The Rebel Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 2)

by Lauri Robinson

  He should be glad, too, that he’d seen Walter, one of Roger’s night watchmen, standing in the darkness next to the boathouse. Otherwise, he might have kissed Twyla in a bit less of a brotherly way.

  Once she had made her way up the stairs, Forrest turned and walked along the building to the front parking lot. In love with Norma Rose. He never had been in love with Norma Rose, but he had been fond of all of the Nightingales, and had been diligent about keeping Galen away from them.

  He climbed in his roadster and sat there, staring through the windshield at the building. It never used to look anything like this. No bricks. No second or third stories. No fancy lights framing the double front doors. No manicured lawn, little concrete statues or big water fountain. The dance pavilion had been a white wooden structure with doors on all four sides to let the air in and out. He and the girls had played tag inside it, their laughter echoing off the walls as they raced across the floor, which was slick and shiny from years of people dancing on it.

  The old pavilion was gone, and he had to wonder if, had it still been there, it would be as large as he remembered. A child’s mind did that. Inflated things.

  He used to leave here and go home to his bed, where he’d pretend he didn’t belong. He’d plot there, too, in his bed, trying to find ways to make his presence at the Nightingale household permanent. A child’s mind also imagined things could become different just with hope. He’d grown out of that belief, but would never grow out of trying to protect the Nightingale girls from Galen’s corruption.

  The entire time he’d been at his aunt’s house, he’d kept in touch with Scooter Wilson. Scooter had assured him that Roger had all of his daughters well protected, and kept them far away from Galen. Forrest had seen that for himself when he’d returned home after learning to walk again.

  He pulled his eyes away from the resort and started the car. After that one visit, he’d had no intention of ever returning. Not even when his mother called, telling him about Galen’s “move,” as she put it, to California to appear in court in order to clear up the charges brought against the film company.

  Shifting into first, Forrest eased his car forward and then steered around and between the rows of vehicles of every shape, color and size. As he started down the long driveway, he glanced in the review mirror mounted on the spare tire next to the hood. Golden light shined from windows on all three floors and he turned his eyes back to the road ahead of him. He’d returned to far more than he’d bargained on.

  Several things, mainly the changes he’d witnessed, crossed Forrest’s mind as he drove the four miles from Bald Eagle Lake to the city of White Bear Lake. Including how the town had changed during his absence. Besides new businesses, it was thriving in ways it hadn’t for years.

  Employment was up. Everyone seemed to have a job and money to spend. It hadn’t been that way when he’d left. The people he’d met since returning were jovial, happy, content and satisfied with the lives they had. In the nine months he’d been here, he’d concluded Roger Nightingale had a lot to do with that. The man said Prohibition had been a gold mine to him, and he was right. Roger had made plenty of money the past few years, but he hadn’t kept it all to himself. He’d poured a goodly sum into the resort, and in doing so was sharing his wealth. The grocers, the gas stations, the clothing stores and pharmacies, even the amusement park, all benefitted from the success of the resort.

  Understanding that fact increased the heavy troubles weighing on Forrest’s shoulders. The Nightingales’ wealth was everywhere you looked. He hadn’t had to see Twyla’s glittering outfit or tasted the delicacies their chef set on the table to know that. He’d heard about it, long before returning home.

  The tables had certainly turned.

  He ambled along the quiet main drag of the city. This late, everything was dark as folks were already settled in their beds. The town council had passed a noise ordinance last year, along with a ten-o’clock curfew. Forrest could only assume, but he was about ninety percent sure that Galen was the reason the ordinance had been passed. Twyla had been right. Galen was not an honest man and had made a plethora of enemies because of it. She’d been wrong, too, in her statement about Galen never associating with real mobsters. He had. The mobsters that visited the Plantation years ago had been the lowest of the low and the greediest of the greedy. Prohibition hadn’t hit yet, but it was on its way, and gangsters that had found success with extortion and theft had been making plans to increase their activities and make the most of the amendment.

  Galen had been involved with the Eastman crew from New York, one of the first non-Irish street gangs, who’d formed a prominent underworld empire in the late 1800s. They’d profited from prostitution rings, illegal gambling and hired thugs, but peddling opium had been where they’d really made their money and gained notoriety. From the information Forrest had gathered over the years, Galen had been ousted from the gang, but had been able to reconnect himself after marrying Forrest’s mother, and had squandered almost every dime his grandfather had amassed to maintain his affiliation.

  The depth of Galen’s corruption had eluded Forrest until he’d been recuperating at his aunt’s house in southern Minnesota after his graduation party. Uncle Silas—Aunt Shirley’s husband—felt he was old enough to know.

  Gravel crunched beneath the tires of his roadster as he drove through the Plantation’s front lot and around to the back. There he cut the engine, and like he’d done at Nightingale’s, he stared at the building before him. When his grandfather had built it, the large four-story white building, with its huge, gracefully carved pillars and wraparound porch, had been the most stunning and elaborate structure in White Bear Lake. His grandmother, who’d died long before Forrest had been born, had been from the South, a plantation owner’s daughter. Wanting to please his wife, Hans had aptly built and named the building in honor of her roots.

