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

by Lauri Robinson

  “Your work is cut out for you,” Roger agreed with a nod. “I want that snitch. I want him in my office by the end of the week.”

  Unwilling to set himself up for failure, Ty shook his head. “I told you I’ve got some suspicions and inklings, but I’m going to need more than a week.”

  “I’ve got my suspicions, too,” Roger said. “And I won’t give you more than a week.”

  He should have seen this coming. Staring into his empty coffee cup, he let the others—Roger, Dave and Gloria—watch him intently and form a few more suspicions and doubts. When the air was as thick as morning fog, he pushed the cup away and stood. “Then I’m not your man.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Normally the music had people dancing, but Wayne, despite how hard he tried, just didn’t pull people off their seats. In fact, when they did stand up, they walked toward the door, not the dance floor.

  Norma Rose had watched that happening, but her searing mind wouldn’t let her try to resolve the issue. “This isn’t any of your concern, Rosie,” her father had said when she’d taken the sheriff to Dave’s cabin. “Your concern is seeing that everyone at the resort is happy—now go to it.”

  He’d been stern, too, more so than usual, and that grated on her nerves. It was her concern. She knew who the snitch was, and that burned. Ty Bradshaw had left his mark on her, with all his gallantry. Pretending to be a gentleman. Taking her out in public. Winning her a snow globe. Buying her cotton candy. All the while he was a fed set on taking her very livelihood away.

  “We have to do something, Norma Rose.”

  She blinked several times, bringing her fury-filled vision into focus. Twyla and Josie stood beside her, in the doorway leading from the dining room into the ballroom, where tables and bar stools on either side were emptying out. She wasn’t sure which sister had spoken—they both looked at her gravely.

  “People need to start dancing,” Josie said.

  “And drinking,” Twyla said. “They need to be full of giggle water to dance to this.” Shaking her head, she added, “I never knew Wayne was this bad.”

  “He wasn’t the last time he played here,” Norma Rose said. At least he sure hadn’t seemed this bad. He had the notes right, but the tempo was so slow the notes didn’t connect, instead they dragged into one another painfully.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Twyla said, “but I don’t want you turning into a fire extinguisher on me.”

  Norma Rose had played the role of chaperone so long, not doing so would most likely be impossible, yet the way she was feeling right now, she didn’t care what Twyla did. Or if people started dancing or not. If her father didn’t care, why should she? One slow night wasn’t going to close them down.

  But a snitch would.

  “What is it?” she asked, holding in a sigh, mainly because she knew she did care. About the resort, and about a snitch. No federal agent would pull the wool over her eyes.

  “Just give me permission, and you’ll see,” Twyla said.

  Her father had told her to make sure people were having a good time. “Go ahead,” Norma Rose said. “I’ll probably regret it, but what’s one more amongst many.”

  Twyla frowned. So did Josie. Norma Rose pulled up one of her false smiles, which just made her feel worse than ever.

  “Are you all right?” Josie asked.

  “I’m fine,” Norma Rose answered. “Fine and dandy.”

  Twyla tugged on her pink scarf, settling it in place while a slightly sinister, yet demure smile curled the corners of her red lips. Before Norma Rose could voice her doubts, Twyla grabbed Josie’s hand.

  “Come on, sis,” Twyla said. “Fetch Scooter and meet me on the dance floor.”

  Norma Rose willed her feet to stay planted as her sisters scurried away. The urge to call them back bubbled up her throat. It was hard, and painful, but she swallowed the urge and watched. What harm could they really do? The crowd was not having a good time, and Nightingale’s resort hadn’t gained the reputation it had by unhappy customers. Granted, some were here just to have a few drinks and relax, but others weren’t.

  Twyla was behind the bar, talking with Reggie, and Josie was leaning on Scooter’s shoulder, being a bit more friendly than Norma Rose had ever seen, and that caused another stabbing sensation in her stomach. Josie wouldn’t tell Scooter about Ginger. Her sisters had been sworn to secrecy, but she might share information about Ty. Her suspicions—that he was a snitch—Norma Rose hadn’t divulged. To them, he was an attorney. And a welcome guest.

