The Paragon Hotel

by Lyndsay Faye

  She slides up a chair and pulls Blossom into the crook of her neck, making low, sweet hushing sounds. My heart cords thrum in aching tune as Jenny strokes her damp cheek, presses her lips against the waves of her hairline. It’s not until this has gone on for maybe twenty seconds that I realize Max is purposely not looking at a perfectly typical act of feminine comfort. The question of why they should need privacy has barely entered my grey matter before I’ve answered it, however.

  He isn’t my sort, honey, Blossom said about Max.

  He’s not my sort either, honey. The very idea, Blossom said about Dr. Pendleton.

  Jenny came to Blossom’s room in the middle of the night and didn’t praise her Maker over finding me there. And Jenny is sleek haired, and intelligent, with curves fit to slalom down like Alps. I’m lifetimes too old and several dozen flapper acquaintances too experienced to blush, but I swerve my attention to the vicinity of the cheese cart. In my periphery, I notice Max noticing.

  You need to remedy the fact that anytime Max notices you, your entire torso quivers.

  “Hush, hush, we’ll set it all right,” Jenny sings. She turns her attention to Max over Blossom’s crown. “So you left off searching?”

  Max has already poured four chalice-size glasses of that which is forbidden and sets two in front of them.

  “Yep. Searched, kept searching, right up till they tossed us out on our ears.”

  “The brutes!” Jenny exclaims. “Where are the others?”

  “Miss Christina is here, fishing for some shut-eye before breakfast service. Mavereen’s camped out in a colored diner across the river till the park reopens. Dr. Pendleton left to join her a few hours back. Sober as a goat, says Rooster.”

  “What happened exactly?” Jenny asks me. “Earlier. You were there.”

  The needling pain between my eyes jabs harder. “Yes, though I’m shrouded in darkness myself. Davy was with us when we went into the fun house, and I was separated from the others in a jiffy because they knew better than to take the first dead-end turn. From thenceforth, I made a dreadful ass of myself, I’m afraid. Had the niftiest dizzy spell in the hall of mirrors, found the exit, and quelque shame, there’s the entire kettle of fish.”

  “Who was Davy with specifically?”

  Max says, “It was Blossom as had him by the mitt. I been grilling her like a regular chump about it, and we ain’t gonna mess with her no further, see? He ran off like he always does. Not her fault; next topic.”

  Jenny rests a smooth cheek against the top of Blossom’s head. “I want it all to have been a bad dream.”

  Max balls a fist. “We done searched everything from the floating bathhouse to the pavilion, which was locked up till I raised all hell, then we spread into the woods after they ousted us. Calling out for him, like. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face to search. Me, I’m gathering the troops. First thing. Then maybe speculating over which heads is asking for knocking. From what they says, I oughta sign that ticket taker up for some dental work.”

  Blossom rises, combing her fingers through Jenny’s waterfall of hair. She downs a swig of liquor a pirate might term robust. “Nonsense, Max, you’ll lose the last of your trains tomorrow. They’ll dock you something simply frightful.”

  “Yeah, how about that.” Max seats himself at my table with more of the strong stuff, his ankles crossed in front of him, and I partake with religious fervor.

  “You ridiculous, peacocking toddler,” Blossom hisses.

  “Aw, there’s my girl.” Max flashes a gallows grin. “That’s Second Lieutenant Toddler to you.”

  “No, honestly, you can’t stay.” She seems freshly dismayed, and Max exchanges a look with Jenny.

  “Why’s that, then?”

  Blossom’s eyes are black and carmine within the sills of her cheekbones, and her voice could finish cement work. “It’s really ever so simple once it’s explained to you, here, I’ll do it gratis. You have to get on one of the trains before noon tomorrow or you’ll lose your job.”

  “Eh, good riddance. I’ll get another.”

  “Really?” she questions acidly. “What sort?”

  “Dunno, angel, but army veteran generally counts for at least one shade offa my skin tone, and I ain’t eager to skedaddle till we bring home the hotel mascot.”

  Blossom takes a second swallow of whiskey and, hey presto, the drink has vanished. “You can’t help.”

