CHAPTER 1
May 29, 1928
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
“From that day on, death was in my song.” Vera’s voice quivered as she ended her nightly number. Lying atop the worn piano, the length of her side hummed while the eager pianist, along with the rest of the band, punched the B-minor finale. The motley assortment of musicians had their eyes closed, absorbing the last few bars of musical euphoria, but not Vera. She wouldn’t shut her lids for one count. Not when he was out there. Waiting.
Applause and whistles resounded from the crowd. The maestro scowled and motioned for her to bow. Did it even matter? This was a speakeasy, not the Royal Opera House.
Gut twisting, she slid her legs over the side of the piano’s belly and allowed Angelo, her hired guard, to assist her to the spit-stained floor. Cigarette smoke crept like gnarled fingers into the shadowed rafters, burning her eyes. She offered a smile as diluted as the famous Pittsburgh Scotch which soured every breath in the joint.
The note tucked in her palm taunted her, daring her to reread its threat.
Sing pretty tonight, Red. I’ll be watching.
How could innocent words harbor such a dangerous undertone? The memory ignited like a flash lamp—the cloaked man’s hand grasping her elbow, pulling her from backstage into the night air, the screech from the neighboring rolling mill muffling her screams.
She stiffened against the tremble. She wouldn’t allow it to happen tonight. Or ever again.
Her gaze swept over the sea of felt hats, searching for the marked feature—stony gray eyes. The hazy atmosphere prevented her from distinguishing profiles beyond the bar.
The mouse-faced bandleader tapped his baton on the music stand. She glanced over, and he winked. An encore? Any other evening, she would savor the request. Would seize any excuse to yield to the rich melody, warming the drafty corners of her soul, whisking her away from reality. From life. But she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—indulge now.
She shook her head, her bobbed curls bouncing off her shoulders, but the clarinet players stuffed their reeds into their mouths for the start of “Lonely Madam.” Did she have any say in this gig? She mouthed the word no. The conductor lifted his arms for the count off.
Not this time, Maestro.
A sudden heat pulsed her blood. “For the next song …” She crumpled and tossed the note onto the piano where she’d found it. “We have a Kelly Club original. It’s not listed to showcase until the start of summer, but”—she raised her voice and pointed at the stunned man behind the music stand—“Maestro insisted on it tonight!” She clapped her hands above her head, the throng following. “It was written by yours truly. I call it ‘The Hideaway Heart.’”
Vera smiled, relishing the flustered expression on the baton-toter’s mug. He clumsily leafed through sheet music, pages flying to the floor. With an exaggerated sigh, he arranged a single paper to the front of the stack.
Angelo leaned against the wall to her right. She blew a kiss, signaling him. Creep in the joint. He nodded and straightened to full height. With Angelo on her side and Maestro unknowingly obliging, the espionage could commence.
She tapped her hand on her hip with the beat, a flawless pace.
“You say it’s romance, but there’s a mystery,” she sang and descended the splintered steps to the main floor, the fringe from her silver gown tickling her knees. “Beneath your kiss. Behind your whispers to me.” Vera weaved through the tables, inspecting the various patrons. Plenty of silly grins and faces buried in beer mugs, but no character with predatory eyes. Not yet. “You live behind the mask of love. But I see what you’re made of.”
Spindly fingers seized her waist, pulling. She gasped. A man yanked her onto his lap.
“Hiya, gorgeous.” A sloppy smile coated his weathered face.
The crowd laughed.
Her jaw gaped, then clenched. This string bean of a man was old enough to be her father. If his green asbestos uniform didn’t identify him, then the soot in the cracks of his knuckles would. A steel worker. Her scowl softened. Factory men were served dangerous tasks but handed little appreciation.
While he pawed her locks, she composed herself to finish the first verse. “I don’t like the love you veil.”
“Won’t keep my love from you, sweetheart.” His pungent breath stung her nostrils.
She glanced over his shoulder. Empty glasses cluttered the tabletop.
“Look, everybody!” He sprayed her with spit, his words slurring. “I caged the Red Canary!”
Cackles rose from all around.
Caged? Hardly. His hold was as loose as the lid to his whiskey. Angelo drew closer, and Vera waved him off. This drunk was innocent—his eyes held no danger.
“You’re gonna fail. For I never trust a hideaway heart.” A musical interlude took over, and Vera twisted free from the man’s grasp, being careful not to trip over the metal lunch-pail beside his chair. “Lay off the booze, mister.” She whispered in his ear and flicked it.
Dodging grasps and pokes, she rounded the bar and pulled in air for the second verse. “I’ll invade your shadow. Shout your secrets.” She projected her voice loud enough for the band to keep in beat with her. “Give you sorrow and have no regrets.”
Out the corner of her eye, Angelo lingered back, waiting to pounce. Why was this taking so long? Why wasn’t she spotting him? The rapid pounding of her heart threatened to knock her off tempo.
A heavier man sat by the wall. His hat pulled low, hiding his eyes. Others around him swayed to the music, but he remained motionless. What kind of game was he playing? She worked her way to that side of the room, the crowd giving her courage.
Vera stood an arm’s length from the suspect and stared at his straggly mustache. No smile. No scowl. If only she could see his eyes. She sang the bridge. “You won’t win this time. Not a chance.” A shiver coursing down her spine, she lifted his homburg. For goodness’ sake, he was asleep. “Ignore the kisses. Forget the dance.” She pinched his cheek, and startled blue eyes peered up at her. Vera plunked his hat back onto his bald head and stepped away.
One more chorus to go. The only thing obtained from this charade was a blister rubbing raw on her heel. She glanced down. Oh, and a shoe embellished with someone’s chewing tobacco. Lovely.
A scuffle broke out in front of her. A man who could be Babe Ruth’s twin yanked the collar of a man dressed like a lumberjack. Lumberjack shoved the Bambino’s doppelganger, launching him toward her. With nowhere to go, she pulled her elbows into her sides, ducking her head, bracing for the hit.
It never came.
She cracked an eyelid, and her lungs allowed her to breathe again. A man had stepped between her and the human bullet, shielding her and taking the impact himself. The collision hadn’t budged her rescuer, his massive build standing tall. He glanced at her as if making sure she was okay.
The trumpeter blared his overlong solo, and Vera’s gaze locked on the mystery hero. Definitely not a regular. She would’ve remembered his striking jade eyes and sharp features. Plus, his pin-striped suit wasn’t rumpled or frayed at the cuffs like every other man’s who stumbled in the door.
“What’s your name, stranger?” She spoke in a low tone.
“Mick.” He tipped his hat to her and strode to some vacant tables, his confident manner capturing her stare.