THE RED CANARY BY RACHEL SCOTT MCDANIEL
Smitten Historical Romance is an imprint of LPCBooks
a division of Iron Stream Media
100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242
ISBN: 978-1-64526-281-7
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Scott McDaniel
Cover design by Hannah Linder
Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Brought to you by the creative team at LPCBooks:
John Herring, Shonda Savage, Denise Weimer, Steve Mathisen
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McDaniel, Rachel Scott.
The Red Canary / Rachel Scott McDaniel 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
PRAISE FOR THE RED CANARY
What a fresh new read! The sassy heroine pops right off the page, perfectly fitting with all the color and energy of her Roaring ’20s setting. The Red Canary is bursting with glamour and vintage music, and it feels like a visit to another time. With a beautifully authentic romance standing against a real force of evil and delicately woven faith elements, McDaniel’s newest novel stands out in the historical fiction genre.
~Joanna Politano
Award-winning author of The Love Note
Nobody writes 1920s fiction like Rachel Scott McDaniel. From the smoky haze of historic Pittsburgh nightlife to the quiet beauty of the Allegheny National Forest, she truly transports her readers to another time and place, slowly drawing us in with vivid detail and expertly crafted phrasing. This book does a fantastic job of giving her readers a little bit of everything, romance, humor, mystery, and action, and all while making you feel like you’ve stepped into a classic movie! I honestly adore every single word she writes, and historical fiction lovers will not be disappointed by this beautiful story.
~Abbi Hart
Adventures of a Literary Nature
Rachel McDaniel once again gives readers a delightful romp into the Roaring ’20s in her latest release, The Red Canary. This book will transport you to 1920s Pittsburgh with its vivid descriptions and quirky time period jargon. A straight-laced hero, rough-around-the-edges heroine, and an unsolved murder will keep readers turning the pages! Vera and Mick are an unlikely pair that will win readers’ hearts as they learn to trust each other and unravel the mystery.
~Ashley Johnson
Bringing Up Books
The Red Canary features a dazzlingly intelligent heroine, an evocative sense of place, and a pitch-perfect historical narrative. Toss in a whiff of suspense expertly captured with a voice that makes the Roaring Twenties sing, and you have an unputdownable read. The whip-smart dialogue and shadows of danger nipping at the heels of our delightful protagonists is underscored by chemistry that snaps, crackles, and pops every time Mick and Vera share the page. Yet, deeper still, McDaniel has penned a treatise on finding ourselves and our value in a higher place beyond our human limitation. A delightful read from a stand-out talent.
~Rachel McMillan
Author of The London Restoration
Here’s a book I could not put down. Rachel Scott McDaniel perfectly captured the glamorous 1920s in The Red Canary, from the sassy nightclub singer to the strong, silent detective determined to protect her. I smiled my way through this story, especially the scenes where Mick tried to help headstrong Vera endure hiding away in the Allegheny Forest. Great read!
~Karen Barnett
Author of the Vintage National Parks Novels
Acknowledgments
Writing is never a one-man show. Many have joined me on this journey, and I’m so grateful for the opportunity to brag on them. Rebekah Millet, yes, I dedicated this novel to you, but since I can’t possibly thank you enough, I’m mentioning you here as well. I’m forever indebted to ACFW Scribes because that’s where God paired us up! A special thanks to agent extraordinaire, Julie Gwinn, for never giving up on my stories. Your faith in me has been a huge encouragement. To Janyre Tromp, Amanda Wen, and Janine Rosche, I appreciate all your awesome input with this story and your sweet friendship.
A giant thank you to my editor, Denise Weimer. Your excellent guidance improved this story, taking it to a new level. To the entire Iron Stream team, thank you for all you do. I’m blessed to work with you. Amy, Joy, Crissy, thank you for reading this story and for all your sweet support. To my street team, you guys are rock stars! Your enthusiasm for my stories blesses me beyond words.
To my kids, Drew and Meg: I can’t think of anything more rewarding than being your mom. Thank you for putting up with me during the crunch of deadlines. To my awesome husband: Not sure if I told you, but you’re the inspiration behind Mick. Your quiet strength, fierce devotion, and solid faith inspires me daily. (P.S. Remember that song you wrote for me? I pay tribute to that sweet memory in the book.)
Most of all, thanks to my God. There was a time when I gave up on this dream, but You hadn’t. Thank you for supplying me with courage to face hard things. You are forever the song of my heart.
