The Marshal's Pursuit (7 page)

“By ‘force,’ you mean ‘beaten until confession’?” Malia returned, expecting his answer yet hoping he wouldn’t say—

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. But it was, and she could no longer ignore the reality of the world the cyclone named Giovanni had spun her into. She met his gaze again. “Then Irene is in danger because of me.”

“I’m sorry.” He actually looked apologetic. “The moment you stepped inside Cady’s office, you put them all in danger.” He slid his watch into a vest pocket. “Word will get around, if it hasn’t already, of what you’ve done. You made yourself an even greater target. Someone who wants to find you will track every person you spoke with today, beginning with Edwin Daly. Desperate men aren’t gentlemen to women with information.”

The train jolted to a stop.

Malia stared at the book cover; the image of the Tin Man and Scarecrow blurred. So desperate to rescue Giovanni and do the honorable thing, she’d never considered how her actions would affect others. Her throat burned with something acerbic and foul, condemning and true: she’d been—still was—disgustingly naive.

“If anything bad happens to Irene, Miss Barn, or—” her voice quavered “—anyone who knows me, I will never be able to forgive myself.”

“I can’t imagine you would,” he murmured.

“What’s that mean?”

“Kindhearted people assume burdens not their own.”

Malia’s eyes widened. She bit back her response, unsure if she was complimented or insulted, or both.

He slid the book out of her hands and rested it on the table with the others. “This is our stop.”

Malia looked longingly at the book. “We’re supposed to go to Boston.”

“Yes, we were.” He said nothing more as he walked to the back of the coach and reclaimed her traded straw hat and trench coat. His silence gave her time to think, because...because he wanted her to reason it all out on her own? That could mean he believed she was capable of putting the pieces together. After the day she’d had, she needed a chance to show she wasn’t obtuse, not for his benefit, but because he’d known she needed to prove it to herself.

“This was your plan all along—deboarding at New Rochelle.”

He walked back to her. “Why do you think that?”

Malia stood and allowed him to help her into the coat. “If the mafiosi
questions Irene, Cady or anyone in his offices, everyone can convincingly speak the truth because that is the truth they know. So presuming no mafiosi
thugs followed us to the train, if they find out about our plans, it would make sense for them to wait in Grand Central for us to return.”

Her reasoning made sense, and must have been in line with his because he didn’t answer. She’d promised herself she’d give him the benefit of the doubt until he gave her cause not to trust him. Now was the moment to take a step of faith.

She turned to face him. “Where is the yellow brick road leading us?”

He planted the hat atop her head, but because of the Apollo knot she’d twisted her hair into, the hat didn’t sit level. He lifted it off. “To wear or not to wear—that is the question.”

Malia looked up at him and couldn’t help smiling. He was a hand’s length taller than Mr. Daly, and taller than her brother too. He was more likable when he was being jovial Frank Louden than stoic Deputy Marshal Louden.

She took the hat from him. “To answer or not answer—that is what you’ve been avoiding.”

He chuckled. “That didn’t quite make sense.”

Malia shrugged. She’d never boasted of having the cleverest of wits.

“It’s nice to see you this way.” He began to button her coat—from bottom to top—as Giovanni used to do when they were children before they ran off for an afternoon of play in Central Park.

“What way?”

“Smiling. Relaxed.”

She supposed she was relaxed. Reading had soothed her spirit and taken her mind off her troubles. “I’ve done enough crying.”

He paused on the last button, the one at the collar. “You don’t deserve the situation your brother has put you in.” He lowered his hands but didn’t step back.

She’d been closer to a man, dancing at a ball and amid the huddled masses leaving the opera, but it’d never—never—felt like this. She could smell him, feel his closeness. She should be fearful and wary of this stranger who had invaded her life and, even more so, the bubble of space around her. But she wasn’t fearful. Or wary. For the first time since she received word of her parents’ and nonni’s deaths, she didn’t quite feel so alone.

“Whether I deserve this situation or not,” she said, “bemoaning will change nothing. I may as well make the best of my circumstances.”

He nudged her into motion to the door. “Not many people would have had the courage or rectitude to do what you did.” He flashed a smile that made her feel warm everywhere. “Even fewer would have the pluck to set aside ingrained fears and place her life in another’s hands.”

He believed that about her?

She intended to say “thank you” but instead blurted, “That you were checking your watch leads me to wonder if the time is significant.”

