The first mystery in Susanna Calkins' captivating new series takes readers into the dark, dangerous, and glittering underworld of a 1920's Chicago speakeasy.
Gina Ricci takes on a job as a cigarette girl to earn money for her ailing father―and to prove to herself that she can hold her own at Chicago's most notorious speakeasy, the Third Door. She's enchanted by the harsh, glamorous world she discovers: the sleek socialites sipping bootlegged cocktails, the rowdy ex-servicemen playing poker in a curtained back room, the flirtatious jazz pianist and the brooding photographer―all overseen by the club's imposing owner, Signora Castallazzo. But the staff buzzes with whispers about Gina's predecessor, who died under mysterious circumstances, and the photographer, Marty, warns her to be careful.
When Marty is brutally murdered, with Gina as the only witness, she's determined to track down his killer. What secrets did Marty capture on his camera―and who would do anything to destroy it? As Gina searches for answers, she's pulled deeper into the shadowy truths hiding behind the Third Door.
Release date:
April 30, 2019
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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Turning off Halsted, Gina Ricci made her way down the long alley, picking her way through dumped-over rubbish bins, old tin cans, sodden newspapers, and dirty puddles of melted snow. The late afternoon sun made it easy enough for her to see, at least, and when she reached the third door—weather-beaten green with an eye-level metal grille—she knocked.
Two short raps, followed by a third, just as she’d been told.
“Hullo, darling,” a man called out behind her. “Looking for someone?”
She turned around, chewing her spearmint gum a bit faster. A blond man, maybe in his late twenties and dressed in rumpled evening clothes, was stumbling toward her. “I can’t give you anything…” he called to her, his voice half singing, half slurring the words of the popular song. His blue eyes were bloodshot, though his smile was wide. Hiccupping, he continued with the lyrics. “… but love, baby!”
“Aw, go on,” Gina snapped back. “New Year’s ended two days ago.”
“Is that right?” he asked, pulling a silver flask from the inside of his short tuxedo jacket. “I hadn’t noticed.” After he took a swig, he held it up to her. “Come on, let’s get fried.”
“It’s four thirty in the afternoon,” she said, pulling her winter coat around her more tightly, feeling like an old schoolteacher. Lulu would laugh if she saw her.
Still, it was getting cold, and she didn’t like being forced to wait outside, especially only steps away from a boob on a bender. Besides, the alley smelled vaguely of vomit.
Gina looked up and down the alley. This was definitely the third door on the right, directly off Halsted.
She frowned. Or was it supposed to be three doors down from the other direction—off Morgan Street? No, Lulu had assured her it was this way. Besides, the door was green, exactly as Lulu had described. This had to be it.
Pulling back her coat sleeve, Gina checked her watch. She was on time. Why hadn’t anyone opened the door?
Had Lulu been having a bit of fun at her expense? She’d been surprised when Lulu had approached her at their local market a few days ago, greeting her with a warm hug. She’d seen her around the neighborhood, of course, but they hadn’t talked in years, at least not since Lulu was still Louise Smith and long before both women had bobbed their hair. Lulu had asked Gina about her papa, and Gina had shared some of her worries. One thing had led to the other, and suddenly Lulu was telling her about a position that had opened where she worked.
It’s darb, Lulu had said, striking a glamorous pose. Then she’d dropped the affectation, adding more earnestly, Tips are great, I swear. There had been a weariness behind Lulu’s eyes when she’d spoken, and the memory of the redhead’s sly smile now gave Gina pause.
Almost as if reading her thoughts, the man spoke again. “Sure you’re in the right place?” Then he waved his flask at her.
Gina rolled her eyes at his blatant defiance of the Volstead Act. Drinking inside, hidden from the prying eyes of Prohibition agents, was one thing, but it was quite another to drink out in the open. Cops were supposed to enforce public intoxication laws. “Better watch it,” she warned him. “Or you’ll be getting comfy in a caboose in no time.”
“Ah, don’t sweat it, kid.” He took another guzzle but returned the flask to his inner jacket pocket. The lining was probably cushioned to keep the vial from being discovered by prying eyes. He gestured toward the still-closed door. “Big Mike has the police in his pocket. Where do you suppose the cops go for a nip when they’re off duty?”
Gina was not altogether surprised. She didn’t know Mike Castallazzo, the owner of the establishment she was trying to enter, but it stood to reason that he had a few cops on his payroll. Chicago police were notoriously corrupt. Had been as long as she could remember.
Knocking at the door again, Gina repeated the same cadence as before, but a little louder.
This time, she heard a scrabbling sound from behind the grille and someone slid open a small slot in the door. She could see two dark brown eyes peering out at her. Lulu had told her the doorkeeper’s name was Gucciani. Gooch for short.
“Hey there, Mr. Gucciani?” she called. “Lulu sent me. It’s me, Gina.”
“And me! Ned!” the man called out with a half hiccup.
The eyes disappeared when a piece of wood was slid back over the hole.
“What the—?” Gina exclaimed. Where had the man gone? She banged her fists against the door in frustration, immediately wishing she hadn’t when pain shot through both hands.
She heard the man who’d called himself Ned laugh. “That could have gone better, you think?”
Whirling around to face him, she put up her fists the way her brother had taught her when she was a kid. “Why don’t you mind your own apples?”
“Hey, settle down there, missy!” he said. “How’s your hand? Looks like that hurt. Knocking me around won’t do much to make it better, either.”
She chomped on her gum, trying to regain her cool. His self-assurance was really starting to bug her. “My hand’s fine. How about you beat it?” She frowned. “I bet he’d have let me in, if you hadn’t been hanging around.”
“Not my fault, sweetheart. You didn’t say the right word,” he said. “Can’t crack this joint without it. They’re mighty particular in that regard. Besides, they have to let me in.”
Ned snickered. “Watch and see.” He leaned past her, knocking on the door as she had just done.
“I just tried that,” she said.
To her surprise, though, the little slot behind the grille opened again. Ned put his mouth close to the metal and whispered something that sounded like “purple berries.”
“What did you say?” Gina asked, but before he could answer, the door swung open, revealing a huge, portly man dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit. The man was clean-shaven, with olive-toned skin and thick black hair, and he loomed over her by at least a foot. A cigar dangled from his lips.
“Hey, Gooch,” he said to the man, stepping inside. He turned back to Gina. “Coming?” he asked.
Gina scrambled after him, only to be stopped by Gooch once she was three steps into the building.
“Stay here,” the man warned, as he relocked the door behind her. Ned, who was a few steps ahead of her, paused.
Gina looked around. They had entered a small room with a single lightbulb swinging above the entranceway, casting shadows on the cracked and peeling walls. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out a closed door marked TEA ROOM ENTRANCE to her right, and another doorway at the far end of the room. A tall stool was in the corner by the green alley door, and at eye level there was a peephole from which a faint line of sunlight flowed. Evidently the doorkeeper maintained a perch by the door, allowing him to keep watch over the alley unseen, without having to slide open the panel behind the grille.
Gooch must have known I was there the whole time, Gina thought, feeling a bit annoyed. And here I was, freezing!
Her indignant feelings fled, though, when Gooch turned back to her. As he moved, his suit coat swung open to reveal a handgun strapped to his waist.
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