A Girl Like You

  Praise For A Girl Like You

  “Michelle Cox masterfully recreates 1930s Chicago in A Girl Like You, bringing to life its diverse neighborhoods and eclectic residents, as well as its seedy side. Henrietta and Inspector Howard are the best pair of sleuths I’ve come across in ages—Cox makes us care not just about the case, but about her characters. A fantastic start to what is sure to be a long-running series.”

  —Tasha Alexander, New York Times bestselling author of The Adventuress

  “In A Girl Like You, Michelle Cox offers striking descriptions of the seamy side of 1930s Chicago. Readers of historical romance and suspense will root for the destitute but hardworking Henrietta Von Harmon as she risks everything for Inspector Howard in a story that will keep readers guessing right up to the last page.”

  —Kristen Harnisch, award-winning author of The Vintner’s Daughter and The California Wife

  “The authentic setting rich in cinematic detail of Chicago during The Great Depression is the perfect backdrop for a plethora of vivid characters in Michelle Cox’s novel A Girl Like You—one being an ambitious dance hall girl, Henrietta Von Harmon, soul breadwinner of her fatherless family. But when her boss is found dead, in walks Inspector Clive Howard whose chemistry with Henrietta promises even more twists and turns in this highly entertaining mystery.”

  —Sande Boritz Berger, author of The Sweetness

  “Cox brings the economic hardships and rigid class structure of 1930s Chicago to life in her captivating mystery, A Girl Like You. Henrietta Von Harmon must provide for her family after the suicide of her father, but jobs are scarce. Although she must hide her job from everyone she knows, Henrietta becomes a taxi dancer, a woman of questionable virtue who dances with men for money. When someone is murdered and a girl disappears, Henrietta is persuaded by Clive, a handsome homicide detective, to go undercover at a dangerous venue. Anyone who enjoys a well-written romantic mystery set in a gritty time and place will enjoy A Girl Like You.”

  —M.A. Adler, author of In the Shadow of Lies

  “The Depression-era world of a poor girl’s Chicago is a dicey deal for Henrietta Von Harmon—but she is resilient. In Michelle Cox’s capable hands, Henrietta takes the reader of A Girl Like You on a wonderful romp through the seamier side of an early 20th-century working girl’s life. The realities of a fatherless family, a weary mother, and a dearth of opportunity don’t overpower Henrietta’s curiosity, her willingness to work hard, her knack for making alliances, and her vision of a better future. The book’s cast of additional characters, headed by Inspector Howard, accompanies Henrietta through a murder, a dangerous job, and touching reminders that life turns on small intimacies. This engaging book bodes well for the following works in the series!”

  —Barbara Stark-Nemon, author of Even in Darkness

  A Girl Like You

  Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Cox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2016 Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-016-7 paperback

  978-1-63152-017-4 ebook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954336

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  I dedicate this volume with much love to my husband, Philip Cox.

  I can find no better words than those of A. A. Milne, who touchingly said in one of his own dedications: “It would be my present to you, my sweet, if it weren’t your gift to me.”

  Thank you, Phil, for everything.

  CHAPTER 1

  Henrietta stole another look at her compact before she snapped it shut and hurried out from behind the bar. The gilding around the edge was worn from overuse, but Henrietta didn’t mind. It still did its job, and, anyway, it had been a gift from one of the regulars in lieu of a tip, an old-timer whose wife had died several years back. It was obvious that the compact had been hers, but Henrietta had accepted it gratefully, gently squeezing the old man’s hand in payment when he had offered it, milky-eyed and shaking, happy that someone seemed to want it at last.

  She weaved her way gingerly now through the tables where the crowd—mostly men—sat at low, battered tables throwing dice. The next round was starting, and as the house twenty-six girl she was supposed to not only keep score but to encourage drinks as the night wore on and inhibitions lowered.

  “Who needs a refill before the next round starts?” she called out. Several men at the back table put up a thick, callused finger to indicate they were ready for another, Henrietta pulling out a tiny pencil from behind her ear and scribbling down their orders in a small notebook she kept in the front pocket of the worn, faded blue dress she always wore to work.

  “What about you, Mr. Welters?” she asked, coming up behind an older man with snow-white hair, though he was probably not yet fifty. “Care for another?” she asked with her familiar smile.

  “When you gonna call me Welty, like everyone else?” he said with false petulance.

  “Just doesn’t seem right somehow,” she teased, “you being my elder, you see.”

  Mr. Welters laughed out loud until it ended in a coughing fit. “You’re a little fox, that’s what you are,” he said clearing his throat. “A real vixen! Go on, then, I’ll have another. But don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

  “Course you do!” she called out agreeably as she made her way back to the bar to give the order to Mr. Hennessey, the sole bartender as well as the proud owner of Poor Pete’s, the establishment in which they both currently toiled.

