Vixen

by Jillian Larkin

  Clara began to put the pieces together. There was no chance Gloria would want her tagging along. If Marcus had truly “heard all about” her, surely he’d know that much. Which meant that Marcus’s invitation was the girls’ doing, some scheme they’d cooked up and fobbed off on him. Hadn’t Gloria said that in her bedroom—something about how Marcus was going to “take care” of her? Clara couldn’t figure out his intentions quite yet, but one thing was for sure: There was much more to this pretty boy than met the eye.

  “I assume Gloria’s fiancé is coming, too? I’m sure he wouldn’t want to miss out on the celebration.”

  “Let’s just say,” Marcus said, looking in her vanity mirror and fixing his hair, “it’s an early bachelorette party. No grooms allowed.”

  “Ah, I see,” Clara said. “Perhaps you’re better off if there are no cousins allowed, either.”

  “Give me one reason why you shouldn’t go.”

  “Give me one reason why I should,” Clara said. Even though she wanted to go, she had an act to keep up. Country Clara would never be seen at a speakeasy.

  “Because I’ll be there,” he said. “And I’ve already squared this with Gloria. She really wants you to come. She even has a dress for you to wear.”

  And then he stood, tipped an invisible hat, and walked out of her room, leaving a scent of shaving balm and promise in his wake.

  The plan was that Clara would meet Gloria in her room at eleven p.m. sharp.

  With five minutes to go, she made her final preparations: set her makeup with powder; threw lipstick, compact, and clove gum into her purse; double-checked her teeth. But this familiar routine now seemed faked, the remnant of some distant universe she was no longer a part of.

  The last time Clara had been to a speakeasy had been on her final night in New York. The city had been abuzz with the simmering heat of August. Clara was just finishing the last sip of her martini when the sirens began to wail. “This is a police raid! Nobody move an inch!” Within seconds, the music stopped and the lights came on, exposing a blind-drunk, screaming stampede.

  Before she had a chance to react, someone shoved her through a trapdoor beneath the bar. Clara found herself crawling through a damp basement crowded with cartons of liquor and full of scurrying rats, until she reached a metal door that let out onto the sidewalk. The street was still and empty, not yet disturbed by the madhouse that roared below. She was free to run home.

  Or she could hijack the police paddy wagon, which was parked at the corner with one door wide open and the key dangling in the ignition and not a copper in sight.

  It was easy-peasy.

  She jumped behind the wheel just as the police began to emerge from the Red Head, dragging out hordes of handcuffed flappers. There were switches on the dashboard. Finding the one marked SIREN, she flipped it on, then cranked the key in the ignition and stamped on the gas pedal. The wagon took off, rattling down East Fourth Street at lightning speed, the back door banging open and closed as she swerved down the street. With no place to lock up their victims, the policemen took off after her, running down the street and blowing their whistles.

  Clara just laughed and laughed and gave the wagon more gas.

  She had never felt so free. She turned onto Fifth Avenue and flipped off the siren, watching the reflection of the wagon as she whooshed past the storefronts, then took a spin through Central Park, meandering past the reservoir, popping the siren on every now and then to see whom she could startle. She was coasting along Riverside Drive as the sun rose over the East Side. She found an empty intersection, parked the paddy wagon dead center, and removed the key from the ignition. She’d toss it in the Hudson when she got a chance.

  It was foolish, of course, and totally reckless, but damn, it was exciting. She remembered wishing that life could be like that always, a wild-goose chase without a destination. A chase for the thrill of running.

  Ultimately, the destination that early morning had been jail. She hadn’t seen the police car trailing her, and the coppers hadn’t listened to her protestations of innocence when they’d picked her up and thrown her into the backseat. She was holding the key to the paddy wagon, and that was as good as a smoking gun.

  Her father arrived in New York the next day and threatened to disown her if she didn’t leave behind her “immoral lifestyle” and return home immediately.

  Clara didn’t worry much about being disowned. But that night was the final straw. That and the boy. She had never quite recovered from him.

  Of course, if her father had known about the boy, she would have been disowned already. Here, in Chicago, she was supposed to have a fresh start. Playing the Good Girl was finally becoming fun. Especially now that she was en route to the hottest speakeasy in Chicago.

