In a corner of the semi-circular Art Deco Lounge, Captain Irving elaborated upon a group of gifted ceremonial swords to an audience, including Basil, Tyrone Power, and Errol Flynn, who had Countess Velma von Rache at his side, along with others.
“We hosted several members of the Spanish royal family on our transatlantic route from our port in Southampton to New York. One of them became ill—a combination of seasickness and food poisoning. Not from our kitchens, mind you, but from the so-called ‘exotic African delicacies’ he brought with him before he boarded. If you want to know, I think they were aphrodisiacs, but he would’ve died before confessing anything so embarrassing.
“His condition was touch and go for the longest time. He and his family were so appreciative of our crew and in-house medical staff. Not to mention a masseur who excised every ache and pain. As a token of his gratitude, he presented me with these rapiers from his royal repository.”
Basil whispered to Tyrone. “I bet you anything he was referring to Spanish fly but was too shy to say it around the ladies.”
“To me, they look more like épée blades on saber handles,” Tyrone replied. “Except it’s too impolite to correct him.”
While the ship’s captain enlightened the crowd about the history of the RMS Queen Mary, Basil inspected the swords in closer detail, and Tyrone followed.
“Here and now, how confident are you with your fencing skills?” Basil asked.
“How confident are yours?” The question repeated by an outsider.
“Jack Stewart!” Basil couldn’t contain his surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“The Queen is my second home. Her engines are under my watchful eye. I might not be sipping champagne with the rest of you, but I’m on duty tonight,” he explained. “She’s docked right now, but I must make sure she’s seaworthy at a moment’s notice. Soon, she’ll be transporting thousands of soldiers.”
The captain warned Basil and his buddies to stay out of trouble. He didn’t want to have to rescue anyone who got so tipsy that they fell overboard.
After making the rounds and introducing himself to his stellar guests, Captain Irving called for everyone’s attention, “Who would be interested in an abbreviated tour of my ship?”
“When?” Basil asked.
“Right now,” he explained. “I’m short-staffed tonight and can only focus on the highlights of the more luxurious sections. Who’s on board?”
Ouida got excited. “Basil, this sounds like fun.”
“Can’t go, honeybuns. My show starts soon.”
Nigel’s wife, Violet, interrupted. “My husband won’t be able to come, either. We’ll do it together, but let’s get a drink first.”
Violet dragged Ouida over to the bar. Mae West, Mickey Rooney, and a few others took the captain up on his offer. Countess Velma clutched onto Flynn like a dog guarding her bone. They opted to stay behind.
Ouida returned with a tall, extra-potent drink in her hand. Basil kissed her goodbye and went on ahead to the recording studio. Tyrone, who wanted to make a few last-minute farewells, said he’d join him in a few minutes.
Busy technicians strung wires across the floor of the recording studio, readying for their pre-performance sound check.
“I find the blonde bombshell look quite flattering on you, Babs,” Basil said in a subdued voice as he sat down next to her. “Or do you prefer to be called Eileen Adlon?”
Despite everything, Nigel assured her by the time Basil found out about her disguise, they’d never be able to find another actress. Especially one already familiar with the script, on such short notice.
“You’re not worried my wife will declare war?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Bigger matters are at stake.”
Besides resuscitating her acting skills, Babs had two preeminent concerns—the countess and Ouida. One step in the wrong direction, and her entire operation could fail. Tonight, she’d have to trust people she didn’t know too well, like Nigel’s wife, to handle things in her absence. Under ideal circumstances, she would’ve preferred to be more in control and leave less to chance.
Under his breath, Basil confessed, “I guess I owe you my gratitude.”
“For what?” Each question made her more on edge.
“For finding Leo. Sorry, my wife insisted on giving the police the reward. I know you deserved it.”
Babs grumbled. She and Guy needed to nail the countess—tonight. They expected challenges.
He changed the subject. “So, are you working a job, reviving your acting skills, or did you just intend to crash a fancy party?”
Her reply: “There’s nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.”
From outer appearances, she seemed to ignore him and hadn’t answered his question. In fact, she had recited a line from his dialogue in the radio play they were about to perform.
Babs gave a wink to acknowledge Nigel Bruce, who entered the room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t I look foolish walking into the studio holding two cocktails,” he said, laughing at himself in his typical disparaging manner. “My wife, I like to call her Bunny, her nickname. Anyway, Bunny had to run and take care of something urgent and asked me to hold her drink. She said the ship’s captain was about to conduct a private tour.
