by Vicki Delany
He was good. He was very good. A lot of families brought their teenage children to the early show, so Charlie Simmonds kept it clean.
The evening opened, as it usually did, with music and dancing. When I arrived, the seven-piece orchestra—piano, bass, drums, trumpet, alto and tenor saxophones, and trombone—had taken their place onstage. This was our house band that worked here throughout the summer. They were all men, dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black bow ties. On occasion, a female singer would come up from the city to join them.
The bandleader welcomed everyone to Haggerman’s Catskills Resort and then, without further ado, they struck up the first tune: “Dancing in the Dark” by Arthur Schwartz for a fairly gentle foxtrot. Couples took to the floor.
A few younger members of the staff, dressed in black slacks or skirts and white shirts or blouses, circulated around the room. They weren’t here to wait tables but to dance with the guests who didn’t have a partner. Widowed women who’d come to Haggerman’s with their families and friends, and what’s known in the Catskills as “weekday widows”: women here for a good part of the summer with their children, while their husbands work in the city and come up for the weekends or their week of vacation. Some of the women who weren’t widowed simply couldn’t persuade their husbands to dance. The girls would dance with those men whose wives couldn’t or who wanted a lively young partner for one or two turns around the dance floor.
I stood at the back of the room, watching. The ballroom was full, every seat taken. Rows of round tables covered in white cloths circled around the shiny wooden dance floor in front of the stage. The big chandelier hanging from the ceiling threw sparks of light on the women’s jewels and the sequins in their dresses. The line in front of the bar at the back of the room was long.
Rosemary came out of the swinging doors leading to the upstairs kitchen, a full silver ice bucket balanced in her arms. She nodded politely to the row of guests lined up at the bar as the two bartenders scooped ice, flipped bottles, and turned the mixing of cocktails into performance art. “You could use another bartender, Elizabeth.”
“I know, Rosemary, I know. And I know you’d do as good a job as either of them.”
“Better.”
“Probably. But Olivia insists it isn’t proper to have women tending bar, and she is the boss, after all.”
I’d met Rosemary Sullivan years ago when she’d been working as a short-order cook at a diner in Manhattan, which was a favorite late-night, after-show stop for the Broadway elite and their hangers-on. She’d dreamed of being a chef in a fine-dining restaurant, but despite her drive, her qualifications, her experience, and her work ethic, she couldn’t get a position at a place like that to do more than chop vegetables. Women cooked; men were chefs. And bartenders.
It was unfair, but that was the way it was, and Rosemary gave up the dream and reinvented herself as a restaurant manager. When I decided to join Olivia in her new venture, I’d persuaded Rosemary to come and work for us.
She gave me a wry grin and took her ice bucket behind the bar.
Randy, dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie, danced past, partnering a young teen girl who was all big feet, ears, and pink embarrassment.
Scion of a blue-blood Boston family, Randy had scandalized his parents by going into the movies rather than following his father into the family law firm. Unfortunately for Randy, his acting skills were nonexistent. Only because of his blond all-American good looks, plus his family connections, he’d landed roles in a few Esther Williams movies. I don’t know quite what happened, but he ended up back in Manhattan, drifting around the outskirts of my mother’s circle. He was in his late thirties, but his indulgent grandmother still supported him financially. He didn’t need this job, but he did need something to do with his life, and I suppose teaching swimming to the children of rich women impressed with his “aquatic movie star” credentials during the day and dancing with them in the evening beat hanging around a scalding-hot apartment in the city waiting for his agent to call.
“Full house,” Velvet said to me.
“That’s what we like to see.”
Randy and his partner swung—her awkwardly, him smoothly—past us, and Velvet gave her head a shake. “What a show-off he is. Do you think he wore that suit so no one would mistake him for a common employee?”
“Probably.”
Randy’s light-colored suit did set him apart from the rest of the staff, who were expected to wear black and white.
“What have you got there?” I asked.
