The Red Canary

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  Her gaze latched on his. “You’re not a hustler, are you?”

  “Hardly.” Though he’d won his fair share of bets in high school and college. “Just happened to best the captain a time or two.”

  “Tell me, Sarge. Why were you there?”

  “Where?”

  She rolled her eyes with a huff. “At the Kelly Club. Since you obviously don’t like the rowdy bunch in my circle. How come you were there?”

  Silence pricked the air along with Miss Pembroke’s thorny glare.

  He cleared his throat. “Someone encouraged me to check it out.” Not exactly a lie. Headquarters had received an anonymous tip implying the possibility of activity worse than rum-running. One that could attract the state’s attention—which seemed the only way to access justice lately. Since Mick was the sergeant of investigations, plus the only officer the captain could trust, it was his assignment.

  “What’s this?” She pulled his jacket from the floor in front of her.

  “It’s mine.”

  “I’m not stupid.” She sliced him yet another scornful look. He should keep a tally of how many scowls she could launch his way in the course of one conversation. But then, he’d been known for his severe expression, so it might prove even.

  She held up the jacket. “What was it doing at my feet?”

  “You looked cold and …” Scared. “I thought you could use it.” He shoved past her current defiant expression and replaced it with the image of her while she’d slept—the soft whimpers escaping her pouty lips and the shivers overtaking her frame.

  “Here.” She tossed it at him. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  You’re welcome. He folded and laid the jacket on the bench between them.

  She curled against her door and rested her head on her bent elbow.

  Compassion gentled his voice. “Listen, Miss Pembroke, you’ve been through a lot over the past twenty-four hours. I understand why you’re guarded.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I just need to call the captain and let him know we’re almost there.” And call his family informing them he wouldn’t be at the dinner table tomorrow. He kept his lips tight, smothering the frown and restraining the rising groan. He’d exchanged his vacation to the mountains for a trip to the forest. His parents for a mystery woman with captivating eyes and a fiery temper. Following orders had landed him a headache.

  Vera’s eyes remained wide the rest of the way. “Did we drive north?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far? Are we still in Pennsylvania?”

  “Mm-hmm. The Allegheny National Forest.”

  She rubbed her eyelid, a sigh escaping. Fatigue two-stepped with anxiety across her chest, leaving a shakiness extending to her toes. “This place that we’re goin’ to. Are other people there?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s just me and …” She pulled her bottom lip under her teeth, tasting lipstick and salt from the potato chips earlier. Last night had been a nightmare. Was tonight going to equal it?

  Alone with him.

  Would he take advantage of her? She was out in the middle of nowhere. Unfamiliar with her surroundings. Nothing and no one to defend her if this man proved to be like all the others. Her throat constricted. Helplessness. Like being blindfolded and walking through a minefield. Was this man going to lead her to safer ground? Or be her destruction?

  The car lurched and joggled on the rustic road. The sergeant hit the brakes for a furry critter to scurry across the road, and Vera collided with his shoulder.

  “You okay?” His breath stirred her hair.

  Too close.

  Vera snapped straight. “I’m fine.” She pressed her side against her door and held onto the armrest to avoid any future impacts.

  Following another bout of the car’s jostling, they drove onto a narrow lane hugged by tall pine trees. Through the dim headlights, she made out a building ahead. After driving up a slight incline, Mick put the car in neutral and pulled the brake.

  The engine was off. The sergeant out. So why did she feel as if she was still in motion? The dizziness concentrated mainly in her head, but it invaded her stomach.

  “Wait, Miss Pembroke.” He opened her door. “The grass is pretty high.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Let me set your things inside, then I’ll come back and get you.”

  “Get me? You mean carry me?” Trying to touch her already? No. The darkness shrouded his silhouette. She couldn’t discern how close he was.

  He flicked on the flashlight. “I’m trying to treat you as if you were a lady.”

  As if? Pretty sure that was an insult. “Save it for your bride, sonny. I can manage.”

  With another grunt, he disappeared toward the house.

