Luck Be a Lady

by Cathie Linz

  “No.” She felt as if the entire foundation of her life was suddenly on shifting sand, or quicksand that threatened to suck her in and completely submerge her. She had to stay focused here. She couldn’t afford to lose it right now. “What else did you find?” Megan asked.

  “Just this.” He showed her the screen. “Someone named Fiona is guest blogging about how she and your mom went to Woodstock together decades ago when they were eighteen. According to the info Fiona has supplied about herself, she doesn’t live too far from here.”

  “She lists her address online? That’s a risky thing to do.”

  “Her brief bio at the end of her guest blog mentions a business she owns and its location, but she doesn’t list a contact e-mail address. She hasn’t posted anything new for a few weeks, so if you replied to the blog there’s no telling when she’d read it.”

  “Then we have to go talk to her.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “Let’s see if there isn’t more we can find.”

  Two hours, two platefuls of pancakes and countless cups of coffee later, they still had no additional leads. “I’m telling you that your best bet is having your dad track your mom down,” Logan said. “He may already know where she is.”

  “If he knows I’m looking for her, he may try to hide her from me.”

  “Gee, paranoid much?”

  “I never used to be.” She had the feeling that very little about her life would be the same after tonight. “I’m tired of being reasonable and responsible all the time. I’m trusting my gut right now, and my gut says that I have a brief window of opportunity here to find her before they do. Or if they already know where she is, then I have a short period of time to reach her before they realize I’m looking for her. I don’t care if that’s logical or not. The bottom line is that I need to talk to Fiona. If you won’t help me, I’ll rent a car and go anyway. By myself.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take you.”

  “Then let’s stop wasting time here and go find Fiona.” She let her desperation show in her face and her unsteady voice. “Please.”

  Logan was silent for a minute before finally saying, “Okay.” He signaled for the check.

  “I’ll pay for breakfast,” Megan said. When he began to protest, she added, “To thank you for helping me out.”

  “I don’t let women pay my way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wasn’t raised that way.”

  “Well, I wasn’t raised to dash off in the middle of the night with a strange man, but I’m doing it.” Seeing his glare, she added, “Okay, so you’re not strange. I take that back.”

  “Take it all back.” He shoved her money across the table at her.

  “Do you think I’m trying to bribe you or something?”

  “Do you really want to fight about this or do you want to track down Woodstock lady?”

  “Her name is Fiona.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I thought cops were supposed to notice details like that.”

  “Oh, I notice details when I need to. Like the fact that you’re a five-foot-eight brunette with blue eyes and freckles who shoves her hair away from her face when she’s stressed. You also have a habit of licking your lips when you’re nervous . . . like now.”

  “Okay then,” she said, determined to never again lick her lips in his presence. Hair shoving was okay, but she didn’t want him focusing on her lips the way he was right now. “I’m glad we got that cleared up. We’ll go Dutch.” She slapped down enough money to cover her portion of the bill and tip. “Now, let’s hit the road in your aqua Chevy.”

  “It’s blue.”

  “Right.” She held the door open for him. “Let’s go.”

  As they headed out of Vegas, Logan wondered what it was about a damsel in distress that got him every time. He needed to get over that. It was not a good trait to have. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife, Angie.

  So what the hell was he doing getting messed up with Megan’s drama? Her uncle played golf with the police superintendent and the mayor, for God’s sake. He’d already pissed off her family by barging in on their wedding and then dropping the bombshell about his grandfather’s marital status. He really didn’t need to further alienate them by taking off with their precious librarian Megan.

  She didn’t really look like a librarian to him. She didn’t wear those smart-girl glasses and didn’t have her hair scraped back from her face. Instead, her hair blew in the wind coming through her open window. Strands flew across her face, but she didn’t seem bothered. Angie would have had a fit. Angie would never be caught dead in a vintage car. Only top-of-the-line stuff for her.

