Manolos In Manhattan. Katie Oliver

deadpanned. He sighed. “Okay, why not? It’s not like I have anything better planned for lunch tomorrow anyway.”

      “Gee, thanks for that,” Holly retorted. “Love you too. I’ll see you then.”

      Although Holly and Chaz spent an entire hour in the attic the next day, sneezing and shoving boxes around, they found nothing of interest, only more junk, and plenty of cobwebs.

      “I’m not surprised,” Chaz said as he leaned back on his heels. “I mean, why would this flapper’s journals and personal stuff be stashed up here, anyway? You said this place was a speakeasy back in the day.”

      “It was. But why is her portrait here in the attic, then?” Holly wondered, frustrated. “Who shoved it under the eaves, and why?”

      “Who knows? My advice? Find out her name first. Then you can figure out where she lived.”

      “Right,” she agreed. “And how do I do that, exactly?”

      Chaz stood and brushed the dust from his pants. “Well, I’m no Nancy Drew, but I’d start with the local library and check old newspapers. Or maybe the chamber of commerce?”

      “You’re brilliant.” Holly kissed him impulsively on the cheek and followed him to the door. “That’s just what I’ll do. How’d you like to go over there with me later?”

      “No, thanks,” he said firmly. “I can think of lots of things I’d rather do with my evening. And none of them involves the library or the chamber of commerce. Enjoy yourself, sweetie.”

       Chapter Fourteen

      When her shift at the store ended, Holly drove to the library, and after searching the history shelves, sat down with a stack of local Greenwich Village books. She pulled the first volume towards her and began to read. Halfway through the second book, she found what she was looking for.

      The brownstone that housed Dashwood and James was built in 1878 and started out as a hotel. It featured a bohemian clientele, amongst them writers, artists, dancers, and musicians. It wasn’t until the 1920s, and the arrival of Prohibition, that a gangster named Clyde Caruso purchased the hotel and turned it into a speakeasy.

      Holly leaned forward. Despite federal law banning the manufacture and sale of alcohol, bootleggers continued to make whiskey and moonshine, and people continued to buy it. Eventually organized crime stepped in. Unlike another notorious criminal of the day, Al Capone – who some viewed as a kind of wrong-side-of-the-law Robin Hood for his many charitable contributions – Caruso had no interest in charity. He wanted power.

      After Capone ordered the infamous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of six rival gangsters, he was convicted and sent to prison, and Caruso began building his own crime empire.

      What she needed, Holly realized as she closed the book, were local newspapers from the time period in question. She stood and made her way to the reference desk.

      “Excuse me,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I need to look at some local Greenwich Village newspapers from 1927 and 1928, if possible.”

      “That’ll be on microfiche,” the librarian replied. “One moment, please.”

      Although she learned a lot about New York in the days of Prohibition and speakeasies and crime syndicates, Holly had no luck discovering the flapper’s identity.

      Still, she consoled herself as she gathered up her handbag and thrust her notes inside, she’d found plenty of background information, and even a photograph of Clyde Caruso. She studied the photocopy now. He was handsome, in a dark, Gangsters of New York kind of way. But there was a definite coldness in his eyes. He wasn’t someone you’d ever want to cross.

      Holly went back to her table to return her books to the shelves. As she began to stack the volumes in her hands, she sensed someone behind her.

      “Hello, Miss James. I didn’t expect to see you here, hitting the books on a Tuesday evening.”

      She looked up to see Hugh Darcy and eyed the law books stacked in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

      “I’m doing some legal research for Alastair. All very dull and incomprehensible stuff, I’m afraid.” He eyed her own stack of books. “What brings you to the library?”

      Holly hesitated. Should she tell him about her quest to discover the flapper’s identity? Perhaps she should. After all, with his legal research expertise, he might be of use.

      “I’m trying to learn a bit more about the painting in the attic. Not the provenance of the painting itself,” she hastened to add, “but the identity of the girl in the portrait.”

      “Ah, yes, the flapper,” Hugh said thoughtfully. “Well, I’d start with old newspapers from the period – which, it seems, you’re already doing – and then I’d contact a genealogical society for help in tracing her identity.”

      “That’s a very good idea,” she agreed. “After all, I can’t do anything until I know her name.” She paused. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if you like.”

      “Please do. I’m curious to know.” He cleared his throat again and smiled hesitantly. “Well...goodbye, then, Miss James. Perhaps I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

      “Goodbye, Mr Darcy.” On impulse she added, “You know, you can call me ‘Holly,’ if you like. I won’t be offended.”

      “Thank you.” He shifted the books in his arms. “Goodbye...Holly.”

      And as she turned away to shelve the books, it occurred to her that Mr Darcy hadn’t returned the favor to say she might call him ‘Hugh.’

      She rolled her eyes. He might be attractive, and he might be clever and even marginally nice at times, but Hugh Darcy was still pedantic and self-important...

      ...exactly like that other Mr Darcy.

      The next afternoon, Holly dashed across Bleecker Street – dodging a pedicab and a bike messenger on steroids in the process – and entered Jamie’s restaurant. The sound of hammering greeted her ears. Plywood sawhorses, toolboxes, and sheets of plastic were everywhere, and the floors were covered with drop cloths.

      “Jamie?” she called out, her eyes sliding past the painters and drywall hangers. “Where are you?”

      “Back here,” he answered. “In the kitchen.”

      She made her way cautiously around a wheelbarrow filled with bits of plaster and ripped-up carpet and stepped over a tangle of cables to follow the sound of Jamie’s voice down a narrow hallway.

      “Here you are,” she said as she spotted him, supervising the installation of a huge, double-door stainless steel refrigerator.

      “Hey, Hols.” He came over and kissed her. “What’s up?”

      “Well,” she said as she stood before him and looped her arms around his neck, “you promised me lunch, remember?”

      “I did, didn’t I?” He paused, one arm still around her waist, to sign for delivery of a new sink. “Thanks, mate. You can put it over there for now.” He pointed to an empty corner.

      “Never mind,” Holly said, and masked her disappointment. “You’re busy. We can do lunch another day.”

      “No.” Jamie handed the clipboard over and turned back to her. “I promised we’d have lunch, and we will. Let me just get my phone. Be right back.” He kissed her again and disappeared.

      As she waited, one hip resting against the brand-new grill, Holly tried to visualize the kitchen as the well-oiled, gleaming stainless steel machine it would eventually become. But she couldn’t. The dust, drop cloths, and holes in the drywall made it all but impossible.

      Still, Jamie would make it happen. He always did. He