Inside, I took off my hood and brushed the water droplets from my jacket. A girl looked up and smiled at me. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, probably still a student.
“Are you here to see the exhibit?” she asked.
Artifacts from Yerba Buena in the 1700s filled the white-walled space. I craned my neck to look down the hall. “No, actually I’m here to speak with the reference librarians. Are they available?”
She tucked her hair back, showing off the crescent moon tattoo behind her ear. “Go straight to the back and you’ll see a glass door. The library is through there.”
“Thank you,” I said, walking in the direction she’d pointed.
Pushing open a frosted glass door, I entered a small room with no windows. Lights hummed overhead and wall-to-wall bookcases filled with encyclopedias surrounded a long table. Hanging on the wall was a framed black-and-white picture of Yosemite, probably taken by Ansel Adams.
From behind the desk, a woman in a plaid skirt looked over her tortoiseshell glasses. “Hi, how can I help you today?”
I chewed my bottom lip, bracing for another rejection. “Do you have originals of the newspaper the Daily Alta California from 1876?”
She nodded. “Sure. What month?”
“Let’s start with January. But if you have the issues through July, I’d like to see those as well. And photographs, if you have any from that time period.”
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
“Yes. I’m looking for a Lucas Havensworth from 1876 and two girls, Hannelore Schaeffer and Margaret O’Brien.”
“Your ancestors?”
I paused. “Well, one’s my husband’s ancestor. But the girls are of no relation.”
She tapped her pen on the desk. “Would these have been working-class people?”
“The girls were,” I said, taking off my jacket. “But the man would have been someone of society, I think.”
The librarian smiled. “That’s a great start. Just wait here a minute and I’ll get you the directories from 1876, and the newspapers you asked for.”
“Directories?” I asked. “Like a phone book, without phones?”
She laughed. “Exactly. They were the white pages of their day. The blue book was for members of high society, and the other directory included immigrants, laborers, and domestics, sort of like an everyman’s book. I’ll bring both of them over.”
I settled into a chair, throwing my jacket over the back. After a few moments, the librarian returned with two books, one blue, the spine about an inch wide, and the other a black, leather-bound volume nearly half a foot thick. I opened the blue book first. In fancy old-fashioned script it read:
Of those whose position or wealth has made their names familiar; together with their city and country residences. A blue book has always been deemed an essential adjunct to the literature of every prominent family in the leading Eastern cities and European capitals.
Fanning through the pages, I reached the “H” section. I trailed my finger down the names until I found “Havensworth,” and next to it, Gwyneth’s Pacific Heights address. Reading the names of the residents, a chill passed over me.
Mr. William Havensworth
Mrs. Elizabeth Havensworth
Mr. Lucas Havensworth
Mrs. Georgina Havensworth Chapman
Mr. Charles Chapman
Mr. Marcus Chapman (child)
Miss Annabelle Chapman (child)
Mr. Robert Havensworth
Miss Clara Havensworth (child, deceased)
The book only confirmed what I already suspected. Lucas had lived in Hunter’s parents’ house, and Lucas’s young cousin Clara had died there. She’d been the little girl I’d seen in the postmortem photograph taken by François Dupont.
I cracked the spine on the black leather volume, my eyes widening at the extensive list of San Francisco’s other residents—those unworthy of the blue book—who had built our beautiful city. There were laborers, gas fitters, longshoremen, drivers, boot fitters, bakers, dressmakers, and sailors.
I read through seven pages of O’Briens. No wonder San Francisco still had its fair share of Irish bars. On the last page, my eyes alighted on “Margaret O’Brien, dressmaker,” a resident of 23 Minna Street. She had eight siblings and a father who worked in the tar flats. I traced her name with my fingertip.
Flipping to the back of the book, I located Schaeffer. Of the six Schaeffers listed, Hannelore’s name was printed next to an advertisement for Yerba Buena Bitters, which claimed to cure indigestion and dyspepsia: “Hannelore Schaeffer, dressmaker.”
