Chapter 11
Skye maneuvered the car to a smooth stop right at the main entrance of Marshall Field’s. “They have concierge parking. I’ve never used it before, but today’s a good time to try it. Don’t you think?”
“Not me,” Remy countered. “I’d rather park my car half a mile away and walk than trust other drivers. They’ll just sling open their doors and leave scratches and dents on anything parked next to them.”
Skye’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“They do where I come from.”
“I’ll give the attendant a dollar and ask him to park it away from the others.”
“Give him five dollars and ask his name. He’ll take care of it for you.” Remy slipped her cash. “If it gets dinged, I’ll take the blame.”
When the attendant came to the window, she said, “I got this car this morning. Will you park it away from the other vehicles so that it won’t get scratched?” She batted her eyelashes and slipped the money into his hand.
The young man cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it. Ask for Jason when you’re ready for your car.”
“You’re the bee’s knees, Jason.”
He blushed and opened the door for her. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“A few hours.” She tossed him the key.
He snatched it out of the air. “I’ll be near the front of the store.”
Remy met her on the other side of the car. “Well done. He’ll probably park it right in front of the stand to keep an eye on it the entire time.”
They entered the department store’s first floor.
“Wow!” Marcelle exclaimed. “This resembles a palace. I’ve never been to a department store with marble columns, crystal chandeliers, gleaming hardwood floors, and vaulted ceilings with iridescent glass.
Where do we start? At the top and work our way down, or here and work our way up.
We can spend the entire day exploring different sections and enjoying this incredible ambiance. ”
“Time is a luxury we don’t have. Let’s head to the ladies’ floor. We can always return later to explore.” Skye gripped Marcelle’s hand firmly and guided her toward the elevator. “We’ll see you guys at the Walnut Room in two hours.”
“Wait,” Remy said. “You need money.”
“No, we don’t.” Skye grinned. “We’ll send the bills to Mr. Samuel at the bank.”
Clay nudged Remy’s shoulder. “I hope we have enough in the bank account. Those two are likely to bankrupt us.”
“I doan think I care. I’d give my last penny to see Skye smile like that twenty-four hours a day.”
“Man, you’ve got it bad.”
“And you doan? You didn’t see me going out for a cup of tea and coming back with an entire fucking tea service.”
“Marcelle needs to take care of her throat. She’s playing tonight.”
Remy narrowed his eyes. “Okay, if you say so.”
Clay pursued the directory posted on the wall next to the elevator. “The men’s department is on the second floor. Let’s take the stairs.”
“If we can, let’s take the clothes home with us. Roisin would like that.”
“And the car we doan have yet.”
“Definitely the car.”
They stepped into the men’s department, the scent of leather and fine wool enveloping them. Remy commanded the salesclerk’s attention, sketching out their needs: complete wardrobes, from rugged casuals to sharp evening wear, shirts, ties, socks, shoes, coats, gloves, and hats.
“Don’t we need tuxedos?” Clay asked.
“Good catch. We need tuxedos with all the trimmings,” Remy said.
While Clay slipped into a tailored jacket, the luxurious lining smooth against his hands, his thoughts strayed.
He pictured Marcelle in those sexy dresses she’d find for the club.
Her opinion of him held weight. What did she see when she looked at him?
He hadn’t served in the armed forces and didn’t carry a gun (well, usually not).
And she was a college professor, smart and sophisticated.
They shared music, but was a common beat enough to bridge the chasm between their worlds, enough to keep her interested?
Remy interrupted Clay’s thoughts. “What’s taking you so long?”
Clay strode out of the dressing room, pivoting before the full-length mirror, examining the drape and cut of the camel-colored three-piece tweed suit from every angle. “Does this meet your approval?” He smoothed the lapel. “It would look sharp with a bowtie.”
“It looks like it belongs somewhere between The Great Gatsby and a gangster movie. A bowtie wouldn’t change anything. What look are you going for?”
“Sophisticated journalist.”
“Not sure that suit does it. What else you got?”
Clay reached for another suit, holding it to his chin. “How about this gray tweed with a sharp white shirt?”
“What else?”
Clay produced another suit he was considering. “What do you think?”
“Herringbone tweed weave has an old-school finish. It looks like you.”
“What about this charcoal tweed?”
“It’s my favorite. Choose charcoal, gray, camel-colored, and pinstriped options, and opt for styles without slanted pockets or optional belts. You can mix and match these four suit jackets with solid-colored pants and different-colored shirts and ties. Doan forget the collar clip and cuff links.”