  “How in hell d’ya figure that equation?”

  “Because, my sweet, stupid Max, you will not content yourself with mere searching, oh no. You will canvass neighborhoods, question white people. You will be as visible as the Rose Parade. You will march that positively resplendent ass of yours down to the station house. When they lack the zeal you require, you will antagonize Officer Overton, and he will, allow me to enunciate this clearly, murder you.”

  Max regards the ceiling. “I done got shot at by Germans for the American flag. If it’s for Davy? Sign me up.”

  Blossom’s entire gaunt frame has launched in the direction of exploding when Jenny says, “I have an idea.”

  A tense silence ensues.

  “They’re a hot commodity. Let’s have it,” I venture.

  “Does it involve ink at all?” Blossom lurches off for more whiskey.

  Jenny wisely ignores this. “Anyone else would be going to the cops by now. But the cops—”

  “Shake us down for red-eye and attempt to rearrange Maximilian here’s handsome features, so please, honey, do me the exquisite favor of not suggesting we try the Mounties instead.” Swiveling, Blossom reveals a fresh fistful of holy water and quaffs.

  “No, I was thinking of the Chief of Police.”

  Blossom’s mouth opens and closes.

  Max snaps his fingers with a low whistle.

  Jenny leans forward. “Yes, it’s a black child gone missing, but Evelina Vaughan has always been on our side naturally, without convincing, and she’s your personal friend. Her husband can’t very well refuse to help us under those circumstances, can he? What’s more, it’s a matter of principle.”

  “Principles. Those and four bits can get you lunch,” Blossom replies sweetly.

  “You have principles,” Jenny snaps. “What, you think you’re the only one on earth who does?”

  “I—of course not, no, I’m being predictably horrid. I’m sorry. Honey, I see your point, I truly do, but a troupe of Negroes can’t very well hoist umbrellas and march up to the front door of the Portland Chief of Police without begging to be pummeled by men in quaint medieval caps.”

  Jenny smirks like a feline with cream on its whiskers. “Miss James over there—”

  “Oh, do call me Alice, please.”

  “Volunteered to help. So she’ll go.”

  Max executes a celebratory kick step from his seated position. “Jenny K., you got a head on your neck, says I.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “What do you want me to ask Mr. Vaughan to do?”

  Blossom seems at a genuine loss. I comprehend her fear of authorities, however, and remember her abrupt dismissal of the topic of Tom Vaughan the day previous. She hadn’t seemed to harbor any grudge toward the fellow; but I don’t harbor any grudge toward great white sharks, and that doesn’t connote wanting to palaver with them.

  “Call it a woman’s intuition, if you please, Lord knows I believe in the stuff, but I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she replies, staring into her liquor.

  “Is Chief Vaughan crooked?” I ask.

  “Gracious, no. He’s simply a model.”

  “Of what?”

  “Why, decency, of course.”

  “Do you mean that sarcastically?”

  “I mean it in the dictionary sense of the term!” she wails. The pretty sapphire glints to her skin are ashen, and her drink trembles like a plucked guitar string. “Fine, go!
Anything for Davy Lee, I know we’d all risk the very gallows, I only—the Klan would think nothing of turning this place into a bonfire and toasting marshmallows over it. I want him back, more than my life. But I don’t want to see you hurt, Max, Jenny. Alice. Nor anyone else. Now if you far-too-kind souls will pardon me, since I’m not crashing through the mud and muck any longer, the dining room is altogether too far away to await news. I’ll be in the lobby with Rooster.”

  “Blossom—” Jenny attempts.

  “Try to stop me,” Blossom hisses as she sweeps out the etched glass doors.

  We sit, listening as the rain plays snare drums against the windows. Max’s thoughts have burrowed deep into his skull. Jenny blushes, grimaces in frustration, then says unsteadily, “Max . . .”

  “You’re too good to ask it, kiddo, because I’d be betraying a confidence.” Max squints in sympathy. “Anyway, only folks as know what ails Blossom are Blossom and Dr. Pendleton.”

