed differently,” he answered. Victoria had looked like death warmed over last night, and it hadn’t all been because she hadn’t been wearing any makeup. “She thinks Burrows tried to poison her.”
“Really? Like Rex Gaynor?”
“Possibly.” Lane nodded. “Victoria explained that Burrows had come to her a couple of months ago, looking for investment money for his distillery. She’s known for doing that, investing in new ventures, but she wasn’t aware of his connection to the mob, not his uncle who had lived here, or his family in New Jersey. She said he’d convinced her he already had distribution lined up and promised her a big return, but she hasn’t seen anything yet, and is now wondering if she will.”
“So he needs the money that Rex Gaynor hid,” Patsy said.
Lane wasn’t convinced that was the case, not after all he’d learned. “Victoria claimed the whiskey at her party wasn’t the same as what he’d given her while convincing her to invest in his company.” Lane had figured if Burrows had done that to her, he’d done it to others, and though bar owners were tight-lipped about where they got their booze, he’d still be able to verify that had happened to nearly every speakeasy Burrows had convinced to buy his product. The samples had been good, the actual product not.
“Why would he do that?” Patsy asked.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense, unless his distillery is a cover-up for something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Henry will have more answers when we meet him tonight.”
Lifting a hand, with one finger up, she said, “We have to tell Henry. Now, that Burrows is manufacturing booze, the FBI can bust him.”
He had to grin at her insight, and how she’d retained everything Henry had said. “That’s true.”
“Did Victoria tell you where the distillery is?”
“No. She doesn’t know. But the first night I met you, someone told me about a new distillery that had started up...”
She snapped her fingers. “The docks. It has to be. That one dockworker told me that Burrows had been cruising the docks for weeks.”
“Do you know how big the dock area is?”
She shook her head.
“It’s huge. Miles and miles long, and it’s the most dangerous place in LA.”
“But that’s where it is, isn’t it?”
He wasn’t surprised that she had worked it out. “Probably.”
She sat quietly, deep in thought, before looking up at him. “There’s more than one story here, Lane. There’s the Rex Gaynor story, how someone offed him, which can’t be written until Vincent Burrows is caught and the FBI releases the information about Rex being dead. Then, there’s the story about whiskey being switched, that people and speakeasies need to be warned about, which can be written now, just not the part about who’s possibly behind it. And then there’s the Vincent Burrows story, how he’s involved in both and what he’s truly up to.”
He couldn’t stop a grin from forming. A sense of pride filled him, too. “You are going to make a good reporter, Patsy. You have the insight.”
She sat straighter in her chair. “Thank you.” Then, with determination sparkling in her eyes, she asked, “What time are you picking me up tonight?”
“So, you want to continue, go ahead with—”
“Yes,” she said before he could finish. “We have to. We have to write these stories so people know the truth. We have to.”
He nodded, yet had an inkling he should now be telling her they should call it off. It was as if he was on a tightrope, and didn’t know which way to go to get off safely.
“Six o’clock?” she asked. “Unless you want to have supper with us,” she said, “then you should arrive by five thirty. Father always has a predinner drink at five thirty.”
He wasn’t going through that torture again. “I’ll be there at six. I’ve been invited to the grand opening of a new restaurant downtown. We’ll go there before going to the Rooster’s Nest.”
“Invited so you’ll write an article about them?”
“Yes.”
“Ducky, I can help you with that.” She stood and spun on one white-heeled shoe, toward the door.
Standing, he caught her arm. “Where are you going now?” Although he had numerous employees, he’d continued to work alone for years, both in researching and writing his own articles, yet, he was enthused to have her working with him. Like a partner.
“Back to Wickerman’s,” she said. “That’s where my mother took us shopping.”
The name of the high-end clothing store didn’t surprise him. “How do you know your mother will still be there?”
She shrugged. “I don’t, but I’m betting that they still are. Jane and Betty aren’t going to pass up the chance of getting a dress from Wickerman’s.”
But she had, to come see him. “I’ll drive you.”
“It’s only a block and a half away, through the alley and the back door.”
What was it with her and alleys? “I’ll still drive you, in case your mother is no longer there.” He kept one hand on her elbow and walked her out of his office.
“This place is amazing,” she said. “I didn’t expect it to be so big, or have so many people working here. Are they all reporters?”
Pride filled him. More than usual at her appreciation of the business he’d built. “No,” he replied. “When I bought the paper, there were six full-time employees. Now there are over twenty and a wide variety of positions besides reporters. I’ll show you around someday.”
“I’d like that.” Scanning the room as they walked, she asked, “Where do you print the newspapers?”
