Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  “A momentous moment.” Vaughan let lightness tinge his voice.

  Suddenly Vaughan’s mouth was on hers. He tilted her chin up with the crook of his thumb, and in that kiss she tasted his loss and her past. Everything he would never say to her and every touch and caress and plan he had. And she tasted a tear in that kiss, unsure if it was his or her own. And she felt his curve of a smile. She returned it, deeply. Enjoying the feel of his hair in her fingers for one last time. Enjoying the breadth of his shoulders in starched, perfect cotton against the light frothy gauze of her dress.

  “It’s lovely,” he said, voice thick. “You’re still that sixteen-year-old girl who wanted a ride in my car.”

  Vaughan’s lips traced over her collarbone while his forefingers played at the butterfly collar of her cotton dress. His fingers marked and mapped over her shoulder blade and stopped in the groove of her neck.

  “Distracting.” He nudged at her Spira, Spera necklace with the crook of his index finger. “Gets in the trail of your neck.”

  Reggie’s heart thrummed. And the same slip of guilt that always found its way through her did so at that moment. She exhaled and Vaughan gently pulled away. Tears pricked her eyes when she recognized herself in the moment of inevitability.

  Vaughan’s eyes brushed over her face, from forehead to liquid eyes, down over her lips. He gently let the necklace fall from his loose grip.

  “It’s time I take my ring back, Reggie. A gentleman does not wed a young woman whose heart is tied to another. I’ll still help your father. But I think we should call a spade a spade.”

  Reggie swallowed. Not trusting her voice at hearing the decision she never would have made, she settled for steadying his shoulder with one hand while letting the other explore the back of his hairline: cut with precision like every other perfect line that made him Vaughan. That recalled the world she was from and the promise she was breaking.

  “Vaughan. I never wanted to hurt you. I made so many mistakes when it came to your heart. When it came to my own. It’s unforgivable, but I am truly sorry.”

  Vaughan traced the circumference of her face like it was a portrait in a gallery. Committing it to memory, she supposed. But he must have already, as she had so often been cartographer of his own contours: smile lines and bright blue eyes, the blond framing close-set ears. The blond stubble that evaded his razor. He must not have made an appointment with his barber this week. She knew his scent and collar and the light pressure of his hands. And for a moment, Reggie, eyes still meeting Vaughan’s, was back in her childhood bedroom of ruffle and lace and the dead glassy stare of porcelain dolls imagining the feel of Vaughan’s lips on hers while he pulled her tight against him.

  “You could lose yourself in a man like that,” her friend Katherine once said, speaking to Vaughan’s easy protective bearing and broad shoulders. So different from Hamish’s wiry form. But the heart was stupid and the heart didn’t listen. And the heart couldn’t tell east from west—it charted its own territory and made its own path. It trundled along even as its owner tried to stop it, bounded ahead no matter who bore the brunt of its indecision. Reggie brushed her hand over his cheekbone and down over his shoulder.

  “I won’t be responsible for holding you to something you don’t want,” he said. “I sometimes wish that I hadn’t let you go from your parents’ the night I first proposed to you. That if I had somehow kept you in my sight line . . . But would that really have done anything?” Vaughan swallowed. “I would do anything to make you happy, Reggie. But a gentleman knows when to step aside. And a gentleman knows when he can take a bit of a lady’s burden.”

  Reggie blinked up at him. “What burden?”

  “Your father is keeping some pretty interesting company. Never thought I’d hear wind of that nightclub owner again.”

  Reggie felt the breath leave her lungs in one long deflation. She reached out and clutched his arm. “Vaughan, do not get involved. Not for my sake. Not for my father’s sake. Please. Oh please, Vaughan.” She released his arm and began to turn his ring around her finger absently. Turning and turning until its diamonds glistened, catching a prism of light. She felt its weight as she worked it over her knuckle, felt a strange lightness when she placed it in Vaughan’s outstretched palm. But at what cost?

  “We go to great extremes for love, don’t we? We barter and beg. We marry Frank Kennedy.” Vaughan’s voice was low.

  At the mention of Scarlett O’Hara’s ill-suited second husband, Reggie snorted. “She did that out of love for Tara.”