“Well, I was so busy rhapsodizing with Olivia de Havilland that I forgot I was holding an extra glass, and for whatever reason, my wife never returned to reclaim it.” He placed the unwanted drink on a small table and made himself at home.
“Really, Watson, you excel yourself.” Basil pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette. “I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements, you have habitually underrated your own abilities… I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.”
Nigel blushed. “Oh well, thank you very much.”
“Not you, Nigel. I was rehearsing our script,” said Basil.
Nigel turned an even darker shade of red. Babs (or Eileen Adlon) did her ladylike best to suppress her giggles.
Groucho Marx entered and took a seat. Babs took her script and made a last-minute review. She stopped to look up when she heard the mesmerizing words, “There’s a light in a woman’s eyes that speaks louder than words.”
For a moment, Babs felt that had struck a romantic chord. A sorrowful reminder of one shortfall in her life. To her disappointment, it was Tyrone Power reading his part as Sir Henry of the Baskervilles.
After a successful recording of their radio show, everyone headed to the bar. The place was jumping and jiving by the time they arrived. Babs assumed Powell pulled the strings for Hammett’s and Hellman’s invitations. The couple sat at the counter, content to indulge in martinis and take an occasional glance at the rest of the scene. She figured snobbery was one perk of fame, which allowed them to choose their friends.
Babs pretended to have fun when she was busy keeping mental notes. Powell put on the charm. He and Myrna continued the antics of Nick and Nora Charles until, at one point, Myrna excused herself and said she’d return before long.
Among Babs’ observations, Tyrone Power re-examined Captain Irving’s collection of Spanish swords. He approached Basil and wanted to know why he brought up the subject of fencing earlier. “Were you thinking it would be a good publicity stunt to stage a duel?”
“Wicked thoughts, I guess,” Basil said with a snicker. “I’d love to put that over-inflated hot air buffoon, Errol Flynn, in his place one of these days. Has that bastard any scruples? Between his brash behavior I witnessed firsthand at my party, and what I hear from Hollywood gossip, he seems perverted and shameless.”
“Did I overhear my illustrious name?” Flynn asked, peering over Basil’s shoulder.
While Flynn seemed to be engaged with Basil and Tyrone, Babs was within a stone’s throw of the countess. Though she’d have to leave soon, Babs had to make the best of it—eavesdrop, ask around for other’s opinions—whatever it took.
She envied von Rache’s floor-length navy gown of silk crepe, which had a straight silhouette and plunging V-neckline. The bolero jacket she wore over it was the showstopper.
The jacket, silver mink trim all around the edges and cuffs. Long, tapered sleeves with exaggerated puffs where the tops of the armholes met the shoulder seams, with glittery rhinestone embellishment. Babs realized these were in the motifs of dogs, as if in an almost masochistic way, she felt an urge to give away her hand. On top of her head, a skewed velveteen hat, like an oversized button with netting, which veiled her eyes in mystery.
Momentarily star-struck, Babs snapped out of it and set the record straight: von Rache was a criminal and a clever con artist. To her, dogs were a commodity, a means to an end. So far, she’d given many people the impression she was innocent of any wrongdoings.
Without warning, von Rache was no longer in the spotlight. All eyes shifted to Myrna, who returned to the lounge. In her clutches, one obvious conversation piece everyone recognized, and a cream-colored envelope, ignored by all except Babs. No one was as gob-smacked as the countess when she spotted the whiny, but adorable wire-haired Fox Terrier in Myrna’s arms.
Babs’ crabmeat canapé tumbled off her tongue and back onto her plate. Not expecting the sudden curveball, she pussyfooted behind a group of revelers for camouflage but remained within earshot. The countess nearly fainted. Errol Flynn came to her rescue and helped her off her barstool.
A group of noisemakers corralled Myrna and her precious cargo. Myrna stuffed Babs’ note into Powell’s pocket, who nodded in acknowledgment. He read the note in a flash, squeezed through the crowd, and sidled up to where Hellman and Hammett monopolized the bar. He noticed a third, untouched martini between them and gave it an odd stare. Babs took this as her cue to position herself closer to their conversation.