  Some guest. He wasn’t even here in the ballroom or the dining room. That didn’t make her happy, either. He was probably out snooping around, trying to find something—anything—to report back to his cronies. How could she keep an eye on him, expose him for what he was, if she didn’t know where he was?

  Carrying a tray with half-full glasses, Twyla made her way over to Wayne and sat down on the piano bench beside him. When the song ended, to the relief of many, Twyla handed him a glass and picked up one herself. She stood and held the glass high in the air.

  The crowd had already been quiet, but now turned ghostly silent. One could almost hear the cigarettes sizzling as people took long draws while staring at the stage.

  “Don’t know how many of you have heard,” Twyla shouted, “but Brock Ness headed to Chicago last night to perform on the radio. We’re gonna miss him around here.”

  The crowd responded with murmurs and a couple of louder comments, agreeing with her. Someone yelled, “Already do!”

  “He’s probably already playing on the radio down there in Chicago, and right now, we’re going to tip one for him.” Twyla waved her glass. “Reggie’s pouring glasses for everyone, so if you’ve got a dead soldier at your table, wave your hand, so we can get a glass to you.”

  Hands went up across the room, and four girls carried trays around, passing out glasses to people growing more eager by the minute.

  “How we doing?” Twyla asked a couple minutes later. “Everyone got a glass? Hold ’em up!”

  A few shouts indicated others still needed a drink, and Norma Rose somehow ended up holding one as well.

  “Now how we doing?” Twyla asked. “Show me your glasses, folks, get ’em up! Everyone’s going to toast Brock!”

  The crowd was coming around, shouting and cheering. Even those in the dining room. Norma Rose almost cracked a smile. Toasting Brock was a good idea, but would it last? One toast wouldn’t make for a night of fun.

  The girls kept passing out glasses, setting them on tables even though everyone had a drink in their hand and were waving them about. People clambered to their feet, then shouted Brock’s name.

  “Swell!” Twyla yelled above the ruckus. “Brock, wherever you are, this one’s for you!” She knocked back the drink like she’d been doing so for years.

  The crowd roared and followed suit. Norma Rose took a sip and had a hard time swallowing. Her throat felt on fire, but in honor of Brock, she held her breath and finished her glass.

  Twyla set her empty glass on top of the piano with a resounding thud, and then picked up a second glass. “Grab another soldier, folks,” she shouted.

  The crowd didn’t need any coaxing. The shouts and cheers were much louder this time around. Norma Rose ended up with a second glass from one of the girls still scrambling about with trays.

  “This time, we’re gonna toast Wayne,” Twyla shouted. “He’s feeling a bit down, knowing you were disappointed that Brock isn’t here.”

  The room rumbled with agreement. Wayne stood up beside Twyla, at her urging, and tipped his hat.

  “To Wayne!” Twyla shouted.

  Her toast was repeated several times as people tossed down another glass. In honor of Wayne, Norma Rose held her breath and swallowed the contents of her second glass. It was easier this time, and the warmth in her belly was almost satisfying.

  “Now, then,” Twyla said, smacking her glass down by the other one. “We’re gonna do one more thing.”

&
nbsp; The crowd cheered.

  “I knew you’d like it!” Her laughter was contagious. The entire room filled with yee-haws, and she waited until it died down before she said, “We’re gonna have a dance-off!”

  The room had already been transformed, but now merriment bounced off the walls as people applauded.

  “Grab a partner,” Twyla encouraged. “Dac Lester is over there by the bar. You all know Dac doesn’t dance, don’t you?”

  Once again cheers abounded.

  “He’s gonna be the timekeeper. One hour of solid dancing. You leave the floor, and you’re done. The last couple on the floor will win a full bottle of Minnesota’s finest!” Twyla pointed to Dac again, who now held a bottle of corn whiskey over his head.

  “What about the woman?” someone asked. “A bottle is fine for a man.”

  The crowd laughed, and Norma Rose stretched on her toes, trying to see who’d asked the question. It was a female voice, but she didn’t recognize it.

