“Get in the car.” He raised his voice above the engine’s growl.
She hobbled on, her dress swishing with each stride. The only acknowledgment he received was a shake of her pretty, stubborn head.
“I told you I’d take you home. All you had to do was ask.”
“Pittsburgh’s not my home.” She stopped.
He braked. “What about the case? You’ve got an obligation.”
“What case?” She dropped her bags and flailed her arms in the air. “You said my story wasn’t good enough.”
He suppressed a groan. Why did women have to be dramatic?
“And my only obligation is to take care of me. Get it?” She cocked her head back in a challenge.
Uh-huh, he got it. “You’re running away.”
“Call it what ya want, Sarge. I ain’t—”
“You’re frightened?” Careful, Ace. Trained to detect signs of distress, he selected his words cautiously. “I understand, Vera.”
“You understand nothing.” A blotchy rash stretched across her neck. Just like the day in the interrogation room. Her voice had a quiver in it. Another symptom. “I’m not scared.” She scratched the spot above her collar, reddening her skin more.
Yes, you are, kiddo.
“Quit actin’ like you know me.” Her stony glare didn’t conceal the slight heaving of her shoulders or the trembling of her lower lip. “Because y-you don’t. You have no idea the …” She pushed her palms against the sides of her head and labored for air.
Mick pulled the brake and jumped out. He placed a hand on her back, meaning to help smooth her sporadic breaths.
She leapt away as though he held fire. “Don’t touch me. Ya said you wouldn’t touch me.”
Oh brother. He drew in a good slice of oxygen and collected himself. No reason for them both to be edgy. Control. “Vera, I was checking your breathing.”
“My breathin’s fine.”
If fine meant choppy and wheezy, then yes. He had to get her calm before she hyperventilated. Engaging her in conversation would be wisest. “Vera, the thing to see here—”
“Stop! My life”—she slapped her hand on her chest—“my life was okay until you showed up!”
Soothing tones. Keep a soft voice. Her eyes rounded and alert, she resembled her nickname, Canary, ready to take flight at any sense of danger. “Your life will be okay again. It will.”
“Don’t ya dare make promises. Better not to vow, than to vow and not pay.”
“Ecclesiastes.”
She stared, lips parted and head tilted. “Huh?”
“What you just said was a verse from Ecclesiastes.”
A softness swept over her hardened features. It was fleeting, like a breath of wind, making her lovelier. “Someone I knew … would always tell me that.” With shaky fingers, Vera smoothed away the hair from her cosmetic-caked face. She jerked her gaze from his and sniffled.
“Here. Allow me.” Mick held out his handkerchief, the same one from last night.
“I ain’t cryin’.” She shook her head, refusing his token. “I got a gnat in my eye.”
Lie. He could point to the rock where her stray tear had landed, the darkened oval proving its existence. But just like in the car, her pride wouldn’t accept his consideration. “What do you have against my poor handkerchief?” His pathetic attempt for a tease hung stale in the air, the only response from her being a rigid shoulder shrug.
Wind pulled through the trees, disturbing the shade above, allowing sunlight to hiccup across her face. Her noisy breathing quieted. Her shoulders quit heaving.
He gave her what little privacy he could offer and peered out into the web of branches. The creek burbled in the distance, constant and soothing. He snuck a glance at her and frowned. “You fell.” The front of her dress was soiled, her elbow tinted with blood. He should’ve never left her this morning.
“I’m fine.” Brush. Brush. Brush. Her hand worked vigorously over the fabric of her skirt. The dirt only smeared. She sighed, and her arms wilted to her sides.
“Listen, Vera.” He scooped up the bags. She reached out but wasn’t quick enough. “Give it time.” He tossed her belongings in the rear seat and walked back to her. “Please?”
“No.”
It took all his self-control not to hoist her over his shoulder. How could he convince her of the danger? If anyone should know of the risks involved, shouldn’t it be the former girlfriend of a gangster? And Carson Kelly was as crooked as they come. Mick just needed proof. Something he considered valid enough to take to the state level. Because that’s the only way Kelly could be stopped.
