Diana and the Three Behrs

By Fleeta Cunningham

Diana Woods, a thoroughly modern woman of the 1920s, is thrilled to begin a secretarial job helping visiting professors research the Wild West days of Fort Worth, Texas. Things heat up when she and two of the profs witness the speakeasy abduction of a prominent citizen and realize they could be next. The group hits the road to escape danger, and the professors send Diana to safety in the hometown of their former student Adler Behr, a grouchy banker who has no use for modern women and whose temperament resembles his bear namesake. As Diana schools Adler in the allure of her twentieth-century skills, danger is never far behind. Adler learns that his future lies in the hands of a woman who can do more than cook and darn socks, and Diana finds even a grumpy Behr has a softer side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781509218592

Fleeta Cunningham

A fifth generation Texan, Fleeta Cunningham has lived her entire life in Texas, both small towns and big cities. Drawing on all of them, she writes about the unique character--and characters--of the southern states. After a career as a law librarian for a major Texas law firm, writing a monthly column for a professional newsletter and other legal publications, she returned to her home in Central Texas to write full time. Fleeta has been writing in one form or another since the age of eight. When she isn't writing, she teaches creative writing classes, makes quilts, and designs miniature gowns for her huge collection of fashion dolls.

Book preview

Inc.

"Modern women. A flock of guinea hens,

most of them, trying to play a man’s role in a man’s world. He glared at Diana, then shrugged. As you said, Archibald, it’s your project. Do as you like. He snorted. Flappers. He picked up his hat and turned to go. I suppose hiring a woman would save you some money, at least. You wouldn’t have to pay her as much," he added over his shoulder.

Diana cleared her throat. Excuse me? I know it’s common to pay less to a woman, but does that seem reasonable? She drew herself to her full five feet four inches. Do you think my boarding house charges me less because I’m a woman? Does the streetcar that takes me to work discount my fare because I’m wearing a skirt? Does the little café where I sometimes get dinner cut the price of the blue plate special for the women who eat there? Gentlemen, I work in order to live, and my expenses are no less than a man’s.

The Horned Owl glared again. Then go home to your family. Isn’t that where a young woman should be until she marries? Not trying to compete with men who have households to support.

Of all the obstinate, old-fashioned attitudes! This is 1925, not 1825, sir. A good many women have been working, making their own way, since the war, and doing pretty well at it.

Praise for Fleeta Cunningham

"It has been a very long time since I read a Western/Historical Romance as well-written and enjoyable as MALE-ORDER CATALOGUE. And despite the amusing title, the book is not a romantic comedy; there’s serious romance, mystery, and suspense along the way."

~Sensuous Reviews

~*~

I enjoyed the wit and lightheartedness of this story and am hoping to learn more about Matt and Lavinia. This is a great read…a small town feel, lots of chuckles throughout.

~Coffeetime Romance

~*~

Well-crafted story… exciting plot… interesting characters.

~The Romance Studio (5 Stars)

~*~

"COWBOY AFTER FIVE is wonderful, absorbing, and tender. Love the character development of all protagonists. I cried through the last chapter…."

~T. Noel Osborn, PhD

Diana and

the Three Behrs

by

Fleeta Cunningham

Flapper Follies, Book One

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

Diana and the Three Behrs

COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Fleeta Cunningham

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Vintage Rose Edition, 2018

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1858-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1859-2

Flapper Follies, Book One

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Kayleigh, my Millennial New Woman,

and all the wonderful adventures ahead.

Oh, to be 23 and on the brink of life.

Love you, Tutu

Please Note: A glossary of 1920s slang has been included at the end of the book in case some of the words and phrases used in the story are puzzling.

Chapter 1

Interrogated by a parliament of owls? Diana Woods regarded the eight sets of eyes, all but one framed by some sort of spectacles, and drew a long breath. The broad-shouldered gent at the end of the table focused on her, his sharp, hooded eyes conveying the notion he could see quivering prey a mile away. That one could pass for a Great Horned Owl looking over his territory for a plump rabbit within range. Not this little bunny, sir. I’m not scurrying off into the woods to hide. I need this job.

