“Of course not.”
“Well, don’t.” Twyla laughed. “I will admit some of it was fun, and a few kisses were rather amazing, but for the most part, I’d rather vomit in my mouth than kiss some of those men again.”
Norma Rose stopped the direction her mind wanted to sail down. “Why’d you do it?”
“Do we really have to go down this street again?” Twyla asked, frowning. “I already told you why I did it and apologized.” Her eyes turned pleading, but her voice was serious. “Just give me a chance, Norma Rose, and I’ll prove to you how much help I can be around here.”
Twyla had already been a big help. She’d taken over seating the guests in the dining room as they arrived and making sure their first round of drinks was promptly delivered. The assistance had been needed. With their father still in his office, or perhaps with Uncle Dave, who was now recovering nicely, Norma Rose had her hands full. Wayne had arrived and she’d had to go through his music, assuring he could provide the music that their guests expected. An amateur compared to Brock, Wayne was not up to the standards the resort was known for providing.
Her sister was putting her best foot forward, too. Though Twyla greeted each guest enthusiastically, she’d dowsed the overzealous flirting she’d poured over most men the past few months.
Serious herself, Norma Rose said, “I’m counting on that, and you. Between all that’s going on with Ginger and Uncle Dave, I have a feeling Father isn’t going to be as involved with the resort as usual for the next few days.”
The door had opened while she’d been speaking.
“You can count on me, too,” Josie said, entering the room and closing the door behind her.
Twyla had told Josie about Ginger, and Uncle Dave, while Norma Rose had been fuming over Ty’s change in attitude, and now, looking at her sisters, a hint of a chill rippled her spine, making her question if her sisters had some sort of conspiracy going on.
“You’re going to need all the help you can get with Wayne Sears beating on the piano keys,” Josie added.
Norma Rose sighed. “He’s not quite up to our standards.”
Josie walked to the window. “No one’s arrived for the past few minutes, but I’ll keep a look out and station myself at the front desk, while you two take care of business.”
Dressed in a white fringe-covered dress, with matching pantyhose and shoes, Josie had a gold headband spouting a single white feather. Not used to seeing this sister dressed so fashionably, Norma Rose was still contemplating how stunning the outfit was when Josie spoke again.
“Few musicians can match Brock’s skills. That’s why he was offered a radio contract.”
“And Ginger is with him,” Twyla added. “In Chicago. I can hardly believe that.”
“I can,” Josie said.
“Why do you say that?” Norma Rose asked, bracing herself.
“Because Ginger is in love with Brock,” Josie said, glancing out the window again.
“No,” Twyla said.
Norma Rose sucked in a breath, knowing she’d need it.
“Yes.” Josie looked at them both squarely as she settled her backside against the table Ty had so causally eaten at this morning. “I can’t believe you both hadn’t seen that. Why do you think she was so furious with Mitsy Kemper? Mitsy went out with Brock one time.”
“Mitsy’s gone out with every man from here to St. Paul,” Twyla answered with more than a hint of disgust.
“And beyond,” Josie said. “Good thing her father owns a drugstore.”
“Why?” Norma Rose asked, puzzled.
“For birth control. Rubbers,” Josie said, as if it was a subject she spoke about daily.
Norma Rose almost choked on her own tongue. Yet she wanted to bypass that subject, for now anyway, and managed to say, “But you had a crush on Brock.” Turning to include Twyla, she said, “Both of you.”
“Who didn’t have a crush on Brock?” Twyla asked. “He’s a flame.”
Josie nodded in agreement. “He is—everyone carried a torch for Brock, but Ginger was beyond that, she was all soppy over him, and got mad when Mitsy boasted about kissing him.” Grinning broadly, Josie added, “Wouldn’t it be the bee’s knees if they actually got married?”
Twyla squealed excitedly. “Yes, that would be berries, just berries.”
“If I’d known she planned on running away with him,” Josie said, “I’d have given her some sisterly advice. And a rubber or two.”
