The Bootlegger's Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 1)

by Lauri Robinson

  Leaning back in her chair, Norma Rose crossed her arms and eyed him pointedly with those no-nonsense blue eyes. “No, because I stay one step ahead of them.”

  “What about your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he stay one step ahead of your sisters, too?”

  “He doesn’t have to,” she said. “He has me to do that, and we’re not just talking about my sisters.”

  Ty wanted to stand, maybe walk over and look out the window, but he knew she’d catch his unease. He glanced back to the ledger. “Is this everyone?”

  She didn’t sigh, or make any such sound, nor did she move, but he felt her inward shift as she tried to decipher him. He’d been up against mobsters who couldn’t make him sweat and he could hold his own against her, too. It had taken him too long to get to where he was to jeopardize it all over a woman.

  The sound of morning birds calling to one another filtered in through the open window, thickening the silence between him and Norma Rose. They’d come to a standoff. She wasn’t going to answer any more questions from him until he answered hers. Ty wasn’t impressed that he’d let it get to this point. He was usually more on top of things. Since entering her office, he’d spent more time admiring how fine she looked in that black-and-white sequined dress than keeping his focus on the prize. Which was Bodine. Not Norma Rose Nightingale.

  “My position here needs to remain a secret,” he said, sitting up and meeting her solid gaze with his own.

  “So you are a federal agent.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” he said quietly and glanced around for good measure. “To everyone else, I’m a lawyer. Your Uncle Dave’s lawyer.”

  Norma Rose was rubbing her hands together and thinking. Definitely thinking. Lifting her chin slightly, she asked, “What are you investigating?”

  Ty was slightly disappointed she’d given up so easily. He liked a challenging adversary. He just had to keep reminding himself that was not Norma Rose. “I believe someone may have poisoned Dave last night in order to kidnap him.”

  “Kidnap him? What for?”

  He lifted a brow. She knew why gangsters kidnapped people.

  She nodded, accepting his silent acknowledgment. “Who?”

  Glancing toward the ledger again, he said, “You tell me.”

  Rising from her chair, she walked around her desk, her heels clicking evenly until she stopped near the window, leaned over the small table and pulled the curtain aside to peer out. Ty found himself appraising her again. Admiring her legs and the seam of her nylons that rose out of her shoes and disappeared beneath her skirt. His inspection continued upward, over her shapely derriere and subtly curved spine.

  She let loose the curtain and turned, and he was glad he had his eyes on her face at that point. Norma Rose did not like to be ogled. She’d made that clear last night when the police chief couldn’t keep his eyes above her shoulders. Ty also had a hell of a time keeping his eyes where they belonged, then and now.

  “No one,” she said with a hint of skepticism, “would attempt to kidnap my uncle. Especially not someone on that list.” Gesturing toward the ledger with a gloved hand, she continued, “Whether those are their real names or not, the people on that list wouldn’t risk losing my father’s—” she paused as if searching for the right word “—friendship.”

  Why was he pussyfooting around? He wouldn’t with anyone else. “Your father’s a bootlegger,” he pointed out.

  Her gasp said more than words ever could have. She caught herself, though, and held back her glare. “He is not.”

  Getting a rise out of her kicked his heart into a faster speed. Yet, once again, Ty simply raised a brow.

  “Prove it,” she challenged.

  “I don’t have to.” Ty slid off the desk, but only to pivot around and sit in her chair, where he leaned back. “I already know it.”

  Her cheeks flared red, and he’d say the reasons for that blush were spilt fifty-fifty. Fifty percent concern at her father’s profession and fifty percent anger at him for relaxing in her chair. He considered resting a foot on her desk, but that might be taking things too far.

  Stiffening her spine, Norma Rose planted both hands on the slight inner curve of her hips. “Not an ounce of liquor has ever been sold at this resort.” Catching herself, she added, “Not since Prohibition.”

  He let out an exaggerated guffaw.

