Under the Paper Moon

by Shaina Steinberg

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Mr. and Mrs. Smith meets The Thin Man’s Nick and Nora Charles in this intrigue-filled debut from film and television writer Shaina Steinberg, as two former spies who shared more than just missions during WWII reunite in 1948 Los Angeles. Can they let go of heartbreak long enough to team up for one last operation?

A tightly-plotted, emotionally rich postwar mystery for fans of The Rose Code by Kate Quinn and The Lost Letter by Jillian Cantor, as well as readers of mysteries by Ashley Weaver, Allison Montclair, and Jacqueline Winspear.

It’s 1942, and as far as her father knows, Evelyn Bishop, heiress to an aeronautics fortune, is working as a translator in London. In truth, Evelyn—daring, beautiful, and as adept with a rifle as she is in five languages—has joined the Office of Strategic Services as a spy. Her goal is personal: to find her brother, who is being held as a POW in a Nazi labor camp. Through one high-risk mission after another she is paired with the reckless and rebellious Nick Gallagher, growing ever close to him until the war’s end brings with it an act of deep betrayal.

Six years later, Evelyn is back home in Los Angeles, working as a private investigator. The war was supposed to change everything, yet Evelyn, contemplating marriage to her childhood sweetheart, feels stifled by convention. Then the suspected cheating husband she’s tailing is murdered, and suddenly Evelyn is back in Nick’s orbit again.

Teaming up for a final mission, Evelyn and Nick begin to uncover the true nature of her case— and realize that the war has followed them home. For beyond the public horrors waged by nations there are countless secret, desperate acts that still reverberate on both continents, and threaten everything Evelyn holds dear...

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Los Angeles, 1948

Evelyn Bishop often thought the inside of Ciro’s nightclub looked like a courtesan’s fever dream. All white, the décor managed to be both tacky and boring at the same time. It was not a place Evelyn would normally choose for a night out, though she could afford the overpriced cocktails and her natural beauty fit in among the celebrities. More than a few starstruck autograph seekers veered toward her table, before realizing they did not know her name. Evelyn wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered, amused, or slightly saddened that fame carried such currency. Anonymity had always been her preference.

“What do you think, Evie?”

She turned to James Hughes, sitting across from her. Tall and handsome, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, he was almost too attractive for Evelyn. She preferred men with imperfections. They were usually more interesting, having the burden of developing a personality, rather than relying upon their looks. James’s one quirk was the way his hair curled at random, defying the gel he used to slick it down. She found it endearing and often longed to tuck it behind his ear.

“Think of what?” she asked.

“The house.”

“What house?” she said. Then, seeing his bemused expression, she apologized. “My mind’s wandering.”

James followed her gaze to a large man in his midfifties. Cigar smoke curled from his mouth as he reached for his martini and drained it in a single swig. A fresh one arrived before he had the chance to ask. He thanked his waitress with a five-dollar bill and a question. Evelyn was too far away to hear what it was, but the girl leaned forward, deftly offering him a glimpse down her low-cut dress. She had a cute figure and a fresh-from-Tulsa expression that still carried dreams of stardom.

“George Palmer,” James said, naming the man. “He supplied tank munitions and bombs. He was rich before the war. Now I can’t even imagine.”

“He keeps interesting company,” Evelyn said, looking at his companion. A middle-aged man, his expensive, understated suit belied the fact that he was Mickey Cohen’s bookkeeper, and one of the most dangerous people in Los Angeles.

“Norman Roth,” James said. “I worked with him in London.”

“Never pegged him as the type to enlist in the army.”

“He’s Jewish. Still had family in Germany.”

“Oh,” Evelyn said softly.

“He’s a good man,” James said. “Well, maybe not good, but we got along.”

Evelyn returned to the subject at hand. “So, the house is in Benedict Canyon.”

“Four bedrooms. Pool. View of the hills.”

“Four bedrooms is a lot,” Evelyn replied.

“Room for kids,” James said.

“Whose kids?” Evelyn asked warily.

“Urchins we pick up from the street,” James teased. “We’ll put them to work cleaning the grout on the Spanish tile.”

“Or teach them to swim so they can scour the bottom of the pool.”

“Send them out with a pair of scissors to trim the grass.”

Evelyn laughed; then the smile slid from her face.

“I don’t know if I want kids,” Evelyn said.

“You’d make a great mother,” James offered.

Evelyn was not convinced. She knew herself to be selfish in small, petty ways: the indulgence of reading the newspaper with her coffee, of sleeping late on the weekends, of settling down with a good book and not rising until she had finished. They were luxuries she did not take for granted. Plus, after all she had seen in the war, it was hard to imagine bringing a child into this world.

