“You know anything about those mugs, Bobbi?”
“Nope,” I answered truthfully. “They broke in on me, looked like trouble, so I thought I better yell.”
“You thought right.” He turned to make waving motions to my admirers. “Awright, you cake eaters, show’s over. Walk around the building. Make sure those crashers don’t come back. Discourage ’em if they do, but don’t get caught.”
Though the men were worse for wear with blackening eyes and cut lips, they brightened at the possibility of another donnybrook.
“Has this happened before?” I asked as the troops moved off.
He shook his head.
“Maybe at another club?”
That got me a suspicious squint. “What do you know?”
“Nothing, it just seemed a good bet.”
He snorted. “Next time play the horses.”
“What happened at the other place?”
“Same as here. Four bums bust into the dressing rooms, only they left before they could be thrown out. My brother runs the Golden Rose and called about it. I better phone him back. This is an epidemic.”
“What about the other clubs in town?”
“This is Waterview, not Cheboygan. The only entertainment is this place, the other place, a movie house, and a skating rink. Oh, yeah, the barbershop got in a Whiffle Board. If it wasn’t for that colony of swells from Mackinac Island supportin’ our slot machines, we’d be kissing cousins with a Hooverville.”
“Bet it boomed during Prohibition.”
“Nah, the rumrunners from Canada went to the next town over. Faster boats. You sure you don’t know nothing?”
“I wish I didn’t know this much.”
“You an’ me both, sister.” He moved off, scowl intact. I checked on the girls. Their door leaned crazily on one hinge. Big Maggie stood guard while the rest finished changing. Everyone talked a mile a minute, but subsided when they noticed me.
“What’s goin’ on?” Maggie asked, buttoning her dress.
“Boss thinks it was drunks after a free show. They tried the same thing at another club.”
“Huh. Creeps.”
“Men,” said another girl knowingly.
“Men-creeps,” agreed a third.
“Damn,” said a fourth, reacting to a run in the stocking she’d been pulling on.
“Where’s Katie?” I asked, my heart sinking. Enough costumes had been shifted from the rack to show she was no longer there.
“Washroom.”
I crossed to it, knocked, and called before pushing in. The window was wide, the room empty. The alley outside was also empty. Katie had made a clean escape.
Well, I’d intended to offer help.
I looked at the item I’d plucked from the floor. It was the photo the banker type had carried. Though crinkled with abuse, the image was clear, showing a much younger Katie Burnell. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen at the time.
It was a bridal portrait; she was radiant, smiling, and had platinum blond hair.
The cardboard back bore the stamped-on address of a photography studio in Sheldon, Ohio. An elegant copperplate hand had written on the white space under the photo: Mrs. Ethan Duvert on the Day of Her Wedding . The date was under it.
The picture was less than a month old.
Good God, what was she doing to herself? The heavy makeup she always wore made her look years older. She’d also been scared . That could pile on the years.
“Hey, you done in there? I gotta go.” One of the girls slipped by.
I went to my dressing room, donned my traveling suit, and arranged to get my trunk hauled to the train station. It wasn’t a big trunk, not like the one my boyfriend sometimes sleeps in, but I’d checked inside in case Katie had gotten a bright idea. My clothes were there, but no runaway bride. I’d seen too many movies.
Yes … that is correct. My boyfriend sleeps in a trunk. During the day. But only sometimes .