The Red Canary Read online

  “I need my nourishment. Just in case I need to chase some stubborn girl all over the countryside.”

  Vera placed her palm to her cheek. She blushed? What was wrong with her? She never blushed. Never. It was a good time to look intently into her empty coffee cup.

  Mick glanced at his pocket watch. “I need to go out and check on the car.”

  “Boy, you are batty over that breezer.” Never seen the like. If this man was this protective over a car, watch out when he found a woman. Sad girl would never be let out of the house.

  “Not mine. Hewitt’s.” He stood, his thigh knocking into the table, spilling some of his lemonade.

  Lacey swiped a napkin from the drawer and offered it to him. Mick stiffened as if the old woman had just handed him a rattlesnake. His eyes took on a wild look, his jaw hardened. What gives?

  “It’s just a little spill.” Lacey took a brisk step toward a dazed Mick, snapped the napkin from his limp fingers, and sopped up the few drops of lemonade. “That’s an old tablecloth. See, no harm done.”

  Mick glared at the wall, Lacey tight-lipped a smile that made her flushed cheeks look like busted balloons, and Vera sat confused as to why a rosebud-embroidered napkin had created such a stir.

  Mitzy rubbed against Mick’s legs, and he blinked, a shaft of breath escaping as if he had just surfaced from being underwater.

  Vera took another sip of her coffee, watching Sarge from above the rim of her mug.

  With a natural finesse, he slid his hat on his head, the brim lingering inches above his haunted eyes. “Mrs. Chambers, did those parts ever come?”

  “Yes, dearie. I placed the packages on the seat. Don’t forget the barn key.”

  Mick nodded at Lacey. He walked past and set a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Why don’t you help Mrs. Chambers with the dishes?”

  Vera tightened her hold on her coffee cup. Was that a question or command? Just like that, she was back to being the seven-year-old in his eyes. That man. Did he think she had no good qualities? That she had no clue in life and needed to be told what to do? She shrugged his hand off. Without a word, she joined Lacey at the sink.

  “It’s all right, darlin’, I can handle these.” Lacey’s small mouth pressed into a flat line as she observed Mick stalking out the door. “Poor guy.”

  The only thing poor about that man was his people skills. That napkin in Lacey’s hand had more personality than Mick. And at present, seemed more useful.

  “He takes a while to warm up to others.” She spoke of him as though he was a Golden Retriever. “He doesn’t mean to be that way.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever known him to be.” Vera snatched the washcloth from the counter. “How about I wash and you dry? I don’t know where ya like things.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  “I’m sorry, Lacey.” No way was Mick going to make her look like an uncivilized tramp. “I was goin’ to help before he even said anythin’.”

  “Well, at least take this.” Lacey withdrew a white apron from the drawer and handed it to Vera. “Mick’s got a lot of fine qualities, but he’s aloof when it comes to understanding the female heart.”

  She grimaced and plunged her hands in the sudsy water. The window above the sink allowed a clear view of the barn. The truck’s black body and pine-board bed blended with the woodsy setting, like a picture on one of those fancy calendars. Mick had the sides of the hood popped and stared into the truck’s guts. With his sleeves pushed past his elbows, he sunk his hands and forearms into the grimy web of parts.

  “He’s determined to get Hewitt’s truck running.” Lacey leaned forward and peered out, eyes squinting. “Good to have projects. Tinkering around and kicking tires helps clear the head.” She gave Vera a playful nudge. “You know how men are.”

  Not that one. Too tricky to figure out and too much effort. She fixed her stare on the task ahead and worked quietly until all was finished. “That’s all of ’em.” She pulled the stopper in the sink’s drain.

  “Let’s have some music.” Lacey closed the cabinet and smiled.

  “You got records?” Please, please, please have a noise box. It would restore some reason to her brain.

  “Yeah, but I was thinking about something else. How about a baby grand?”

  “Would it be awkward to tell you I love you?” Heart skipping to the beat of joy, she untied her apron and laid it on the back of the kitchen chair, following Lacey so closely she stepped on the tiny woman’s heels. Twice.