  Mr. Hennessey winked at her as he patiently pulled the Pabst tap and adroitly poured whiskeys as the pints filled. Henrietta leaned against the dark walnut bar, waiting for the drinks, her eyes straying for a moment to the bank calendar hanging just above Mr. Hennessey’s head on the far wall, squeezed in between a rack of peanuts on one side and a crowded shelf of genuine German beer steins on the other. The calendar read January 1935, but it was hard to believe a new year had begun. It seemed like only yesterday that she had been helping Mr. Hennessey hang a few strands of Christmas garland and some rather thin sprigs of holly between the bottles of booze on the top shelf, which, being expensive, usually lay undisturbed for most of the year, anyway.

  “Not too many tonight, is there?” Henrietta asked him with a shrug. “Think people are taking a break after the holidays?”

  “Naw. It’s the damn coppers. Pardon my French,” Mr. Hennessey said with a nod of deference. “You know how it is. Cops come in, break up the twenty-six. People stay away for a while, but then they finally come back. Just a matter of waitin’ it out.”

  “Yes, but the last time they were here was right around St. Nicholas Day, I think. It’s January now!”

  “Well, you know,” he shrugged apologetically, “it’s been cold.” He looked out the tavern’s little window at the snow softly falling. It made a pretty picture despite the iron bars that ran across the window. “Here, get these out now, girl,” he said, hurriedly putting the last glass of beer on her t
ray. “Almost time to score.”

  Henrietta quickly delivered the drinks and then rifled through her pocket for her notebook. “All right, then!” she called out. “Table one, what’s everyone got?” she asked and methodically worked her way around the room until she had recorded everyone’s score.

  “Ooh! Mr. Mentz! That’s your second one!” she said enthusiastically to a middle-aged man in the corner, who had just declared that he had gotten a perfect twenty-six. “You’re hot tonight!”

  “Always am when you’re here, Henrietta!” he shouted back, beaming and looking around at the crowd for acknowledgement of his high score. Only Mr. Welters blearily raised his glass in salute.

  “Anyone else?” Henrietta called out.

  Disgruntled mumblings were the only response.

  “Okay, then, Mr. Mentz, that’s a free drink for you; what’ll it be?”

  “Schlitz!” he answered. “Make it strong!”

  The crowd snickered at his joke, as only beer or wine, not hard liquor, were offered as the prize for throwing a perfect twenty-six with the allotted ten dice. Almost any corner bar in Chicago offered a game of twenty-six, though sometimes a game could be found at the back of a cigar store as well as a quick alternative. It had been just over six years since the crash, but people were still struggling, and a game of twenty-six made for a cheap form of entertainment among working people—those who had a little bit of cash to spare for a drink and a laugh, as it cost only a quarter a game to get in.

  Somehow, though, the police had gotten it into their heads that it was illegal—which it wasn’t, everyone knew—but they broke it up from time to time anyway, saying it amounted to gambling and possibly racketeering with possible links to the mob. It infuriated Henrietta whenever they busted it up at Poor Pete’s, as Mr. Hennessy ran a straight establishment, though she suspected he had been approached more than once to become a part of a bigger network. He would have none of it, though, and was determined to stay independent. Henrietta was proud of him for it, though she could see by the bags under his eyes from time to time that it worried him, especially when particularly unsavory types wandered in for a “little chat” about expanding his horizons, extra protection, and various other shady prospects.

  Mr. Hennessey was an older man in his fifties or maybe even sixties. Henrietta wasn’t sure exactly; she was notoriously bad at guessing ages. He had graying hair that he wore in a crew cut and a thick gray mustache to match his thick, round body. He was married, of course, and had children, but they were all grown up now. Henrietta didn’t know much about them except that his daughter lived out east somewhere and one of his sons had died in the war. He never spoke much about his other son, and Henrietta did not like to ask. All in all, he was well liked, and Henrietta thought him a good businessman. He could be harsh with the occasional customer who got out of hand, though his sleepy corner bar was not the type of place that usually attracted young hotheads. But he had a softer side, too, especially when it came to Henrietta.

  He had hired her when she was just fourteen to scrub the floors before Poor Pete’s opened each day at noon. It had been a favor, as he had known her father, that is, before he had killed himself just about four years ago now. Mr. Von Harmon had been a regular customer, and Mr. Hennessey felt it was the least he could do to help out the wife and the large family he had left behind. Not long after the “accident,” Henrietta had turned up out of the blue, asking if he had any work.

  “You’re Les Von Harmon’s kid, aren’t you?” he had asked as he wiped his hands on the dirty towel hanging from his belt loop.

  Henrietta merely nodded. She had come to the back door, and Mr. Hennessey had let her come in, though he suspected she was probably underage.

  “How old are you?” he asked, peering down at her.

  “Almost fifteen.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Mr. Hennessey had whistled. “That all?” Mr. Hennessey had let his eyes briefly, albeit uncomfortably, travel over her body and knew in that moment that this girl’s life was either going to be a heaven or it was going to be a hell, for he had not seen this kind of beauty more than a couple of times in his whole life. She had long, thick auburn hair, which she wore loosely tied up; a heart-shaped face with perfect alabaster skin; full, pink lips; blue eyes that seemed to light up each time she spoke; and an already fully developed body with ample breasts and a slight swell at the hips. She had been dressed plainly in a cotton dress, but her beauty radiated nonetheless. She had the body of a woman that men look back twice at, a body that even made women comment.