He pulled his pocket watch out long enough to check the hour. “It’s now quarter after five.”

Malia paused as he unlocked the coach door and opened it a crack to look outside. “Sunset is at six-thirty,” she said. “It’ll be dark by seven. Are we taking the trolley to Glen Island?”

He shook his head. “You need to do exactly what I say.”

Chapter 7

[If], when she alights at her destination, her friends fail to meet her, she should on no account accept a stranger’s offer, whether man or woman, to deliver her to her destination. The safest thing to do is to walk.

—Emily Price Post,
Etiquette

F
rank kept his gaze casual as they strolled like strangers across the station’s wooden floor. With Miss Vaccarelli two steps in front of him, as he instructed, they were far enough apart to not look to be together, yet close enough that he could come to her aid if need be. His heart thudded in his chest, his nerves on edge. Upward of a hundred people were in the New Rochelle station lobby. Yet not a single person loitering near the plaster walls, at the ticket counter or on the benches looked suspicious. Nor was anyone trailing them.

He hated when things were easy. Not because they were harbingers of eventual woes—even though a fraction of the time they were—but mostly because when it was over, he ended up kicking himself over making a mountain out of a molehill.

Miss Vaccarelli walked with elegance, maneuvering through the crowd; one hand held her straw hat, the other halfway inside the coat’s outer pocket. Occasionally a man would give her an admiring glance. When she paid him no notice, he returned to his book, newspaper or conversation. All was going smoothly until a man with superb whiskers and a velvet morning coat stepped in front of her.

Miss Vaccarelli stopped.

A hurried couple and their gaggle of children and luggage blocked Frank from her.

The man shifted his cane to his left hand, took off his hat with his right, and shifted his hat to his left hand, as well. “I think you dropped this,” he said, offering a glove that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Miss Vaccarelli looked at the man in surprise. “Thank you, but it’s not mine. If you would excuse me, I must be going.”

“My apologies.” He didn’t move. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Her fingers tightened around her hat’s brim. “Why, yes, it—”

“Leah? Leah Carr?” Frank put in the moment his path was clear.

She glanced over her shoulder—and in that split second, he’d swear her eyes sparkled in delight upon seeing him. No woman had ever looked at him as if he was her knight in shining armor. She did. More so, he felt like it.

Then she gasped in a manner fitting her impromptu performance, whirling around to face him. “Frank Marshall?” she said, all sweetness and light. “Good heavens, is it really you?”

“In the flesh.” He walked to her. “How do you do?”

“Splendid. And you?”

He glanced at the stranger and lifted his hat slightly, before returning his attention to Miss Vaccarelli. “What are you doing in New Rochelle?”

“I’m here to surprise my grandfather.”

He gave her a taken-aback look. “I thought you two weren’t on speaking terms.”

She laughed. “That’s why this is a surprise.”

After she politely wished the whiskered man a good afternoon, Frank walked with her to the door, saying, “We’re celebrating my cousin’s birthday at Besly’s Tavern. Johnny thinks I’m...”

They continued the meaningless yet friendly chatter all the way out of the building.

Frank moved to the curbside of the pavement. The trolley bell clanged. He placed a hand on her lower back and nudged her past the commuters home from New York City and waiting to board the trolley. They continued down the covered walkway, passing by the horse-drawn carriages.

“You handled that well,” he said, looking around to find their ride. “Might I say you know how to not panic.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” answered Miss Vaccarelli with a slight curtsy.

Ah, there was Norma, sitting in her girlie electric runabout, the first of six automobiles parked at the station. He returned his attention to Miss Vaccarelli, who was now looking around, observing her surroundings, checking to see, as had he, if anyone was following them. She figured out on her own to do that. It rather impressed him. She was clever and teachable, and he liked that—he liked her—more than he ought to.

A train whistle blew. An engine began to pull away from the station, rolling past them on the left.

“Confess,” he said over the clackety-clack of the locomotive. “You have a secret life on the stage, don’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but...” She turned enough for him to see the mischievousness in her eyes. “In my acting debut at Grace Church, I played the baby Jesus. Apparently, I captured the essence of ‘no crying he made.’”

He made his expression grave. “That takes skill, for I know very few babies who don’t excel in wailing. I, myself, was a renowned wailer.”

Her brows rose. “That sounds exhausting.”

“My parents said so.”

“I imagine they would.”

“My offspring, I fear, will be as vocally endowed.”

