Free The Cop and the Chorus Girl by Nancy Martin Page A

wonderful.”
    You look wonderful, Flynn almost said.
    But he didn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing a cop was supposed to say to the woman he was investigating—no matter how much he believed it.
    Instead, Flynn silently handed her one of the steaming plates and a fork. She balanced her beer on the edge of the huge tub and accepted the plate eagerly.
    â€œI’m famished!”
    â€œYou worked up an appetite tonight,” Flynn remarked, sitting back on the brass and velvet dressing table chair, his own plate in hand. “I’ve never seen a Broadway show up close like that before. You people really get a workout.”
    â€œAll that singing and dancing—you bet.” Dixie dug into her omelet with gusto. “My granny Butterfield says she used to lose five pounds every night she did a show.”
    â€œYour grandmother was on Broadway?”
    â€œI told you, she was a Ziegfeld Folly! And she was wonderful. I have some of her pictures in my suitcase if you’d—”
    â€œIt can wait,” Flynn said, alarmed that she might try climbing out of the tub then and there to get the photographs.
    â€œShe was something! Of course, she’s no slouch even now. She was Mama’s coach at the Miss America pageant.”
    â€œYou come from quite a family.”
    â€œOh, yes, I’ve got show business all over Mama’s side of the family. Granny Butterfield and all her sisters have given me a lot of pointers.”
    â€œI could use some pointers myself,” Flynn murmured, digging into his food. It tasted surprisingly good, and he realized he was hungry indeed.
    Dixie eyed him for a moment, chewing. “You’re not such a bad actor, I’ll bet,” she said around a mouthful of home-fried potatoes. “It won’t take much for Joey to believe you’re a hotshot from California.”
    Flynn was amused. “I look like a hotshot?”
    â€œA dangerous kind of hotshot, yes, when you’ve got a certain frown on. The only trouble is, your face doesn’t look beaten up enough to pass for a boxer’s.”
    â€œI draw the line at makeup,” Flynn said quickly. “This damned mustache is bad enough.”
    â€œHere, we can take that off now.”
    Dixie slid over to the edge of the tub and put her plate aside. In that new position, her glistening bare back was reflected in the gigantic, half-steamed mirrors that lined the luxurious bathroom. She reached up one slender arm and Flynn obediently leaned down. His heart suddenly began to thump in his chest. Tentatively she tugged at the fake mustache on his upper lip, smiling.
    â€œOw.” Flynn winced. “Take it easy.”
    â€œAre you a big baby, after all?” she teased.
    â€œHell, no, but this thing was put on with some kind of super glue that— Yeow! ”
    â€œThere!” She held up the mustache triumphantly. “It’s better to get it over with quickly. Now, eat your supper.”
    But suddenly Flynn felt much more like leaning down over the tub and inhaling the fragrant scent of the bathwater. He wanted to get a handful of those fluffy bubbles and smooth them down the graceful length of Dixie’s moist arm.
    He fought the impulse and tried to get his mind back on the business at hand. He had an interrogation to conduct.
    â€œEr— Did you ever have dinner in the bathtub with Joey Torrano?”
    Dixie forgot about eating for a moment and looked surprised. “Not exactly, no.”
    Flynn continued to eat, pretending not to care about her responses. “You must have spent a lot of time with the guy. I mean, to want to marry him.”
    â€œI didn’t really want to marry him,” she explained, idly playing her fork through her food. “I was—well, not forced, exactly. I don’t know how it happened, to tell the truth. Joey was the producer of The Flatfoot and the Floozie and we spent a lot of time together at the