The Red Canary Read online

  The man who had shielded her from the tussle. The man who had mirrored a page out of Vanity Fair. The man who now stared at her as though she had three heads.

  “Are you Vera Lynn Pembroke?”

  She opened her mouth, but her voice wouldn’t budge. Clamping her lips shut, she gave a tight nod.

  His uniform stretched across broad shoulders and an expansive chest. “I’m from the Allegheny Police. May I speak with you?”

  Didn’t he recognize her from last night? Was he trying to trick her? His gold-toned badge read SERGEANT, but where exactly did his loyalty lie? Since he had been at the club, did that mean he was in cahoots with Carson? Her heart stalled and then took on a rapid pace.

  But no one—not even her murderous boyfriend—knew she’d returned to the speakeasy last evening. At least, that was what she hoped. She pushed back all emotion and smoothed her hair with a trembling hand. Above all else, she had to appear collected. “I’m … uh … not dressed. It’s pretty early.”

  If he was aware of her shaking, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show anything except a straight face and stern eyes. “It’s nearly two o’clock, ma’am.”

  She’d missed the bus. Lost her chance of escape. Her gut churned as her mind scrambled to her next move. What about Union Station? Hadn’t she heard they ran several departures a day? A perfect Plan B, except for the pricey train fare. She fought against a groan.

  “Can I come in?”

  Did she have a choice? She opened the door wider.

  He shuffled his feet on the door mat and removed his hat, revealing wavy, dark-blond hair she’d swoon over if he were anybody but a cop. The fixed slope of his nose, the slight dip under his lip, the sharp turn of his jaw all a gorgeous combination. But again, the badge spoiled it.

  Mouth pressed into a tight line, he glanced around the room. One brow arched.

  Was he surprised to find the inside of her apartment wasn’t as dilapidated as the outside? Or was his sharp stare inspecting something other than the condition of her tufted chair?

  His gaze landed on her, and her tongue cemented to the roof of her mouth. “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seems like you had a rough night last night.”

  “Yeah.” Was that all she could say? A single look at the sergeant’s chiseled face and her vocabulary diminished to one word.

  He raised his chin, exposing his thick, corded neck. “I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but someone you’re acquainted with had it rougher. Have you heard?”

  No, no, no. She folded her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. “Heard what?” She averted her gaze from his stare, looking at her feet, digging her big toe in the carpet.

  “Arthur Cavenhalt is dead.”

  Dead. The word sliced her soul like a dagger, ripping her courage to shreds. Tiny bumps developed from her neck to her ankles. Couldn’t mistake it for a nightmare. The truth numbed her. Artie was dead by the same hands that had held her.

  “An employee found him this morning at the Carson Kelly Enterprise building. Shot.”

  “Shot?” The backs of her eyes stung, tears threatening. The blast of the gun echoed in the hollow of her gut. Flickers from years back ignited in her mind—the first time she’d heard gunfire, running from her home, stowing away on a westbound train toward Pittsburgh. What irony—one shooting had brought her here, and another was forcing her away. How much trauma could her heart take before it imploded?

  He cleared his throat. “Looked to be a suicide.”

  His words bit into her thoughts with an abrupt sting, turning her breath shallow. How could they think it was a … “Suicide?”

  His lips pressed together in a slight grimace, brows pulling in. “Yes.”

  Carson must’ve staged it. A lump hardened in the back of her throat. The only other person who knew the truth besides Carson … was her. A mental tennis match volleyed uncontrollably. Tell the cop. Don’t tell the cop. Tell the cop.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “It’s … not …” Don’t tell the cop. “I’m shocked.”

  His rigid gaze locked on hers. “I need you to come with me to headquarters, Miss Pembroke.”

  A gasp catapulted up her throat, and she swallowed it back. “What?”

  “To headquarters,” he repeated in the same low tone. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Why?” The police station—buzzing with people she’d hid from as a kid.

  He slapped his hat on his head with a finesse that revealed he’d done it a million times. Not skewed in the least. “For questioning.”

