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“Thelma, ring Walter’s phone, please,” Norma Rose said into the phone.
Every cabin and room at the resort had a phone, a highly expensive amenity. There was also a switchboard and operator just a few doors down the hall. Ty leaned back, wondering why she’d called the man who oversaw the gardeners and night watchmen. Moe, the cook, was a talker. In a conversation that lasted less than five minutes, Ty had learned who worked where and how long they’d been at the resort.
“Walter. It’s Norma Rose. I want the keys removed from all the cars in the garage.” She paused before answering, “Yes, even my father’s. Bring them to my office.”
Ty laughed, but cut it short at the little glare she cast his way. It appeared Roger didn’t keep the Nightingale girls under control. Norma Rose did. In a way, that made him look forward to meeting the other two, Josie and Ginger.
His good sense kicked in, telling him he wasn’t here to meet any of Roger Nightingale’s daughters. Norma Rose was more than enough. He’d been careful with what he’d told her, and how he’d said it. Roger Nightingale was a smart businessman, but his daughter was intuitive. Norma Rose would be able to see through a lie with her eyes closed.
Bodine’s name hadn’t been on the list, at least not under any of the aliases he’d used in the past. Bodine had been known to associate with a few on the list, but Ty couldn’t say if he still did. The mobster had a way of burning bridges.
“So,” Norma Rose said, pushing the phone aside. “Are you a federal agent?”
The question was so unexpected, Ty was startled. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He combated the prickly sensation by shifting and sitting up straighter, and then he changed the subject. “Do your sisters steal cars on a regular basis?”
Leaning back in her chair, Norma Rose crossed her arms and eyed him pointedly with those no-nonsense blue eyes. “No, because I stay one step ahead of them.”
“What about your father?”
“What about him?”
“Does he stay one step ahead of your sisters, too?”
“He doesn’t have to,” she said. “He has me to do that, and we’re not just talking about my sisters.”
Ty wanted to stand, maybe walk over and look out the window, but he knew she’d catch his unease. He glanced back to the ledger. “Is this everyone?”
She didn’t sigh, or make any such sound, nor did she move, but he felt her inward shift as she tried to decipher him. He’d been up against mobsters who couldn’t make him sweat and he could hold his own against her, too. It had taken him too long to get to where he was to jeopardize it all over a woman.
The sound of morning birds calling to one another filtered in through the open window, thickening the silence between him and Norma Rose. They’d come to a standoff. She wasn’t going to answer any more questions from him until he answered hers. Ty wasn’t impressed that he’d let it get to this point. He was usually more on top of things. Since entering her office, he’d spent more time admiring how fine she looked in that black-and-white sequined dress than keeping his focus on the prize. Which was Bodine. Not Norma Rose Nightingale.
“My position here needs to remain a secret,” he said, sitting up and meeting her solid gaze with his own.
“So you are a federal agent.”
“I’m a private investigator,” he said quietly and glanced around for good measure. “To everyone else, I’m a lawyer. Your Uncle Dave’s lawyer.”
Norma Rose was rubbing her hands together and thinking. Definitely thinking. Lifting her chin slightly, she asked, “What are you investigating?”
Ty was slightly disappointed she’d given up so easily. He liked a challenging adversary. He just had to keep reminding himself that was not Norma Rose. “I believe someone may have poisoned Dave last night in order to kidnap him.”
“Kidnap him? What for?”
He lifted a brow. She knew why gangsters kidnapped people.
She nodded, accepting his silent acknowledgment. “Who?”
Glancing toward the ledger again, he said, “You tell me.”
Rising from her chair, she walked around her desk, her heels clicking evenly until she stopped near the window, leaned over the small table and pulled the curtain aside to peer out. Ty found himself appraising her again. Admiring her legs and the seam of her nylons that rose out of her shoes and disappeared beneath her skirt. His inspection continued upward, over her shapely derriere and subtly curved spine.
She let loose the curtain and turned, and he was glad he had his eyes on her face at that point. Norma Rose did not like to be ogled. She’d made that clear last night when the police chief couldn’t keep his eyes above her shoulders. Ty also had a hell of a time keeping his eyes where they belonged, then and now.
