Laura had always worked best under pressure. That was a good thing, because the heat was definitely on with the Whiteman case. After she'd left Mr. Steele the night before, she'd lain awake most of the night reviewing every facet of the case. She felt the solution was close, needing perhaps one more piece of the puzzle to reveal the entire picture.
She arrived early for rehearsal that afternoon, hoping to speak privately with a few of the Melodiers. Despite the string of incidents plaguing the cub, the band seemed unconcerned — curious, since their own jobs were at stake if the club closed. Perhaps after nearly half a century playing together they'd seen it all and couldn't be fazed. Or maybe they trusted their leader to take care of them.
As Laura approached the stage, her carefully selected music in hand, she was surprised to see a couple of band members huddled in the wings. Their voices were low, but she could tell by their expressions that they were arguing. They hadn't seen her approach, so she melted into the shadows of the side curtains and crept closer.
"You better be right, Saul," a fellow she recognized as a member of the trombone section was saying. "I can't wait any longer. I've got my future to think about."
"I'm telling you, Joey, it will all be over after tonight," Saul placated. "One way or another."
"You sure?"
"I got it straight from the boss."
"Okay. But if you're wrong, I'm taking matters into my own hands. Tomorrow morning. "
"Yeah, yeah."
The pair moved off together toward the bandstand. The exchange was cryptic, but Laura was beginning to suspect she knew what was going to happen tonight … She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before rehearsal. Enough time to make a phone call to Mr. Steele.
Steele had a hunch that Michael Doolittle wouldn't be glad to see him again, so he didn't bother buzzing the man's apartment. Instead he waited near the door until a middle-aged woman pushed the door open from inside. She held a huge basket of laundry in her arms, and Steele helpfully held the door open for her to exit. "Machine out of order again?" he asked casually, hoping to sound like a local.
"Third time this week," she grunted as she passed him. "And for this we pay $250 a month?"
"Highway robbery," Steele agreed, nipping inside the door as the woman trundled off down the sidewalk.
As expected, there was no answer to Steele's knock on the door of apartment 314C, so he fished into his wallet for the platinum credit card that was useful for more than funding his upscale lifestyle. Sliding it between the door and jamb while wiggling the doorknob, Steele was soon rewarded with the click of the lock releasing. He opened the door quietly and scanned the empty room before stepping inside.
A beat-up old suitcase was laid open on the futon, rumpled clothes and toiletries spilling out. Steele walked over to it at the same time as Doolittle came out of the bathroom, a toiletry bag in hand. He stopped short when he saw the detective. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" he demanded.
Steele ignored both questions. Instead, he peered into the tumble of debris in the suitcase. "Going somewhere, Michael?"
"I've got nothing to say to you, and it's none of your business where I'm going," he blustered. He was white as a sheet. "Get the hell out."
"Now, Michael. That's no way to speak to your elders. Especially when I'm here to help you." This was the kind of semi-tough guy act Steele reveled in almost as much as his ultra-smooth James Bond routine. "It seems you've strayed from the straight and narrow again, Mr. Doolittle. Causing trouble to such nice old people like the Whitemans." He shook his head sadly.
"I haven't done anything to the Whitemans," Doolittle declared emphatically.
"Sorry, kid. I happen to know it was you who planted the smoke bomb in the Green Room of the Cabana Club last night. You were recognized."
"That's not possible!" Doolittle exclaimed — then, realizing he'd implicated himself, he added, "because I wasn't there."
"You were there, Michael. You left behind evidence, and it seems you also took some with you." He gingerly removed a black turtleneck sweater from the suitcase and held it at arm's length. "Either you've got a serious nicotine habit or you've been near a smoky fire recently," he said, wrinkling his nose. He dropped the shirt back into the suitcase and fixed Doolittle with a knowing look. "I'll let you in on something, Mikey. They're doing remarkable things with technology these days. Did you know they can even match particles of ash — say, from the remains of that charred toilet paper roll — to the residue smoke leaves in, say, articles of clothing?" Steele had no idea if this was remotely possible, but it sounded good.
