The Bootlegger's Daughter. Lauri Robinson

in White Bear Lake. Perhaps all of Minnesota. Her wardrobe was the envy of many and it certainly didn’t take her high school diploma—the first in her family—to figure out she didn’t want things to go back to how they used to be. One wrong move could snuff out the money flowing into her father’s bank accounts. Uncle Dave was as aware of that as she.

      Fueled by the ire old memories ignited, she twisted the knob on the door. Ted Williams, St. Paul’s chief of police, knew better, too. Arresting Uncle Dave would not play in his favor.

      The target of her indignation sat behind his desk, dressed in a blue uniform with shiny gold buttons and a flat hat spouting a badge. He jumped to his feet as she shut the door with the perfect amount of force. It didn’t slam, but did cause the single lightbulb hanging by a black cord from the ceiling to sway, and certainly displayed her irritation.

      “Norma Rose,” Ted Williams said, rounding his desk. “I expected your father.”

      “He’s busy.” Everyone knew the resort packed people in by the dozens on the weekends, yet she reminded him, “It is Friday night.”

      “I’m aware of that.” The police chief removed his hat and laid it on his desk. “But I figured he’d want to come get his brother-in-law right away.”

      She crossed the room and set her purse on the other corner of the long desk. “He’s busy, so I’m here.” Keeping her expression stony, Norma Rose leveled a solid stare on the man. “Why did you arrest Dave?”

      “I didn’t arrest him,” Ted said, tugging down the hem of his uniform jacket.

      Norma Rose kept her well-trained eyes from roaming. Ted Williams was a swanky-looking bird, tall and lean with sand-colored hair and periwinkle eyes. If she ever had a mind to form a crush on someone, it could very well be him. However, that would never happen. Keeping the resort running smoothly, her father satisfied, her sisters happy and, evidently, her uncle out of jail, took all her time. She was thankful for that—being busy—and liked most of it, particularly being a businesswoman. Even the big boys respected her and she was going to keep it that way. The quickest way to lose respect was to become a doxy.

      “Why is he here, then?” she asked when Ted didn’t elaborate.

      Rubbing the back of his neck, Ted shrugged. “I got a call about an ossified egg on the street corner and sent an officer out to get him. It turned out to be Dave.”

      “Drunk? Dave?” Norma Rose shook her head. “That’s impossible.” Only the family knew Dave didn’t drink. Ever.

      Ted leaned against the desk. “Maybe someone slipped him a Mickey.”

      Norma Rose refused to let the bubble of concern that burst in her stomach show. “No one would have done that.” Too many men feared repercussions to do such a thing, and others were paid too well.

      Ted shrugged again, and lifted an eyebrow while his gaze wandered to where her string of pearls was tied. She lifted her chin and used an unwavering glare to challenge him to meet her gaze instead of stare at her breasts.

      “Why didn’t you drive him home?” she asked.

      He shifted his stance and his gaze. “As you pointed out, it’s Friday night. The city is hopping.”

      “Who called you?” she asked. The underground world Prohibition had built was vast, and undeniably corrupt, almost as fraudulent as those with their self-righteous attitudes who’d created it in the first place.

      Ted shifted his stance as if uncomfortable.

      New faces did pop up now and again—men and women hoping to make a fortune selling bootlegged and home-brewed spirits who might be foolish enough to challenge the monopoly her father had built. They never lasted long. “Who was it?”

      “Mel Rosengren at the Blind Bull,” Ted answered. “But he claimed Dave hadn’t been there.”

      “Of course he hadn’t been there,” she said. “Dave doesn’t patronize such establishments.” The fact that her uncle didn’t drink made him the perfect man for the job he held—providing samples to buyers. Actually, Dave couldn’t drink. He broke out in hives and swelled up like a raccoon hit by a car and left on the side of the road to bake in the sun when he consumed so much as a teaspoon of alcohol. Allergic is what Gloria Kasper, the family physician, called it. Highly allergic. “Where is he?”

      Before Ted spoke, the door opened—not the one to the street, but the one to the police station.

      “Chief.” A portly officer Norma Rose didn’t recognize poked his head through the opening. “A lawyer wants to pay Dave Sutton’s bail.”

      More than concern flared inside Norma Rose. “Bail? A lawyer?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      A fresh bout of ire stung her nerves. No one would have called in a mouthpiece. She’d told her father she’d take care of this, and she would. He was busy trying to convince Brock Ness to stay and play at the resort rather than heading to Chicago to play for some radio station. She’d offered to drive into the city and get Dave because finding another musician this close to the two large parties they had coming up would be next to impossible. “I’m here to pick up Dave,” Norma Rose told Ted, along with a look that said there would be no bail. A man who didn’t do his job didn’t deserve to be paid.

      Ted’s slight nod indicated he understood her silent message about the bail. Turning his attention toward the officer, he started across the room. “Where is this lawyer?”

      The door opened wider and another man stepped through, one so dapper looking the air in Norma Rose’s lungs wouldn’t move even while a vibration rumbled through her stronger than if she’d stood on the depot platform as a freight train rolled past. His suit was black with dark gray pinstripes and his shoes were suede, black, like his shirt and tie. The hat band of his fedora was black, too, and silk. She saw decked-out men day in and day out, and not one of them had ever made her lose the ability to breathe. This man was big, taller than the police chief, and had shoulders as broad as the men who hauled barrels of whiskey into the basement of the resort. Unlike those men, his hair was cut short, trimmed neatly around his ears, and he was clean-shaven.

      Strangers weren’t anything new, and one rarely caught her attention. Flustered for concentrating so deeply on this one, Norma Rose forcefully emptied her lungs. Just above the pounding in her ears, she heard the man speak.

      “Chief Williams,” he said, holding out a hand. “Ty Bradshaw, attorney at law.”

      The man handed Ted a calling card, and then produced another one out of his suit pocket as he stepped closer. His eyes were dark brown, but it wasn’t the color that seared something inside her. It was the way they shimmered, as if all he had to do was smile and call her doll and she’d fall onto his lap like the girls that were paid to do so back at the resort.

      Well-versed on keeping her expression blank—for men gave her those types of looks all the time, which did nothing but disgust her—Norma Rose didn’t so much as blink as she took the card he offered. She did curse her fingers for trembling slightly when his brushed against them.

      Embossed gold writing proclaimed his name and profession just as he’d stated, and offered no additional information. Which meant little to nothing. She had embossed cards with her name on them, too.

      “I wasn’t aware Dave had a lawyer,” Ted said.

      “He does now,” the newcomer stated.

      His rather arrogant tone sent another rumble through her. “No, he doesn’t,” Norma Rose argued. Her father employed several attorneys, and if anyone in the family ever had the need, one of them would be called. This occasion didn’t require a mouthpiece, just a few extra bills laid in the chief’s hand. Which would not happen, either. Ted Williams was paid well to keep her entire family out of the hoosegow and the fact she was standing here, arguing with an unknown lawyer, was enough to say Ted was not earning his monthly installments.

      The