“Their mother will be most appreciative.” Then she shrugged modestly. “Alas, my predilection for silence drew such acclaim that my managers insisted I retire. Once one reaches the pinnacle, the only place to go is down. Or so was reported in the
Times
in explaining the next Christmas to disgruntled fans why I wasn’t chosen to play a nativity goat.”

“No,” he protested. He placed a hand over his heart. “A gifted performer’s career cut short before her time. Oh the indignities! I am in despair.”

* * *

Malia looked at him, at the lightheartedness brightening his face, and she couldn’t maintain a faux solemnity. She smiled. True, it showed only on her lips, but she felt it—verily felt it—to the tips of her toes. It felt good to laugh, to be merry and silly and absurd, and pretend they were other people. People who didn’t live in fear or pursuit of the mafiosi. She hadn’t laughed since her parents died. She’d buried a part of herself with them, and Giovanni hadn’t minded—or maybe he hadn’t noticed—her grief, her lifelessness. Her facade.

But this man made her remember what it was like to enjoy life. She didn’t want to lose that again. She didn’t want to return to being dull, dutiful Malia.

“Well, now,” a female voice broke the companionable silence, “aren’t you two chummy?”

Malia stopped abruptly and jerked her gaze to a towering woman standing next to a fancy red-wheeled electric automobile. Her black hip-length, three-button coat notched at the lapel, skirt with matching buttons, and white blouse with a necktie and standing collar all appeared expertly tailored. White kid gloves. Small beaded purse with chain handle. Silk rose-topped hat. Whoever she was, because of her abnormal height, her attire could not have come off a rack at B. Altman’s, Macy’s or Gimbels. It most likely was sewn by the exclusive ladies’ tailor at Lord and Taylor.

Yet for all her femininity and sophistication...

On her left lapel was a marshal’s badge, an exact replica of the one Mr. Louden had placed in his inner coat pocket moments before they’d stepped outside Special Prosecutor Cady’s office building. Resting at her hip was a holstered gun. Languishing in her eyes was the knowledge and confidence to use it.

The trolley bell rang again.

Malia glanced over her shoulder to see it leaving the station.

“Good to see you, Norma.” Mr. Louden put his hand under Malia’s elbow and assisted her off the curb. He stepped to the vehicle, and Malia followed. Gone was his smile. In its place was the dour marshal expression. “Miss Vaccarelli, this is Miss Norma Hogan, deputy marshal Southern District of New York.”

They clasped hands, gave them a dropping movement rather than a shake, then let go.

“It’s very good of you to help us,” Miss Hogan said in a chipper tone.

Malia nodded since she wasn’t sure of a fitting response, yet it seemed she should at least acknowledge the friendly comment.

Mr. Louden asked, “Why didn’t Winslow come with you?”

An awkward pause, then: “Someone called requesting help, so he went.” Miss Hogan snatched a leather-bound notebook off the black padded seat. “Now, then, we need to get you two on your way.” She gave Mr. Louden the notebook. “You
will
follow my rules of usage. All of them. Properly. To a tee.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t turn his head to look Malia’s way, or acknowledge Miss Hogan’s comments with a polite nod. Whatever he was thinking distracted him.

She wasn’t at all certain that was a good thing.

“
Ehrm,
Frank,” was all Miss Hogan got out before he said, “Yes, ma’am.” He opened the notebook, eyes scanning the first page. “Oh, come on, Norma. This is beyond what’s necessary. Is this because I told Winslow you think he’s cute?”

“Winslow is a—” She snatched the booklet back. “You offended Dee Dee on the day I first showed her to you by calling her a ‘woman’s car.’ Even though I love you like a brother—or, at the bare minimum, like the coworker who annoys me the least—I am under no obligation to allow you to borrow her for three weeks outside my parental eye.”

He looked to Malia. “You’re a woman. Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

She could. She probably ought to, but in that moment nothing appealed to her less. Who knew a man’s duress could be so gratifying to watch.

Malia cringed apologetically even though she didn’t feel it a bit. “Sorry. Miss Hogan does have a point.”

“A point?” He uttered one of those I’m-trying-to-be-patient-with-you noises that men utter when they believe they are being patient but any female could tell they had long lost patience. “Norma is a woman, and it’s her automobile.
Aught. Tow. Mo. Bill,
” he repeated in that patronizing manner while still looking at Malia yet motioning to Miss Hogan to give him back the booklet, which she didn’t.

“How,” he continued, “is calling something what it is offensive?”

