While Grace, Jack, and their magical cool cats, Tatania and Zeus, race to find the guilty saboteurs, a 1920s Dance Marathon could turn deadly.
It was the kind of speakeasy where any woman who said she was alone by choice had credibility. Grace knocked on the door.
A slit in the door partiallly opened and revealed a metal grate.
“What’s the password?” A tipsy voice asked.
“Lucky Lindbergh,” she said.
She walked past men in groups that smelled like champagne and women with sparkling jewelry. And there she was, a magnificent white Persian mix, on a bar stool, paws up, lapping up a bowl of cream on the counter.
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