by Laini Giles
From the outside, her establishment looked like any other farmhouse. But the gaudy, bright-red front door and shutters gave a clue to what lay inside. Miss Rosie generously bribed the local authorities to keep herself and her girls out of trouble, but the cops were there just as often as everyone else, so it became a question of who was paying whom.
Miss Rosie was a formidable woman of indiscernible years. Her hair was an unnatural shade of red, and she was one of the few women Jimmy had ever seen who wore fingernail paint. Her usual uniform was a deep violet satin dress, her ample charms spilling out the top, and although he owed the place a vast amount of money these days, she was always kind to Jimmy, as he was one of her best customers. She knew he’d be good for it someday.
The parlor of Miss Rosie’s was the most luxuriant room Jimmy had ever seen. Tufted red velvet divans sat about the room in strategic locations. Beaded lampshades swathed in silky scarves added to the ambience. Thick brocade draperies covered the entire length of the windows so no prying eyes could surmise what went on inside. And oh the women…they lay about in flimsy little nightgowns so sheer they left little to the imagination.
The minute Jimmy strolled through the front door, they treated him like an old friend, and all his worries about debts and bills were forgotten. Miss Rosie had a Negro piano player in the parlor, Cajun Joe, and he kept the girls entertained playing the latest in ragtime while they plied the customers with champagne and hard cider.
“Da Fig Leaf Rag!” he’d say, launching into the jaunty piece, his fingers dancing with a deft touch over the ivories. Between tunes, he’d mop his dark face with a calico handkerchief.
When Cajun Joe took a quick break out back to have a bite of a sandwich and smoke a cheroot or two, the girls would fire up the Victrola and play records like “By the Beautiful Sea” or “Aba Daba Honeymoon.” When Bianca sat downstairs, everyone had to hear recordings of Enrico Caruso, which she listened to when she was homesick. When a customer was ready, his girl would take him up to a spare room upstairs, with a bedstead, a rag rug on the floor, a coat rack, and a bowl and ewer for washing up.
The sweet angelic little blonde Anna spoke little English, but he loved listening to her cries of pleasure and pain as he banged her head against the brass headboard in his gusto. She would lambast him in Swedish after they were done, but he’d hand her an extra quarter to shut her up.
From some small town in Calabria, Bianca had black hair, dark flashing eyes, and huge breasts like melons. She’d fought him like a tiger as she too cursed him in her native language. He had ripped off her silky little negligee and left her in just her delicate little shoes as he had gone about his business. She had struggled with him until he found just the right way to proceed, and then she had gone breathless, summoning every saint in the Catholic roster as she came, loudly and explosively.
His favorite was the little redheaded firecat, Molly, just off the boat from Belfast. One night several weeks ago, he’d blown his entire pay packet on one night with hot little Moll and couldn’t walk straight afterward. She’d kept at him all night, and he’d taken her from every position he could devise. Just thinking of that night made his mouth water in anticipation.
But now, he examined the various bills and knew the Devenports were living on credit and the good graces of Mr. Billingsley at the market in the village. It caused him to take another swig of liquor. The burning in his esophagus was painful, but not as much as having to pay for his father’s mistakes in life. He might have had an easier shot at getting through his teenaged years if the old bastard had made a decent living instead of drinking away all their money. How nice it must be to have a little extra from time to time. He thought of the snooty folks who lived in Ithaca—the doctors and lawyers and merchants who never had to worry where their next meal was coming from. His burp reminded him of tonight’s dinner—overdone squirrel meat again.
But there had been one nice addition to his evening that he hadn’t planned on. Branching out from his usual hunting grounds near their house, he had decided to hitch up Ole Blue and head up nearer the falls. Someone had told him the hunting there had been pretty good of late. He’d hoped he could snag a nice buck. He’d been craving some venison meat and deer sausage. However, the deer all had other plans, and he’d managed to end the life of the rather bony gray squirrel instead.
But on his way back to where he’d tied Ole Blue, he’d happened across a Model T parked in the woods near the falls. And what do you know? It looked like the same model that Hi had given their buddy Tom. It burned him that of the two of them, he was the one who most needed it, but Hi had given the car to Thomas Estabrook. Where was the measure of friendship in that? The resentment churned in his gut along with the whiskey as he considered the car again.
The flivver had rocked and quivered and squeaked with all the action going on inside, and he could hear a woman’s mewling cries, exhorting her partner on.
“Yes! Yes!” she gasped.
Wouldn’t Tom be surprised to know Jimmy had caught a striking view of that rich girl he’d met a few weeks ago. She had a nice little body, that one did, with plump tits and a perfect, round little ass. He saw much of it reflected in the moonlight as she rode Tom for all she was worth. Her moans were exquisite and expressive. She was enjoying the hell out of herself, letting her emotion play over her face for him to observe. That Tommy. What a terrible liar he was. Valiant in defending her honor during the day, but oh what a time he had with her at night.
