“I think I’ll visit the ladies, Tom, if you don’t mind.”
He looked momentarily put out, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He joined a group of lads—boys—at the punch table, and joined in with their raucous laughter. Rosa didn’t want to know what they were joking about, or at whose expense.
Nancy understood Rosa’s plight as she wasn’t entirely pleased with her fellow either. “If only you and I could dance with each other.”
“One can’t very well go to a dance without a date, though,” Rosa said.
Nancy laughed. “One can’t.”
Rosa rolled her eyes. Even after four years of living in America, her Englishness still manifested when she was distracted.
And tonight’s distraction was the attractive lead singer in the band, and shockingly, he seemed to have sought her face out too.
Nancy had seen the exchange and gave Rosa a firm nudge. “No way, José. I know he’s cute, but he’s from the wrong side of the tracks. Your aunt would have a conniption.”
Nancy wasn’t wrong about that. Aunt Louisa had very high standards, as one who was lady of Forrester mansion, might.
“I’m only looking!”
Nancy harrumphed. “As long as it stays that way.”
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Murder at the Bomb Shelter Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Rosa Reed peddled her Schwinn Deluxe Hollywood bicycle down the boulevard on another sunny Santa Bonita, California day. As she breathed in the sweet scent of sage and saline, she briskly rode down the slight incline toward Ron’s New and Used Cars. Over the last few weeks, she’d ridden by often, but today her heart fluttered with excitement as she approached the business establishment.
Yesterday, while heading home from a short shopping trip with her kitten Diego—who rode in the front basket with his fuzzy face into the wind—she spied a new arrival on the car lot. She simply had to stop for a look. That polo-white, two-door 1953 Chevrolet Corvette Roadster convertible with red leather interior had gripped her imagination, and at that moment, Rosa fell in love.
One of only three hundred made that year, the automobile, with its serial number of #76, was already considered a collector’s item. Rosa had slid into the red leather seat with Diego safely tucked into her satchel. When she’d revved the engine, the frame rumbled, and the powerful sound roared through the tailpipe, causing her to smile mischievously.
With the top down, she’d test-driven the vehicle, riding north onto the Pacific Coast Highway—a warm August breeze mussing her short brown hair. She’d allowed herself a moment of thrill when she pressed harder on the accelerator. My mother would love this car! The thought made her laugh out loud as she thundered past the city limits sign, swirls of dust whipping in her disappearing wake.
Upon returning to the lot, Rosa immediately phoned her Aunt Louisa, the matriarch of the Forrester mansion, to arrange for temporary financing until she could get the money wired from the London bank that held her trust fund.
“I’m part of the Forrester family,” she’d told the dealer. “I’ll be back tomorrow if you’d be kind enough to hold it for me.”
By the look of respect at the mention of the Forrester family name—and perhaps a little fear, after all, Aunt Louisa’s reputation in the town was formidable—the dealer promised to hold it.
Now, as Rosa signed the papers for ownership and registration, anticipation rushed through her. The days that lay ahead of her! Her recent decision to stay in Santa Bonita and set up a private investigation office instead of returning to her job as a police officer in London was further cemented with the purchase of this car.
“You don’t mind stowing my bicycle for a day or so . . .” Rosa said, her voice a lively lilt. “. . . until I can arrange for it to be picked up.”
“Not at all, Miss Reed,” the dealer said with a firm handshake and a grin as sparkling as Santa Bonita bay.
Minutes later, Diego safely ensconced in her large satchel, Rosa pointed the Corvette toward the business district. She’d remembered to bring a silk headscarf, the same pink color of her lipstick—her mother would approve—so her hair stayed neatly in place. A pair of gray-and-green Polaroid tortoise sunglasses sat on her nose, and she steered her new steed along the roadway with gloved hands.
She congratulated herself for staying in the right-hand lane. Rosa had learned to drive in America during the war years when she’d been shipped out of London to the safety her Aunt Louisa had offered. Shifting her inclination to drive on the left was like riding a bike. Having a steering wheel on the left-hand side, rather than the right, helped with reorientation.
Shortly afterward, Rosa parked her Corvette along the curb in front of an office. Now standing by the building’s front door, she paused to admire her new car before stepping inside. Diego meowed softly from his spot inside a designer pink-and-yellow striped satchel that matched Rosa’s outfit. Her rose-and-yellow patterned swing dress had a row of large white buttons running down the bodice and a white patent leather belt accenting her narrow waist. She finished off the outfit with yellow heels, the ankle straps tied into dainty bows. Rosa had discarded her first ragged satchel bag, a temporary accessory used when the need was urgent, and had accumulated several new cat-carrying bags to replace it.
Her second-floor office was the last door on the left down the wide, carpeted hallway that ran past several law firms and busy accounting businesses. A large window at the end of the hall overlooked the street below. Rosa stepped back to regard the freshly painted lettering on the frosted
