The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  Then I locked my eyes on Cal, who’d done the rest of the work when Mama quit. She’d showed me how to watch faces for a lie, how to slip a bribe under a table, how to know when a fight was about to start, and how to break it up before it began. How to win at cards with a losing hand.

  “Millie,” she said, but I could tell she was wavering.

  Then Marion spoke up again. “No, I can’t let you do it anymore, Millie. How can I call myself a friend if I let people put themselves in danger for me?”

  “You’re not letting me do anything, Marion.” I leaned against Cal. “No one ‘lets’ a Coleman do anything, right?”

  “At least call that detective!” Marion said. “Tell him what happened. Maybe he’ll lay off me.”

  “I’ll tell him, but I don’t want to leave it up to him to decide if this is enough evidence. Your life is too important to put in his hands.”

  “But your club,” Marion said, turning to Cal now. “It’s ruined.”

  Cal set a hand on his shoulder. “This ain’t the end, kid. I’ve come back from worse.” She looked around at me and Mama. “We all have.”

  Cal was right. In this family, when we got knocked down, we learned to land on our feet like stray cats. If the world didn’t give us a chance, we found a way to take one.

  “Then let me help clean up,” Marion said, conceding defeat. “I can do that at least.”

  “It’s too risky,” I said. “But there is one thing you can do. We’ll bring over your sewing machine from the club, and you can make yourself a new costume, the most beautiful one you’ve ever worn. And when the club reopens and we clear your name, you’ll be there to welcome it back in style.”

  Marion bit his lip as if he was still hesitating, but I’d seen his eyes light up at the mention of that machine. He was talented at hand sewing, but the machine was his pride and joy. He’d nearly cried when Cal had found it at a pawn shop and presented it to him last year.

  He lifted his chin. “I bet I can make a costume faster than you can fix up that club.”

  I grinned. “Bet you five bucks you can’t.”

  Marion winked at me. “I’ll be planning how to spend my five bucks.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  SATURDAY WAS SUPPOSED to be our best money-maker of the week, but Cal said there was no way we could open again for at least a few days. Even though we’d had almost zero sleep, we divided up the telephone numbers of the Cloak employees and started calling to tell them the bad news. All the ones who didn’t have other jobs during the day came in to help fix the damage, and Rhoda showed up, too, with the passenger seat of her roadster full of extra brooms, mops, and cleaning supplies. Cal tried to make me wait to help until my hands and leg healed, but I lied and told her my cuts barely hurt. It was also a lie that I wasn’t worried about what that vandal had written on the mirror. I was tempted to ask Cal to borrow her pistol to carry around with me, but there was not a chance she’d let me have it.

  I was already at the club watching Rhoda photograph the wreckage when Olive arrived, looking pretty in a yellow dress. She carefully avoided meeting my eye, even when Cal assigned her to help me wipe the paint off the mirror. She just went to get the can of turpentine, some rags, and a stepladder from under the stairs, and I trailed behind her, not speaking, not sure what to say. I’d made a mistake, but I wasn’t sure if the mistake was kissing her or stopping kissing her. Maybe I should be keeping my distance from everyone anyway, with a bird-drawing murderer around here threatening people. I hadn’t considered Olive when I’d vowed to continue this investigation—I hadn’t thought through what I’d do if the killer didn’t come for me, but for people I cared about. Now that that prospect was here, it made something tighten and shrink inside my chest.

  In front of the mirror, Olive set down the can of turpentine in the middle of the counter behind the bar and stood on the first step of her ladder while I reached what I could of the words without one. We took turns dampening our rags with turpentine, Olive still not looking at me. The sharp smell wafted up and stung my nose as I rubbed at the words break more than glass, the knot cinching tighter in my chest with every swipe. At least I was a little closer to finding out who Romeo was than I’d been a few days ago; I was pretty sure he was a man now, and I had somewhere to look next—the Felicity Inn. And Romeo must be afraid of what I’d find out there or he wouldn’t have done all this damage to scare me off.