From behind a tree, Jimmy had watched them for the rest of the encounter, wishing he had enough money to stop by Miss Rosie’s on his way home and do something about the iron rod forming in his trousers. As it was, he’d be taking the squirrel home and cooking it over the flames in the fireplace, hoping to God his mother still had a bit of rice or potato to serve with it so it would go a little farther.
Back at the house, Jimmy made lists of how much he owed to each individual, how much was late, and how much could be put off until the last minute. Hunting would have to be their mainstay for a while. He was sure Hi’s mother would be generous with items like flour and sugar until they left, but for the rest, they were on their own. He just had to find a way to earn some more money. He wondered if he could talk to Tom about helping him find work at the clock factory. If he refused, well… Now Jimmy had some ammunition to insist he do it.
Ithaca, New York
July 1986
“So Dad, what’s new?” Shannon asked, reclining on Frank’s couch, her feet up on the coffee table.
“The usual,” he said, not sure how to answer her. “Everything fine with you?”
“Of course everything’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” she said, picking at a cuticle. “I mean, other than Mom being insane.”
“Don’t talk about your mother that way. It’s gotta be hell on her raising a teenaged daughter alone.”
“But she’s not doing it alone. That jerk Greg she’s dating is over all the time. Wanting me to call him ‘Uncle Greg’ and trying to tell me what to do. Barf.”
“He is?” Frank wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “What’s he like?” At least the bastard hadn’t tried making her call him Dad. He’d have to lay him out for that. He didn’t mind it if the guy made her mind. It was his methods Frank wanted to make sure were kosher.
“Ha. You fell for the bait.”
“Shannon, stop it.”
“What? I knew you’d be interested. How the heck else do you tell your dad that your mom, his ex-wife, is dating a complete schmuck?”
“I don’t need this right now,” he muttered. “I really don’t.”
“Is it because of that case you’re working on? The one with the lady we’re related to?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Aunt Diana told me about it when I was at the hospital last time.” She looked a
t him, expecting more information.
“Yeah. It’s the case. It’s making me a little crazy. It’s hard to have to worry about you and your mom and the schmuck right now in addition to this other stuff,” Frank said.
“So what happened?”
“Well, she was a teenager like you, and she got into something that got her killed.”
“Drugs?”
“They didn’t have the drug problem back then that we have now.”
“Gangs?”
“Ditto on the gangs. Not anything she needed to worry about.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure yet, Shan. It was nineteen sixteen. A long time ago.”
“Nineteen sixteen? Wow, I can’t even conceive of that. That’s like, ages ago. Before the sixties and everything. That’s even older than you,” she said.
“Seventy years. And thanks for that.”
“No sweat. So Linda…the lady from the Bluebird Cafe. Is she your new girlfriend?”
Frank sighed. Shannon didn’t miss a trick.
“How’d you know about her?”
“Toby Hackmeier was skateboarding the other night near The Commons and saw you. He told me.”
Thanks, Toby.
“So is she your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“I do say that. I want to know if you say that.”
“Shan,” he said, his voice a warning.
“I just mean she seems super nice. I like her. She’s not like that jerk Mom’s going out with. I could totally see myself having a slumber party with her or something.”
“You don’t say,” Frank said, taking note of Shannon’s enthusiasm.
“Yeah, she’s cool. I thought so even when she was at the café. I was a lot younger then, but…” She smiled a reassuring smile. “She’s okay, Dad.”
“Well, I’ll tell her you said so.”
“We could, like, give each other a pedicure or something. I’ll bet she’s even into cool music, not that fuddy-duddy stuff you listen to.”
“Neil Young is classic. She is also a fan of the fuddy-duddy.”
“Bo-ring…” she said, rolling her eyes.
“But I happen to know she also likes The Clash. That hip enough for you?”
“Cool.” A smile tickled the corners of her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ithaca, New York
August 1916
Stephen LaBarr was in a marvelous mood as he guided his town car down Green Street, headed for the house on Stewart. It would be a surprise visit, but he didn’t think the Morgans would mind, since he’d just returned from New York City on the evening train. He’d finished registering for his classes and had a specific purpose for his visit.
He couldn’t wait to see the girl of his dreams. He had been thinking of her all day, along with the ten-karat diamond ring in his pocket. He planned on presenting it to her at some point during this visit. Not yet, of course, but he hoped that during this week-long break, he could find the perfect opportunity to speak to Mr. Morgan, obtain his blessing, and then present Libbie with the ring, knowing she would accept.
He always enjoyed returning to Ithaca after having been away, even for a short time. Some of his favorite buildings—like City Hall and Clinton House, the Cornell Public Library, and the Ithaca Hotel—greeted him. What a beautiful place it was. He could never tire of coming home to his city on the lake.
As he turned onto Aurora Street, he saw an attractive woman walking ahead of him. Delighted, he realized it was his bride-to-be. What a pretty picture she made. A deep navy skirt just skimmed her ankles, and her long, light blue chemise accentuated the curves beneath. Her hat sat at a perfect angle on her head, the silk hyacinths and lilies adorning it transforming it into a work of art. Just as he was about to call her name though, she was joined by a young man, and they walked together for a block or so before getting into a plain Model T nearby. Stephen was confused. Who was this chap? He dressed like someone living in the gutter. An almost threadbare shirt and a newsboy cap topped wool trousers, cheap suspenders, and plain leather work boots. But even past the man’s cheap garb, he could see that the fellow was good-looking. Very common, of course, but possessed of a dark, almost delicate handsomeness, he admitted to himself. He also seemed to have a sense of humor, since she was laughing at something he said.