  “Now that’s a beaut.” Who needed a Victrola when you could jive authentically?

  “You know how to play, honey?”

  “You betcha.” Vera gazed at the mahogany instrument, its glossy finish blurring her reflection. The piano bench welcomed her with the perfect amount of padding.

  Pressing the keys and playing a tidbit of a melody ushered in the groove. She played one song, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the musical crave. No, she needed some vocals. The keys moved flawlessly under her fingers, and her voice presented the rest.

  “Lovely, Vera.” Lacey clapped her hands in front of her chest. “Just lovely.”

  “Nothing like the sound of the ivories.”

  “I never heard that song before.” Lacey placed a fingertip on her chin. “Did you write that yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Impressive. Keep playing, sugar.” Lacey snatched a roll of yarn and scissors from the basket beside her rocker and went to crocheting.

  Vera scooted the bench closer so her feet could reach the pedals easier. Oh yeah, time to drench the afternoon with a musical downpour.

  Mick jerked the handbrake with more force than necessary. He was the sergeant of investigations for the city of Pittsburgh. He’d gone nose to nose with the vilest mobsters, yet he’d recoiled at the sight of a flower.

  A rosebud. Like hers.

  Would the torment ever end? Hadn’t he suffered enough? He yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed the grime from his hands. But dirt had lodged into the cracks of his knuckles, the corners of his fingertips. Just like the memories of Phyllis—they settled into him, always before him, and no amount of cleansing could free him from his mistakes.

  Why had money been more important to her than his heart? What had made her seek out the biggest bootlegger in town? Or had the scoundrel come to her first? Either way, the information Phyllis had siphoned from Mick and sold to the rumrunners had secured her comfort. Until it’d determined her death.

  His chest tightened, and he pressed a clammy palm against it. He had to get his mind off her. Off that awful day.

  With a weighted exhale, he rounded the truck, standing in front of the radiator. He forced his concentration on the project before him. He’d made a promise to Mrs. Chambers to get her late husband’s truck moving. And this oath he intended to keep.

  He’d replaced the carburetor and the corroded spark plugs. But was it enough? Only one way to know. With his right hand, he pushed the crank in and pulled the choke lever, priming the engine and getting the fuel into the cylinders. He returned to the truck’s cabin, turned the key in the ignition, and adjusted the choke to the right of the steering wheel.

  Sweat gathered under his collar as he hustled to the crank. Moment of truth. This time with his left hand, he pulled the crank lever counterclockwise.

  Put. Sputter, sputter. Put.

  Better than nothing. “Come on, honey. Come on.” He dashed to the cabin and pushed the throttle up and put the left lever down.

  Vroom.

  Mick pumped his fist in the air. Got it!

  Hiccupping every thirty seconds, the engine didn’t sing pretty, but it worked. Taking it out for a test run was next, but he needed tires that weren’t flat. “Hold on, girl. I’ll get you tasting the open air soon.” Tomorrow on his way to town, he’d stop by Jim’s Auto. Old Jim could supply him with some used tires with a decent amount of tread left.

  He cut the engine and leaned back on the sun-warmed sea
t. The frustrating hours of poking at an old engine and flushing a rusted radiator were over. But what if he couldn’t budge it out of neutral? He groaned low.

  Just like Vera.

  The girl dawdled in neutral, not offering any information to move this case forward. After all this effort, could the investigation stall out? Getting her to talk was challenging, but he had to discover a way.

  How long had he been out here? He glanced at the cottage. Were the women getting along? Mrs. Chambers could make friends with anyone, but this was Vera—the woman who insulted him every other breath.

  He should find Vera and head back to the cabin before they overstayed their welcome. Maybe it was too late.

  He jogged toward the house but stopped short of the porch. Vera. She was singing. And playing Mrs. Chambers’ baby grand. He smiled. No doubt, she was in her glory. How would he convince her to go back to the cabin now?

