The brick structure was solid and well-built, yet Ty knew she’d be able to hear him through the open window beside the door as he let out a bellow of laughter. The echo of another door inside the building slamming filtered through the night air and Ty laughed again before he turned to follow the pathway. He started whistling, not exactly sure why, other than the fact he felt like it.
Norma Rose Nightingale had met her match in him, whether she was prepared for it or not. Mainly because no one, not even a spicy little tomato with a fine set of legs, would stand in his way of ousting Bodine. No, siree. She was just one of many good-looking women with sexy legs covering this earth. He’d tolerate her because he had to, but he wouldn’t bow to her haughtiness. The sooner she discovered that, the better off they’d both be. In the meantime, getting on her good side was going to make a fine game of cat and mouse. He had time. Palooka George’s party was two weeks away.
The cabin was easy to find and was a log structure much like Dave Sutton’s abode. Using the key to enter, Ty set the basket down. His research had already told him this cabin didn’t have a pull string hanging in the center of the room. It had been wired with light switches. Part of the renovations taking place to several of the cabins on this side of the resort.
A low whistle of appreciation escaped without him thinking about it as he flicked the little switch. The workmen camped out behind the barn in several tents had done a fine job. This place was as shiny as a freshly minted penny. He picked up the basket and walked across a thick braided rug, upon which a table and two chairs sat. There was also a small heating stove in the corner. Some serious dough had been laid down to fix up the cabin; even the bed sitting in the center of the room was new, mattress and all.
There was an old-fashioned washstand in the corner, with a pitcher and bowl, along with a new dresser, and the windows that had been left open to release the smell of paint had screens on them. A nice touch considering the number of mosquitoes he’d encountered during his walk along the trail. There’d been a water spigot on the way here, too, which the cabins would share, along with a privy and bath house.
All the comforts of home.
If he’d had a home.
Ray Bodine had seen to it that he didn’t.
Ty made up the bed and stripped down to his short-legged and sleeveless muslin union suit before lying on the fresh sheets with both arms behind his head and a thick pillow beneath them. Tired, he closed his eyes.
This was nice. Far better than most of the hotels he usually resided in. No banging of doors, noisy occupants returning to their rooms at all hours of the night, and no traffic, no sirens blaring and horns honking from dusk to dawn.
It had been a long time since he’d experienced such silence, since before the war, really, and he didn’t believe he’d ever had frogs and the gentle rhythm of water washing onto the shore to serenade him to sleep.
Norma Rose’s image fluttered behind his closed lids. He smiled at the idea of changing that starched little attitude of hers. He doubted she’d ever been kissed. That, too, would be fun to change.
It was all part of his plan.
Holding that thought, with a cool breeze wafting over his skin, Ty gave in to slumber.
* * *
He was up early, due to the hammering next door, but was well rested and he bade good morning to the carpenters working on the cabin beside his—named the Willow—as he collected water from the spigot in the pitcher from the washstand.
Apart from the noise of the hammers, the woods were quiet, serene with the waves of the lake still gently crashing ashore. He took his time returning to his cabin, pretending to enjoy the scenery, including the large weeping willow next to the cabin the men were working on. A large crate sat beneath the tree’s long, leafy branches that hung almost to the ground.
The Duluth Building Company.
Interesting. Nightingale’s resort was only twenty miles from St. Paul, yet he ordered building supplies from Duluth, a hundred and fifty miles north. Then again, Ty doubted the crate was actually used for building supplies.
After cleaning up with the water he’d fetched, Ty left his suit coat, vest and hat on the fancy brass hooks supplied for such things, and found a secure spot for his holster and gun under the new mattress before he left his cabin.
He meandered quietly, walking the full circle of cabins on this side of the main building. There were ten in total including his and all were named. Whitewater, the Cove, Double Pine and other such titles. Several had small buildings a few yards away from the main bungalow that were summer kitchens, he discovered, after sneaking peeks in a few windows.