  Jenny nods. The ah, jolly good, so that was the last lifeboat, then sort of nod. Pulling her robe tighter, she departs.

  We are alone.

  Max shifts looking, dare I say, sheepish. “Nuts. About, er, Blossom and Jenny.”

  I try my most innocent moon eyes and he very nearly laughs.

  A chorus of cheers for the home team as the batter strikes a single.

  “You never quit, do you?” He shakes his head.

  “Unto the death knell. Just a moment, though—being a mob flapper is quite the exercise in liberality. Blossom could take up with the Queen of the Netherlands for all I care. But why are you so sanguine over it?”

  “Aw, c’mon, lady, I been to Paris. Please. You and me is the only local circle types who’ve cottoned to it, but I don’t have to tell you to keep your lips glued, do I?”

  “Her brother most certainly knows,” I correct him. “But I won’t tell a soul.”

  One corner of Max’s mouth edges upward again.

  And the batter steals second.

  “No kidding? What’re you, then, some kinda spy?”

  “Nobody particular.”

  “I know that ain’t a full deck.”

  “March to the rear, sir, you are forward and the hour is late.”

  “Yeah,” he says gravely. “Yeah, it sure is. You’re for the Vaughans’ come morning?”

  “As I live and breathe. I’m no goldbrick.”

  “I’ll write out directions, leave ’em with Rooster at the desk.”

  “You have my eternal gratitude. Your own plans?”

  “Muster some men and be back out there with ’em when dawn breaks.” Max goes to retrieve his fallen hat. “We’ll find Davy, Alice. I swear to God we’ll find him.”

  He holds the door open for me. As we exit, we face Rooster, hulking and somber, standing at attention behind the check-in counter. We reach the elevator, and Max in lieu of Wednesday Joe operates it.

  Blossom remains curled in an armchair, contemplating the empty lobby. Watching like a sea captain’s wife searching the shores after a storm.

  ◆ Eleven ◆

  Dangerous forces are insidiously gaining a foothold in Oregon. In the guise of a secret society, parading under the name of the Ku Klux Klan, these forces are endeavoring to usurp the reins of government, are stirring up fanaticism, race hatred, religious prejudice, and all of those evil influences which tend toward factional strife and civil terror.

  —GOVERNOR BEN OLCOTT, Official Proclamation, May 13, 1922

  Chief of Police Thomas Vaughan smiles as the maid enters the parlor with a tea tray. She’s an ashy-complected girl with teeth that jostle and a center hair part executed with the assistance of either a mathematician or a ruler. Possibly both.

  Something has unnerved her—it would cheer me up any amount to learn it isn’t me.

  “That looks mighty fine, April. Oh, have you eaten, Miss James? It’s so early, I can’t imagine you have. Should she bring us a bite of something before I have to leave for the station house?”

  One might think from reading this that he is archly reminding me of my dawn-crack intrusion and advising me to hoist mainsail. One would miss the bull’s-eye. Whatever else is going on, Mr. Vaughan genuinely wants to know the condition of my stomach.

  “Oh, really, I couldn’t—”

  “April, please bring in some of those scones Evy made yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I—”

  “Enough for two will be fine, thank you.”

  I regard him, gauging.

  He regards me, courteous and distracted.

  Something entirely apart from my undisclosed criminal ties is amok.

  The Vaughans live in King’s Hill, an altogether idyllic neighborhood just to the west of the car-choked city center. You could roll a bowling ball straight down West Burnside and hit it from the Paragon Hotel save for the fact I’ve discovered that another thing Portlanders are strong for apart from rain and roses is hills. So I took a streetcar in the salmon sunrise, descending onto an avenue lined with fairy-tale trees and thick with bushes exploding in shocking pinks and kingly purples and blinding whites. I nearly couldn’t find the house for the flora and the ferns.

  “Mr. Vaughan—Oh, should I call you Chief Vaughan?”

  “Mr. Vaughan is just fine, Miss James.”

  “Very well. Again, I beg you’ll forgive me, but it’s a matter of terrible urgency.” I pat my hair primly, ensuring that it’s all tucked into the false bun. “You see, I’m writing an article about the colored population of Portland, and residing at the Paragon Hotel to do so.”

