Lauri Robinson - The Bootlegger's Daughter

“Can’t you smell it?” she asked.

“All I smell is vomit,” Roger answered disgustedly.

Ty agreed, but made no comment. He did, however, remember how the sight and smell had disturbed Norma Rose last night. A weakness he’d file away to use if he needed it later.

“Exactly,” Gloria said. “I’ve cleaned up everything Dave regurgitated—what you’re smelling is him. That’s what wood alcohol poisoning smells like. Vomit. Grain alcohol doesn’t leave that stench.” She leveled her big brown eyes on Ty. “Ethyl is grain alcohol, methyl is wood. Ethyl’s wage is a hangover, methyl’s is death.”

“I’ve heard as much,” he told her, and noted never to get on her bad side.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Roger said. “Dave doesn’t drink.”

“I didn’t say the methyl was in some form of hooch,” Gloria said. “When distilled properly, it’s odorless and tasteless. From what came out of his stomach, my guess is they slipped it in one of those milk shakes he likes so much.”

Roger’s slow gaze landed on Ty with all the potency of a well-aimed tommy gun.

“Dave didn’t have a milk shake at the drugstore while I was there,” Ty said. “He had soup.” Picking up his cup, he added, “And coffee.”

“When was that?” Gloria asked.

“Yesterday. Lunchtime. Noon or so,” Ty answered.

She shook her head and said to Roger, “If Dave had drunk that at noon, he’d have been dead before they found him on the street corner last night. I don’t think he drank enough to kill anyone, especially a man his size, but because he’s so allergic to alcohol, its effects were ten times worse than they would have been for someone else.”

“What would have happened to someone else?” Ty asked.

“Delirium, shallow breathing, racing heart, stomach cramps,” Gloria answered. “But the most common is blurred vision, which often leads to complete blindness.”

“Will Dave lose his sight?” Roger asked.

Ty recognized concern in the man’s tone. Roger had shown he was worried about his brother-in-law, but now sincere anguish appeared on his face.

Gloria’s expression softened and she reached across the table to squeeze Roger’s hand. “I don’t believe so. Most of his symptoms are because of his allergy, not the methyl.”

“When will we know for sure?”

She shrugged. “Could be up to a week or more.”

Roger nodded and drank the last of his coffee before he asked, “Do you want me to get one of the girls to come and sit with him for a while?”

“No.” Gloria removed her hand from Roger’s to drink her coffee. “I had one of your watchmen sit in here while I went and got dressed. I’ll do that again if I need to.” She glanced at the timepiece hanging around her neck on a shimmering gold chain. “I need to wake him in another twenty minutes for another dose of soda water. I’ll keep doing that throughout the day, just to make sure.” Sitting back in her chair she once again turned her attention to Ty. “I’ve seen a lot of mouthpieces, and you aren’t a lawyer. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Ty wasn’t completely caught off guard. Her lack of trust was as thick in the air as the smell of vomit. He waited a moment or two, to see if Roger answered. When he didn’t, Ty nodded. “You’re right. I’m not a lawyer. Although I have attended law school.” He didn’t bother to add that it had been years ago, before he’d gone overseas. Roger Nightingale would tell her all that.

“Out east,” she said. “I can tell by your accent.”

He nodded again, and proceeded to tell her what he’d told Roger last night.

* * *

Even if she had been able to sleep, Norma Rose would have been in her office by sunup, digging out notes she’d made on every musician who’d played at the resort over the last couple of years. She had notes on ones that had played other places, too, even the Plantation. Years ago, the nightclub had been as big as the resort, drawing in crowds like no other. That was before Galen Reynolds had left for California and Forrest had returned.

Norma Rose’s mind, though, wasn’t focused on her notes, or the Plantation, or even Forrest Reynolds. None of that had been the reason she hadn’t been able to sleep. The stench of a rat had done that, and the smell was still eating at her.

Ty Bradshaw.

The man who’d been roaming the resort since sunrise. She knew a varmint when she saw one, whether it had two legs or four. A grin tugged at her lips. She should feel guilty, sending the workmen over to the cabin next to his so early, but there were no other guests in the nearby cabins. They wouldn’t arrive until later this week. And she did want the renovations done by then. Besides, the workmen had been up; she’d seen the lights in their tents from her bedroom window.

As her heart did a little flutter, recalling seeing Ty outside her office window a short time ago, she flipped open the cover of a writing tablet and grabbed a pen. “You are no gentleman, Ty Bradshaw,” she mumbled.

Scanning the first pages of her notes, she huffed out another breath. Her mind just wouldn’t focus, and it was too early to wake Ginger. Her youngest sister would pitch a fit, but Ginger knew all the local musicians. Not personally—their father did not allow the younger girls to mix with the guests or hired entertainers—but Ginger had perfect penmanship and helped Norma Rose write out contracts regularly, and was interested in such things.

Ginger would be up in a couple of hours and although her duties, along with those of Twyla and Josie, were doing laundry and cleaning cabins, Norma Rose could ask her to help find performers for the next two weekends. Ginger wouldn’t mind. Twyla and Josie would.

Norma Rose just couldn’t understand why her sisters weren’t as dedicated to the resort as she was. They, too, remembered secondhand clothes and soup three times a day, and they loved the clothes now filling their closets, along with the cosmetics, jewelry and shoes, yet they didn’t seem to make the connection that the only way to maintain all the fineries they’d come to enjoy was to keep the resort running. Making sure every minor detail was seen to. Just last week she’d had to make Twyla rewash a complete load of sheets. Brushing off bird droppings was not acceptable. Her sister was still mad at her.

Then again, Twyla was always mad at her.

Footsteps in the hall had Norma Rose lifting her head. It had been some time since her father had gone out to see Uncle Dave. She’d almost followed, but couldn’t help remembering the smell. It had been strong and powerful, and she couldn’t expose herself to it again. Not this early in the morning. She did want to know how Dave was, though, and kept her gaze on her door, waiting for her father to open it.

The footsteps went right past her door without slowing.

Her heart seemed to stop and start again. For the briefest of moments, she’d wondered if Ty would be with her father.

Letting out a breath, she concluded the morning cleaning had started. Part of the reason she liked coming into her office early was to get in a few hours before the chaos started. By eight, the resort would be humming with preparations for another long day and night of catering to guests.

Twirling her pen between her fingers, she gave in and let her mind focus on Ty Bradshaw. He wasn’t a lawyer. He was pompous enough, and sly enough, but he just didn’t look the part. He was almost too smooth. Maybe he was a runner, or a buyer, which would explain him meeting Dave, but runners or buyers never stayed at the resort. Their bosses did, but she felt sure Ty wasn’t a mobster, either.

The pen tumbled onto her desk with a clatter. A Prohibition agent.

Hired to raid speakeasies, find and destroy stills, and arrest gangsters, a few had visited the resort before, but they’d never found anything. Ty didn’t dress like an agent, though. Norma Rose knew clothes, and his were expensive. Prohibition agents were paid less money than factory workers, which is why they accepted money under the table so easily.