Velvet held a frothy pale pink concoction served in a martini glass accompanied by three bright green maraschino cherries on a stick.
“This, my darrrr-ling,” she drawled, “is called a Pink Squirrel. Most delicious. I must tell the bartender so. He’s anxious to try out all the popular new things, and I’m confident this will be an eeee-normous hit.” She dropped back to her regular voice. “Any testing of cocktails you need done, Elizabeth, I’m your girl.”
“I might try one myself later. Are you here to dance?”
“Not if I can help it. My toes still haven’t recovered from that partner I had last week. I’m here to look good. Like it?” She tilted her head, half turned, and thrust out one hip.
“I do,” I said.
Like the cocktail, her dress was a frothy pink concoction of polka dots draped over layers of pink tulle, with a deep square neckline and a huge dark red bow pinned to a thin shoulder strap. Her long blond hair was arranged to fall over her right shoulder in a series of golden waves, and her lipstick matched the bow on her dress. Open-toed silver dance shoes were on her feet.
Unlike the rest of the staff, as department heads, Randy and Velvet were allowed to wear outfits of their choice to social events.
“How was the nature walk?” I asked.
“Great. I enjoyed it. Some of the older kids pretended to be bored, but the younger ones liked it. They were disappointed we didn’t see a wolf or a bear. I think we should put it on the regular activity schedule and aim it at parents as well as children. Most New Yorkers, like me, wouldn’t know a pine tree from a squirrel.”
“A squirrel moves,” I said.
Velvet slapped her forehead with her free hand. “So that’s it!”
A hugely overweight man, beads of sweat popping out all over his bald head, tentatively approached us. He bowed to Velvet. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
“Mr. Osmond, it would be my absolute pleasure.” She shoved her glass into my hand. “Mind this for me, please, Mrs. Grady.”
I don’t dance with the guests. I’m tone-deaf and I have two left feet, so if anyone asks me for a dance, I politely demure and beckon one of the staff to take my place.
The evening went off without a hitch, leaving me without much to do, which is always good. Not long after I arrived, Olivia’s “admirer” Louis came in. He wandered around the room, peering myopically at everyone. He spoke briefly to a solidly built woman about his age but didn’t take a seat at her table. He shook his head and left, disappointment written all over his face. He didn’t return.
After forty-five minutes of music and dancing, Velvet, armed with a second (or was it her third) Pink Squirrel, took the stage. She clapped her hands prettily in front of her while still holding the cocktail glass and indicated to the audience they should do so as well.
Applauding heartily, people took their seats. Ties were loosened, shoes kicked off, and cigarettes lit.
“The Haggerman’s Catskills Resort Orchestra is going to take a much-needed break.” Velvet spoke into the bandleader’s microphone. “They’ll be back later with more great tunes for more dancing.”
Someone cheered.
“In fifteen minutes we’re proud to present, straight from the comedy clubs of New York City, Mr. Charlie Simmonds.”
Someone booed. People laugh
ed.
“Ladies, you have fifteen minutes to freshen up, and gentlemen, you have fifteen minutes to get your lady another cocktail.”
This time more than one person cheered, and Velvet lifted her glass.
Chairs scraped the floor, and the rush was on. Women streamed into the hallway, and men headed for the bar. I noticed more than a few Pink Squirrels being ferried to tables.
Velvet gave them the fifteen minutes and then she, this time accompanied by Randy, climbed back onto the stage. The lights were dimmed amid a flutter of fabric and the clanging of jewels and more scraping of chairs as ladies scurried to their tables.
“And now,” Randy said, “let’s give a big Haggerman’s Catskills Resort greeting to the hottest comedy star in America today, Mr. Charlie Simmonds.”
The man himself bounded onto the stage. He shook Randy’s hand, hugged Velvet, and then took the microphone off its stand. He took a drag of his cigarette and said, “So, folks, are you having a good time?”