  Clara crept down the dark hallway to Gloria’s room and tapped on the door. Gloria opened it, her gold sequined dress pulled on halfway. She beckoned for Clara to come in and quietly closed the door behind them.

  “I’m taking a big risk letting you come along with us,” Gloria said. “But Marcus for some reason thinks you can be trusted not to rat us out.”

  “You have my word.” Clara turned an invisible key on her lips. And then raised her eyebrows. “But I’m not really sure we should be going to a speakeasy! Aren’t they just dens of sin?”

  Gloria ignored her question. “My friend Lorraine was nice enough to bring these over for you to wear,” she said, pointing to some clothes laid out on her bed. “Since I assumed you didn’t pack anything appropriate for the Green Mill.”

  Clara picked up the peach chiffon dress, with its dropped waist ending in a layer of beaded pleats. When she held it up to herself in the mirror, she almost laughed: The hemline hit midcalf. Even her mother would find this dowdy.

  Little did Gloria know that in New York, Clara’s clothes had been the fabric of legend. If Clara wore a new outfit on Saturday night, flappers would storm Madison Avenue the next day in search of it. One of her day jobs had been working as a fitting model for Bergdorf Goodman’s new ready-to-wear line. All irregular or damaged clothes—European or American—were hers to keep. Clara didn’t just set new trends, she set chic ones.

  She had to think of this dress as a costume, she reminded herself. Even so, it was so 1918. “This dress is so … beautiful.”

  “We figured you wouldn’t want to wear something that made you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Clara said carefully.

  Gloria fumbled with the pearl buttons on the back of her dress. “Help me before you get dressed.”

  “Isn’t this a little too tight?” Clara asked. “And too red?”

  “Applesauce,” Gloria said.

  “Let me know if I’m pinching you.” Gloria had a graceful figure, but it was moderately curvy, and the dress was clearly made for a girl without a chest. “On the count of three, suck in as much as you can. One, two, three!”

  Clara managed to button up the dress all the way. Gloria exhaled loudly and then darted toward her vanity. She shimmied in front of the mirror. “Oh, wow. I look—”

  “Like the bee’s knees! As you crazy flappers like to say.” Why not start the night out on a positive note, Clara thought, so that she could casually get the dirt on Marcus? She picked the peach dress up off the bed and slipped it over her head. “So, what’s-his-name and Lorraine are meeting us there?” she asked.

  “Yeah, at midnight on the street corner. We have to hurry.”

  “So, are they together? Since you’re …”

  “Since I’m what?” Gloria stopped applying her lipstick midstroke.

  “Since you are engaged,” Clara said, walking over to Gloria’s chair, “Lorraine and Marcus have something going on. Is that right?”

  “Raine is very single. As is Marcus. And they are most definitely not together.”

  Clara fixed a smudge of kohl below her eye in the mirror over Gloria’s head. “So Bastian must be incredibly jealous of Marcus, then.”

>   “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re going to a club in that sexy dress with a single man who is not him.” Clara picked up a pot of rouge, which was lying right next to Gloria’s diamond engagement ring. “Oh”—Gloria met Clara’s eyes with a distant flicker of guilt—“so Bastian doesn’t know you’re going tonight, does he?”

  “Men don’t need to know everything,” Gloria said, slipping the ring into a drawer.

  Clara frowned. “It’s not healthy to keep secrets from the one you love. A successful relationship is built upon mutual trust.” She’d read that in some boring magazine somewhere.

  Gloria snatched the rouge out of Clara’s hands and furiously applied some. Her cheeks were rounder than Clara’s, whose face had narrowed from her hungry days in the city. Gloria still looked like a little girl.

  After what seemed like an hour, Gloria turned to Clara. “I know my mother invited you here to help me with the wedding and everything. Which I appreciate. But I already have my own friends and my own life here, and a very important fiancé who doesn’t need to be bothered with every little thing I do. So what I would appreciate more is if you’d mind your own business and not help me at all. Except, perhaps, to decide what flavor of frosting I want on my cake.”