  Not that he could afford much top-of-the-line stuff on a cop’s salary, but he’d tried his damndest to keep his wife happy because he’d been a stupid bastard. Those days were over.

  Yet here he was, with another damsel in distress. But he didn’t plan on having sex with this one. No way he was that stupid, no matter how awesome her cleavage was or how long her legs were.

  His plan was simple: He couldn’t let Megan pull his granddad, who had enough on his plate at the moment, into her web of a dysfunctional family problem. He’d keep her distracted long enough to keep her from involving Buddy and then he’d cut her loose.

  It wasn’t as if she was without resources of her own. She had a family. And once she calmed down, she’d realize the logical course of action was using their power to get the information she wanted.

  He had to admit it was a little strange that there was so little information available in the databases about her mother. That wasn’t normal. Not that he was a pro at normal. As a police officer, he’d seen more than his fair share of weird and nasty. He’d seen the dark side, lived it, been consumed by it and barely lived to crawl out of it . . . forever changed.

  “It’s really dark out here,” Megan said.

  Logan knew all about darkness. How it ate away at you from the inside out. How it messed with your mind and your decisions. How it screwed you.

  Oh yeah. He was a pro at walking the line along that dark side. Most cops referred to the thin blue line as the line between police keeping order and protecting the public from complete chaos. But Logan had experienced another line, right at the edge of a different kind of chaos between sanity and despair.

  Megan was one of those Suzie Sunshine types who believe that people were basically good and kind. Sure, she was feeling bitter at the moment about her family lying to her, but her optimism about the rest of the human race was still there.

  As for him . . . well, he’d lost that positive outlook long ago. He knew better. Seeing small kids abandoned by their crackhead mother in a filthy vacant building with little food and no heat for days on end in the middle of winter did that to a man. Made him question things. So did finding a body tossed into a Dumpster, burned beyond recognition. He’d seen too much to be an optimist.

  But he couldn’t walk away. If he did, the darkness won.

  So Logan kept his attention focused on the twin beams of light from the Chevy’s headlights on the highway ahead and blocked out the memories of the life-altering mistake that haunted him in his nightmares. To do otherwise would destroy him.

  Chapter Four

  Megan stared at Logan’s face illuminated by the vintage dashboard lights. He’d barely spoken since they’d left Las Vegas. “If you’re getting tired, I could drive,” she said.

  “No way.”

  She was insulted by his emphatic refusal. “I’m a good driver.”

  “No one drives this borrowed baby but me.”

  “It’s just that Buddy said you flew directly to Vegas from work.”

  “I caught a few hours’ sleep after leaving the reception.”

  “Oh. That’s good. But the offer stands.”

  He waved her words away. “We’re almost there.”

  “The Butterfly Ranch,” Megan read the sign. “Do they raise butterflies? The Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum in Chicago ha
s an incredible butterfly haven in a huge greenhouse.”

  A gate with an intercom blocked their entrance. Logan pressed the button and a male voice immediately answered, “Welcome to the Butterfly Ranch. We accept cash and most credit cards.”

  “Credit cards?” She looked around. Several extra-wide trailers were plunked amidst the sagebrush with bright lights illuminating the parking area. “They’re open 24/7 and they charge to see the butterflies?”

  “You could say that.”

  “They keep the displays in the trailers?”

  He nodded as the gate went up. As soon as they pulled into the parking area, a huge guy who looked like a bouncer greeted them.

  “Nice wheels,” he said with an approving look at the car.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s a pretty aqua,” Megan noted as she got out.

  The bouncer and Logan both looked at Megan with disapproval.

  “It’s blue,” Logan said.

  “Other women aren’t allowed inside the ranch,” the bouncer said.

  “Right. We’re here to talk to Fiona.”

  “She doesn’t do tricks.”

  Megan’s brain was slow, but things were starting to sink in. “This isn’t a butterfly farm, is it?” she whispered to Logan.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Right.” She knew brothels were legal in several counties in Nevada, but she’d certainly never anticipated that she’d end up visiting one of them. “It just didn’t occur to me. I’m not thinking clearly or I would have figured things out earlier. You could have warned me.”

