The Red Canary

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  Come on, Ver, show a man some mercy. His eyes put up a fight, but he wrestled his gaze away from the beautiful woman and onto the pale face of his watch. “You have fifteen more minutes of birthday bliss. Spend it wisely.”

  “Because every girl deserves a present on her birthday.” She repeated his note in a tone of voice that put a chokehold on his heart. “Ya know, that was one of the nicest things anyone has …” She stopped.

  Was it because she was happy? Unhappy? “Done for you?” The look on her face made him want to gather all her dreams in life and present them to her on a golden platter. Truth was, she was going to have to return to reality. Find a new residence. Go back to work. Would she go back to singing at a speakeasy? He inwardly winced. Her heart was changed, but that existence was how she survived. All she knew. He put a fist in the pillow, loosening the clumps of imitation goose feathers and releasing frustration. They didn’t need to address the future. Not yet. Let her enjoy her last minutes. “Happy birthday, Ver.”

  “Thank you, Mick.”

  “Now, you need to rest. Got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Artie’s sister?” She folded down the covers, her face skeptical as if she could encounter a critter at any time. “I don’t need this thing.” She pointed to the bulky quilt. “It’s too hot. Ya want it? Might make the floor softer.”

  “Sure. I’ll take it.” He pulled it from the bed’s bottom. “And yes, Artie’s sister. Got to call the captain in the morning for her information and address. G’night, Ver.”

  “’Night.” She tugged the sheet under her chin. He could see the dark fabric of her day dress through the thin cotton sheet. Tomorrow he would buy her a change of clothes with her makeup. Shoot, he’d buy her anything she wanted. If he only had a few days more with her, then he was going to spoil her.

  “I’ll get the lamp.”

  He dragged the blanket over to the spot in front of the door where he’d tossed the pillows. His gun was beside him, within arm’s reach. He pulled his New Testament from his pocket.

  Vera had been still for the past five minutes or so. He checked the door to make sure it was bolted. He walked to the window by the desk. It was shut and locked. Everything looked secure. He reached under the lampshade to click off the light but not before stealing a glance at Vera.

  Wisps of hair fell across her face. Her lips, which took every ounce of his strength to keep away from, were now relaxed and parted. Lips that, tonight, almost pulled him into a kiss. As much as he wanted to taste, to explore, he wanted to do what was right. And to kiss her would’ve been wrong. For more reasons than his tired brain could count.

  He stole another glance at her. Man, she was beautiful. Now she had a beautiful heart to match. With that, he shut off the lamp and found his spot on the floor. All other emotions aside, his heart overflowed with awe and gratitude. Gratitude for the saving grace that still flowed from nail-scarred hands.

  CHAPTER 26

  “You weren’t foolin’ about following me.” Vera pulled the diner’s powder room door closed as she exited and looked at Mick, leaning against the wall, anchoring his hands in his pockets.

  “I told you I’m not leaving you alone. Anywhere.” He stood straight and scratched a jawline darkened with stubble. This morning, she’d missed her toothbrush, but she’d bet all the nickel tips ever thrown at her that Mick had missed his razor.

  They walked into the dining room, and Vera resisted the urge to slap one hand over her scar and the other over her chin. She instead focused on the inviting atmosphere. Natural daylight streamed into the bright-colored space, contrasting the dark, shabby motel they’d just left ten minutes ago. The aroma of coffee and bacon wafted to her nose. Long-legged men were stuffed into booths, their fedoras bobbing over opened newspapers. The corner housed a table of women, leaning over steamy mugs, competing to see who could talk the longest without taking a breath.

  “I wonder if their coffee is fresh.” They’d only entered this diner to use the payphone, but her stomach begged for any sort of nourishment.

  “Let’s grab a quick bite.” Despite Mick’s welcome words, his eyes had a faraway look, and his mannerisms were rigid. He wasn’t nervous, was he?

  Vera pulled her chair out and sat, the chill of the metal carrying through her dress. “What did the captain say?”

  Her attempts to angle close by Mick’s side during the phone conversation had revealed her eavesdropping skills could stand improvement.