DEDICATION
To one of my favorite redheads on the planet, Rebekah Millet. Thank you for all your guidance, not only with this story, but in life. I’m forever blessed to have you as a friend.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 1
May 29, 1928
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
“From that day on, death was in my song.” Vera’s voice quivered as she ended her nightly number. Lying atop the worn piano, the length of her side hummed whil
e the eager pianist, along with the rest of the band, punched the B-minor finale. The motley assortment of musicians had their eyes closed, absorbing the last few bars of musical euphoria, but not Vera. She wouldn’t shut her lids for one count. Not when he was out there. Waiting.
Applause and whistles resounded from the crowd. The maestro scowled and motioned for her to bow. Did it even matter? This was a speakeasy, not the Royal Opera House.
Gut twisting, she slid her legs over the side of the piano’s belly and allowed Angelo, her hired guard, to assist her to the spit-stained floor. Cigarette smoke crept like gnarled fingers into the shadowed rafters, burning her eyes. She offered a smile as diluted as the famous Pittsburgh Scotch which soured every breath in the joint.
The note tucked in her palm taunted her, daring her to reread its threat.
Sing pretty tonight, Red. I’ll be watching.
How could innocent words harbor such a dangerous undertone? The memory ignited like a flash lamp—the cloaked man’s hand grasping her elbow, pulling her from backstage into the night air, the screech from the neighboring rolling mill muffling her screams.
She stiffened against the tremble. She wouldn’t allow it to happen tonight. Or ever again.
Her gaze swept over the sea of felt hats, searching for the marked feature—stony gray eyes. The hazy atmosphere prevented her from distinguishing profiles beyond the bar.
The mouse-faced bandleader tapped his baton on the music stand. She glanced over, and he winked. An encore? Any other evening, she would savor the request. Would seize any excuse to yield to the rich melody, warming the drafty corners of her soul, whisking her away from reality. From life. But she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—indulge now.
She shook her head, her bobbed curls bouncing off her shoulders, but the clarinet players stuffed their reeds into their mouths for the start of “Lonely Madam.” Did she have any say in this gig? She mouthed the word no. The conductor lifted his arms for the count off.
Not this time, Maestro.
A sudden heat pulsed her blood. “For the next song …” She crumpled and tossed the note onto the piano where she’d found it. “We have a Kelly Club original. It’s not listed to showcase until the start of summer, but”—she raised her voice and pointed at the stunned man behind the music stand—“Maestro insisted on it tonight!” She clapped her hands above her head, the throng following. “It was written by yours truly. I call it ‘The Hideaway Heart.’”
Vera smiled, relishing the flustered expression on the baton-toter’s mug. He clumsily leafed through sheet music, pages flying to the floor. With an exaggerated sigh, he arranged a single paper to the front of the stack.
Angelo leaned against the wall to her right. She blew a kiss, signaling him. Creep in the joint. He nodded and straightened to full height. With Angelo on her side and Maestro unknowingly obliging, the espionage could commence.
She tapped her hand on her hip with the beat, a flawless pace.
“You say it’s romance, but there’s a mystery,” she sang and descended the splintered steps to the main floor, the fringe from her silver gown tickling her knees. “Beneath your kiss. Behind your whispers to me.” Vera weaved through the tables, inspecting the various patrons. Plenty of silly grins and faces buried in beer mugs, but no character with predatory eyes. Not yet. “You live behind the mask of love. But I see what you’re made of.”
Spindly fingers seized her waist, pulling. She gasped. A man yanked her onto his lap.
“Hiya, gorgeous.” A sloppy smile coated his weathered face.
The crowd laughed.
Her jaw gaped, then clenched. This string bean of a man was old enough to be her father. If his green asbestos uniform didn’t identify him, then the soot in the cracks of his knuckles would. A steel worker. Her scowl softened. Factory men were served dangerous tasks but handed little appreciation.
While he pawed her locks, she composed herself to finish the first verse. “I don’t like the love you veil.”
“Won’t keep my love from you, sweetheart.” His pungent breath stung her nostrils.
She glanced over his shoulder. Empty glasses cluttered the tabletop.
“Look, everybody!” He sprayed her with spit, his words slurring. “I caged the Red Canary!”
Cackles rose from all around.
Caged? Hardly. His hold was as loose as the lid to his whiskey. Angelo drew closer, and Vera waved him off. This drunk was innocent—his eyes held no danger.
“You’re gonna fail. For I never trust a hideaway heart.” A musical interlude took over, and Vera twisted free from the man’s grasp, being careful not to trip over the metal lunch-pail beside his chair. “Lay off the booze, mister.” She whispered in his ear and flicked it.
Dodging grasps and pokes, she rounded the bar and pulled in air for the second verse. “I’ll invade your shadow. Shout your secrets.” She projected her voice loud enough for the band to keep in beat with her. “Give you sorrow and have no regrets.”