  “I know I’m young,” she said in a cheerful, pleasing sort of voice that oddly mesmerized him, “but I’m a real good cleaner, Mr. Hennessey. Please, I . . . we . . . need the money. I’ll clean the bathroom, too. You don’t want to be bothering with that, now do you? Let me do it for you . . . please . . . ”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said, scratching his head. His wife would be upset if he took on another employee, but he felt he owed it to poor Les. He had been drinking at Poor Pete’s that night. “I suppose we could try you out.”

  “Oh, thanks, Mr. Hennessey!” she had said, two dimples magically appearing as she shyly smiled at him. Mr. Hennessey felt himself unwittingly blush.

  “You come ‘round about ten each morning and get everything ship-shape. How’s that sound?”

  “Oh, thanks, Mr. Hennessey! Want me to start now?” she asked, eagerly looking around.

  “No, come back tomorrow,” he said hurriedly, shooing her out the door, knowing his wife was due any moment.

  Henrietta came back promptly the very next day and every day after that for the next two years as the bar’s cleaner, Mr. Hennessey’s wife eventually coming around to the idea and actually becoming fond of Henrietta, too. In time, as she grew older, Henrietta naturally progressed to being a waitress, and then Mr. Hennessey had allowed her to try her hand at being a twenty-six girl, for which she was very grateful, as it meant more money that she could then hand over to her mother. As a twenty-six girl she got a percentage of the house’s profits for the night as well as any side tips she collected. Mr. Hennessey was happy to share the profits, as he knew it was Henrietta who had slowly boosted his clientele, word of the pretty twenty-six girl at Poor Pete’s getting around. Many men showed up each week just to be the object of her smile or the receiver of a little wink before they trudged home to their own wives or lonely beds. There were only a few times that anyone had tried an advance on Henrietta, having drunk a bit too much, and then Mr. Hennessey had thrown them out without a moment’s hesitation. In truth, a caress on the arm or a pat on the bottom never really bothered Henrietta that much, but Mr. Hennessey objected in the strongest of language, having grown fiercely protective of her as time had worn on, like the father she no longer had. Henrietta, in turn, trusted him completely. He was one of the few men who never tried to take advantage, never looked at her in a suggestive way, never let his fingers stray.

  She had grown used to men staring at her, not that she particularly enjoyed it, but she did enjoy the doors it seemed to open, to the great annoyance of her mother, who preferred what hard work could get you in this world rather than what usually came from having a pretty face. Henrietta, too, would have preferred to get by on her wits alone, but times were hard, and she figured that she had to use what she had been given. Her mother seemed to resent her good looks, however, perhaps because they reminded her too much of her father, Henrietta reasoned. She missed him terribly, but they weren’t allowed to talk about him; her mother forbade it.

  Though her mother might think otherwise, Henrietta was no stranger to hard work, often taking the morning shift as a waitress at various restaurants—although she had lost count of how many— before reporting to Poor Pete’s each night. The problem was not in procuring a job, which seemed to plague the rest of the country; it was in keeping the job. No sooner had she learned the ropes somewhere than she would inevitably be fired for slapping some greasy owner or telling off the
cook for pinning her up against a wall for a “little smooch” when he thought no one was looking. Inevitably, then, when she turned up back at home before she was due, her mother would moan, “Oh, Hen, not again! What’d you do this time? Why can’t you ever just get along? A girl like you should be able to keep a job!” and before Henrietta could explain fully, her mother would hand her one of the crying twins while she went to tend to the other one.

  But that was just the problem, Henrietta would sigh resignedly to herself as she awkwardly attempted to rock the crying baby in her arms. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Several times she had tried to explain to Ma that men had tried to take advantage, but her mother usually responded with something like, “Well, Hen, that’s the way of the world; better get used to it.” This always left Henrietta somewhat confused. Surely her mother wasn’t advocating that she be a “loose” woman, that she let men get away with fondling her; after all, she was always going on about women who had lost their virtue. But then why the disappointment when Henrietta took the moral high ground? What did Ma really expect of her? Whatever incoherent message Henrietta got from her mother, she decided early on of her own accord that she would try to remain “good.” Isn’t that what her father would have wanted as well? And if she didn’t, what lay ahead of her? No decent man would take her then, she guessed, and in her heart that was what she wanted, though she didn’t exactly want to become her mother, either, trapped in a little apartment with eight kids to take care of. No, she resolved, she would not just “get used to it,” as her mother suggested, and would instead let the chips fall where they may.

  Mr. Hennessey was always so much more understanding. “Lose another one, did you, girl?” he would ask if she showed up earlier than usual for her shift. “Ah, well, Henrietta. You stick to your guns! Something else will turn up. You wait and see. You’ve always got a place here, you know.”

  Henrietta would sadly smile her thanks while she got out the bucket to start the floors. “Yes, I know, Mr. Hennessey,” she would say wistfully, wishing her mother would adopt the same attitude. Her mother had never been the same after her father died, and it was almost as if Henrietta had lost two parents that awful night.