  He picked up the menu from the stand in the center of the table. “Her name is Camille Walters. She’s not Artie’s sister. Not by records, anyway.” He shrugged but didn’t pull his eyes away from the grease-stained paper.

  “Art-man introduced her that way to me. I’m sure of it.” And she was sure those donuts in the glass case by the register didn’t stand a chance. “So what about her?”

  Mick motioned for the waitress. She gave the be with ya in a second wave. “They had trouble locating her. I have an address.” He patted his pocket. “But it’s a gamble.”

  The fifty-something female approached them. “Welcome to Chuck’s Cafe. My name’s Alice.” She rambled this information off in a lethargic manner. “What’ll it be for you two?” Pulling a notepad and pen from a pouch in her apron, she turned her amber eyes to Vera.

  Vera returned her menu. “Coffee and a donut.”

  Alice scribbled it down and didn’t look up.

  Vera glanced down at her ring, still nestled below her knuckle. Were they still pretending the marriage stuff? How could she forget to ask? She had been too occupied this a.m. with trying to look socially acceptable. No brush, combs, or hairpins meant a lot of finger fussing and splashing of water to tame wayward curls.

  “I’ll take scrambled eggs and a side of bacon.”

  “To drink?”

  “Juice, if you got it.” He stuffed the menu back in the wire stand and looked up at her. “That should be all. Thank you.”

  Alice spared a quick nod, then hustled off as quickly as she’d come.

  Mick relaxed against his seat, his gaze casually sweeping the area before settling on her. “Did Artie mention anything about where Camille lived? In a house? Apartment, anything?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Artie and I weren’t the best of friends.”

  “I’m not sure what we’re going to find. We might not discover anything at all.” His eyes flooded with uncertainty.

  Where was her confident sergeant?

  “As I said, it’s a gamble. A long shot.”

  She rested a hand on his, like the many times he’d done for her over the past week. “Then we’ll take the gamble together.” Okay, maybe a little forward, but the dimpled smile came in full view.

  “I don’t want it any other way, Ver.”

  Holy smokes. He had to stop looking at her like that. His gaze seemed to stretch beyond the surface. She wasn’t sure how to respond to such a gesture, but the warmth extending to her toes seemed to say it wasn’t so bad.

  “Here you go.” The waitress returned with the grub, which could’ve broken the moment between them if Mick hadn’t aimed his smirk at Vera for a direct hit to her heart.

  The waitress set Mick’s food on the table and then Vera’s.

  Yum. Her stomach sang an ode to coffee and fried pastries.

  “Here are some cream and sugar.” Alice looked to Vera’s hand still on Mick’s, and her expression softened, the taut lines in her face relaxing. “Nice to see young people in love. Refreshes this old heart of mine.” She eyed Vera’s ring. “So how long have you been married?” This question was directed to Mick.

  Vera pulled her hand away and worked on fixing her coffee with two sugars and a whole lot of cream.

  “How long? Seems like only yesterday.” Mick smiled, his eyes downright rascally.

  Vera’s talent for improvising was rubbing off on the man.

  Alice wagged her pen at Vera. “I think you found yourself a keeper.”

  He grinned. “No, I did.�
� Oh dear, there was that mischievous eye again. “Did you ever see anyone so gorgeous, Alice?”

  Vera pulled her lips tight and prayed coffee wouldn’t come out her nose. She hid behind her mug and refused to look at the adorable grin lighting his face.

  “Now I know he’s a keeper.” Alice put the ticket face-down on the table and looked at Vera, smiling widely. “Hang onto him, honey.” She shuffled off, the scent of roses and talc powder going with her.

  Mick wielded his fork like a dagger and stabbed his eggs. It was just like him to throw a remark out there and then go back to business as usual.

  “You satisfied with yourself?” She spread her napkin over her lap.

  He gave her the who me look.

  Vera narrowed her eyes. Yes, you.

  “Just enjoying the silence.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I discovered something worthwhile.”

  Whew. And so had she. Staring at Mick while drinking a blissful cup of coffee was a beautiful pastime indeed. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “I discovered if I want a moment of silence from you, then all I have to do is call you beautiful.”