  “I don’t get it. Why talk to me?” Breathe in. Breathe out. She clutched the back of her tufted chair, bracing herself. “Can’t you talk to me here?”

  “Just routine, ma’am. The captain wants to meet with you.” He motioned to the door. “We’ve talked with most of the employees at the offices, plus Mr. Kelly.”

  “Carson … was down at headquarters?” Had he been answering questions for the police or paying them off? Murder was a way more serious offense than owning a speakeasy. Though, she hadn’t yet seen an officer turn down an easy grand or two.

  “Yes.” He studied her face, then glanced at her hand strangling the seatback. “Are you all right?”

  “What if I choose not to go?” Time for a staring match with the man, but her competitor held the advantage, his face natural and confident, while she struggled to keep her features calm. And why all of a sudden was her eye twitching?

  “It wouldn’t be wise.” His gaze swayed faintly to the left of her face.

  Was he staring at her scar? She untucked the hair from behind her ear, letting the locks fall across her temple. What exactly did she look like right now? She hadn’t taken her makeup off from yesterday, and no doubt it had smeared during the jaunt in the rain.

  The phone rang. She jumped.

  “Go ahead and answer that.” The sergeant sat on the same cushion she’d shoved her heels under. He grimaced.

  Oh, rats. She should’ve left them where they were. The man probably wouldn’t have noticed. But this looked a million times more suspicious.

  The sergeant shifted to the left and relaxed.

  Her shoulders eased, and she picked up the receiver. “H-hello.”

  “Baby?”

  Carson! Her grip tightened on the receiver’s neck.

  “How are you?” His voice pounded against her skull, making her wish she’d left town the moment she had returned to her apartment. But what had she done? Slept. Now she had a murderer on the phone and a cop lazing in her living room.

  “I have bad news, Vera. Still trying to understand it myself.”

  She couldn’t detect any suspicion in his tone. But maybe this was a trap—lure her into thinking everything was on the up and up, only to dispose of her down the laundry chute.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” She bounced her weight from foot to foot, keeping her ankles from caving.

  “It’s hard to say over the telephone.” His tone wobbled. What a faker. “It’s about Artie. He committed suicide last night.”

  This morning a killer, this afternoon a liar. No way she’d be sticking around to see what he’d transform into this evening. Was running from violent men her lot in life? A remote convent looked mighty appealing.

  “Did you hear me, Vera?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. I know he was your only relation. Do you need me to come over?”

  “No.” Her voice squeaked, and she winced. Had she given herself away? A large hand pressed her shoulder.

  “Make it short, Miss Pembroke.” The sergeant’s deep timbre brushed her ears.

  “Vera, is someone with you?

  “No, it’s just the noise box. Hold on, I’ll turn it off.” Vera held the phone against her chest and turned to the sergeant, pressing a finger to her lips.

  He made a grave look and returned to the sofa.

  �
��I’m coming over,” Carson said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “No, Carson. I’m, uh … I’m not feelin’ so well.” She faked a cough. A terrible delivery, but hopefully, it sounded more believable on his end. “I caught somethin’. It’s fierce. Plus, I’d rather grieve alone.”

  “You sure?”

  She twisted the receiver cord around her finger, pulling. “It’ll be better that way.”

  “As long as you’re okay for tonight. Catch ya later, baby.”

  Not if she could help it. “Bye.” Her shaky hand returned the receiver into the cradle, making the candlestick base dance a wobbly jig. Her breathing steadied, but her heart beat wildly against her ribs.

  “Who was that, Miss Pembroke?” The sergeant stood.

  “A sharp note that turned flat.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Nothin’, forget it.” She grabbed her purse off the coffee table. “Let’s go and get this done.” There were bags to pack and murderers to escape from.

  His eyes pinched at the corners. “Wouldn’t you like to … get more decent?”

