A sparse selection of late-morning diners was scattered throughout the room. Over endless refills of coffee, a quartet of farmers in faded overalls discussed the latest entry in the annual tall corn contest between Indiana and Illinois, and a woman handicapped by a print house-dress, three children, and a basket filled with cabbages had staked off one of the long tables. The salesman, a balding man whose shabby shoes and checkered tie were reflected in the plate-glass window through which he watched the passersby, sipped his beer as his cigarette sent up blue smoke signals of contentment.
The baby wailed and one of the farmers lit up another stogie as he signaled the waitress with his empty cup. Despite the hum of conversation, the salesman knew that each diner’s attention, like his own, was covertly focused on the woman seated at the bar.
The height of the stool called attention to the length and shape of tanned, bare legs and the scarlet cotton of her outfit molded her breasts into large ripe strawberries. The sun-kissed hair falling to her shoulders was freshly curled and the man at the window table fought the urge to plunge his face into those shining waves and refresh his tired soul.
The mother in the faded dress plucked a fork from the toddler before he could jab it into his brother’s eye and muttered, “Simply scandalous!” but the salesman would have bet a five-spot she’d trade the squirming children and the cabbages for ten minutes in that sleek, red-garbed body.
But the woman at the bar seemed oblivious to the glances, the miniature dust devil dancing in through the propped open door, and the buzz of the flies dipping their feet into the pool of gravy on a nearby table. The newspaper spread across the polished wood held her attention, her hair sweeping forward to hide her expression.
The waitress appeared with a steaming pot of coffee and circulated the tables before going behind the bar. “What can I get ya, Rosemary?”
The voice was cool, the diction precise. “Iced beer, please, Myrtle.”
Myrtle smoothed her apron and combed back the wisps of hair that had escaped from the tight bun at the nape of her neck and were now rioting around her cheeks. “Hope no bulls wander in here—ya know how they feel about red flags.”
Selecting a brown bottle from the rack, she pulled a mug out from under the bar. “That sunsuit tain’t decent but if I had your figger, I suppose I’d share it with less fortunate folks.”
Rosemary’s laugh echoed the chime of freshly chipped ice in the mug. “I like to be comfortable—it’s sweltering outside.”
“And the temperature in here rose a few degrees when you sashayed in.” Myrtle snapped her gum and winked.
The salesman stubbed out his cigarette as a heavyset man with dark circles of perspiration staining the cotton under his arms entered, laden with packages wrapped in brown paper. Myrtle made a motion like a conjurer at the fair and the bottle disappeared.
“Myrt! Quit jawin’ and get busy!”
Ignoring the barked command, his employee wrinkled a snub nose. “I’ll bring some lemonade. Fresh squeezed—I pretended the lemons were Ed’s neck.”
Ed Lawson, owner of the Brown Dog, paused to glare at the display of tanned legs. “You should be ashamed, Rosemary, appearin’ in public with hardly no clothes on your back,” he rasped. “Does your mother know you’re showin’ so much flesh?”
The girl ignored him, bending her head over the paper again and tucking a strand of hair behind one ear.
Sweat dripped down his jowls as his tongue ran over full lips. “Don’t come in my place dressed like this again, ya hear?”
Rosemary licked the tip of her finger and turned the page. As if unaware of the scrutiny of the man behind her, she arched her back and raised her arms above her head in a sensuous, catlike stretch. Ed gulped; the sound of ripping paper was accompanied by a groan as meat juice from the torn package splashed on his shoe.
“Myrt! Clean this mess up!” he shouted and waddled with the meat through a swinging door that apparently led into the kitchen.
The salesman picked up his sample case and pushed back his chair. Shuffling across the floor, he paused at the cash register where Myrtle accepted his money and flirted in return, but his last look was at Rosemary, to store up a vision to brighten the dark loneliness of nights spent in cheap hotels and boardinghouses.
The porch creaked as he stepped outside, passing a blond pretty enough to have stepped off the cover of a candy box, but the picture was spoiled by the anxious line of her generous mouth and the bangs matted against a damp forehead. Unconscious of the salesman’s appraising glance, she drew a deep breath for courage before entering the café.
