Verity and the Villain

by Eloise Alden

  The ship unloaded a flow of men onto the gangplank while gulls wheeled overhead. The sun smiled on the crowd and the air held a circus quality—so many people, coming and going, jostling in the excitement of a new place filled with fresh opportunities.

  “Maybe because in New York you had a lovely home and people who loved you,” Verity said.

  “But there are so many more to love here.” Minnie scanned the crowded pier. Not all of the male specimens could meet Minnie’s approval. Some looked green and unsteady as they tried to navigate the crowded boardwalks on their reclaimed land legs.

  Verity ran her hands over her skirt, silently acknowledging and giving thanks for her aunt’s generosity. Because she’d spent most of the trip from New York around the cape hungry, she’d arrived looking like a scarecrow in her father’s too big clothes, but her Aunt Tilly, who loved company and food, kept an overflowing kitchen and manned a sewing machine. Even though Tilly hadn’t even previously met Verity, she’d extended love, food, and a mushrooming wardrobe. In return, Verity worked in her aunt’s shop and collected a meager wage.

  Verity hugged the parcel of linens and buttons to her chest and let her gaze follow Minnie’s. Tall ones, skinny ones, rich ones, poor ones… Verity knew Minnie would meet and entertain most. “Come,” Verity urged, slipping her arm around Minnie’s waist. “You can pick out your favorite at the Seafarer’s Ball.”

  Minnie shuffled her feet, reminding Verity of the tiny dog that lived across the street from Aunt Tilly’s house—riotous hair, sharp features, perky bounce, and a dislike for being leashed.

  “They probably don’t even know about the ball.” Minnie stuck out her lower lip, a habit that men seemed to unable to resist, but had little effect on Verity.

  “Then you can meet them when they come into the Penny Store.”

  “No. Miles just scares them away.” Minnie sighed, obviously thinking of her hawk-eyed brother. Minnie flirted, fell passionately in love, and then moved on in a continuous circle of conquests, much to her brother’s chagrin. Minnie’s breath caught, her eyes widened and she cocked her head. “I pick that one.”

  Verity took in the scene: legions of men teeming the sidewalks, heading in all directions, ships tied to the gray and weathered docks, horses, coaches and wagons splattering through the muddy streets. Then her gaze caught Minnie’s latest choice. He wove through the crowd, his head and shoulders above the others. The raven hair, the arctic blue eyes, tight tan breeches, tall leather boots, white shirt undone at the collar—he looked as handsome in Seattle as he had in New York.

  And just as dangerous.

  BETTE

  Rose Arbor, Washington

  I’ve never stolen anything. Ever. Not even by accident. I always return extra change if a cashier makes a mistake. I’m meticulous about my taxes, generous with charitable donations, scrupulously honest. And that’s why an unfamiliar guilt worm wiggles in my belly.

  I lift my fingers off the piano and glance back into the deserted living room. The library’s double doors stand open, like an invitation. Outside, rain drips from the eaves and wind rattles the doors and windows. After the crush of mourners filling Dot’s home, the plink of rain seems amplified. As does my racing heart.

  I gather up my music and cast a quick glance at the casket in the center of the room. I have a silent conversation with Dot, my now dead friend.

  Do you mind? If I find it, I’ll just borrow it. I’ll return it. I won’t keep it.

  Dot, of course, still and silent nestled against all the silk in her casket, doesn’t respond, but I imagine her smiling, nudging me forward.

  If I can find Verity’s story, the missing part that would hopefully explain so much, maybe I could just read it, quickly, before leaving. I have to find out what happened. The need to know eggs me on.

  I pause in the entry hall, my feet rooted to the tapestry carpet. To my left, Dot’s library. I catch my reflection in the beveled glass doors. I look tiny and fractured in the glass. My pearls cast a small glow. I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear, debating. If I stand stock still in the entry much longer, perhaps the caterers will come and carry me out along with the empty boxes and trays of partially eaten food.

