Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(29)

Aida’s pulse increased as a cautious hopefulness sprung up. She waited, watching Mrs. Lin silently until she began sketching what looked to be parts of Chinatown that weren’t exactly tourist-friendly. “Is it dangerous, that area?”

“You will get some looks, and you should avoid the opium den. If you smell sweet smoke, you’ve gone too far. It’s best to take a man with you. Too dangerous for a young woman alone. But do not be afraid to go to Doctor Yip. He came here from Hong Kong a few years ago. Very educated and kind. You will like him.”

“Wonderful. Thanks so much.”

“Anytime. Hope he can help.”

It might be a long shot, but Aida hoped so, too. Maybe Bo had already talked to this herbalist. Best to just contact Winter and find out. She could send him a note through Mrs. Lin’s courier, but that seemed like a silly waste of time when she had Winter’s business card propped against a lamp on her nightstand. That was what it was there for. She worked for him now, after all. He’d probably forgotten all about the kiss.

She’d certainly tried.

Retreating to her room, she bolstered herself and tried his private number, feeling butterflies in her stomach when the operator made the connection and his big voice crackled over the wire.

“Magnusson.”

“It’s me,” she said, suddenly forgetting her manners and good sense.

“Hello, you.” His voice sounded low and friendly in the telephone’s earpiece.

Her stomach fluttered while the line popped and hissed. “I can’t talk long and people might pick up—the telephones in our rooms are connected to the restaurant’s line. Mrs. Lin doesn’t like us to make calls during lunch rush, so if you hear swearing in Cantonese, hang up,” she said, trying to sound casual and breezy.

“Duly noted,” he replied before adding, “I hear it from Bo all the time.”

“How’s your shoulder today?”

“Sore. Greta forced some pills down my throat, so it feels better at the moment.”

“Good, good. Well . . . ah, the reason I rang is because I have the address of an herbalist in Chinatown who might help with information on the coins. My landlady gave me his name.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t get too excited. It might not pan out, but it could be worth investigating. I have a map to show us how to get there.”

“That’s damned resourceful,” he said, sounding impressed.

“You hired me to help you.”

“Indeed I did. Bo should be back from an errand any minute. As soon as he arrives, we’ll head over there. Shall I meet you in an hour, say?”

Bo was coming, too? A pang of disappointment tightened her chest. “Sure. But I have to be at Gris-Gris around five. I’m doing an early show tonight for happy hour.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get you there in time.”

One of the girls who lived in the building clicked on the line and asked to use it.

“In an hour?” Aida said quickly.

“With bells on.”

She hung up and changed her clothes, dressing in a camel-colored skirt and a matching jacket. Casual, but smart. Very businesslike. It looked good with her tan stockings, which had pretty little scrolling shapes embroidered on the calves and hid the freckles on her legs. She finished getting ready, then headed downstairs in time to meet him.

Aida’s heart pounded wildly as she glanced toward the entrance and found him stepping inside the restaurant wearing a long black coat, black suit, and black necktie with red chevrons running down the middle peeking from his vest. Pausing near the door, he removed his hat and brushed away droplets of rain. Gray light filtered in from the windows behind him, where Chinese characters and the pronouncement “Best Almond Cookies in Chinatown” surrounded a painted lotus blossom.

His eyes found hers. “Miss Palmer,” he said politely, as if he were an upstanding gentleman and not a bootlegger. As if they were merely business acquaintances . . . which they were, she reminded herself. “Shall we?”

Dodging customers tottering up to the register, she followed Winter outside into the fresh air, heavy with the scent of wet pavement. She eyed rain dripping from a shallow ledge above the entrance. “Everyone told me it would be dry here in the summer.”

“Usually is.”

“Where’s Bo?” she asked in her best neutral tone as she pulled on a pair of short brown gloves with bell-shaped cuffs.

“He dropped me off.”

“Ah.” Flutter-flutter. She squelched her excitement and glanced around. The newsstand next door had erected a rainy-day tarp that tied to a street sign and a telephone pole. “Maybe we should grab a taxi.”

Winter snapped open a large black umbrella. “Nonsense. It’s barely raining. Come.” He shifted her under the umbrella and out of the entry so an elderly couple could step inside. His hand lingered on her back as they walked to a spot by the newsstand.

Hope and anxiety quickened her hummingbird pulse. Being close to him set her nerves dancing. She was close enough to catch his scent, crisp and clean, a touch of the orange oil that permeated his house. She glanced up and found him studying her. Had he seen her sniffing his coat like a dog? “Sorry. You smell nice.”

“Barbasol cream.” He was hiding a smile. Amused. Relaxed. Very non-businesslike.