  “You got hurt,” Olive said gruffly, eyes still on the mirror.

  I shrugged, trying to drag myself back from my worries, and hid the bloodier hand behind my back. The one holding the rag was only cut across the knuckles. “A little.”

  She gestured with her rag toward the message on the mirror. “Someone wants you to stop working on this case.”

  “Looks like.”

  She turned her head so that she was almost looking at me. “But you’re not stopping?”

  “Nope.”

  Olive shook her head and was silent for a long moment. “I hope you’ll be more careful from now on.”

  “I can’t really be any less careful, can I?” I faked a grin, trying to make her laugh, trying to hide how worried I was.

  But Olive’s rag stopped moving, and she finally looked at me with those searching eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Millie.” There was still an edge of anger in her voice, but it was softer than before.

  Part of me wanted to sink into her and say, “I don’t know what I’m doing. When I started this, I didn’t know what it meant—I didn’t know what it would be like to have other lives depending on me.” But I swallowed hard and forced a smile. “I just wish I knew who did this.” I waved my rag at the damage in the room. “I’d like to teach him a lesson.”

  Olive turned to take in the rest of the room. “Speaking of that . . . there’s something I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh yeah?” The turpentine had gradually seeped from the rag into my bandage, stinging the cuts across my knuckles. I leaned my arm against the counter like I was just taking a break to listen.

  “The damage in the club,” Olive said, “it isn’t really that bad.”

  “What do you mean? He broke nearly every piece of glass in the place. And dumped all the hooch.”

  “Yeah, but it could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve banged up the piano. Broken the chairs instead of just knocking them onto the floor. Could’ve taken a hatchet to the bar or even hacked up the dance floor.”

  “Maybe he was planning to do worse but got caught before he could.”

  Olive’s brow furrowed. “Maybe.”

  “Or he’s an amateur and didn’t think of all that. Could be a rich kid who doesn’t even know how to use an ax.”

  Olive still didn’t crack a smile. “I don’t think so. I’m getting more certain all the time that Romeo isn’t one of them.” Her face turned back to the mirror, and she lifted her rag, but she didn’t move it over the smeared red words.

  “What are you thinking, Olive?”

  She shook her head and started wiping again. “Nothing.”

  I was going to press her on it, but then my mother’s laughter trilled from the hallway, and it was the kind she made when she was hanging on some man’s arm. I set my jaw and resolutely kept my eyes on the mirror.

  “Millie,” Mama said gaily, “why didn’t you tell me your pal here is such a comedian?”

  “Looks like you’ve figured that out for yourself,” I said.

  Bennie coughed and held the crate of hooch in his arms. “My dad heard what happened and sent this over.”

  “Good man,” Cal said, bustling in behind him and clapping him on the back. “The hatch in the floor’s got plenty of space now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bennie said.

  I dropped my rag, eager for the excuse to rest my stinging hand, and crouched beside him to help unload the
crate.

  “Hey,” he said, bumping a shoulder against mine.

  “Hey,” I said lightly, as if the sight of him laughing with my mother hadn’t sent an icy wave crashing over me. He smelled of the hay packed in the crates, and oranges, and something else—shoe polish maybe? Then he moved, and a whiff of Mama’s cheap perfume rose from his sleeve. I recoiled and nearly fell over backward.

  “Steady there,” he said, setting a hand on my shoulder. His eyes settled on mine, too, and the hand lingered. “Did you find out anything at the Pelican Club?”

  I unwound the turpentine-tinged bandage from my hand and stuck it in my back pocket. “Not much, but Minty’s definitely been there, and we have one new lead.”

  Bennie didn’t respond. He was staring at the cuts on my knuckles. “Did that happen last night? In here?”

  I tucked a bottle of rum into the hidey-hole and tried to sound casual. “Yeah, the guy knocked me over and I fell on some broken glass.”

  Bennie’s mouth tightened. “Did you see who it was?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. Cal didn’t either. We’re pretty sure it was a man, but that’s all we know so far.”