Doolittle blanched an even greener white. "I can't believe this!" he stammered. "Please don't call the cops, Mr. Steele. I wouldn't hurt anybody, honest. It wasn't supposed to go down this way."
"Relax, Michael. I said I was here to help you, remember?" Steele put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly how it was supposed to go down?"
Hours later, Steele was in his assigned place at the bar when Laura strolled into the club. Steele drew in a long breath. Now THIS was his Laura. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in soft, gleaming waves that made his palms itch to caress them. She was wearing a dress of her own: a midnight blue sheath spangled with tiny flecks of silver glitter that caught the muted light from the table lamps and made her look like she was covered with stars. There was a deep slit up the right side of the skirt, revealing a generous expanse of long, toned leg. The top of the dress covered just one shoulder, leaving the other bare. If he were only close enough, Steele knew he'd see the sprinkle of freckles there — the proud badge of this sunny California girl's love of the outdoors. He had a secret fantasy of kissing every one of those beauty marks individually. It would take a while, but he figured he was up to the job. Nice work if you could get it.
As if this vision weren't debilitating enough, Laura caught sight of him at that moment and smiled from across the room. Steele felt a familiar thud in his chest that tended to coincide with her warm brown eyes and dazzling smile directed at him. He admired her smooth, confident stride as she approached. She moved with the natural grace of the dancer she was. Arriving at his elbow, she lifted her chin to accept his quick kiss. "You look …" He let out the breath he'd been holding. "Unbelievable."
He saw her flush with pleasure at the compliment, and it pleased him to know he'd pleased her. He'd come to understand that, astonishingly, Laura Holt was unaware of her exquisite beauty, the devastating impact the combination of her fresh, sun-kissed complexion and fine features made.
"Well?" She looked at him expectantly.
"You were right. I can't believe it, but you were right."
"I've asked Maurice and Helen to meet with us at Helen's dressing room when the band breaks after my number," Laura said. "We can go over the facts then."
"It's going to be hard on them," Steele commented.
"I know." Laura frowned. "Sometimes being a detective is less rewarding than others."
The band struck up a new song, a lyrical, flowing tune with strings and muted horns predominant. The tune was vaguely familiar, Steele thought, but he couldn't place it.
"That's my intro," Laura said. "Back on the clock."
"More Doris Day, Miss Holt?" Steele asked with a grimace.
She gave him an enigmatic smile. "A slightly hotter blonde this time." She reached up and pinched his chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Steele."
As she hurried away toward the stage, it occurred to Steele that, while Laura Holt was gorgeous from any angle, this particular viewpoint had a particular appeal, and the advantage of letting him –ahem- admire her without her knowing.
Maurice Whiteman offered Laura his hand to help her onto the stage. In the spotlight, her gown sparkled and her beautiful chestnut hair shone. She looked every inch the star she always was in his eyes. Planting herself squarely in front of the microphone, Laura looked out at the audience, her gaze finding and locking on Steele's just as the gentle intro suddenly transformed into a sassy jazz riff.
"What a dog!" Laura exclaimed. Steele raised his brows in surprise … which melted instantly into a broad grin as he recognized the first notes of the song:
He's a tramp, but they love him; breaks a new heart every day …"
Lady and the Tramp, Walt Disney Pictures, 1955. Voices of Barbara Luddy, Larry Roberts … and the incomparable Peggy Lee. "Well played, Miss Holt," Steele murmured admiringly. Trust his Laura to find a way to take his advice and one up him with it. It was a familiar tango he'd learned to savor almost as much as the actual moments they shared on a dance floor in one another's arms.
If he's a tramp, he's a good one — and I wish that I could travel his way.
The end of the song was Steele's cue to make tracks backstage to meet Laura and the Whitemans at the ruined dressing room. He usually loved the Big Reveal, when he — well, more often Laura — laid out the facts of the case and fingered the culprit. This time it only made him sad.