“No one,” she said with a hint of skepticism, “would attempt to kidnap my uncle. Especially not someone on that list.” Gesturing toward the ledger with a gloved hand, she continued, “Whether those are their real names or not, the people on that list wouldn’t risk losing my father’s—” she paused as if searching for the right word “—friendship.”
Why was he pussyfooting around? He wouldn’t with anyone else. “Your father’s a bootlegger,” he pointed out.
Her gasp said more than words ever could have. She caught herself, though, and held back her glare. “He is not.”
Getting a rise out of her kicked his heart into a faster speed. Yet, once again, Ty simply raised a brow.
“Prove it,” she challenged.
“I don’t have to.” Ty slid off the desk, but only to pivot around and sit in her chair, where he leaned back. “I already know it.”
Her cheeks flared red, and he’d say the reasons for that blush were spilt fifty-fifty. Fifty percent concern at her father’s profession and fifty percent anger at him for relaxing in her chair. He considered resting a foot on her desk, but that might be taking things too far.
Stiffening her spine, Norma Rose planted both hands on the slight inner curve of her hips. “Not an ounce of liquor has ever been sold at this resort.” Catching herself, she added, “Not since Prohibition.”
He let out an exaggerated guffaw.
She paced in front of the desk, heels clicking on the wood and her breath came out in little huffs as she glared at him. “My grandfather used to make wine, lots of it, from everything. Grapes, cherries, apples, even dandelions. The basement of our house was full of it, and people came from miles around to have a glass of Nightingale wine.”
This time Ty let out a real laugh, cutting it short only because she pinched her lips tight. “Do you expect me to believe the only alcohol you have at the resort is some old wine your grandfather made?”
Her eyelids fluttered shut and the deep breath she took made her shoulders rise and her ample breasts more prominent. Ty allowed himself time to examine her, knowing she was thinking hard to come up with an excuse he’d believe, but made sure his eyes were on hers when her lids lifted.
“That’s not what I said.” Lifting her chin, she let out a long sigh, and set a hand on her flat stomach. “The Eighteenth Amendment was passed in 1919, however, it didn’t go into effect until 1920.”
Although he didn’t need a history lesson, and knew more about the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act than she ever would, he nodded.
“My father,” she continued, “was—is—a very enterprising man. A smart one. Since he worked for the Hamm’s Brewery at the time, he bought up several cases of liquor.”
Ty rubbed a hand over his mouth to keep his smile hidden.
“For private consumption, of course,” she added staunchly.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Private consumption.”
“Yes. It’s perfectly legal to possess and consume alcohol.”
“As long as you have a doctor’s prescription,” Ty added.
She bristled again. “The law clearly states it’s the manufacturing, transportation and selling of intoxicating liquors that is illegal. We do none of those.”
He had no doubt she knew the entire amendment inside and out, and wasn’t about to hash out the intricate details, yet he couldn’t help challenging her. “So, you’re telling me all the alcohol consumed here is by friends and family? Private consumption?”
With her chin still hoisted, she said, “Not a single drink has ever been sold. I have receipts for every dime this place has taken in, and for what. I can show them if you’d like.”
He’d bet she did. The resort did the same thing as most taverns and speakeasies. They had cover charges. Most places claimed the money was paid to see a blind pig or other such phenomenon or for the hors d’oeuvres provided, but no one went to those places just to eat, and no one really wanted to see a blind pig. But, in all the years he’d been chasing down gangsters, he’d never met a man who’d refuse a drink because it was illegal.
Roger Nightingale was an enterprising man. The resort was an upscale establishment. An evening’s cover charge included a meal and entertainment. Even the lodging cost included “complimentary” drinks, and the prices Nightingale charged called to the high rollers. A man would spend whatever it takes, as long as he’s getting what he wants—such as the real stuff the resort poured into their highball glasses. No branch water or rotgut. Beer was served here, too, which was highly unusual. Nightingale may have purchased several cases of liquor way back when, but he went through several cases a night, and had done so for years.