  She paced in front of the desk, heels clicking on the wood and her breath came out in little huffs as she glared at him. “My grandfather used to make wine, lots of it, from everything. Grapes, cherries, apples, even dandelions. The basement of our house was full of it, and people came from miles around to have a glass of Nightingale wine.”

  This time Ty let out a real laugh, cutting it short only because she pinched her lips tight. “Do you expect me to believe the only alcohol you have at the resort is some old wine your grandfather made?”

  Her eyelids fluttered shut and the deep breath she took made her shoulders rise and her ample breasts more prominent. Ty allowed himself time to examine her, knowing she was thinking hard to come up with an excuse he’d believe, but made sure his eyes were on hers when her lids lifted.

  “That’s not what I said.” Lifting her chin, she let out a long sigh, and set a hand on her flat stomach. “The Eighteenth Amendment was passed in 1919, however, it didn’t go into effect until 1920.”

  Although he didn’t need a history lesson, and knew more about the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act than she ever would, he nodded.

  “My father,” she continued, “was—is—a very enterprising man. A smart one. Since he worked for the Hamm’s Brewery at the time, he bought up several cases of liquor.”

  Ty rubbed a hand over his mouth to keep his smile hidden.

  “For private consumption, of course,” she added staunchly.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “Private consumption.”

  “Yes. It’s perfectly legal to possess and consume alcohol.”

  “As long as you have a doctor’s prescription,” Ty added.

  She bristled again. “The law clearly states it’s the manufacturing, transportation and selling of intoxicating liquors that is illegal. We do none of those.”

  He had no doubt she knew the entire amendment inside and out, and wasn’t about to hash out the intricate details, yet he couldn’t help challenging her. “So, you’re telling me all the alcohol consumed here is by friends and family? Private consumption?”

  With her chin still hoisted, she said, “Not a single drink has ever been sold. I have receipts for every dime this place has taken in, and for what. I can show them if you’d like.”

  He’d bet she did. The resort did the same thing as most taverns and speakeasies. They had cover charges. Most places claimed the money was paid to see a blind pig or other such phenomenon or for the hors d’oeuvres provided, but no one went to those places just to eat, and no one really wanted to see a blind pig. But, in all the years he’d been chasing down gangsters, he’d never met a man who’d refuse a drink because it was illegal.

  Roger Nightingale was an enterprising man. The resort was an upscale establishment. An evening’s cover charge included a meal and entertainment. Even the lodging cost included “complimentary” drinks, and the prices Nightingale charged called to the high rollers. A man would spend whatever it takes, as long as he’s getting what he wants—such as the real stuff the resort poured into their highball glasses. No branch water or rotgut. Beer was served here, too, which was highly unusual. Nightingale may have purchased several cases of liquor way back when, but he went through several cases a night, and had done so for years.

  Which was why Ty was here. Bodine wanted the real stuff. The heat was on for those running it from Canada. Nightingale’s gold mine had been one of the best kept secrets, and it still was in many ways. It was a place you had to know about. Ty wasn’t sure how Bodine had found out, but Ty had discovered it listening to two of Bodine’s f
ront men in Chicago over a month ago.

  Bodine’s men had talked about their orders to find a way into Nightingale’s closed group, and Ty had no doubt they would. Kidnapping Dave would have done it, but that seemed to have failed.

  Ty stood. Bodine’s name wasn’t on that list, which meant he had a bit more investigating to do. Walking around the desk, he winked at Norma Rose. “Save your receipts for someone who cares, doll.”

  Her cheeks flared red once again. Getting her frustrated was so easy. Fun, too.

  He pulled open the door, but she hit it with one hand, slamming it shut. Glaring, she growled, “Don’t ever call me doll.”

  There was more than frustration on her face; this was flat-out anger, but a knock on the door prevented Ty from contemplating her reaction for too long. He lifted a brow, silently asking if he could open the door.

  She stepped back and nodded.

  A portly man, with wide suspenders holding up his britches and a flat felt hat covering his head, held out one hand. “Got the keys for you, Miss Nightingale.”

