Glitter and Gold (The Canary Club Novels Book 1)

by Sherry D. Ficklin

For a long while I try to fall asleep, but no matter how hard I try, I just can’t put it out of my mind. JD and his stupid ultimatums. I have a vague, half-dream where I waltz right up to JD and slap him in the face, then tell him exactly what he can do with his father and the rest of those racist pikers. It feels good, in the dream. But even as I luxuriate in the thought, I know I’d never do it.

  Because whatever else might be true, only one thing matters. I’m head over heels for the boy. Maybe that makes me dumb, or desperate, or even a gold-digger. I don’t know. All I know is I want him. I want him in a way that makes me feel crazy, desperate, even a little dangerous.

  If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.

  Nature’s first green is gold,

  Her hardest hue to hold.

  Her early leafs a flower;

  But only so an hour.

  Then leaf subsides to leaf.

  So Eden sank to grief,

  So dawn goes down to day.

  Nothing gold can stay.

  ~Robert Frost

  It’s easier than I imagined to sneak into the party. The music is so loud and the crowd so enormous that no one sees me wind my way through the shrubs on the outskirts. The massive estate is far enough away from the city that I had to hitch a ride to get here, and I’ll have to time my exit just right to make the train back to Manhattan.

  Brushing off my secondhand suit coat, I enter the party via the back patio. A wide pool is filled with people, most still in their fancy evening wear. My eyes slide past them, searching for the one person at this shindig that I know. I scan past butlers with white gloves holding silver trays covered in champagne glasses, past gleeful dames in short skirts with blood-red lips, and past gents in their glad rags I can tell with one glance cost more dough than I make in a year working at the mill.

  When I finally see him, his pinstripe suit, matching fedora, and red pocket square, he’s standing atop the massive staircase on the ledge overlooking the party. Deacon Brewer, the reason I’m here tonight. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his trousers as he chats up a fella I don’t recognize, along with the dame hanging off his arm. Plastering on an easy grin, I wind my way through the people, helping myself to a glass of bubbly as I head for the stairs. The stone steps are covered in gold confetti, the whole place practically dripping with it. Long, red velvet drapes hang from arched windows, and leafless branches painted gold and draped with crystal beads sit in tall vases in every corner. Nothing has been left un-gilded.

  I shake my head at the audacity. Might as well have a neon sign—someone, please rob the joint.

  Deacon sees me coming and dismisses himself from his conversation, welcoming me with an open hand.

  “Dickey Lewis, glad you could make it, boy,” he offers warmly.

  As if I had a choice.

  “Of course, Mr. Brewer,” I respond with more warmth than I feel. Truth is that I’m in deep to Deacon after a few bad bets at his club last month, and he opted to make me work it off rather than take it outta my hide. I suppose that makes him clever, but I can’t help the gnawing feeling that this is a debt I may never fully repay. “What’s the score?” I ask, lowering my voice.

  Draping an arm across my shoulders, he walks me through the glass doors and into the house. Still crammed with people drinking, dancing, and generally wrecking the joint, he pulls a cigar from his vest pocket with his free hand.

  “Upstairs in the den is a lovely Monet, behind which is a very large safe. Cash, some baubles, and a bankbook are inside. I don’t care about the rest; you take what you need. But the bankbook needs to find its way into my hands tomorrow morning by eight am.”

  I take a deep breath, rolling my tongue over my teeth before answering, “How am I supposed to get into the safe?”

  He barks a deep laugh, slapping me on the back. “Guess you’ll have to get a little creative. Just get in, get out, and don’t let nobody see ya, got it?”

  All I can do is nod and watch him swagger away. Sure, I’ve boosted loot before, but always simple jobs, smash and grabs. Nothing like this. What have I gotten myself into this time?

  Still, whatever else is in there is mine for the taking, I tell myself. Could be a big pay day, judging by the looks of the place.