He nodded toward the far end. “Through those doors.”
“The pressroom?”
“Yes.” He paused at Nancy’s desk. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
She smiled, but he also saw the questions in her eyes as she glanced at Patsy. “Yes, sir.”
Nancy was sure to be curious. She’d been with the Gazette for five years and was a very integral part of keeping the place running smoothly, but she’d just have to remain curious when it came to Patsy. For now.
He opened the door and held it for Patsy to step out into the bright sunlight. “My car is over there, in the parking lot.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw it when we drove past.” Looking up at him, she then asked, “Where do you live?”
He gestured toward the building across the parking lot.
She frowned. “You don’t have a house?”
“No. Just an apartment.” He wondered how she felt about that, couldn’t tell by the way she smiled, yet chose not to ask because it shouldn’t matter to him. This was about her becoming a reporter. Business, and he couldn’t let it become personal.
He huffed out a breath. Not any more personal than he’d already let it become.
* * *
“Wickerman’s is just around that corner,” Patsy said as Lane drove out of the parking lot. She was amazed by how different she felt now than when she’d
arrived. Lane was right. This could make things very different for her sisters. Once she became a reporter, with her name in the paper, Father would have to let her keep writing. People would expect it. He’d have to recognize how she had to be allowed to go out, see things, experience things in order to write about them. And if it was all right for her to do that, it would have to be all right for her sisters, too.
Her sisters would be so thankful to her for that. Thankful to Lane, too. She certainly was. So very thankful. He was so smart, and kind, and handsome, and wonderful.
Her stomach flipped at just how much she liked him. So very much. What would her sisters think when she didn’t marry Lane?
She was just beginning to contemplate what that meant, how that made her stomach flip again, when she spotted her mother’s green Buick. Pointing it out, she hopped out of Lane’s car as soon as he stopped, refusing his offer to walk her inside.
Oh, dear, what would people say about him when their engagement, their pretend engagement, was called off? That could hurt his reputation, if people started gossiping that he’d done something wrong. What would she do about that?
She didn’t have time to contemplate that any further, either, because Jane saw her walking through the front door of the store.
Her sister grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. “Mother has three dresses for you to try on.”
Surprised, Patsy asked, “She doesn’t know I was gone?”
“She didn’t ask, so I didn’t say a word. She’s looking for you right now. I guess she thought you’ve been in the powder room or looking at dresses this entire time.”
Patsy tried on the three dresses, which turned out to be very fashionable and of her liking. Mother insisted that she buy all three.
Holding up the dark blue one that had an overlay of delicate silver lace, Patsy said, “Lane is taking me to a restaurant tonight. I think I’ll wear this one.” She bit the tip of her tongue then, waiting for her mother’s reaction, half expecting her to say they’d have to talk to her father about going out with Lane tonight.
Looking at the dress, Mother tapped the side of her cheek with the tip of one finger. “Do you have a gray purse?”
“No,” Patsy answered.
“Then we’ll get you one.”
Patsy ended up with gray shoes to match the purse, and had asked the sales clerk several questions about the store, wondering if she should write an article about them, and ultimately decided to ask Lane about that.
He arrived promptly at six o’clock that evening, and after a cordial exchange with her parents, he led her out to his car. Her heart had never raced so fast. She was going out, at night, and there was no sneaking involved.
All thanks to him.
He wore his gray suit, and looked so very handsome, with his hair combed to one side and his crisp black bow tie beneath his chin.
“The restaurant is called Dominica’s,” he said while starting his car. “They opened last week, but tonight is by invitation only.”
“Will there be other reporters there?”
“Yes, I’m sure they’ve invited all of the newspapers.”
“But your article is the one that could make or break them.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said.
“I would.” It was the truth. His paper was known for just that. The truth. Integrity. Just like him. Determination rose inside her. She would not be the one to sully his reputation. Would not. She’d become the best reporter ever.
Dominica’s was down by the bay, and she’d never seen anything quite like the huge wooden building built next to the shoreline with one wall that was nothing but windows that overlooked the ocean. The table they’d been seated at by a man who had a white cloth draped over one of his arms and wearing a black-and-red suit was right beside that wall of windows. Patsy was in awe at watching the sun fall lower and lower in the sky while listening to soft music playing and eating a meal consisting of salad, soup, iced shrimp and rockfish and rice. Looking at Lane over the delicate flicker of the single candle on the table was just as splendid as the setting sun.
He was as popular here as he had been at the parties they’d attended. Nearly every person who walked past their table stopped to say hello to him. It had seemed strange at first, for him to introduce her as Patsy rather than Libby.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
Too full to take another bite, she set down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Just thinking about something.”
