I just had to make sure none of them found out.
Eight
Libba squinted at herself in the restaurant’s gilt-edged mirror—the bathroom was as dim as the dining room. Whose bright idea was that? She mashed her lips together and the Plum Crazy she’d just applied obliged by spreading itself more evenly over her lips. “I’m sorry about him.”
Upson? “Don’t give it a second thought.” To say Upson, the blind date, was boring was like saying a golf course in summer was green. He’d said ten words all night. I’d counted. Two of those were nice dress. It was. Chanel. Black. Demure. Utterly perfect. Aside from the dress, he obviously found me uninteresting. Far more compelling were the stingers he ordered, one after another.
Libba pulled her compact out of her purse and squinted again. Between her terrible eyesight and the dim lighting in the ladies’ room, she had no hope of actually seeing herself.
“You might be able to see if you wore your glasses.”
She stopped squinting long enough to roll her eyes then recited the only poem she knew. “Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.”
Dorothy Parker. Short. Witty. Not necessarily correct. On the other hand, maybe I should start wearing glasses. They might scare off men like Quin Marstin.
Maybe if Libba wore glasses she’d see her date more clearly. There was something off about him. Although, he did at least talk.
“What do you think of Charlie?” she asked. It was as if she could read my mind.
I swallowed and patted a stray strand of hair back into place. “He seems nice enough.”
“Nice enough?” She leaned closer to the mirror then touched the end of her nose with a satin-backed puff. “That makes him sound as boring as Upson.” She wrinkled her freshly powdered nose. “I thought Charlie would have more interesting friends.”
I shrugged. “It’s one night.” I hoped wherever she was, Grace was having as awful of an evening as I was, so awful she’d never go near Jack McCreary again. Did it make me a horrible mother to hope my daughter was having a bad time? Maybe—but I still hoped for something to keep her away from Jack.
Libba mashed her lips again. “So, Charlie. Nice enough?”
I blinked away thoughts of Grace and Jack. “What do you want me to say? I’ve known him for an hour and a half.” I smoothed my hair. “He’s very handsome.” True, if you liked men with cheekbones so sharp they were almost delicate, piercing blue eyes, and ridiculously long eyelashes.
“He is dreamy, isn’t he?”
“Dreamy.” Libba didn’t hear the sarcasm in my voice. That or she ignored it. Just like she ignored the weird vibes from Charlie.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
There wasn’t much point in primping for a man I didn’t like. There was no lipstick on my teeth and my hair was combed. That counted as ready. I nodded.
The men stood as we wound our way through the restaurant. Charlie glanced at his watch. “The floor show starts at a quarter to nine. If we hurry, we can still get a good table.”
“What’s the name of this club you’re taking us to?” Libba asked.
“The Jewel Box.” Charlie’s long elegant fingers closed around her elbow and he guided her toward the door.
She fluttered her lashes. “If you’re taking me, I’m sure I’ll like it.”
“I hope so.” Charlie spoke so softly I could hardly hear him, but he sounded sincere, as if he cared that she like the club.
Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I thought.
Charlie parked his Mercedes on the street, not far from a marquee with “Jewel Box” and “Cocktail Lounge” spelled out in neon. The building itself was painted blue and the glass of the front window had been replaced with frosted glass bricks, making it impossible to see what was happening inside.
Not that much was happening inside. The tables created a semi-circle around a raised wooden platform that served as a stage. They were half-full. The floor was so scuffed it was hard to make out its tiles, and the wood paneling on the walls looked dingy with accumulated cigarette smoke. This was the club Charlie wanted Libba to like? It was a good thing she wasn’t wearing her glasses. If she was, she’d turn on her heel and walk out. I was tempted to do just that, but the neighborhood seemed sketchy and the likelihood of me getting a cab seemed slim. I claimed my seat between Upson and Charlie at a table next to the stage.
Even without her glasses, Libba could tell the club wasn’t up to her usual standards. “This is an…interesting place. Do you come here often?”
Was that a blush staining Charlie’s cheeks? He nodded. “I do. Upson’s been wanting to come and see the floor show.”
“What’s it like?” Libba asked.
Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a burlesque revue.”
“Really? I can’t wait to see it.”
Charlie waved over a waitress.
“A vodka martini, please,” said Libba.
“Dewars with a splash.” Hopefully the scotch would sterilize the glass. Given the looks of the place, I had no faith in the thoroughness of their dishwasher.
“Stinger.” Upson was up to eleven words, if I allowed for repetition.
Charlie looked up at the waitress and said, “A Singapore sling.”
Really? There was definitely something odd about Libba’s new boyfriend.
“How did the two of you meet?” I asked.
“On a plane from New York.” Charlie reached across the table and took Libba’s hand in his. “We were seated next to each other.”
“Libba tells me you’re researching a book.”
Charlie nodded.
“About what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck again. “I don’t want to bore you by talking about research. Libba says you’re an artist.”
Why didn’t he want to talk about his research? “I am.”
“A painter, she says.”
My turn to nod.