  I wander casually through the house, trying to look as if I belong while also counting the number of cops and guards watching the area. It’s not as many as I expected. I grab a dark-haired dame by the waist, offering her a charming smile and asking for a dance. We Charleston together for two songs, finally stopping to imbibe more champagne. When I ‘accidently’ stumble into her, she spills the contents of her glass on my jacket, fumbling a wide-eyed apology.

  Waving her off with a smile, I hand her my glass, “You take this, and I’ll go find a place to wash up.”

  “You could always take a dip in the pool, honey,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

  Beside her, a gentleman points up a secondary set of stairs near the front door. “Washroom is up there, I think.”

  I mutter a thanks and a promise to return, then make my way up the stairs, continuing to stumble around as if drunk, occasionally opening a door to find a couple necking or a room full of folks smoking the Indian hop in long pipes.

  Finally, the thumping of the music fading below me, I make my way to the library. Beyond that, I find the only locked door on the entire floor. Digging into my pocket, I pull out my lock kit, a simple flattened iron jimmy and a hooked pick. Sliding both in the lock, I slide them back and forth, listening for the mechanism inside to release. It doesn’t take long and the door springs open, allowing me to step inside and close it quickly behind me. It’s dark except for the glow of a single lamp atop a massive oak desk, behind which is a tall arched window overlooking the front of the estate. From this spot, I can see the cars lined up along the circular drive, partygoers coming and going in wild abandon. Pulling the pocket watch from my vest, I wipe my fingers across the cracked glass face, checking the time. Only thirty minutes until the train. If I miss it, it’ll be two hours before the next one. Not the end of the world, unless someone notices the lift before I’m gone. That’s a long time to stick around with a pocket fulla stolen goods.

  I glance around me, the blood chilling in my veins. Every wall except the one with the window is covered in framed paintings. And I have no idea which one is a Monet.

  Scrambling, I begin lifting each, checking the wall behind for any sign of the safe. Finally, on the opposite wall from where I started, I find it. Carefully lifting the heavy canvas free, I set it on the floor and turn my attention to the wall safe. It’s not large, about the size of a bread box with a spinning combination dial in the center. Unsure what else to do, I pull the pocket knife free from my trousers and flick it open, trying to wedge it between the door and the frame. As soon as I do, I know it’s going to be futile. The thing is heavy steel; no way my knife is gonna bust it open. Putting it away, I begin spinning the dial at random, praying I’ll get lucky.

  I’m so flustered I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps from behind me until it’s too late.

  “It’s my birthday,” a voice offers, making me spin, hands balled into fists to fight my way free from the room.

  The dame is tall, her garnet-red hair rolled into bouncy curls and pinned in a messy heap at the back of her neck. Her dress is green, almost the same color as her eyes, and it hugs her slender frame as if it were a second skin. Even the long strings of pearls twined around her neck seems completely natural, not just a decoration but an extension of her. I take a breath, blinking, momentarily stunned. She drapes one hand on her hip, her entire body listing to the side as she points to the safe.

  “The combination,” she repeats. “It’s my birthday.”

  Finally recovering my voice, I stammer. “I was, uh, just…”

  The corners of her mouth turn upward. “Breaking into my father’s safe?”

  I don’t know what to say. I feel her in the room, the way one might feel the air
change right before a storm, a heaviness that settles in, leaving my soul with a sense of foreboding. My instincts battle inside me. Do I grab her and tie her to a chair, or do I flee? The weight of her gaze makes it impossible to think clearly.

  “Relax,” she says, raising a glass I hadn’t noticed her holding to her lips and taking a slow drink. “I’m not calling the guards if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh? You’re just gonna let me crack this safe and walk away with whatever’s inside?”

  She shrugs. “It’s not my money. What do I care?”

  I lick my lips, sizing her up. A spoiled little rich girl who wants to stick it to Daddy. I’ve seen a few of those in my day. I can work with this—if I can get my head back on straight. It’s not like me to get so flustered by a dame, not even a high-quality one like this.

  “Besides…” She sets the glass on the desk and saunters toward me. “It’s not like we don’t have enough.”