  “It’s still love.”

  Love filled his eyes, softening his face. It was thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time.

  “And you forgive me?”

  “I have to, don’t I?” Vaughan said. “Because that’s what love would do.” The ring in his hand seemed to burn him, and he transferred it to his pocket, slowly turning away.

  “Please take care of yourself, Vaughan.”

  “I would do a lot more for you, Regina,” he said without turning his head over his shoulder.

  The tears pricking Reggie’s eyes sloshed over her cheeks as he disappeared. She fell against the Park Street Church and gulped for breath. She couldn’t repay him for this. Luca. Her teeth clenched. She would ban him from her life. From her world. From Vaughan and Nate and Hamish and everyone she loved.

  You need to forgive yourself, she thought.

  Reggie had forgiven her mother and father. Had forgiven Vaughan for the impromptu proposal that catapulted her to Boston and her new life. Had forgiven Hamish. But herself?

  Finally, Reggie nodded, eyes blurry and throat tingling. She would let herself off the hook. Deep breath, eyes to the future. Exhale.

  Regina Van Buren had already climbed the mountains needed to find herself on a path of independence. The last stretch would be a cinch. With the grace of Vivien Leigh and the panache of Irene Dunne, she would weather the last stretch, shoulders back and lips curved in a smile, her brown eyes twinkling at the prize ahead.

  For if she was the heroine in the picture of her mind—camera panning, adventure unfurling—then Hamish was the hero at the helm.

  Chapter 21

  Light spilled from the slat in the curtained window when Hamish arrived home that night. His brow furrowed. He didn’t remember leaving the lamp on, and Nate was still at his bubbe’s where Hamish had left him, having lost several hands of cards.

  He moved to put the key in the door, but it was slightly ajar. Hamish took a breath and nudged it open with the crook of his finger.

  “Hello?” he called to the empty hallway, switching on the light. He felt in the back of his trousers and retrieved the handgun. His hand shook a little around the steel. He locked his elbow in hopes of stilling his nerves.

  He stepped quietly, stopping at the sitting room. A familiar smell, a smell that had not crossed his nostrils in many months, met him. Cologne. Expensive cologne. Trademark cologne. “Luca,” he said, slowly turning.

  His cousin was sitting in the armchair Nate usually occupied, taking a long drag of a cigarette lodged in a sleek holder. He was dressed impeccably. Black hair slicked with pomade. Smile bright but never reaching his obsidian eyes.

  “Hamish DeLuca with a gun!” Luca made a quiet sound, almost a whistle, as Hamish lowered the weapon. He breathed a sigh of relief, leaving it on the side table. Not just that he wouldn’t have to fire but that a split second of instinct had found him moving all of Nate’s papers to a safe in Nate’s room that morning.

  “How did you get in?”

  Luca just tilted his head. “Please.”

  “What are you doing here?” Hamish set down his coat but couldn’t seem to make himself move any further in his cousin’s direction. “You choose this moment to seek me out?”

  Luca’s lips twitched. He reached for a glass half filled with port he had helped himself to. “This isn’t bad. Can’t be yours. Nate Reis’s, isn’t it?” Luca shifted and set the glass down after a long sip. Hamish won
dered if he was going to rise and embrace him in his old Luca way. With the same fluid ease he did everything and the same telltale cup of his hand at the back of Hamish’s neck.

  “Suave’s man,” Hamish said shortly. “The Flamingo. Frank Fulham. The entire business I got shot for? His name is Kent. And he was sniffing around Boston for you, wasn’t he?”

  Something crossed Luca’s face and settled in his eyes. Guilt? Annoyance? “That’s history, Cicero. I’ve been looking out for you. Making sure you’re safe and well.”

  “A postcard would suffice.” Hamish dropped onto the ottoman.

  Luca crossed his legs. “My kind of people.” He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper.

  Hamish’s heart thudded. He placed his two forefingers under his suspender to count its beat. Seeing Luca took him back to a smoky club and the rise and fall of Roy Holliday’s band trilling through a barrage of upbeat numbers while the cold steel of a gun was pressed to his chest. Took him to the moment the world swirled and stalled and the pain exploded in his shoulder and he took the blame so that Luca could get away. Seeing Luca was something he assumed was eventually inevitable but also something he would never be prepared for. Not even now while his cousin watched him.