“Buying a house isn’t meant to pressure you,” James said. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I can remember. Don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“What if I can’t give you what you want?” Evelyn asked.

“You’re what I want,” he replied with absolute confidence.

Evelyn leaned across the table and kissed him. It lingered with the promise of something more. Sitting back in her chair, she watched George Palmer drain the rest of his martini, setting the glass down with a heavy thud. The waitress handed off her tray and apron, then headed toward the ladies’ room.

“I’m going to powder my nose,” Evelyn said.

“Your nose isn’t shiny,” James replied.

“Gotta love a good euphemism.”

James looked over his shoulder to where George Palmer was signing his check.

“We’re not here for the dancing, are we?” he asked with a knowing smile.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“Fine, but if you’re not back soon, I’m picking the next drink,” James threatened.

Evelyn made her way toward the ladies’ room, where she found the waitress sitting on a low ottoman in front of a mirror. She had changed from her uniform into a cotton dress, cinched tightly at the waist. Her golden hair held its perfect curl, not moving as she turned her head in each direction to check her makeup. Evelyn sat next to her and pulled out her lipstick. She removed the bottom to reveal a small lens. Twisting it, she took pictures of the girl in the mirror.

“You have an admirer out there,” Evelyn said as she dabbed perfume on her wrists.

“That’s a nice scent,” the waitress said.

“Thanks.”

“Like something my mother would have worn. Old-fashioned.”

Though she said it with a bright, cheerful smile, Evelyn had no doubt the remark was meant to be cutting. At twenty-eight, Evelyn knew she was past the time when most of her contemporaries were married with children, but she also believed women grew more interesting as they aged.

“You’re what? Twenty?” Evelyn asked.

“Nineteen.”

“That seems like a lifetime ago,” Evelyn replied. She had been to war and the experience aged her more than the years alone. “That must feel doubly so for George Palmer.”

The girl’s eyes darted to Evelyn’s in the mirror.

“I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“Everyone knows him,” Evelyn said noncommittally. “And his wife.”

“I haven’t met her . . . though I’m sure I will soon.”

Snapping her clutch shut, the waitress headed for the door. After a moment, Evelyn picked up her bag and followed the girl into the alley behind the club. Evelyn crept through the shadows, moving silently on the balls of her feet. The girl rounded a corner to where a car idled on the street. George Palmer stepped out. Evelyn snapped a few pictures as Palmer kissed the girl’s cheek and helped her slide into the back seat. He followed her in and closed the door. The car pulled away and disappeared down Sunset.

Evelyn dropped the camera into her purse, then turned back toward Ciro’s. The alley was dark and empty, with a few dumpsters beside the building. As Evelyn walked, she heard footsteps fall in behind her. It was tempting to think this was nothing more than coincidence, but coincidence could get a person killed. The heavy tread of a man’s shoes grew closer and Evelyn sped up, seeking the comfort of darkness. The man quickened his pace. It was still another hundred yards to the back door. She slipped behind a dumpster and waited. The man walked past, then stopped, realizing his quarry had disappeared. Evelyn pulled out her gun and stepped out of her shoes. On stocking feet, she tiptoed until she was behind the man and grabbed him around the neck. She placed the gun in the small of his back.

“Why are you following me?” she asked.

“Hello, Evie,” he said.

Slowly she released him, recognizing the voice. He turned and pulled off his fedora.

“Nick Gallagher,” she said, stunned.

London, March 1942

Evelyn met Nick at the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, located at 70 Grosvenor Street, in London. Officially the US clandestine organization, it was often a home for those, like Nick, who did not fit in the regular army. Self-taught and brilliant, he made up for his lack of formal education by reading every book he could find. Yet, he was also plagued by demons that came close to getting him court-martialed. His commanding officer, appreciating his fearlessness, and frustrated by his irreverence, sent him to a place where his talents would be put to good use.

When Evelyn first found him, he was in an office, draped over the arm of a couch, so hungover his hair hurt. From the bullpen outside, the sound of typewriters and telephones was cacophonous, and he struggled to keep the morning’s dry toast in his belly. Evelyn stood in the open doorway, letting the sound assault his pain-addled brain.

“No,” he said without looking up. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“So I’m not supposed to report to you?” she asked.

Her voice was clear and light. There was a laughing quality about it, as if the sight of his distress was less pathetic and more an understood misery. She shut the door and he noticed her perfume for the first time. The scent of summer roses cut through the musty smell of last night’s booze seeping from his pores. He opened his eyes to see a woman looking down at him, one brow cocked as she assessed this mess of a man. He sat up quickly, making his head spin. It took another minute before he found his feet and stood to face her. He smoothed down his wrinkled shirt, stained with sweat, and straightened his tie.