Gentlemen, I believe your advertisement indicated you were in need of a competent secretary. I come with excellent references. I can do forty-five words a minute on my machine. I take dictation at ninety-five words a minute. I am familiar with academic citation and manuscript requirements. For the last three years, I’ve been teaching typewriting, shorthand, and office skills at the Bradford School for Young Ladies. I believe I meet your qualifications.

The Great Horned Owl—his name escaped her, but he was the only one without glasses—glared down, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "The advertisement specified a male secretary." Swoop! "You certainly don’t meet that qualification." Snatch!

One of the round, gray, quiet ones, the bald one at the end of the table, shifted in his chair and raised an interrupting hand. Now, Adler, really. This isn’t your decision, you know. While we appreciate your help placing that advertisement for us, we do need to be flexible. We hadn’t considered it, but there’s no reason we can’t use a young lady. A wave of murmurs flowed around the room. We haven’t had a man answer the advertisement, not one, and our time is short. We must get on with the project. We’ll give Miss… He looked down at the neatly typed sheet in front of him. Yes, let’s give Miss Woods a trial, at least. He pushed back from the table. We aren’t getting anywhere recording our findings or organizing our notes by ourselves. She can scarcely do worse than we’re doing on our own.

That little barn owl has more authority than I thought. The others are nodding.

We must get on with it, another concurred.

My thoughts, exactly, a third echoed.

The Horned Owl shrugged. Modern women. A flock of guinea hens, most of them, trying to play a man’s role in a man’s world. He glared at Diana, then shrugged. "As you said, Archibald, it’s your project. Do as you like. He snorted. Flappers. He picked up his hat and turned to go. I suppose hiring a woman would save you some money, at least. You wouldn’t have to pay her as much," he added over his shoulder.

Diana cleared her throat. Excuse me? I know it’s common to pay less to a woman, but does that seem reasonable? She drew herself to her full five feet four inches. Do you think my boarding house charges me less because I’m a woman? Does the streetcar that takes me to work discount my fare because I’m wearing a skirt? Does the little café where I sometimes get dinner cut the price of the blue plate special for the women who eat there? Gentlemen, I work in order to live, and my expenses are no less than a man’s.

The Horned Owl glared again. Then go home to your family. Isn’t that where a young woman should be until she marries? Not trying to compete with men who have households to support.

Of all the obstinate, old-fashioned attitudes! This is 1925, not 1825, sir. A good many women have been working, making their own way since the war, and doing pretty well at it. She drew a short breath. As it happens, my only family is my sister. We have no one else. If we don’t work, we don’t eat. A simple matter of survival.

He looked back at the older man, apparently dismissing her response. As you said, Archibald, this is really not my concern, and you do need help immediately. I’d look a bit more before deciding, but I do have meetings to attend, so I must go. The banking commission expects me this morning. Gentlemen, I’ve done what I can for your project. The rest is up to you. I’ll see you for dinner. He looked back at Diana. As for you, Miss Woods, if they choose to employ you, I trust you’ll give the professors no reason to regret their choice.

I’ll certainly do my best, Mister… The name still escaped her.

Behr, Adler Behr, Miss Woods. I certainly hope you’re better at organizing the professors’ notes than you are at recalling names. He glanced at the other men in the room, shook his head, and turned away, marching out of the room with rigid back, leaving them to their folly.

The plump, balding man came around the table. Never mind Adler, Miss Woods. He’s a bit gruff, but once you know him, you’ll find he’s the finest kind of friend. He was a big help, posting the advertisement for us, but choosing the person to fill the position is our responsibility. He glanced at his colleagues. Getting all of us straight is a bit of a chore, isn’t it? Let me give you a better introduction and some idea of what we’re working on. I’m Dr. Pearce. Archibald Pearce. I work with Professor Simon Getty and Dr. Harold Holmes. They’re the two taking up residence in the armchairs. We study cultural influences, those customs and manners that come into common social use from the waves of immigration. The two rotund, graying, older men, enough alike to be brothers, though one used a cane, relinquished their comfort, came forward, and shook her hand.