  “Do you want to leave?” Logan asked her.

  “No way,” Megan said emphatically. Addressing her next statement to the bouncer, she said, “We need to speak to Fiona about my mother.”

  “We don’t talk about our employees.”

  “No, she didn’t work here.” At least Megan prayed she hadn’t. “She and Fiona were best friends and went to Woodstock together. She wrote about my mother in a blog.”

  “Is something wrong?” A woman came from inside the trailer to ask. Her black capri pants and sequined turquoise tunic top accentuated her terrific figure. Her short hair, with its caramel and gold highlights, had obviously been styled by a pro. She had the husky voice of a smoker. She also fit the definition of a cougar, an older woman on the prowl.

  She eyed Logan appreciatively. “The guy can come in, but not the female.” She came closer to run her hand along Logan’s muscular arm. “You don’t need her, honey. We’ve got everything you could possibly want inside. You name it, we’ve got it. Beyond your wildest sexual fantasies. 24/7.”

  Megan quickly spoke up. “Are you Fiona?”

  The woman nodded absently, her attention clearly remaining on Logan and his biceps.

  “You knew my mother. Astrid Meyer. You went to Woodstock with her and talked about her on your guest blog. I’m her daughter, Megan.”

  Fiona reluctantly tore her gaze from Logan and switched it to Megan. “Oh, yeah? How’s Astrid doing these days?”

  “That’s what I need to speak to you about.”

  Fiona gave her an appraising look before nodding at the bouncer. “It’s okay. We’ll talk in my office.” She tilted her head toward a smaller trailer to their right. “This way.”

  Megan entered with some trepidation. She’d never been in a brothel before. As it turned out, she still wasn’t. This trailer was indeed a dedicated office, looking like it could have belonged to an accountant—an accountant who liked French country décor in sunny yellow. Two wing chairs upholstered in gold-and-red toile faced a large dark oak wooden desk. Framed oil paintings of Paris street scenes hung on walls not covered by built-in bookcases. A rustic wrought-iron chandelier with dark red lampshades hanging from the ceiling matched the wrought-iron desk lamp.

  Megan was not about to comment on this version of a red-light district. Instead she kept her focus on Fiona’s connection to her mother. “So you were her best friend in high school?” Megan asked.

  Fiona gestured for them both to take a seat. “I wouldn’t say bestfriend. I was a friend. Astrid didn’t really have a best friend.”

  “Was she popular in school?”

  “She was smart. Good at math. She loved the Band. That’s why she wanted to go to Woodstock, to see them. I went for the vibe. So we packed a cooler and hopped into my VW, which came back after Woodstock with the grooviest psychedelic paint job. I wish I still had that car.” She paused for a moment, clearly caught up in the fond memory, before continuing “Astrid’s parents had died in a car accident a few months earlier. Astrid took it hard. Smoked some pot to help her get through. Hell, at Woodstock just about everyone was smoking something. Half a million people on a high.”

  Megan was having a hard time picturing her academically inclined mother at Woodstock.

  “We kept in touch for a few years afterward. She sent me a wedding announcement. That’s how I knew she’d married some guy named West from Chicago.” Fiona paused to pop an Altoid in her mouth before continuing. “I got married a couple of times myself. Divorced a few times too. My last husband died on me. Literally. I had a gambling problem at the time, so when I got his life insurance money I blew it in the casinos. This place was the only asset he had left. I got help for my gambling issues and started running the Butterfly Ranch, cleaning it up into a reputable establishment. It’s not like Bertha’s Brothel. I warned her that with a name like that she’d never make it and she didn’t. But she was old school. Well, not really, really old like the heyday of the red-light ladies.”

  Fiona paused to point to a small antique black-and-white photograph in a dark frame on her desk. “Do you know who that is?”

  Megan shook her head.

