Annie sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose it makes some sense. If Hoffmann were dismissed from his position as Vice Principal, Russell would be a prime candidate for the job, and I imagine that the Girls’ High position pays better. Della could be the source of the gossip about Hoffmann and Mrs. Anderson. It is even possible that someone else sent the letters to Hattie last fall and that gave Russell the idea.”
“Emory came up with a new theory this week,” Nate said. “He’s decided that a corrupt political boss, Chris Buckley, might be behind all this. According to him, Buckley, who owns the Alhambra Saloon, is starting to make a move to control the local Democratic Party machinery. Oddly, he’s blind. Makes me wonder if he drank too much of his own product. Anyway, according to Emory, since Buckley has boasted that he will take back the school board from the Republicans, he might be using some disaffected teacher to cause a scandal, hoping to use that in the next election. Emory has opposed him within the Democratic Party. He figures that might be why he was targeted by one of the anonymous letters.”
“That’s very interesting,” Annie said, leaning closer, and Nate put his arm snugly around her waist. She continued. “Della Thorndike told me Kitty Blaine’s father owns a saloon and is also a powerful man in Democratic politics.”
Nate loved watching Annie trying to figure things out. She was so quick. He asked, “Have you run across anyone else with political connections who might be working with Buckley if Emory is right? I am having trouble seeing Miss Thorndike or Russell in that role.”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute. Do you remember what I wrote to you about Mrs. Washburn, the Scottish janitoress at Girls’ High? How vindictive she was about Hoffmann? What if one of her relatives is active in the Democratic Party, maybe works for this blind boss Buckley. My, my, ‘Blind Boss Buckley,’ that’s a name you wouldn’t forget.”
Nate laughed. Then he felt Annie shiver beside him. He tucked the shawl more tightly around her and said, “Much as I want to, I can’t keep you here any longer. Look, I can at least ask Emory if he knows of any connections between Kitty Blaine’s father and Buckley.”
“And I will see if I can learn anything more about Mrs. Washburn,” Annie added. “But don’t forget you promised to track down Frazier. I still think he is the most likely candidate if we are dealing with a vengeful teacher, even if he turns out to be the pawn of some politician.”
Nate nodded but didn’t know how he was going to comply given how busy Cranston was keeping him. Hoping to change the subject, he said, “By the way, make sure you let me know right away if Seth Timmons contacts Laura again and has any news about Buck Morrison.”
“Oh Nate, I didn’t tell you. There are signs that whoever did attack Laura might still be hanging around the boarding house. Dandy is acting oddly. And we know how effective that little nose of his can be in ferreting out wrong-doing. In addition, Jamie thinks someone is following him and his mother and Laura when they walk home. He and Ian, Kathleen’s brother, got up some scheme to try and figure out who it is.”
“I hope you’ve put a stop to that!”
“Well, Kathleen told Ian not to do it, and I will tell Barbara Hewitt about the plan tomorrow. But I think the faster we can figure out who is writing the anonymous letters and learn for certain that there is no connection between those letters and the attack on Laura, the better. It’s one thing to see all this as part of the usual political shenanigans or even the petty jealousy of a single individual, but…”
“But what?” Nate again felt her shiver and pulled her closer.
Annie turned a very troubled face toward him. “I keep thinking about Hattie’s last words. Laura is still convinced Hattie was trying to tell her that she felt coerced into resigning her teaching position and marrying Russell. But if her exact words were ‘no accident’ and ‘pushed me, pushed me,’ then it is possible she was physically pushed down the stairs by someone. Someone who let her lie there, bleeding to death. We could be talking about someone whose mind is so disordered that they would be willing to commit murder, and that someone could still be a threat to Laura.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Sunday evening, February 8, 1880
"Valentines! Just Received, Direct From London...Also, Full Lines of AMERICAN VALENTINES Sentimental and Comic." ––San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
“Mr. Dawson isn’t going to stop by this evening?” Kathleen asked, drying her hands on her apron after putting the table linens into the metal washtub that stood next to the kitchen sink. Monday was always wash day, which meant she needed to put the whites in the tub to soak the night before.