Glad to have you, Miss Woods.

Kind of you to help us out.

With a quick press of her hand from each, they retreated to their chairs.

That’s Abelard Withers. Pearce nodded toward a pale man with dark rings beneath his eyes. The self-effacing shadow in charcoal beside the window poured coffee and passed the cup to a ramrod-straight figure in a stiff collar and tight blue suit seated at the desk beside him. Dr. Cairncross King. King is specializing in linguistics. That is, he’s studying the way our English language is changing as our society changes. Mr. Withers is his assistant. Pearce drew her toward a stooped figure in a baggy tweed suit liberally dusted with pipe ash. Then we have our historian, Dr. Junius Elmsford. He’s attempting to get verbatim accounts from the few people still living who remember how civilization came to the West.

Diana hid a smile to offer the local viewpoint. Here in Fort Worth you’ll find a number of people who will insist we’re still not all that civilized. She, herself, often found the city raw and unruly.

The elderly man looked up as if suddenly realizing Pearce had been speaking of him. He removed his glasses to polish them on a white handkerchief and offered another thought. More homogeneous than I’d expected, however. I’m hoping to find some of the people who recall the days when Fort Worth really was the gateway to the West. Perhaps they’ll be willing to tell me what went on, what they witnessed and experienced, especially in the area called—forgive the language—Hell’s Half Acre.

Diana shook her head at his suggestion. Dr. Elmsford, a good many of those people are still living, of course, but getting them to talk about what happened during that time might be difficult. Sometimes people feel a little too vulnerable. Some of their experiences may have been a good bit outside the law. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?

A quiet chuckle behind her interrupted. Diana turned to see yet another owl, one she hadn’t actually met before, though she’d been vaguely aware of his presence. He came toward her, the afternoon light glinting on his round, wire-rimmed glasses.

Oh, El has his own little hobby horse, Miss Woods. El has an absolute fixation on the Wild Bunch. He wants to know exactly what happened in this town when Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were here, before they hightailed it to South America.

Diana took a second look at the man coming from the other end of the room. Younger, better looking in spite of his glasses, and certainly more intriguing than his colleagues. He held out a hand.

Charles Chapman Carpenter III, Miss Woods, commonly called Trey, for obvious reasons. Happy to have you along for the ride. I drive, fetch and carry, and try to keep the boys out of trouble on their summer jaunts. The rest of the year I’m a lowly instructor of English lit at Havilland College near Philadelphia. If you need anything, from a newspaper to a jail break, I’m your man.

I certainly don’t plan to break jail, but I’ll remember the offer. She found it easy to respond to his breezy introduction. She looked back at the stooped professor, Dr. Elmsford, and felt her smile widening. An aging professor romanticizing that gang of outlaws? She did her best to quash laughter that tried to bubble free along with her words. The Wild Bunch? They were here, of course. Local pride demands we claim them, but unfortunately they never did anything remotely noteworthy. Not like other places. No trains robbed, no banks held up. All they did was get their picture made, like a lot of other visitors. That picture got most of them sent to jail, eventually, but they didn’t commit any of their holdups here.

Elmsford nodded. I know that. Still, they were here. They lived somewhere, they went around town, and people knew who they were. They had some reason for coming here. Surely somebody here can tell me about that. She heard a note in his voice like that of a small boy about to be deprived of a promised treat.

I hate to tell him how unlikely that is. It was 1901, twenty-four years ago. Anyone who knew them will be getting on in years. I don’t expect you’ll find too many who will have much to say about Butch Cassidy and his friends. They aren’t forthcoming with what they know.

The man who called himself Trey shrugged. Miss Woods, we’ve all tried to talk to El about this fantasy of his, but he won’t move off the subject. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were here, and El is certain somebody will talk about the reason they came. I suppose we can be relieved he’s the only one pursuing that topic. Thankfully, the others are researching areas with less inherent drama. They just want to track current customs and language that have been influenced by the cowboys, gamblers, and their ladies during the early years. Investigate the scene, as it were, and report the lingering results.

