Five tiny fingers curled around Vera’s hand.
Dread wrapped its knuckles around Mick’s heart and squeezed. “Would you care to sit first?” Despite the warm apartment, a cold spasm shot through him. He focused on Millie’s face, forbidding his gaze to catch the rosebuds scattered all over her dress
Flowers. Just flowers.
Why did such a trivial thing awaken the oppressive monster? Mick tried to shove it back into the feeble cage of his mind, but the beast had outgrown it, feeding on the trail of fear leading to Mick’s past.
The impending conversation involved a murder. Artie’s, not Phyllis’. Mick had to detach himself from the swelling pain and focus on the present. His fingernails pressed into his clammy palm.
“Is this about Artie? Did he get in trouble?” Millie sank into the wingback chair. “He did something when he was drunk, didn’t he? I don’t … I don’t have any money to bail him.” She raised her palm to her forehead and slowly pulled it down to her cheek. “I have nothing.”
“Vera said that you were Artie’s sister.” He shifted in his seat and sorted through his tangled mind, grappling to present routine questions. “Has anyone from the Cavenhalt family contacted you?”
“No. Not a word. But that doesn’t mean anything.” A weak smile hung below her worried eyes. “You see, I’m not his real sister. Not by blood. Not by marriage either.” She fussed with the lace on the throw pillow beside her and released an embarrassed laugh. “His mother and my father weren’t conventional about things.”
Mick nodded. A polite way of saying they lived together. He’d figured as much.
“Artie was the only one who was kind to me. We kept in contact after our parents split.” Her fingers abandoned their stranglehold on the pillow and pressed against her temple. “Sergeant, this is tearing me up. What did Artie do?”
Mick swallowed. Words he’d spoken countless times over the years now lodged in his throat—as if saying them would poke the beast, even though Mick seemed to have wrestled it into submission for the moment. Focus. On the present. “Artie was fatally shot.”
The color drained from her cheeks.
“I’m sorry.”
Millie buried her face in her palms. “Not Artie.” She remained motionless for a moment, then sorrow took hold in silent sobs.
Mick lowered his head and gave the woman time to collect herself. He was glad Vera had taken the girl into the other room, but for some reason, he wished Vera by his side. When he’d grabbed her hand earlier, a tangible strength had roiled through him.
“Who did it?” Mille’s raspy voice broke through the silence. “Why would anyone do this?”
“It’s under investigation. Are you okay to answer questions, or would you like us to return later?”
“I don’t think I can help.” Millie’s hands fell limp to her side. “That is … I don’t really know. It’s just so … I can’t believe it.”
“Do you know of anybody capable of this? Workers? Family? Did Mr. Cavenhalt relay anything to you?” Mick withdrew a notepad and awaited her response.
Her bottom lip quivered. “Can I ask when this happened?”
“About two weeks ago. May twenty-seventh. It happened early in the morning at the Kelly Club.” He sounded like a newspaper clipping, for land’s sake. Yet that was all the emotion he could permit. He trod carefully on the edges of his own sanity, so keeping hardened to this moment meant retaining a logical mind. “Artie’s death was quick. The coroner said he had no suffering.”
Her blue eyes pooled with fresh tears. “Nobody told me. I missed the funeral. Everything.” Her pale fingers wrung the skirt of her dress, distorting those blamed flowers until the fabric hung in fixed creases.
Mick slid his eyes closed for a long blink. Just flowers.
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe George didn’t call. Robert. No one.”
“Understand your shock, ma’am.”
“I don’t know.” She sniffled. “I don’t know anyone who would do that to Art. He never said anything to me. Not one word.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cavenhalt?”
“Last month.” Her brows pinched, then relaxed over widened brown eyes. “He needed to borrow my typewriter.”
Mick leaned forward, detecting the shift in her expression. “Was that peculiar? Did he always borrow your typewriter?”
“No. That was the first time.” She hooked a finger on her small chin. “But the strange thing was, after he typed the letter he replaced the ribbon. I know there was a lot of use left on it.”
Mick flipped to a fresh page in his notepad and jotted that down. “What did he type? Did you happen to see?”