Mr. and Mrs. Brownville and their friends had taken the table front and center. A cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke hung over their heads all evening, and I hadn’t seen them dancing once.
It was early enough that some teenagers were still in the audience, sitting with their families. I wasn’t worried Charlie would get too daring. Not yet.
I took advantage of the lull at the bar to order something for myself. “You’ve been busy,” I said to the bartender.
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Grady.” The round-cheeked boy nodded to the jar on the counter, overflowing with coins and even some bills. “Great bunch of big tippers tonight.”
“It’s early in the season. After they’ve been here a couple of weeks, some of the guests begin to realize they’re spending more money than they’d planned.” Food at Haggerman’s was part of the rate. Alcoholic drinks were not. “What would you recommend I try?”
“The Pink Squirrels have been popular tonight,” he said.
“Maybe something less . . . pink.”
“If not pink, why not green? Match your dress. A grasshopper?”
“Perfect.”
I accepted the drink and returned to my place by the wall to watch the rest of the show. I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Brownville laughing along with everyone else, or that his wife’s shoulders shook on occasion.
Charlie Simmonds was a thin, pale man of average height, with short brown hair and bad teeth, dressed in a nondescript brown suit and shoes that had seen better days. Anyone would pass him on the street without a second glance. I had met him when he arrived at Haggerman’s this morning and had frankly been unimpressed. He was soft-spoken, verging on mumbling, and nervous in my not-at-all impressive presence. I’d hired him because of his reputation, and tonight I was not disappointed. Simply put, the man came alive onstage. His voice strengthened, he brimmed with confidence, and he seemed to physically grow as he paced the boards, gripping the microphone in one hand and his cigarette in the other. He caught the audience’s attention immediately, and aside from gales of laughter, no one made a sound. Even the bartenders, temporarily left with nothing to do, watched.
His act lasted for twenty minutes, and then he bowed deeply to a pretty girl sitting with her family at a front table, thanked the audience, accepted enthusiastic applause, said he’d be back later, and left the stage. The silence broke as people turned to their neighbors, or pushed back their chairs.
The audience didn’t completely turn over between one set and the next, but most of the older couples left when Charlie finished, as did the families with children.
The orchestra took to the stage again. This time the dance tunes were faster, more energetic. Some swing for the younger people, mixed in with foxtrots for the more sedate dancers. I checked my watch. At ten thirty the desserts would be brought out, and Charlie would retake the stage at eleven.
“Single-man alert,” Velvet whispered into my ear.
I was standing at the back of the room, watching as Randy tried to convince an elderly gentleman that perhaps he should take a break. The man had obviously had more than a few drinks before the dance began and had been a regular figure at the bar since it opened. When I’d seen him stumble for the second time, kept upright only by the quick actions of the dancers near him, I’d interrupted Randy’s dance and asked him to see to it. I’d be more than happy to throw out the drunk by the ear myself, and I was certainly capable of it, but I knew from experience some men can get even more argumentative when a woman tries to tell them what to do.
“A young single man,” Velvet added.
Randy took one of the drunk’s arms, an elderly woman took the other, and they maneuvered their way out of the hall, keeping to the walls so as not to interfere with the dancers.
Good job, Randy, I thought. That settled, I turned to Velvet. “Where?”
A single man. A young single man not employed by one of the hotels was as rare a sighting in the Catskills as a crocodile in Delayed Lake.
“At the bar. Good gray suit.”
I looked. The man in question had his back to us as he waited his turn to be served. He was about six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a slim waist, black hair clipped short. He stepped forward to place his order, put money on the counter, accepted his drink, and turned. I caught a glimpse of thickly lashed hazel eyes, strong cheekbones, and a freshly shaven chin before I looked quickly away. I guessed he was in his early thirties.
“How do you know he’s single?” I said to Velvet. “His wife might be sick, or she doesn’t like to dance.”
“No wedding ring.”