Taking advantage of the quiet morning, he explored the layout of the other buildings on this side of the parking lot. Woodsheds, a large barn that no longer held animals and was locked tight, a laundry building, complete with the latest washing machines and surrounded by poles connecting several lines of drying wires and a set of tents that belonged to the men working on the cabins.
Crossing the parking lot, Ty paused when a curtain fluttered in one of the windows. He grinned and waved, pleased, knowing full well that Norma Rose was behind the curtain in her office, watching him.
With a chuckle, he started walking again, making his way up the road to Dave’s cabin—the Eagle’s Nest. He’d see Norma Rose soon, and liked the idea of letting her steam a bit as she wondered just when that would be.
Ty didn’t stop at Dave’s cabin. Instead he walked to the end of the road, counting a total of another ten cabins. It appeared the other side, where his cabin was, was where the renovations had started. Though not run-down, the cabins on this side were a pale green, whereas the ones on the other side were dark brown. There were signs of dry rot around the windows and along the eaves of these ones, too. A fraction of bewilderment struck Ty. Perhaps all the renovations—not just those on the cabins, but those completed on the main building over the last couple of years—weren’t just a cover-up strategy.
Others might believe that, but he didn’t. No resort could make the kind of money Nightingale had brought in the past few years. The workmen camped behind the barn were carpenters by day, runners by night, when their crates marked “building supplies” were full of shine, brought here and stored in the barn until they were loaded on the train via the back road that connected the Bald Eagle Depot to Nightingale’s. Ty would now admit, after seeing things up close, a few of those crates had contained building supplies at one time.
His research had been thorough. The Night peddled Minnesota Thirteen whiskey. Initially a home-brew formula, it was now more sought after than the real stuff brought down from Canada, which is why Bodine wanted in. There was less overhead and more money to be made.
As Nightingale had said last night, Norma Rose ran the resort. All the renovations were probably her idea. She may not even know the base of her father’s business. Except Ty didn’t believe that. He suspected Norma Rose knew every last detail about her father’s business.
Women were swayed by money as easily as men, and from the looks of her wardrobe, Norma Rose liked money.
Ty was almost back to Dave’s cabin when Roger Nightingale appeared on the trail leading through the pine trees.
“’Morning.”
“Good morning,” Ty responded.
“Sleep well?”
“Very. You?”
Ty almost laughed at the shift of Roger’s eyes. Nightingale clearly knew Ty suspected he’d been up half the night checking him out. It didn’t bother him. The more they understood each other right from the beginning, the better off they would both be.
“I always do,” the man answered.
As they walked toward Dave’s cabin together, Ty asked, “Do you have a list for me?”
Nightingale handed over a slip of paper. “You’ll need to talk to Rosie, she may think of others, but that’ll give you a place to start.”
Norma Rose was exactly who Ty wanted to talk to, but he had a few things to investigate before then. “
I’ll talk with Dave first,” Ty answered, pausing before opening the cabin door. “If he’s up to it this morning.”
Roger gestured for Ty to open the door. “If he isn’t, we’ll wait until he is.”
Dave wasn’t awake, but Gloria Kasper was. The doctor was in her mid-fifties or so, and although she didn’t look her age—not last night in her night clothes, or this morning dressed in a fashionable blue dress complete with matching headband—she was formidable and stern. She probably had to be, considering she wrote out prescriptions for alcohol and birth control. Two things not easily accepted for a woman to be doing.
“It was wood poisoning, all right,” Gloria said as Ty closed the door. “That government, they think we don’t know what they’re doing. Killing folks. But we do, and that’s exactly what they’re doing, still trying their hardest to make their Prohibition idea work.” During her rant she’d set two mugs on the table and filled them from the coffeepot on the small stove in the corner. “They think by killing people with their tainted whiskey, people will stop drinking. The idea is as ludicrous as making alcohol illegal. They’ll see sooner or later, mark my word. We ousted Andrew Volstead and we can oust the rest of them.”
