The Marshal's Pursuit

by Gina Welborn

  Miss Vaccarelli stopped.

  A hurried couple and their gaggle of children and luggage blocked Frank from her.

  The man shifted his cane to his left hand, took off his hat with his right, and shifted his hat to his left hand, as well. “I think you dropped this,” he said, offering a glove that seemed to come out of nowhere.

  Miss Vaccarelli looked at the man in surprise. “Thank you, but it’s not mine. If you would excuse me, I must be going.”

  “My apologies.” He didn’t move. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

  Her fingers tightened around her hat’s brim. “Why, yes, it—”

  “Leah? Leah Carr?” Frank put in the moment his path was clear.

  She glanced over her shoulder—and in that split second, he’d swear her eyes sparkled in delight upon seeing him. No woman had ever looked at him as if he was her knight in shining armor. She did. More so, he felt like it.

  Then she gasped in a manner fitting her impromptu performance, whirling around to face him. “Frank Marshall?” she said, all sweetness and light. “Good heavens, is it really you?”

  “In the flesh.” He walked to her. “How do you do?”

  “Splendid. And you?”

  He glanced at the stranger and lifted his hat slightly, before returning his attention to Miss Vaccarelli. “What are you doing in New Rochelle?”

  “I’m here to surprise my grandfather.”

  He gave her a taken-aback look. “I thought you two weren’t on speaking terms.”

  She laughed. “That’s why this is a surprise.”

  After she politely wished the whiskered man a good afternoon, Frank walked with her to the door, saying, “We’re celebrating my cousin’s birthday at Besly’s Tavern. Johnny thinks I’m...”

  They continued the meaningless yet friendly chatter all the way out of the building.

  Frank moved to the curbside of the pavement. The trolley bell clanged. He placed a hand on her lower back and nudged her past the commuters home from New York City and waiting to board the trolley. They continued down the covered walkway, passing by the horse-drawn carriages.

  “You handled that well,” he said, looking around to find their ride. “Might I say you know how to not panic.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” answered Miss Vaccarelli with a slight curtsy.

  Ah, there was Norma, sitting in her girlie electric runabout, the first of six automobiles parked at the station. He returned his attention to Miss Vaccarelli, who was now looking around, observing her surroundings, checking to see, as had he, if anyone was following them. She figured out on her own to do that. It rather impressed him. She was clever and teachable, and he liked that—he liked her—more than he ought to.

  A train whistle blew. An engine began to pull away from the station, rolling past them on the left.

  “Confess,” he said over the clackety-clack of the locomotive. “You have a secret life on the stage, don’t you?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but...” She turned enough for him to see the mischievousness in her eyes. “In my acting debut at Grace Church, I played the baby Jesus. Apparently, I captured the essence of ‘no crying he made.’”

  He made his expression grave. “That takes skill, for I know very few babies who don’t excel in wailing. I, myself, was a renowned wailer.”

  Her brows rose. “That sounds exhausting.”

  “My parents said so.”

  “I imagine they would.”

  “My offspring, I fear, will be as vocally endowed.”

  “Their mother will be most appreciative.” Then she shrugged modestly. “Alas, my predilection for silence drew such acclaim that my managers insisted I retire. Once one reaches the pinnacle, the only place to go is down. Or so was reported in the Times in explaining the next Christmas to disgruntled fans why I wasn’t chosen to play a nativity goat.”

  “No,” he protested. He placed a hand over his heart. “A gifted performer’s career cut short before her time. Oh the indignities! I am in despair.”

  * * *

  Malia looked at him, at the lightheartedness brightening his face, and she couldn’t maintain a faux solemnity. She smiled. True, it showed only on her lips, but she felt it—verily felt it—to the tips of her toes. It felt good to laugh, to be merry and silly and absurd, and pretend they were other people. People who didn’t live in fear or pursuit of the mafiosi. She hadn’t laughed since her parents died. She’d buried a part of herself with them, and Giovanni hadn’t minded—or maybe he hadn’t noticed—her grief, her lifelessness. Her facade.