  Her gaze shifted downward and then to the sergeant. How could she have forgotten her state of dress? Something in her stirred. Could be from the sergeant’s pointed look, the frustration mingled with adrenaline over her conversation with Carson, or, she hated to admit, the slight twinge of disappointment for having discovered her handsome rescuer had turned out to be a cop. Most likely, the blend of all three prompted her sarcastic smirk and jutted chin. “Perhaps I should change.” She headed for her bedroom and glanced over her shoulder. “I save sauntering around town in my bathrobe for the weekends.”

  The lock on her bedroom door clicked, and Mick exhaled, the tightness in his chest unraveling. Why he’d felt tense around a woman a head shorter and over a hundred pounds lighter than him, he couldn’t pinpoint. What he did know was last evening the prima donna, even with her layers of cosmetics and flashy gown, couldn’t mask the fear marking her entrancing eyes. He’d identified it the moment they’d held gazes. Stark terror. This afternoon the same thing, only with some confusion tossed in.

  Her appearance when she had opened the door had caught him off guard. Gone was the stylish nightclub singer. Instead, there stood a vulnerable young lady with wild curly hair and black makeup smearing her face. He preferred her messy, natural face to a painted one. Her mannerisms had reminded him of the first time he’d gone hunting with his pap. When they’d stumbled upon a doe, her wide eyes and panicky movements had poked his conscience. He hadn’t wanted to harm her but rather to protect her.

  Mick glanced around, assessing the small space. The kitchenette bore no semblance of use. The furnishings weren’t lavish like a Shadyside home, but they weren’t poverty-grade like a few of the apartments he’d seen in this very complex.

  He didn’t expect a picture of Mother Mary or a cross, but there should be something here of a personal effect. Instead of pictures and photo albums, shellac records lined the bookshelf. On the coffee table and counters where most women had knick-knacks, she had sheet music. As if music was her only love, her entire world.

  Didn’t she have family? Anyone who loved her? His heart clenched, and he chided himself. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago? Most likely, the duchess of the gin joint wasn’t as vulnerable as she appeared to be. Her powers of performance, no doubt, stretched beyond the stage. Mick wouldn’t be taken as the fool again.

  Stick to the rules. Adhere to guidelines. If you don’t, then people … died.

  Sinking onto the sofa, he pushed the demons of his past back into the caves of his soul. He’d accepted the promotion to sergeant as a sign from God to get on with his life, but … the screeching brakes, the blood on her collar stark against her porcelain skin. If only he’d chosen differently, not been blinded by the betrayal. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, shutting out the memory, the painful reminder he needed to look beyond Miss Pembroke’s pretty face and defenseless eyes.

  The woman could possess more trick plays than the Pitt Panthers at Forbes Field. But soon she’d be in his arena, and he was trained at anticipating his opponent’s move. A skill gained from failure.

  He leaned back, the couch cushion poking his thigh again. A loose spring? Maybe he could fix it before she came out. He lifted the cushion.

  Shoes?

  He bent low, examining the pair of heels which looked as though they’d been left out in the rain. Or maybe … a thunderstorm. He scrubbed his jaw, eyeing the door she’d fled behind.

  Perhaps the Red Canary would fly right into his plan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Alone.

  Vera figured this as some kind of police tactic. Leave the lady by herself in a dismal interrogation room so she could feel the pressure. Man, she was feeling something. Why was this room so hot? Another strategy? Bake her insides so the information would come spilling out.

  She tugged her collar and frowned. How could lace be this constricting? Of course, she wasn’t used to being so covered. It had taken a good deal of time to find a dress with a higher neckline and lower hem. While some of the officers would appreciate her rolled-down stockings, she’d chosen the respectable look and employed the granny garter though it choked the life out of her thighs.

  Looking around, she had her choice of about twenty chairs arranged around a large rectangular table almost as long as the room itself. Vera skidded back the seat closest to the exit and sank onto it. Maybe this wouldn’t take long. She’d answer a few questions, smile, and then shake Pittsburgh’s sooty dust off her heels.