“No. It’s that dratted trial,” Annie said. “It seems to be taking up all his time. I know this could be Nate’s big opportunity, helping Cranston with the defense in such a well-publicized case. But since he is in court most days, he has to spend nights and weekends trying to keep up with all his other responsibilities for the firm, wills and such, plus doing any legal research Cranston needs.”
Beatrice, who was putting wood chunks into the fire box, stood up and frowned at her, saying, “Well, at least he was able to take you to the theater. I hope you were properly appreciative.”
Beatrice was doing all the baking for the next day because the kitchen would smell strongly of blueing once the washwoman started scrubbing away in the morning. As Annie rocked slowly in the kitchen rocking chair, her muscles twitched in sympathetic memory of the rigors of that dreaded chore. Her brief experience as a domestic servant was one of the reasons she was willing to lighten Kathleen’s workload by paying for a laundress, as well as for Tilly’s part-time help, even though it strained the boarding house budget.
She had spent much of the day reading newspapers and financial reports, and she now had a slight headache, partly the result of not getting enough sleep last night. She’d lain awake for hours, anxiously going over her conversation in the carriage with Nate, trying to convince herself that no one, not some political boss or disappointed teacher, could possibly have a reason to kill Hattie or pose a threat to Laura. But she was haunted by the echo of Hattie’s last words and the image of Laura sitting forlornly in this very rocking chair after the assault.
“Well dearie, off in a dream world, are you?” Beatrice’s fists were on her waist, and her head was cocked. “Kathleen says you stayed out in the carriage for ever so long with Mr. Dawson. You wouldn’t mind telling us just what was going on, would you?”
“Oh, Beatrice, you can be sure Mr. Dawson was the perfect gentleman. All we did was talk.” Annie chided herself for never being satisfied. She’d wanted to speak with Nate about the investigation, which they did. She just wished that they’d had longer together. And more privacy. Maybe then she would have gotten up the courage to tell him what she had meant by “even if.” That even if she couldn’t have children, having Laura as her sister-in-law would help ease her heartache. But that would mean telling him about her miscarriage and bringing up the subject of their future together. And I can’t be expected to bring that sort of subject up sitting in a carriage or in the parlor with the door open, can I? I just want some time completely alone with him. Is that so much to ask?
She glanced up and saw that Beatrice was still looking sharply at her. Embarrassed, she bent down and picked up the old black cat, Queenie, who had been rubbing up against her foot, saying, “It was very nice of Nate to invite us, and Laura and I had a lovely time. The singing and dancing were very professional.”
Kathleen chimed in. “Miss Laura said the leading lady was all dressed up as a man, wearing pantaloons and stockings so’s you could see her calves, plain as day! I’d feel mighty uncomfortable going with my Patrick to such a spectacle.”
Annie laughed, her mood lightening as it always did in Kathleen’s presence. “Well, Mr. Dawson was a trifle embarrassed when he realized he had brought us to a burlesque. But having been to a number of similar productions in New York, I can testify it was really quite tame.”
Annie went on
to provide Beatrice and Kathleen with details about the play. She described the costumes and had them chuckling at the convoluted plot. She then told them about Laura’s reaction when she saw Hattie Wilks’ fiancé, Russell, at the theater.
“Besides being angry at him, she decided she was being heartless because she was out enjoying herself less than a month after her friend’s death. I took a chance and asked her what Hattie thought about deep mourning and if she would want Laura to dress all in black and lock herself away from society. She thought for a moment and then said Hattie got quite cross at people who made a big show of their grief. But I am afraid she wasn’t as easily persuaded to forgive Mr. Russell or his companion, Miss Thorndike.”
