“Hey, lady, get outta the way!” shouted a cabbie, blaring his horn loudly enough to make Rosemary Lillywhite’s ears ring. She stepped back onto the footway just in time to avoid a collision but not quickly enough to escape the spray of water coming off the cab’s tires as it whizzed by.

Rosemary whipped her head around to glare at her brother after his unsuccessful attempt to stifle a guffaw. “It’ll be your head on a platter, Frederick Woolridge, if I don’t return to London in one piece. Wouldn’t you have a simply grand time explaining to Mother how you allowed me to be run over on the streets of New York City?”

The cheeky inquiry sobered Frederick enough for Rosemary’s satisfaction but did nothing to dry her stockings or improve her mood.

Since arriving in the city, she had been bumped into, shoved, and now hollered at and nearly run over by a cab. It wasn’t only her legs and feet that were soaking wet; someone had also shaken a dripping umbrella in her face, and she’d nearly been poked in the eye by its ferrule. Apparently, it didn’t rain frequently enough in New York to encourage proper umbrella etiquette—or any etiquette at all, for that matter. The steady drizzle had forced people into cabs, only adding to the already congested streets and creating nightmarish conditions for anyone unfamiliar with the city.

“Although you do realize, dear sister,” Frederick retorted, “that I’d probably still manage to come up smelling of roses as far as Mother is concerned. I am her favorite child, after all.” He ducked out of Rosemary’s reach but still took an elbow to the ribs from his wife, Vera.

She smiled unapologetically at his wounded expression. “That’s what you get for marrying your sister’s oldest friend.” The newlyweds bickered as though they’d been together for decades, which wasn’t far off given the long-standing friendship between their families.

“You don’t need to remind me you’re the golden child,” Rosemary said. “I know they appreciate the fact that you don’t humiliate the family by having your name mentioned in conjunction with murder investigations.”

“Except, of course, that time I was arrested for one,” Frederick replied dryly, then softened. “Besides, while Mother might prefer you to keep a low profile, Father is secretly far more proud of his little lady sleuth than he is of me.” It was the first Rosemary had heard about that, and the idea pleased her enough to lift her spirits.

And really, New York wasn’t so bad; she had to admit it was actually quite wonderful. On the whole, Londoners seemed to believe any building that hadn’t already been standing for at least a couple hundred years ought to be left alone and allowed to do so. New Yorkers, though, were perfectly comfortable tearing down and rebuilding after no more than a handful of years. Her mother would say it was wasteful, and while she might have a point, Rosemary found herself—when she could safely look up—quite enjoying the modern art and architecture.

To her chagrin, none of her three traveling companions were interested in such things. If only Max had come along, she thought forlornly, she might have had an ally. Rosemary’s handsome, charming beau (though his status as such had become shaky of late) enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London and would have been fascinated by the difference between its rhythm and that of New York. He would have followed her around the art galleries without protest, and they would have had a lovely time absorbing the culture of the city.

Unfortunately, Max had chosen to remain behind, citing work obligations she could hardly argue against. He had recently been promoted to chief inspector and could hardly take an extended holiday so soon after accepting the position.

Particularly not when Rosemary’s sleuthing had gotten him into hot water with his superiors. She tried not to think about that debacle and hoped it resolved itself by the time she returned from the States.

Of the group, only Desmond Cooper, Frederick’s oldest chum, had visited New York before, and he hadn’t stopped talking about his misadventures since they’d boarded the ocean liner all the way back in Southampton. Most of his ramblings had to do with Imogene Quinn, a pistol-wielding firecracker of a woman with whom he’d solved a murder—and who was also the latest object of his affections. Not only had she made a romantic impression on him, but Desmond had also raved, sycophantically, regarding Imogene’s investigative prowess long enough to grate on Rosemary’s nerves.

“Didn’t it sound to you as though Desmond’s crime-solving was down to a bit of fortunate luck?” she had asked Vera while the pair dressed for dinner. “I’m beginning to wish I had brought along one of Dash’s muzzles to use on him. If I have to hear him wax lyrical any longer, I might go mad!”

Vera had thrown her head back in a throaty laugh. “Is that devil on your shoulder whispering you’re the sleuth of the group? Suggesting that perhaps you might have solved the mystery faster or with fewer clues?”

Rosemary had wanted to protest, to insist her irritation had nothing to do with envy, but that would have been a lie. Her head knew Desmond deserved to feel proud of himself for ensuring justice was served. Her heart echoed the sentiment, but she feared Vera wasn’t entirely incorrect and shook her head to dislodge the shameful thought.