“He acted strange about it. Said it was a letter. But it must’ve been important because the next morning he left very early and returned after lunch. I found a bus ticket to Steubenville in the wastebasket.”
Steubenville.
“Thank you, Miss Walters. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
Another tear slid from her face. She needed time to mourn. And he needed a moment to think.
“Abigail, have you ever had a tea party?”
“No.” The child picked her doll from the bed and held her up so Vera could admire her. “She only likes coffee.”
“Now, that’s my kind of dolly.” A cute one too. It was bigger than any doll Vera ever had, nearly two feet. Vera playfully tugged at the yellow yarn braid, then reached for the cotton-stuffed hand. “Nice to meet you. My name is Vera.”
“Shhh.” The little girl’s blonde brows scrunched, and worry stole her smile away. “Is that Mama crying?”
Oh rats. Vera should’ve shut the door. Too late now. “Yes, little one. But she’ll be okay.” Hopefully.
“We don’t like it when Mama cries.” Abigail nuzzled her face into the doll’s belly. “She cries lots ’bout daddy leaving. Don’t like it.”
She’s too little to know anguish. “I don’t like hearin’ others cry either. It makes me sad.” Vera smoothed her hand over the girl’s corn-silk hair. “Do you know what I did when I was your age and felt sad?”
“Go like this?” Abigail plopped the doll on the bed behind her and clapped her hands over her ears. “I do this. I can’t hear cries. Yells. Nuffin’.”
“That’s clever. But me, I used to sing. Singin’ always took me to a different world.”
“Like fairy tales?”
Bulls-eye. “Yeah.” Vera clasped her hands together in exaggerated enthusiasm. “Let’s make up a story about a princess who sings from the castle tower.”
Abigail gave a skeptical look. “Mama says fairy tales are nothin’ but pretty lies told to children.”
Well, so much for that. “How about a song? Would you like to hear one?”
“You’re going to sing?” The girl tilted her head to the side, her eyes round in wonder. “My dolly likes to listen to singing.”
“Well, that’s a pretty swell dolly.”
A tiny smile graced her face. “Mr. Scruffy gave her to me for my birthday. I got to name her ’cause I’m her mother.”
“That must have been a special birthday. Turning older and becoming a mother all in one day.” Vera smiled. “I’m curious, who is Mr. Scruffy?”
“It’s a secret. So you have to promise not to tell. Like this.” She raised her finger. “Cross your heart.” She drew an imaginary X over her heart.
Vera did the same. “Cross my heart.”
The girl cupped her hand around her lips and stood on her tiptoes, trying to reach Vera’s ear. Abigail wasn’t even close, so Vera hunched over. “Uncle Artie is Mr. Scruffy, and he’s smelly.” Her high-pitched giggles bounced off the walls of the small bedroom. “Don’t tell Mama I said that. I’ll get in trouble.”
Ah, Artie. “So Mr. Scruffy is your uncle?”
“Yeah. I call him that because he’s got whiskers.” Abigail traced her finger from her ear down to her chin and up to her other ear. Vera laughed. Whiskers mean
t stubble.
“Vera?” Mick’s voice sounded from the other room.
“I’ll be right there.” Vera looked at her small new friend. “Thank you for sharin’ secrets with me.”
Abigail smiled and skipped out of the room, the doll bouncing off her leg.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help, Sergeant,” Millie said as Vera joined them.
Millie, puffy-eyed and pink-nosed, held her daughter, rocking side to side as Vera had seen other mothers do. “If I think of anything, I will call you.”
“Thank you.” He acknowledged her with a tight smile and nod. “It was a pleasure meeting you and your daughter. I apologize for the sorrow this caused.”
Vera eyed Mick. The quick rise and fall of his chest was visible through his shirt. His severe expression drained the strength from her heart.
“We’ll be all right.” Millie snuggled her cheek into her daughter’s hair. “Nice to see you again, Vera.”
“You too. You have a wonderful little girl.” Abigail smiled at Vera’s words, and Vera waved to the child. “Bye, sweetheart. Thank you for playin’ with me.”