“Whatever it was, it made you smile.”
Glancing to make sure no one was approaching their table, she leaned forward. “Liberty Bellamy.”
“Your alias.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Do you miss her?”
She had to think about that for a moment, just to make sure. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
His skeptical frown made her giggle. Being Libby had been fun, but right now, being Patsy was far better. “Yes, very.” She turned to the window. The sky was now a mixture of oranges and reds beaming down and reflecting off the ocean. “Look, Lane. Look at that sunset. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
“Yes, I have.”
The tenderness of his voice had her slowly turning to look at him. He wasn’t looking out the window, but directly at her with such intensity her cheeks grew warm. Instantly, she was remembering yesterday, in the cave when he’d kissed her. A warm wave spread through her system and settled low in her stomach, leaving an odd ache in her very core.
“We better make our way over to the Rooster’s Nest,” he said, pushing away from the table.
Within a few minutes, they were in the car and driving across town. Once again, she thought about being Libby and the fast-paced atmospheres of the speakeasies and the parties she’d attended with Lane. That had all been fun, there was no denying that, but this, riding in the car with him, was rather amazing in itself. She liked being alone with him and how they could talk about things, all sorts of things.
He found a parking spot near the Rooster’s Nest, and held her hand as they walked along the sidewalk and down the steps, into the speakeasy.
The place was hopping. People were dancing to the music the piano player was providing, while others mingled about, adding boisterous laughter to the music in the air, while others were seated at tables, smoking cigarettes and downing drinks, while carrying on more hushed conversations.
Of habit, Patsy reached up to check her hat. A brief second of panic hit her as she felt nothing but hair, until she remembered she wasn’t wearing a hat. Didn’t need to. She was no longer Libby. No longer hiding.
“Let’s sit over there,” Lane said, pointing toward a table near the wall.
Patsy nodded, but said, “I’m going to visit the powder room.”
“I’ll get us some drinks,” Lane said, releasing her hand.
She visited the powder room, and as she exited, a man approached her.
“Hey, doll, wanna dance?”
She glanced at the table where Lane was sitting, and shook her head. “No, thank you, I’m with my fiancé.”
“Just my luck,” the man said, turning away.
“Who was that?” Lane asked as she sat down.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He asked me to dance.”
“You don’t want to dance?” Lane asked.
“No,” she said. Amazingly, she didn’t. “I’d much rather sit here with you.”
“Your sister is staring at you.”
“What sister?”
“Jane.”
She didn’t scan the room. Didn’t look anywhere but directly at him. “I don’t have any sisters here.”
“Oh, are you Libby again?”
“No, I’m Patsy, but Patsy doesn’t have sisters who would be at a speakeasy. The
y aren’t allowed.”
“How do they feel about that?” he asked.
“That I’m doing the right thing,” she answered. “Father has to understand that there are other choices besides marriage or the convent.”
He frowned. “The convent?”
“That’s what would happen if we broke one of Father’s rules. We’d be sent to the convent.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. We’ve all had appointments with Sister Martha Margaret to learn what would be expected of us, if we entered the convent.”
“You aren’t serious.”
“Yes, I am. Why would I joke about that?”
He lifted his glass and took a swallow. “Why indeed.”
Patsy questioned what he meant. There was no reason for her to joke about something so serious.
Lane set his glass down and held his hand out to her. “Do you want to dance?”
She did, with him, and reached out, took a hold of his hand, but then recalled she wasn’t here to dance. “What if Henry arrives while we’re dancing?”
“We can see just as much from the dance floor as we can from here,” Lane said. “We’ll keep an eye out for him.”
She didn’t need to be coaxed, yet the way Lane laced his fingers between hers did just that. Coaxed her into standing up and following him onto the floor. The song being played was a slow, wistful tune, and the way Lane’s arms folded around her, pulling her flush against him, filled her with a dreamy sensation.
Eyes closed, she rested her cheek on his shoulder as he swept her around the dance floor. Being in his arms was so magical it made her light-headed.
By the time the song ended, she was nearly dizzy.
He laughed as she lifted her head and stumbled slightly while catching her footing.
“That dance almost put you to sleep.” He grasped both of her hands and spun her around. “This one won’t.”
She giggled as he then towed her two steps back and then two steps sideways, into the steps of the foxtrot. His eyes were so bright, his smile so big, she laughed again as he spun her beneath their clutched hands. She twirled on her tiptoes, and then at the end of her spin, she slid up next him and, before she realized what she was thinking, planted a kiss directly on his lips.
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