  The elegant flowers, the display of edible art, Dot’s viewing had been much different from any other funerals I’ve attended. Much different from Gregg’s. My heart twists and the guilty worm lifts his head. I dismiss thoughts of Gregg, step into the library and immediately feel worse.

  I’m not driven by impulse. I’d been waiting for the opportunity to slip into the library all evening. I’d waited for the guests to leave so I could search for the missing story, the one that began in New York.

  My gaze flits around the room to the framed genealogy fan chart hanging on the wall, a stack of library books sitting on the desk, a mishmash of tomes marching across the shelves. I scan the collection, marveling at the eclectic choices.

  The books, as well as the house, had belonged to Odious as it had once belonged to his parents and grandparents. It seemed odd to me that Dot would be awarded her husband’s family home in the divorce, but I didn’t question it. According to Dot, Odious was a man without sentiment. Standing on my toes, I find the tiny leather-bound book on the top shelf.

  I flip it open and my heart picks up speed when I recognize the copperplate handwriting. After another glance at the wet world outside the window, I lean against the solid walnut desk and begin to read.

  And for once again, I’m lost in the adventures of Verity Faye and the problems of my own world fade away.

  “Thank you, Ms.-” Odious, standing at my shoulder, interrupts the story. When had he suddenly appeared?

  I drop the book. It lands with a thud on the leather-topped desk beside the stack of library books. I flush and stand up straight. From a distance, he’d looked much younger, but in close proximity, I see his tired eyes and the thin lines around his mouth. “Mrs. Michaels,” I tell him, swallowing.

  He glances at the diamond I still wear on my left hand.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Michaels. You’ve been most kind.”

  “Anything for Dotty. She was a sweetie,” I say, curling my toes into my shoes. Since Gregg’s death. I’d lost considerable weight, making my shoes too large. I hadn’t gotten around to replacing my shoes, or my clothes, for that matter, and most of my wardrobe floats around me. No one had told me that on top of all the adaptations widowhood would bring, new shoes would also be in order.

  Odious’ eyes flicker toward his girlfriend who’d settled into a weeping mess on the silk sofa. Dot, who’d used a decorator and a pile of money to turn the Victorian into an Architectural Digest showpiece wouldn’t have been happy with the girl sniffling into the down pillows.

  “Yes, she was…an original. Are we, maybe, related?” His real name wasn’t Odious Odor, of course, but since that’s what Dot had called him, the name had stuck in my mind.

  Does he really smell? I’d asked after Dot’s ex-husband, knowing, as only a wife of a high school principal in the constant company of hormonal teenagers could know, that some people truly do smell.

  Only of money and cheap cologne, she’d replied. The money was in the cut of his suit. His real name was Errol, and according to Dot, he was more like Errol Flynn than a man who wouldn’t wear tights would want to admit. He even looks like him--same lithe athletic build and dark blond hair touched by gray.

  The cheap perfume of the moment sniffles on the sofa, a honey with tiger-striped hair, young enough to be his daughter. Red eyes, puffy cheeks, a lower lip bruised from biting, the torment of the guilty, I suppose. Why had she come?

  I turn my back on the genealogy chart I’d recently completed for Dot. She’d had it framed and hung on the wall. It had seemed odd to me that she wanted her ex-husband’s family history researched, but she said she wanted a history of the house.

  And then she’d found the first volume of Verity and Trent’s story handwritten in a homemade leather book, obviously c
rafted and told with love. But was it a love that could last through the ages?

  “You are my husband’s distant cousin.” I didn’t tell him that I’d only recently discovered that. I look from his shiny black shoes to my own well-worn pumps. I can’t talk about my work, and I won’t meet his eyes. If he knew of the story, would he try and keep it from me?

  He clears his throat. “What do I owe you?”

  I start. “I’m not finished!”

  He glanced around the empty room, smiling. “Did you contract for more than the piano? Because you’ve obviously left your bench.”

  I sigh in relief. Of course, he meant to pay me for the music. “Please, it’s my gift.”

