Verity and the Villain Page 17

  Trent came up behind her without her noticing. She had her hair tucked into a felt hat, a few loose tendrils curled down her back. The shirt, ridiculously big, gaped around her neck. She wore the shirt sleeves pushed up to her elbows and her forearms looked fragile and exposed.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Sir.”

  He noted the flush staining her cheeks with pleasure. He wondered what she’d say. Would she deepen her voice and attempt to stay in character? Or, would she allow him to call her bluff?

  She disappointed him by nodding with lowered lids. She gave the second story window a cautious glance, took Trent’s arm and drew him down the street. “Why are you following me?” she asked in a low voice.

  “We both have questions for each other,” Trent said. “Like, why are we whispering?”

  Verity shook her head. “We’re not,” she said in a voice only slightly louder.

  “And why were you in the gaming rooms, again?”

  Verity pursed her lips but didn’t answer.

  He cast his eyes over her and continued. “See, there are many things I’d like to learn about you, although tonight I’ve learned a great deal.”

  “You’re undoubtedly wondering why I’m dressed like this.” Verity’s flush deepened.

  “Again.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and the loose shirt billowed around her arms. “And I’m curious as to how you are always catching me unawares.”

  “You saw me earlier.”

  She didn’t deny it but rather cocked her head in such a way that could mean anything.

  Trent took a step closer. “And you broke our agreement.”

  She didn’t back away but raised an eyebrow at him so he raised his in return. “You’d said you’d keep your distance from Steele.”

  She had the grace to blush. “I didn’t know he’d be there.” He watched to see if her tell-a-tale eye would twitch. It didn’t.

  “A happy coincidence?” He didn’t like the jealous tinge in his voice.

  “I wasn’t…this has nothing, or at least very little, to do with Steele.”

  Trent rocked back on his heels, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he considered her. Although still angry that she’d broken their agreement, he was also curious and, if he were honest, more attracted to her than ever before. He quoted Robert Browning and the words came out softly. “Escape me? Never—While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, While the one eludes, must the other pursue.”

  She couldn’t help smiling, although he guessed she didn’t want to. “So you admit you are pursuing me.”

  He nodded and took another step closer. “And yet, sadly, it seems that whenever we meet, you are chasing someone else.”

  Verity’s mouth turned into a firm straight line and her eye twitched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Come, Miss Faye, that can’t be true. You always seem to be in a constant state of chase. Either you are chasing or you are being chased.”

  “By you.”

  “Alas, I’ve yet to be your quarry.”

  “And, yet, you manage to catch up with me.”

  “I am dogging you. I sincerely doubt you’ll ever escape.” His eyes turned serious.

  She swallowed hard and he continued, “When shall I become your prey?”

  “I haven’t prey.”

  “Or a prayer of passing as a boy.” Trent ran his gaze over her and lingered on her waist. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you, because you make those breeches look lovely. Was that your intent?”

  A small vein pulsed in her throat. He wondered how it would feel beneath his lips. She took a step back and cast another furtive glance up the stairs. Trent leaned closer. He could smell her warmth. The cinnamon fragrance had been replaced by something sultry that he couldn’t place. Cocoa and perhaps rum? “What exactly are you doing out here?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” A crease formed between her eyebrows and she shot another glance up the stairs.

  Had he made her angry? No. She was impatient. He liked the way her blue eyes flashed. “My intentions are fairly obvious, I’m following you.”

  “Yes, but why? I haven’t seen you for weeks and suddenly here you are.”

  Before he could answer, a gunshot rang out.

  BETTE

  Rose Arbor, Washington

  Dead. Again. I lay my head on the steering wheel. A ten-year-old Jeep that had taken innumerable camping trips, hauled loads of firewood, carted yards of fertilizer, and had squired hosts of cub scouts couldn’t be expected to last forever, but I had rather hoped. Gregg had been nursing the Jeep for several months and then when he was no longer able to baby the car, I’d taken to leaving it in the garage, relying on my bike for transportation. If it rains, I stay at home.

  I stay at home a lot.

  Occasionally, the Jeep has to be hauled out of its comfort and once it gets started, it usually manages to rumble down the streets. But, like a teenager getting up in the morning, it sometimes, well most times, has trouble starting its engine. It’d behaved nicely for Billy and Eve, cruising through the signals without those embarrassing hiccoughs, merging onto I-90 without a stutter, rolling down Denny to the terminal. I’d left Billy and Eve on the curb and then parked the Jeep near the Waterfront Park. I’d made it a habit to stop by Pike Street Market whenever I came to Seattle. Although there are farmer’s markets much closer to home, I enjoy the bustle and the arts and crafts.

  Perhaps in an effort to compensate for all the infamous cruise food I’d be missing since my decision to stay at home, I’d gone hog wild at the market and now carry bags of mushrooms, apples, cantaloupe, apricots, and peaches. None of which would appreciate an afternoon in a hot, stationary car.

  Lizzy had warned me to carry a cell phone. She carries hers in her bra. Close to her heart, she said, which made a certain amount of sense, since only her children know the number. She keeps it muted and on vibrate, so at least she doesn’t have ringing breasts, but it does look more than a little odd when she straightens and begins pawing at her shirt. It’s in here somewhere, she’ll mutter.

