“And you haven’t seen him since?”
She crossed her legs. “No, sir. Not since I left just before midnight. When I headed across town to the Dreamland for the audition.”
She rubbed her palms on the skirt of her shift. “Why are you asking about Mr. Bailey?”
“You aren’t the one asking questions today, young lady,” Officer MacDonald said without rancor.
“Just wondering, sir. Hate to think the son of my family’s former employer had something to do with a shooting.”
Officer MacDonald placed the tip of his pencil between his teeth, watching her for a long, uneasy moment before he spoke. “How well did you know Mr. Mills?”
Honoree’s foot started shaking, and she uncrossed her legs. “I had never met the man. That’s why I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions—”
“You have no idea why someone might want to kill him?”
She took a deep breath. “Nope. Last night was my first time inside the Dreamland Cafe, and after the audition, I left with my new friends. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
The officer studied her face with honey-colored eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I can’t help you. I’m positive.”
He dropped his pencil. “We’re done, then. You can leave.”
“Thank you.” She stood and backed away, nodding goodbye, and then turned and fled Zelda’s office. The faster and farther away she got from Officer MacDonald, the better.
* * *
It didn’t take long for Honoree to return to the neighborhood and head to Mr. Turner’s Grocery Store. She stood in the canned goods aisle with a sweaty brow and damp armpits, staring at a shelf of Campbell’s pork and beans. Thing was, she couldn’t rightly recall if she had one or two cans of beans in her cupboard. Guess she had a good reason for her memory being all foggy.
She’d seen a man gunned down, had lied to coppers, and the Dreamland Cafe had shuttered its doors. That constituted enough rough times for a lifetime. She deserved a night off.
She dug into her purse, found a penny, and walked over to the cash register. The idea of returning to Miss Hattie’s and having to deal with Archie made her want to wretch.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Turner,” she greeted him.
“Honoree.” He was a portly man who wore thick glasses but always had a friendly smile.
She handed him a penny. “Could you dial up Miss Hattie’s Garden Cafe?”
“You’ve been busy lately,” he said, dialing. Then he passed her the receiver.
“What is it, Honoree?” Miss Dolly snapped, already irritated.
Honoree coughed and sniffled, selling the act. “I can’t work tonight. I have a stomach illness and been upchucking all day.”
“Still feel poorly from last night, huh?” Miss Dolly’s tone was surprisingly sympathetic. “You might have the Spanish flu.”
“I don’t have a fever.”
“Uh-huh.” Miss Dolly’s breathing changed to take a drag from a cigarette. “A bartender got shot and killed at the Dreamland Cafe. Gunned down like a common hoodlum.”
Miss Dolly paused again, inhaling her cig. “Between Al Capone’s Outfit and Hymie Weiss’s North Side gang, working at a jazz joint during Prohibition, even one in Bronzeville, is risky business.”
Miss Dolly went silent, not smoking, only quiet. “I hope you don’t have the flu, but you best be back at work tomorrow if you want your job.”
She hung up.
“You didn’t seem that sickly when you walked in,” Mr. Turner said, narrow eyes judging her.