“Please, join us on our booze cruise,” said Hammett, who pointed to the untouched beverage. “I think the bartender mixed up another’s.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Powell said. He winced; this drink was stronger than expected. “I considered proposing a toast to our success, but I’d rather propose a challenge.”
“About what?” Lillian asked.
“Better take advantage of the fact that at this point I’m three sheets to the wind, because tomorrow I’ll regret this. Here’s the deal: I’ll offer a cash prize to whoever comes up with the best detective story.”
“Any particular angle?” Hammett asked.
“How we stopped Countess Velma von Rache from smuggling her stolen celebrity dogs overseas,” Powell said.
“You believe it’s her?” Lillian asked.
Babs, who’d been keeping them under surveillance the entire time, pushed past others and arrived at the moment of Powell’s proclamation. She gave him a dirty look but had to cover his tracks.
“I’m sure of it,” she said and hoped Myrna had also read the note before handing it over. “Don’t ask me how I found out, but my partner and I plan to stop them.”
Hammett tapped his pack of cigarettes on the countertop. He pulled out a fresh cigarette, struck a match, and gave it a few puffs.
The dog was already out of the bag. So, Babs played along. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think William is offering this prize as an incentive.”
Myrna and “Asta” broke away from admiring fans and joined in on their banter. “Looks like you’ve been making merry. What did I miss?”
Babs volunteered to answer. “Your on-screen partner has devised a story competition. This could be a real turning point in anyone’s career with a wild cast of characters. Think of it—an alluring foreigner, two famous writers, and two honest-to-goodness, bona fide detectives. Spice it up with two sets of on-screen detectives from popular films, and you have a winning formula. After all, Dash, how much do the studios pay you?”
“Top tier, I bet,” said Myrna. “Fifteen hundred or two thousand a week on contract?”
“Sounds so tempting. I should throw my hat in the ring,” said Babs. “Live in this town long enough, and writing a screenplay should be as second nature as breathing, right?”
Powell rubbed his head and looked like he was trying to sober up. “Nora, I mean Myrna, and I will each offer twelve hundred dollars to whoever can write the best script or novel based on this whole conundrum.”
Myrna protested. “Thanks for helping yourself to my bank account without my permission.”
“Confess! You tried to bribe the Easts into selling you Asta for that amount.”
“My memory…too foggy,” she said with a sigh. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” Her troublesome terrier squirmed and scratched her arm. She almost lost her grip.
“I think there’s an old Irish proverb that says, ‘Money won is twice as sweet as money earned,’” said Lillian.
Powell suggested they tend to their disobedient dog. Both he and Myrna excused themselves and left the lounge. Groucho also looked like he was ready to take off. Not long thereafter, the other Marx Brothers, including Zeppo, made a swift departure. Babs knew they were up to something, but what?
Ouida wondered if Violet had undertaken some kind of conspiracy to keep her well-liquored. Throughout the captain’s brief tour, when Ouida’s drink needed refreshing, Violet poured some of hers into her glass since they were drinking the same thing.
At one point, Violet surprised Ouida and produced a skeleton key.
“Where did you get that?” Ouida asked.
“Does it matter? Come, let’s break away and peek inside some of the first-class accommodations.”
Lacking sense and sobriety, the two ladies took care to knock first, then tiptoed into several luxury cabins. To their delight, the two giddy gals plopped onto feathery-soft pillows, jumped on top springy beds like raucous schoolgirls, and tossed aside any reservations of propriety. They indulged in their unrestrained behavior until they encountered Groucho Marx in the hallway.
Groucho held his ever-present cigar and stared at them with his wall-eyed gaze, almost hidden by his glasses and Vaudevillian eyebrows. “Step right up and come on in.” He eyed the ladies up and down as if inspecting a piece of merchandise. “With two of you, even better. I’ll get two for the price of one.”
Ouida scratched her head, confused. “You must be mistaken. We’re not for sale.”
“Then I get you for free—a real bargain. Looks like I’m about to empty my wallet once room service arrives with the hotdogs I bought for my pals.”
He grabbed Ouida by the shoulder and shoved her into his room. Violet, who held on to her other arm, followed in tandem. Both ladies fell face forward and on top of Chico.
A knock sounded on the door. “Room service!”
“My friends all want hotdogs. Lots of hotdogs,” Groucho said.
“And corn dogs,” Chico said as he scrambled to his feet.
“That’s right, and corn dogs,” Groucho repeated.