“Here you go,” the reference librarian said, setting down a stack of newspapers in front of me. She handed me a pair of cotton gloves. “Make sure you wear these when you’re going through the newspaper clippings and photographs.”
“Thank you,” I said, slipping them on.
“Use the index cards to write down which papers you have removed. And please be careful. Oil from your skin will damage these historic documents.”
“I understand,” I said.
Starting with the first issue of the Daily Alta California from January 1876, I read through each article that pertained to a murder or disappearance. My gloved fingers rested on the yellowed page. Using a magnifying glass to make out the tiny lettering, I turned the newspaper over. But neither Margaret nor Hannelore was mentioned.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly as I sorted through the stacks. Raising my arms above my head, I cracked my back. Nearly an hour had passed, and I hadn’t found anything. When the librarian approached, she pointed at the time.
“We close in ten minutes,” she said. “Just be aware of that.”
“Okay,” I answered. Maybe I wouldn’t find anything at all. When I checked my phone, the screen was blank—no missed calls, no text messages. Hunter hadn’t found out yet. Sighing with relief, I picked up another newspaper. James was bluffing. He wouldn’t be so callous as to expose me. Then my breath hitched as I read the headline.
Murder of Margaret O’Brien Solved
Without warning, tears filled my eyes. I’d known this was the most likely outcome, but that didn’t make it any easier to read.
At eight o’clock in the morning of January 14, 1876, the lifeless body of Margaret O’Brien was found floating in the water at California Street Wharf. Though some speculate the girl had drowned, the heavy rope around her neck indicates she was strangled to death. The coroner has also determined that she was with child at the time of her death. Stevedore Kieran McClaren is accused of the crime.
Neighbors of Margaret O’Brien lend credence to the claim that Kieran McClaren was the father of her unborn child. In a fit of rage, it is believed McClaren took Miss O’Brien’s life to terminate the life of the unwanted babe.
Prostitute Johanna “Little Jo” Schroeder gives testimony that she had seen Margaret five days earlier, in Madame Susan’s brothel on Dupont Street. How the O’Brien girl came to be there is unknown. Decidedly, she arrived in a state of distress.
Little Jo insists a man with a mark in a carriage parked on Montgomery Avenue took Miss O’Brien away. Yet no other witnesses can confirm seeing such a man.
Johanna Schroeder’s testimony has been dismissed due to the impossibility of the claim. Montgomery Avenue cannot be seen from such a distance, a heavy dose of opium clouded her senses, and a prostitute’s fickle mind cannot be trusted.
Miss Margaret O’Brien met a terrible misfortune. Yet many believe she was not the innocent, young country girl she portrayed. Her impropriety sealed her fate, and now Kieran McClaren, a man engaged to another, will hang for the crime.
The room felt very cold. Shivering, I slipped my arms into my jacket, zipping it up to my chin. What a horrible end for Margaret. She’d been pregnant and killed by her lover? I dabbed my eyes, wishing she’d met a different fate. However, there had been no mention of Hannelore at all. Maybe she’d managed to escape.
But escape wha
t? Or whom?
I scoured newspaper articles through January of 1877 as quickly as I could, but found no mention of Hannelore Schaeffer. Pulling my laptop from my bag, I powered it on and searched Kieran McClaren’s name. Instead of finding a link to the newspaper article, I got a surprising hit: McClaren’s Pub. I’d gone once with Jen and Nick for happy hour. My fingers tapped on my keyboard, pulling up a recent census.
A Bill McClaren in his late sixties lived in the Dogpatch. The website for McClaren’s Pub confirmed that he’d owned the bar for the past three decades. Going to the white pages online, I scribbled down Bill’s phone number. If this was how Margaret’s story ended, I wanted to hear it straight from Bill himself.
Pulling out my cell phone, I called Bill and left a message, asking if I could talk to him about the history of his bar. Not exactly a truthful lead-in—but I wanted to get him warmed up enough to call me back. The librarian glared at me, wagging her finger. “Sorry,” I whispered, hanging up. “It was an important call.”