Norma Rose lost her voice completely, and hadn’t yet found it when Josie clapped her hands.
“I see headlights. I’ll go write them a receipt,” Josie said to Twyla, “while you check the dining room. I had to seat the last people at the bar until a table opened.”
Josie crossed the room, and Norma Rose, head still spinning, had barely turned around before her sister had already opened the door.
Twyla was close on Josie’s heels, but she paused. “Don’t look so shocked, Rosie. You didn’t honestly believe they only plan birthday parties at those ladies aid meetings, did you?”
Norma Rose felt for the corner of her desk as the door closed, and found it before her knees gave out.
Rubbers? Marriage? Oh, goodness.
Ginger was in Chicago, with a man she believed she was in love with, and Twyla and Josie had been given free rein to mingle with the guests. What was happening around here? What had she been thinking?
The door opened again before she had a chance to answer her own questions.
Josie poked her head in. “The sheriff’s here.”
“Well, sell him a meal ticket,” Norma Rose said, glad this at least was an easy problem.
Josie shook her head. “He doesn’t want a ticket. He needs to talk to Father. Says it’s urgent.”
Norma Rose pushed off her desk and smoothed her black skirt over her still rather wobbly knees before preparing to leave her office, but had yet to take a step when Sheriff Withers walked in and closed the door behind him.
Instead of his regular uniform, the sheriff had on a dark suit and hat. Furthermore, sweat dripped off his jowls. “I drove my wife’s car,” he said, “to not attract attention.”
His wife’s yellow breezer was as well-known as his state-issued sedan with the gold star on the doors. “Oh?” Norma Rose said, not letting anything show. It was good to know she hadn’t lost all of her acting abilities. A poker face was hard to master, but she had become an expert over the years and the fact the skill had eluded her for most of the day was bothersome. Ty was the reason behind that.
“There’s a snitch among us, Norma Rose,” the sheriff said quietly. “Worse than that, actually.” He twisted his hands and glanced over both shoulders, even though they were clearly alone. “It’s a fed. An agent working undercover.”
* * *
A bath and clean clothes hadn’t done anything for Ty’s mood. For the first time in a very long time, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but he still left his cabin. He usually spent a lot of time alone, and that could be part of the problem. Since arriving he’d been rather preoccupied by the happenings at the resort. Now that Ginger was no longer a concern, at least not to him, he could concentrate on more important things. Like how and when Bodine had poisoned Dave.
People sat on the terrace facing the lake, eating meals delivered by waiters through open doors that also let out music—if it could be called that. He’d heard a lot of musicians over the years, and couldn’t remember hearing one tear apart a song quite that badly. The piano wasn’t out of tune, so only the fingers hitting the ivory could be blamed.
He made his way around the building and headed toward the other row of cabins to check in on Dave before going to get a meal himself. However, upon entering the trees, he paused. Norma Rose and a man were heading up the walkway to Dave’s cabin. It only took a moment to recall the man was the sheriff, though now wearing a suit.
Ty waited until they entered, then he weaved a path through the trees, staying hidden until he w
as three cabins down before he dashed across the dirt roadway. Then he made his way around the back of the cabins, working his way toward Dave’s.
The window in Dave’s bedroom was open, but between the waves rushing onto the shore only a few feet away and the hushed voices, he could barely make out a word. Ty weighed his options, and listened to his gut, which said to lay low.
It wasn’t long before the door opened. Ty carefully peered around the corner. Norma Rose, alone, stomped across the dirt road. Her strut, with arms swinging and back stiff, shouted loud and clear. She was mad. Extremely.
After a full five minutes, making sure Norma Rose wasn’t waiting in the trees, Ty snuck around the cabin next door and then casually walked around it and up the road to Dave’s.
His single knock was responded to immediately by Roger Nightingale. Stepping through the doorway, Ty feigned surprise and nodded toward Withers, who was sitting at the table along with Roger, Dave and Gloria. “Evening, Sheriff.”