  Clara was taken aback by this sudden outburst. It almost made her admire Gloria, seeing that there was something burning beneath her cool diamond-encrusted exterior. And, given her own past, Clara knew this spark all too well: It was a ticking bomb, waiting for the right moment, and the right person, to set it off. She decided right then that she would help Gloria find the fiery release that she herself had once found. Even if she had to light the wick herself.

  “Then I hope, dear cousin, you can have your cake and eat it, too.”

  Gloria rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you witty. Now can we go?”

  “Oh, lor—I mean, rats! I forgot my purse!” Clara exclaimed.

  “Ugh! You’re going to make us late! And we won’t be let in after twelve-thirty!”

  Clara sprinted down the hall and into her own room. In the dark, she groped for her handbag, which lay right where she’d left it on her dresser. As she picked it up, she felt something fall to the ground. Her cash. She flipped on her vanity mirror’s light. It was then that she saw that what had fallen was not money at all.

  She picked up a small piece of thick cream writing paper, folded lengthwise. Where had it come from?

  Tentatively, she opened the note. Scrawled in elegant black cursive were three words:

  I found you

  Clara inhaled sharply.

  Suddenly the shadows in her room seemed alive, spinning her into their web of darkness. She ran to the window, looking out, but no one could have climbed to the top floor of the house without someone’s taking notice. It didn’t make sense. She had only left her room for a few minutes. Who had put the note there? One of the servants? Or had someone been in the house? And most importantly, how had whoever it was found her?

  Clara froze, the note sticky and hot in her palm. There was someone there, hovering on the other side of her door, listening in the slit of light, as the light grew wider and wider and wider and—

  “Clara! I thought you’d been murdered, you were taking so long.” It was Gloria. And she was fuming.

  Clara hid the note behind her back. “Sorry, I had forgotten to pack money.”

  Gloria let out a huff of impatience. “We don’t need any dough. Men buy you drinks.”

  “Really? I had no idea. How polite of them. Oh! I must spritz on some perfume!” Clara spotted a bottle of Chanel No. 5 on her dresser, the nearest distraction, and picked it up with her free hand.

  Gloria glared. “I’ll be waiting in my room. For approximately one more second.”

  After Gloria stormed out, Clara unfolded the note again. Surely it was just a prank played by one of the servants. Or Marcus! Egged on by those scheming, devious girls! She stuffed the note into the back of her underwear drawer and slammed it shut.

  Still, a cold, damp sweat had settled at the small of her back and was rapidly inching up her spine. Deep down, Clara knew the note was not a joke. It was the exact opposite—devastatingly serious. She spritzed the Chanel perfume into the air before her, walking through it and out the door. The mist settled onto her skin, the top floral note masking the darker ones that lay hidden beneath.

  LORRAINE

  Lorraine was furious. “Horsefeathers! We can’t just stand around like this! It’s not a school mixer!”

  The group was perched, stiff and unmoving, at the edge of the Green Mill’s dance floor. They’d made it past the door smoothly (password: Sugar Daddy), but why were they all being such Mrs. Grundys? Raine was ready to drink and dance! Gloria, on the other hand, was gazing dreamily at the stage as if she’d never seen or heard live music performed before. Clara eyed the bar like a little girl scandalized by all the naughtiness grown-ups did in private, and Marcus … well, it didn’t matter what he was doing. He was a complete sheik, the sort of keen guy a girl could get dizzy over.

  “Can we at least make an effort to pretend we belong?” Raine asked.

  “Why don’t I take Clara for her first real drink, and you two go dance,” Marcus suggested, placing his hand on the small of Clara’s back.

  “No! I mean—” Lorraine fumbled. What did she mean? She could almost swear that Marcus had been genuinely flirting with Clara all night. The way his hand had rested on Clara’s back—a little too comfortably and a tad too long—went far beyond the call of duty. He almost seemed to be deriving pleasure from the touch. Lorraine should have known better than to assign a man to do a woman’s job. She would have to steer Project Send Clara Home all on her own. “I mean, it’s only appropriate that I go with her instead. We wouldn’t want any of the eligible men to think Clara was taken.”