Libba’s nearsighted gaze, which had been traveling the club, settled on me. “I think we’re underdressed.”
Libba wore a black cocktail frock with a revealing neckline. I wore a black dress that revealed I had a neck.
I glanced around the club. She was right. A buxom redhead in an emerald-hued mermaid gown stood at the bar next to a platinum blonde wearing a fitted crimson gown with a side slit that reached for her waist. The blonde had a white fur stole wrapped around her shoulders. Both women dripped with rhinestones.
A brunette in a pink gown with a marabou hem sat at the table next to ours. She stared at me for a moment then whispered to a friend who wore a low-cut gold lame gown and evening gloves that covered most of her arms. They both giggled.
They wore more makeup than I wore in a week—long fake eyelashes, arched brows so perfect they had to be drawn, bright lipsticks and heavy powder.
The waitress put my scotch in front of me. I looked up to thank her. The words died on my lips. Our waitress, a slender young woman with a bouffant updo, had a five o’clock shadow.
I blinked and looked more closely. A five o’clock shadow? Check. Her hands, despite the long red-tipped nails, looked mannish. Her shoes, pointed, kitten-heeled and totally wrong for a waitress, were the size and color of one of the blue kickboards they used at the club to teach children to swim. She was a he.
If my perusal bothered her—or was it him?—she (or he) didn’t show it. Instead, she put the rest of the drinks on the table and returned to the bar.
With a sideways glance, I looked again at the women at the bar. They were lovely, with strong jaws and broad shoulders. Men. The women at the table next to ours giggled again. The sound was too low, too masculine to belong to anyone but men.
I settled my gaze on Charlie. “Interesting place. You say you come here often?”
He nodded, and I had a vision of Charlie’s c
heekbones dusted with rouge, his eyelashes curled and darkened with mascara, his navy blazer replaced by a navy gown. Who was I to judge? My late husband had engaged in much stranger things than dressing like a woman.
Poor nearsighted Libba had no idea her boyfriend had brought us to a bar for crossdressers. Then again, she had eyes only for Charlie. Googly eyes.
I lifted my scotch to my lips and drank. Deeply.
The woman wearing the pink dress at the nearby table stood, swayed slightly, then focused her gaze on me. “I could fix your face. A bit more makeup and you’d be fabulous.”
Next to me Upson guffawed into his stinger.
“Five minutes in the bathroom and you’ll turn every head in the place.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “I…um. I’m a woman.”
“Oh honey, we’re all girls here. Come on.”
“Thank you for your offer but I believe I’ll stay here.”
“Don’t be silly.” A very firm grip closed around my arm and lifted me from my chair.
Upson rose too. “She said she’d prefer to stay here.”
The man in the pink dress had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds on Upson. My blind date stepped forward anyway. Maybe he figured at least three of those inches came in the form of stiletto heels.
They stared at each other for a moment—the cold stare that men give each other when they’re daring someone to cross a line.
The man in the pink dress blinked first. He released my arm, smoothed the seams of his dress and sashayed away without a word.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” That brought the word count to nearly twenty. He leaned toward me and with a whisper the floodgates opened. “Just because a man dresses like a woman doesn’t mean he’s gay.” He glanced around the bar that had become crowded with men in dresses. “Most of these guys are straight men who find wearing women’s clothes erotic.”
“So the guy in pink wasn’t interested in my makeup?”
“Doubtful.”
I swallowed. “Do you ever wear dresses?”
He didn’t respond. His silence was as good as a yes.
“Charlie?”
Upson’s chin bobbed—infinitesimal but a bob all the same.
I sank into my chair.
Libba hadn’t heard Upson’s whisper and her refusal to wear glasses meant she probably didn’t realize there were only a few women in the bar who actually had real women parts. “What was that all about?” She tore her googly-eyed gaze away from Charlie. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She nodded. “Charlie says the show will start in five minutes.”
“Can’t wait.” Not only is Libba blind without her glasses, she’s deaf to all sarcasm. I’d bet every canvas in my studio that Libba had no idea Charlie liked to dress up in women’s clothes. If a trip to The Jewel Box was how he planned to tell her, the man had rocks for brains.
Somewhere behind us a camera flashed.
A rumble went through the bar and someone yelled, “No photos!”
The camera flashed again.
I glanced over my shoulder. The tables were filled with men dressed as women with varying degrees of success. Really, the man with the olive complexion had no business wearing an orange gown, and someone ought to tell the pale blonde that dove gray washed her out. For heaven’s sake, I was a woman and someone gave me makeup tips—couldn’t someone tell the man in the strapless gown to wax his back?
“You’re staring,” said Upson.
I was and I couldn’t help it—especially not when my gaze lit on a man in a brocade cocktail dress. It suited him. The soft blue looked good with his tan. Heavy ropes of pearls circled his neck and in their center hung a cameo. I narrowed my eyes. I could almost make out frolicking cherubs on the pin’s lapis background. I knew that cameo.
