Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I knock three times, pause, then twice more. A small peephole slides open, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then recognition.
“Miss Reid,” a voice says. “Been a while.”
The door opens, revealing a broad-shouldered, six-foot woman in men’s trousers and a crisp white shirt. Lois de Fee, the infamous bouncer who works a lot of bars in the city, mainly as a novelty. She gives me a respectful nod as I enter.
“What brings you back to our humble establishment?” she asks, closing the door behind me.
“Just looking for a quiet drink.”
She raises an eyebrow but asks no further questions. That’s the beauty of places like this—everyone respects the need for discretion.
Inside, The Lavender Room lives up to its name. Purple velvet curtains line the walls, soft jazz plays from a gramophone in the corner, and a handful of women sit at small tables, conversations hushed, cigarette smoke hanging in a haze near the ceiling. The lighting is low, faces half-hidden in shadow.
I make my way to the bar, where a slender woman with short-cropped dark hair mixes drinks with practiced efficiency. She looks up as I approach, her hands stilling momentarily.
“Well, well,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Lena Reid. Thought you’d found fancier watering holes.”
“Hello, Vivian,” I say, sliding onto a barstool. “No place fancier than this.”
She snorts, but I can see she’s pleased. “What’ll it be?”
“Aviation, please.”
She prepares my drink, her movements fluid and graceful. I’d forgotten how attractive Vivian is, with her sharp cheekbones and knowing eyes and her take charge energy. In another life, perhaps…
“Haven’t seen you in months,” she says, placing the drink before me. “Maybe a year. Not since you started running with that mob fellow. You finally leave him?”
“Marco isn’t why I’m here tonight,” I say, licking my finger and patting it along the sugared rim of the glass.
“No?” She leans across the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “What is, then?”
I place my finger in my mouth, sucking on the sugar. “Betty Short. She came here with me once or twice.”
Vivian’s expression shutters immediately. “Don’t remember any Betty.”
“Dark hair? Pale skin? Always wore black?” I press. “Elizabeth Short. She was found murdered four days ago.”
“The Black Dahlia,” Vivian says quietly. “That was her? Jesus.”
I nod, watching her reaction carefully. “You remember. So why’d you lie?”
“I serve drinks to a lot of people.”
“But you remember her. She came here without me, didn’t she?”
Vivian busies herself wiping down the bar. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. We get enough of that as it is.”
I reach across the bar, my fingers wrapping around her wrist. The contact is deliberate, skin against skin, as I let a thread of compulsion seep into my voice.
“Tell me about Betty, Vivian. When was she last here?”
Her eyes glaze slightly, her resistance melting under my influence. “A couple weeks ago. She was meeting someone. Like she always did.”
Always did? “Who?”
“Tall, black hair. Elegant. Way too classy for this joint, if you ask me.”
My pulse quickens. Could that be one of the Europeans Betty wrote about? The brunette with diamonds? “Did you catch her name?”
“No. They always sat in the back booth. The brunette would order a single drink, never touched it. Just talked with Betty for hours.”
“What did they talk about? Did the brunette have an accent?”
Vivian shakes her head, fighting my compulsion slightly. “Couldn’t hear. But Betty seemed…nervous, the last time. They argued. The brunette grabbed her wrist—hard enough to leave marks. I was about to intervene when Betty pulled away and left.”
“When was this?”
“A week ago? Maybe more. Right before…” She trails off, blinking as my compulsion begins to fade.
I release her wrist, letting my hand linger in a caress that appears casual but reinforces the suggestion that this conversation wasn’t unusual.
“Thanks for the drink, Viv,” I say, placing money on the bar and tipping extra. “For old times’ sake.”
She nods, still slightly dazed. “Stay safe, Lena.”
I leave The Lavender Room with new questions crowding my mind. If Betty had been into women, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I can pick up on those things. But she never once mentioned the brunette to me, and as far as I know, hadn’t written it in her diary, other than a reference to one of the Europeans.
The rain has intensified, falling in earnest now. I pull my coat tighter and begin walking, scanning the street for a taxi. At this hour, in this neighborhood, they’re scarce.
I’ve gone two blocks when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that signals I’m being watched. I keep walking, maintaining my pace, but my senses sharpen. Footsteps behind me, matching my rhythm. Someone keeping pace, staying just far enough back to remain in shadow.
I turn a corner onto a street lined with closed storefronts, their windows dark and empty. The footsteps continue, neither accelerating nor falling behind.