What Mick couldn’t consider were Vera’s wide eyes that begged for stability. Or the natural pout that pulled his attention more than he was comfortable with. “No pressure. Relax up here for a couple days and then decide. All right?”
The fire in her eyes extinguished. “Maybe … a couple days.” She lifted her chin, and the flames rekindled, gold specks igniting in her green irises. “But that’s all.”
“Fair enough.”
He felt her stare as they walked back to the car. She didn’t trust him. Well, he didn’t exactly harbor chummiest of feelings for her either. God help them.
He held the door for her, and the side of her mouth quirked up. Slightly. Something akin to victory tugged at his heart.
However, the taming wasn’t absolute. The Red Canary could take wing again.
CHAPTER 10
Vera rubbed her lips together, spreading the grit from her lipstick.
This morning marked day number two of waking up with sunshine beaming through the windowpane, warming both her skin and mood. But then the sergeant had gone and shattered her lazy musings with his persistent knocking. He now filled her bedroom entryway, all dapper in his beige suit and boater hat.
Mick released a noisy exhale. “Hurry, please.”
“You’re one callous cat. Do you know that? Ya don’t get a dame up outta bed and then tell her she has five minutes to get ready. It’s cruel.” And impossible.
“I have to call the captain at eight a.m. Sharp.” He held up his pocket watch as if she could read the time from across the room.
She coursed her fingers through her hair and pulled the sides up with combs. Her gaze fell to her legs. Should she roll down her stockings? It certainly would be cooler. Yesterday’s sweltering heat had nearly made her faint. If she planned another getaway, she’d make sure to flee during the brisker parts of the day.
Mick cleared his throat, and she rolled her eyes. No more time to fuss. The granny garter would have to do.
“How do I look?” She popped her hip to the right and raised both arms, striking a pose like Greta Garbo’s from The Divine Woman.
“Fine.”
He didn’t look. An unusual breed, this one. Most men had surveyed her like a choice cut steak, but not him. Something about it was refreshing. “Just fine?”
“Yeah, let’s go.” He put his arm behind her and propelled her from the room.
Once outside, Vera spread out her arms and tilted her head to the sky. “What do ya say, Mick? Can we put the top down?”
“Not today. It might rain.”
“One cloud.” She scrunched her brows and collapsed her arms to her sides. “It’s so tiny I wouldn’t call it a cloud. It’s a puff. And look. It’s not even over us.” She shook her head. “Ya know you really should take a bath in oil.”
“What?”
“You’re rusted stiff. Loosen up.” She rolled her shoulders a couple times. An example might help the poor soul.
“No. I’m disciplined.”
“I’m surprised your joints don’t squeak.”
He finally graced her with a smile with … dimples. The backs of her knees quivered, and she stiffened against it. Good thing the man hardly grinned. Those deep dents framing a perfect mouth could prove distracting.
Mick reached for her door, opening it. Instead of stepping aside for her to slide in, he straightened th
at lousy towel where her backside would soon be parked.
The pathetic amount of attraction she’d felt was now replaced with the urge to smack him upside the head. “You sure know how to flatter the females, Sarge. And for the record, I’m not as dirty as ya think.”
“What?” His brows pulled together. “The leather seat gets warm. The cloth should make it more comfortable for you.”
Oh.
He shut her in and strode to his side. After settling behind the wheel, he started the car.
“So where we goin’? Atlantic City?” She shook imaginary dice and threw them.
“Of course not.”
She’d only been in his presence today for fifteen minutes, and her words already set his nostrils to flaring. Getting under his skin, such a happy challenge, like mastering one of Maestro’s songs. Only better.
“Thought we’d drop by the neighbor’s house.” He glanced over. “Since you were in such a rush to meet her yesterday.”
Her? Was she Mick’s girl? He seemed keen on visiting her. While he maneuvered the car down the drive, she took that moment to sneak a heavier look. Everything about the man breathing two feet away said order, from the perfect length of his hair beneath his hat, not too long nor too short, to the sharp incline of his chin, to his crisp beige collar. She could see why women would fawn over him. He appeared to be a man who had it all together.