Ty made no comment as he took a seat indicated by Roger. Andrew Volstead, who the act had been named after, had lost his US Representative seat in 1922. From Minnesota, the man had outraged his constituency and had received numerous death threats before losing his seat. The latest rumor, which had the entire country in an uproar, was sweeping fast. Word was spreading that the government had hired teams of chemists and planted them inside specific areas known to have large still operations that fulfilled the public’s need for intoxicating beverages. Ty couldn’t say he believed in the conspiracy, but his supervisor had warned him to never take so much as a sip of alcohol in certain regions out east.
One more reason Minnesota Thirteen was gaining in popularity. Named after the corn variety grown in the area, the brew was considered safe and pure. Stearns County, where the vast majority was produced, was just a hundred miles northwest of White Bear Lake and known as the best moonshine region in the northwest. Every Prohibition agent knew that, and Ty had used that tidbit of information last night, while telling Nightingale he was on the tail of a snitch, someone who was trying to maneuver his way into the booze trade. It was true, that was what Bodine was doing, but Ty wasn’t a private eye hired by a New York gangster to discover who the snitch was, as he’d told Nightingale. Of course, he’d had enough inside information for Nightingale to believe his story. His question was if Norma Rose would believe him. She might prove to be the hardest one to crack.
The other piece, which, in his mind, had tied everything together for Nightingale, was how he’d known about the Bald Eagle Lake area. Although it had no shipping yards, it had its own depot, with not just north and south trains like White Bear Lake, but trains traveling east and west, too. Freight trains that stopped regularly, yet not a single railroad admitted to stopping or shipping cargo out of the area.
This area was a bootlegger’s dream. A hub that Ty had practically stumbled upon and hadn’t told anyone about. Not even his supervisor. He’d simply said this was his chance to bring down Bodine.
“How’s Dave doing?” Roger asked, ignoring Gloria’s continued rant, which had gone from how if the government made alcohol legal again they could quit taxing poor folks to death to how President Coolidge, in her opinion, was little more than a teetotaler.
Ty had never met the president, but he did know Coolidge had proposed to cut the Prohibition bureau’s budget. The treasury secretary, who was also the chief Prohibition enforcement officer, wasn’t fighting the idea. Andrew Mellon loathed Prohibition and put no extra efforts in its enforcement, which did make Ty’s job more difficult. With a budget that barely paid for gas in his Model T, Ty needed this opportunity with the Nightingales more than ever. He’d used a good portion of his own funds—mainly reward money he’d earned from other arrests—tracking down Bodine.
As he watched Gloria Kasper top all three cups with a bump from a brandy bottle, Ty decided if he was near when either the president or Mellon met Gloria, he’d encourage them to offer her a toast—with alcohol. He’d seen the way she’d jabbed a tube down Dave’s throat last night to wash his stomach with a solution of warm water and baking soda. Remembering the sight now, he had to wonder if Dave would ever be able to talk again.
“How do you think Dave is?” the woman responded to Roger. “He was poisoned and has been throwing up baking-soda water for the last eight hours.”
Roger took a sip of his coffee and nodded before he asked, “You’re sure it was wood alcohol?”
“Can’t you smell it?” she asked.
“All I smell is vomit,” Roger answered disgustedly.
Ty agreed, but made no comment. He did, however, remember how the sight and smell had disturbed Norma Rose last night. A weakness he’d file away to use if he needed it later.
“Exactly,” Gloria said. “I’ve cleaned up everything Dave regurgitated—what you’re smelling is him. That’s what wood alcohol poisoning smells like. Vomit. Grain alcohol doesn’t leave that stench.” She leveled her big brown eyes on Ty. “Ethyl is grain alcohol, methyl is wood. Ethyl’s wage is a hangover, methyl’s is death.”
“I’ve heard as much,” he told her, and noted never to get on her bad side.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Roger said. “Dave doesn’t drink.”
“I didn’t say the methyl was in some form of hooch,” Gloria said. “When distilled properly, it’s odorless and tasteless. From what came out of his stomach, my guess is they slipped it in one of those milk shakes he likes so much.”