“Lots of married men don’t wear a wedding ring.”
“He’s the sort who would. Oh, he’s coming this way. Try not to stare.”
“I’m not the one staring, Velvet.”
“Good evening,” said a deep voice in an Upstate New York accent. He’d declined a fancy cocktail in favor of a glass of beer.
“Good evening,” Velvet said.
“Having a good time?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m not much of a dancer, though. I’m looking forward to hearing your comedian.”
“Are you staying at Haggerman’s?” Velvet asked.
“No. I’m . . . at Kennelwood.”
Our main competition.
“A word to the wise,” Velvet said. “Shake out your pillow every night.”
“Velvet!”
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m not saying they have bedbugs, but I’ve heard stories.”
He roared with laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
“Excuse me,” said a thin wavering voice. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss McNally?” A gentlemen, well into his ninth decade, all of five feet five and 110 pounds, blinked watery eyes at Velvet.
“Mr. Moretti! It would be my absolute pleasure,” Velvet declared as though a turn around the dance floor with this man was her life’s ambition. “You’re sure Mrs. Moretti doesn’t mind?” she said as she linked her arm through his and led him away. “We wouldn’t want to make her too dreadfully jealous now.”
An equally elderly, equally tiny woman, almost weighted down by her jewels and the sequins on her dress, smiled proudly around the cigarette holder clenched in her yellow teeth as she watched them take their places on the floor.
“You have good staff,” the beer drinker said to me.
“Velvet’s more a friend than a member of the staff. I didn’t get your name.”
“Richard.”
“Richard Kennelwood, I presume.”
He grinned. “I’ve been made.”
“I assume you know who I am.”
“Elizabeth Grady, of course. Olivia’s daughter.”
Kennelwood Hotel was the closest of the big resorts to Haggerman’s. They were older than us, bigger than us, grander
than us, situated on a bigger lake than us, and attracted better entertainers than us despite Olivia’s contacts, because they could pay better.
When Olivia and I arrived last year to take ownership and management of Haggerman’s, Kennelwood owner and hotel manager Jerome Kennelwood, son of the founder, came to welcome us to the neighborhood, so to speak. He’d oozed charm, offered us friendly advice, wished us well, and when he left he went straight to his office, where he placed phone calls to all the hotel booking agencies on the East Coast to tell them a place run by two dames—one of them a past-her-prime dancer—would never last the first season. He then proceeded to ensure we’d never last the first season by trying to poach our staff. Not by offering them more money but by warning them that if they stayed at Haggerman’s, they’d be out of work by the middle of the summer. Unfortunately for Mr. Kennelwood, his head housekeeper, a widowed Russian lady from Brooklyn, was delighted to hear one Mrs. Rostov would be living at Haggerman’s and paid a call on Tatiana. Mr. Kennelwood still didn’t know we had an inside source at his hotel. I’d called all the hotel booking agencies on the East Coast myself to assure them I was in charge and I knew what I was doing. That might have been a little white lie, but I was determined to fight fire with fire. My department managers were instructed to tell new hires to think very carefully about any approaches they might get from Kennelwood. Last week, over Tatiana’s samovar, open-faced rye-bread sandwiches, and homemade Russian tea cakes, her informant told her Mr. Kennelwood had been seriously ill over the winter and his son, Richard, had arrived from the city to take over the day-to-day running of the place.
“Don’t,” I said to Richard now, “even think about poaching Velvet or anyone else on my staff.”
“I won’t.” The teasing twinkle faded from his eyes. “I’m sorry if my dad hasn’t been a good neighbor to you. For him, business is a blood sport. I don’t operate that way.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean we’re not in competition. None of us are making a ton of money around here, and we have to watch out for ourselves, but I believe rivals can, and should, work together to the benefit of all parties. I’ve been hearing a lot about this new comedian you’ve landed, and I came to see what he’s about. Can I get you a drink? Is it Miss or Mrs. Grady?”