  Twyla looked lost for a moment, and turned her gaze to Norma Rose. Unsure what her sister was asking, for there was a definite question in her gaze, Norma Rose nodded, thinking she must be asking permission to give away a bottle of wine.

  “How about a snow globe?” Twyla asked.

  Norma Rose flinched, and a growl rumbled in her throat. It shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t want the stupid thing. Wouldn’t want anything to remind her of Ty when all was said and done.

  Twyla was still looking at her, seeking permission. Despite how jagged and shallow her breathing had become, Norma Rose pulled up a smile and nodded again.

  “All right, folks, the prizes are a bottle for the last man and a snow globe for the last woman still on the dance floor one hour from now!” Twyla shouted. The floor was already filling up, yet she added, “Come on, there’s still room!”

  Norma Rose was teetering between anger and astonishment. Her sister had livened up the place, but was also giving away her snow globe. A trivial carnival prize that held no significant value, or meaning—or so she wished. The truth was, she liked that snow globe and didn’t want to give it away.

  Two solid hands gripped her waist, and shoved her forward, toward the dance floor. Her heels slid onward although she tried to stop them, and the quickening of her heart—though she hadn’t turned around and the owner of those hands hadn’t spoken—told her exactly who held her.

  She would not dance with him. Would not.

  He didn’t give her a chance to protest once they reached the dance floor. With both hands still grasping her waist, Ty spun her around and, holding her much too close for comfort, started to glide her across the floor.

  Fuming, she pressed her hands at his shoulders, trying to put some space between them. Enough to make an escape. His hold was firm, and the cocky grin on his face wilted her persistence.

  “Yee-haw,” someone shouted. “Even Norma Rose is on the dance floor.”

  “And she’s all mine, fellas,” Ty said, “so watch out.”

  Laughter echoed around the room and Norma Rose pushed on his shoulders again, though not overly hard—she didn’t want people to notice. “I am not yours,” she hissed.

  Ty merely grinned.

  She returned one as false as his.

  “Twyla, did you slip your sister a Mickey?” someone else asked.

  “Of course not,” Twyla answered.

  Norma Rose twisted to find her sister, but Ty glided them deeper into the crowd, forcing her more tightly against him.

  “This was all Norma Rose’s idea,” Twyla said, somehow appearing next to her. “To get this night drumming.”

  “Did your daddy skip town?” Twyla’s partner asked, who just happened to be Jimmy Sonny. “Or do you girls have him locked up somewhere?”

  “No, and no,” Twyla answered, steering Jimmy in the opposite direction.

  Whatever else she’d said was lost in the noise.

  Ty’s hold eased up a bit, but before Norma Rose could take advantage of it, he grasped her hands. “You do know how to do the bunny hop, don’t you?”

  “The bunny hop?” she repeated, rather appalled. The dance was said to mimic rabbits mating. She’d seen it performed, and had practiced the moves in her bedroom alone, as she did with all the other popular dance moves. Once in a while, she’d accept an offer to dance, but very rarely. Her sisters were always looking over the railing, and she hadn’t wanted one of them to make a scene. Which is what would have happened if they’d caught her on the dance floor. They were all on the floor now, and couldn’t make a scene. Or could they? Twyla certainly had got the crowd keyed up.

  “Yes, the bunny hop,” Ty said, with a full openmouthed smile. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

  “I will not follow you and you will not show me anything,” Norma Rose insisted. Yet, considering half the room had noticed her and was watching, she didn’t hold true to her protest. Instead, she followed him. And mimicked him. She kicked out one foot and hopped three times on the other before sliding toward him until their stomachs touched, which jolted the air right out of her lungs.

  “That’s my girl,” he said as they broke away, to kick the opposite leg and hop three more times before gliding into one another again.

  “I’m not your girl,” she said, trying not to enjoy how close he held her.

  “Then pretend you are,” he said into her ear. “You’re good at pretending.”

  Whoops and hollers echoed above the music, and she didn’t even try to answer him. She was good at pretending, as good as him.