“You’ll have to finish up in here,” the librarian said. “We’re closed.”
Taking off my gloves, I set them on the table. When her back was turned, I snapped a picture of the article detailing Margaret’s murder with my phone.
“Thanks for your help,” I said, shoving my phone in my back pocket. With my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, I walked through the building, and then stood outside in the rain, looking for a cab. Suddenly my cell began to vibrate in my pocket. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, thinking of James.
When I looked at the screen, I saw an unfamiliar 415 number.
“Hello?” I answered, my mouth dry. “This is Sarah.”
“Sarah,” a gruff voice replied. “Bill McClaren. I got your message. You said you want to write a feature on my bar?”
My shoulders slumped in relief. “About that,” I said, sticking out my arm as a cab with its light on caught my eye. “I was hoping we could talk in person.”
“Well, I’m down at the bar now,” Bill said. “If you want to drop by.”
The cab pulled over for me, and I tugged on the door handle. “Perfect. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
But as the cab pulled away from the curb, an uneasy feeling came over me. Behind us followed a black Lexus with darkened windows, a car I was sure I’d seen somewhere before. Yes! It had been parked outside Caffé Bianco on the day I’d met with Anna Heinrich over coffee. I slunk lower in my seat. James drove a Lexus. I remembered that now—he’d grabbed his car keys that night when Jen was crying. Was it black, though? When I peeked in the cab’s rearview mirror, the Lexus was still behind me.
In the smoky interior of McClaren’s Pub, Bill frowned at me, hands folded in his lap. With his silvery moustache and weathered face, he reminded me of my dad—rough around the edges, but sweet beneath the tough shell. He sighed, looking at me with baggy eyes. “You understand why I had the story removed from the Internet, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said, wishing I could tell him just how much I understood.
We’d been over Margaret’s murder, and I’d come clean about the reason for my visit, my phone holding proof that the original article existed.
Bill stared into his whiskey glass. “Listen, honey, it’s hard getting business in this town. People these days, they go to dance clubs, trendy places, not Irish bars. I don’t need anybody smearing my great-grandfather’s good name.”
I nodded, leaning forward on my stool. “So you’re sure Kieran McClaren didn’t kill Margaret? I mean, if he didn’t, who do you think did?”
“Who knows?” Bill said, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. “They couldn’t hang the guy who committed the crime, so they got my great-gramps instead. Cops were corrupt back in those days. Nobody liked the Irish, that’s for damn sure.”
“Did your great-grandfather have an alibi?” I asked.
Bill met my eyes. “Sure did. He was working on the boats. But when they arrested him he’d been drinking, so he couldn’t defend himself.”
I jotted notes on my legal pad. “Do you have any employment records? Or know the name of the shipyard where he worked?”
Downing the rest of his whiskey, Bill eyed me sideways. “Are you going to write about this? I don’t want to read some magazine piece about the crime.”
I shook my head. “I’m searching for the truth. I won’t write about Kieran murdering Margaret if that’s not what happened. I’m not after an easy answer.”
Bill rubbed his temples. “You must think I’m crazy. Who gives a damn what happened back then? But it’s my family name. I ain’t got much, but McClaren means something to me. Can you understand that?”
My throat felt dry. The rich and powerful cared equally about protecting their family names, and it made sense that Kieran had been a scapegoat.
“I do. And I think if we can prove that Kieran McClaren was working, we can clear him of this crime, even though we’re a hundred and forty years too late.”
Bill rubbed his chin. “I think he worked for the Boole and Beaton Shipyard on Channel Street on a scow schooner, the Anna Louise. I have some old papers at home, passed down from my father. I can take a look.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Anything to show that Kieran was working on the night of January 8, 1876. That’s when Margaret disappeared. In fact, if you can prove he was out of town, that’d be even better.”
Standing up, Bill poured two beers and slid one across the bar to me. “On the house,” he said.