Even that’s not a small project, Diana suggested. Hell’s Half Acre was real, it was wide open, and it wasn’t a place decent people admitted visiting or knowing anything about. It’s gone now. Reform and religion have pretty well tamed Fort Worth in the last twenty years. What wasn’t closed down completely went into hiding in dark corners of the town. Nothing of those days, well, not much anyway, survived Prohibition. Nothing but places like Tommy Gunn’s, and I can’t see seven owlish professors going there. They won’t know to look for it unless somebody actually tells them. For certain, I won’t be the one to suggest they explore it.

Pearce shrugged and gave her a fatherly smile. We’ve run into roadblocks before, Miss Woods, and somehow we’ve found ways around them. I’m quite positive we can find someone who will talk about the cattle drives that ended here and the men who made those drives. King is convinced the cowboy brought new words, or adapted terms, to explain his world, words that are still part of the language. Getty and Holmes agree with me that the Wild West influenced life in this country in ways we haven’t begun to appreciate. We want to study those effects. Even if Elmsford doesn’t find the connection to the Wild Bunch he thinks is here, he should find artifacts and documents to give him material for another look at modern history. You’ll help us collate and organize our findings. In that way, we will all gain from the investigation each one initiates. The final report will be a combination of everything we learn.

My shorthand and typewriting will help you put everything together?

Trey laughed. Your job at this point is to make your typewriting machine pour out concise versions of their ramblings, take notes of their morning discussions, and try to pull some kind of organization out of their individual passions. He waved at the other six men in the room. Each one of us thinks his project is the most important, the central point of the study. While they’re arguing, Holmes will keep explaining that he’s the only one who really understands the nuances of social change. El will come up with involved, complex reasons for the Wild Bunch to come here. King will issue directives, and Withers will scuttle around trying to clarify King’s ever-more-complicated instructions. I will diligently try to keep all of them from blundering into places where they could either start a riot or find themselves facing an irate judge. I suggest each morning you barricade yourself behind a locked door and ignore any noisy discussions coming from the other side. Academic deliberations can be mistaken for a full-scale brawl at times.

Diana studied the scholarly faces looking toward her. Professors all, and barring Trey, none of them under fifty. Fairly harmless academics. Trey was just trying to put her at ease and add a little lightness to the moment, she assured herself. I’ll take a chance on them.

Trey grinned, his smile lighting up his dark eyes. You were warned, Miss Woods. Like Fort Worth, they’re not as civilized as they seem.

****

You have a job for a month or so? What this bunch of owlish professors is going to pay you will make up for the school closing for the summer? Well done, little sister. Pamina, her bright kimono spilling over the sofa where she’d sprawled earlier, clapped her hands in approval. That means you could take the rest of the summer off. What riches!

Diana pulled off her cloche hat, kicked off her shoes, and sank back into the shabby armchair. It does sound sinfully lazy, doesn’t it? When Miss Bradford told me we wouldn’t be holding classes this summer, I was terrified. No salary for two months? That’s courting disaster. She unfastened the pins holding her neat blonde chignon at the nape of her neck and let her hair cascade freely down her back. I almost didn’t try for the job listed in the advertisement this morning. It did say they were looking for a man. Then I thought, how many men are going to want such a short-term post? In addition, how many have experience with academic requirements? So I went.

And got it, did you? Pamina sat up and patted the marcelled waves of her bobbed red hair to be certain they were still in place. Even with your references and training, that took nerve, going to apply when they were asking for a man.

At first I thought they were going to turn me away without even looking at my qualifications. There was this one man, not one of the professors—I’m not certain exactly why he was there except he placed the ad—who tried to put them off, telling them a woman would be flighty and undependable. Snarled something about ‘flappers’ like he thought the word was obscene. When he saw they really might take me on, he suggested they could pay me less because I wasn’t a man. The professors, bless their little owl heads, apparently didn’t agree. I start tomorrow with an assortment of elderly gentlemen who are meandering through Fort Worth, looking for the essence of all things Cowboy. All except the historian, who seems to be enamored of train holdups and bank robbers.