“I think you’re going to like her.”
Vera folded her arms. Social introductions made her want to gag. “Can I at least roll the window down? I know stuffiness is your atmosphere, but it’s not mine.”
“Go ahead. But be careful with the glass, it’s—”
“Sensitive. Yeah, yeah, I remember.” Good ol’ Sergeant Mean Eye. She cranked it halfway down and gazed out.
Clear skies hovered over them, a calming blue. The car’s springs rattled as they drove over uneven earth and down the hill. The scent of pinesap weighted the air, the stickiness layering her lungs with each breath. One final bump took them onto the road, if she could call it that. Tire tread marks scored the ground, a seam of grass in between.
“How did Captain Harpshire ever spot this place?” She peered through timbers resembling hairy toothpicks.
He flicked a look her way. “The land’s been in his family for a long time.”
“Which brings up another question.” She twisted to face him. “If this is his place, then how come ya know your way around? You his errand boy up here too?”
He scowled and Vera smiled brightly. She’d annoyed him twice in less than five minutes. A personal best.
“I’ve been coming up here for years. The captain lets me use it whenever I want.”
“So that explains why ya didn’t have any bags. You keep clothes here.”
“Yeah.”
“Glad ya lost those cop threads.” Hope he made a habit of it. His taste in clothing was commendable, but even his perfectly cut suit couldn’t hide the mark of his profession. His revolver seemed to glare at her, the slant of morning sun glinting off its handle.
A shiver coursed through her, and she resisted touching the scar near her temple. That bullet long ago and now the one that killed Artie. Two identical shots, a set of tormenting twins. She shoved the haunting thoughts away as they drove onto a dusty lane.
Mick stopped the car and got out. He strode around quickly, opened her door, and extended his hand.
Did he think she was helpless? That she couldn’t climb out of the car without his assistance? She glared at him. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“My parents raised me to open doors for and offer my arm to a lady.”
What could she say to that? Parents who cared enough for their children to teach them manners. Jealousy scratched her heart.
“Tell me what’s in there for me?” She motioned her head toward the cottage. “I already know enough people. Don’t feel like meetin’ anyone new. With nothing new to say.”
He shrugged. “I thought you’d want to get cleaned up, but if you’d rather—”
“She has running water?” This dame suddenly got interesting.
“Yeah.”
“With faucets?” She massaged her sore upper arm. If she had known yesterday after her botched runaway plan that she’d be spending fifteen minutes priming an oxidized pump in order to snag a drink, she’d have gone thirsty. Yeah, Mick had offered to help, but her pride wouldn’t accept it. Which was why she’d isolated herself in her bedroom for the rest of the day, humidity and silence her only companions. “Are you kidding me? Because if so, you’re marked as my number one enemy.”
He smiled. “The works, Vera. A bathtub, sinks, and your personal favorite, a flushing powder room.”
That was the nicest thing he’d ever said. If she wasn’t bent on loathing him, she’d hug him. She scooted out of her seat, not caring if her heels skidded on the floor mat.
Vera jerked her thumb as they bypassed the front porch and rounded the back of the residence. “You missed the door.”
Whoa. The poor lady’s house was petunia-infested. Pink petals lined the walkways, filled pots on the porch steps, and hung in baskets from the porch ceiling.
“Come on in.” A squeaky voice floated from inside the cottage.
“Morning, Mrs. Chambers.” He greeted a small-framed woman. The white hair and wrinkled skin answered Vera’s question—not Mick’s dame. “May I introduce Miss—”
“Vera.” How many times did she have to tell the man? “Call me Vera.” Although she didn’t expect this seventy-something woman to call Vera anything but vulgar. Elderly ladies were the worst—and most vocal—when it came to handing out disapproval for Vera’s overuse of the war paint. But she’d rather be called a hussy than attract curious looks with her scar.
“Vera. What a lovely name. It suits you.” Her smile was kind. “Come in. Come in.”