  The drinks Twyla had encouraged Wayne to swig had helped his playing, or the toast had, because he was now pounding out a tempo the dancers loved.

  When they slid together again, Ty’s arm wrapped around her, locking her stomach and hips against his, and Norma Rose put on her best smile, laughing along with the rest of the dancers. Ty’s eyes flashed a challenge as he turned his face sideways. She was up to any challenge he wanted to send her way, and did the same. With the side of his cheek pressed against hers, he led them forward, past other dancers to the edge of the floor, where he twirled her around and started back in the other direction, his cheek to hers.

  It was exhilarating, being part of the crowd rather than watching from the sidelines, and Norma Rose let the excitement in, gave it free rein to continue working its magic.

  In the center of the floor, Ty released her, but took her hand as they kicked, hopped and glided back toward one another. By now, Norma Rose had found the rhythm in every step and discovered newfound freedom in performing each one.

  The two glasses of hooch she’d had must have gone to her head. Why else would she be participating instead of protesting? Then again, not participating would suggest she was against the crowd having fun, which she wasn’t. However, she shouldn’t be dancing with Ty.

  They crisscrossed the dance floor, arriving at each corner cheek-to-cheek, and stopping in the middle to kick, hop and glide into one another, only to sweep back over to another corner, again cheek to cheek.

  Her heart raced, her feet felt as light as feathers and the euphoria floating inside her was incomparable to anything she’d ever known. It was like she was a bird, released from its gilded cage to soar at will. And she was soaring.

  Wayne barely paused between songs, and as others started tapping their heels, and shuffling their feet back and forth while dancing side by side, arms stretched over each other’s shoulders, Norma Rose watched eagerly.

  She’d seen people doing the Charleston, but had yet to try it—outside of her bedroom.

  “Later,” Ty said next to her ear as they once again glided to each other. “We have to pace ourselves if we want to win.”

  A splattering of reality hit Norma Rose like drops of cold rain. “I am not dancing a full hour with you,” she said, while their cheeks were pressed together. She plastered another smile on her face as they passed other dancers.

  “Yes, you are,” he said.

  “No, I’m not.”


  They’d reached the edge of the dance floor and his brief pause made her wish she hadn’t protested. He swung her around and headed back in the other direction.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” he said before they reached the center of the floor. “I didn’t win that snow globe for you to give it away.”

  “How do you know it’s the same one?” she asked, kicking one leg.

  He waited until they’d hopped and glided together before saying, “I saw the way your sister looked at you, asking permission.”

  “This was all very impromptu,” she admitted. “People were leaving.”

  “I saw that,” he said, gliding her toward another corner.

  Her cheek was hot, throbbing and more sensitive than ever. Between dancing and talking, she was breathless, and other parts of her had grown highly responsive, and throbbing, and hot. She truly didn’t know breasts did such things.

  Pulling her mind off her body, she asked, “From where? You weren’t in the ballroom or dining room.”

  “Looking for me, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you were,” he insisted. “I saw you watching out the window when I took my truck around to my cabin.”

  They were once again in the center of the room, kicking and hopping, doing it all without thinking. Which gave room for other thoughts to return. “I know who you are,” she said.

  He lifted a single eyebrow. “Ty Bradshaw, private eye.”

  “More like Ty Bradshaw, a snitch.” Her breathlessness as she pressed her cheek against his took the sting out of her words.

  He laughed. “Is that worse than being a fed, or better?”

  Dancing made it difficult for her anger to renew itself, and Norma Rose couldn’t find an answer. She wanted to feel anger strong enough that she could chew on it, taste it, but instead, she felt the rumble of Ty’s laugh again and the heat of his body. The smell of his cologne was getting to her, too, as was the touch of his hands. With each dance movement, he touched her someplace—her back, her waist, her shoulders, the palms of her hands—and every touch had her craving more.

  “When are you government people going to realize it’s tax money, our tax money, that pays your salary?” she asked, hoping to dredge up a bit of the loathing she’d earlier experienced.