“How many suits did you get?”
“Six, but I can shop faster. I know what I want and what looks good on me.”
“How’d you learn that?”
Remy chuckled. “Kevin gave me his style magazines to read, and I’ve gone shopping with him and Elliott in fashion metropolises. Plus, I’ve worked with their stylist.”
“Oh, yeah? Which cities?”
“Paris, Milan, New York, and London.”
“When we get back, you can take Robert and me to New York. We need to update our wardrobes. Everything Robert wears is mine, or we’ve picked up a pair of pants or a jacket at a local shop.”
“Sure. After the New Orleans trip. Now, come on. We need to meet up with the girls. We’ve been at this for an hour and a half.”
“Sorry to take so long, but I wanted to be sure that whatever I bought would look good on stage.”
Remy smirked. “You’re shopping for a woman, not a stage.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Never thought so, and I’m happy for you. If Marcelle takes that job in Richmond, she’ll be close to the plantation.”
“She might not be interested in me once we get home.”
The salesclerk handed Remy a receipt, and he ticked off the number of items with his finger.
“Looks right.” He jotted down Skye’s address and gave it to the sales clerk.
“Please deliver all the packages to this address, and as I explained earlier, the bill goes to Vice President Samuel at the First National Bank.”
“Yes, sir. And that goes for the other gentleman’s clothes as well?”
“All of it,” Remy said.
Clay walked out of the dressing room, straightening his tie. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late meeting the girls.”
“They’re checking out hats and purses. Do you think they worry about us? Nope. They know where we are.”
“Marcelle seems to take all this in stride, but if anything happens to us, she can’t go home,” Clay said.
“We should give her a brooch.”
“She might not want to be responsible for it.” Clay straightened his posture, critically inspecting his reflection as he adjusted the brim of his new fedora.
While the fashionable hat was a natural statement piece for Remy, on Clay it simply felt wrong.
His emulation attempt, meant to project confidence, merely solidified his image as a polished, preppy college student, the very image he hoped to shed.
Stepping into the main aisle, Clay caught sight of Capone scrutinizing a stack of expensive handkerchiefs, holding one to the light as if checking for flaws. Before they could go in another direction, Capone said, “I heard you were coming here and thought we’d have lunch at the Walnut Room.”
Clay inwardly groaned. “We’re meeting Skye and Marcelle there.”
Capone adjusted his French-style double cuffs, flashing diamond cufflinks shaped like his initials. “I know. I want to hear what’s on your setlist for tonight.”
Clay wanted to tell Capone they had more shopping to do, but he would insist they eat first, so why bother? “We haven’t talked about it.”
“Good. I’ll make suggestions.” Capone glanced around. “Where are your packages? My men can carry them.”
“We’re having them delivered,” Remy said.
At the entrance to the Walnut Room, a large wood-paneled space on the seventh floor, Capone signaled to one of his men, who entered the restaurant.
The smoke-filled room was bustling, filled with clinking glasses and the hum of chattering diners, punctuated by sudden bursts of laughter.
A string quartet played classical music in the background, adding to the ambiance.
Were any of the diners famous or infamous characters?
Clay almost joined in the laughter. Who was more famous in 1928 than Alphonse Capone?
Capone’s man returned and whispered to him.
“Shall we go?”
“We need to wait for Skye and Marcelle,” Remy said.
Capone extended his arm. “They’re already seated. Shall we join them?”
Clay suppressed an eye roll. He expected a relaxed lunch with Marcelle, Skye, and Remy.
But Capone had strong-armed his way into the gathering, ensuring the conversation would inevitably gravitate toward his own demands and ambitions.
Then, Clay swiftly realigned his perspective.
He was an investigative journalist presented with an unexpected opportunity to interview a powerful figure.
He might gather enough material to write a second book.
This project would certainly occupy him and keep him away from Elliott’s chessboard for a while.
When they reached the table, Marcelle’s smile triggered a potent surge of adrenaline in Clay. Coincidentally, the musicians simultaneously elevated the tempo of their music, perfectly mirroring his accelerating heart rate.
“Mr. Capone!” Marcelle said, diverting her attention from Clay. “We weren’t expecting you. Now we know why we got preferential treatment.”
“Since we arrived so late for lunch, we assumed we’d be sitting at the rear of the restaurant near the door to the kitchen,” Skye said.