  Instantly prim and proper again—at least on the outside—Norma Rose took the keys. “Thank you, Walter.” Maintaining her businesslike attitude, she marched around her desk and dropped the keys in the top drawer. “I’ll need you to send a few men over to the farmhouse. We have guests who’ll be arriving next week and I’d like the bushes trimmed and lawn mowed before then.”

  “Yes, miss, I’ll see to it right away.”

  Ty’s mind clicked like the cogs of a wheel lining up. He’d seen the farmhouse, located on the other side of a thick row of trees several yards behind the barn, but had assumed the family occupied it, even though he knew they all had rooms on the upper floors of the main building. “You rent out the house, too?” he asked, once Walter had left, and shut the door behind him.

  “Yes,” Norma Rose snapped. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t,” he remarked.

  “We rent it out on a weekly basis only, mainly to families,” she said. “It has its own boathouse and beach.”

  “Who is renting it?”

  Although she clearly didn’t want to, she pulled another ledger down from a shelf on the wall and flipped through several pages before stopping. “Ralph Brandon and his family from Green Bay. They’ll be arriving by train...”

  Ty stopped listening. Ralph Brandon. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while. Ray Bodine had used it in upstate New York a few years ago, shortly before another man, positively identified as Ralph Brandon, had been found dead. Bodine wasn’t on the guest list because he planned on already being at the resort when George’s party took place. Spinning around, Ty headed for the door again.

  “Just for the record, Mr. Bradshaw,” Norma Rose said. “I don’t believe anything about you. Not your tale about being a private investigator, or your story about Uncle Dave being a kidnapping target.” Lifting the corners of her rose-red lips, she added, “I believe only a federal agent would know all those names you mentioned.”

  With one hand on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder. “Believe what you like.”

  Her stare was direct and cold. “I will, and I will see you are off this property by the end of the day.”

  Opening the door, he stepped into the hallway, but turned to face her. “Save a dance for me, will you?”

  Her stoic expression dipped in a moment of confusion. “What—what are you talking about?”

  “Find a good band for Palooka George’s party,” he said. “So you and I can wear a hole in the rug.”

  Lips tight, she brushed her skirt beneath her as she lowered herself onto her chair. “Our dance floor is made of wood, and I never dance. Not with anyone.”

  “One more thing I’ll have to change,” he said, pulling the door closed.

  * * *

  Norma Rose held her gloved hands tightly together, to keep the trembling at bay. That man infuriated her, and frightened her in a way she’d never been scared before. That was a hard thing to admit, even to herself.

  He’d never answered her question, but inside, she knew he was a federal agent. He had to be. The Volstead Act was held up by the feds. Local boys only had to worry about state laws, which were much more lenient. She dealt with plenty of local authorities, but he’d be her first federal one. That had to be why he affected her so.

  Dancing? Posh! He’d soon learn she was no doxy. She wouldn’t be pursued or swayed by any man. Plenty had tried over the years. Ty couldn’t frighten her, either, by naming all those gangsters like he had. For all she knew he was lying. Big-time New York and Chicago gangsters had no reason to visit Minnesota.

  Unsettled, she rose and walked to the window. The barn stood directly across the parking lot. Besides the cabin that had been torn down long ago, that barn had been the first thing her great-grandfather built on the property. That was when the land had been part of the Wisconsin Territory, before becoming part of the Minnesota Territory in 1849. The rocky ground wasn’t easy to work and farming hadn’t paid off very well for her ancestors. Her grandfather, having lived most of his life trying to draw money from the land, had taken another approach. He’d built a dance pavilion and then cabins, when the dances became popular.

  Just five years ago, the resort had been nothing more than that little pavilion and the run-down cabins. Norma Rose had been a major player in the resort’s renovation since the day her father had reopened the place, and she wasn’t about to let some no-good revenue man take it all away from her.

  Ty appeared in her line of vision, almost as if she’d conjured him up. He was walking toward the barn. She took a step back, just in case he turned around and saw her.