  It still glistened brightly in the moonlight like the shrine that it was, but, as he’d noted when he’d returned last fall, all the shine was only on the surface. Neglect wasn’t the word he’d used to describe what he’d discovered, for parts of the building had been kept up and even modernized. Illusion was a better description. The building had the illusion of being magnificent, whereas underneath, upon closer inspection, the wear and tear that was slowly eroding the splendor had been covered up.

  The first thing he’d noticed had been that lightbulbs were only in every other, or every third, socket and the heavy drapes were nailed closed, giving the interior a shadowy atmosphere that also hid how threadbare the carpets were, how grimy the wallpaper was after years of smoke and how the ceiling paint had cracked and chipped.

  A heaviness settled over Forrest as he continued to gaze at the building. He’d gone over his options several times in the past few months, even while pouring the few funds he did have into the Plantation. His plan when he’d first arrived had been to sell it, to get rid of any reason for his family to remain here, but as his mother pointed out, his grandfather’s will held a clause stating the Plantation couldn’t be sold. She also reminded him that Hans had left it all to him so it would continue into the next generation. Forrest figured a wily, fast-talking lawyer could make a case to override the clause, but he also imagined that if that was the case, Galen would have found a way for it to happen years ago.

  He’d warned Roger of Galen’s pending release, but that wouldn’t be enough. A dozen watchmen may have stopped Galen before, but not after his arrest. The devil wasn’t as evil as Galen Reynolds. After months in jail, he’d be out for blood and would go straight for Roger’s heart—his daughters.

  Galen had threatened to harm the girls for years, whenever he’d wanted Forrest to ask Shirley for money. Willing to do anything to keep the girls safe, Forrest had always given in. There was nothing left for Galen to take from him now, and they both knew that.

  Letting out a sigh, Forrest glanced to the s
ky. The stars still shone brightly. Normally, at least since he’d removed the heavy and cumbersome car roof, he garaged the roadster at night, but right now, the simple act of restarting it and driving it across the back lot to the garage seemed like more effort than he had energy for. That wasn’t like him. He respected his vehicles—the roadster and his airplane—and the engineering beneath them, and he certainly didn’t have the money to replace them if they became weather damaged. Although in truth, a car didn’t matter much when all was said and done.

  Concluding it wasn’t going to rain and one night outside the garage wasn’t going to hurt the roadster, he pulled the key from the ignition and opened the door.

  The waves of White Bear Lake a few yards away washed up on the shore with a steady swish, echoing gently through the otherwise still silence. Waves had washed ashore out at Bald Eagle Lake, too, while he and Twyla had been sitting near the splashing fountain. At the resort, music had accompanied the waves, as had the sound of the gaiety of the partygoers.

  None of those sounds accompanied Forrest now and the emptiness of that left him feeling more tired, more alone, than ever.

  Jacob, the one and only employee who’d remained after Galen had left town, opened the back door before Forrest had finished climbing the steps to the porch.

  “I was wondering if you were gonna sit out there all night,” the elderly man said.

  “Quiet night?” Forrest asked, rather than explaining what he’d been doing.

  “Of course,” Jacob answered. “Anybody who’s anyone was at Nightingale’s tonight. We had a few bowlers, but Martha and her brood took care of them.”

  Forrest nodded as he entered the building. Martha McMillan was a gem. Having fourteen children, the woman knew how to organize and manage most anything that came her way. When he’d first approached her about working at the Plantation, she’d had her doubts, claiming she was a respectable woman and wouldn’t work at a place the likes of the Plantation. Forrest had promised there would be no more gangsters, no more drunken brawls that, come morning, left the place in shambles. And above all, no more prostitution and gaudy dancers.

  He’d made no mention of the other activities. If it was illegal, Galen had been involved in it. Trafficking young girls and trading them for opium had been his specialty, and something he’d always used as a threat. He’d claimed one of the Nightingale girls would be worth more than a dozen of the others.

  “You hear me?” Jacob asked.

  Forrest nodded, and changed the route of his thoughts back to his employees. He’d persuaded Martha and hired her, along with the three children she still had at home—two teenage sons who liked being pin boys for the bowling lanes and a daughter who enjoyed serving soda pop and popcorn to her friends during the weekends. Martha had also managed to find other staff—cooks who served a modest menu, waiters to carry plates and wash dishes and general maintenance workers.

  “How was the party?” Jacob asked, having closed and locked the back door.

  “How are all of the parties out at Nightingale’s?” Forrest answered, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. “The place was packed to the rafters and the food and drinks were flowing.”

  “You questioning the decision you made here?” Jacob asked.

  In his midfifties, Jacob Wertheimer wasn’t old, but he’d been around the Plantation a long time and had seen a lot. His father had managed the Plantation under Hans, and Jacob had taken over shortly before Galen had arrived on the scene. During Galen’s reign, Jacob had been demoted to a groundskeeper, but his commitment and dedication to what Hans and his father, Joseph Wertheimer, had created never faltered. In fact, Jacob had been the one who had saved Forrest’s life the night of his graduation. He had no recollection of how the man had stopped Galen’s henchmen from beating him to death, but he did recall Jacob driving him to Rochester. All the way to Aunt Shirley’s house the man kept saying, “Don’t you die on me, boy. Don’t you die on me.”

