The Mobster's Daughter, page 5
Charlie scooted toward me, and with his chin tucked to his chest, he raised his tablet, showing his latest creation.
He’d sketched the baby ducks with meticulous detail. By varying the pressures of the pencil strokes, he’d shaded the feathered bodies, giving the picture impressive depth. Charlie couldn’t read nor write, yet his skill in drawing went beyond his eleven years. While the picture itself seemed the handiwork of a seasoned artist, the sticky patches on the paper from his candy feast revealed his youth.
“This is amazing. And I can see you liked the taffy I left for you.” I gave a light tap to his nose, which he playfully swatted away.
Merriment lit his eyes, but then his gaze strayed to Rhett, and his grin wobbled into a grimace.
“I brought someone I’d like you to meet.”
Charlie scrambled to his feet and pulled off his oversized newsboy hat, revealing a flop of dark blonde hair. His fingers wringing the cap like a dishrag, Charlie observed Rhett with a vulnerability that made my stomach knot. I wished I’d had time to prepare Rhett to greet Charlie. Most would take one look at the child’s warped skin, and their faces would say the rest—repulsed. But they didn’t understand what Charlie had gone through. The tragedy he’d overcome.
A survivor, like me.
But while I harbored a scarred soul, the traces of trauma were visible on Charlie’s face, neck and arms.
Rhett’s eyes turned soft instead of wary.
I released my pent-up breath and stood. I smoothed out my skirt but kept my face turned toward my young friend. “Charlie, this is Mr. Jennings.”
His small mouth twisted, and I pointed at Rhett, then signed our newly learned word. Charlie relaxed and rewarded me with a relieved smile, making his scars pucker. He then aimed that same expression at the detective. I stepped behind the boy and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Charlie lost his hearing in an accident, but he’s brilliant at reading lips. Only be sure he can see you.”
Rhett removed his derby with his left hand and extended his right toward Charlie. “Glad to meet you.”
Charlie wiped his palms on his trousers, leaving scarlet streaks on the faded tweed. He shrugged and shook Rhett’s hand. I covered my smile with my fist. Maybe my next lesson with Charlie should be about manners.
I glanced at the wall clock above Rhett’s shoulder. “It’s a little after six, Charlie. Your father should be heading to work.” I’d leave out the part that I’d spotted Jack Davenport carousing outside the Thirsty Thunder. The way he’d ogled me made the hair stand on my arms. Rhett must’ve observed the man’s lewd attentions as well. The small of my back still tingled from his protective touch. And now to see him respond to Charlie with such kindness? Was this the same shrewd detective that had entered the archive room not too long ago?
Rhett strode to the front of my apartment and stood at the open door, gaze searching. These past moments with Charlie had made me forget about that ridiculous “S” card, but the stern set of Rhett’s jaw and determined steps revealed he hadn’t.
With a sigh, I moved to the counter and withdrew some biscuits from the bread box. I angled my face to stay in Charlie’s view. “Do you still have the deli meat I gave you yesterday?”
He signed, no.
His father no doubt had devoured it all. Not surprising. If I ever caught that man sober, I’d have a few choice words for him. Unfair as it was, Charlie shouldn’t be the one to suffer. “Not a problem. I have plenty.” A lie. But at least this deception was for the good of someone else. Not that it made any difference in God’s eyes. But what else could I do?
The truth will set you free. Madre Chamberlin’s reedy voice echoed off the brittle places of my heart. My lashes lowered, but I could still see my former guardian’s pale eyes—always filled with conviction but never love. A sigh rattled my chest, but I wouldn’t give it place. In my life, the truth wouldn’t free me, only destroy.
Taking in a calming breath, I pulled the paper-wrapped ham from the icebox. “Maybe try to hide it this time.” I gave him the food then ruffled his hair.
Gratitude shone in his eyes, and I decided I would starve if it made this boy’s world easier. Charlie gave a cheery wave and skipped to the door, only to halt when he reached Rhett. The detective patted his small shoulder, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost my undoing. Charlie stood a little taller as Rhett stepped aside to let him pass.
I turned my back to the pair. Over the past months, I’d embraced a motherly role over Charlie, and watching Rhett’s unreserved acceptance did something strange to my heart.
The hinges of the door creaked, followed by the recognizable click of the deadbolt. I’d never been alone in my apartment with a man, and though the circumstances weren’t normal, it didn’t stop my nerves from tangling raw.
Peggy’s final warning floated to the forefront of my mind. He might have the charms of Al Jolson, but he has the manners of a wolf. Don’t let him paw you. All the more reason for me not to take my eyes off him.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, I unfurled my spine and notched my chin. Even though he’d treated Charlie with endearing approval, it didn’t mean I should let down my guard. I had an identity to protect. Secrets to shield.
Rallying the shreds of my confidence, I whirled around to find the detective only a few feet away.
“I believe this is yours.” He held out the purse I’d dropped earlier.
“Thank you.” I received the black bag, and our hands brushed, his thumb briefly sticking to my little finger.
The taffy.
I set aside my purse, withdrew a cloth from the drawer beneath the counter, and dampened it with the lukewarm water in the basin. “Here. To wash off the candy.”
