“You see? Those two lovebirds won’t pay any attention to us.” Fleur slipped a shiny black record out of a paper sleeve that crinkled in her hands. “And the music will muffle our conversation.” She placed the record on the Victrola and wound the crank on the side of the machine until Henry Burr’s sentimental “Faded Love Letters” drifted out of the horn-shaped speaker.
I glanced at the window behind me, half expecting to find Joe Adder standing on the other side of the glass.
“Come down here.” On the braided blue rug, Fleur laid open her copy of Motion Picture and flipped the pages to an article titled “The Vogue of Valentino.”
“Look”—she turned another page—“an eminent psychologist claims that women have fallen passionately in love with Rudolph Valentino because American businessmen aren’t meeting their needs as lovers. Isn’t that a hoot?” She giggled in her rich, Fleur way that always quelled the worries inside my brain.
I crouched down beside her, my knees digging into the braided rug, and I leveled my head next to hers. Henry Burr’s voice filled the room with music, and Valentino’s suave Italian face and figure arrested our eyes. I couldn’t even watch motion pictures. The next town over had a nickelodeon theater, but the manager had posted a sign on the door that said, NO NEGROES, JEWS, CATHOLICS, CHINESE, OR JAPANESE.
“I saw Joe,” I said.
Fleur’s face sobered. “And . . . ? Is everything all right?”
“Well, I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering.” My glance flitted toward the hallway. “Are you sure Deputy Fortaine can’t hear us? Uncle Clyde is chummy with him . . .”
“The music is loud, and he and Mama are too busy holding hands under the table. I think she’s worried that Deputy Fortaine will find out what Laurie is doing for money. He doesn’t look the other way as much as Sheriff Rinky-Dink does.”
“You sure Laurence is a bootlegger?”
“Shh.” Fleur held a finger to her lips. “Don’t say that word. But, yes. Have you seen the nighttime sky? It positively glows with the fire of all the moonshine distilleries in these woods. Local restaurants—the Dry Dock and Ginger’s—and Portland establishments, they’re all paying good money for home-brewed hooch, and Laurence has Daddy’s truck to deliver it to them.”
“I thought the Dry Dock was genuinely dry.”
Fleur rolled her eyes. “They claim to be, so the good people of Elston will dine there, but the owners keep bottles on hand for certain patrons with money.”
“Is that where Laurence was going with those Witten boys just now? Out delivering?”
Fleur nodded with loose locks of her hair swaying against her face.
“And Joe Adder?” I pushed myself up higher on my elbows. “Is he going with them, too?”
“I don’t think so. He can’t risk jail again. He’s just hiding out until he figures out what to do with his life.”
“Fleur . . .”
“Hmm?”
I scratched my left arm. “Robbie just told me Joe’s not right in the head. Do you know anything about that?”
She shrugged. “I’m sure prison doesn’t make a person very sane. It’s certainly not going to make people believe you’re upright and sweet.”
“Why is Laurence letting him hide in the shed, then? I didn’t even know they were friends. Didn’t they once get into a fistfight when they were younger?”
She shrugged again. “Laurence doesn’t talk to me about much of anything anymore. He just mutters about taking the ‘moral high road in life’ all the time.” She stroked a photograph of Valentino dressed in some sort of exotic costume with a vest and long white pants. “Maybe Laurie sees Joe as a charity opportunity. A chance to repent for his sin of bootlegging. Church has become important to him.”
“Hmm . . .” I readjusted my weight on my knees, unconvinced that God would forgive Laurence of anything just because he snuck a few slices of bread out to the likes of Joe Adder. “Why’d you go see Joe in the shed in the first place?”
“I’m sorry.” She nestled her shoulder against mine. “I knew it would upset you, but Laurence told me Joe cut up his legs pretty badly when he hopped a fence to steal eggs. I made him a poultice and brewed him some tea. But I wasn’t nice to him at all—I swear.”
I leaned away so that her shoulder no longer touched mine.
She lowered her head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about him, but there was something in his eyes that made me feel his message was important. I thought he might want to make peace with you.”
I pressed a hand over my forehead and drew a long breath through my nose. “He didn’t make peace with me at all, Fleur.”
“Then what did he say?”
“He told me Uncle Clyde killed my father.”
The record stopped. Fleur jumped up, the scent of lilacs breezing away with her, and set the phonograph needle back to the beginning of the song. The fanfare of trumpets recommenced, and Henry Burr again warbled “Faded Love Letters.” Fleur crouched back down beside me, hanging her head next to mine over a new article, one that explored the shape of ten film stars’ noses in relationship to their personalities. Good Lord, I thought, I sure hope my nose doesn’t reveal what’s going on inside me.