Once I did, I took in another, deeper breath and flipped to the S’s.

There was no listing and I found that unsurprising.

Then it occurred to me and I flipped back to the J’s.

One page from mine, there it was. Jake and a number.

I stared at the number for some time before I made my decision.

I moved to the butcher block to get my phone from my purse. I went back to the address book and programmed his number into my phone.

But I didn’t use it.

What had to be said, and done, needed to be face-to-face.

Therefore, I moved to the drawer where Gran kept the phonebook.

I flipped through the pages at the back that were printed on thin yellow paper, not knowing what I was looking for.

Then I found what I was looking for.

One listing with the bold heading Exotic Dancers.

It had a phone number and address.

I ripped the page out of the book, replaced the book in the drawer, folded the page and tucked it in the back pocket of my jeans.

That done, I moved to the spiral staircase to go to the light room so I could find Gran’s safety deposit box key.

* * * * *

I sat in the dark parking lot staring at the building.

There were no windows in the building. However, the parking lot was well-lit.

And almost completely full.

The sign out front said the establishment was called “The Circus.” This sign was surprisingly quite tasteful, black with blue scrolled letters. No flashing lights or neon and there was only one on the front of the building, not even one on a big stand protruding out into the street.

The building was a lone building in the middle of nowhere, the parking lot large. But there were no weeds growing through cracks. The black paint with gray trim of the building was clean, looking fresh, and expertly done. No graffiti or markings.

The door to enter was padded with buttoned black leather. There was a large man standing beside it wearing a blue windbreaker and black trousers. And there were a goodly number of cameras mounted under the eaves. Those, as well as the lighting, making the outside feel safe.

I got out of my car, closed the door and hit the button on the key fob, hearing the beep. I did this wondering if I should have changed clothes.

I’d never been to a strip club. I had no idea what to wear.

I’d decided not to change from what I’d worn that day to the market, and while stripping Gran’s bed, doing Gran’s laundry, unpacking my suitcase and emailing Daniel on my phone a variety of reminders of how to take care of Henry.

I was wearing my dark blue bootcut jeans, my well-fashioned eggplant-colored top that had an intricately draping neckline, and my navy blue patent leather Manolo Blahnik pumps. Before leaving, I’d simply refreshed my makeup and perfume, pulled on a well-tailored black Italian leather jacket, and made my way to the address on the phone listing.

At that point, it would have to do.

I walked through the lot and approached the door. When I got close, I noted the man beside it had a twisted wire leading up to his ear.

As I approached, he dipped his chin, murmured, “Ma’am,” and moved, opening the door for me.

He gave no sign he was surprised a woman was entering such a club and I found this interesting, as I found his good manners the same.

I gave him a small smile, walked in and stopped.

This was partly to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was also partly to allow my ears to adjust to the music. But mostly it was in shock.

Like the outside, the inside was clean and well maintained, but more.

There was a large circular stage in the middle on which there were five women dancing. There were shiny silver poles that were not smooth but had spirals formed in them. Off the stage, there were two runways that led back to a wall and across the length of it, these with more poles and dancers.

It was not a surprise that they were not clothed. They had on G-strings and nothing else.

What was a surprise was that they were all very attractive with lovely, toned bodies, a variety of interesting and not-unfashionable (but all very high-heeled) shoes and sandals and all but one had very becoming hair (the one who didn’t had her hair dyed a rather brash red that did nothing for her coloring).

What also was a surprise was that, surrounding the stages, there were rather attractive black padded, semi-circular booths with small round tables in front of them to hold drinks. Further, there were stylish tables and chairs filling the rest of the space with larger booths upholstered in dark blue leather and having larger tables in the middle of them set against the walls not taken up with stage or bar.

And the bar was also very tasteful, fully mirrored at the back but it had cleverly positioned lights shining blue on the bottles and variety of clean, some of them rather chic, glasses on glass shelves. Around the bar were tall, backed, comfortable-looking stools covered in dark blue leather.

And the last surprise was that there were a great number of people there. The club was situated between Magdalene and the town to the north, which was fifteen miles away. As there was only one listing in the phonebook, obviously, if you were looking for this kind of entertainment, this was the only place close you’d find it. Therefore, this perhaps should not have been a surprise.

But it was and it was because it didn’t appear that the place was filled with foul, ill-kempt, lascivious men wearing big coats with their hands in their pockets.

In fact, quite a number of the patrons weren’t paying attention to the dancers but appeared to be there simply to enjoy a drink.

And three of the booths lining the stage were filled with women, all of them wearing varying tiaras with one woman who was strangely sporting a hot pink boa of questionable quality. She was also wearing a tiara but unlike the others, hers had feathers protruding from it and words formed in that proclaimed her proudly as the “Bachelorette.”

How odd.

I moved to the bar and took one of the stools available at the side close to the wall. I put my purse on the bar and waited for the midnight-blue-shirted, black-trouser-wearing, young and quite attractive bartender to make his way to me.

He smiled an easy white smile when he did and asked, “What’ll it be?”

“A Shirley Temple,” I ordered. He blinked. I ignored that and went on, “And I’d like for someone to tell Mr. Spear I’m here, if that’s possible. You can tell him it’s Josephine Malone.”

He stared at me for a moment then asked, “You want a Shirley Temple?”

“Yes, please,” I confirmed. “And for Mr. Spear to be told I’m here, if you don’t mind.”

He studied me another moment before he nodded and moved away. I saw him grab a glass and do things with ice, bottles and the soda gun. I also saw him catch the eye of a large man in the crowd wearing another blue shirt and black trousers.

That man went to the bar. The bartender leaned into him, said something and jerked his head to me. The large man outside the bar glanced at me, nodded and moved away, his hand going to his back pocket to pull out a phone.

The man served me my drink. I paid for it after expressing gratitude and he moved away to an area cordoned off from the rest of the bar by two high, curved silver poles.

It was then I saw the waitress who was waiting there and noted that she, too, was dressed tastefully. I couldn’t see her bottom half but I did see her off-the-shoulder black top that was form-fitting and showed a hint of cleavage but it was far from risqué. She had a black velvet ribbon tied around her neck, her makeup was excellently done from what I could tell with the dim light and she had quite lovely hair.

I sipped my drink and looked through the crowd to see the other waitresses dressed the same. Off-the-shoulder top, velvet ribbon at the throat and this was paired with a slim-fitting, quite short but not vulgar dark blue skirt. Sheer black hose. Very attractive black platform pumps.