  “So you didn’t mean it. Lying to Alice like that. Tsk. Tsk.”

  “No, I meant it, gorgeous.”

  Man, oh, man. The guy was flirting—and brutally good at it. So how could she control a heart melting faster than the lump of sugar in her coffee? His eyes, his smile, the way he kept finding avenues to be close, all of it working together to make Sergeant Swoon-face more endearing to her.

  “See? Tongue-tied. Point made.”

  And then he said that.

  His eyes sported a note of victory. Maybe her foot could knock it off key.

  “Playing footsy with me?”

  “I was crossin’ my ankles. Could I help it if your shin got in the way?”

  “Crossing your ankles while bruising mine.” He took a sip of his juice and winked at her from over the glass.

  Heart, you have my permission to head for the hills. Somehow, over the past couple weeks, Mick Dinelo had gained entrance into her heart, unlocking portals to her soul that she never knew existed. The waitress’ words resurfaced. Hang onto him, honey. Mick was everything whimper-worthy, all in a delicious, six-foot-two package. If she saw it, and Alice, a total stranger, saw it, then how come some doll hadn’t dug her claws into him ages ago? There was a mystery behind the man across the table from her. And she was determined to find out.

  CHAPTER 27

  Crem’s Hardware. Mick stared as if a house would magically appear in its place. Yet this was the address the captain had given. He glowered at his scrawl.

  32 W. Park Ave.

  The paper matched the numbers on the window front. But … a hardware store? A garbage-strewn alley and a barbershop bookended the place. Frustration clouded his mind. Why couldn’t he get a break? Just once.

  “There’s somethin’.” Vera pointed down the alley. Beyond the stack of broken wooden boxes was a door.

  “Just a side entrance to the hardware store.”

  She cut him a look.

  He quickly amended his response. “But let’s check it out.”

  Vera stepped ahead, and Mick refrained from pulling her back to keep her alongside him. Ever since Angelo took those shots at her, Mick’s desire to protect her bordered on obsession. He slid his hand over the leather holster. He couldn’t fail. For her sake as well as his own.

  “Uh-huh. Just what I thought.” She paused and tilted her head back, a flat hand over her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Twelve o’clock, Micky.”

  Mick’s gaze went straight up, and with it came the corners of his mouth.

  “Those are frilly curtains in the window.” An I was right demeanor plastered her face. “I’ve never seen a hardware store garbed in lace.”

  Vera led the way, stepping over broken bottles and rumpled newspapers. Mick kept two steps behind. Not smothering, but close.

  “An apartment over the store.” The mail tag on the door read Camille Walters Photography. Hope gathered in his chest. “You found it.”

  “There’s no bell.” Vera frowned at the weathered door. Peeling paint exposed slits of the dark wood underneath.

  “Then let’s give ’er a good pounding.” Mick flashed her a smile and rapped hard on the rotted entrance. He stepped back and sought her gaze. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if she’ll remember me.”

  “I have no doubt she will.” Mick’s eyes glistened in the sunlight like glossy green stones. “You’re unforgettable.”

  Vera rewarded his words with a smile. Noticing something amiss, she reached over and turned down the flipped-up collar of Mick’s jacket. The backs of her thumbs brushed his neck and stubbled jaw. Her hands trailed down, smoothing the wrinkles on his broad shoulders.

  His lips twitched. “Thank you.”

  The deadbolt unlatched, pulling Vera’s attention from Mick and his charm.

  Millie’s expression shifted from confusion to a smile. “Miss Pembroke. How are you?” The gentle breeze didn’t disturb her blonde hair, pinned neatly in an up-do, but did ripple the faded fabric of her dress.

  “Hello, Millie. Please call me Vera. This is—”

  “Mick Dinelo.” He stuck his hand to greet her, but his greeting was stiff.

  What was he doing? He didn’t say Sergeant or flash his badge. Did he not want Millie to know he was a policeman? Confusion pinched her as she watched their exchange. Maybe she should take it like a dance and let the man lead.

  “Nice to meet you.” Millie folded her hands in front of her, a nervousness marking her expression.