  He raises his eyebrows, probably taking note of the fraying cuffs on my best black dress. “Are you sure?”

  I square my shoulders. “Dot was my friend.”

  “You’ve been lovely, Mrs. Michaels. The music, beautiful.” He clears his throat. “I was worried you’d left before I had the chance to thank you.” Odious didn’t sound accusatory, merely curious.

  Still, I stammer when I reply. “I just stepped in here to wait out the rain. I didn’t want to intrude on your family and yet, I wasn’t looking forward to getting drenched.” I motion to the drizzle coating the window and blink hard. “I walked.”

  “You’re a neighbor?”

  I nod and rest my hand on the library books. They were most likely overdue.

  “Would you like a ride home?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t impose. I have an umbrella.” The obvious question would now be why hadn’t I used it? “I was just waiting for the worst to pass.” Weak. “I happened to notice the library books. Would you like me to return them?”

  Odious’ gaze flicks to the books beneath my fingertips. He catches and holds my gaze. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “No bother,” I assure him. “I work at the library, so I won’t be going out of my way.”

  Odious flips a set of keys in his hands, and I notice he has a raincoat folded over his arm. “I’m going out, and since you live close enough to walk, I’m sure you won’t take me out of my way.” He cocks an eyebrow toward the door.

  Of course, at this point it’d be churlish to refuse a ride. I gather up the books including the one of Verity and Trent, carefully tucking theirs between the two library books and holding them against my belly so the spines won’t show.

  The guilty worm twists and turns inside me. I’ll return the Verity’s story when I’ve finished reading it, I promise the worm.

  Gregg’s disappointed face flashes in my mind, but I dismiss him.

  Like many Victorians, the Michaels’ home has a porch that wraps the front and sides. Wisteria, eons old with twisted vines as thick as my arm, clings to the porch eaves. Fat raindrops dot the purple petals. Beyond the porch, the world looks shimmery green.

  Locals call the Michaels’ place the big house. At one time it’d stood alone in a valley of buttercups and horses. The land had been a horse ranch for many years, but during the Depression it’d been divided and sold into parcels. I live in the 1930’s craftsman bungalow that Gregg’s parents had built on land purchased from the Michaels.

  I glance at Odious and wonder what he knows of his great-grandparents. I hold the books close to my chest as we climb the steps down to the garage. He clicks a fob, lights flicker, and the car beeps.

  Naturally, he drives a Mercedes. I sink into the plush leather seat and settle the books on my lap so their spines face my door. Verity’s story looks nothing like a library book. A solid piece of tanned leather binds the pages and a thong wraps around the book. If the Odor looks carefully, he’ll instantly recognize the theft. My heart beats faster when he steers toward the library.

  “I live on French and Elm.”

  He gives me a telling look and to my relief, takes the following right turn. “On the corner?” he guesses.

  I nod.

  “Your house is the one with the flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your garden’s gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” I get that a lot.

  The windshield wipers beat out a staccato and the luxury car splashes through the puddles dotting the blacktop. Neither of us speaks until he pulls the car beside my gate. I sigh in relief. “Thank you, Mr. Michaels, you’ve been very kind.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Michaels. It makes me feel ancient and I assume I’m not that much older than you.”

  I have my hand on the door. In minutes I’ll be reading about Verity and Trent. The longing is like the promise of a granny smith apple, it makes my mouth water. “I’m the same age as Dot,” I tell him.

  “Then I’m no more than a year older.” He smiles.

  Actually, he’s almost two years older. I know this from my genealogical research but see no need to tell him or prolong our conversation. “Thank you again, Errol.”

  “You’re welcome, Bette.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lavender slows an over active imagination, improves sleep quality, promotes relaxation, and lifts the mood of those suffering with nightmares.

  From The Recipes of Verity Faye

  “He’s like a dream come true,” Minnie whispered.