Withers responded, “Mr. Bradshaw.”
The tension was thick and heavy, and glances bounced between all four of the table’s occupants. “Am I interrupting something?” Ty asked. “I can come back.”
“No,” Roger said. “Come in. The sheriff was just leaving.”
Reading men, especially the things they tried to hide, was one of Ty’s specialties, and Withers hadn’t expected to leave so soon. The sheriff rose.
“Yes, I was.” Nodding toward Roger, Withers added, “You’ll let me know if you need me.”
“I always do,” Roger said.
Ty stayed where he stood, waiting to open the door for Withers, once the man was done saying goodbye to Dave and Gloria. As he closed the door behind the sheriff, Roger instructed him to take a seat.
There’d definitely been a new development, and not acknowledging that was Ty’s best choice. In a situation like this, waiting to be told always provided more information. “I was on my way to supper,” he said, moving across the room and taking the now vacant chair. “But thought I’d stop in to see how you’re doing.” He nodded toward Dave. “Looks like you’re a lot better.”
“Lots,” Dave said. “Thanks.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” Ty answered, leaning back in his chair. “But I am here to find out what happened to you. Who slipped you the Mickey. And I will.”
Gloria had risen and set a cup of coffee that held a splash of the labeled brandy bottle in front of him as she took her seat again. After taking a sip, Ty asked, “You remember anything you can share?”
His eyes were bloodshot and his pallor was still the color of a sailor on his first trip across the ocean, but otherwise Dave seemed no worse for wear.
“There’s nothing to share,” Dave said. “I bought a milk shake at Charlie’s drugstore in St. Paul and went into his back room to wait for a prospect who never showed up.” After taking a drink of water from his glass, Dave added, “I felt an edge coming on and the next thing I remember was the police station and you telling me it was time to go.”
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” Roger said gruffly.
Life was full of the unexpected, and Ty was always prepared for it. “The news Withers brought?”
“You heard?” Roger asked.
Ty shook his head. “Assumed. Why else would he be here in street clothes.” He phrased it as a statement, not a question. The assumptions he had could lead in several directions. He just needed a bit of conversation to tell him which path to take.
His line of business made Roger Nightingale a hard man, and tonight he looked the part. Formidable in his three-piece maroon suit, with his graying bushy brows knitted together and his blue eyes glittering with antagonism. But in the short time Ty had been at the resort, he’d seen the man in other roles. A worried brother-in-law, a savvy resort owner and, most telling of all, a parent who’d thought—if even just for a moment—the worst had happened to one of his children.
“Minneapolis is full of snitches,” Roger said. “So is St. Cloud. But money talks in St. Paul, and it talks in these parts, too. Informants know that, and stay clear, knowing they’ll only be sent on wild-goose chases at best. And end up in a pine box at worst.”
Ty refrained from answering. He kept his breathing smooth, even as his pulse started knocking hard beneath his skin. It was impossible for anyone to have learned his identity, but not impossible for them to wonder about it. Especially Norma Rose, which might explain her stomping away from the cabin.
That stuck. She’d have been skipping like a school girl if she’d convinced her father he was a snitch. The smile that thought created, although well concealed, gave him more reassurance than anything Roger could say. Ty lassoed his thoughts to hear what the man was saying.
“Times around here were tough. During the war, the government begged farmers to grow more crops. Shiploads went overseas every day, but as soon as the fighting stopped, so did the demand. Folks in this area had more land than they could afford. They’d mortgaged everything they owned to acquire more land and buy new equipment. The bills started choking them, and they had no way to pay them.”
Ty picked up his coffee cup, but never took his eyes off Roger, letting him know he was listening, and interested.
“Minnesotans are a hearty lot,” Roger continued. “We are strong-willed and determined, and find ways. When all others moan and beg for help, we put on our boots and start kicking. Minnesota Thirteen didn’t come by accident.”