  She puffed her cheeks with air and exhaled slowly. The idea of standing up caused her stomach to protest. But the quicker she got inside, the sooner she could park herself on a sofa. And there better be a sofa. She grabbed her purse and stepped out. “Ugh!” She fell back into the car.

  “I told you, Miss Pembroke.” His voice silenced the crickets.

  She poked her chin out. “Well, you didn’t say anythin’ about getting drenched.”

  “It’s just dew.”

  A screen door slammed shut, and she winced. Just dew? Her legs were as soaked as they would’ve been if she’d plunged ’em into a water bucket.

  “Are you coming?” The screen opened, and this time light shone through, his broad frame illuminated in the doorframe.

  Vera sucked in air and high-stepped her way to the house, the wet grass saturating her calves. Once she reached the threshold, her queasiness took over. She instinctively slapped her hand over her mouth. Mercy, no.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her stomach became a punching bag for nausea, knocking the egg guts out of her and onto the wood-planked floor. Ruthless. It belted her for minutes, long after she had nothing left to expel. A violent shake overtook her, and she barely felt the strong hand upholding her.

  She was down for the count.

  CHAPTER 8

  A chirping sound floated into Vera’s ears, rousing her from slumber. Not the usual cries of steam whistles or hollers from newsboys. Just the sweet song of birds welcoming the morning. It gave Vera a touch of nostalgia—Grandmother’s humming, the fragrance of the lilac bush outside her bedroom window, the carefree days stitched with threads of sunshine and love.

  The clanging of pots and pans punctured her reverie.

  The sergeant. Subtle as an ox in a vintage wine store.

  She clutched the sheets to her chest as her gaze flew to the door. Some relief came when she saw the door closed, but the anxiety returned. No lock. Not even a keyhole. Why did fellas keep giving her rooms with no locks on the doors?

  She sighed and rolled over. The hem of her dress twisted around her leg. Guess there’d been no point in pinning the linens to herself a moment ago since she was fully clothed. She’d been in this garb so long that it itched like burlap. Why hadn’t she put on a nightgown last night?

  Last night.

  Wait. She’d catapulted her dinner. Then what? And how did she get in this bed? Mick. He must have carried her. Boy, he probably hadn’t appreciated her regurgitated eggs slopping up his crisp uniform. A giggle rippled out. Just a little mess in return for the big mess he’d put her through.

  Sunlight poured into the room from the window beside her bed, illuminating hundreds of floating wisps. What started as a quick glance slipped into a heavy stare. Sunlight. Unrestricted. She pushed herself to a seated position for a better view. The world beyond this window steeped with color—from the lush, emerald pines to the sapphire sky embedded with the golden sphere.

  Vera could count on one hand all the days this year when Pittsburgh had been favored with patches of full sunshine. Its prison-gray skies, so much like her circumstances in that sooty city, had dulled hope for brighter times, but the vibrancy before her breathed life into the fatigued spots i
n her heart. She pushed the pane open and took a lungful of calmness, being cautious not to lose her balance in the process. The last thing she needed was to fall out a second-story window.

  It was only when she took a step back that a sour smell assaulted her nose. Her fingers brushed the yellow-crusted hem of her skirt, and she recoiled. That egg sandwich wouldn’t leave her alone. Change. Now.

  She tapped her finger against her lip and inspected the door. Maybe she should scoot the dresser in front of it. That way, there’d be no risk of the sergeant playing peekaboo while she dressed. Is Mick peeker material like Artie is? She should say like Artie was. Her heart trembled as she tried to erase that dark moment from her head. His panicked voice and the sound of the shot ricocheted in the corners of her mind.

  She sighed. “What a grand life I live.”

  Her bags sat near the door. A rush of emotions swept over her, like the breeze that came through her window. It might not be gone. She might have hope, after all. She seized the closest bag and dumped its contents onto the bed. Some dresses, three pairs of stockings, the bathrobe, and her favorite heels. Oh, and a set of flats. Mostly articles from her closet. She needed her dresser goodies. Time for bag two. Out flowed the bag’s innards in a disordered heap beside her clothes. Ooh. Looking promising.