  “You don’t look happy to see me.”

  “Bricker. He’s dead. I asked you not to go too far.”

  “You’re not angry about that,” Luca said coolly. “You’re angry that I left you there. At the club.”

  Hamish sighed. “It’s history, as you said. I wanted you to get away. I wanted you to be safe. I don’t regret . . .” Hamish shrugged.

  “Always doing the right thing. Being someone’s conscience.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Luca chuckled softly. “I do.” It sounded anything like a compliment. “Is that Reis fellow going to be all right?”

  “He will be. Yes.”

  “Shame what happened to him. A lot is happening to people who don’t deserve it.”

  Hamish’s heart was racing. Luca was keeping something. Hamish could feel it in the tremor of his right fingers and the stabs at his chest. “Luca, did you seriously come here for a chat? Because if so, I will put on the kettle. My mom sent some lemon jam. I could—”

  “Cic—”

  “You wanted to use Nate!” Hamish barked. “For whatever nonsense you wanted.”

  “Aren’t you quick on the uptake.”

  “I can’t believe you would do that. He’s my friend.”

  “He is talented.”

  “Kent?”

  “Kent wants to work for me. Bit of a leech. He’s a follower. When Suave died, Kent needed someone else to tug on to. Some people are followers. You whistle, they’ll jump without thinking. He’s been on my radar since my Chicago days.”

  “And he couldn’t get to Nate.”

  “Well, can’t blame him for trying.”

  “And Toby? He was in the middle.”

  “Toby?”

  “Luca! Toby went to visit you at the Parker House Hotel. Errol Parker’s nephew. You saw a way in. To play both sides. One side was Pete Kelly. Dumb, sure, with his stupid shipments. The other a group of supposed patriots who wanted to make a buck while ending the war—as if they could—and providing crummy housing.” Hamish stared at the gun.

  When Luca spoke, it was as if he hadn’t registered one word Hamish had said. “It’s my fault, isn’t it, that Kent was angry with Nate. I should have known he would be capable of roughing him up.” Luca’s eyes softened. Hamish couldn’t tell if it was affection or guilt or something else entirely. “And he was your friend. My loyalty is still to you, Cic. I had nothing to do with Kent.”

  “I don’t believe that. Your loyalty is to you.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true.” Luca paused. “I do like where that Pete Kelly was set up.” He had a faraway look in his obsidian eyes. “The river. In and out. The war is bringing a lot of opportunity. For shipping. Munitions. Textiles and materials. Would benefit a lot of people here. I could use someone with a head for contracts and good North End connections.” He looked pointedly at Hamish.

  “You’re unbelievable. You truly are.” Hamish threw his arms up. He blinked the fury from his eyes. “So you’re back in Boston, then?” He reached out his flat palms and worked them over the back of the chair he stood behind.

  Luca shrugged. “Don’t fancy going back to Toronto and enlisting. Don’t want those Patriots around either.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Luca raised a shoulder. “You know I am not just going to sit around and volunteer at a soup kitchen.”

  “Luca, we’re on opposite sides.”

  “I don’t call all my own shots.”

  “Is this still to do with Fulham and his supposed death?”

  Luca had apparently said all he was going to say.

  Hamish tugged his collar with the hand not leaning over the armchair. Racketeering? Luca could commandeer a fortune.

  “Your father said you tried to enlist. Brave of you.”

  “He feels guilty for not going,” Hamish said absently. He saw Luca so differently now, and yet his cousin looked the same. Sounded the same. It tugged him into the past a moment and forced his fingers into his palm. This was a trip he didn’t want to take.

  “Yes. That case in Chicago. Lost his hearing with one of those anarchist bombs. Funny, all those stories we heard as kids. And I could never tell which ones were real or not. A Mountie. Roosevelt.”

  “They were all real. There are records. In the papers.”

  Luca rolled the paper he had extracted and rapped it on his kneecap. “I always loved Chicago. Felt that it tied me to my past somehow, you know? I lived there when I was a little boy.”

