by Beth Byers
“Well, whoever told you that got most of it right, except the man part,” the petite woman said, watching George emerge from the office, a dark bottle of medicine in hand. He held it out to her, along with some cotton, and she accepted it with a wince.
“Thanks, George.” Unscrewing the bottlecap, she dabbed a bit of cotton onto the opening and then made a face as she pressed it into a bleeding knuckle. Hissing a bit as she sucked her breath in, she glanced up at the tall man’s face. “What sort of issues? Your car, I mean.”
“Oh, it’s making some sort of clunking noise. I barely got it here. I was worried I was going to have to walk in this winter weather.” He looked worried. “Is your father around? Perhaps I should speak with him.”
Eddie looked at the man standing in front of her as if he’d suddenly displayed an amazing lack of intelligence. “Look, here’s the deal.” She screwed the top on the iodine bottle and handed it back to George. Drawing herself up to her full height of five foot two, she crossed her arms and faced Mr. Thurston. “I’m the best mechanic here, even if I do happen to be shaped like a girl. I actually might be the best mechanic in the whole city of Chicago, believe it or not. I’m only here today because I’m doing a favor for George, as a friend, while his other mechanic is out sick. Now, do you want my help or not?”
“Yes, I do.”
She ignored Thurston’s unhappy expression as she shrugged into a thick coat, then followed him out to his car. He held the door open for her out of habit and duty, and she stepped ahead of him into the unforgiving Chicago winter wind. George trailed behind, wiping a spark plug with a dry rag.
Parked by the curb and a rock-hard snowdrift was an enormous midnight blue Lincoln Model L town car. Eddie unlatched the hood and lifted it out the way, then stuck her head inside the engine compartment. While she rooted around for several minutes, Thurston nervously looked around the deserted street.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” Thurston said, “but if we can get this figured out quickly I’d be very grateful.” He looked at George and grinned smugly. “I don’t want to be late for the Winterwoods’ Valentine’s party tonight. My son’s been courting Mr. Winterwood’s daughter, and from how well they’re getting along, he won’t want to be late. I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint her by Howard not showing up in time to claim the first dance with her.”
George looked genuinely interested. “Oh, your son knows Miss Winterwood?”
Thurston’s smile was nearly ear-to-ear. “Intimately.” He dropped his voice and nudged George in the ribs with his elbow. “Wouldn’t do to have her cry in front of all the guests, now, would it? Us men hate to see the weaker sex use their waterworks, eh?”
George’s eyes rolled toward the Lincoln and the thumping sounds still coming from where Eddie was tinkering with it.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Eddie will get everything all straightened out for you.”
He jammed his hands down in the pockets of his sheepskin-lined coat and looked up at the tall man, so elegantly dressed and sure of himself.
“And may God have mercy on your soul.”
Chapter Two
Edwina Grace Winterwood stared at the reflection in the vanity mirror and sighed in familiar disappointment. Too short, too curvy, too serious, too…Edwina.
The hazel eyes looking back at her were hardly the epitome of beauty for 1928. She’d had more than one friend offer to help her sculpt her wild hair into finger waves or try to iron it flat and straight for her. She had never even bothered, knowing that any efforts to try to tame her curly mop would be futile. With a beaded headdress in place, it was as much control as she could get over her dark curls.
But then, she’d never been one to do exactly what was expected of her. When the first slinky dresses had come out with dropped waists and short skirts she’d been thrilled. Her mother, Amelia Eaton Winterwood, formerly of the Boston Eatons, had been beside herself when she found out her strong-willed daughter had publicly declared she’d never wear a corset. Edwina could still remember how Amelia had sputtered in frustration, clutching one hand to her pearl-draped throat as if her daughter was trying to rip it out.