  I love Lizzy and I love that Lizzy has a phone and a working car, since I now have neither. I have an abundance of fruit and no transportation. Glancing up, I measure the gray clouds gathering over the harbor. Bits of cerulean blue sky poke through, but the sun has faded behind a shadow.

  Trudging through the park, I bemoan the disappearance of public telephones. They used to dot nearly every street corner with a service station or a grocery store, but they seem to have gone the way of the dinosaur. Extinct.

  Since Gregg’s death I’d also felt the nagging sense of the world leaving me behind. His connection to the high school kept him young. Occasionally, he’d come home with some new words sprinkled in his conversation. Not hip, because, really, who can be hip at fifty? But he was in sync with his students. He loved them and they loved him. He belonged at Rose Arbor High.

  Without him, I don’t belong anywhere.

  Waterfront Park doesn’t have a telephone booth, no surprise, but it has an amazing view of the Sound. The sky and Sound are a matching gray and it’s hard to tell where the Sound ends and the sky begins. On the opposite edge of the park sits a cluster of businesses and restaurants. Maybe someone will let me use their phone. Before the rain starts.

  I watch the boats bob in the harbor, thinking of Verity and the gunshot. Billy and Eve had arrived at a particularly bad time and I am desperate to get home and finish the story. A gunshot doesn’t always signal death.

  Gregg hadn’t died violently. One moment he was sitting on the bed and putting on his socks, getting ready to go to work, and the next he was laying on the floor. It’d been that fast. I’d been ironing his shirt and when I rushed to him, I’d carried the iron with me. Water from the iron, still hot, splashed on his face when I knelt beside him. He hadn’t flinched. So, in that terrible instant, I’d known.

  When the
paramedics arrived, they loaded him on the gurney. I’d hurried after them, carrying his shoes, thinking he’d want his shoes and yet knowing that he wouldn’t need them. An eternity of being barefoot.

  Standing at the railing overlooking the Sound, feeling the ocean spray on my face, I think back to the funeral. George had quoted Henry Van Dyke and I’d liked it so well I memorized it.

  “I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes.’

  “Gone where? Gone from my sight ... that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, 'There she goes!' there are other eyes watching her coming and their voices ready to take up the glad shouts 'Here she comes!’ *

  CHAPTER 16

  Truffles, bite-sized chocolate confections, are usually made from ganache, a mixture of chocolate and cream. Traditionally, truffles are formed into small balls and rolled in cocoa powder, giving them a rustic look reminiscent of their fungal namesakes.

  From the Recipes of Verity Faye

  Verity took the stairs so quickly her hat flew off. Trent followed and reached for the door to let her by. Inside the dim hallway, a staircase climbed the wall. Looking up, Verity could see the second story, but other than the gunshot, all had been quiet. She heard her own rapid breath and her feet beating the wooden stairs. Trent pushed in front and she watched the muscles in his legs work beneath his breeches as he vaulted up the stairs.

  Please spare Dorrie, she pleaded with every footfall as she climbed. If anything happened to Dorrie, it would be her fault. Not that the other girls hadn’t applauded Verity’s idea. Dorrie, much to Verity’s unpleasant surprise, had pulled the long straw and thereby earned the right to execute the plan. Verity had thought it too soon for the girl to brave Drake Wallace, but Dorrie, despite her quiet reserve, had beamed with excitement.

  Verity reached the top step and caught her breath while Trent knocked on the door. She could see four other apartment doors—two down and two up—but she didn’t see any of the inhabitants. Could gunshots be so commonplace on skid row that neighbors weren’t drawn by curiosity? Trent tried to turn the knob, but the door didn’t budge. On the other side came a deathly silence.

  “This is where you offer me a hairpin,” Trent told her.

  Verity reached into her hair, drew one out, and offered it to Trent. Her locks tumbled around her shoulders.

  She smelled the gun’s acrid smoke and something foul seeping through the locked door. After a few moments of wrestling the pin into the lock, the door opened with a click. Inside, the threadbare rug, the crude furniture, and the two fallen figures were splattered in blood.

  Dorrie sprawled across an ottoman, her arms flung wide, her legs spread, and her head lolled back. Her mouth hung open as if she’d been cut short of a scream. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, exposing the whites. Her stick-like legs stuck out of her tiny black boots and she looked young, vulnerable. A hole of blood pulsed in her chest. The heart still beat and pushed the blood up and down, up and down, until it stopped. Blood oozed onto the ottoman and dripped to the floor.

  Drake Wallace laid face forward, his arms extended, as if reaching for Dorrie. The smoking gun rested beside his right hand and the blade of a knife protruded from his back. It must have pierced him completely. But how? Dorrie had been in the apartment only a short time. How had she managed to find a knife? Verity told herself Dorrie had to have acted in self-defense, but she suddenly realized that couldn’t be true. Dorrie must have brought the knife. How? Verity’s gaze fell on the basket lying near the door. It’d looked so harmless moments ago hooked on Dorrie’s arm. Why hadn’t she questioned Dorrie?

