Yet Vinny was always polite. “Nice to see you, Joey,” he would say, and he and Mae would offer her a ride home in his souped-up Civic any night she wasn’t going home with Chaz.
“Girls,” a commanding voice said from the dressing room doorway.
Beside her, Dallas jumped, the coke vial disappearing into the palm of her hand. Joey didn’t have to look up to know that it was Cherry.
“Hey, Cherry.” Joey was applying a thin line of glue to her false eyelashes. “I’ll be ready on time.”
“After the stage, head up to VIP, okay?” Cherry was speaking to Joey, but her eyes were focused on Dallas. “Eight-person bachelor party requested the hot Asian chick they saw outside. Since Betty hasn’t shown up, that must be you.”
Joey looked up, waving the strip lash in her hand so the glue would turn tacky, which made it easier to stick on. “A bachelor party? On New Year’s Eve?”
“New Year’s Day wedding, tomorrow afternoon.” Cherry shrugged. “They don’t look like high rollers, but they’re trying to be. They asked about the Champagne Room.”
Champagne Room? Joey exchanged a look with Dallas. Two hours in the Champagne Room could earn a girl a thousand bucks, minimum.
“Do they need a blond cheerleader, too?” Dallas piped up, hopeful.
“No.” Cherry turned her attention to Joey fully. “Hey. You been in touch with Betty? This is the second shift in a row she’s blown off. I don’t want to fire her ass until I know she’s okay.”
“Aw, Cherry, don’t fire her,” Dallas said. “I know she’s a flake, but the customers love her.”
“Was I talking to you?” the owner snapped.
“I haven’t talked to her in a couple days,” Joey said. “But she has roommates who’d look after her if she was sick. I can check in on her tomorrow.”
Cherry’s gaze shifted back to the older dancer. “Dallas, that better be face powder on your nose. Finish getting ready, and get your ass out there.”
“It’s not just my ass they’re here to see,” Dallas replied smartly, but she wiped her nose and got up to stow her things in her locker. Before leaving the dressing room, she said, “For real, girl, I don’t know how you do this job without being on something.”
It’s easy, Joey thought. Makeup finished, she shimmied into her gold dress and strapped on her stilettos. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. Ruby stared back.
I just pretend I’m my mother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Paris doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep on the sofa until the doorbell wakes her up. It takes her a few seconds to remind herself where she is—home? Jail? Toronto?—but then she hears the photographers shouting on the street, and remembers. Seattle. Jimmy is dead. Murder charge. No lawyer.
The doorbell rings again, followed by what sounds like a kick. Whoever it is, they’re persistent. Paris tries the smart home app on her phone again, but the door cam, along with the rest of it, is still not working. She pads over to the front door and looks through the peephole the old-fashioned way, bracing herself for a ballsy reporter or paparazzo waiting to surprise her with a camera in her face.
It’s Elsie.
She opens the door and steps aside quickly as the woman pushes her way in. Behind her, cameras flash and questions are shouted. Elsie is carrying a cardboard box, on top of which is her briefcase, on top of which is a takeout bag from Taco Time. A bottle of wine sticks out from a tote bag over her shoulder.
“Vultures,” the other woman says, shutting the door with her foot. “Lock it, quick.”
Paris locks the door, then grabs the takeout bag and briefcase before they can slide off.
Elsie sets the cardboard box down on the floor. “This was on your doorstep. Jimmy’s mail. The post office must have forwarded it here.”
Paris stares at her. “Hello to you, too.”
“Talk later, eat first.” Elsie plucks the bag of food and her briefcase from Paris’s hands and heads straight for the kitchen. “I brought wine.”
Paris looks down at the box of Jimmy’s fan mail, which seems so unremarkable sitting on the floor of the foyer. There’s no doubt in her mind that it will contain another blackmail letter from Ruby. Her mother will know by now that Jimmy is dead, which means she’ll know about the inheritance, and that her daughter has been charged with first-degree murder.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, Mama?