  Hamish was too agitated to play this game. “I am not in the mood for a trip down memory lane, Luca. I still don’t know why you’re here. You used Nate. He was hospitalized, probably because of you. If you’re trying to get me to soften toward you, I’m not . . . I’m not . . .” He swallowed, evened out his tongue as best he could to avoid a stutter. “I don’t know if I am ready.”

  “That is what your father used to say anytime anyone wanted to tell you about this.” He rose and handed Hamish the folded piece of paper before sinking back down and reaching for his port, glass raised to his lips, eyes expectant on Hamish.

  Hamish’s right hand was shaking a little as he unfolded a full-spread page of newspaper. The date was from 1912. Which corroborated the story he was always told about his parents working on a case involving anarchist bombings. His eyes tripped over the headline: “Altercation Between Toronto Reporter and Criminal Valari Results in Death in Botched Bank Robbery.”

  Hamish looked at Luca, his hand now shaking fiercely, then back to the article. “Heritage Trust Bank: Ray DeLuca, a reporter for Toronto’s Hogtown Herald, killed criminal Tony Valari in an altercation for the apparent defense of a police constable out of jurisdiction. DeLuca, 31, admitted to . . .” Hamish couldn’t read any more. His hand was shaking fiercely now.

  “I never heard this before.” Hamish shook his head. “This isn’t true, Luca. My father couldn’t kill someone. He couldn’t kill his brother-in-law. He loved Tony. He . . .”

  Luca drained the port. Hamish tried to catch his eyes in the half light, but they were completely unreadable. “Oh, it’s true. But we couldn’t tell precious Hamish. We had to protect Hamish. He couldn’t handle it. He got some stories but not others. He was never ready. Well, you have a gun and you are a grown man and deserve for someone to finally show you some respect.”

  “Luca . . .” Hamish blinked at the headline until it blurred. “I’m . . .”

  “It isn’t your fault. You can’t help who your father is, and I couldn’t help who mine is. And here we are.”

  “I thought he died in the same explosion that hurt my dad’s ear.” Hamish was bowled over.

  “And no one ever corrected that. It’s true, of course. Call u
p Jasper Forth and ask him straight out. Or your father.” Luca chuckled darkly. “Yes, call your father. He wouldn’t lie if you asked him straight out.”

  Hamish crumpled the paper and threw it in the direction of the empty fire grate. It missed by several feet. “Why are you telling me this?” He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

  “Because you’re not the only one who needed protection, Hamish! But you got it. I got nothing! You sit there and judge me and think that I am trying to destroy everything you love, that I left you there at the Flamingo, whereas really, Cic, I knew that Reggie would care for you far more than I ever could, if I didn’t break and leave you. If I didn’t leave you with your new friends, you would still be following me around. Seeing you there with Suave’s gun pressed to your chest slapped me in the face.” The control that always leveled Luca’s voice floundered. “We’re more alike than you think.”

  Hamish couldn’t find words. He studied Luca a moment as if he were showing a side of himself here that might fade away forever. And for all that, the veil had been tugged back so that Hamish saw, for the first time, the many truths about his cousin. He didn’t want Luca to hate him. He needed Luca. He couldn’t lose him. Funny, he hadn’t thought about Luca as something he could lose for a long time. Maybe because he assumed Luca was already lost.

  “Please leave Nate alone,” Hamish finally said. “Luca, please. For me.” He took a breath. “M-maybe . . . Maybe I don’t have the right to . . .”

  Luca didn’t answer, just pulled his hat on with his inimitable flair, rose from the armchair, and sauntered past Hamish, who followed closely. Luca clutched the door handle, then turned on his heel and extended his hand to Hamish.

  “I’ll see you around.” Gravity undercut his carefree statement. Hamish studied Luca’s hand a moment. Unmoving. Then he met Luca’s expectant eyes. “You won’t even shake hands with me anymore, Cicero?” Luca’s voice was coated in hurt that he tried—but failed—to lighten.

  Hamish stepped forward and threw his arms around Luca’s neck, holding tight, surprising his cousin before Luca recovered and cupped the back of Hamish’s neck with that customary gesture of affection.