  She eyed her feminine underclothing that came from the same drawer as … her heart plummeted to the bottom of her gut as she spied it. That old handkerchief. That precious square foot of soft cotton. She held her breath as she reached for it, her chest tightening. No hope. It wasn’t folded the way she had it two days ago. The lace edges were exposed. It had been unwrapped.

  Her grandmother’s pendant, now gone forever.

  “Morning.” The sergeant’s voice registered no emotion. Again.

  Vera smoothed a hand over her dress, its copper color matching the skillet in Mick’s hand. “Yeah, it’s morning.” The small kitchen tweaked a sense of familiarity in her. It couldn’t be considered a room, more like a hallway with a rickety stove, two metal cabinets, and a tiny icebox stuffed into it. Grandmother’s place. She shook off the memory. It’s just coincidence.

  The most intriguing aspect of the kitchen, as much as it bothered her to acknowledge, was Mick. He was cooking. And looking comfortable at it.

  Darts of grease shot above the sizzling bacon. He grabbed an aluminum plate, which she was certain came from the Five and Dime, and shoveled some fat strips onto it.

  “Here.” He gave her a hearty helping, leaving the charred scraps for himself. “Take this too.”

  She raised a brow at the glass he held in his right hand. “I’d rather have a cup of mud, if ya got any?”

  With his other hand, he slid the skillet off the burner and then directed his eyes on her. Her breath did something funny in her lungs, as if it forgot which way it was traveling. “Miss Pembroke, please refrain from the sarcasm.”

  “It’s coffee. Mud is jivey talk for coffee.” Smokes. How off beat could this man be? “And please refrain from calling me Miss Pembroke. It’s Vera.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Was he fighting a smile? Or was it a muscle spasm? “Water is all I got.”

  “It’s awfully bland, don’t ya think?” She accepted the glass with a shrug and followed him into the dining room.

  Yep, this setup was smeared with masculinity. Only a man would use a dingy card table for his primary dining area. The best part was the dictionary employed under the left leg for support. Nice touch.

  Steam climbed from the pile of cooked eggs in the center of the table, the odor reminding her of last night’s retching episode. “I’m going to pass on those.” She gestured with her hand.

  “Suit yourself,” he mumbled. The light streaming in from the window played on the waves of his blond hair.

  Had he combed it, or was it naturally perfect? Men had it so easy. She scooped oatmeal onto her plate and perched herself in one of the chairs. Mick claimed the seat across from her. She picked up her spoon, but he remained still, head lowered, lips moving. “You talkin’ to yourself?”

  He didn’t lift his head right away. “No.”

  “What were you doin’?” She better not be cooped up with a loony. That was all she needed. Escape one psycho to find another.

  “Blessing the food.” He smoothed a napkin on his lap and reached for his fork.

  “Prayin’?”

  “Yeah.”

  So that’s why he was rigid. The man was into religion. Should she tell him now that it was a waste of time and effort or wait for a better opportunity? She’d mouthed a million prayers all to no avail. She forced a bite of oatmeal down and ignored the ache in her heart. “So … how long are you going to hide me away in this woodland Windsor?”

  He cleared his throat. “I talked to the captain this morning and—”

  “This mornin’? So there’s a phone here?”

  “No. I went to see a friend and then went to town.”

  “Without me? When?”

  “You were asleep.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  And just how had he known? Had he peeked at her? From now on, she’d push that dresser in front of the door every time she was in that dusty room and not just at night. She tightened her lips around her spoon, resisting the impulse to call him on it. No. She’d wait for proof.

  “Don’t complain too much. You’re benefiting from it.”

  Was he born with a stiff jaw, or was it a skill he had to master, like her with regulating her breathing for a double whole note? Even chiseled-chin Angelo relaxed when not on duty. Ah, that was it. The sergeant wasn’t off duty. She’d be keen to remember that.

  “Where else do you think I got all this food?”