  But this man made her remember what it was like to enjoy life. She didn’t want to lose that again. She didn’t want to return to being dull, dutiful Malia.

  “Well, now,” a female voice broke the companionable silence, “aren’t you two chummy?”

  Malia stopped abruptly and jerked her gaze to a towering woman standing next to a fancy red-wheeled electric automobile. Her black hip-length, three-button coat notched at the lapel, skirt with matching buttons, and white blouse with a necktie and standing collar all appeared expertly tailored. White kid gloves. Small beaded purse with chain handle. Silk rose-topped hat. Whoever she was, because of her abnormal height, her attire could not have come off a rack at B. Altman’s, Macy’s or Gimbels. It most likely was sewn by the exclusive ladies’ tailor at Lord and Taylor.

  Yet for all her femininity and sophistication...

  On her left lapel was a marshal’s badge, an exact replica of the one Mr. Louden had placed in his inner coat pocket moments before they’d stepped outside Special Prosecutor Cady’s office building. Resting at her hip was a holstered gun. Languishing in her eyes was the knowledge and confidence to use it.

  The trolley bell rang again.

  Malia glanced over her shoulder to see it leaving the station.

  “Good to see you, Norma.” Mr. Louden put his hand under Malia’s elbow and assisted her off the curb. He stepped to the vehicle, and Malia followed. Gone was his smile. In its place was the dour marshal expression. “Miss Vaccarelli, this is Miss Norma Hogan, deputy marshal Southern District of New York.”

  They clasped hands, gave them a dropping movement rather than a shake, then let go.

  “It’s very good of you to help us,” Miss Hogan said in a chipper tone.

  Malia nodded since she wasn’t sure of a fitting response, yet it seemed she should at least acknowledge the friendly comment.

  Mr. Louden asked, “Why didn’t Winslow come with you?”

  An awkward pause, then: “Someone called requesting help, so he went.” Miss Hogan snatched a leather-bound notebook off the black padded seat. “Now, then, we need to get you two on your way.” She gave Mr. Louden the notebook. “You will follow my rules of usage. All of them. Properly. To a tee.”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t turn his head to look Malia’s way, or acknowledge Miss Hogan’s comments with a polite nod. Whatever he was thinking distracted him.

  She wasn’t at all certain that was a good thing.

  “Ehrm, Frank,” was all Miss Hogan got out before he said, “Yes, ma’am.” He opened the notebook, eyes scanning the first page. “Oh, come on, Norma. This is beyond what’s necessary. Is this because I told Winslow you think he’s cute?”

  “Winslow is a—” She snatched the booklet back. “You offended Dee Dee on the day I first showed her to you by calling her a ‘woman’s car.’ Even though I love you like a brother—or, at the bare minimum, like the coworker who annoys me the least—I am under no obligation to allow you to borrow her for three weeks outside my parental eye.”

  He looked to Malia. “You’re a woman. Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

  She could. She probably ought to, but in that moment nothing appealed to her less. Who knew a man’s duress
could be so gratifying to watch.

  Malia cringed apologetically even though she didn’t feel it a bit. “Sorry. Miss Hogan does have a point.”

  “A point?” He uttered one of those I’m-trying-to-be-patient-with-you noises that men utter when they believe they are being patient but any female could tell they had long lost patience. “Norma is a woman, and it’s her automobile. Aught. Tow. Mo. Bill,” he repeated in that patronizing manner while still looking at Malia yet motioning to Miss Hogan to give him back the booklet, which she didn’t.

  “How,” he continued, “is calling something what it is offensive?”

  “I’m a woman,” Miss Hogan said, and one corner of her mouth slid into a wry curve, “and it would be highly offensive for you to call me ‘Woman’ when, in fact, I do have a name.”

  His face screwed up.

  “As Dee Dee does,” Miss Hogan declared.

  A snort escaped Malia’s lips. She covered her mouth with the brim of her hat.

  He glared at her then turned it upon Miss Hogan. “It’s a car, not a person.”

  “It’s quite common to name a horse,” Malia said in Miss Hogan’s defense.

  “That’s not the same,” he answered.

