Essie was in a daze. She kept ahold of my collar, dragged me down stairs to the Bentley, drove me at breakneck speed down to the club and ushered me into Dalia’s dressing room.

“Get to work,” she said. “Find a clue or something.”

I was barefoot and still in my pajamas but I dared not cross Essie. When I had fallen on hard times the let me rent a space in her building for the Ruben Bernbaum Detective Agency and never said a word about me sleeping there. She got me work, helped me get back on my feet and let me move my office to the mansion after she inherited Lady Gladys’ mansion. I was never completely sure if she had set me up to help her acquire Lady Gladys millions. But I was appreciative just the same. Now Essie needed me and I was going to do all I could to help.

I took a long look around Dalia’s dressing room. There were no signs of a struggle and everything seemed to be in order. I thumbed through a stack of unsigned contracts for movies, appearances and tours that were piled on her make up table.

“If Dalia’s manager has his way she’ll be working non-stop for the next five years and make him a fortune,” I said to Essie who was wringing her meaty, but well manicured hands.

“If you don’t bring her back unharmed her manager will sue me for everything I have to get that money back,” Essie groaned.

She explained how she and Dalia’s manager Frank Dupree searched the nightclub after her debut performance that night and couldn’t find her. Dupree was even more ruthless when it came to business than Essie. He reminded her how the two of them had signed young Luvonia Johnson to an illegal contract when she was still underage. They changed her name to Dalia Blue, gave her a glamorous makeover and kept the bulk of the profits from her grueling performance schedule and led her to believe she was paying them back for costume costs and performance hall rentals. Although their scheming had turned Dalia into a very rich young woman, Essie had grown rich by exploiting her naivete in the early years of her career. She tried to justify her actions by emphasizing how well things had turned out for Dalia’s finances. But she knew what she did had robbed the girl of her teen years, ripped her from her friends and family and forced her into a life where she was lonely, exploited and under the total control of her greedy manager Dupree. If Dalia wasn’t back in time to complete her performance dates and get back on tour, Dupree threatened to expose Essie and take her for all she was worth. He told her no one would believe a shady black nightclub owner over a powerful white man in the entertainment industry. Dupree said If the powers that be in Savannah hadn’t been able to strip Essie of her businesses and Lady Gladys’ fortune before, they’d certainly find a way once her shady business practices were exposed. Essie knew he was right. So she dragged me over to the club and put me on the case before anyone else noticed Dalia was missing. But Essie was clearly bothered about something far more precious to her than her money and reputation. She was worried about Dalia’s safety. Dalia seemed to have been whisked away without a trace. The evening gown and designer shoes she performed in were neatly laid out on the dressing table. All of her jewels, furs and fine clothes were still neatly packed away in the dressing room. Nothing of value had been taken. The only thing unusual was a half eaten tray of Chef’s ham sandwiches. Who could possibly eat that many of those horrible things without getting violently ill. Essie knocked the tray of ultra stale snacks to the floor.

“Find me a clue!” she shouted.

I was shocked into action by Essie’s desperation. I began to search Dalia’s dressing area, which looked more like a florist shop. There were dozens upon dozens of roses and expensive gifts from adoring fans hoping she’d accept an invitation to dinner, sing at their daughter’s wedding or just let them backstage for an autograph session. But the most expensive items - a mink stole, long stem red roses in imported crystal vases, diamond earrings and handmade chocolates in velvet-covered boxes - were from the same person; Joseph T. Carter, Jr., he was son of Savannah’s most prominent and vocal persons of color - black bank president Joseph T. Carter, Sr. was his father. His mother was Evelyn Carter - Savannah’s number one prude from the Black Baptist Women’s Association. In the waste paper basket, beneath scraps of ham and bread crust, was a letter on stationery with the monogram JTC. The letter had been ripped in half and crumpled up. But the message was unmistakable.

It read, “Lovely Miss Blue, I secretly admired you when you were just a girl in the church choir. But now that you have grown into a beautiful and talented woman I find you irresistible. I cannot stand to share you with your throngs of longing fans. I want to take you away from the pressures of stardom and the loneliness of the road. I can provide you with all of the riches you desire and I will adore you more than an audience of thousands. All my love, Joseph.”

“Well, well, well,” I said. “I bet Sister Carter would bust a seam on her Bible if she knew what sonny boy was spending all her respectable money on.”

Essie frowned.

“She’d have to come down here with the entire usher board and the senior choir too in order to snatch Dalia out of here without a fight,” Essie said. “That girl might look like a million bucks now that she’s famous, but she was a Frog Town roughneck when she first started out. She knew how much the so called black elite like Evelyn Carter hated seeing her nappy head sing in the choir back then and she’d sho’ enough slap the mess out of her if she had bust up in her dressing room tonight.”

But I wasn’t so quick to dismiss the church lady. She had become very angry over the last few weeks as black and white society grew increasingly accepting of Essie and her nightclub friends. I could see Mrs. Carter snapping if she found out her son was infatuated with a nightclub singer from the worst part of the wrong side of the tracks. I was also eager to speak with her lovesick son. He could be a crazed fan who had her locked away somewhere he could keep her all to himself. And what about Dupree? Maybe Dalia told him she was going to give it all up for the banker’s son and he lashed out at the thought of losing all that money?

As I searched and pondered under Essie’s desperate and watchful eyes, Chef entered the dressing room. He was so startled to see someone there he dropped the large suitcase he was carrying.

“What in the world are you two doing in here?” Chef shouted, “You scared me half to death.”

“What in the world are you doing in my nightclub at this time of morning Bozier?” Essie shot back.

Bozier pushed his puffy chef’s hat to the back of his head, took a deep breath and started picking up the stale sandwiches Essie had knocked to the ground earlier.

“Uh, well; I, uh, came to pick up my trays and take the leftovers back to my restaurant so I could whip up some of my famous ham sandwich hash before the breakfast crowd arrives this morning,” he said.

I shot Chef a suspicious look.

“You came to pick up trays in a suitcase?” I asked.

Chef took another deep breath, wiped sweat from his brow and giggled nervously.

“Naw,” he chuckled. “I came to pick up the trays with my hands. I planned to put some of these expensive gifts in the suitcase.”

Essie threw a scrap of ham sandwich at Chef and knocked his hat the rest of the way off his head.

“Don’t judge me,” he said. These crazy love sick fools have piled up presents from floor to ceiling. Dalia Blue wasn’t going to miss half this mess. She was either going to give it away or throw it away. So you could say I was just helping to clean things up.”

“Get your trays and get yourself outta here,” Essie shouted.

Chef, who under normal circumstances would have smooth talked his way into a fur coat or two, didn’t attempt to test Essie’s nerves any further. He grabbed a silver tray and made a quick exit.

“Come on Essie,” I said. “We’re wasting time here. Let’s go see what we can find out from the banker’s son and the church lady.”