  “How are you going to find out who did it?”

  “He left that—” I turned to point to the message over my shoulder and found Olive staring at us. She quickly glanced away. I faltered, slowed. “He left that warning, so . . . I’m pretty sure whoever did this is also the killer.”

  Bennie’s eyes widened. “Are you going to do what it says?”

  “Quit? Not a chance.”

  Bennie chewed his lip, staring now at the bloody bandage on my other hand. “You’re cut there, too?”

  “And here.” I hiked up my trousers to show him the other bandage on my leg. It was starting to throb, too, but I didn’t mention that part.

  Bennie looked incredulous. “You’re all cut up and you got that message and you still want to chase after this person?”

  “I already had this conversation with Aunt Cal.” I waved a hand in her direction, where she’d gone back to the other side of the room to boss somebody else. “It’s already been decided.”

  But Bennie shook his head. “You don’t have to take responsibility for everything. Maybe you should go home and let us work on the club today . . . Maybe leave this investigation to the cops.”

  “She said it’s been decided.” Olive stood over us suddenly.

  Bennie rose to face her over my head. “Then maybe it’s the wrong decision.”

  “Maybe so. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Olive crossed her arms over her chest. “But it’s hers to make. Not yours.”

  Bennie motioned to the message on the mirror. “Tangling with a killer who’s directly threatening you isn’t a joke.”

  I stood up slowly, but they barely glanced at me. They kept staring daggers at each other.

  “It’s never been a joke,” Olive said. “Threat or no threat. It was always dangerous.”

  “So, you think she should keep putting herself in danger?” Bennie grabbed my wounded hand and held it up. “She’s already been hurt once. I thought you were her friend.”

  Olive narrowed her eyes. “Friend enough not to tell her what to do.”

  Bennie scowled. “I’m not telling her what to do, just asking her to think—”

  “I’m right here.” I snatched my hand out of Bennie’s grasp. “And I’ve thought about it all I’m going to. I’ve discussed it all I’m going to. You two can duke it out without me.”

  Bennie and Olive gaped at me in stark surprise, but I turned on my heel toward the back door and tried not to limp as I flounced right out of it.

  * * *

  I didn’t make it far. Just to the courtyard behind the club. My leg hurt, and both my hands hurt, and I couldn’t even complain about it without the whole world telling me what to do.

  The back door opened. Cal didn’t say anything, just rested her back against the wall beside me and waited.

  I rolled my head toward her. “You don’t really think I should quit, do you?”

  She stuck her hands in her pockets and stared out at the fountain where Arimentha had died. “I get where Bennie’s coming from. He’s worried about you. So am I. Part of me wants to wrap you up in cotton wool and hide you in a drawer, too.”

  “But—”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “I know I can’t do that. You’re nearly grown. I have to trust you.”

  The wind blew a page of newspaper against my leg and I bent to pick it up. Of course, it was a story about the ongoing manhunt for Marion, with both his picture and Minty’s four inches high. I folded it in half, hiding their faces. “So, you think Olive was right?”

  Cal cocked one eyebrow at me. “What are you really asking me?”

  “Just what I said.” I folded the paper again. “Who do you think was right—Bennie or Olive?”

  “They both care about you,” she said carefully.

  “But they were acting like jackasses.”

  Cal’s shoulders lifted noncommittally. “People do that sometimes. You should know that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cal blew out a heavy breath. “You’re seventeen years old. Nobody’s saying you have to pick your partner for life, or even see just one person. You can kiss a thousand people for all I care. But it’s complicated when two of them are your friends. When they have to look each other in the eye and wonder which of them you’re going to choose.”

  I pinched along the fold of the newspaper to crease it and peeked at Cal out of the corner of my eye. “What if I can’t do this . . . romance or whatever? What if I don’t know how?”

  Cal smiled. “Nobody knows how. All you can do is try, and when you mess up, say you’re sorry and try to do better next time.”