“You’re right. I’m acting childishly. After all, I don’t hold a monopoly on catching murderers, even though it sometimes feels as though I do.” The admission did nothing to lift the dark cloud over Rosemary’s head.

Vera had rolled her eyes out of her friend’s line of sight and swallowed the urge to comment. Instead, she waited, knowing that pressing would only prolong the inevitable.

Sure enough, after a long moment of thought, Rosemary had burst, “What more could she possibly want? Desmond’s got the whole package, surely. He’s handsome, kind, gentle, and funny—not to mention filthy rich.”

At the crux of the matter was the state of Desmond’s heart, a fact that Vera, whose deductive skills tended to be overlooked, had already discerned. “She could ask you the same question, Rosie. After all, she wouldn’t have had a chance with Des if you hadn’t turned him down in the first place.”

Rosemary had shot Vera a look of irritation reserved for the very best of friends. “Desmond’s affections aren’t the trouble if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “Just because I used to have a crush on him doesn’t mean this is a case of if-I-can’t-have-him-nobody-else-can.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” Vera had replied. “I know you better than that. You realized you didn’t love Desmond that way after one kiss, but you still don’t want him to fall for someone who doesn’t appreciate him. Perhaps this Imogene’s reason for rejecting Desmond is just as valid as yours. Have you thought of that?”

Rosemary hadn’t answered, and neither had she softened, but she was quite keen to get to dinner, and so was the man they’d been discussing—or, rather, to get dinner over with as quickly as possible.

Desmond had love—or at least infatuation—on his mind and had done nothing less than jump around like an unruly child ever since checking into their hotel. Rosemary had assumed they’d be staying in a luxury suite at The Plaza or another comparable establishment, but at Imogene’s suggestion—and Desmond’s insistence—they’d booked a bank of rooms at a place slightly further downtown.

Frederick’s insistence they stay near the clubs didn’t hurt Desmond’s case. Frederick was almost as obsessed with jazz as he was with American baseball and had talked their ears off about Paul Whiteman and Babe Ruth all through dinner.

Vera, a second-generation stage actress, had secured tickets to all the on- and off-Broadway shows and had dreams of securing a film role while in New York. Then, of course, there was the shopping. Whatever time Vera had left would be devoted to scouring all the shops on Fifth Avenue for treasures to fill her many trunks. Most likely dragging Rosemary along with her.

Rosemary was the only one, it seemed, who fancied a comfortable bed and concierge service, but she’d sooner eat her own shoe than let herself be dubbed a flat tire. And so, they were booked into a set of rooms at The Roosevelt Hotel, which was of high enough quality by any standard, leaving her little to complain about anyway. Now that dinner had been enjoyed (if impatiently rushed along by Desmond), everyone was ready for a cocktail, finding the switch to Prohibition territory less than charming.

“What I wouldn’t give for a Gin Rickey,” Frederick had lamented throughout the meal, loudly enough to have visibly irritated the waiter. Rosemary only hoped the lad hadn’t resorted to some infantile form of retribution and sullied their food. She knew such things sometimes happened in restaurants, though not usually at those of Barbetta’s caliber.

Desmond reassured him. “I’ve got the solution for that, old friend, a simply smashing one, just as soon as everyone has finished eating.” His tone had implied they were all dawdling, which of course, had only resulted in actual dawdling given his friends’ contrary tendencies. By the time they arrived in front of the alleyway where Desmond had assured them the city’s very best speakeasy was located, he vibrated with excitement.

“See, here we are,” he said, pointing to a half-illuminated neon sign that, after squinting, Rosemary deduced was meant to read Red Door Antiquities & More.

Even if she hadn’t been privy to Desmond’s recounting of the first time he’d happened upon the sign, she would have realized that the unlit portions weren’t at all random. Only the t-i-q-u (minus the t’s cross) and the o-r were lit so that it read liquor if one looked at it properly. Rosemary had to admit it was an ingenious way of disguising while also advertising an establishment serving illegal booze.

Illegal booze, indeed! She silently thanked whoever had ensured the continued sale of alcohol back home. Having heard tales of the stuff served in American speakeasies—drinks strong enough to render a seasoned sailor positively blotto—Rosemary wasn’t quite as thrilled as Desmond to experience such atrocities for herself. A nice flowery gin or a smooth brandy was more her speed.