  Miss Hogan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Frank Louden, you are—” She coughed a breath. “Cordelia ‘Dee Dee’ Hogan is not a mere car. She is a Packard Model C runabout with a 183.8 cubic-inch engine capable of producing 12 horsepower and reaching 40 miles per hour. She is the tenth car James Ward Packard produced this year. She has a removable dos-a-dos rear seat, sits atop a 76-inch wheelbase, features an H-pattern gear change and steering wheel and column in a day when most other marques are still using a tiller, and—AND—and, all of her loveliness can be purchased from the factory for only $1,500. Like Eve at creation, she is nothing short of remarkable.”

  Mr. Louden snatched the booklet back. “Fine.”

  Deep dimples appeared on each side of Miss Hogan’s mouth. “Dee Dee’s batteries need proper charging every fifty-seven miles. A second set of charged batteries is in the compartment under the seat, if you need them. However, she prefers the first set to be recharged because she says the backup set doesn’t feel like they fit as well as the first ones do.”

  “Vehicles don’t have feelings,” he muttered. “Or talk.”

  Malia leaned against him and whispered, “You shouldn’t have said that so loudly. I’m sure Dee Dee heard.”

  He gave her a sideways look. “It’s an inanimate object.”

  Malia held a finger up to her lips. “Shh.” Then she looked to Miss Hogan. “When a man hasn’t eaten in hours, his mind...” She grimaced, waved in a circular motion at the air around her forehead and said no more.

  Mr. Louden’s mouth hung open.

  “Understandable,” retorted Miss Hogan. “Now Frank, never—never—never take Dee Dee out for a drive without first ensuring her batteries are fully and properly charged. And it is imperative you charge the batteries after using her.”

  “My brother owns a petromobile,” Malia said in a dry tone. “Between the smell, noise and vibration, it’s quite unpleasant to ride in. I named it Prince Camel.”

  “That’s clever,” Miss Hogan said.

  Mr. Louden regarded her unblinking. “Vehicles don’t need names.”

  Miss Hogan looked as if she was trying not to laugh. And that’s when Malia knew. The man, too much, liked having his own way. A creature of habit, upbringing and prejudices, he was. This was about getting Frank Louden to go above and beyond merely for the sake of making someone he cared about happy.

  “Mr. Louden,” Malia interjected, “while emotions dictate otherwise, need and want are not the same.” She took much pleasure in the fact he appeared at a loss as to how to respond. Emboldened, she said, “I like the way you think, Miss Hogan.”

  “I like you, too, Miss Vaccarelli,” Miss Hogan said. “Keep her alive, Frank, or I will make your life unbearable.”

  Mr. Louden opened his mouth. “You already—”

  And she shushed him. “It’s bad form to air differences.”

  He turned to the next page in the notebook, head shaking, not saying anything.

  Miss Hogan went on, “You will bathe Dee Dee in the morning after each use, using a towel of Egyptian cotton in a clockwise motion to dry her. While it may seem prudent to leave the drying to the sun, kill that thought, for the sun leaves spots.”

  “No woman likes to be spotty,” Malia put in.

  Mr. Louden rolled his eyes.

  Undismayed, Miss Hogan continued on with, “Also, oil her bearings using the specified viscosity, lubricant and amount listed. Her tires must be pumped to one hundred and twenty-five pounds to the square inch, and don’t forget—”

  “Norma,” Mr. Louden cut in, holding the booklet up, “I can read. I’d also like to reach our destination before sunset.”

  A blush stole across her cheeks. “Of course.” She turned to the side and dusted the black leather seat. “Be a good girl. Mommy will see you in three weeks.”

  Whatever Mr. Louden’s thoughts, he didn’t vocalize them. He put his hand under Malia’s elbow and assisted her into the cab. Malia scooted over to the right side. Since the folding hood was up, she wedged the straw hat between her thigh and the side wall. Mr. Louden settled in next to her and started up the car.

  Miss Hogan back-stepped until she found purchase under the covered walkway. “On the rear seat,” she called out, “is a basket with food from Besly’s Tavern.”