“Honk! Honk!” Harpo squeezed his horn since he never spoke.
“And chilidogs,” said Groucho.
Blup, plhfw-e-e-e-e… The deflated noise, which came from Harpo’s horn.
“Goodness, what’s that?” Violet asked.
Chico pinched his nose. “Awww, no. It’s-a gonna smell in here,” he said in faux Italian.
“Sounds like he might’ve used a whoopee cushion,” said Groucho. “Waiter, he wants to make sure the hotdogs have no bones.”
“But hotdogs never hava no bones,” Chico said. “And I want to make sure they hava no dog in dem neither.”
Ouida swung her head back and forth to make sure she addressed both. “Hotdogs don’t have real dogs, nor do they have bones.”
Groucho asked the newcomers, “While they’re raiding the kitchen, what can I get you, pretty ladies?”
“Nothing, but thank you anyway,” Ouida replied. She brushed herself off and looked around the room, which was much smaller than she imagined.
Inside were four out of the five Marx Brothers: Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Zeppo, just like she’d seen in all of their films, or at least most of their films since Zeppo wasn’t in every one of them. Ouida knew they had another brother—somewhere. Zeppo was more handsome than she imagined, although the vast amount of alcohol she consumed fueled those thoughts. She tried to tune out the clamor of Harpo’s obnoxious honking every time she overhead Groucho, asking what kind of hotdog Violet wanted.
“Why didn’t you reserve a bigger room?” Ouida noticed four large steamer trunks stacked on top of each other, pinning Zeppo against the wall. Harpo lay on the tiny bed, half-asleep. Groucho had his back against the door, guarding it. Chico shuffled about wherever there was space, often with roving, mischievous hands. He seemed to enjoy tickling Violet by slipping his hand under her skirt.
Once again, Groucho asked Ouida, “Are you sure you don’t want a hotdog?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry,” she replied, but considering she had too much to drink, maybe she should eat something.
Knock. Knock. “Who’s there?” Groucho asked.
“Care to get your shoes shined?” a steward asked.
“I’d like to give you a shiner in South Caroliner if you think my patent-leather brogues aren’t shiny enough. However, the tall, clean-cut guy in the corner always complains his shoes need a spit shine, and he’s the one with the extra nickel in his pocket, so come on in.” Groucho pulled the tubby guy, carrying a shoeshine kit, into the room, shoving the ladies onto the bed, who both rolled on top of Harpo.
Violet hopped off the bed, but Harpo, in his somnambulant state, wrapped his arms around Ouida like a child hugging a giant Teddy bear, but with extra groping as he squeezed her derrière. He honked his horn to celebrate his conquest.
Chico remarked, “He thinks you’ve got a nice piece of ass.”
“Honk! Honk!”
“That means he agrees,” said Chico.
“Ooooh!” Ouida turned red with fury. “You’re making an ass of yourself!”
“Well, if I ain’t a horse’s ass,” Groucho said. “But then again, I thought I was a monkey’s uncle, and with all that honking, I bet you were ready to call my brother a silly goose. Well, anyway—”
Knock. Knock. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“Singing telegram for Mr. Harpo Marx,” a male voice said from the hallway.
“Come on in. It’s so empty in here, I’d swear there must be a hole in my head.” Groucho said, and he let him in.
Everyone shuffled around to accommodate the singing telegram messenger. He put a harmonica in his mouth to achieve the right pitch and sang from Wagner’s, Der Ring des Nibelungen, quite loud, in German, which no one understood.
Knock. Knock. “Who’s it now?” Groucho asked.
“You ordered hotdogs?” a voice asked.
“Corn dogs.” Chico corrected him.
“Honk! Honk!”
“And chili dogs,” Groucho said. “Maybe we ordered hedgehogs, but now I’m confused. Didn’t someone also order Braunschweiger?”
Groucho let the server into the already cramped stateroom. Holding his tray above his head, he fell on top of Ouida and sandwiched her between him and Harpo.
“Let me go, you—” Ouida pounded on Harpo’s chest. She was so infuriated; she didn’t know what to call him. He honked his horn again. “You Honk! Honk!”
Groucho leaned over Ouida and almost poked her with his cigar. “Who’s disputing that it isn’t a dog-eat-dog world?”
“A dog’s life, that’s-a for sure,” Chico remarked in his phony Italian accent.