Flabbergasted and hurt, he decided to follow the pair to see what it was they were doing. Perhaps he’d misread. Perhaps this boy was just a school chum she was fond of. Stephen needed to know if the ring he carried in his pocket was a worthless bauble or if it would be adorning her finger before long. He reconsidered, thinking they might be headed to the library or to the nickelodeon, at worst. But as it got darker and he watched the car leave central Ithaca, his hands fidgeted more than usual on the steering wheel.
The jalopy headed to the southwest, following the pockmarked road out of town and into the country. God knew where they were going. Stephen didn’t like the look of this at all. The ruts in the road were giving him a headache, but he kept up the pace. He hoped he was far enough back that his scrutiny would not be noticed.
The flivver left the main road past the stone quarry at the entrance to Buttermilk Falls, its body bouncing haphazardly over the dirt path. It jerked to a stop at a spot overlooking the falls that was drenched in moonlight, and he could see the occupants reach for each other. Stephen pulled the town car to a stop behind a tree several hundred yards away. Later, he would never be able to decide whether he was fortunate that the moon was full and silvery that night, or if it was something he wished he had never glimpsed, as it would be etched into his brain for the rest of his life. He exited the car and found a large oak he could stand behind. He could see every move they made, but they were too involved in what they were doing to pay any attention to him.
Sneaking up on the car in the blackness, he saw the dark-haired man who’d met Libbie running his hands through her hair and kissing her with abandon. He caressed her beautiful body, fondling her through the fabric. And then, he pulled the blouse aside to allow better access. Stephen saw the reflection of moonlight off her pale skin before the man lowered his head. He heard every moan and gasp of her delight. This continued for endless minutes as the man ravished first one breast and then another. One part of Stephen wanted to cover his ears rather than hearing her kittenish cries, but another part of him felt a strange arousal, watching her with another man.
As the man rose up and unfastened his trousers, Stephen saw her eyelids lower. She gazed at him with outright lust, beckoning him like a common harlot. Stephen had seen such tantalizing looks from a female only once before, and that was at the sporting house he sometimes frequented in Brooklyn. The man complied with her unspoken request, shedding his trousers and beginning to labor above her. She urged the man on to greater and greater heights. For what seemed like an eternity, the flivver bounced and squeaked as the couple indulged their baser instincts. At long last, both of their wails crescendoed to a peak and stopped.
Stephen held his head in his hands as he felt the lump in his throat grow. Where before there had been naïve adoration, now there was hate and disgust. Of course he had wondered if she had other suitors, but he had never imagined anything like this. If she would give herself to a common laborer like the one he had just seen, she would take on all comers. Stephen could never imagine marrying her now. She might be an adventuress in the bedroom, offering him pleasures no other woman could conceive of, but what of her behavior in the future? Would he come home to find her in bed with half the state legislature? He could never tell anyone what he had just seen.
Her parents might find out about her bawdy habits. In fact, it would give him a perverse pleasure if they did. But it could never be from him. He would have to find an excuse for not marrying Lib
bie. He would have to meet a beautiful debutante in Manhattan. He would have to move into a big city firm to avoid shaming his father by not taking over the practice. But he could not marry Libbie Morgan or even stay here, where he would have to gaze upon this Jezebel any longer. Feeling sorrow and rage churn up his insides, Stephen turned to go back to his car. Hearing the laughter of his intended echoing from behind him felt like being stabbed over and over again. He scraped his palm as he grabbed the trunk of a tree and vomited his late lunch into the nearby weeds. Then, trying to be as quiet as possible, he cranked up the touring car and beat a hasty exit from the grove.
New York State Police, Troop C Barracks, Ithaca, New York
July 1986
Chuck Keith poked his head into Frank’s office.
“Hey, Frank, you’re never gonna believe this.”
Frank looked up from his notes on a recent murder-suicide in Varna. “Hey, Chuck. What is it?”
“Bob Marshall over at IPD just called me. I think we may wanna go take a look at what they found. They just pulled it out of the lake.”
“What is it?”
“Bob says it looks like what’s left of an old Model T.”
They piled into the Crown Vic and headed across town to the city impound lot.
On a flatbed truck driven by Eddie Worley, the mechanic at Wilseyville Auto Repair, sat the rusted-out hulk of a very ancient automobile. From his place behind the wheel, Eddie summoned up his substantial bulk and hopped down from the cab with an agility Frank found surprising for someone of his size. He reminded Frank of a basketball hitting the court. Eddie wore grease-stained, king-size denim overalls with one shoulder buckle undone. One jaw worked a soggy hunk of Copenhagen as he watched the police conferring over the new find.