The Flapper's Fake Fiancé Read online

  Once on the ground, Betty gave both Patsy and Jane a thorough once-over, then, upon her satisfied nod, they were all three off, running across the backyard like the house had just been raided.

  They darted through the line of trees that separated the backyard from a dirt road that led up the hill, where houses would someday be built, and then followed the road downhill, all the way to an abandoned house on the edge of the development. It was a fairly new house that had once been owned by the mob, but the government had confiscated it. Their father had tried to buy it, because it butted up to property he already owned, but it wasn’t for sale. That suited them fine because they could walk through the yard without the fear of being seen, and then onto the street where the red line of the streetcars rolled by.

  “Perfect timing!” Jane exclaimed as they all hurried to the edge of the street where they could climb aboard the city trolley ringing its bell. “I can’t wait to hear that new piano player.”

  Patsy agreed, mainly to be nice. She enjoyed music, but Jane loved it. Jane even dared sneak into the living room and listen to the radio. Of course, that was only when Father wasn’t home, but Mother was home. So far, she hadn’t gotten caught, and Patsy hoped things stayed that way.

  “We have to leave before midnight,” Betty whispered once they were aboard the streetcar. “No later than eleven forty-five or we’ll miss the last car home.”

  Patsy and Jane agreed with nods. Other than that, they didn’t speak to each other, or do anything to draw attention to themselves or each other. There were hundreds of thousands of people in LA and the chance of their running into someone who knew them was unlikely, considering other than shopping and church on Sunday mornings, they rarely left the house, but they’d agreed long ago to be extra cautious on their excursions.

  They leaped off the streetcar as it stopped a block away from the Rooster’s Nest, which was located beneath a laundromat. Others were going that way, too, and the sisters walked along with the others as if they didn’t even know each other.

  The entrance was in the front of the building, except that once they were in the entranceway, everyone took an unmarked brown door on the left that led down a lighted flight of stairs. Jane was several steps ahead and Patsy grinned at how her sister’s head bobbed to the music emitted into the stairway.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the first person in line knocked on another door. The small sliding peephole opened, and upon hearing the password, the door was opened for all of them to enter. The password was simply the speakeasy’s name, but it was still a security measure. If the person who opened the slide saw a police officer’s uniform, he would signal the bar, and all of the alcohol would be dumped or hidden so the place couldn’t get busted for selling it.

  Patsy’s grin increased as she stepped through the door at the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner. The large room was full of bright sparkling lights, music and people. All sorts of people.

  She loved the thrill that filled her every time she entered a room like this. It was as if she was instantly transformed into an entirely different person.

  Tonight that thrill was even bigger. This was it. Her chance to write an article that would get printed and launch her into the world she read about every day. She wanted to see all the things written about in the newspaper, from the ostrich rides at Lincoln Park, to the jazz bands playing music along the beach boardwalk and a gazillion things in between. Being a reporter would allow her to do all that, and there wasn’t a thing her father could say about it.

  She rubbed her hands together, ready to learn all she could about the escaped convict. Rex Gaynor was his name. The newspaper had said as much. Her attention zoned in on a trio of men sitting at the end of the bar. No fancy jackets covered their work shirts or the wide suspenders holding up their britches. Hot dawg! Those were the type of men who talked, a lot, once they drank enough, especially to a flapper.

  Happiness bubbled inside her. She loved this. Being someone other than dull, boring Patsy Dryer. Here, she was anyone she wanted to be.

  That had been scary at first, to break out of the quiet, shy girl she’d been her entire life, but once she had, an entire new world had opened up for her.

  Tonight, she was going to be Libby, short for Liberty. That was her favorite, the name she used the most, because that’s what she was, liberated.

  Libby wasn’t shy, or quiet, she was bold and vivacious, and knew how to get what she wanted.

  She glided up to the bar, planted one foot on the rail near the floor and an elbow on the bar. Cupping her chin, she winked at the men. “Hello, fellas. What’s the news on the dock today?”

  All three laughed, and the one closest to her, an older man with thinning gray hair, asked, “Don’t know, bearcat, you got any chin music?”

  She giggled, loving everything about being a flapper, about being Libby, and laid a coin on the counter to order a fruit drink without alcohol. Betty had warned them all, numerous times, about how dangerous some homemade alcohol could be, and how they shouldn’t drink it. The Volstead Act prohibited the manufacturing and sale of alcohol, not the consumption, which meant people who wanted to drink, drank anything. And people wanting to sell alcohol made it out of anything at hand.

  She had tasted several types of cocktails over the months, but ultimately, agreed with Betty. Most of it tasted awful and burned her throat. So did cigarettes, which she had also tried, and decided she didn’t need either whiskey or cigarettes in order to have a good time.

  Once her drink arrived, she took a little sip and set the glass back down. “Well, the only chin music I’ve heard is from the newspaper, something about an escaped convict.”

  The man farthest away from her, wearing a squat leather hat and boasting a big, black mustache, shook his head. “Ain’t read any papers lately, doll, but that guy over there is who I’d talk to if I wanted to beat gums over what’s printed in them.”