  I catch a hint of her perfume in the air when she brushes by me, lavender and something else I can’t quite place. Taking the dial in her hand, she spins the knob until the door finally clicks, then she steps back, giving me a go-ahead gesture.

  I hesitate, flicking glances at the bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder, at the creamy whiteness of her skin, before settling my eyes on her face. “What’s your name, doll?”

  She looks down, sheepishly at first, but then raises just her eyes to look at me with an expression of bold defiance. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  I swallow, considering her offer. She’s already gotten a good look at me, enough to rat me out to the cops. The look on her face is one of challenge, I realize. She’s daring me to trust her.

  “Dickey,” I say, pulling the flat cap off my head and holding it over my heart as I bow to her. “Dickey Lewis, at your service, Miss?”

  “Lillian Rose Duke,” she answers. “But my friends call me Lilly.”

  Replacing my hat, I grab the safe handle and twist, pulling open the heavy door. Grabbing a large wooden box first, I hold it out to her. Moving back, I grab two stacks of fresh bills and stuff them in the pockets of my suitcoat. Finding the bankbook last, I tuck it into the back of my pants before pulling my shirt and jacket over it.

  I spin to Lilly, watching as she upends the box, spilling jewelry onto the desk in a pile. She picks through it, finally just scooping it all into her hand and sauntering over to me. Getting so close I feel the warmth of her, she grabs the lapel of my jacket, sliding the gold and stones into the inside pocket.

  “Give these to your girl, Dickey Lewis.”

  She releases my lapel, but doesn’t step away. Instead, she leans forward. Thinking she’s going to kiss me, I straighten in anticipation, but she just trails her fingers along my collar until she’s cupping the back of my neck.

  “I ain’t got no girl,” I admit, my heart pounding behind my ribs.

  “Well, isn’t that a shame?” she says, her lips a hair’s breadth from mine.

  Unable to resist, I close the final distance between us, clutching her by the waist as I urge her lips to mine. I’ve never tasted gold before, but I imagine this is what it would be like—champagne, honey, and nerves of steel. When she finally pulls away, I’m gasping. Tugging the white linen handkerchief from my pocket, she wipes my face, then hers, of her smeared lipstick before returning the hankie to its place.

  “I hope to see you around, Dickey Lewis.”

  With that, she spins on her heel and heads for the door, listening for a moment before pulling it open and stepping out. The room is instantly colder, the air thinner. I can finally breathe, can think.

  As I slink from the party and disappear into the shadows, making my way down the street to the train station, I can’t force the sight of her from my mind, or the taste of her from my lips.

  Even if it takes every penny in my pocket and every breath in my body, I will see Lillian Rose Duke again.

  “You can’t be sweet on Judge Duke’s daughter,” Benny says, handing me a plate of carrots and ham.

  “Shh,” I demand, glancing around. In hindsight, his father’s wake probably wasn’t the best place to once again discuss my encounter with the brazen heiress, but I couldn’t contain it a moment longer. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. I’m obsessed. For a fella like me, that’s a very dangerous thing.

  “What were you doing at a party in East Hampton anyway?” Benny demands, his voice a whisper now as he plates up a dish of food for his little brother. “Or were you looking to score?”

  His tone makes it clear that his disapproval of my lifestyle choices haven’t softened with his father’s passing. If anything, losing his old man to a robbery gone wrong had only solidified his good-boy attitude. Either way, I’m not copping to anything.

  “Course not. A friend of a friend invited me was all. And I was getting tired of drinking that coffin varnish they serve down by the docks,” I say. “Might as well get a taste of the good life once in a while.”

  He frowns, handing Thomas his plate before fixing another for Agatha, Thomas’s twin sister. Though he says nothing, I know what’s on his mind. We’ve been pals since we could walk—maybe even longer than that. Benny is a straight-laced fella, which was easy enough for him to accomplish since his old man was a stand-up fella and deeply religious. His family was perfect—where mine was a perfect disaster.