“Bye.” Abigail wiggled her fingers. “Betsy says goodbye too.” She made her doll wave.
Vera slapped a hand over her mouth, her feet frozen to the splintered planks. “‘It’s a good thing Betsy got hungry.’” Three pairs of eyes fastened on Vera.
Mick looked at her sideways. “Ver, what are you talking about?”
CHAPTER 28
“Artie.” Vera pointed at the cotton toy cradled in the child’s arm. “He gave Abigail that doll.” She waved Mick closer.
He stepped beside her, lowering his head, inclining his ear.
“Remember, I told you about what Artie said the night he died.” She whispered, “Good thing Betsy got hungry. It’s the doll.”
Mick nodded, his face pensive.
“Abigail, sweetie.” Vera crouched to her level. “Can I hold Betsy just for a minute?”
“Nope.” The little girl shook her head, making her cheeks jiggle. She curled Betsy into her arms, putting the doll in a chokehold.
Vera sighed. Whoever coined the phrase like taking candy from a baby never met Abigail Walters.
“Abby, that’s not kind.” Millie gave her the Mama-look. “Remember what we discussed about sharing?”
Cue the crying tantrum. “But, Mama, she’s mine.” Tears poured in tiny rivulets down her porcelain-looking skin.
“Abigail.” Vera put her hand on the child’s shoulder. “What about a song? You said Betsy liked listening to singing. How about I sing to her before we leave? I have a special song my grandmother taught me when I was your age.”
Abigail sniffed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. “You won’t hurt her?” She made a face as her mother wiped her nose. “Promise?”
“I promise.” Vera crossed her heart the same way Abigail had done earlier. “I know you love her very much because you’re a good mother. I wish I had a mother like you.”
Two small hands stretched toward Vera, handing over the precious toy.
Vera remembered her times at the club, singing while searching for dubious characters. This was one of those times, but instead of searching the club’s crowded room, she’d be searching the cloth body of a doll.
Inhaling a steady breath, she settled in on the couch, Abigail to her left. She felt Mick’s presence behind her. Embarrassment skittered about in her stomach. What if this turned out to be nothing? How could a toy solve a murder? A steady hand pressed on her shoulder. She glanced up and met Mick’s dimple.
His confident nod bolstered her strength.
“Blessed assurance. Jesus is mine.” Her eyes roamed the doll. “Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.” She ran her fingers along the seams in the arms and legs. Nothing. “Heir of Salvation. Purchased of God. Born of His Spirit. Washed in His blood.” Her fingers worked the buttons on the doll’s back, loosening the snug dress. “This is my story. This is my song.” She tugged off the tiny clothing and set it beside her. “Praising my Savior all the day long.” Vera finished the verse and flipped the doll over, eyeing the cotton stomach. Ha. Smart, Artie, real smart.
Abigail reached for her doll.
“I have some sad news.” Vera hugged the toy, pretending to console it. “Betsy has a tummy ache. Look right here.” The little girl climbed onto her lap, and Vera smiled. “All the other thread is white. See this?” She pointed at the irregular stitching that spanned two inches of the doll’s belly. “What color is this?”
“Black.” Her eyes rounded. “What’s it mean?”
“Betsy has something in her tummy that she shouldn’t.” Maybe. Hopefully. Vera smoothed away wisps of golden strands from Abigail’s eyes. “I think we should get her fixed up right away. You’re her mother. What do you think?”
“I know how she feels. I had tummy aches before.” She hugged her stomach. “It’s yucky. Mama fed me beef one time—”
Millie set a hand on Abigail’s head. “Abby, dear, that’s enough.”
Mick’s low laugh rumbled in Vera’s ear. She angled her head back and smiled up at him.
Millie crouched to her daughter’s eye level. “Abby, you can go to the kitchen and get a licorice. I want you to eat it in the bedroom while we work on your toy.”
Abigail held up two fingers. “Please?”
“Yes. But stay in the room until I say so.”
Blonde braids swung back and forth with each of Abigail’s skipping steps.
“What do you think we’ll find?” Millie craned her neck, making sure Abigail did as she was told.