I raised my gaze to the face above the pin. Square jaw, brown eyes, powdered cheeks flushed with excitement or liquor. Howard Standish.
He looked up from his drink—something pink with a straw and an umbrella—and caught my gaze. The color drained from his face. His eyebrows raised and pulled together. His lips stretched back toward his ears. For an instant, the poor man looked terrified, then his brows and lips returned to the places they belonged.
Was this why he’d had makeup on his collar at CeCe’s? I’d assumed he had a mistress. Was this why his wife drank like a goldfish in a leaky bowl?
Howard stood.
Idiot man. I knew a little something about keeping secrets. Libba, on the other hand…well, if Libba recognized him, everyone at the country club would know that Howard Standish looked lovely in a dress. She wouldn’t tell his secret to be malicious—she’d be having drinks with friends and it would be a funny story.
I waved him away but he ignored me, waiting for a heavyset man in rose tulle to pull in his chair so he could pass.
“Someone you know?” Upson asked.
“Yes. It would be better if he didn’t come over here.”
Couldn’t Howard see Libba?
The camera flashed again. This time, someone responded with a string of obscenities. There was a shuffle of bright dresses near the back of the room and the sound of breaking metal and glass.
A man in a flamingo pink gown raised his fist and threw it at the heavily powdered jaw of a man in a canary yellow mini-dress. The sound of knuckles meeting bone quieted the bar—for about a quarter second.
In the next instant, half the patrons tried to push their way through the front door. The bottleneck was rainbow hued. The rest of the patrons picked sides.
Charlie grabbed Libba’s elbow and yanked her from her chair. “This way.” He lifted her onto the stage then clamored up himself. He scurried toward the beige curtain, calling to Upson and me over his shoulder. “The back door is this way.”
My date leapt onto the wooden riser then reached down to help me up. A hand closed on my upper arm.
Upson grabbed my hand. Howard Standish tightened his grip. They both pulled.
The distant wail of police sirens was discernible above the sounds of breaking furniture, ripping satin and fists meeting skin. The bottleneck at the door exploded into the street.
Upson pulled harder. So did Howard.
“Howard! Have you lost your mind? Do you want to get caught here?”
Howard looked over his shoulder at the melee then back at me. His face registered the blare of police sirens with slack-jawed horror. He abruptly released my arm.
Upson, who still pulled on my other arm, fell. I flew onto the stage and landed on top of him. Howard Standish leapt over us—well, as much as a man wearing a tight skirt and heels can leap—and disappeared through the curtains.
I tried to push myself off Upson but we were a tangle of legs and arms, and my injured wrist hurt worse than when I’d injured it the first time. Blood soaked the bandage. Somehow I’d torn the stitches.
Beneath me, Upson still struggled. I rolled off him, sat up and cradled my wrist.
Upson pushed himself onto his hands and knees and then his feet. He leaned down to help me. “We’ve got to go!” His eyes widened. “Is that blood?”
I nodded.
My date, who had risen leaps and bounds in my estimation over the past several moments, promptly fainted.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
I couldn’t leave him, not after he tried to save me. I sat up straight, brushed my hair away from my face with my uninjured hand and waited for the police to arrive.
The few people left in the bar were too intent on their fights to notice a woman and an unconscious man. Two men who must have been sewn into their dresses circled each other, fists raised as if they were Ali and Foreman. Another set of combatants degenerated to hair pulling—well, wig pulling.
The police burst throug
h the front door and the combatants looked almost relieved. The fights ended.
A uniformed police officer who looked only a few years older than Grace approached the stage. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
I held up my bloodied wrist. “I think I’ve torn some stitches. My friend needs help too.” Upson hadn’t moved.
The policeman disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he said, “We’ve called an ambulance. You want to tell me what happened?”
“He fainted when he saw my wrist bleeding.”
“Did he hit his head?”
“No.” Fortunately, when Upson fainted his head landed in my lap instead of the floorboards.
“What happened in the bar? To start the fight?”
“As far as I can tell, someone was taking photographs then someone else broke his camera.”
Broken chairs and tables, torn bits of fancy gowns and even a few wigs littered the floor. Somewhere in the mess lay parts of a camera. Bits of feathers and sequins and the remnants of cigarette smoke filled the air.
Something like a smile flitted across the policeman’s face. “Cameras are against the rules in bars like this one. Not everyone wants proof they dress up like a woman.” He pulled out a small notepad. “Can I get your name, please?”
“Ellison Russell.”
“And him?” He jerked his chin toward Upson.
“Upson Smith.”
“Come here often?”
I offered him a wry smile. “First time.”
He grinned back at me. “Last time?”
“Definitely.”
“You take it easy, ma’am. The ambulance will be here soon.”
I breathed in a huge sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to be arrested and neither was Upson. I was exhaling when Anarchy Jones stalked through the door.
Nine
Silhouetted by the lights in the street, Anarchy Jones was still identifiable. He reminded me of a sheriff in a western who’s just pushed through the swinging doors to the saloon. One who doesn’t much care for what he sees.
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 8
