CHAPTER 3
The chill of the night air smacked Vera’s face, along with a couple of sprinkles.
With the club being stuffed between a blast furnace and a steel plant that worked longer hours than she, noises resounded, unyielding. Clinks and clanks. Whooshes and hisses. And just like those steel men who tirelessly pounded at hot metal, creating sparks which burnt the hair off their arms, the familiar sounds relentlessly thrashed her spiked nerves, searing her throat dry.
Movement to her left pulled her gaze.
A figure with a crooked profile crept into the streetlamp’s weak glow.
She relaxed. “Hey there, Grimby.”
Same pants. No hat. Day after day. Boots looking as worn out as the man who filled them. A trench coat swallowed his feeble frame, the tattered edges looking like a giant windsock that’d been dragged through the dirt.
“It’s kinda late to be out, old man.” Vera spoke above the muted hum of the factories and stepped closer to the guy who was as much a mystery as he was a vagrant.
He clung to a rickety vendor’s cart. Where he’d discovered it, she hadn’t a clue, but he employed it as a cane. The bed of the basket housed his furry creature, Fred. Boy, that Pomeranian was as loyal as they came. She wished she could say the same about Grimby’s other dog, Peppin.
“Peppin’s gone,” Grimby said. “I set food out. She didn’t come. Peppin’s gone.”
“Don’t worry about Peppin. She’ll be back. Just like I said last week.” And last month. And the month before that.
Grimby smiled and patted Fred’s ginger coat.
Poor guy.
“The light’s on,” he muttered and gazed toward the river. “The light’s on and the boat comes.”
Had he been a sailor? A fisherman? Rumors had spread that, years ago, Grimby had suffered a fall while mining along Pittsburgh’s coal seam. Others blabbed he’d lost his sweetheart to tuberculosis and had never been the same since. All Vera knew was the man’s anchor was out of the water, and he’d been drifting for years. If only she could find a way to draw him back to the shores of reason.
“Did you used to work on boats? What about the lights?” One would think she’d understand the meaning after hearing it for the thousandth time.
“The light’s on and the boat comes.” Make that a thousand and one.
“Sure, sure, Grimby.” Her smile fell. The man hunched over the cart more than usual. She squinted, focusing on his aged face. How old was he? Seventy-five, eighty? He had all his hair, though grayed, and deep lines framed his mouth. “You doing okay?”
Dull eyes blinked back at her.
She withdrew her handkerchief and dabbed away the dirt striping his cheek.
Carson’s car rounded the corner, its headlights cutting the black mist.
Vera reached for Grimby’s hand and pressed the handkerchief to his callused palm. How long had it been since he had something fresh and clean? “Take care of yourself and Fred.” She lightly squeezed his fingers and then joined Carson in his Rolls Royce.
“Grimby?” Carson asked as Vera settled in.
“Yeah, old man Grimby.”
“What makes you want to speak to him?” He yanked the gear shift, jerking the car forward. “The man won’t remember. Says the same thing over and over. If you ask me, he’s a nutcase.”
“He’s gentle.” And wholesome. She’d rather listen to Grimby’s ramblings than the vulgar drivel thrown at her a hatful of times a night.
Carson drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs. “Vinelli told me there were a decent amount of customers this evening.”
“Yeah.”
The car lurched over train tracks leading to the rail yard, which whistled more than a Saturday night crowd.
“Was it mostly the regulars?”
“Some. People off the riverboat too.” Though she couldn’t understand why anyone enjoyed boating in the three rivers framing the city. Factories fed their waste to the watery bellies, the filmy sludge earning nothing from her except a disgusted glance.
“It’s time to make some changes, Vera.”
The whip of his words lashed her heart with a sting. Had he overheard her conversation with Artie? Was he aware of her visits to the Moonlight Club?
“It’ll be uncomfortable for a while, but it’s for the best.”
Her mind tangled with excuses she could prattle, but all would crumble against the grinding reality. If she got tossed out, where could she go? It didn’t matter that her heart hummed along to the melody of her dreams because the tip jars she’d emptied last month for rent lamented the truth—affording New York was beyond her means. “What’ll be for the best?”