Well, you should be safe enough, even in a hotel room, with seven aging eggheads.

Diana had to admit she’d been concerned about the location. When I saw they really had taken a hotel room for their office, it worried me. Such an unconventional place. And seven of them. I felt a little…oh, apprehensive, I guess. Then I met those perfectly harmless professors. She hesitated. Actually only six of them are certifiably innocent. One of them, the one they call Trey, might not be so wooly and mild. He’s kind of a funny bird, as owlish as the rest, but he’s a long way from aged. Maybe mid-thirties, handsome as sin—though the cheaters don’t do much for him—but he shows signs of being a live wire. I’d bet he’s not immune to the female of the species.

Pamina perked up, blue eyes brighter. Sounds like he might make your days more interesting. What about the other one, the fuddy-duddy who thinks women belong in the kitchen, not the office? Does he come with the rest of the set?

The Horned Owl? He’s not a professor, but he seems to be attached to them some way. Diana tried again to remember his name and failed. Not old. Trey’s age, I’d guess. He’s so full of hooting and tooting, I really didn’t notice anything else about him. Big man, well over six feet, and broad in the chest. Brown hair that’s more light than dark. Sharp gray eyes that I swear could read the date on a nickel at fifty feet. Bristly eyebrows. That’s all.

But nothing worth noticing? Seems to me you noticed quite a lot about Mr. Horned Owl.

Not really. He’s like a big bump in the road. You see it, but you go around it and get on with where you’re going. Diana waved away the image. I have to tell you about their project, the reason they need me. They’re professors of various subjects, and they all have different interests, ivory tower interests that probably only get attention from other professors. Every summer they choose some kind of topic they can all examine and then write a joint paper. As I said, this year’s topic, if you can imagine anything less scholarly, is Hell’s Half Acre. Cowboys, gamblers, and, I guess, saloons and outlaws.

Learned professors playing Cowboys-and-Indians? Pamina giggled.

That’s about it. They want to talk to some old timers, write down their stories, and develop theories about what impact the time of the Cowboy and the wild days of the Half Acre had on life today. Diana stopped. Well, that’s mainly what they’re doing. One of them, this Elmsford, has a little different idea. He wants to track down anybody who knew Butch Cassidy and his gang. Wants to know why the Wild Bunch came here and what they did. He thinks there’s some unknown reason they came but never committed a single robbery here.

Pamina nodded. There’s a story in that question. I’d bet on it. Her gaze sharpened. You know, we could help him, your professor.

Pam, I know what you’re thinking. Forget it. I’m not telling those doddery, innocent owls about Tommy Gunn’s place. Not a chance. They might find useful information, sure, but then they might find something else. It’s not just a speakeasy. It’s the place where every lowdown palooka and snake charmer can find a patsy. More than a gin mill. Most every crime in town has some kind of connection to Tommy Gunn. I’m not pointing my nice little owls that direction. Let them find their sources somewhere else.

Di, it’s not that bad. I’ve been there, and I came home in one piece. Pamina hunched forward on the sofa, her eyes narrowed. Diana knew that look. Just think, if they did find somebody who would talk about the old days, about Butch Cassidy and his ilk, I might pick up something I could use, too. All it would take would be one good story to get me off the agony desk and into real reporting.

No! Diana could see the wheels turning in her sister’s mind. I’m all for you getting somewhere on the newspaper. You can cover murderers and bootleggers and gun molls all you want, but you’re not getting me or my professors into it.

Head tilted, eyes bright, Pamina had a little smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. There’s a bartender at Tommy’s. Old as dirt, but sharp. Poured drinks at…let me think, one of the places in the Half Acre. Bet he’d know something. Or know somebody who does.

Pam, I’m telling you. I’m not going to suggest it to the professors. You know what happens out there, what kind of people they are.