Violet, silent the entire time, scooted around wherever possible.
“Let me out!” Zeppo shouted. “I’m getting seasick!”
Everyone reacted in horror, anticipating the worst.
Myrna and Powell went in separate directions. While he returned to the lounge, she clutched the counterfeit Asta and hurried over to the front desk to use their phone, insisting it was an emergency.
The concierge directed her to a bank of payphones. “We can’t have passengers tie up our front desk lines, no matter how urgent.”
Infuriated he wouldn’t make an exception, Myrna grappled with the naughty dog. She squeezed into a phone booth and asked the operator for the Los Angeles Police Department, not realizing she should’ve called the Long Beach Precinct.
“Then transfer me,” she demanded.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to call them directly,” the policeman replied.
Myrna blurted it out so fast he couldn’t follow. “I don’t have time. You must do this for me. A German woman is stealing dogs. She’s selling them to the highest bidder. For some sort of revenge. That’s what her name translates to in English. We’re both at a party on the Queen Mary. She needs to be arrested, and the dogs need to be found.”
The telephone operator interrupted. “Please deposit another twenty cents to continue your call for the next three minutes.”
Myrna had no change left. “Please, I beg of you. Call the proper precinct. Report this—”
Before she finished, her dog broke loose. Myrna tried to chase after the little varmint, but she didn’t realize her long gown got caught on the hinges of the phone booth’s folding door. When she sprang toward Asta, she fell face-first on the carpet.
Zeppo Marx, dashing straight-man of the comedic foursome, slithered out of the impossible confines of the stateroom. He, who faked the entire episode of being nauseous in order to leave, took a deep breath before commencing a maniacal sprint through the lengthy corridors toward the bar. There, he grabbed Countess Velma’s arm with such ferocity she lost her balance.
“You’re needed now!” he said, panting.
“First, let me tell Errol.” She pointed to another area of the lounge, where admirers surrounded him.
Zeppo didn’t even give her a chance to ask where or why. He offered to sweep her up into his arms, but she declined. When he found an abandoned wheelchair in the hallway, he picked her up and plopped her down.
“Sit and stay!” he commanded, as if she were a dog.
Then he picked up speed by pushing her in the wheelchair, since she no longer had to run in heels. Zeppo came to a stop in front of the stateroom, where his brothers remained with Ouida, Violet, and the others. He assisted the confused countess out of the wheelchair and knocked on the door.
“Who’s this now?” said a voice from the inside.
“Sounds like my brother, Groucho. We’re here for the count,” he replied. His password.
“I don’t know. Last time I counted, it was getting pretty crowded in here and the people were not friendly. There was a book I wanted to read, but the lights went out after you left, so now it’s pretty dark, too. Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read. Are you sure this is the right room?”
“Do you mind letting us in?” Zeppo turned to his ward and insisted they were in the right place. He showed her a note, as proof, with the correct room number.
“For God’s sake, open the damned door!” shrieked a woman’s voice from inside, who sounded like Ouida.
The countess cocked her head like a clueless German Shepherd. “He needs his head examined, and you’re too polite. Try the doorknob. Maybe it’s unlocked.”
Zeppo tugged on the door. When it finally swung open, an avalanche of at least a dozen people tumbled out and fell on top of Zeppo and the countess, burying them on the bottom.
Babs needed to leave the lounge before Ouida returned. She sifted through the crowd to say one last word to Nigel.
“You look upset.” He pointed out her furrowed brow with his index finger. “If you don’t smooth out those wrinkles now, they’ll come back to haunt you years later.”
She ignored his warning. “I’m uncertain what your wife’s been up to, but please do me a favor.”
“Anything, dear. How can I be of help?”
“Maybe I should give Basil better credit for possessing the skills of a real-life Sherlock Holmes. He saw right through my disguise. Best to tell him what I’m doing, so he doesn’t interfere with either of our plans—mine or your wife’s detaining Ouida. Can you do this for me?”
“Don’t doubt me for a minute, but one more thing. I don’t know if this has any bearing on your plans, but recently, Basil and I encountered a disturbing situation.”
Babs checked the time. “What happened?”
He whispered, “Quite by accident, we came across an underground dogfighting ring. Run by Nazi supporters.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Bloody hooligans. I didn’t think people like that existed. Well, anyway, Basil and I found the situation horrendous, but weren’t sure how to take proper action. I tried calling the police in my precinct because the ones downtown endorsed them. I must’ve bungled it and got nowhere. For Basil… Let’s just say playing Sherlock Holmes on-screen worked against him. When he tried to make a few inquiries, no one took him seriously.”