Beatrice, who’d just put two loaves of bread and a pan of rolls into the bake oven, snapped the door shut and said, “Well, dearie, I have always thought you Protestants have a difficult time of it. Your aunt, God rest her soul, spent all that money fitting herself up in black after your uncle died, and she didn’t even allow herself the little cheer that playing whist with her friends would have provided.”
Annie, forced by poverty and her in-law’s expectations to wear nothing but black for five years, tended to agree with Beatrice. She said, “Well, men have always had it easier. A dark arm-band, which I think Russell was wearing last night, is considered perfectly respectable for anyone but a recently departed wife. I do think that having a large party to celebrate a loved one’s death, the way the Irish do, is a sensible alternative to spending the next year reminding everyone of your loss.”
“Celebrate? Drink themselves silly’s more like it,” exclaimed Kathleen. “The last wake I went to, my uncles lost several days' wages from ‘celebrating’ the death of some good-for-nothing they barely knew. But I am glad that Miss Laura was able to enjoy herself at the theater. She practically sang her way up to bed last night.”
“Hush now, I think I hear someone coming down the stairs,” Beatrice interjected.
The three of them looked over at the opening to the back stairs in time to see Dandy tumble into view and then race twice around the kitchen, his small white feet scrabbling on the linoleum flooring. He finally skidded to a halt in front of Annie, his brown eyes widening when Queenie arched up in her lap and hissed. This was a well-practiced ritual, however, the two animals having come to an understanding six months ago. Dandy simply sat down, his white chest thrust forward, and watched as the cat circled twice and resumed her position, purring contentedly. The terrier then trotted to the back door and waited to be let out by Barbara Hewitt, who appeared through the doorway alongside Laura.
“Mmm. I could smell the bread baking all the way upstairs,” Laura said, going over to the kitchen table and putting down a large brown package. “Annie, Kathleen said I could borrow this pair of scissors from your study. Is that all right?”
“Of course. I use them for cutting out newspapers, so you might want to wipe them off first.” Annie then addressed Barbara, saying, “Wednesday is my last day teaching at Girls’ High since I don’t really think there is anything more I can find out looking through the personnel records. Do you happen to know anything more about the janitoress, Mrs. Washburn, or her family? She is clearly Scottish, but I wondered if there is a Mr. Washburn, or a brother, she is close to.”
Barbara stood back as the black and white terrier pranced in and sat down to scratch his ear with his back paw, looking like he was going to fall over in the process. She replied, “I believe one of the other teachers suggested that there wasn’t a Mr. Washburn, nor had there ever been. I don’t know about any family or even if Washburn is her maiden name.”
“That’s interesting,” Annie said. Aware that discussing a woman’s decision to take on a name not her own was probably a little too close to home for Barbara, she hurried on, “I just wondered because it occurred to me that she might have male relatives active in politics.”
“Are you talking about the janitoress from Girls’ High?” asked Laura. “Barbara, do you remember last Wednesday when we were leaving Clement and you mentioned how odd it was she was over at my school?”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten. Who was she talking to?”
“Our janitor, Mr. Ferguson.”
Annie said, “Would Mr. Ferguson be Scottish, by any chance?”
Laura chuckled. “Since he calls me a ‘bonny lass,’ I always assumed he was. He’s very chatty, will talk your ear off. But I have trouble imagining him writing some anonymous letter or threatening Hattie, for that matter. He was quite nice to me when the news about Hattie’s death made the rounds at Clement. Someone must have told him she was a good friend because he came up and gave his condolences.”
Annie wondered how close he was to Mrs. Washburn, but she decided not to pursue the question any further, hearing the sadness that had crept into Laura’s voice as she told them about the janitor’s condolences. Instead, she said, “What’s in the package?”
Laura cut the string that tied the parcel, saying, “Kitty, my practice teacher, had a wonderful idea last week. Saturday is Valentine’s Day, and we are going to make valentines for all the students and hand them out on Friday. She and I went down the street to the stationers on the corner of Geary and Larkin during lunch time and got the supplies. I thought I would practice tonight and make a few to be sure we have enough material.”