Out the corner of her eye, Angelo lingered back, waiting to pounce. Why was this taking so long? Why wasn’t she spotting him? The rapid pounding of her heart threatened to knock her off tempo.
A heavier man sat by the wall. His hat pulled low, hiding his eyes. Others around him swayed to the music, but he remained motionless. What kind of game was he playing? She worked her way to that side of the room, the crowd giving her courage.
Vera stood an arm’s length from the suspect and stared at his straggly mustache. No smile. No scowl. If only she could see his eyes. She sang the bridge. “You won’t win this time. Not a chance.” A shiver coursing down her spine, she lifted his homburg. For goodness’ sake, he was asleep. “Ignore the kisses. Forget the dance.” She pinched his cheek, and startled blue eyes peered up at her. Vera plunked his hat back onto his bald head and stepped away.
One more chorus to go. The only thing obtained from this charade was a blister rubbing raw on her heel. She glanced down. Oh, and a shoe embellished with someone’s chewing tobacco. Lovely.
A scuffle broke out in front of her. A man who could be Babe Ruth’s twin yanked the collar of a man dressed like a lumberjack. Lumberjack shoved the Bambino’s doppelganger, launching him toward her. With nowhere to go, she pulled her elbows into her sides, ducking her head, bracing for the hit.
It never came.
She cracked an eyelid, and her lungs allowed her to breathe again. A man had stepped between her and the human bullet, shielding her and taking the impact himself. The collision hadn’t budged her rescuer, his massive build standing tall. He glanced at her as if making sure she was okay.
The trumpeter blared his overlong solo, and Vera’s gaze locked on the mystery hero. Definitely not a regular. She would’ve remembered his striking jade eyes and sharp features. Plus, his pin-striped suit wasn’t rumpled or frayed at the cuffs like every other man’s who stumbled in the door.
“What’s your name, stranger?” She spoke in a low tone.
“Mick.” He tipped his hat to her and strode to some vacant tables, his confident manner capturing her stare.
The drummer struck the cymbals, and she blinked, forced her attention off his broad back, and started toward the band. How could she let herself get distracted?
A shaded outline lingered in the corner, snapping her back to the seriousness of the moment.
She stopped. “I’ll never trust your hideaway heart.” The figure moved forward, and her muscles tightened. “No, I’ll never trust your hideaway heart.”
A tall sailor emerged from the darkness with a blonde hanging around his neck. Vera’s shoulders curled forward with an exhale. She tossed a wink his way and sashayed to the stage. Striking a pose, she belted out the finish with her jazz flare. “Your hideaway heart.”
Applause soared as high as her frustration. Everything looked clear. Wait. Offstage. She cut a quick glance to her left. Dottie, the cigarette girl, sat on a stool, counting her profits. Her heavily mascaraed eyes peered over, and Vera feigne
d a smile. Dottie grinned back, unreserved.
The horde cheered for another encore.
Not happening.
One bow. One wave. Done.
She hustled off stage, not granting Maestro another chance to tap his beloved music stand.
Mick tugged the hem of his sports coat, ensuring the concealment of his revolver. The holster had shifted during the scuffle he’d voluntarily stepped into. He shoved clenched hands into his pockets. The spectacle had drawn attention to himself. Foolish. But what was he to do? Let the lady get pummeled by a man twice her size?
Snaking through the crowd, his gaze shifted from the bouncer to the bartender. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except the blatant disregard of the Volstead Act. Tomorrow he’d contact the federal agents, but it wouldn’t do any good. Pittsburgh was one of the wettest cities in a supposedly dry nation. And no matter what his badge read, there was not one thing he could do about it. His temple throbbed against his hat lining.
No sight of the manager or owner. He cataloged the entrances and exits. Perhaps they holed up in the offices. But unless he wanted to pose as a busboy, there was no procuring a clearance for that part of the building.
The familiar odor of men’s perspiration and tobacco smoke seeped through his skin, leaking into the stale memories of his time in the Army. The boisterous camaraderie of men. The cramped space. Only then, they’d been protecting freedom. Here, they were breaking the law. Every single one of them.
Even the prima donna.
He scratched his neck. The disgraceful slop of words from the meandering drunks had clued him into her charm, but he wasn’t prepared for breathtaking. Emerald eyes and satiny skin. A dangerous combination that screamed trouble.
“Care for a smoke, mister?” The cigarette girl’s voice squeaked as she approached him.
The slight wiggle in her hips and generous flutter of her eyelashes suggested she was advertising more than the tray of Lucky Strikes hanging from her slim neck. Cosmetics slapped on like war paint couldn’t mask her youthful visage, her chestnut waves reminding him of his sister.
A growl strove to break free in his chest. What appeal did this establishment have that lured young women into its seedy boundaries?
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