Just like when he tried to report his missing dog at the pound, Babs thought.
Nigel concluded, “Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if they might have a connection with the dogs you seek. You are the real detectives, however, and I shouldn’t be telling you how to do your job.”
She thanked Nigel for the tip and readied for her next challenge. How was she going to cut across this gigantic ocean liner on her own without a map? Babs needed to find out if Wiggins ever reunited with Guy and Sir Henry, but first, she wanted to check on Ivan. He had waited by his limousine because he couldn’t risk his employer seeing him. She also needed to know if Ivan had kept tabs on those who boarded or disembarked the ship.
Babs asked the bartender for a bottle of Coke and scooped finger food into a napkin. The least she could do for the poor guy, who was all by himself in a dark parking lot. Guy had instructed him to park next to Wiggins’ truck, but when she located his pickup, she didn’t see a limo parked anywhere nearby. Running short on time, she left his snacks for the seagulls before racing back up the gangplank.
Hammett and Hellman availed themselves of the open bar.
Lillian inspected the crowd from her comfortable perch. “Quite a full house tonight.”
Dash inched closer and whispered, “You’d think with pretty much half the cast from Oz, their missing dog would materialize—courtesy of Glinda, the Good Witch from the East.”
Lillian took out a tarnished brass clamshell case, containing her personal stash. “Gotta keep fumigating my brains,” she joked.
He offered her a light. “Each coffin needs a few nails.”
“What do you think of that sissy Sam Spade?” Lillian asked.
“Guy Brandt? Not so bad,” Hammett said. “Tries too hard to be tough.”
Lillian left a lipstick print on her cigarette. “Babs Norman… What do you think of her?”
“Drop-dead gorgeous, and yet she has a—how do I say it? A virginal quality. Yet I still can’t believe we encountered an honest-to-goodness, real female flatfoot,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I’m used to such a hard-edged woman who isn’t either a criminal or a femme fatale, but this situation is as real as real can be. You’re not doing the you-know-what with her on the side, are you?” Lillian asked.
He cleared his throat to make a point. “Seems like every healthy-minded male is being accused of hanky-panky with Babs Norman. When you see a broad like Babs, she breaks the mold, and I find that refreshing. Don’t you?”
“Aren’t you partial to promiscuous blondes or lanky brunettes with wicked jaws?” she asked.
“I’m partial to you.” He gave her an unexpected nip behind her ear; she blushed.
“Lillian, give me your opinion of that snake in the grass who thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind.”
“Assuming you’re referring to Errol Flynn, let’s say he looks about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.”
“Be honest, honey. What do you think of Countess Velma?”
“Quoting Chandler once again, from thirty feet away, she looks like a lot of class. From ten feet away, she looks like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away.”
Dash’s tuberculosis gave him a kick in the chest. The moment he caught his breath, he asked, “Have you been reading Raymond Chandler behind my back?”
“What if I told you we were having an affair?”
“I’d say you’re drunk, and you’re lying.
Lillian swiveled her stool. The swift jerk caused her to slip, and the rest of her martini spilled on the counter. He helped her back onto her seat and pointed to the mural behind the bar.
“Called The Royal Jubilee Week,” he said. “Depicting a circle of people. All holding hands, and dancing in celebration. See the woman on the left? She appears to have lost her footing, but the crowd carries her along. Reminds me a little of you and how sometimes I have to pick you up when you’re down. There are other times you’re there for me, so it works both ways. Enough of the shaggy-dog story. Is it already time to take you home?”
Lillian shook her head and examined her empty glass. Held up her hand to hail the bartender, but Dash gently pulled it down.
There was a slight slur to her words. “Do you think Powell was seeing double, or was he serious about placing that wager?”
“I think you’re starting to see double. Perhaps you should slow down.” He gave her a reassuring hug. “Powell didn’t know which way was up, even more so after he rustled poor Myrna into it. I’m sure he heard an earful from either her, or he will hear from her husband tomorrow morning. However, he offered a handsome price.”
Dash reminded her they still had a long night ahead. He grabbed a plate and filled it with hors d’oeuvres, and insisted she put something in her stomach.