“Ladies wear corsets! All of them do! Women who don’t are… well, they’re…” she stopped, her good breeding and upper-class education not allowing her to utter the vulgar words she was thinking. Unrepentant, Edwina had quickly kissed her mother on the cheek and nearly skipped out the door, heading straight for the family’s garage. Mr. Edmonson maintained the small fleet of vehicles, and when things got too stuffy in the house she’d learned to go to the coach house for a break. Whether she was chatting with Edmondson or listening as he taught her about the wonders of an internal combustion engine, it was a place of comfort and peace. She discovered an aptitude for understanding how things worked, and Mr. Edmondson had been thrilled to teach her all he knew about mechanics. With no children and too much time on his hands, it was a welcome part of his day, too.
After a few years of seeing Edwina decked out in the latest flapper fashion, Amelia had stopped trying to convert her into a lady, even if she always did look a bit pained when she’d first see Edwina try on her newest dresses. Amelia believed in the old-fashioned way of doing things, of a world divided into the Haves and the Have Nots, and that the two shouldn’t really mingle unless it was a matter of charity. It wasn’t how she’d imagined her only daughter would want to appear to the world, as a flapper.
Perhaps it helped that she had a tall, handsome son who always was happy to do what his parents expected. Edwina’s brother, Graham, was definitely the apple of her parents’ eye, and the fact hurt more than Edwina would admit. One day, he would follow in his father’s footsteps at the helm of the family’s two lumbermills, and he was considered to be the heir to the family fortune.
Of course, sometimes it was nice they were so preoccupied with Graham and his golden future that they kind of forgot about Edwina and let her do a lot of stepping out on her own. Her father was so busy with his business and her mother with her social clubs that they didn’t bother much with her. It may have had something to do with the fact that Edwina had rejected a string of hopeful suitors. After several years of nagging about when she was going to march down the aisle, her mother had thrown her hands up in despair and moved onto other things to meddle with, like floral arranging and meetings of the historical society.
Still, Edwina’s life was good. She had lots of friends who understood her desire for independence, an aptitude for mechanics and breakneck speed that was unparalleled, and a fat pocketbook that let her buy her own gin and wear the latest fashions. Keeping with the Valentine’s Day theme, tonight’s dress was lipstick red. It was a beauty, and she gave a little shimmy of anticipation, just so she could see the swirl of crystal bugle beads flare around her knees. Sewn onto several layers of soft silk, the long strands of shimmering light seemed almost to move on their own. Her makeup was spot on, with a dark lipstick outlining her cupid’s bow mouth. Narrow eyebrows arched artfully over bright eyes accented by lots of eyeliner and mascara. With a pair of silver filigree earrings and a long chain to match, Edwina actually felt pretty.
She took a deep breath and practiced a perky smile in the mirror. Fake cheerfulness firmly in place, she opened the bedroom door and headed toward the party.
The heavy smell of expensive finger food and old money wafted up from downstairs.
Slowly walking down the wide mahogany staircase, she could hear cheery music blaring from the Dixieland dance band in the ballroom, and over a hundred chattering guests. Steeling herself, Edwina pinned a friendly expression on her face and stepped into the crowd.
The guests were a mix of business associates, society’s finest, up-and-comers, family friends, and a slew of people who had to be invited because of their position in government or industry. Colorful dresses and black tie and tuxedoes were the order of the night, with servants carrying trays of non-alcoholic drinks and tidbits of bite-sized delicaci
es from room to room. Scanning the crowd, Edwina wasn’t surprised to see several middle-aged men, accompanied by jewel-adorned wives, who had been suspected of racketeering in Chicago. In this town, it paid to have a good business relationship with everyone, even those people who never talked about how they actually got their sizable wealth.
It didn’t take long before she saw Graham’s head, looming above everyone else and never more than four feet from her father’s elbow, like a dutiful puppy. It was well-known that her handsome brother had a bright future ahead of him in his father’s businesses, and the combination of his good looks and rich prospects ensured him a string of hopeful beauties always surrounding him at parties.
Even if he was as dull as a dead fish and couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.
Hopkins, the butler, was still letting people in the massive set of carved front doors, making sure to keep out as much of the cold as he could. Edwina smiled at him and got a stiff bow in response, then peeked into the large parlor on her right. It was full of elegantly dressed people talking about politics or gossiping, leaning up against the dark wooden paneling and juggling glasses of punch and snagging hors d'oeuvres off the servants’ trays as they walked by. She smiled and greeted as many as she could, but kept her eyes open for her friends, having a good idea that they’d be as close to the dancing as possible.