  And then she realized she could have prevented this. This carnage. This was her fault. Verity began to shake and she walked to Dorrie on unsteady feet. Trent caught her elbow. She tried to shake him off.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Trent said with one hand grasping her arm and the other propelling her from the room.

  She’d failed horribly. She’d tried to help and she hadn’t. How could she face Georgina? The other girls? How could she possibly atone for Dorrie’s death? The night air hit her in the face when they emerged on the street. In the brief time they’d been upstairs, the stars had pierced the sky and it surprised Verity how quickly things could change. One moment she’d stood with Dorrie on the sidewalk, and the next moment Dorrie was gone.

  Irrevocably.

  Should she have known or guessed that Dorrie would try and kill Drake Wallace? Shouldn’t Dorrie have sent some sort of clue or vibe of what she intended? Had she been naïve to think that Dorrie could visit Wallace—a man she’d loved and believed had loved her in return, only to forced her into prostitution—and have a conversation, present him with chocolates, of all things, and come calling as if there’d be no consequences? Verity stumbled over a loose brick and Trent pulled her closer to him. How could she have been so stupid?

  “This is my fault,” Verity said, her teeth chattering.

  She felt Trent’s eyes on her, but he didn’t break stride.

  “Stop,” she said, tugging on Trent’s arm and digging in her heels. “We need to go to the police.”

  Trent continued, practically dragging Verity along the boardwalk.

  “How could this possibly be your fault?” His words were clipped and she felt his radiating pent up emotions.

  She stammered, “I should have known --”

  “How? How could you have possibly foreseen this?” Trent turned a corner and Verity bumped against him. Her teeth jarred with the contact.

  “Did you know what that girl had planned?” he asked.

  “The police?”

  Trent shook his head. “Sherriff Calhoun, remember, is a partner in Lucky Island, and I assume, although I don’t know, because you won’t tell me, that this has something to do with the brothel.” Trent gave her a sidelong glance. “Answer my questions. Why did you bring that girl to this place?”

  Verity blinked back tears. “Dorrie hadn’t mentioned any thoughts of revenge, other than the chocolates, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Revenge?”

  Verity told him of Drake’s involvement. “We didn’t even know if the chocolates would work.”

  “Chocolates?”

  Verity hated his tone. It said everything she felt, all the shame and disapproval that filled her he’d managed to communicate in that one word. Chocolates. She looked up at the sky, wishing it could suck her into its blue expanse and transport her to another planet so that she wouldn’t have to have this conversation. If only a tornado would come and carry her far, far away.

  “The chocolates had been laced with a sedative.” She felt her face flush with blood and heat. “It wouldn’t hurt him. It just, supposedly, well it does what the name implies. It’s supposed to suck the violence out of... men.”

  She looked up to see Trent’s mouth hanging open in surprise.

  “Dr. Merry gave it to me and the girls all swear it works. They’ve all used it before.”

  “The girls?”

  Verity sighed. “The girls from Lucky Island. They’ve been working for me. The girls used the sedative on only the most violent men. Hilda had sworn she’d seen it work, but she didn’t know if the effects were temporary or long-lasting. Cassie had thought temporary…to be fair, I’d been skeptical, but it seemed worth a try. And I know the sleeping potion works.”

  “Sleeping potion?”

  Verity rushed on. “Dorrie was supposed to leave Drake the chocolates. Each sweet had three times the necessary dosage. Theoretical
ly, if he rationed the chocolates he could have been … out of business, for months. In light of his serious crimes, it seemed a small retribution. Too small.”

  “Obviously, that’s what Dorrie had thought,” Trent said. He stopped outside the gate.

  Verity wished to know his thoughts. With his jaw clamped shut and his eyes hard, he was an impossible read.

  “What do you think I should do now? It seems wrong to just leave Dorrie there.”

  Trent pushed her up the steps of her aunt’s house. “Go to bed, Verity. I’ll come by in the morning.”

  #

  A wind howled and tossed the trees’ branches and leaves outside the window. Verity watched the trees’ shadows chase across her bedroom walls. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Dorrie and Drake and the blood-splattered carpet, so she kept her eyes open, her gaze fixed on the moving shadows.

  Tomorrow she’d have to face Georgina and the girls. What would she say? Fortunately, Tilly had already gone to bed when Trent had brought her home.

  Trent. Verity rolled over and put her pillow over her head.

  Another complication.

  An angry one.

  She didn’t think the morning would ever come, but when it finally did, Verity slid from the bed with an iron-strong resolve.

  #

  Verity closed the door to Paulson’s Pawn shop with a heart as heavy as her purse. The gold coins jingled and bounced against her hip with every step. Worried that the strap would break, she held the purse against her body. After a sleepless night, Verity had begun her day with a groggy head and determination. She’d sell her mother’s jewels and give all of the money to Georgina’s cause. And although she’d still employ as many girls as her bakery and confectionary could support, she would stop interfering with Steele and the Lucky Island brothel. If she stayed quietly in the background perhaps Steele would never notice her.