  He propped a shoulder against the wood siding, letting her alto voice surround him, the smoky flair captivating his senses, just like when he’d first heard her at the club. The variances in the music were amazing—fluctuating between subtle tones and bold pitches but holding control throughout. Dynamic. Anyone could use their voice to sing, but it seemed Vera used her heart. Passion poured from every note, saturating him with renewed intrigue for the woman who’d slanted his world in four days’ time.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Get away from me.” Vera smacked a mosquito on her neck. Bad enough, they’d returned to the Daniel Boone house. Now, pesky insects caused her to squirm like she had as a taxi dancer on payday. “Is there any reason for this happy trek in the forest? Besides a mild form of torture?”

  Mick lifted a branch so she could walk under it. “Because a walk before dinner is good for you, and it’s too hot in the cabin.”

  “News flash. It ain’t any cooler out here.”

  Even nature agreed. The birds were either silent or squawked a complaint into the humid air. The tall grass drooped. And the breeze decided to take the afternoon off.

  “Why can’t we stay at Lacey’s?”

  “Liked her that much, huh?”

  “Sure, she was swell.” A bead of sweat coursed the line of her spine, and Vera wrinkled her nose. “So tell me, why does Lacey’s place get all the goods and your cabin has none? Don’t you and the captain believe in running water and telephones?”

  “It costs too much.” He lifted a shoulder. “Lacey’s husband helped spearhead the project of replenishing the forest. When the government acquired the acreage some years back, they needed a few decent people who knew the land and knew what it needed. Hewitt was one of those people. So the government paid for his house to be equipped with all the goods.” He tossed Vera’s turn of phrase back at her along with a lopsided smirk.

  “So whaddya say? Let’s camp out at Lacey’s cottage instead of the rickety range you got.” Not mentioning, her heart bruised every time she set foot in the door. Identical to the small cabin from her childhood. The only refuge she’d known, devastatingly torn away. So wrong for a young girl to lose her grandmother and her home in a span of one day.

  “We can’t. You’re my responsibility.”

  “You mean your burden.”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  No, but he sure thought it.

  Mick kept his glare ahead, eyes squinting from the direct sunlight, his mouth tight.

  She allowed her gaze to roam over the vibrant surroundings. Before now, she could only identify two shades of green, light and dark, but brilliant hues from emerald to jade and everything in between flavored this landscape. And jade happened to be the color of the eyes now watching her.

  “Vera, how close are you to Angelo Vinelli?”

  Her step faltered. She didn’t have to dig much to understand the direction of this conversation. Might as well peer right into the bald-faced truth—everyone thought her a floozy. She fixed her back as straight as she could. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Curious how much you know about him.” But his tone was obvious as the sun beaming on her and, given a long enough stare, could make her sweat just as much.

  “He was a bouncer. He lived down the road from the Kelly Club.”

  “Vinelli’s disappeared.” Mick’s eyes widened as though he expected her to gasp or throw a hand over her heart.

  “He’ll turn up.” Vera swatted at her upper arm. “Why won’t these bugs leave me alone? You’d think I bathed in sugar water.”

  He neared, his gaze sweeping from her face to her latest bite. “I have some citronella oil at the cabin.” He carefully touched her arm, studying her skin. “Maybe next time you should put some on.”

  A tingle shot up her arm, her heart stuttering at the surprising sensation.

  Forget the toned muscle and the broad shoulders. Focus on the mean eyes. She glanced over, his chiseled jaw shrouded in late-day stubble, the sun highlighting the distinct angles of his face, his eyes not mean but intense. A rugged attractiveness. Was that all her mind thought about? Handsome men? Had she not learned her lesson with Carson? No more. And she really, really, didn’t want to have any interest in Sergeant Mick Dinelo—any more than she wanted to eat a salad made with poison ivy.

  “Vinelli’s wife filed a missing person’s report.”

  “He has a habit of vanishin’ without telling anyone. Likes the strong juice too much.”