She followed the sound of lively music through the parlor and high-ceilinged hall behind it, to the massive ballroom. Several sets of French doors opened onto the stone veranda outside, which led into the snow-covered garden. At the back wall, a small Dixieland band was set up behind a packed dance floor full of couples doing their best to keep up with the modern music.
Edwina grinned. It had taken her years to convince her parents that string quartets playing baroque music were passé for parties, and the fact her mother had finally buckled and hired the band that Edwina recommended was a major coup. The blazing sound of a wild clarinet and a swinging trumpet made her want to dance and dance. Skirting the edge of the crowd and greeting guests as she went by, she waved at Leonard French, the trumpet player, and headed to the refreshment table.
With Prohibition a fact of life now, there would be no gin in the punchbowl and no open bar. The Winterwoods, like most people of their class, turned a blind eye and pretended ignorance if anyone brought their own flask and took a discreet nip now and again. Whatever was going on in the kitchen or outside in the scrupulously groomed grounds was not discussed, and if a guest or two was a bit tipsy when they got their car or if they slurred their speech at dinner, it was overlooked or taken care of quietly. There had never been a hint of scandal or impropriety in the Winterwood family, and her parents had done their best to keep that history intact.
A cup of punch in hand, she sighed in frustration as she stood on her tiptoes, trying to see if she could spot anyone she’d actually want to talk to, and was instantly relieved to hear a familiar whistle.
“Well, hellooooooo, beautiful!”
She turned and looked up at Preston Anderson, who was rocking back and forth on his heels, seemingly very pleased with himself. His short shock of chestnut brown hair had been carefully slicked back with pomade, every follicle groomed into place. From the top of his shiny hair to his elegant spats, he looked every inch the dapper man-about-town.
Too bad Preston’s reputation for wooing the lovelies of Chicago didn’t match his reputation as an amazing dancer. He was as awkward in conversation with girls as he was nimble on the ballroom floor. With Edwina, though, it was a different story. For some reason, he felt completely at ease with her, and they’d become good friends.
“The band’s hot tonight. Want to dance, Eddie?”
“Sure, but give me a minute though, okay?” Edwina craned her head a bit, trying to be sure she’d correctly identified someone standing at the edge of the dance floor. “I need to go greet one of my guests.”
Cutting through the crowd, Preston trailed behind her as she walked up to a familiar figure. The tall man was standing with his back toward her, discussing the current state of the market for pork bellies with a fellow of enormous girth.
“Well, hello, Mr. Thurston. How’s that Lincoln running for you now?”
There was a pause, then the tall man slowly turned toward her.
“Eddie!” He looked her up and down, obviously horrified. “How did you get in here? Do the Winterwoods know you’ve crashed their party?”
“Well, I—”
Mr. Thurston raised a hand. “Well, this is the limit. The absolute limit. Save your explanations, missy. If you walk out now I won’t raise the alarm.” He grabbed her upper arm, his fingers tight around her skin. “I’m sure you don’t want to make a scene. Let’s go.”
Edwina pulled away from him, her jaw clenched in determination. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her heartbeat a bit so she could sound calm. “I think you’ve made a bit of a mistake, Mr. Thurston. We haven’t been properly introduced.” Shaking off his grip, she stepped back a couple of feet and stuck out her hand.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Edwina Winterwood.”
His jaw dropped in utter shock, his eyes wide. “But you’re… Edwina…?”
“Winterwood.” She finished the sentence for him. “I’m Rawson Winterwood’s daughter. Most of my friends call me Eddie, because it’s my brother’s nickname for me.”
Eyes bulging in stunned surprise, Thurston stood stock-still, his limp hand barely gripping Edwina’s. Behind him, Preston was trying to suppress his mirth, his hand clapped over his mouth and his eyes shut tight as he held in his laughter.