He gave an appreciative nod and cleaned his hands. He returned the cloth, and I offered him a towel. He dried his fingers, and I gestured to the counter where I’d just set the washrag. We’d had enough finger-touching already.
“May I ask what happened?” He set down the towel. “To Charlie?”
“At the steelworks.” I nodded in the direction of Wilmington Rolling Mills. “A furnace exploded, and Charlie barely escaped. He survived, but as you see, it cost him.”
“You need to be at least fourteen to work there. That boy’s no older than twelve.”
“He’s eleven.” I relaxed my weight against the counter. “His father must’ve forged his birth papers.” My heart shattered every time I thought of Charlie and others like him facing dangerous work conditions to earn a penny an hour. To me, even fourteen years of age was too young. “I confess I’m not fond of Charlie’s Papa. The man turns violent when he drinks. That’s why Charlie comes here. Everyone needs a safe place.”
Rhett’s jaw worked. “Can he talk?”
“I’m not sure. I think he was able to before the accident.” And I had never pressed him on the subject. If the trauma had made him mute, then he’d speak if or when he was ready. I’d offer him the patience I’d never been gifted. Not that the Chamberlins had mistreated me, but how different would my life have been if Papa would’ve stayed instead of abandoning me? If I had been allowed to grieve my mother? If I’d been given longer time to recover from the accident rather than been pressured to do the lung exercises that fatigued me for days on end? But … maybe that was what had made me a stronger singer.
“What’s this mean?” Rhett’s deep timbre yanked me from the pit of my memories. He hooked his index fingers together—the word I’d signed to Charlie earlier.
My mind spun at the shift in conversation.
“You motioned that, and he changed.”
“It means friend.” I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve, anything to avoid eye contact with the man. “I’m teaching him to sign. Well, we’re learning together. No one ever bothered to teach him another means of communication. And …” Now I was rambling. My gaze lifted to find his piercing blue eyes on me. Had I said something wrong?
After a few long seconds, he cleared his throat. “There’s an issue that needs addressed. Follow me.”
He cast a vague look my way and then strode toward … my bedroom. My chest tightened. Had I left Papa’s letters out? How would the detective have time to read them? I forced my feet into motion, crossing the faded parlor room rug, hoping with all hope I’d left nothing in plain sight that would betray my identity.
With a gulp, I stepped into my bedroom. My gaze darted to my vanity. The letters were out of sight, and I allowed my lungs to take in air again.
The intimacy of the situation was not lost on me, especially with the space being the size of a storage closet and the detective’s commanding physique only a touch away. I pulled my elbows into my sides, making myself as small as possible.
“That needs to be closed and locked.” He pointed at the open window. “And keep the curtains drawn.”
“I can’t.” My only glimpse of the outside world.
“You must.”
“I’m on the second floor.” I crossed my arms. “No one can get to me.”
“Really?” He stepped toward the window, allowing me space to breathe, and cast a knowing look. “That rusted fire escape says otherwise.”
I spied my lacy nightgown folded atop my pillow and shuffled in front of my bed to keep him from spotting it. But something told me he’d already seen it. Heat climbed my neck. “The fire escape doesn’t reach the ground.”
He rolled his eyes.
Even I knew my argument was flimsy. All one needed was to stand on those discarded wooden boxes littering the alley, and they could pull themselves onto the metal landing. But I wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—close my window. How could I get that across to him without revealing the details of my trauma? The day when the black monster had smothered me, suffocating my screams. Even the memory made my lungs burn and the air rattle in my coarse throat. “George.” I rasped. “I have George to protect me at night.”
“Pardon?” His gaze flew to my ringless hand, and I could only imagine what thoughts whirled in his mind.
I stooped and retrieved the baseball bat from under my bed, my heart settling at the possibility of a compromise. “I present you, my wooden defender.”
Detective Jennings received the bat, his eyes focusing on the black ink before his jaw went slack. “George ‘Babe’ Ruth.” His hushed tone signified wonder. “That’s signed. By Babe Ruth.”
“It is.”
“But … how did you …” His gaze widened as if the signature had been etched in gold. So the detective was a sports fan. I could play this to my advantage, and hopefully a distraction to get the man out of my bedroom.
“Harold Arlin interviewed him. He signed several of them. I took it for means of protection.” I shrugged. “If you find me another bat, you can have this one.”
His eyes met mine, disbelief swirling in the blue depths. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Truly.” I made my move toward the door. “I don’t care for such things.” I tossed a glance over my shoulder and almost rejoiced to find the detective following me into the parlor. “Did you know he has ‘mike fright’?”
“Really?”
“According to Harold, the Bambino froze the moment he was ‘on air.’ So Harold took the speech from the man’s hand and read it aloud.”
“Completely fooled me.” His eyes lit with amusement. “I remember listening to that segment. I had no idea that wasn’t Babe’s voice.”
“Neither did all of Pittsburgh. We received several letters complimenting Babe’s kind voice. Harold still laughs about it.”
His mouth hitched in a lopsided grin. It was easy, natural, and made my mouth drier than a vibrato-rich song.