“The club. It could stand some improvements.”
She swallowed and willed her queasy stomach to behave.
“You know I’ve been bored with my real estate businesses. And as lucrative as they are, I found where the real dough lies. The club started as a way to turn a dime into a dollar, but it’s really taking off.” Pride filled his voice. “Must be the entertainment.” He smirked but kept his eyes on the road. “The crowd is enthralled with you, baby.”
Yet she couldn’t sing her way into Carson’s locked heart. Not that she’d been entirely open with hers either. The gamble wasn’t worth the consequences.
“Best thing I ever did was let you sing.”
The words, though spoken smoothly, scraped her ears, peeling the raw truth from the swell of doubt—she’d become more of a business asset than his girlfriend.
“I’m moving my offices to Forbes Avenue.”
Her brow scrunched. She had never been sure why he’d chosen a sooty old building along the factory-lined river for his real estate headquarters, but after all these years, why move it now?
“As for the club, I have big plans. Gut it out and refine it.” Carson’s deep voice invaded her ears. “I need it to rival Moonlight’s joint or even the speakeasy inside the William Penn. But my place will gleam brighter because of the gem that’s inside.” He tossed a wink her way.
How could Carson speak so casually about breaking the law? Her fingers fidgeted the chain necklace her grandmother had given her.
“Just wait until my men are done. We’ll see where the hoity-toity flock to. Without the offices acting as a smokescreen, it’s gonna cost me more to get the club safeguarded, but everything will be worth it.”
Safeguarded. More like bribing cops and city officials to turn a blind eye. Oh, how did she ever get caught up in all this? She clenched her teeth.
To survive.
To make it through the cold winter. But had she lost her soul in the process?
He dropped one hand from the wheel to grab hers. “I need you, Vera. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you happy. A raise. A new wardrobe. You name it.”
His offers flitted through her mind. As much as her vanity admired newer gowns, her instincts prized the raise. She’d have to finagle a way to get her pay directly from Carson, or Artie would sink his grimy fingers into it. Perhaps it’d be enough to fill her escape-to-New-York jar to the brim. That way, she wouldn’t have to sneak away to the Moonlight Club in search of Tony Russo’s assistance. She could finance herself.
“It’s gonna be a natural, baby. Your golden throat’ll draw ’em all in.”
And there it was. His smile. She’d bet he could charm a whole fleet of ladies with his broad grin and crinkly eyes.
Carson put the car in neutral but let the motor purr. Her apartment building at nighttime seemed almost passable. She couldn’t spot the flaking paint or the bowed balusters. No signs of the neighbors drying their undergarments on the support beams. Yep, viewing her world through the slant of darkness allowed her creativity to brighten what was sallow. Good thing she had a vivid imagination.
“I’m not coming up. I gotta scoot to Ward’s place. All that legal stuff.”
Oh, the irony. He cared to be upstanding with his rental properties yet ran a whiskey dive. “At three a.m.? Strange tim
e to be going to an attorney’s house.”
He lifted his hand, and she shrank against the door. Why couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?
“You make me feel like a heel when you cower like that.” Carson rested his hand on her knee. “I told you I wouldn’t hit you again.”
Because he regretted it? Or because her ears had rung for two days and she had sung poorly? A dull ache stretched behind her eyes.
“Besides, I think I overcompensated with that string of rocks around your wrist.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Did you know I got that when Ward and I went to Belmont Stakes? Went to check out a new trainer for Thundering Gallop and came back with a genuine Tiffany’s.”
“It’s beautiful, Cars.”
“So are you.” He hooked an arm around her and smiled. “I’ll be here tomorrow around seven to pick you up. We’ll have dinner at the club.”
“I’ll be ready.”
He gathered her closer and kissed her. The taste of alcohol on his lips soured her stomach. She could never become immune to that putrid odor—memories speared her every time.