  “Oh.” She scratched the bottom of her earlobe. Mick’s gaze held on her movements. Why was he studying her? She dropped her hand into her lap. “What did the captain have to say? Did they catch the crumbs that destroyed my place?”

  He took a drink. “No. Not yet.”

  Figures. “What about Carson? What’s he getting, life or the chair?”

  “Carson Kelly was released this morning.”

  Okay, so the man went from having zero humor to a sour one. “That’s not funny, Sarge. I almost choked on my bacon.” Just to make sure it went down right, she took a sip of her water. “I hope the trial comes soon. I’m more than ready to get my life back.”

  She forced her stare onto Mick. His pinched mouth and serious eyes left no room for doubt. “No.” Her throat tightened as the air left her. This wasn’t … it couldn’t …

  “I’m sorry. Kelly was released at nine this morning.”

  What? No! The oatmeal hardened to concrete in her stomach. A murderer on the loose. Was Carson searching for her? Was she to be victim number two? A shiver coursed through her, freezing her fingers into fists.

  “No one else saw Carson’s car coming in or going out at the time of the murder.” His gaze pierced hers, and she forced herself to swallow. “Did you? Carson’s car, did you see it?”

  “No. It was raining.” Didn’t they go through this a gazillion times at the station? Was he testing her? Seeing if she’d give the same testimony? This took all. Carson was out and Mick wanted to play parlor games.

  “We can’t place Kelly on the scene at the time of the murder.”

  “That’s a bunch of malarkey. I told you. I told you he was there!” She drilled the tabletop with her bent elbow and sunk her forehead into her open palm. “I heard him. It was him. Carson.”

  “Mr. Voss claimed Kelly was with him at the time of the shooting.”

  She ground her teeth. “Carson’s lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “The chump’s lying.” She whipped her head up, her voice trembling along with the rest of her. Compassion splashed around in his eyes, and she hardened her heart at it. If it was sympathy, it was probably for himself, having to endure her company. “Ward Voss is Carson’s best friend.”

  “He’s also a prominent figure
in the city. He’s got ties with bank presidents and owners of railroads and—”

  “Murderers.”

  “Voss is respectable.” Mick shrugged. “And you’re—”

  “And I’m what?” Her eyes watered, burning. “Go ahead and say it. A speakeasy singer’s word is nothin’ to a fancy-pants lawyer’s.”

  “Yes.” He stared at her as if she were going to shoot through the ceiling. “That’s how they’re viewing it.”

  Vera stiffened her features, hoping to conceal her bleeding pride. She was all too familiar with the respectable, and for a while, had thought she’d been immune to their condescending glares, but the squeezing in her chest proved otherwise.

  “We’re searching for a motive here. No motive, no case.” He finished off his drink.

  “There was a reason.” She pushed her plate away, allowing some of the oatmeal to spill onto the table. Her mind scrambled, searching for a different road than the one she was about to travel, but none surfaced. “Artie was a blackmailer.” Her voice trembled and she hated it. “I can prove it.”

  Mick paused, then spoke, his voice even. “How?”

  “Because he was blackmailing me.” And in one measly second, she destroyed all the years she’d been forced silent.

  Mick shifted in his chair, openly facing her. “What about?”

  “I was starving. Homeless. Artie took me in. Told Carson I was his cousin in order to get me a job at the gin joint.”

  There was a stretch of silence before Mick nodded. “And Kelly never found out?”

  “No.” Vera scratched her neck and kept her lashes lowered. “Artie threatened me that very night. Said he was going to tell Carson.”

  He rested his elbows on the table, leaning toward her. “I’m not sure why this is a big deal.”

  She settled back. “Because you don’t know Carson. He demands loyalty. If he suspected I lied to him in one area, he’d wonder if I was fibbing in others.”

  “Were you?”

  Her gaze dropped to her fingernails. “I’d also been singing off and on at the Moonlight Club. Artie found out. Pretty much told me I had to stay under his control, or he’d ruin me.” She lifted her chin and got caught in his intense stare.