  “That’s Rosa May. She’s something of a local legend in these parts. She was originally from back east, but she came to Nevada during the silver and gold rush days in the late 1800s. She was a big-hearted prostitute who died after taking care of sick miners during a pneumonia epidemic. Despite her act of generosity, the locals refused to bury her within the official cemetery grounds and she was put to rest outside the fence on her own. It’s sad that she was ostracized even after death. You’d think that people would be a little more forgiving, but noooo.” Seeing the expression on Megan’s face, she added, “Don’t look so surprised. Just because I run a brothel doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’m a history buff.”

  Fiona’s face lit up. “You are? Then you should visit the Comstock area around Virginia City and Gold Hill. The oldest hotel in the state is still operating in Gold Hill even if that’s about all that’s there anymore. But Virginia City still has a lot going on. That’s where Mark Twain got his start writing as a newspaper reporter for the local paper there.”

  “I’m only visiting Las Vegas for my cousin Faith’s wedding over the weekend, but she and I did visit Virginia City and Gold Hill a few years ago. We even stopped at the costume museum in Carson City . . . I forget what it’s called.”

  “That’s the Marjorie Russell Clothing and Textile Research Center. It’s open by appointment only.”

  “Right. My cousin is a librarian and she set it up with the curator.”

  “A librarian, huh?”

  Megan nodded. “I’m a librarian too.”

  “It figures that Astrid’s daughter would do something brainy like become a librarian. I never had any kids myself.”

  Logan cleared his throat with male impatience. “So, Fiona, you’ve heard from Megan’s mother over the years, right?”

  Fiona nodded. “A Christmas card or two. Then nothing. I assumed she got busy raising a family. She’s doing that, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Megan said. “I haven’t seen her since I was two.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean my father told me my mother died, but I’ve only recently discovered that she’s alive after all. It’s complicated.”

  “Sounds lik
e it.”

  “Anyway, that’s why I’m trying to track her down. So anything you could tell me about her would really be greatly appreciated.”

  “Well, like I said, we went to high school and then Woodstock together. After Woodstock, she went to some fancy college on a scholarship. Hold on, I think I have our high school yearbook.” Fiona scanned her bookshelves, which held everything from the latest Susan Elizabeth Phillips book to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. An entire shelf was dedicated to local history books like Comstock Womenand Mark Twain in Virginia City, Nevada. “Yeah, here it is.” She opened the book up and found the page she was looking for. “Here’s what your mom looked like our senior year. That was before her parents died. She was an only child.”

  Megan’s fingers trembled slightly as she took the yearbook Fiona offered her.

  “She looks like you,” Fiona added.

  Megan had never seen her mother this young. The first photo she had was of her parents’ wedding at city hall almost ten years later. She stared down at the school photo. Her mother’s long dark hair was parted in the middle and she wasn’t smiling. She looked very serious.

  Fiona pulled out a box of photographs from a desk drawer. “I didn’t post this photo on the blog about Woodstock because I thought I looked fat in it, but here’s your mom.” She pointed to the person in the center of a group all waving their hands in the air. There was Astrid, flashing the peace sign with two fingers and grinning as she stood in the mud.

  Megan felt so strange. It was almost as if she’d stepped back in time. This photo showed an entirely different side of her mother. She looked so carefree and alive, despite the recent tragic deaths of her own parents. Had Woodstock given Astrid a chance to let go? Had the experience freed her to express her emotions, if only for that brief weekend, instead of being so serious? Had that been the only time her mother felt the joy and fun displayed in this photo?

  “You know, despite moving all over the country, I’ve still got the pair of bell bottoms I wore, with the mud still on the hems. I’ve never had another experience quite like Woodstock,” Fiona said. “And trust me, I’ve had a lot of experiences. I’ve done everything from working as a nanny to a stint as a grief counselor at a funeral parlor. Your mom swore she’d keep her Woodstock jeans too. I don’t suppose you know if she did?”