She waved as Carson drove away and then walked to the flight of stairs leading to her apartment.
A realization hit her like ice water in the face. “Rats. My bag.” She glared at empty hands. “No bag. No key.”
Too late to hail down Carson. His car disappeared into the night’s blackness. She scrunched her nose. Had she brought it in the car? No. Must be in her dressing room.
Was Artie still at the club? She groaned. No choice but to check. All that stress to keep from being unguarded, to avoid walking alone, and yet here she was. Her stomach twisted in a hundred corkscrews. She hustled down the street, passing Winston’s Drugstore and several other shops, all dark and locked tight.
Sporadic drops of moisture, which had teased her face earlier, returned, but this time they allowed no mercy, showering fat beads of rain.
“Why?” She shook her fists at the sky that had been blanketed gray all day. Figured it’d wait until now to come spitting down. She slipped her arms out of her jacket sleeves and pulled the collar over her head, her makeshift umbrella tunneling her vision. Three more blocks.
A car horn blared. She flinched. A taxi pulled up beside her, spraying her ankles.
“Need a ride?”
“I’ve got no money.” She ducked under a barbershop awning.
“Where ya headed?”
Rain cascaded off the thinned canopy, a watery sheet, misting her. “Harold Avenue.”
“Harold Avenue. The Kelly Club, by any chance?” Understanding registered in his tone as the orange circle of his lighted cigar bobbed with his words.
“Yeah.” She huffed and adjusted her grip on her overcoat. The longer she remained chatting with the cabby, the less of a chance she’d find anyone at the club.
He jerked a thumb to the rear of the car. “Well, jump in.”
She took a step toward him, then stilled. Offers like this had been made before.
“I accept other forms of payment, angel-face.”
Knew it. She bit the inside of her cheek and walked on, hastening her pace.
“Hey, where you going?”
“Get lost.”
“Go ahead and catch a cold.” He sped away, tires screeching.
The kitchen door was unlocked. About time she caught a break. Easy in. Easy out.
Rain pelted the tin roof, grating her ears, like somebody shaking a can full of rocks. She hit a slick spot, her feet slipped out from under her, and she smacked her backside on the hard floor. Could this get any worse? Time to nix the wet shoes.
Evading a few puddles caused by the leaky roof, she walked with brisk steps. Maybe she could dodge Artie. Keeping the lights off seemed the best plan.
She felt her way to the dressing room door, brushing the wood and then scaling her fingers down until she reached the cool metal knob. Voila! She grasped the air a couple times, hoping to pull the string for the light, but couldn’t find it. Never mind. She stretched out her hand in the direction her vanity tray should be.
Aha, gotcha.
She snatched the troublesome bag and cleared out.
Curious, she peeked down the side hall. A sliver of pale gold shone under the door to the front offices. She crept farther.
“Your way isn’t my way, Cavenhalt. It’s yellow-bellied.”
“Carson,” Vera whispered. Hadn’t he told her he was going to Ward’s? Check the box next to liar on the terrible boyfriend list.
“It’s your choice.” Artie’s grumbly voice sounded. “Pay up because I know the exact people who I can squeal to.”
Her blood froze. Was this the bargaining chip he’d mentioned earlier? Her fingers fumbled. Down went her shoe.
Clunk.
“What was that?” Carson’s voice crashed through the door.
She plucked up her shoe by its satin strap and sidestepped into the storage room.
The hallway light flicked on. She sunk her teeth into her lower lip, squeezing her elbows into her ribs.
“It’s nothing.” Artie shut the door.
Her chest expanded with much-needed air. Fingers clenched around her belongings, she braved her way into the hall, footfalls quiet.
“I know about Steubenville, Artie.”
Vera’s heart launched into her stomach. She recognized that tone. Her cheek tingled as if reminding her of his wrath.
Artie cussed. “How did—”
A shot pierced. Thunder cracked. All fell silent except for the rain’s fury.
CHAPTER 4
Vera clamped her lips together, imprisoning the rising scream in her throat. Legs trembling, she dashed out the hall and through the nearest exit, clutching her shoes and bag to her chest.