“I’m a woman,” Miss Hogan said, and one corner of her mouth slid into a wry curve, “and it would be highly offensive for you to call me ‘Woman’ when, in fact, I do have a name.”

His face screwed up.

“As Dee Dee does,” Miss Hogan declared.

A snort escaped Malia’s lips. She covered her mouth with the brim of her hat.

He glared at her then turned it upon Miss Hogan. “It’s a car, not a person.”

“It’s quite common to name a horse,” Malia said in Miss Hogan’s defense.

“That’s not the same,” he answered.

Miss Hogan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Frank Louden, you are—” She coughed a breath. “Cordelia ‘Dee Dee’ Hogan is not a mere car. She is a Packard Model C runabout with a 183.8 cubic-inch engine capable of producing 12 horsepower and reaching 40 miles per hour. She is the tenth car James Ward Packard produced this year. She has a removable dos-a-dos rear seat, sits atop a 76-inch wheelbase, features an H-pattern gear change and steering wheel and column in a day when most other marques are still using a tiller, and—AND—
and,
all of her loveliness can be purchased from the factory for only $1,500. Like Eve at creation, she is nothing short of remarkable.”

Mr. Louden snatched the booklet back. “Fine.”

Deep dimples appeared on each side of Miss Hogan’s mouth. “Dee Dee’s batteries need proper charging every fifty-seven miles. A second set of charged batteries is in the compartment under the seat, if you need them. However, she prefers the first set to be recharged because she says the backup set doesn’t feel like they fit as well as the first ones do.”

“Vehicles don’t have feelings,” he muttered. “Or talk.”

Malia leaned against him and whispered, “You shouldn’t have said that so loudly. I’m sure Dee Dee heard.”

He gave her a sideways look. “It’s an inanimate object.”

Malia held a finger up to her lips. “Shh.” Then she looked to Miss Hogan. “When a man hasn’t eaten in hours, his mind...” She grimaced, waved in a circular motion at the air around her forehead and said no more.

Mr. Louden’s mouth hung open.

“Understandable,” retorted Miss Hogan. “Now Frank, never—
never
—never take Dee Dee out for a drive without first ensuring her batteries are fully and properly charged. And it is imperative you charge the batteries after using her.”

“My brother owns a petromobile,” Malia said in a dry tone. “Between the smell, noise and vibration, it’s quite unpleasant to ride in. I named it Prince Camel.”

“That’s clever,” Miss Hogan said.

Mr. Louden regarded her unblinking. “Vehicles don’t need names.”

Miss Hogan looked as if she was trying not to laugh. And that’s when Malia knew. The man, too much, liked having his own way. A creature of habit, upbringing and prejudices, he was. This was about getting Frank Louden to go above and beyond merely for the sake of making someone he cared about happy.

“Mr. Louden,” Malia interjected, “while emotions dictate otherwise, need and want are not the same.” She took much pleasure in the fact he appeared at a loss as to how to respond. Emboldened, she said, “I like the way you think, Miss Hogan.”

“I like you, too, Miss Vaccarelli,” Miss Hogan said. “Keep her alive, Frank, or I will make your life unbearable.”

Mr. Louden opened his mouth. “You already—”

And she shushed him. “It’s bad form to air differences.”

He turned to the next page in the notebook, head shaking, not saying anything.

Miss Hogan went on, “You will bathe Dee Dee in the morning after each use, using a towel of Egyptian cotton in a clockwise motion to dry her. While it may seem prudent to leave the drying to the sun, kill that thought, for the sun leaves spots.”

“No woman likes to be spotty,” Malia put in.

Mr. Louden rolled his eyes.

Undismayed, Miss Hogan continued on with, “Also, oil her bearings using the specified viscosity, lubricant and amount listed. Her tires must be pumped to one hundred and twenty-five pounds to the square inch, and don’t forget—”

“Norma,” Mr. Louden cut in, holding the booklet up, “I can read. I’d also like to reach our destination before sunset.”

A blush stole across her cheeks. “Of course.” She turned to the side and dusted the black leather seat. “Be a good girl. Mommy will see you in three weeks.”

Whatever Mr. Louden’s thoughts, he didn’t vocalize them. He put his hand under Malia’s elbow and assisted her into the cab. Malia scooted over to the right side. Since the folding hood was up, she wedged the straw hat between her thigh and the side wall. Mr. Louden settled in next to her and started up the car.