Ty was completely interested. The homemade whiskey coming out of central Minnesota was exactly what Bodine was after, the money and conglomerate behind it. Few other mobsters had tried, but the farmers didn’t let strangers in. The extortion that worked in the big cities hadn’t worked here, and as far as he’d learned, Nightingale was the only man exporting large quantities. Not personally, of course, but he brokered the deals.
“Those Germans have always taken their still-making seriously, and making whiskey that is often better than the stuff the Canadians export has provided them with a way to feed their families again. It’s allowing entire communities to thrive. Hardware stores, grocery stores—hell, the entire automobile industry would be nothing but empty lots if not for bootleggers.”
“Amen,” Gloria agreed.
“My business is no different,” Roger said. “The resort employs more people than some factories. If not for Nightingales, Dol’s grocery store would only be half its size, Lester would only need a portion of the cows he milks every morning and Scooter wouldn’t sell enough gas to keep his doors open.”
“As well as most every other business around here,” Gloria said. “Money makes money, there’s no mistaking that.”
Roger’s chair creaked as he leaned back and crossed thick arms over his barrel chest. “And I won’t let some sniveling snitch stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Ty withheld the urge to swallow. Maybe Norma Rose had convinced her father. It was impossible, though. His file was sealed in cement and dropped in the river. So to speak. In truth, someone digging hard enough might uncover something. But only if there was a snitch in his department, which consisted of two people. Him and his boss.
“Who do you think it is?” Ty asked.
“An outsider,” Roger said. “Everyone around here wants things to stay just as they are. They remember what it was like, just a few years ago, eating nothing but potato soup on good days. It’s outsiders that wanted drinking to end. Not Minnesotans.”
“People all across the nation were against Prohibition,” Ty said, though he wondered why. More of the nation had voted wet than dry, but the drys down south, added to the big cities of New York and Washington DC, had been enough to calculate a win.
“Yes, they were, and are,” Roger agreed. “And Minnesota Thirteen is keeping them wet.” He intertwined his fingers and popped his knuckles. “Withers thinks the snitch is a fed. A federal agent sent up here to infiltrate the community.”
“Why here?” Ty aske
d. “Minnesota Thirteen is brewed west of here, more north of St. Cloud.”
“A man can be at any one of those stills—Avon, Holdingford, Albany, Melrose—within a few hours from here,” Roger answered. “Running shine is risky, and men do it in many ways—hay wagons, extra gas tanks, crates and barrels marked bibles or produce, even piano boxes or under the floorboards of a truck hauling a bull.” With a guffaw he added, “A calf sells for five bucks, so does a bottle of shine. But those are little runners. Local deliveries to speakeasies and blind pigs. The big shipments, the ones that make it to Chicago, New York, California and beyond, take real transportation.”
Ty’s pulse was knocking again. He’d known Nightingale was in deep, and the amount of money already invested in the resort proved this man was making money left and right. The latest figures estimated over two million a week was made on illegal alcohol sales in Chicago alone. A man making that kind of money wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in someone trying to stop him.
“The same trains that haul in sugar and yeast and bottles and kegs, haul out sugar and yeast and bottles and kegs, just in a different combination.” Roger was rubbing his chin now, rather thoughtfully.
Ty took another sip of his coffee. Nightingale wasn’t giving out any specific details, but was leaving a lot of room for assumptions.
“So, where does Withers think this snitch is?” Ty asked.
“His informant doesn’t know. Right now it’s hearsay from someone who’d heard, from someone who’d heard. It’s happened before, someone needing a little cash claims to know something, and so the story goes, but this time my gut tells me there’s more to it than just a hungry homeless person or a drunk flyboy. I’m also thinking whoever is behind Dave’s poisoning could be connected to the snitch, if not the man himself.”
The ounce of relief that oozed over his stomach wasn’t as strong as Ty would have liked. “Then my work is cut out for me,” he said. “Catching two birds with one stone.”
The Bootlegger's Daughter (Daughters Of The Roaring Twenties Book 1) Page 14