Roger’s slow gaze landed on Ty with all the potency of a well-aimed tommy gun.
“Dave didn’t have a milk shake at the drugstore while I was there,” Ty said. “He had soup.” Picking up his cup, he added, “And coffee.”
“When was that?” Gloria asked.
“Yesterday. Lunchtime. Noon or so,” Ty answered.
She shook her head and said to Roger, “If Dave had drunk that at noon, he’d have been dead before they found him on the street corner last night. I don’t think he drank enough to kill anyone, especially a man his size, but because he’s so allergic to alcohol, its effects were ten times worse than they would have been for someone else.”
“What would have happened to someone else?” Ty asked.
“Delirium, shallow breathing, racing heart, stomach cramps,” Gloria answered. “But the most common is blurred vision, which often leads to complete blindness.”
“Will Dave lose his sight?” Roger asked.
Ty recognized concern in the man’s tone. Roger had shown he was worried about his brother-in-law, but now sincere anguish appeared on his face.
Gloria’s expression softened and she reached across the table to squeeze Roger’s hand. “I don’t believe so. Most of his symptoms are because of his allergy, not the methyl.”
“When will we know for sure?”
She shrugged. “Could be up to a week or more.”
Roger nodded and drank the last of his coffee before he asked, “Do you want me to get one of the girls to come and sit with him for a while?”
“No.” Gloria removed her hand from Roger’s to drink her coffee. “I had one of your watchmen sit in here while I went and got dressed. I’ll do that again if I need to.” She glanced at the timepiece hanging around her neck on a shimmering gold chain. “I need to wake him in another twenty minutes for another dose of soda water. I’ll keep doing that throughout the day, just to make sure.” Sitting back in her chair she once again turned her attention to Ty. “I’ve seen a lot of mouthpieces, and you aren’t a lawyer. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Ty wasn’t completely caught off guard. Her lack of trust was as thick in the air as the smell of vomit. He waited a moment or two, to see if Roger answered. When he didn’t, Ty nodded. “You’re right. I’m not a lawyer. Al
though I have attended law school.” He didn’t bother to add that it had been years ago, before he’d gone overseas. Roger Nightingale would tell her all that.
“Out east,” she said. “I can tell by your accent.”
He nodded again, and proceeded to tell her what he’d told Roger last night.
* * *
Even if she had been able to sleep, Norma Rose would have been in her office by sunup, digging out notes she’d made on every musician who’d played at the resort over the last couple of years. She had notes on ones that had played other places, too, even the Plantation. Years ago, the nightclub had been as big as the resort, drawing in crowds like no other. That was before Galen Reynolds had left for California and Forrest had returned.
Norma Rose’s mind, though, wasn’t focused on her notes, or the Plantation, or even Forrest Reynolds. None of that had been the reason she hadn’t been able to sleep. The stench of a rat had done that, and the smell was still eating at her.
Ty Bradshaw.
The man who’d been roaming the resort since sunrise. She knew a varmint when she saw one, whether it had two legs or four. A grin tugged at her lips. She should feel guilty, sending the workmen over to the cabin next to his so early, but there were no other guests in the nearby cabins. They wouldn’t arrive until later this week. And she did want the renovations done by then. Besides, the workmen had been up; she’d seen the lights in their tents from her bedroom window.
As her heart did a little flutter, recalling seeing Ty outside her office window a short time ago, she flipped open the cover of a writing tablet and grabbed a pen. “You are no gentleman, Ty Bradshaw,” she mumbled.
Scanning the first pages of her notes, she huffed out another breath. Her mind just wouldn’t focus, and it was too early to wake Ginger. Her youngest sister would pitch a fit, but Ginger knew all the local musicians. Not personally—their father did not allow the younger girls to mix with the guests or hired entertainers—but Ginger had perfect penmanship and helped Norma Rose write out contracts regularly, and was interested in such things.
The Bootlegger's Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 1) Page 4