  “I think I already messed up last night.” I bit my lip, debating whether to tell her. “Me and Olive . . . when we . . . you know.” I turned the rectangle of newsprint in my hands, so I didn’t have to look at Cal.

  Her voice sounded amused. “It didn’t go well?”

  I shook my head. “For some reason, I started thinking about”—I glanced at her face—“about Mama. About that day she left.”

  She nodded slowly, her expression impassive. “And?”

  My shoulders sagged against the wall. “And I messed it up.”

  “So, that’s why Olive keeps glaring at you today. I don’t suppose you explained what happened?”

  I shook my head again.

  “I see.” Cal put an arm around my shoulders and pressed me against her. “That’s probably why she got so mad at Bennie, too. She probably thinks he’s the reason you were acting funny last night.”

  My eyes widened. “But he wasn’t!”

  “Maybe you should tell Olive that.”

  I grimaced. “But . . . I don’t want to tell her what it was really about either. It sounds . . . weak. Nobody understands why I’m so mad at Mama. Even I don’t understand why she’s still in my head.”

  Cal sighed. “Gladys cut you to the quick when she left, and plenty of times before that, too. But you got to let that go. I’m not saying you have to like her, or accept her. But hanging on to being mad at her is keeping all that pain stirred up. It’s going to keep bursting out unless you find a way to heal it.”

  “But I stuck by her through all those boyfriends. I didn’t even mind, or mostly didn’t, because it was always me and her again after they left. But then she chose one of them and left me.” The words almost didn’t come out. “It . . . it wasn’t fair.”

  “No, it wasn’t. She’s always had a knack for making the wrong choice. But sometimes, she makes the right one. Like the one she made for me.”

  “What?” I gave Cal a skeptical look. “When?”

  “When we were just kids, younger than you. Did I ever
tell you about the day I ran away from home?”

  I swiveled my head and stared at her. I knew she and Mama had spent their early years somewhere in the Mississippi Delta, and that Cal had run away because of their father, but I didn’t know the details. I’d long ago learned to steer clear of the topic of their childhood. It only made sharp tongues sharper.

  Cal sighed. “Our daddy was a Holy Roller. Had me and Gladys singing together on the tent revival circuit by the time I was ten and she was twelve.”

  I blinked, trying to make the pieces of the picture come together. “You’re telling me the Captivating Coleman Sisters sang gospel?”

  Cal laughed and covered her face at the memory. “There wasn’t a thing captivating about us then. Just plain old Coleman Sisters.”

  “What went wrong?”

  Cal looked away at some point across the courtyard, her fingers smoothing the hair at the back of her neck. When she turned back to me, a wistful look I’d never seen before tilted her lips.

  “A girl happened. Her father was a preacher on the circuit. Real fire-and-brimstone type. Me and her got to be friends. Daddy didn’t think nothing of it at first. Two Christian girls huddled up reading the Bible day and night—what could be wrong with that? But the way that girl looked at me over that Bible . . .” Cal bowed her head. “Mmm-mmm. Then one day Daddy found us . . . Well, I’ll just say we were doing more than holding hands for prayer.”

  She smiled, but her eyes were far away.

  “Then what happened?”

  Cal sucked in a deep breath. “Daddy was madder than ten devils. He snatched me up and dragged me to the bus station. Sent a telegram to Mama, bought me a ticket, and said, ‘Get yourself home. You’re gonna learn to behave like a good Christian woman if it kills us—or you.’”

  I rolled my eyes. “That didn’t work out.”

  “Nope. The bus didn’t leave for three hours, so he left me there to wait. And when he lay down for a nap, Gladys sneaked off from the hotel and came back. She’d stolen forty dollars off Daddy and said, ‘Trade in your ticket, Cal, and let’s get outta here.’ Without a second thought. The nearest big city was New Orleans, so we came here. Gladys changed up our costumes, threw on some sequins, and we added the ‘Captivating’ to our name. Started doing vaudeville. I cut my hair short years before everyone started doing it.”