No, no, no. I couldn’t allow even the slightest thought of admiration. The danger proved too great. The man before me could never know—
“You feeling okay?”
“Hmm?” My fingers stilled … on my temple? Oh dear. I’d been unconsciously massaging my head. As if trying to physically subdue the unbidden rush of awareness. My hands fell to my sides. “Yes. It’s been quite the day.” And that had to be the explanation for my erratic heartbeat and jumbled thoughts.
He returned the baseball bat, and I shifted under the weight of his gaze. This time he wasn’t peering at me with suspicion. No, worse. His eyes registered a compassion that hooked my heart, its luring grip ebbing as the tide of truth swept in with a numbing chill—he’d have no sympathy if he knew my real name. One that matched his father’s murderer. I took a step back as if increasing the distance would detach me from the kindness in his expression.
“I understand.” His deep voice filled the small space. “I’ll leave so you can rest.” He angled as to turn away, but then paused and faced me. “I would ask that you not leave your apartment without me.”
I opened my mouth to object, but he silenced me with a look.
“I deal with enough guilt as it is, Kate. I won’t have your blood on my hands.” That ghosted expression from earlier resurfaced.
“But this could stretch on and on. What if you never locate the person who gave me that card?”
“I’ll find him.” His jaw tightened in a steel determination that made my chest squeeze. “And you’re going to help me.”
Chapter 7
Rhett shifted on the padded barstool and downed the rest of his vanilla soda. K’s Drug Emporium was empty, save a couple of older women discussing foot powder brands loud enough to make Rhett’s toes itch.
After seeing Kate safely to her apartment for the second evening in a row, he’d ridden the trolley to Pittsburgh only to get off several blocks before his destination. Sure he was pressed for time, but walking had always been the best way to clear his mind. Questions filled his head faster than the Monongahela after a deluge, and his thoughts were just as murky.
Yesterday had brought about the mysterious “S” card, causing Rhett to hope today would mark the appearance of the elusive mobster himself. Having persuaded his investigative agency partner, David, to help scout the expansive Westinghouse plant, Rhett had been more than ready.
They’d remained discreet, lingering on the outside of the many buildings, staking out the entrances with their firearms loaded and ready.
But nothing.
The lead had been sizzling hot yesterday, but now seemed cold as a day-old firecracker. Could this have all been a mistake like Kate had claimed? After all, why would a wholesome broadcaster appeal to a vile crime boss? He folded his arms on the metal countertop and grimaced at his empty soda glass. He wouldn’t have splurged on the syrupy vanilla drink, but a part of him almost needed it.
Nothing like a touch of sugar to sweeten our blandest thoughts, Mom had said whenever Rhett’d been in a glum mood. Like the time he’d been seven and had turned his ankle climbing a tree, causing him to miss the Pirates game against the Cubs. Or when he’d been eleven and his terrier had died. She’d never needed an excuse to bake dessert, but it’d seemed she always had something ready for Rhett when he’d needed a spoonful of sweetness and an earful of her sound wisdom. If only he’d been there for her when she needed him most.
Same with his father.
They’d saved Rhett from a lifetime of shame, but he hadn’t been able to help either of them. Absent when they’d gasped their last. A fine son he’d been.
With a scowl, he yanked a napkin from the dispenser and wiped his mouth.
Better get home.
He had a grumpy cat waiting on him for dinner and a long evening ahead. Rhett tossed the crumpled napkin onto the counter beside his soda glass and stood. He cupped the back of his neck, the taut muscles beneath his palm evidence of the hours crammed inside his Model-T last night. Keeping an eye on Miss Chamberlin’s apartment complex so far had produced nothing but a dull ache that his twenty-eight-year-old frame should’ve been able to tame. And he had another bout to look forward to tonight.
A squeaking noise to his right pulled his attention. The soda jerk, who appeared around sixteen, was wiping the exterior glass of the penny candy display. Rhett dropped a nickel in the tip jar as an idea formed in his head. The click of Rhett’s oxfords seemed to bounce off the tin-plated ceiling, but the white-capped youngster didn’t seem to notice.
Rhett cleared his throat, and the dishrag stilled on the smattering of finger smudges.
His pointed chin angled toward Rhett. “Need somethin’, sir?”
“I see you have some taffy.” He gestured to the vanilla and chocolate bars. “Would you happen to have any strawberry flavored?”
Green eyes squinting, he studied the various boxes of candy, then regarded Rhett with a shrug. “May be some in the back. Let me check.”
“I appreciate it.” Rhett browsed the display again, only this time with Kate in mind. What kind of sweets would she like? In his experience, chocolate had been the typical preference for the women he’d dated. Yet Kate wasn’t the typical female. She didn’t slap on the war paint like other ladies, and certainly didn’t dress to attract notice. He’d bet most men he knew wouldn’t grant her a second glance, and from what he’d witnessed of Kate, the way she’d cowered away from his attentions, she seemed to actually favor disregard. What kind of female relished in being ignored?
“See anything you like?” A feminine voice poked into his thoughts.
He glanced over. “Miss Kromer?”
Her slender fingers clutched a box of strawberry taffy, her lips stretching into a luring smile. “I have what you’re craving.”