Rosemary glanced up to greet the newcomer. “Connie! I just finished today’s installment of ‘The Tower Door.’ Esmeralda has actually climbed those wretched stairs and her hand is upraised to knock while a tremendous storm rages outside the tower.”
Connie perched on a neighboring stool and plucked at her skirt’s too tight waistband. “What’s Esmeralda wearing?”
“An emerald silk shift with a pale green velvet dressing gown tied with an emerald sash.” Rosemary laughed, twining one foot around a wooden leg of the bar stool. “I’d get tired of dressing like a string bean. Doesn’t she have clothes of any other color except green?”
Connie rubbed the palms of her hands together as if warming herself over an invisible flame. “Maybe she’s color-blind.”
Myrtle sailed out of the kitchen, the swinging door cutting off the cross voice of the heavyset man. The waitress carried two frosted mugs of lemonade that she set before the two girls.
“Sorry, kids. Can’t serve beer with that fat golly-wampus breathin’ down my neck. Rosemary’s lack of attire bothers Ed—you’d think he kept a Bible under his pillow instead of that cigarette card of Gypsy Rose Lee.”
Rosemary took a sip. “Delicious, Myrtle.”
“Myrt! Take care of them dishes in the sink! Get your fat hind end in here and don’t trip over that waggin’ tongue!”
Myrtle, ignoring the muffled shouts, slipped the brown bottle out from under the bar and popped the top in the bottle opener. Taking a healthy swig, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and planted her elbows on the polished surface of the bar. “What are you gals gonna wear to the dance tonight?”
“I’ll be a vision in pale blue.” Rosemary struck a dramatic pose, her hands fanned across her breasts. “My dress has fake pearls on the bodice to match the real pearls at my throat.”
“Real pearls? I suppose they was a gift from one of them men you keep danglin’ on a string.” Myrtle sighed. “I’m as green with envy as that gal Esmeralda’s wardrobe.”
“Connie’s dress is bright red, almost the same color as my sunsuit, and has a darling scoop neckline.” Rosemary’s hands drew a quick sketch over her companion’s breastbone.
Myrtle clucked her tongue. “My, you two will be the belles of the ball. Where did you get money for new dresses?”
Connie’s face was a study in misery and she traced a circle in the condensation on her glass as her friend responded. “Connie’s generous father bought them for us. That reminds me, I haven’t thanked him yet.”
Connie uttered a stifled squeak, but the drumming of heels on the board porch turned everyone’s attention to the door. A man in a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves entered in a cloud of dust but when his gaze traveled to the flash of red at the bar, he stopped as though he had run into a brick wall.
The farmers put down their cups and watched with interest as Rosemary and the young man stared at each other. Even the eight-year-old stopped scuffing his shoes against the table leg and glanced up, his attention drawn by the sudden hush.
A diner at a table by the window broke the tension by shoving back his chair. The scrape was a signal for the man in the doorway to flush a deep red up to the roots of his chestnut brown hair, pivot on his heel, and stalk out.
“If Matt Boyington looked at me with them burning eyes, I’d know I’d died and gone to heaven,” Myrtle vowed in a hushed voice.
“You could’ve cut the air with a butter knife, it was so thick in here. He’s still got it bad for you, Rosemary.”
Rosemary’s gaze was fixed on the open doorway. She wet her lips and glanced down at the drink in her hand. “He hates me.”
She seemed oddly shaken by the wordless encounter, one hand straying to cover the cleavage displayed by her sunsuit, as though her pleasant dreams of the dance had been ground under the heel of a man’s worn boot.
“If he was carryin’ a torch any higher, he’d have set the ceiling afire,” Myrtle said, adding as she turned back to the kitchen, “I heard he switched shifts tonight so he wouldn’t have to see you floatin’ in the arms of another man. Why you had to jilt that young buck, I’ll never know.”
Connie massaged her throat, wishing her father allowed her to smoke—lighting a cigarette was the act of a sophisticated woman. A sophisticated woman wouldn’t have been sent back to the store in disgrace like a naughty child.