  Patsy glanced across the room, toward a table where a man with brown wavy hair, parted on the side, sat alone.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “That’s Lane Cox,” the mustached man added. “He owns the LA Gazette.”

  The air locked in Patsy’s lungs. Lane Cox. The very one who had sent back every article she’d submitted to his newspaper. He not only owned the Gazette, he was the best reporter in LA. She tilted her head to see past people mingling about, to get a better look at him. Odd. She’d expected him to be old, and gruff looking. Not young and dapper. However, seeing him meant she was at the right place. He must be investigating the Rex Gaynor story, too.

  “If you want the news on the dock, ask that man.”

  Patsy turned back toward the three men. It was the middle one who’d spoken this time. A younger man, with short-cut black hair. He was looking across the bar, at a man wearing a red shirt and black suspenders and puffing on a cigar. That man had a mustache, too, and therefore instantly earned the nickname Charlie. After Charlie Chaplin, a very popular actor with a black mustache. “Who is that Charlie?” she asked, loving being able to use popular lingo.

  “Don’t know his name, but if something is going on at the docks, he knows about it,” the middle man answered.

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  The man shrugged and took a long draw on his drink. “He’s been cruising the docks for weeks.”

  That cigar-puffing Charlie wasn’t dressed like a dockworker, which meant something, that was for certain.

  Letting things settle for a moment, Patsy picked up her drink, and while sipping on it, glanced across the room, toward Lane Cox, wondering if he knew who that Charlie was. But Lane was no longer at the table. A scan of the room said he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  She pinched her lips together to keep her smile secretive. If that Charlie knew anything, she’d find out before Lane Cox even. She could almost see the little drawing that would be
printed along with her article, that of a man in a striped suit being hauled back to jail. She’d be a hero and a reporter.

  Bee’s knees, this was so exciting!

  She set her glass on the bar and sashayed along the length of it, to the other end where the man was talking to the bartender. Without waiting for the conversation to end, she laid a hand on Charlie’s arm. “Hey, big-timer, care to cut a rug?”

  The man turned and looked at her with a cool eye.

  He wasn’t very handsome. In fact, the long scar next to his left eye was rather frightening.

  Patsy would have run from this man, but being Libby from head to toe, she brightened her grin and batted the lashes she’d carefully coated with black mascara. “One dance to please a gal?” She patted his arm. “Please, a handsome man like you?”

  The man grinned. “Who can say no to a little billboard like you?”

  Her heart thudded at how well she could play the part, and she whirled about, looking at the man over her shoulder, knowing he’d follow her to the dance floor.

  The man at the piano was pounding on the keys, filling the room with the fast tempo of the ragtime song.

  Charlie followed her, all right, and took a hold of her hands to pull her to his side as he started to move along the dance floor.

  Being Libby and not Patsy, she controlled the icy shiver that rippled her spine at being so close to the man, and told herself that the Peabody was one of her favorite dances. It truly was and she was good at the fast one-step, as well as the long gliding strides that went along with quick steps. It was also a dance that kept enough space between partners.

  As they circled the dance floor, he asked, “You come here often, doll?”

  “Every so often.” She pulled up her best frown. “But I guess I’ll have to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the escaped convict.” She looked across her shoulder at the man, hoping her expression made her look scared. “The chin music is that folks should stay home and keep their doors locked. That’s frightening. He could be anywhere.”

  The man let out a barrel of a belly laugh. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head over Rex Gaynor. He’s only after the stash of cash he stole.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. So did her feet. “Stash of cash? From where?”

  Charlie got her back in rhythm with the music and led her all the way across the end of the dance floor, and then back the other way before he answered, “The train robbery. He hid it before getting caught, and broke out to go get it.”

  She kept her feet moving when they wanted to stop again. “The paper didn’t say that.”

  He laughed. “Papers don’t know everything, doll.”

  Patsy had grown breathless, but dancing had nothing to do with it. Her heart was racing, stealing her ability to breathe, because of the information she’d just gained. “I wonder where he hid it.”

  The man laughed again. “Only Rex knew that.”

  The music ended and so did their dancing. She was about to ask him for another one, in order to learn more information, but he nodded at someone behind her.

  “Sorry, doll, but I gotta blow this joint.” He winked. “Don’t be a squirrel.”

  Libby was never a squirrel. She didn’t hide from anything. Didn’t have to. Spinning about, she looked to see whom he’d nodded at. The only person over that way was walking out the door located beside the end of the bar. All she saw was the back of a brown shirt. A moment later, Charlie walked out that same door.

  Patsy considered following him, but she and her sisters had a rule. None of them could leave, not even step outside, without the other two—until it was time to go home. Then they left one at a time, but right behind each other.

  She twisted left, then right. Jane was leaning on the piano, talking with the piano player, who was taking a break, and Betty was sitting at the far end of the bar, near where the three men she’d spoken to earlier still sat. Betty glanced at her, and then at the drink Patsy had left on the bar. Which meant she most certainly could not follow Charlie out that door.