  “Did you know that Vinelli is a convicted felon?”

  She froze. “What do you mean by felon?” Maybe Angelo wasn’t the most ethical with his gambling problem and shifty eyes anytime a nice set of legs strolled by, but … a felon? Did Carson know?

  “A year for assault and extortion.”

  Her insides wilted like a flower hit by a wintry gust. Angelo convicted of extortion. What about the night Artie had been shot? Could she have mistaken the voice? Her chest squeezed. And an assault charge? Ironic he paid time in the slammer for the very thing she’d depended on him to save her from.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Vinelli’s voice you heard?”

  Was he reading her thoughts? “Wait.” She tugged his elbow, stopping him. “Angelo was the one who found Artie, right? Wouldn’t it be foolish for him to return?”

  He glanced up as if drawing his answer from the crystal sky. “It could have been part of his plan.”

  The laugh rippled out before she could stop it. “Angelo’s brawn is bigger than his brains.” She tapped her forehead. “No way the man could invent that kind of plan.”

  Understanding filled her. Mick wanted this case closed as much as she did. The quicker it was resolved, the quicker he could resume life. Maybe even salvage his vacation. What had he forfeited to stay here with her? A trip to see a sweetheart? His family? A twinge of guilt poked her iron will.

  “That night at the club, when you left with Carson Kelly, who was still there?”

  “Angelo and Artie.”

  “Vera.” Mick’s gaze studied her face. “Please be honest. Can you be certain it wasn’t Angelo’s voice?”

  She swallowed. “It wasn’t Angelo’s voice. It was Carson’s.”

  “Just wanted to make sure.” He stooped, picking up a rock, running his fingers over it. “And for what it’s worth, I believe you.” He tossed the stone and continued on.

  What was his deal? One minute he drilled her with questions, and the next he admitted he believed her? She frowned. Every other step caused her slip to stick to her legs, and her stockings gathered at her ankles. “Can we go back?”

  “Not yet.” He kicked a branch out of the pathway. “I think we might be going about this all wrong.”

  “Wow. Brilliant discovery.” Those flatfoots could know how to swing a baton down the street, but when it came to sleuthing they were a couple kernels short of a Cracker Jack box. “Any chance of ya roundin’ up Hercule Poirot?”

  “I thought books were for clammy intellectuals.” That knowing glint in his eye anchored her to the ground.

  Oops. Busted
.

  She wasn’t accustomed to people—men in particular—paying attention to anything she said. Yet, the sergeant had listened and remembered. “The tenant before me left a few Agatha Christie novels. So what if I read them ’cause I was bored?” And then checked some out at the local library, but no way she’d confess that. “Found out I’m a sucker for a good mystery.” As long as it stayed in the land of fiction.

  “Me too. Maybe we can get the little gray cells to work for us.” He tapped his temple with a smile that was as much amused as it was lopsided.

  “Oui, monsieur.” Her French accent was hideous, but it caused him to chuckle, deep and rich. Making her want to tuck the sound into the folds of her mind.

  But just as her eyes soaked in his pleasing expression, the fix of his mouth turned serious. “Going to be open with you. A week back we’d received a tip from an unknown source.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a letter suggesting questionable activity at the Kelly Club.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Everything there is questionable. It’s a speakeasy, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Yeah, but you know, just as I do, that shutting down a gin joint is nearly impossible in Pittsburgh. Those crooks have their paws in everything.” Something in his dark tone made her breath stall. “It’s going to take something bigger than a Volstead Act violation to bring the big boys down.”

  “Something like murder?” Then it hit her. “So that’s why you were at the club that night. You were investigating.”

  He dipped his chin.

  “When you’d said you were checking it out, you meant for work.” She shook her head, the details sinking in. “Smooth, Mick.” She’d pinned him from first sighting as one who didn’t fit in with the local rowdies, but the idea of him being a policeman sure hadn’t been on her mind. “Did you find anything while on the scout?”

  A ghost of a smile tipped his lips. “Just a young lady in need of my services.”