  “Excellent.” He shifted into reverse and looked over his shoulder, backing up.

  Malia caught Miss Hogan’s gaze and returned a smug grin. “I’ll ensure he reads and follows the booklet.”

  Miss Hogan waved.

  “You do know how to drive this,” Malia said at a level only Mr. Louden could hear.

  “My grandmother has a Studebaker.”

  “My fears are assuaged.”

  “My pleasure.” He stopped and shifted into first.

  Malia waved at Miss Hogan, who waved back.

  “So, Mr. Louden, what is this Emerald City to which we are headed?” she asked as the car moved from the gravel lot and onto the street, the cobblestones making for bumpy progress.

  “Tuxedo,” he answered.

  Malia’s mouth gaped. His mention of Tuxedo Park was a jest. Had to be. Everyone knew Tuxedo was a colony of ultraexclusive wealthy people who lived in luxurious houses and entertained lavishly. They didn’t welcome outsiders.

  She knew because, back in ’88, Grandfather DeWitt’s quest to purchase land was rebuffed by the Tuxedo Park Association, under the auspices of Pierre Lorillard and his heirs. In retaliation, Grandfather had written a letter to the Times clarifying that Cora Urquhart Brown Potter, Lorillard’s mistress at the time, had originated the brilliant idea, not Lorillard, to turn the useless game park into a playground for his friends and cohorts. Malia’s thirteenth birthday party had been ruined because Grandfather could talk of nothing else except “that philanderer Lorillard.” Even after her debut into Society, Malia had never received an invitation into the community. Even to visit.

  Mr. Louden stopped at the first intersection. A horse-drawn carriage pulled to Malia’s side of the car, bringing with it the aroma of equine and manure. They waited for the pedestrian traffic to cross North Street.

  “Your excitement is intoxicating,” he said.

  “People don’t go into Tuxedo whenever they like. Not even the U.S. Marshal Service has free access.”

  He shrugged as if to say that was no concern of his.

  His action only inflamed her more. In his naive attempt to enter the park, he would humiliate them both. She had to warn him. She had to make him understand the folly of his actions.

  “Mr. Louden, that eight-foot barbed w
ire fence around the park is there not to keep people in. Eight. Feet,” she stressed. “Barbed wire. Keep out.”

  His frown was evident even though his gaze stayed on the road. “Out?”

  “Yes, as in...we don’t want you in.”

  “Oh. Ooohhh.”

  She smiled—well, smirked—at him. If felt good to be right in something.

  “I can get us in,” he boasted.

  “Were you not listening?”

  “If I remember correctly, my grandparents have a house there and I haven’t been barred from visiting.” He grimaced. “Yet.”

  Grandparents?

  Malia held her breath in shock, in refusal to believe what her ears knew they heard. Her mind, though, shuddered through memories from the day. There was something she’d missed, something she had to remember, something in the law library. That vague memory, the one of Irene introducing Van Wyck Cady and Frank...

  Grahame Louden.

  Malia gasped in air.

  As in, the grandson of the esteemed Charles and Josephine Grahame, who lived on Millionaire’s Row, and second son to Henry and Anne Louden of the Newport Loudens, who repeatedly were mentioned in the society column for their philanthropic and political donations. No wonder Anne Morgan had greeted him so fondly. And the Goulds, for that matter. If Josephine White Grahame was indeed his grandmother, then that made him second cousin twice removed to Lina Schermerhorn Astor. Good thing Malia was already sitting.

  What was she to say? She didn’t know what to say. She had to say something in response. She couldn’t go into Tuxedo. For heaven’s sake, the hem of her dress was more gray than white.

  And then, the moment she noticed her hands trembling, a trolley bell rang a block away. Malia flinched. The horse-drawn carriage turned right onto the paved North Street. Mr. Louden eased the car into the intersection and turned left, shifting into the next gear. It increased speed as it took them north.

  On her right, a darkening sky. On her left, above the trees and buildings, the sun painted streaks of red and pink amid the blue. Wasn’t Tuxedo forty miles from New Rochelle? If they made Tuxedo by sunset, they would be fortunate.