Beatrice came up to the table to watch as Laura peeled back the brown paper, revealing large stacks of white card stock, red colored paper, and white perforated paper that looked like lace. There were also several bottles of glue, red and white yarn, and rolls of pale pink and red ribbons. Finally, at the bottom, there were at least ten copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book and Harper’s Bazar magazines.
“Miss Laura, how beautiful. But all this must have cost you a fortune,” Beatrice said, leaning over and touching the ribbons delicately with her index finger.
“Oh, Mrs. O’Rourke, I know. I feel like a child on Christmas morning.” Laura held one of the sheets of embossed lace paper up to the oil lamp in the center of the table. “Kitty’s father gives her a simply enormous weekly allowance, and she insisted we buy all this. She said we were economizing because all of this cost much less than if we had bought the ready-made valentines at the stationers. This way we can make cards that are special for each child.”
Annie gently put Queenie onto the floor and went over to the table to see better. Exchanging valentines had been all the rage in the late sixties when she was at school, but she had never made one before. Nor had she ever gotten one from a sweetheart. She had a sudden desire to make one for Nate, to see how he would respond.
*****
Barbara and Laura both went up to their rooms, leaving Annie alone in the kitchen with Beatrice, almost too tired to walk up the two flights of stairs. Beatrice was waiting for the last of the baking to come out of the oven, but she had shooed Kathleen off to bed. She would need to get up even earlier than usual to get the breakfast going before the washerwoman arrived. The kitchen was nice and warm, and the yeasty smell of rolls was tantalizing. Annie was content to rock slowly back and forth, not thinking about anything and letting Beatrice’s idle chatter flow over her. Suddenly, she noticed that Beatrice had stopped talking. She looked over to where the older woman sat at the scarred wooden table in the center of the room and saw that Beatrice was again frowning at her.
“Annie, have you taken the advice Mrs. Stein gave you t’other evening to heart?” Beatrice pushed a strand of her grey hair up and tucked it back into her bun at the top of her head.
Annie came abruptly wide awake. For a second, she contemplated pretending she didn’t know what her dearest friend was talking about. But Beatrice deserved better from her.
She sighed and said, “Yes, of course I have, and maybe she is right. If I love him, and oh I do, Beatrice, I do love him, there shouldn’t be any obstacle to us being together, but…I don’t know…” Annie stopped.
Beatrice shook her head. “You don’t know what, dea
rie? If loving him is enough?”
Annie looked down and stroked Queenie, who was once again in her lap.
When she didn’t say anything, Beatrice continued. “You’re frightened to trust a man again, aren’t you? What a talking-to I’d give your father if I had the chance. He should never have let you marry that Mr. Fuller. Your sainted mother would’ve seen through him.”
Annie imagined Beatrice shaking her finger at her father and wondered if she were right. If her mother had still been alive, would she have rushed into marriage with a man who turned out to be a weak, foolish drunkard? She was only now beginning to forgive her father for not recognizing how miserable she’d become in her marriage and for leaving her financially dependent on John. Maybe, if she had been honest with her father and hadn’t tried so hard to hide the fact that John was downright cruel at times, he would have changed his will before he died. Maybe, if he’d been honest with her about his own ill health, she’d have been better prepared to handle his unexpected death. Pride, her own and her father’s, had kept both of them from confessing the truth to each other.
“Bea, I’m not going to tell you that the problems in my marriage to John haven’t made me reluctant to marry again. But, as I keep reminding myself, Nate isn’t John. I believe that with all my heart. He is the man I want to spend my life with. But Beatrice, what I am afraid of is…what if it turns out…what if…”
Queenie, showing her disgust at Annie’s sudden tears, leaped down to the floor and stalked silently over to her basket next to the stove.
Beatrice handed her a soft, clean kitchen rag and pulled a chair up next to her, patting her on the back as Annie wiped her eyes. She said very quietly, “Annie, my dearest, what is really wrong?”
Bloody Lessons: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 25