  A nightmare. Verity’s skin felt like ice, and she tightened her hold on Minnie’s waist. “He looks mean,” she said through tight lips. Had he followed her? Would he seek revenge or retribution? Could she avoid him? Had her staged suicide fooled anyone? Verity clutched the packages to her chest and held her breath. Thoughts and fears whirled through her, but none settled long enough to be coherent or rational. She had to remind herself to breathe.

  Minnie turned, her dimples fading. “We can’t be seeing the same person. The dark-haired—”

  “I see him,” Verity interrupted, surprised her voice could sound steady and sane when her mind was so jumbled. “The one with the black cape who just kicked that dog.” Could she confide in Minnie? No. Mr. Steele needed to believe Verity had died, and Minnie had a mouth as big as her kind heart. Verity didn’t trust Minnie with her secret. Taking Minnie’s arm. she tried to propel her down the street in the opposite direction.

  Minnie shook off Verity’s grip. “He did not.”

  “Yes, see that hound cowering under the hay wagon? That man kicked him.”

  “Oh please, you’re fibbing because you want him for yourself.”

  Verity clasped Minnie’s arm anew while Steele weaved through the gangplank crowd, drawing ever closer. “Do you mind if we step in here?” Verity nodded at the nearest shop and looked in the window at the display of goods. “I just remembered Aunt needs soap.”

  “But he’s coming our way.”

  “I need your help deciding. Please, just come in for a moment.”

  Minnie scowled. “You never need my help, especially with soap.”

  “But you always smell so nice, and Aunt… well--” Verity’s mind twirled. Every minute brought Steele one step closer. “I’ll just pop in. Please wait for me?” Verity tried to will her friend safety and common sense. “It might take a while. Promise you’ll stay right here?”

  “How long can it take to pick out soap?”

  “Promise me you won’t budge?”

  “Of course.” Minnie looked baffled at Verity’s new earnestness.

  Verity tore her gaze from Steele to Minnie. “Thank you.” She hugged Minnie and kissed her on the cheek.

  Minnie, already wearing her come hither smile, sought out Mr. Steele.

  When Steele turned right on First, Verity ducked into the shop. Watching through the window from behind a large display of Lifebuoy soap, she fought back the memories of her last night in New York, the spilled pies, the icy breeze swirling in the small room, the smell of her fear and his sweat.

  Steele crossed the street, his long legs taking him around the newspaper boy, the cigar hacker, the fish stand and finally past the chemist shop.

  Minnie clutched her packages and turned down her pouty lips. The freckled
youth sweeping the boardwalk visibly bucked up the courage to tip his hat in her direction, and Minnie gave him the briefest nod. Verity said a prayer of gratitude for the thirst that had prompted Steele to cross the mud and muck and enter the Lone Stag Tavern.

  Verity let go of a long breath, stepped from behind the soap and smacked into a white cotton shirt covering a warm, broad chest. She automatically raised her hand and then, too late, realized she held a yardstick. She must have picked up it up without thinking, and now had it poised inches from a man with a head of blond wavy hair that contrasted with his dark lashes and eyes.

  He grabbed her wrist and for a moment, they studied each other, Verity in full frontal attack mode and the tall man who’d captured her wrist. His skin glowed from outdoor work, and she could feel his strength as he held her. A current ran from his hand to her center.

  She knew this man. He’d rescued her hat and saved her from the brute, Wallace. She flushed beneath his gaze. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her after all these months. It’d been dark. She’d been dressed as a boy. Her eyes shifted away from his.

  “You frightened me,” Verity stammered. She should apologize. She studied his boots, because she also owed him a thank you for his shipboard heroics. But since she didn’t want to admit to being the male clad female he’d previously met, she kept her face averted.

  “And yet you’re the one holding a weapon,” he said, still holding her hand above her head.

  She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady and light. “I’ll relinquish my weapon if you release me.”

  He narrowed his eyes, smiling, and lowered her hand a fraction. “It seems a fair trade, but how do I know you’re trustworthy?” He dropped her wrist. “I don’t think you are.”