  I’d gotten the boot a few years back after selling off some of my ma’s jewelry. In my defense, it was to replace the ratted-up shoes, three sizes too small, that my old man refused to. I’d had enough of being teased on the schoolyard about being the son of a no-good drunk who couldn’t even provide for his family. Not that they were wrong on that account, but even so. Pop was never right in the head after the war, or at least that’s what Ma kept telling me. Either way, Benny is the closest thing I have to family now, practically a brother. And I can feel the concern radiating off him like the summer sun on an uptown sidewalk.

  Benny finishes making another plate, this one his own, with his mouth set in a straight line, eyes rimmed with red, and dark hair disheveled.

  “Aw shucks, Benny. Don’t look at me like that.”

  He slaps me on the back with the hand not holding his food. “What am I gonna do with you, Dickey?”

  It’s funny he should ask. For as long as I can remember, he’s had a nickname. Bad Luck Benny we call him. When we were younger, it was because he was so tall and uncoordinated. He always managed to trip over his own feet, to scrape up his knees, or topple off the curb. As we got older, it stuck because his run of luck was like he’d broken a thousand mirrors and walked under a hundred ladders. He ripped his pants right up the crotch on more than one occasion, lost his lunch money, and broke brand-new toys. Once, he’d even managed to step in the path of an oncoming car and nearly got flattened.

  If there is trouble to be found, he will stumble onto it, guaranteed.

  Yet, he’s always so worried about me and my crummy choices. Maybe that’s all family really is—the people who worry when no one else does.

  We skirt around the few people—mostly from the church—who have gathered in the small house to pay their respects to the family. Benny had only put his father in the ground this morning, yet here I am, about to ask him for a favor.

  A huge favor.

  Taking a seat in the corner of the room, I set my plate on my knees and roll up a slice of ham, eating it with my fingers like when we were boys. “I need you to come with me tonight,” I say finally. “There’s gonna be a big shindig down at The Green Door, and I hear Lilly’s gonna be there.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t leave them. Not tonight.”

  My mouth twitches. It’s selfish of me to ask, I know. But I haven’t seen Lilly in weeks and my skin is practically itching with the need to touch her again. “Look, I wouldn’t ask, but this…” I crinkle my nose. “This dame could be the one, Benny. Sh
e really could.”

  “The one who gets you killed,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Since when are you interested in anything but a skirt to chase?” He hesitates for a minute. “This girl musta done a real number on you.”

  It’s true. I can’t really explain it. It’s only that I want, no need, to get to know her better. To breathe the same air as her for a little while longer.

  But upscale debs like that never travel alone. She’ll have company—friends, a chaperone, or both. If I’m gonna get her alone, I’ll need help. “Benny, I wouldn’t ask, but my future happiness is at stake here,” I beg. “Think of my future children.”

  He chuckles, and I know I’ve almost got him.

  “How’s your ma holdin’ up?” I ask, switching tactics. “And the twins?”

  Dropping his gaze to his plate, he shrugs. “Well as they can be, I guess. We’re gonna lose the house. Not enough money left to pay the mortgage. We’ll get a smaller place in the city.” His gaze shifts to where the little ones sit in their Sunday best on the old sofa, exchanging pinches and giggles. “I don’t think they understand, not really. But we’ll make it work. I looked at the numbers. If we’re really careful, and Ma and I both take full-time jobs at the cannery, we’ll make ends meet.”

  “What about school?” I pester. I’d dropped out in seventh grade, but not Dickey. He’s every bit smart enough to get into college, if that’s what he wants.

  He frowns. “No time for that now.”

  Swallowing another bite of my food, I nod once, silently thanking the Lord that the only person depending on me is me. I don’t know if I could be as responsible as Benny. I’ve never been particularly good at it.

  After finishing off my plate, I move to the kitchen where a few grey-haired ladies are helping Benny’s ma clean up and pack away the leftovers. She offers me a tired half smile, as if that’s all she has the energy for.

  I stick around, helping where I can, until Benny finally tucks the twins into bed. When he’s done, he falls into his father’s chair with a huff.