The Bootlegger's Daughter

Brushing crumbs off her gloves—which she normally removed while eating—she said, “You seem to have gathered a lot of information from my father in a very short time.”

He flipped another page. “You forget I had lunch with Dave yesterday.”

That didn’t bother her nearly as much as it had last night. Whatever Dave may have told him couldn’t compare to the way her father had already taken Ty into his confidence. She took the book from his hand and laid it on her desk. “I don’t forget anything. Ever.” Meeting his gaze, she added, “And I know you are not a lawyer.”

“You’re right,” he said, twisting to rest a hand on her desk so he could continue to scan the names listed in the book. “I’m not.”

Norma Rose waited for him to continue, needing the time to get her nerves in order. Dang but he smelled good. Too good. And he was way too close. The hair on her arms was standing at attention. She jerked back, putting some space between them. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking over the guest lists.”

“No. What are you doing here?”

He sat up straight, and leveled his gaze on her. He was good at that, looking her directly in the eyes, unlike most men, whose eyes often wandered. For the first time, that bothered her. There wasn’t anything about him, not a single iota, she wanted to like.

“I’m a private investigator,” he said.

A private eye. She’d heard of private detectives but never met one before, so she couldn’t say if he looked the part or not. Waiting for more, she arched her brows.

Ty grinned, as if he found her reaction funny. “I can’t say anything more than that. I will tell you that after checking out of my hotel, the Fairmont, yesterday, I happened upon your uncle at the drugstore. Later, while exploring the city, I visited the Blind Bull. I was there when I heard the police sirens and went outside to investigate. I recognized your uncle as they loaded him in the car and went to the police station to see if I could help.”

Norma Rose couldn’t say she was convinced he was telling the truth, but she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t, either. Which was strange. Her intuition usually picked up on things relatively quickly. The Fairmont was in St. Paul, but anyone driving past the four-story building could have picked up the name, and Dave had probably stopped at several drugstores yesterday. They were popping up faster than gas stations. Many of the drugstores were nothing more than fronts for speakeasies, as were grocery stores and hardware stores. There was even a telephone booth on Nicolette Avenue in Minneapolis with a hidden door that led people into a speakeasy. She hadn’t seen it, and wondered how it worked.

The Blind Bull was along the riverfront, near the stockyards, which were next to the rail yard, and hosted a restaurant as its cover.

“Can we go over these lists, now?” Ty asked. “I have other work to do, and so do you.”

She wanted to ask what else he had to do, but chose not to bother. The quicker he left her office, the better off she’d be. For several reasons. Number one because she’d never get to the bottom of why he was here sitting on her desk.

He flipped a few more pages, stopping on the page she’d titled Palooka George’s Party, alongside the date. Using a finger, he started going down the list. “Hmm...”

“Hmm what?”

He pointed to a name. “Leonard Buckly, that’s Loose Lenny, and this—” he pointed to another name a little farther down the page “—Alan Page, that’s Mumbles. This here, Alvin Page, is his brother, Hammer.”

Unable to deny the tick of excitement flaring inside her, Norma Rose asked, “Do you think they had something to do with Uncle Dave’s poisoning?”

“I don’t know, but I do know they’re Chicago mobsters who’d love to get their hands on some Minnesota action.” He moved his finger a few lines down. “So would these guys. Gorgeous Gordy, Hugo the Hand, Flashy Bobby Blade, Nasty Nick Ludwig. Huh, last I heard he was still in jail.” He let out a low whistle. “Shady Shelia and Nellie Ringer—those are two hard-hearted dames.”

Norma Rose balled her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. She knew the list contained a few gangsters, but the names he’d rattled off were more than she expected. And they were well-known. Even she’d heard of them. Worse yet, she’d met some of them, not by the names Ty was using, but by the names she’d written in the ledger. The very names he was pointing at. A different sort of thrill shot through her.

Mobsters were followed as closely as celebrities and baseball players. To many people, they weren’t outlaws. Some considered them modern-day Robin Hoods. Except, instead of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, they were getting one over on the government for Prohibition, and people liked that.

When Forrest’s father, Galen Reynolds, had run the Plantation, proclaimed gangsters had visited the place all the time. Roger Nightingale didn’t believe in such tactics, but the names Ty rattled off weren’t local thugs, they were big-time gangsters from Chicago and New York. They were men who had money, and spent it. People liked that, too.

“What other names do you recognize?” she asked.

“Two-shot Malone,” Ty said. “One for the head and one for the heart. Knuckles Page, Roy Ruger, Fast Eddie, Smiling Jack, Point Black Luigi, Sylvester the Sly, Fire Iron Frank, Boyd the Brander.”

She was memorizing the names as they leaned over the page, head-to-head. Her heart was pounding, too, beating harder with each move of his finger. Some of these people sounded dangerous, and listening to him describe them was, well, exciting.

“Cold Heart Sam, Evil Ernie, Tony the Tamer, Gunman Gunther—”

“Where is Ginger?”

Norma Rose snapped her head up at the sound of her sister’s voice.

“It’s her day to wash.” Twyla walked into the room, but stopped when her gaze landed on Ty. Her eyes grew wide and a full-blown smile curled her bright red lips. “Hello.” She stepped closer, holding out a hand. “I’m Twyla Nightingale, and you are?”

“Ty Bradshaw,” he answered, straightening enough to shake Twyla’s hand over the desk.

Norma Rose wanted to moan. Twyla never ignored the opportunity to meet a man. Any man. They were usually excited to meet her, too, until they learned who her father was.

Lifting a heavily painted brow at Norma Rose, Twyla indicated her interest in the rather intimate way Ty sat on the corner of the desk.

“I don’t know where Ginger is,” Norma Rose said coldly. She could attempt to explain who Ty was and what they were doing, but it would be a waste of breath. Her sisters were not interested in the resort, at least not the management of it. “Maybe she isn’t up yet.”

“Not up yet? She’d better be,” Twyla said. “It’s almost nine.”

That was surprising. Mainly because it meant the past two hours had flown by. “Did you check her room?” Norma Rose asked.

“Of course I checked her room,” Twyla said, rolling her eyes at Ty to demonstrate how silly she thought that question was. “She’s not there.”

“Maybe she’s already cleaning cabins,” Norma Rose suggested. Ginger was far more responsible than Twyla. It would have made more sense if Ginger had been the one standing in her office now. Then again, Ginger wouldn’t look for Twyla, she’d just go about getting her chores done. And unlike Twyla, Ginger wouldn’t wear what Twyla had on to do laundry—a bright pink, rather short dress, with a white silk scarf tied around her neck and white shoes with square heels. The very shoes Norma Rose had been wearing earlier. “I hope you don’t plan on washing sheets in that outfit. You’ll ruin it with a drop of bleach.”

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