Mitchell left for his own room several doors down the hall, he asked Sarah to dinner, and she accepted. Why not? They were here, the restaurant was open, and now that her stomach had settled, she was hungry. Fortunately, she had brought her one and only evening dress, a black velvet, sleeveless chemise. She slipped it over her head, glanced in the mirror and smiled. It fit. At least better than a few months ago when it had hung on her like a limp noodle. Over it she draped the long string of white pearls her mother gave her shortly before she died. She always wore them when she went out. Now then, just a bit of kohl around the eyes, a touch of rouge and lipstick. Contrary to popular opinion about women over forty, the older she got, the less makeup she used. Age was better left alone. Caked with powder, even the smallest line widened into a deep crevasse. She twisted her hair and fixed it into place with a square rhinestone clip. Enough. Already Mitchell might think she was sending him mixed messages.
9
Sarah had considered ordering the fried chicken. After all, she was in the South. But the special was lamb stew, one of her favorites, and it turned out to be the right choice. Meaty, succulent, with just a touch of salt. Served with buttery mashed potatoes and a bottle of mineral water from the nearby springs from which the hotel got its name. Healing waters, the waiter said. She gulped down a glass and poured another.
After dinner, they took the advice of a couple at the next table and went to the hotel’s lounge, the only such place for miles. Not the Cotton Club, they said, but hot music and “larapin” strawberry shortcake made from the local crop. “With all that’s goin’ on, you might even see someone famous.”
Even though he was on the wagon, Mitchell thought jazz without booze was like a Christmas tree without lights. A sturdy backdrop, but bare, lacking the spark that brought it to life. In most places, speakeasies solved the problem, but not here. “If Dayton has any bootleggers, no visitor has heard of them,” he said, quoting a statement Mencken made yesterday in the Sun. But even he had to admit, the music sounded pretty good. Not like any hillbillies he’d ever heard. A band of seven filled the intimate room with a surprisingly robust sound. Two clarinets, two trumpets, a sax, a flute and drums. Mitchell said the trumpet soloist sounded like Louis Armstrong himself, someone whose music career he had ardently followed after seeing him perform in Chicago.
Small round tables with flickering candles surrounded the raised wooden stage. They were seated near a tall, narrow window just as the group finished a set. The small crowd clapped and whistled when they promised to return shortly.
“This is some business you’ve gotten yourself into Sarah,” Mitchell said. “Not that I’m complaining, but I thought you had sworn off detective work.”
He lit a cigarette and took several long drags. No doubt he would try to quit smoking again when he returned to Toledo. “A woman is allowed to change her mind.”
He frowned and made a hissing sound. “That, I know. But do you feel well enough?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad. You certainly look fine.”
Sarah smiled and looked away.
“The meeting is at four-thirty, you said?”
“Uh huh.”
“And he doesn’t know about the professor’s death?”
“I’m not sure, but he certainly doesn’t know about me.”
Mitchell rubbed his cleanly shaved, dimpled chin. So clean, he looked ten years younger. She’d never noticed that small mole over his lip before. “Reporters like to be in control,” he said. “He’s a master, but I wonder how he’ll react.”
“Afraid the myth will turn out to be a man?”
“Ha!” What impertinence! You really have recovered.”
The waiter delivered their order. Portions big enough for an elephant, but the cake was stale. The strawberries, however, were delicious, soft, pulpy and incredibly sweet.
“Rhea County is known for these,” Mitchell said, holding a perfect specimen between his long, tapered fingers. “They’re served with every meal. I’ve seen people even pass them around in court. By the way, that reminds me, I can get you a press pass tomorrow, if you’re interested.”
Sarah almost hugged him. “Interested? Absolutely! I was hoping to get in. That would make it so much easier.”
“Glad to help. The place is jammed, but maybe you even can sneak a peek at Mencken. Size him up before he does you.”
“I don’t know that I want to. I might lose my courage.”
“I won’t let you. At any rate, I think you’ll find the trial fascinating, unlike anything you’ve seen back home.”
“You know, with all that’s been going on, I haven’t been able to keep up with the proceedings. What’s happened so far, anyway?”
“The long or short version?”
“Before the band returns.”
“Oh, alright. Let’s see.” Mitchell lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair. “First of all, the jury was selected. Or rather tolerated. What a fiasco. Darrow had a hell of a time. A choice amongst brethren. All anti-evolutionists, just some less so than the others. The man was a joy to watch, though. He disposed of one fellow in particularly short order, a minister who claimed he could be impartial, despite the fact that he was, as he put it, “‘strictly for the Bible.’” Darrow pushed him to answer if he had ever preached for or against evolution. “‘Well, I preached against it, of course’!” he said. “‘Why, ‘of course’?” Darrow asked. And that was it. He zeroed in on those two little words and convinced the judge—no small feat, let me tell you—that the minister’s conviction against evolution was too firm.”
“I’ve met him, you know,” Sarah said, twisting her pearls.
“Darrow?”
“Uh huh. At Obee’s. They were in law school together. Pretty good friends, too. Of course, as a dedicated agnostic, he found Obee’s Catholicism hard to take. They had some pretty heated debates on the matter. When Obee said his religion gave him a measure of peace, Darrow reminded him of the wars fought in its name. When Obee said he believed in a strict division between church and state, Darrow asked him why he kept a Bible in his chambers. When Obee said he believed in religious freedom, even the right not to believe, Darrow clapped, but said he still couldn’t understand how such a smart man could believe in all that hocus-pocus.”
“No one ever said he wasn’t opinionated.”
“True. But for someone who preaches tolerance, he can be fairly intolerant himself. And uncompromising. During dinner, he lambasted Obee for the few times he took the side of business. To him, the unions were right, even when they were wrong.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I might have, had he asked.” She smiled. “Does he still wear pastel shirts?”
Mitchell rubbed his chin again, this time targeting his perfectly centered dimple. “Hmm, come to think of it, yes. Yellow, I believe, on Monday, blue yesterday, and today . . . pink, yeah, pink. And suspenders. The guy looks like a bumpkin,