  All the snooping in the world wouldn’t reveal a thing. As she’d told Ty, her father was a smart man. There was no tax evasion going on here, and the other activities were so concealed a mole couldn’t unearth them.

  “Norma Rose.”

  She spun around as her door opened once again. This time it was Josie. “Have you seen Ginger or Twyla? I have a ladies meeting this afternoon and will surely be late if I have to do everything by myself.”

  Josie lived for the Bald Eagle Ladies Aid Society. Norma Rose didn’t mind her sister’s involvement, except when it interfered with things that needed to be done at the resort. “I thought your meetings were on Tuesday.”

  “They normally are. This is a special meeting because we’re creating the decorations for Emma Imhoff’s anniversary.” Wearing a pair of plaid pants and a loose-fitting white shirt, which she proclaimed was the perfect outfit for cleaning cabins, Josie entered the room. Soft-spoken and generally agreeable—apart from when it came to missing one of her meetings—Josie continued, “Ruth and Frances have been coddling their roses so they’ll be at their best next weekend. We plan on making lace doilies to put beneath each vase and—”

  “No,” Norma Rose interrupted. She was thankful Josie had an eye for decorating when it came to special events, but she didn’t need the details. “I haven’t seen Ginger. Twyla was looking for her earlier. Have you asked her?”

  “The last time I saw Twyla, she was in our bathroom, trying to pierce her ears again.” Josie shrugged. “She might have succeeded this time. There was blood in the sink when I looked in there again a few minutes ago.”

  Norma Rose puffed out a heavy breath. Keeping up with her sisters was exhausting. “I told her she’s not allowed to have pierced ears.”

  “So?”

  Bristling from head to toe, Norma Rose marched to the door. “I’ll find them.”

  Josie followed, explaining that she’d finished the guest rooms upstairs, and was now on her way to the cabins. They parted in the back hall, where a whimpering sound had Norma Rose heading toward the kitchen, where she found Twyla—still wearing the pink dress and her white shoes—red-eyed and holding a piece of ice to one earlobe.

  Moe fussed around Twyla, patting her shoulder.

  Norma Rose felt little, if any, empathy. “G
o and change your clothes and get to work.”

  “I can’t,” Twyla sobbed. “I’m bleeding.”

  One well-aimed glare had Moe stepping back. Norma Rose grabbed Twyla’s hand and pulled it away from her ear. “No, you’re not.” Snatching the ice, she threw it in the sink. “Now go.”

  Claiming their father would hear about this, a red-faced Twyla climbed off the stool and ran to the door.

  “I told her she should have put the ice on her ear before poking the needle through it,” Moe said.

  Norma Rose wasn’t interested in Twyla’s ear, or worried about their father hearing about anything—Norma Rose had pretty much been in charge of raising her sisters after their mother had died of influenza. She made no comment as she left the room, now in search of Ginger. Both Twyla and Josie would be mad when Norma Rose found their youngest sister and engaged her aid in finding suitable musicians for the next two weekends, rather than sending her to help them with chores.

  So be it. They were mad at her more often than not. Norma Rose was always the odd one out. The other three giggled amongst themselves, shared clothes and jewelry and cosmetics. It was just as well; she didn’t have time to shop for new things when they lost or damaged her loaned items and she certainly didn’t want anything to do with the way they always mooned over some man—local or celebrity.

  Finding Ginger proved impossible. Norma Rose checked everywhere, twice, thinking maybe they’d crossed paths somewhere along the line. It wasn’t like Ginger to shrug off chores. No one had seen her, not since the previous night when she’d been crouched near the stairway leading from the ballroom, watching Brock play. Norma Rose had seen her then, too, and had sent her to bed. That wasn’t unusual. Just a nightly occurrence.

  By noon, fully flustered, because she didn’t have time for this, Norma Rose sought out her father. He was still at Dave’s cabin, having not left all morning. After asking about her uncle, who was sleeping and doing well from what Gloria said, Norma Rose inquired, “Have either of you seen Ginger?”