  But what if this was more than just a routine questioning like the sarge had said? If the badge bozos got nosy, what would she tell them? The truth? She drew in the stuffy air and released it. No. Couldn’t let them know she was there last night.

  If by some slim chance these cops were honest, they wouldn’t believe her. If they were as tainted as a shot of White Mule moonshine, then the truth could land her at the bottom of the Ohio River.

  The short drive to the station had her nerves tangled and raw. Though the sergeant’s voice had been silent, his sharp eyes had spoken loudly, assessing her with every glance in the rearview mirror, making her wince as if he knew something she hadn’t. She rubbed the small links of her necklace between her thumb and index finger.

  The dimmed ceiling lights left the corners of the room shadowed. The edges of her mind were just as bleak and twice as dark. The entrance of His words giveth light. Oh, if she could only hear her grandmother’s feeble voice in her ears rather than in her head. The light. When they had closed her casket, the windows to Vera’s soul had locked, shutting out the light from that moment on. She was careful not to touch the festering memory long, or it would burst through her heart, bringing fresh pain.

  Men’s voices split the tortuous silence. The sergeant returned, striding in with the same magnetic gait as last night. An older man, who looked more like a grandpop than a law enforcer, trailed behind him. The sergeant’s searing gaze leveled on her even as Grandpop’s—or maybe just Pops—had landed on her with a gentle appraisal.

  “Hello, Miss Pembroke.” Pops extended his hand, his eyes crimped with a smile.

  She eased forward for the quick handshake. Her bracelet caught on her sleeve, and her breath hitched with the blossoming idea. Her bracelet. Why didn’t she think of this before? A trip to the pawn shop could cure her financial issues. A train ticket. Lodging. All of it now within reach. A renewed determination flowed through her.

  “I’m Captain Harpshire.” His grin faltered, stumbling into a frown. “Blazes, it’s warm in here.” He craned his neck, looking at the sergeant who stood by the door. “Ace, get a fan in here. This pretty young lady doesn’t need to be perspiring.” He glanced back at Vera and winked.

  The sergeant dipped his finely shaped chin in acknowledgment and exited. The captain sat across from her.

  “That’s the nice thing about being captain. You don’t hav
e to get off your backside unless you want to.” He laughed. His jowls extended past a rounded chin, flapping with each chuckle, like a basset hound. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”

  Why ask if she had no voice in the matter? She pushed past the invisible steel grip around her throat. “Go ahead.”

  “Tell me exactly your role at Carson Kelly Enterprises.” Pops schooled his features better than any poker player she knew. But she held the bluff. Would he call her on it? She didn’t have much to wager.

  “Umm … what do you mean?”

  His head tilted and his gaze hooked on hers. “Young lady, I think you’re too smart to play silly parlor games, and really, that’s not how I operate. So I’m just gonna cut the fluff and bring it all in the open.”

  She shifted in her seat.

  “To start with, I know you’re a canary at the speakeasy held secretly behind the walls of the office building. Though I wouldn’t exactly label it a secret since everyone in Pittsburgh is aware of the Kelly Club.”

  She stiffened against a wince. What was the old man driving at? Was he going to arrest her for being part of that racket? She’d always been under the assumption she’d have to be caught in the act of drinking to get arrested, but now, with the suspicious tones in Pop’s voice and the niggle in her gut, she wasn’t so sure.

  “Don’t knit those brows, darlin’. You aren’t in trouble for crooning in a gin joint. I need you on my side.”

  The question sat like fire on her tongue, but voicing it could get her burned. She pressed her spine against the seat’s back. “Which side is that?”

  His eyes registered her meaning. “The one of justice. Do you suppose you could sing me a song?”

  “What would you like to hear?” The captain didn’t strike her as one who’d like to hear her rendition of “Sweet Georgia Brown.”

  “Let’s see. Let’s see.” He bounced a curled knuckled on his chin. “How ’bout we start out with what you were doing at the Kelly Club last night?”

  Dread sluiced her veins. “I had to work.”

  “No, I mean after Mr. Kelly dropped you off. You returned, why?”