Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(19)

Not proper? She never said it wasn’t proper. And, well, it wasn’t, but when did a bootlegger care about conventions? Or maybe that was just a cover-up for something else—did he see something on her back that revolted him? Some ghastly mole? Was she too heavily freckled there for his tastes? Too skinny? Too fat? Why did he stop?

“I’ll tell Daniels to send in a girl to help you,” he said in a rushed voice. “Enjoy the champagne. Thanks again, and please consider Mrs. Beecham’s offer. She’s interested in spiritualism and will invite all her rich friends. Good potential business for you. Contact her directly if you’re interested.”

“But—”

He opened the dressing room door and exited without looking back. “Good night, Miss Palmer.”

• • •

Winter stopped outside Aida’s dressing room to compose himself. Christ, that was close. A second more, and he would’ve had his hands all over her back . . . and her back on the floor. In public, where anyone could walk in on them. It was disgraceful. She wasn’t a whore, for God’s sake. One look at her bared back and the gentle slope of her bent neck and he was hard.

And a fool.

His record with the medium wasn’t good. First he’d collapsed on the woman. Then exposed his naked body to her. Then he’d made rude insinuations while unintentionally exposing her to lewd and indecent material in his study—though, to be fair, if she hadn’t been poking around in his things, that wouldn’t have happened.

He reminded himself how fast she wriggled away when she came to her senses after the postcard incident. If she knew what was on his mind today, she’d slap him to kingdom come.

Sadly, a slap from her would probably just make him harder.

It had been years since he’d wanted someone, not something. Desire itself, well, he felt that every day. It was like breathing. Hunger for food. Thirst. And he sated himself in the easiest way possible—by his own hand, or with someone willing. Since the accident, the only willing women were fast flappers—too drunk to care that he was anything other than a meal ticket until the next party—and the women he paid to pretend that they enjoyed his scarred, lumbering body on top of theirs.

Simple transactions. Interchangeable. They were about the act itself, not the person. Now he was combining the person and the act in one ridiculous fantasy. He’d gone out of his way to see her again, chasing her around like an eager pup, tongue wagging. Couldn’t blame the damned poison this time.

He moved out of the way as two feathered chorus girls strolled by, chatting as they headed backstage. Now there, see? That’s exactly what he should be chasing: a pretty girl without a name. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? A couple of months . . . three? Too long.

Maybe Aida was just the first person to step into his sights. She was attractive and vivacious. Any man would appreciate that. It was natural to want a girl like her, especially one who was so easy to talk to. Just a sign that he was getting back to normal, nothing more. Sure, he’d been thinking about her a lot—too much—but he thought a lot about bacon, too.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started for the alley exit, where Bo was waiting with the car. It wasn’t until they were driving away from the club that Winter realized he’d been so wrapped up worrying about his feelings for Aida that he hadn’t taken a second look at the half-dressed chorus girls.

SEVEN

THREE DAYS LATER, ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE SEA CLIFF DINNER party, Winter sat in a barbershop chair and called Florie Beecham from the barber’s phone. The operator let the call ring ten times, and then another ten, but no one answered. He slammed the earpiece down on its hook and handed the telephone back to the barber. His overcast mood took a nosedive.

The bell above the door jingled. In the wall of mirrors, Winter watched Bo stride into the shop. He pocketed car keys and plopped down on a nearby swivel chair. “Is the spirit medium coming to Mrs. Beecham’s dinner party?”

“Apparently Mrs. Beecham’s staff is too busy to answer the damn telephone,” Winter replied gruffly as a white barber’s cape was snapped open and draped over his torso.

“I’m sure she’ll be there,” Bo said.

“She’s had three days to accept the job.” And as of last night, Florie said she hadn’t received a definite yes from Aida yet. Did she have another engagement? Because he’d already called Velma and knew Aida wasn’t scheduled to work tonight.

“Maybe she accepted late because she’s been busy getting rid of other suicidal ghosts.”

Or maybe she’d had second thoughts about seeing him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be tracking down the person who tried to kill me? Remind me why I pay you?”

“Because you trust me and I’m the only one who’ll put up with your bullshit.”

Winter shot him a warning look. He wasn’t in the mood.

“As soon as I drop you off at that party, I’m following some leads,” Bo promised.

“It’s taking too long.”

“A tong leader in the booze business was found dead this morning. Locked in a room filled with bees. He’d been stung to death. Allergic, I suppose.”

Sounded like a horrible way to die. “Interesting, but I’m not sure what that has to do with curses and ghosts.”

“Maybe nothing, but I’m checking into it on my way to talk to someone I’ve had asking around Chinatown about Black Star. I’ll let you know what I find.” Bo exhaled a cone of smoke as he watched another barber sweep hair around the white tile floor. Traffic rushed by the plate glass window, where a red, white, and blue pole jutted out near the doorway. “Look, I’m sure she’ll be there, so stop worrying. Hell, I’d dress up like a gypsy and do the séance myself for that kind of cash.”