  Vera could relate. Mick’s hulking presence did that to a woman.

  “Just about out the door to run some errands.” Millie gave a weak smile. The dark circles under her blue eyes aged her, but she couldn’t be more than mid-thirties. “I can’t afford to turn down business, though. That’s why you’re here, right? For pictures?” She opened the door wider to allow them to squeeze through. A small laugh riddled the air. “That Artie, he’s such a great brother. He promised to send clients my way, but ya really didn’t have to come all the way from Pittsburgh. Hope he didn’t praise my work too high.”

  She doesn’t know. Vera shot Mick a wary look.

  “It’ll be all right. I’ll handle it.” His low whisper seemed troubled. He put his hand on her back as she walked up the stairs. The dull wood creaked under her shoes. Vera took one look at the dilapidated railing, which seemed it would snap into splinters with any weight on it, and clung to Mick’s arm.

  “Who is it, Mama?” A little girl popped up from behind a wingback chair, her blonde hair like her mother’s but in braids tied with ribbons.

  Millie planted two fists on her hips. “Abigail Walters, you better not be standing on the furniture.”

  The small form dipped out of sight.

  “That’s my daughter. Mischievous as ever.” Millie adopted a wearied look, but amusement lit her eyes. “Abby, come here, baby.”

  Abigail skipped to her mother, her shoes smacking against the wood planks. Vera’s gaze skimmed the bare floors. No area rugs. Even with an apartment the size of a piccolo case, the poor woman didn’t have the means to fill it.

  Seconds later, blue eyes peeked around Millie’s flowing dress covered in rosebuds, and Vera smiled.

  A hand took hers. Mick’s. His posture was rigid, and the twinkle in his eyes deadened. No doubt this task ahead wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs, but Mick was a policeman. Shouldn’t he be used to this? Then again, how could one become immune to news of death?

  “Would you care to sit down?” The cheery grin on Millie’s face showed she had no idea of their struggles.

  Mick led Vera to a small sofa that was adjacent to the wingback chair. Vera sat, noticing several patch jobs done to the cushion.

  “What kind of event are we celebrating? Engagement?” She glanced at Vera’s hand. “Oh. Are you married already? I c
an never tell by the ring anymore.” Her conversational tone increased Vera’s uneasiness.

  How long was Mick going to let his go on?

  “Don’t count me forward, Miss Pembroke, but you are a photographer’s dream. Your features are so defined.” Her buoyant smile fell when her gaze hit Vera’s scabbed chin. “What happened?”

  “I fell.” Vera wondered if her tone was strained. She ran her fingers along the corded trim of the armrest. At least her hair covered her scar.

  “I see.” Millie’s mouth tipped up into another warm smile. “Nothing a little powder won’t fix.” She scampered about the small living area, picking up things from the floor. Abigail’s sweater. A wooden puzzle piece. A dish towel. “Sorry ’bout the mess. Wasn’t expecting company.” She set the items on the table behind the couch.

  Mick shifted beside her. Vera could tell by his expression that a plan was forming behind those green eyes. To her heart’s relief, he was not Sergeant Mean Eye, but a sympathetic soul.

  “Miss Walters, we’re not here to have our portrait taken.” He withdrew his badge from his trouser pocket and held it out for her to see.

  Millie’s jaw slackened and her eyes rounded.

  “I’m a sergeant with the city of Pittsburgh.” He paused. “I regret I have information that you need to hear. It’s—”

  “Hold on, Mick.” Vera stood, her legs trembling. “Millie, can I take Abigail into another room?” If she could get there. The anticipation of the impending conversation shook her heart harder than Hewitt’s truck over gravel.

  “Yes. Yes, certainly.” Her voice tensed, and her chipper attitude fizzled out like a wet firecracker. “Abigail, take Miss Pembroke to the bedroom.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  Millie didn’t respond.

  Couldn’t they have done this differently? Vera bent to the girl’s level and smiled. “Abigail, do you have any toys we could play with?”

  “I have a dolly, but she’s napping.”

  “Aw, well, it’s almost lunch time, so don’t you think you should wake her? I’d like to meet her.”