“I don’t think that’s going to help,” she said. “There’s lipstick on your collar.”

He didn’t remember a woman from the night before. Then again, he also had no idea when he last washed his clothes. In contrast, she was impeccable, dressed in a tailored navy suit. Its color set off her bright green eyes. Her dark hair shone in the dim light, and he realized he was standing in front of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“What can I do for you?” Nick asked.

“General Gibson sent me to find Mr. Gallagher. Said I should look for a hungover puddle of a man. Seems like I found him.”

“Sorry, are you a secretary?” Nick asked, his mind struggling to keep up with this conversation.

“Don’t type,” Evelyn said. “Don’t make coffee.”

“What do you do?”

“I speak five languages, I’m a crack shot with a rifle, and I excel at jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. Also, I make a mean vodka martini.”

“You’re a spy,” Nick said.

“Will be, as soon as you accept me on your team.”

The last thing Nick wanted on his team was a woman. In fact, he didn’t want a team at all. He was faster at gathering information on his own and he rarely trusted others to be competent. General Henry Gibson, who ran the missions, tried to convince him there were times when he needed an extra hand. What Nick could not admit was that he hated being responsible for someone else’s life. He had been alone since he was twelve when his parents abandoned him, and by now, he was good at it. Other people made things complicated. Especially a woman who looked like Evelyn Bishop.

“It’s too dangerous,” Nick said.

“For me or you?”

“Both of us.”

“Are you afraid I’ll be a distraction?” Evelyn asked.

He was, but damned if he would admit it.

“Why do you want to do this?”

“Women can get into places men can’t,” Evelyn said. “We’re less suspicious and soldiers always try to impress us. Besides, I speak French like a Parisian and spent my summers outside Marseille.”

“That’s not the real reason,” Nick said.

“My reasons are my own,” Evelyn insisted.

“Not when they can get me killed.”

Evelyn snapped open her purse and withdrew a photograph. It was of a handsome man in his midtwenties. She handed it to Nick.

“His name’s Matthew.”

“Your husband?” Nick asked.

“Brother. He was captured by the Nazis seven months ago.”

Nick felt an unwelcome relief at the word “brother.”

“Looking for revenge is a quick wat to get dead,” Nick warned.

“I said he was captured. Not killed. There are two ways my brother is coming home. One is if we find him and put him on a plane to the States. The other is if we end this war as soon as humanly possible. The first is my reason for going into the field. The second is the reason I’m willing to follow orders. Any other questions?”

“I can’t protect you out there. When it comes to a choice between you and the mission, I’ll save the mission.”

Though he didn’t know it at the time, it was the first of many lies he told himself when it came to Evelyn Bishop.

“Make you a deal,” she said. “If you can get me in a hold I can’t break, I’ll walk out of this office and you’ll never see me again.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Nick said.

“You won’t.”

Tentatively Nick stepped up behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck.

“That the best you got?”

He pulled her close until she was pressed against him.

“Better?” he asked.

She pulled his thumb back at the same time she brought her heel down on his instep. With her other arm, she rammed her elbow into his sternum and he bent over in pain, releasing her. There was a knock on the door and General Gibson entered. He glanced at Nick, catching his breath, and then at Evelyn, who still looked impeccable.

“Getting acquainted?” General Gibson asked.

“I think this’ll work out just fine,” Evelyn said brightly.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Nick asked, resigned.

The worst was that in their three years of working together, he fell in love. Heart and soul, body and mind. All of it was hers.

Los Angeles, 1948

At first glance, Nick looked the same as when Evelyn last saw him. The frequently broken nose tilted at a familiar angle and his broad shoulders still made him seem taller than six feet. Upon closer inspection, his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and the edges of his mouth were set in rigid lines. His clothes were shabby, as if the effort of laundry eluded him. This was closer to the man she found at 70 Grosvenor all those years ago than the one she remembered at the end of the war.

“I see you haven’t lost a step,” Nick said.

“It’s been two and a half years.”

“Two years, eight months, and seventeen days.”

“I can’t do this,” she said, slipping back into her shoes.

Pushing past him, she threw open the door to Ciro’s. Nick followed her.

“Evie, wait!”

“You should know better than to chase women down alleys at night.”

“I didn’t think you’d stop for me.”

“I wouldn’t have,” she said.

Nick grabbed her arm and wheeled her around. The darkness of the hallway shielded them from the main room. Behind them, couples danced and the band played Louis Armstrong. It felt like forever since they danced together at the USO, him pressed against her, their breath in harmony. She remembered looking into his eyes and feeling like she could see the whole trajectory of her life.

Now the air between them was irrevocably changed.

“I didn’t know you were back in Los Angeles,” she said.

“Carl got me a job at the LAPD.”