Edwina pretended she didn’t see Preston’s reaction, keeping eye contact with Thurston instead. “Now, you mentioned something about your son, Howard. If we’re supposed to be dating, don’t you think we should at least meet each other?” She grinned impishly. “I mean, if we’re a couple who know each other”—she paused and waggled her arched eyebrows suggestively— “intimately, it might be a good idea if we at least had the opportunity to shake hands.”
Chapter Three
“I’ll say one thing for your family, Eddie. They sure know how to throw a great party.” Agnes lifted her glass of sherbet punch to her bee-stung lips and took a long, slow sip. “I swear, just about anyone who’s anyone is here tonight. Half of them are highbrow officials, and half of them should be thrown in the joint. Should we take some bets about who’s the next one to wind up there, or with a cement overcoat?”
Preston scanned the crowd around their little side table. He shook his head. “No way. I’m not taking any sucker bets.” He glanced at Edwina. “What do you think?”
Agnes interrupted him. “I suppose taking bets on who’s going to jail or who’s going to wind up at the morgue is considered poor form, but it doesn’t mean I won’t do it. Still…” Her voice trailed off as a good-looking bachelor strolled by. Noticing her lingering interest, he smiled at her and winked mischievously, then walked off through the crowd to find the rest of his party.
“Maybe I have better things to do.” She gave a happy sigh. “Easy pickings,” Agnes pronounced, mostly to herself, and Edwina had to smile. She’d known Agnes Scapelli since they both had nearly gotten thrown out of finishing school for talking back to the same sour-faced teacher, and she was her closest friend. Agnes’ father had been killed in The Great War, and her mother had had a heck of a time trying to keep her boy-crazy daughter in line. The unerring pursuit of Agnes’ next boyfriend was always her favorite hobby, and she had a flair for drama and absolute optimism about finding true love. Willowy and long-limbed, with a bob of nearly platinum blonde hair, she looked like she’d been custom-built to wear the shortest of skirts. Edwina had watched Agnes get ready for parties before, with flawless makeup and a dab of lacquer in her hair after she’d used curling tongs to make neat waves. It was endlessly fascinating to her, because her own beauty routine was much more casual. She knew that Agnes, wild minx that she was, even rolled down her stockings a bi
t and painted some extra rouge on her knees to catch the boys’ eyes.
“Nobody can say Chicago doesn’t have their fair share of odd beans. Look over there,” Agnes urged, using her unlit cigarette to point toward the edge of the dance floor. “See how the mayor’s cousin has his hands all over Letitia Butterman? You’d never know his wife is at home with his five kids.”
Edwina cranked her head around. Sure enough, Letitia Butterman was seemingly enjoying the fact that a balding man with a bit of a paunch and a reportedly very fat pocketbook was stroking her arm. He was looking at her the way a mongrel dog would look at a juicy steak, nearly drooling.
“And Calvin Blue, that idiot. Just look at him.”
Edwina glanced over at Calvin, who was weaving unsteadily on his feet and leering at the pack of young ladies by the dance floor. They were looking at him with hopeful expressions, waiting to be asked to dance. True, he wasn’t bad on the eyes, with his sharp tuxedo and honey-blond hair slicked back in the latest fashion, but Calvin had a well-earned reputation for having all the morals of a tomcat. The scandal with his last girlfriend had only stayed out of the papers because of his father’s connections with city hall, and certain shady elements around town.
Agnes made a sound of disgust. “He may be the best racecar driver in all of Illinois, but I still don’t like him. You’d think he’d have more sense than to try and mess around with the Winterwood’s maid.”
Preston’s eyebrows went up in appreciation and surprise. “He’s been chasing Dorothy? The one with the big…” his voice trailed off as he glanced at the two women, his cheeks suddenly burning with color. Seeing the amused expressions on the ladies’ faces, he cleared his throat and went on. “Is he nuts? I guess he hasn’t met Dorothy’s husband yet.” He shook his head, his lips pressed together. “She’s a hot little cookie, but a man would have to be off his rocker to risk going after her. That husband of hers… what’s his name?” he asked Edwina.