“Not sure.” Mick took the doll from Vera’s hands. His eyes lingered on hers a moment, pools of green that Vera wished she could laze around in. He turned to Millie. “Do you have scissors?”
“Certainly.” Millie scurried out of the room and returned with what resembled a man’s tackle box. “Let’s see. Let’s see. Here’s a pair of scissors.” She handed the steel shears to Mick.
“Thank you.” Mick focused on the doll and slit the black thread. “Here, Ver, your fingers are smaller than mine.”
So true. His massive hands were ideal for enveloping hers but not so perfect for searching around a two-inch space of a doll’s belly. She glanced over. The anguish she’d detected earlier in his eyes had lessened. Traces of hope brightened his features as he handed her the toy. She gently worked her fingers into Betsy’s cottony innards. The thick fibers were coarse against her skin. Little by little, she pulled out the stuffing. And out something else came, landing on Vera’s lap.
“It’s film.” Millie bent over the back of the couch. “A negative. How did—”
Mick took the brown strip from Vera’s thigh and walked to the window, holding it up to the light.
Vera shot to her feet. “Don’t be a hog. Let me see too.” She wormed her way around him to catch a view.
Mick didn’t shrug her away but lowered his arm so she could catch a better glimpse.
“What do you think?”
She saw something but couldn’t identify what it was.
“It’s a newspaper room.” Millie’s voice cut through both of them. “That’s an engraver’s machine.”
“It is.” Mick raised the film higher, the outside sun highlighting the image. “Didn’t Kelly and Artie work at the Pittsburgh Journal together?”
“Sure,” Millie said. “That’s how they met. Art took the pictures, and Mr. Kelly cut the plates for the press.”
And why hadn’t Vera known this? She’d dated the man, for goodness’ sake. And she didn’t know his hat size from his shoe size. “So that’s the Journal’s pressroom?” Her heart sank. Why would Artie stash that inside a doll? What was so important about it?
Mick wrapped the film in his handkerchief and dropped it in his front pocket. “Let’s get going, Vera.” He shifted his profile to face Millie. “Thanks for your patience. Got to head back to Pittsburgh. Thank you.” He extended his hand to her. “You have
been so obliging.”
Obliging? Vera suppressed a laugh. He was all formal, like a tuxedo. Probably should get used to that side of Mick. Once they reached Pittsburgh, he’d surely return to the protocol-driven cop and regard Vera as though they were nothing more than strangers.
Ah, the outside air. Vera inhaled deeply. The light breeze carried summer on its airy wings, filling her senses with the fragrance of … well … oiled metal. The hardware store made its presence known in the alley where they stood. Still, refreshment stirred in Vera’s heart. When she’d imparted encouragement to Millie, a good dose of it’d spilled into her own soul. She stretched her arms wide as if to embrace the sun. “Mick, I think we—”
Her words jammed in her throat as the sensation of Mick pulling her into his arms swirled through her.
“What you did in there was amazing. You’re amazing.” He motioned his head toward the apartment door.
His arms curled around her back, his touch igniting her pulse to soar. If the flecks in his eyes could be translated into letters, they’d spell—desperation. As if directing his stare any place but on her would be a waste of time.
“Ver.” He dipped his chin in a painfully slow descent, his voice coarse. “May I?”
Her breath hitched in her chest. He’d asked. No one ever asked. They took. She nodded, her heart yearning.
He strengthened his hold, pressing her form to his. His lips brushed hers, gentle as if to be certain of their invitation. Oh, his touch had never been more welcome.
Vera threaded her fingers into his hair, exploring the nape of his neck.
Mick lowered his mouth to hers, strong and confident like everything else he did. His thumbs stroked her waist to a silent rhythm.
When he pulled away, he took her breath with him. She rested her head against his chest, his heartbeat a steady metronome in her ear. Vera’d never hungered for a man’s affection. Never. But this wasn’t any man. This was a man who would’ve given his life for her. Craving sprouted within her, growing stronger with each second, intensifying. Lips tingling, she moved in for another kiss, tangling her hands in his shirt.
But his lips stiffened under hers. His arms fell limp.
The Red Canary Page 21