Rosemary stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her voice was low-pitched, husky with suppressed emotion. “A broken heart doesn’t show, does it?”
Her own heart thudding against her ribs, Connie was too keyed up to wait any longer. “Rosemary, there’s something—I mean, I have to tell you—”
Rosemary swung her legs around and faced her companion. “What’s happened, Connie? You’re flushed—are you ill?”
“No. It’s worse than me being sick.”
Rosemary put a slim, tanned hand on Connie’s plump one and squeezed gently. “Is your mother poorly again?”
Connie looked at Rosemary and felt an intense love well up within her, love mingled with shame. A true friend would have cut off her right hand before returning Rosemary’s dress.
“I—” she began and choked, fumbling for the handkerchief tucked in her waistband.
“Rosemary.” A man’s voice cut through the clatter of coffee cups and the buzz of conversation, rasping like sandpaper over flesh.
Connie whirled on the stool. Spider Webb stood in the doorway of the café, his gaze fixed on Rosemary’s bare shoulders.
“Saw Matt hightailing it away and figured you was hidin’ in here,” he said, moving forward on the balls of his feet with the gliding step of a gunfighter heading for a showdown.
Connie winced as Rosemary’s hand clenched and pink-tipped nails bit into soft flesh, but her friend’s greeting was tranquil. “Hello, Spider.”
The newcomer advanced until Connie felt the heat radiating from the man’s unwashed body and recoiled from the stink of liquor on his breath. “You and me are going ta the pictures tonight, Rosemary.”
Connie forgot her confession, forgot everything except the terror that gripped her whenever Spider appeared. With a thick, unshaven jaw shading up to a scowl and little pig eyes, Spider reeked of violence. Her breath quickened. Most of the fear was for Rosemary; Connie had been present one night when Rosemary defied him and Spider had knocked the girl to the ground with one blow of a knotted fist.
“I told you I wasn’t going out with you anymore.” Rosemary kept her back to her tormentor, but her eyes watched his movements in the mirror with the wariness of a doe studying a wolf.
Connie flinched when Spider raised his hand but he merely scratched the bristles on his jaw. “I’m not asking ya, I’m tellin’ ya—I’ve got somethin’ planned. We’ll go ta the pictures and sit in the air-conditionin’ for a minute and then I’m leavin’. But if someone asks, ya have to say we was together all night.”
Rosemary took a sip of lemonade and turned a page of the newspaper. “Did you see the flapper cartoon, Connie?”
Connie’s tongue seemed anchored to the bottom of her dry mouth, but she rose to the appeal. “I love cartoons,” she volunteered in quavering tones.
“Or how about the Good Manners column? Here’s a letter: ‘Dear Miss Good Manners: What do you do when a hulking brute with the brains of a beheaded chicken won’t stop annoying you?’”
Spider’s hand moved with the speed of a striking snake, burying his fingers in Rosemary’s hair. He yanked and some of the lemonade slopped out of the heavy glass mug as she arched backward.
The woman in the housedress gathered her protesting children and fled, leaving the cabbages in solitary possession of the table. One of the farmers started to rise, but sank back down after another assessment of Spider’s bulging muscles and reddened eyes.
Connie started to slide off the bar stool. She’d get Matt, he was the only man in town who’d ever beaten Spider in a fair fight—and that was the night Spider had struck Rosemary.
“Don’t move, dumplin’, or I break her neck.” He jerked again and the cords stood out from Rosemary’s throat as she breathed in quick, whistling gasps.
“Ain’t so brave now, are ya, darlin’?” He twisted the handful of hair and yanked downward. His other hand closed around Rosemary’s left breast with cruel pressure as he pulled her against his body. “You like this, don’t you, slut?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Connie caught a glimpse of Myrtle and Ed Lawson peeking out of the kitchen. If only Mr. Lawson were stronger and braver, Connie thought, her stomach churning. If only I were a man, I’d stop him.
“Too good for Spider, are ya, Rosemary? I’ll teach you to mind me, ya little—”
Rosemary hadn’t relinquished her grip on the mug and she suddenly brought the heavy glass up in a swinging arc, shattering it against Spider’s forehead.