“Thank you,” I answered, raising my glass. “Do you mind if I hang out here for a bit? I have some work to do.”
The bar was completely empty, and a dry respite from the rain.
Bill waved toward the empty tables in the pub. “Not at all. Make yourself comfortable. It’s nice to have a bit of company.” Shuffling toward the back room, he called out, “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I said, setting my laptop on a cozy table in the corner. Even though Bill hadn’t produced any papers, I wanted to believe Kieran McClaren was innocent, which left me no closer to finding Margaret’s killer.
Staring down at my notes, I tried to make sense of things. Hannelore had known Lucas Havensworth in some capacity. Margaret had been killed. Kieran McClaren was named as a suspect and hanged for the crime. Lucas had lived in Gwyneth and Walter’s house with his family during the time of Hannelore and Margaret’s disappearance.
Though I didn’t want to look at it again, I pulled out the postmortem photograph of Clara from my bag, her dead body surrounded by roses and dolls. Shuddering, I flipped the picture over, reading the photographer’s name, which was written on the back.
I typed “François Dupont, San Francisco photographer” into Google. Judging from the people he photographed, François was in a unique position to mingle with members of high society, though he himself was only a tradesman. He had a foot in both worlds, something that allowed him to see what others didn’t.
A newspaper advertisement from 1870 popped up in the image search.
François Dupont. Photographer. No. 103 California Street, near Montgomery Street. Makes a specialty of fine portraits of all sizes. Old pictures copied, enlarged, and finished in crayon, India ink, watercolors, or oil colors. All work guaranteed satisfactory, and done at the very lowest price possible. Views of business houses, private residences, lawn parties, family groups, etc. attended on short notice.
I typed another image search into Google. “François Dupont. Havensworth residence.” Holding my breath, I waited for the screen to populate. As the pictures loaded, women in white dresses sprawled on the grass of a grand estate with picnic baskets. But instantly my eye was drawn to a mansion with a Queen Anne tower. Clicking on the image to enlarge it, I stared at a sepia photograph.
It was Hunter’s parents’ house. I recognized the slope of the roof, the gables, and the sheer size of the Victorian. Two men with moustaches stood in front of a carriage, next to their driver. The ligh
t-haired man wore a dark suit with a gold watch chain. He had a strong jaw, wavy hair, and his lips bore the hint of a smile. His dark-haired friend stood beside him, taller and thinner. His sharp and angled features formed a serious expression. Both men were handsome, and probably in their mid-twenties.
My eyes leaped to the caption.
Cousins Robert and Lucas Havensworth, taken in front of the Havensworth Estate, San Francisco, 1876.
So this was Lucas Havensworth. Unlike most of the subjects I’d seen in Victorian photographs, he seemed friendly, like the kind of person who’d smile at you on the street. Robert appeared stiffer, perhaps more traditional. I looked at the heavyset man holding the reins to the carriage. He had a hard expression.
I gasped. The birthmark on the carriage driver’s cheek! That was what the prostitute “Little Jo” had described in her testimony. Johanna Schroeder, opium addict or not, had spoken the truth. I’d seen the view from that corner unit above the Tavern, exactly where the brothel would have been. Not only was Columbus Avenue—then called Montgomery Avenue—visible from there, but a distinct mark on someone’s face would be too. The carriage driver had killed Margaret.
I opened a Word document on my computer, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I began to type an outline for my article. Tires screeching, a black car zoomed past, splashing through a puddle.
It was the Lexus with the tinted windows—the same one that had been following me earlier. I reached into my purse, my fingers wrapping around my phone. Maybe I could call Hunter, ask him to come pick me up. This was starting to get creepy. But before I had the chance to dial, my cell phone pinged.
I swallowed, seeing another message in Gmail from Anonymous.
I warned you, but you didn’t listen. You’ll have to suffer the consequences. You left me no choice.
Chapter 20
Hanna, 1876
Clive,” Hanna said, speaking into the darkness. “Clive, are you here?”
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