  She walked over, drank the drink and then set the glass on the bar again. “Is the powder room that way?” she asked as if Betty was a stranger.

  Betty gave a slight nod. One that said I’ll be watching you come out.

  Patsy knew the rules, and wasn’t going to jeopardize their double lives. But it was hard at times, having to follow so many rules that got in the way of her truly becoming a reporter. That was never going to happen if she could write only about mundane things.

  She used the powder room and applied another layer of bright red lipstick before returning to the bar and ordering another drink.

  Her mind was still spinning, but now, besides an escaped convict dressed in white and black stripes, there were images of bags of stolen money floating around in her thoughts. She scanned the room. There had to be someone else she could talk to. Someone who might know more about Rex Gaynor.

  The room was full of people, those sitting at tables, laughing, drinking and smoking, and those on the dance floor. The piano man was pounding on the keys again, and the dance floor was full of men and women kicking up their heels. That’s what she usually did, too. There was nothing like the fun of that. Dancing beneath the bright lights, completely free of all the restrictions she normally lived by. It was hard to sit on the sideline.

  As the idea of hitting the dance floor filled her, the music stopped and a man next to the piano announced they were starting a dance-off.

  She loved dance-offs more than anything.

  “Five dances. The foxtrot, the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, the shimmy and the tango!” the man yelled. “The best pair of dancers to finish all five dances will win these here trophies!”

  The crowd cheered as he held up two glass mugs.

  “Full, of course!”

  The crowd cheered louder.

  “Berries!” Patsy shouted along with others. She couldn’t care less about the mug; it was the dance-off itself that excited her. Tugging her hat down to make sure it was good and tight so her long hair wouldn’t fall out while dancing, she glanced around the room, looking for a man who might be able to really cut a rug. An Oliver Twist.

  To her surprise, Lane Cox rounded the corner near the door right then.

  “Copacetic!” Learning a bit more while dancing would be absolutely perfect!

  She didn’t waste a step in getting across the room to grab a hold of his arm. “Come on, you’re my partner.”

  He tried to pull his arm away from her, but she held on and stepped closer to his side.

  “Don’t be a killjoy,” she said, batting her lashes. He was not only far younger than she’d imagined, but also very handsome up close.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not here to dance,” he said.

  She laughed. “I am.”

  He gave a slight nod that caused a section of his slicked-back wavy hair to fall over his forehead. “You’ll have to find someone else.”

  This was a first. Men never refused dancing with Libby. He was the person who would know more about Rex Gaynor than anyone else. She hooked her arm fully around his. “I don’t want to dance with someone else.” Giving him a solid tug and a big smile, she took his profession into consideration as she added, “You can tell me more about Rex Gaynor and the stash of cash he’s looking for while we dance.”

  Chapter Two

  Lane Cox prided himself on rarely being surprised. He’d seen too much, heard too much, knew too much to let that happen, but right now, his breath was locked in his chest. It could be because the little blue-eyed flapper, batting her eyelashes at him, was about the cutest doll he’d ever seen.

  But it wasn’t.

  He knew that.

  Women. Any woman didn’t affect him. One had at one time, but that would never happen again.


  It hadn’t this time, either.

  Her looks weren’t what stalled his breathing. It was her words. Stash of cash.

  Very few people knew Rex Gaynor had broken out of prison to locate the money he’d stolen off the train he’d robbed seven years ago.

  The train robbery that had changed Lane’s life. His wife had been on that train. And their baby daughter. Both had perished.

  “Come on, Oliver,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

  He almost took a step, but stopped himself before that happened. “Oliver?”

  Her giggle literally floated on the air. “Yes, as in Oliver Twist. You do know how to dance, don’t you?”

  He’d heard the term before, but hadn’t gotten over her “stash of cash” comment, and wondered if she’d thought he was someone else. How could she know that about Gaynor? It wasn’t public information. He gave her a solid once-over gaze from head to toe. Starting at the floppy blue hat that hid her hair, blond from the few stray hairs popping out near her neckline, to her slim neck and dainty chin, the blue fringe dress, the lanky legs, and ending at the tips of her toes inside the black-heeled shoes. She certainly didn’t look like the type to be mixed up with an ex-con, but looks could be deceiving. “Yes, I know how to dance,” he said, lifting his gaze back to her blue eyes partially hidden by the brim of her floppy hat.

  She tilted her chin up and looked him square in the eyes. “Then prove it.”

  A challenge? From a flapper who should be home being tucked in bed by her mother? She was young. Now that he could see her face, he’d guess she was not twenty yet. Maybe younger even. A family member of Gaynor’s? Sent here to get him off the scent of the story he’d been following? That was his life. Had been for years. Sniffing out the next story, and he was good at it. Very good. It had been said he never left a stone unturned, and this little flapper was definitely a stone he needed to look beneath. Find out how she knew about the cash, and anything else in that pretty little head of hers about Rex Gaynor.