  Clara waved her hand. “Oh, but I’m not here to meet men—”

  “Why not? Do you have some secret fiancé back home that we don’t know about?” Lorraine hoped Marcus would laugh, but instead he seemed to eagerly await the answer.

  “I’m here to help with Gloria’s nuptials, not my own matrimonial prospects,” Clara said, glancing toward the bar. “Besides, I have no interest in … consuming illegal substances.”

  “But it’s mandatory!” Lorraine cried. “Alcohol is to the Green Mill as milk is to your cows.”

  “What cows?”

  Lorraine burst out laughing. “You’ve only been away from home for a week and already you’ve forgotten your beloved cows?”

  Clara twisted her gold bracelet uncomfortably. “Oh no. It’s … um … if you’ll excuse me …”

  They all watched her dash off to the powder room, clearly humiliated.

  Lorraine burst out laughing, pleased at her handiwork. “Well, we all know what side of the Prohibition she’s on.” Lorraine stepped onto the dance floor, pulling Gloria with her. “Come on,” she pleaded, “we can do the Charleston.”

  Gloria groaned. “Oh, Lorraine, you don’t know the Charleston.”

  “Do so,” Lorraine said, swiveling her hips along to the music, trying to remember the moves. “Violet taught me during physical fitness class last week.”

  Lorraine hated Violet, but the girl had her uses. She had been boasting to everyone with ears how she’d mastered the steps of the Charleston. “It’s the most fun I’ve ever had,” Violet had said between exercises.

  Miss Wilma had blown a whistle, and the girls had had to run a lazy circle around the gymnasium. But even that hadn’t stopped Violet from talking.

  “It’s all the rage, you know,” she’d said. “I saw it in New York.”

  Later, near one of the water fountains, Violet had put on a demonstration. She started twisting her feet. “Just pretend there’s music!” she told the assembled girls. The twisting was slow at first and then became faster.

  “It’s like the Jay-Bird!” Lorraine exclaimed, nearly recognizing a dance move she and Gloria had practiced almost
nightly a year before.

  “No, it’s better,” Violet insisted, her legs moving so swiftly, her feet kicking forward and backward at such a rapid pace, that Lorraine could only watch in awe, wondering how someone so ungainly could move so nimbly. And all without music.

  Unfortunately, they’d been interrupted by Miss Wilma before Violet could finish. “Girls! That’s not what I call a water break!” she hollered. “Stop that immoral writhing and give me twenty jumping jacks.”

  Now Lorraine was trying to re-create Violet’s moves and show Gloria what the Charleston was all about. “Here’s how you do it,” she instructed, kicking out her legs and trying not to fall on the floor. Around her, dozens of other flappers were doing the very same dance, only slightly more naturally than she was. From a few feet away, Marcus watched them and laughed.

  “I don’t know,” Gloria said doubtfully. “You look a little … spasmodic.”

  “Oh, please! I’m doing it perfectly.” Lorraine threw her arms up into the air and shouted, “Who’s dry now, Chicago?” It was what she imagined a true flapper would say, a sticking-it-to-the-drys who supported the Prohibition.

  “I think I’m going to take a break from the Charleston,” Gloria said, still watching Lorraine. “At least until I can figure out how to do it right.”

  “Right, shmight,” Lorraine said, out of breath. “It’s all about having fun.”

  Marcus came forward and hooked his arm through Gloria’s. “Come with me, Glo, so we can have a toast to our girl Clara’s new look.”

  Gloria snatched a teacup from a waiter walking by, downing its contents without missing a beat. “You two go have fun. I think I’m going to watch the band for a while,” she said, drifting away from Marcus and Lorraine.

  Gloria had been acting noticeably strange since the night began. Lorraine had attributed it to nerves, but usually when Gloria was nervous, she talked a mile a minute; tonight, however, she’d barely uttered a word.

  Either way, there was no time to worry about Gloria now. This was Lorraine’s moment to have Marcus alone. She took his hand and pushed through the gaggles of flappers until they landed at the bar. Marcus immediately ordered them both martinis. There was something innately seductive when a man ordered a drink for you—Marcus had to be interested in her on some subliminal level.