Okay, Di. We’ll leave it for now. But if your downy owls get stuck for information, just remember, I know people, reporters and their friends, who can get us in. She rose and started for the wardrobe in the corner as she unfastened her kimono. Come on, dear. Put your shoes on, put your hairpins back, grab your hat, and let’s see if we can find dinner that doesn’t come from a boarding house. I got paid today, so it’s on me. She slipped out of her robe and reached for the dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Maybe we can think of some places your professors can safely find what they’re looking for. I still might get a story out of it.

Chapter 2

Still at your post, Miss Woods? Isn’t it time for lunch or some little errand?

Diana kept her tone as sweetly snide as her visitor’s. Come to interrupt the professors again, Mr. Behr? Too bad. They haven’t come back yet. Dr. King met someone he wanted them to interview. Diana still thought of him as a Horned Owl, though she’d managed to remember his name at last. During the week she’d been working with the scholarly group, Adler Behr had dropped by at least once a day—usually, like today, at a most inconvenient moment.

Trey and I are having lunch. He put his hat on the table and settled into the armchair near the window. He’s expecting me. I’ll wait till he’s back.

He’ll be a while. The professors had barely started their morning dispute when Dr. King called them away. Diana turned back to her typewriter and began translating her notes into more coherent sentences. Even with her back to him, she felt his gaze. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she stubbornly refused to let him distract her.

You are quite proficient with that machine. We’ve talked about getting one for the office at my bank, but I don’t think my staff would be interested in using one. Never touched one of the things myself.

She heard his steps on the polished floor and felt him standing beside her. She continued her work for a moment, but Behr didn’t seem to understand that he was being ignored.

You aren’t even looking at the keys.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him lean over the table beside her, his long fingers jostling her notes. Enough! She turned to glare up at him.

"I use the touch method, Mr. Behr, as do most professional typewriters. We learn where the keys are and which finger should stroke which key for efficiency. After a good bit of practice, we can copy long documents very quickly with minimal errors."

What is that you’re working from? Those curls and hooks? Your own code?

No, it’s Gregg shorthand, a standardized form for taking dictation. It enables me to take down verbatim conversation or meetings at the speed of normal speech. Nothing is lost or misquoted. It’s quite helpful to the professors when they are…discussing…their various points of view. When he didn’t answer, she turned back to her work. If you don’t mind, I’ll get on with it. I’m certain Dr. Carpenter will be back and join you as soon as they finish their interview. She turned the page of notes and skimmed them, then resumed copying as if he weren’t standing within an arm’s reach.

What were they planning to discuss today? Before King found more interesting prey?

I believe the topic was the men who made trail drives, how they lived on the trail, and what made them do it. The celebration at the end of the drive has been a topic much discussed.

They should come out to my part of the state to meet some of the drovers who actually made those drives and lived that life. They’ll find more of the old timers out there than here in the city. He stepped back. I’ll suggest that to Trey. Remind him that a good many of them are still working cowboys, even if the long cattle drives are in the past.

Surprised that Behr had made such a positive suggestion, Diana turned aside from her work. That seems like a very sensible idea. They would get a different concept, a more realistic view, if they spoke to some of the men who lived, or perhaps are still living, the cowboy life. This is the first time I’ve had an actual conversation with this man. He’s almost pleasant when he’s not treating everybody as a subordinate. I hadn’t realized Fort Worth isn’t your home. What part of the state do you come from? Ranching country?

"Small town about a hundred miles from San Antonio, one of the German settlements that sprang up fifty to seventy years ago. Little town of Pfeiffer. My family is in the banking business. That’s why I’ve been here this week. The banking commission had its annual meeting here and asked me to talk to them about the concerns and needs of the small town private bank. Trey is an old friend; he wrote me about the plans he and the fellows were making for their annual migration. They had latched onto the idea of examining traces of the Old West as their project. I suggested they start here, in what used to be the gate to the West. Since I was going to be here for several days, their visit would give me time to catch up with Trey. While they’ll likely find a good bit of information here, I think in a few weeks they plan to move on to San Antonio to look at the Mexican influence, the origin of the vaquero. I’ll suggest, if