Evelyn raised her eyebrows in surprise. The three of them served together during the war, often behind enemy lines. Risking death on a regular basis meant trusting each other and being vulnerable in a way they had never been before, nor would ever likely be again. It made them family. When Evelyn came home to Los Angeles, feeling like an exposed nerve, Carl was the first person she looked up. Late at night, when neither could sleep, they went out for drinks and talked about the old times. It was too painful to ask about Nick, and Carl never volunteered information. Yet, somehow, she thought she would have known if Nick was here.

“How long until you washed out of the police?” Evelyn asked.

“Less than a year.”

“Never could follow orders.”

“You’re one to talk.”

He said it lightly. Once upon a time, she would have taken it as the joke he intended. Instead, his words stung, bringing up the memory of his betrayal.

“I have to get back to my table,” she said.

He followed her gaze to where James sat.

“If it wasn’t for that lipstick camera, I’d almost believe you were reformed,” Nick said.

“The war taught me I do one thing very well.”

“Oh,” Nick said with a smile. “If memory serves, I can think of a few things you do very well.”

It was the same smile that always gutted her. Secret, seductive, as if they were the only two people in the world. Once, it got her blood pumping just a little faster. Now it was salt in a wound that had never fully healed.

“What that sniper in Somme started, I’m happy to finish,” she said, tapping his chest, where she knew a bullet tore his flesh.

Nick nodded toward James. At the table, a waitress set down two large rum cocktails. Adorning them were hunks of pineapple and maraschino cherries, held in place with paper umbrellas.

“That guy have any idea of your many talents?”

It was a question he no longer had the right to ask.

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

The smile fell from Nick’s face. He feared that answer, but never expected to receive it. Not that he should judge. Lord knows he had not lived as a monk these past few years. There was a difference, though, between women whose names he didn’t remember and this man waiting for her at a brightly lit club. He probably woke to her smile and felt her breath on his chest as he fell asleep at night. The way Evelyn looked at him, it was clear he was more than just an evening’s entertainment.

“You have changed,” Nick said, nodding toward the fruity concoctions in front of James. “No one goes from liking good scotch to . . . whatever that is.”

“That?” Evelyn replied. “That’s my new life. The one you guaranteed when you betrayed me in London.”

“I didn’t betray you.”

“Then what was it?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“We’re done here,” Evelyn said.

Nick grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Let me go,” she said. “Unless you’re going to explain what the hell happened.”

“Evie . . .” Nick started. “I’m gonna need those photos.”

“What?” she asked, confused at the sudden turn of conversation.

He nodded toward her purse.

“The photos of George Palmer.”

“You’re working security.”

“Among other things,” he said. “And you’re a private investigator.”

“Not quite the same as fighting Nazis, but it beats the hell out of the Junior League.”

Evelyn opened up her bag and fished out the lipstick camera. She turned it over in her hand, contemplating it.

“If it weren’t for these, would I even know you were in LA?”

“You made it pretty clear you didn’t want to see me.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“Evie, please.”

Evelyn looked toward the camera in her hand; then she dropped it back into her purse.

“No.”

“You’re impossible,” he said.

“At least some things haven’t changed.”

With that, Evelyn stepped out of the darkness into the blinding light of the main room. The music seemed louder, the dancers faster, and everything contained a slightly frenetic energy. Making her way through the crowd, she sat down across from James.

“You all right?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Evelyn shook her head no, then took a tentative sip of the drink in front of her.

“Sweet Baby Jesus. What the hell is this?”

“Punishment for taking so long,” James laughed.

“You’re never picking the drinks again.”

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. It was a reassuring gesture. One he did a thousand times without thinking about it. She tried to match his smile, but her eyes drifted back to the hallway. Nick was gone.

Kingsnorth Air Force Base, England, March 1944

Kingsnorth Air Force Base was located just outside London. B-17 bombers and P-51 Mustangs stood in perfect rows, waiting to fulfill their deadly promise. Stationed in nearby barracks, American and British soldiers anxiously awaited the order to cross the Channel. The upcoming battle would be brutal, with every inch measured in blood.

Even more than most, Evelyn and Nick anticipated D-Day. They had spent the last six months laying groundwork in the French countryside, so the Allied troops would find support from the Resistance. They gathered information about Nazi strongholds and which roads offered the safest path. During the two years they worked together, Nick and Evelyn reached a comfort level that was greater than words. The effort of keeping secrets and the danger they faced bonded them. In their missions, they developed a profound trust and learned to respect each other’s skills. Initially they were wary of their growing attraction, each wanting to put the mission first. Yet, as the war progressed, and they realized how life could change in an instant, it seemed foolish to deny they were in love. Her smile war. . .