Rain pellets stung her face as she raced toward her apartment, each thunder crash rattling her marrow. Had Carson spotted her? Was she being chased? She ran harder.
Her wet clothes hung like sandbags tied to her shoulders. The cement terrain stabbed her insoles, ripping her stockings. A dark chant echoed through her. Carson killed him! Carson killed him!
Vera forced herself up the stairs under the porch’s protection. Lightning struck, allowing a glimpse of her door. Her foot caught on the uneven floorboard, but she managed to keep from falling. She fished the key from her bag, opened the door, and locked it behind her. Pressing her back against its solid surface, she slithered to the floor.
A violent shiver overtook her.
Her gaze darted to the phone. The one the murderer had installed for her. No. Couldn’t call the police. Or anyone. She pulled her knees into her chest and rocked back and forth. In this crooked city, it was hard to know who would be friend or foe. And even if she found people to trust, no one would believe her. Especially if word broke that Artie had been blackmailing her. She pushed herself to stand, water pooling under her stocking-clad feet.
In her bedroom, she exchanged her dripping dress for a terry-cloth robe. She pressed her fingers to her temple. Where should she begin? What did she need to do? Pack. Run. Leap into oblivion. Her tears blended with the rainwater spilling down her cheeks.
She couldn’t return to that club. Couldn’t. Once away, she’d change her name. Cut her hair. Dye it. Speak with a foreign accent if she had to.
Her attention flashed to her open closet, the highest shelf. A wall of hatboxes—all purchased by a killer—barricaded her luggage. She groaned. Agile or not, she had to get her suitcase, stuff it full, and be on her way. As her brain caught up with her panic, she realized her getaway was impossible. The bus terminal didn’t open until morning.
She collapsed her arms to her sides and sank onto the bed.
She was trapped.
The trembling intensified. Her teeth chattered, making her jaw ache. She pulled a blanket around her, but it didn’t soothe the ferocious chill. No, it deepened, rooting in her bones.
What was that? Her head jerked.
Knock, knock, poun
d.
There it was again. Someone with a sledgehammer for a fist assaulted her door. Her gritty eyes burned as if she’d rubbed salt in them. Several long blinks swept in the tide of her vision. The light streaming through her window wasn’t bright, indicating another bleak morning.
She bolted up.
Morning!
She swallowed hard, a fiery sensation blazing her throat. When had she fallen asleep?
With a deep breath, she stood, teetering forward before stabilizing herself on the nightstand. She paused until the dizziness subsided. Wait. Who knocked? Carson? Last night’s events cut through her. She slid her eyes shut, the fogginess in her mind clearing. Couldn’t be Carson. His nightly sleeping powder held him in a trance until noon. So then … who was it?
Tiptoeing proved challenging, considering half her muscles were still asleep and the other half shook in trepidation.
She peeked through the skinny gap between the curtain’s edge and the window.
Her heart skittered into her stomach.
A cop!
A support beam for the patio roof obstructed the sight of his head, but his navy threads and the gun holstered on his hip exposed his identity.
She twisted, pressing her back against the wall, and pushed the palm of her hand on her forehead. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t talk to a cop. Not now. But then … who said she had to? Just keep silent. For all he knew, she wasn’t home.
Hunkering, she padded to the bedroom. Her foot landed on something—her shoe from last night. She toppled over it, sending the ridiculous thing back, thudding against the door. She gritted her teeth. So much for her not being home.
Knock, knock, pound.
“Yeah. Yeah. I hear ya. Give me a minute.” More like a lifetime. She moaned, picking up the shoe. Ruined. The silver satin had shriveled from the rainwater. She grabbed its mate and shoved them under the couch cushion. No one was going to know how those heels got damaged. No one.
Knock, knock, pound.
Her breath snagged in her chest as she unlocked the bolt and yanked the door open. Squeezing the knob, her knuckles drained white.
Her mystery hero.
The Red Canary Page 3