Mick held the door for Vera to pass through, and she took in the new surroundings. Yeah, now we’re talking.
The captain’s place was Daniel Boone’s cabin compared to this woman’s joint. Where the men had mismatched chairs and tattered cushions, she had a plush sofa with coordinating pillows. No dilapidated tables, but china cabinets and doilies galore. The cinnamon-sugar aroma sent her stomach growling. No breakfast, thanks to Sarge.
Mick pulled Mrs. Chambers in for a side hug.
Vera drew in her bottom lip, restraining her jaw from dropping. Emotion. The man could show emotion. Who’d have thought?
He approached a cat lounging in an armchair, picking it up and stroking its calico fur.
“Mick’s the only one Mitzy lets do that.” Mock offense sprinkled her tone, but a smile glistened in her gray-blue eyes. “Vera, I’d love for you to call me Lacey.” She slipped a feeble arm in Vera’s. “I try to get Mick to call me Lacey, but he won’t. Flat refuses.”
Mick returned the feline to the chair and faced them. “That’s because your name is Frances.” A broad grin split his face. And he brought his dimples along.
Okay, where did Straight-faced Sergeant go, and who was this gent with the friendly expression and the happy hugs?
“My late husband … bless his memory. He called me that. Lacey.” Her voice pitched higher, her gaze upward.
Vera followed her dreamy stare. Nothing there except a plastered ceiling.
“Yes, I was his little Lacey. Won’t embarrass anyone with the details of how I got it.”
“Don’t want to know.” Mick turned on his heel and walked into the other room.
Lacey’s laugh doused the air. “Poor Mick. He shies away at those kinds of topics.”
“Just have to call the captain.” His defensive tone made Lacey laugh more.
“Now, dearie.” The older woman set a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “I hear you want to get washed while you’re here.”
“A wash is an understatement. I think I need a chisel to chip off the crud.”
“Then let’s hop to it.” Lacey flounced out of the room, her cottony
hair bouncing.
Vera followed as the woman walked down the hall and opened the door on the left.
Ah, the toilet. Vera smiled. She’d never recalled another time when the porcelain bowl looked so beautiful. And, beside it, another refreshing sight—a claw-foot tub.
“Everything else you need is in this cabinet. Take your time.”
Oh, she would. “Thanks.” Vera waited until the old lady left and turned on the faucet.
She all but jumped out of her stiff clothes into the pool of steaming water. A few temps below scalding, just the way she liked it. Cleansing water saturated the pores that had been clogged with summer-induced perspiration. Her muscles relaxed as she sank deeper and leaned her head back.
“What did the captain have to say?” Lacey’s voice was distant, but Vera could make out her words.
“Mostly the same as yesterday.” Mick’s bass-like voice could probably be heard three counties over without any strenuous effort on his part. “He confirmed that Carson Kelly was released.”
Vera wanted to dip her head under the suds and stay there for the next million years or so.
“Heavens above, her hair is beautiful. Mick, I say she has a face for the silver screen. Very pretty.”
The faucet dripped five times before Mick responded. “Yeah, she is.”
Maybe she should tune the world out with a hum of her favorite jazz melody and not contemplate the handsome sergeant and those three words he’d just spoken.
“You’re porkin’ me up, Lacey.” Vera stuffed another bite of pie into her craw, the tender apples a great balance of tart and sweet. She smiled. Just like tasting memories, grandmother baking all morning, then selling every pie except the small one she’d made for Vera. Perhaps not all reminiscences were bad.
“I’m not concerned about my waistline. Let me finish it.” Mick reached across the table.
She raised her fork like a dagger. “Hands off, pal.”
Mick raised his palms in the air and laughed. “It was just an offer.”
“Ya already had two pieces.” She stared at the man seated opposite her. Which Mick was the real one? The stuffy cop or Mrs. Chambers’ fun-loving houseguest? The smiles and hugs he’d been giving Lacey had caused her to gawk as though he had three eyeballs. And the way he had been looking at her and talking. Real sentences.
The Red Canary Page 9