Desmond forged ahead and then took a sharp right, disappearing behind a thick swath of vines. When Rosemary, Vera, and Frederick caught up, they realized he’d ducked into an entrance vestibule hidden behind the foliage. Inside, he ignored a set of double doors emblazoned with the shop’s name and instead turned to face a blank wall to the left. While his friends looked on with bated breath, Desmond’s fingers searched the trim capping off the wainscoting until he found what he was looking for.

“Here it is,” he said excitedly, gesturing for everyone to look closer. A knot in the wood featured a tiny carving of a door. “Isn’t it clever? Right in plain sight, but you’d never know it, would you?”

“Positively genius!” Frederick exclaimed, his eyes sparkling.

When Desmond pressed the knot, the wall popped open to reveal a narrow corridor and a steep set of wooden stairs. Even Vera appeared amused, commenting, “The lengths I’ll go for a G&T,” shaking her head as she climbed.

The banister pulsed rhythmically beneath Rosemary’s fingers, and her ears strained to find the source of the vibration. At the top of the stairs, Desmond knocked on a wildly crooked door that featured a miniature version of itself set at face height. When the smaller one whipped open and a pair of eyes appraised the foursome, even Desmond was taken aback. The noise of the party wafted through, finally reconciling with the thrumming of the bass and coalescing into a zippy jazz tune.

“What’s the password?” the man demanded. He was barely more than a boy, Rosemary realized after catching a glimpse of the rest of his face.

“Oh, uh,” Desmond stuttered. “I’m a friend of Imogene’s.”

The young man snorted and said, “Like I ain’t heard that one a thousand times.” He made to slam the door, but Desmond interrupted.

“You’re Zeke, aren’t you?” he asked, and when it didn’t appear as though this knowledge was any more convincing than the mention of Imogene, Desmond added, “You’re the one who was framed for Tillie’s murder.” Evidently, that wasn’t quite as common knowledge as the young man’s name because he hesitated. “Tell her Desmond and his British friends are here. We’re expected.”

Rosemary thought perhaps Desmond had overplayed his hand when the small door slammed shut with a resounding clang, but a moment later, the big one swung open, and they were all allowed inside. Zeke made a show of thoroughly checking the stairwell before closing the door behind them.

It didn’t take more than a cursory glance before Rosemary realized what Desmond had found so appealing during his previous visit—and why he had been so eager to return. He was one of the good ones, but he was still a man, and the doe-eyed cigarette girls clad in scandalously short skirts would have been enough to hold his interest.

Rosemary, however, was a tad more discerning. She noted the U-shaped cherrywood bar, finding the use of teacups instead of glasses rather charming if somewhat impractical, and appreciated the amount of work that had gone into treating all the mismatched tables and chairs with thick, shining black paint. To her chagrin, Imogene had excellent taste in decor, if not in men, and the collection of oddities lining the walls were a case in point.

She didn’t have much time to linger over them because when the music stopped, the lights dimmed, and the barkeep—a woman with an arm entirely covered in tattoo ink—hiked up her skirt and climbed up on top of the bar. Conversation petered out, and the room grew marginally quieter as she began to speak.

“As you all well know,” the barkeep intoned theatrically, “this place—the Red Door—exists outside the cruel confines of the law!” The drums banged, and the crowd roared.

“It’s here because we refuse to submit to our oppressors—to the Volsteadian ideals that have been forced down our throats when what we want is to sate them with wine and French 75s!” Another hurrah rent the air.

“But, ladies and gentlemen, tonight—” a long, dramatic pause, “tonight, we have an interloper in our midst!” The drums beat in time with Rosemary’s heart, and the room seemed to pulse.

“A teetotaler—a flat tire—an utter fire extinguisher! There—”

From somewhere behind the bar, a light beamed into the crowd, searching for a moment before coming to land on Desmond. Rosemary stared, amused, as a woman stepped out of the crowd to face her friend. For a long moment, Desmond appeared utterly flabbergasted, and then a slow smile spread across his face.

The woman wore knee-high boots and a flippy skirt that turned to fringe at mid-thigh. Crimson lips complemented a halo of strawberry-blond hair styled into a wild tangle of curls. Freckles danced across a dainty nose to contrast sharply with dark, steely eyes bordered by faint laugh lines.

She reached into her bootleg, pulled out a pistol, and waved it around, “You know what we do with wet blankets around here, don’t you?” she demanded. “What do we do with them, folks?”

“We light ’em up!” the crowd answered in a roar.

The woman cocked the pistol. “If you say so,” she said and, with a shrug, squeezed the trigger.