  “No,” Forrest answered. “I’m not questioning my decision about the Plantation.” Shortly after he’d received the phone call from his mother, insisting he come home to run the place while she and Galen moved to California—to take care of the few minor allegations against Galen—he’d decided this could be his chance to change things. By then, he’d heard Galen could end up serving serious time, and his airmail contract had ended due to the new legislation then still in discussion.

  A pilot friend, Isaac Hammer, gave him the idea of changing the nightclub into a bowling alley. Bowling had become a rave on the east coast. Some alleys were merely covers for speakeasies, but others were legitimate businesses that people flocked to, especially during the winter months. He’d capitalized on that idea, placing an order for bowling pins and balls to be sent to Minnesota, and envisioned his remodeling plans while flying his last few routes. However, what he’d discovered upon arriving home had made him wonder if any of it was possible.

  “You talk to Roger?” Jacob asked.

  “Yeah,” Forrest answered, following the shorter, bald man down the long hallway that led to the front foyer and the staircase leading to the second and third floors, where only he and Jacob resided. When he was a kid the entire third floor had been occupied by prostitutes. Originally, while the second floor had always been the family living quarters, the third floor had been the hotel section. Forrest had considered reinstating guest rooms, but his funds had run out before the renovations had finished.

  Although he’d arrived only a week after his mother and Galen had left, others had been here before him. Those who’d had money owed to them had taken anything of value. Even old beds and chests of drawers. In almost every room, what they hadn’t taken they’d left too damaged to use.

  Jacob said it had all happened in one night. Everything had been fine when he’d left one evening and then it was either gone or destroyed the next morning. The man had been living in the back of the garage then, in the small room he’d been forced into under Galen’s ownership, and suggested it must have been frustrated employees. Jacob swore the doors had been locked that night, and he hadn’t heard a thing, yet come morning, the damage had all been done. The odd part was that the building hadn’t been broken into; someone had had a key.

  The staff, including Jacob, hadn’t been paid for several months. Forrest had taken care of that issue first. He had used a good portion of his savings to find all the disgruntled workers and pay them their wages, but it had been money well spent. Whether he had anything to do with it or not, those people deserved to be paid for their time rendered. People seemed to appreciate his honesty, although none had jumped at the chance to renew their employment. Then he’d changed the locks.

  “What did he say?” Jacob asked.

  “He’s checking into Galen’s pending release.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Jacob said, climbing the curved stairway of the front entrance.

  Still following, Forrest said, “He’s done well for himself, Roger has. I know you told me that, but until really seeing it all for the first time tonight, I didn’t know how well.”

  “Yes, he has,” Jacob agreed. “But don’t be fooled.They don’t call him The Night for no reason.”

  “You don’t think he’s involved in the opium trade, do you?”

  “Nope, and never have.”

  “I wish I didn’t,” Forrest said honestly. “But after seeing what I saw tonight—the money spent on that place—I have to wonder.” He stopped his mind from taking another path. One that was filled with a shimmering dress and blue eyes. “If Roger was the one who blew the lid off Galen’s cover, he had to know about the opium.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Jacob shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean Roger was involved, then or now.”

  “I know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. If Roger just wanted to take Galen down, why didn’t he just have him busted?
Here?” Forrest shook his head. “All of Galen’s charges were from California. Serious charges. Federal agents extradited him there. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Scratching his tingling scalp, Forrest added, “Roger has the backing of big men. I saw them at the resort tonight. They’re men who own Chicago. He could have had Galen taken down here. Taken out. But he didn’t. Why?”

  Jacob shook his head “I don’t know. I admit, it doesn’t make sense, but let me tell you, don’t be fooled. Galen had people behind him, too. And he’s ruthless and mean, but he’s smart when it comes to protecting his own hide. If what your mother says is true, that they are coming back here when he’s released, he won’t return to Minnesota unless he has the backing he needs to go up against Roger Nightingale.” Pausing at the landing on the second floor, Jacob glanced up with eyes full of sincerity. “The fact he got a second trial tells you he has some firepower behind him.”

  “But who?” Forrest asked, sincerely wanting to know. “Galen burnt every bridge he ever crossed. The way this place was wiped clean tells us that. We’re lucky it wasn’t burned to the ground.”

  “Yes, we are,” Jacob agreed, “and you’re going to need firepower behind you to save what you’ve invested in this place. If you are serious about saving what your grandfather built.”

  Forrest had no intention of revealing that wasn’t the driving force behind his actions. Not to anyone. Gesturing toward Jacob with one hand, he said, “I’m not convinced that should be Roger.”

  “You really think he was involved in the opium business?”

  Forrest’s stomach knotted. “I don’t know what to think.” What he did know was that Galen’s determination and hatred would only be increased if he learned Forrest had asked for Roger’s assistance in preventing his release. Although there was a list of charges against both Galen and his Hollywood film company, his mother claimed only one was the cause of his incarceration, and was tight-lipped about it. Even to him. “Galen was arrested for money laundering. What he was selling has never been revealed.”