  “Say, isn’t that swell.” His brows unfurl pleasantly. “A lady reporter. You be careful at the Paragon, Miss James—never know what sort’s coming in and out.”

  Which identically matches the specs of every other hotel on earth, thank you.

  “Doesn’t Mrs. Vaughan teach a charitable class there?”

  “Sure does.” He smiles. “My wife is a special lady. I can’t keep her out of trouble, but I can keep her well advised. Better safe than sorry is my motto. Parents for orphans, salves for lepers, betterment for blacks—my Evy is fighting the good fight. All I can do is warn her, same as I’m warning you now.”

  “Why does she hold her weekly class at the Paragon, then, supposing it’s subject to occasional rowdiness?”

  “My wife has a friend there, a Miss Blossom Fontaine. Artistic type, you know—flamboyant even. But she has a good heart deep down, if you can overlook the rest.”

  Nobody the stick-assed intellectual frowns skeptically. “Actually, it pains me to say, it’s partly about her that I’ve come.”

  He pauses as he passes my cup and saucer. Tom Vaughan looks like what would happen if you bred an heiress with a cowboy and ended up with a poster for Colgate’s shaving lather. But in a sweet way. He has a flat brow and a narrow chin with a vertical cleft, a wholesome triangular arrangement that probably had its origins in some godforsaken corner of Scandinavia. He’s the sort who’s never calculated a movement in his life, was born knowing how to cast a fly rod and saddle a pinto. Where Officer Overton’s military arrogance invites cringing, Mr. Vaughan’s surety makes you think he maybe wouldn’t mind taking a look at that shutter that always squeaks.

  “Is Miss Fontaine all right?” he asks.

  “For the most part. But you see, an orphaned mulatto boy they care for disappeared yesterday at the Elms.”

  Tom Vaughan clucks in consternation, shifting to pull a notebook and pencil from his jacket. Meanwhile, he keeps glancing at the front foyer like it’s a race he has money on.

  “His name is Davy Lee,” I continue.

  “Uh-huh, I believe we’ve met. Some fund-raiser or other—oh, an ice-cream social for the Bethel AME Church my wife volunteered at. He’s in her class too, I believe.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Cute
kid. Odd, but nice manners. Mighty sorry to hear he’s missing. What were the circumstances?”

  I inform him, in appropriately fussy terms.

  “Sounds like you didn’t get much help from the Elms staff. Then again, runaways of that age aren’t uncommon, so they had a point.”

  “They hardly seemed to consider the boy a child of God at all.”

  “It wasn’t so bad as that, surely? People are a mite reserved in these parts, Miss James, because so many settlers came here on account of the untouched wilderness in the first place. But you’ll find they warm up just as snug as you could wish if you give them some time and space.”

  They do to you, I imagine.

  Pushing my glasses up my nose, I reply, “Possibly. But the hotel employees have been searching these past twenty hours, and I can hardly stand to think that the river might play into this. It’s so affecting, Mr. Vaughan. I know Davy’s not precisely an exalted citizen, but—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Miss James, but you needn’t.” Mr. Vaughan continues to scribble notes. “Portlanders don’t want to import any plantation mentality, slaves and overseers alike, and the low black population helps keep race relations peaceable the way they aren’t in other parts of the country. That’s swell. But that doesn’t mean I treat our Negroes any different from us native citizens. I’m going to put the word out to the whole force, and I’ll have a look around the Elms myself. Can’t promise miracles, but I take my job mighty seriously. We all do at the Portland Bureau of Police.”

  Officers Overton and Taffy being blinding examples.

  April reappears with an armful of baked goods. Mr. Vaughan glances at the grandfather clock and into the entryway again, a man obviously leaking cheer.

  “You want the butter and the blackberry jam, Miss James,” he informs me as he readies his portion. “You’re a stranger in these parts, so. Trust me.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Sir.” April twists chapped hands together, then crosses them as if she’s been asked to spell something. “Should I—”