He released her with a shrill cry of shock and pain. One of the glass shards had laid open his brow from the corner of one eye to the center part of his pale, thinning hair. Blood poured down the side of his face and stained his shirt, giving him the appearance of a hideous one-eyed monster. The blow had dazed him; he lurched on his feet and reached for the support of the bar.
Myrtle emerged from the kitchen brandishing the carving knife she used on the pot roast. “Get outta here, you hoodlum! I’ve called the sheriff and he’s sending someone over.”
Spider’s eyes were glazed, but under the confusion pure hatred bloomed. A vein in his temple purpled and the massive chest heaved. “I’ll kill ya for that, Rosemary,” he said in a low voice that was more deadly than a shout.
Her pin curls quivering with emotion, Myrtle advanced. “Scram before I slice you into steaks—and we’ve had enough complaints about the toughness of our beef.”
He shook off the plump woman and her puny knife with contempt and stalked toward the door where he bent to heft the crumbling red brick serving as a prop.
Myrtle, Connie, and Rosemary ducked in unison and Ed Lawson vanished behind the protection of the kitchen door as Spider stepped forward and flung the brick at the mirror behind the bar. The silvered glass shattered into a million pieces, spraying over the bottles arranged below.
“Tell the sheriff I’ll be lookin’ for him after dark,” Spider said and stalked out without a backward glance.
The buzzing of the flies around the spilled gravy was the only sound until Rosemary laughed and brushed the glass from her hair. “You’ll have to let me borrow that knife tonight, Myrtle—I could use it when some guy wants to close dance to a fast number.” She turned to Connie who was still staring at the wooden backing revealed behind the broken mirror. “Now, what were you trying to tell me when we were so rudely interrupted?”
The tension of the confrontation with Spider had wiped the carefully prepared speech from Connie’s mind and she blurted out the truth. “Father got the bill for our dresses and he made me return them. You haven’t got a dress for tonight.”
Not a sound had escaped her lips during Spider’s brutal assault, but now Rosemary whimpered and pressed her hand against her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” The tears poured down Connie’s rouged cheeks. “I shouldn’t have told you Father was going to buy them—he didn’t know anything about the dresses till this morning.”
Rosemary’s eyes were remote as she studied Connie’s tear-stained face and her voice was though
tful. “I tried Flora’s dress on last week and thought I looked smashing in peach.”
The implications of the remark made her companion sway on the stool. “You’d wear Flora’s dress? After all her work—”
“I don’t want to hurt her.” Rosemary bit her lip. “If only there was another way…”
“Don’t take the dress, Rosemary. I’ll tell the store I changed my mind—they’ll give me your blue one—”
Rosemary detached Connie’s clinging fingers from her arm. “You lied to me, Connie. Our friendship is at an end.”
“No.” Connie raked her fingers through her hair, her throat tight with unshed tears. “Just because of one little lie?”
“If you’d lie to me about this, how can I trust you with anything important?” Rosemary slipped from the stool and walked away, her head held high on a slender neck.
Mr. Lawson stopped wringing his hands over the sparkling slivers of his mirror to point a finger. “Don’t come back, Rosemary. You’re a troublemaker, you and your hoodlum friends.”
“Real brave you are when talking to a female,” Connie shouted and he cringed back from her unexpected wrath, as if a kitten had unsheathed the wicked claws of a mountain lion.
Sliding off the stool, Connie started after Rosemary on wobbling knees. “Rosemary, don’t leave me! I love you…”
But Rosemary never looked back, moving past the front window of the café with her free, hip-swinging walk. Connie let her outstretched hands fall, stumbled back to the stool, and dropped her head down on crossed arms. Her heartbroken sobs underlined Ed Lawson’s complaints as he bemoaned the fate of his mirror and the seven years of bad luck that now clung like fleas to the aptly named café.
Chapter 13
“So Spider did carry out his threat to kill Rosemary,” Abigail murmured, stunned to learn that the identity of the girl’s killer must have been public knowledge. Why hadn’t Flora told her any of this?
Rosemary for Remembrance Page 7
