by Rhys Bowen
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MYSTERIES
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OUTSTANDING PRAISE
FOR RHYS BOWEN'S NOVELS
DEATH OF RILEY
“An evocative trip through old New York—including the poets, painters, playwrights, and private investigators of Greenwich Village, 1901—in the company of Irish immi- grant Molly Murphy, a spirited and appealing guide.”
—S. J. Rozan, Edgar Award-winning
author of Winter and Night
“Rhys Bowen's wit makes Death of Riley more than equal to her award-winning first book, Murphy's Law.”
—Maan Meyers, a.k.a. Martin and
Annette Meyers, authors of the Dutchman series
“A fresh and irrepressible new heroine.”
—Romantic Times
“Bowen nicely blends history and fiction…[A] light, romantic mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Molly is a smart, feisty, independent heroine…. [An] appealing series.”
—Booklist
“Bowen's highly detailed picture of New York at the turn of the century is a delight.”
—Kirkus Reviews
More…
MURPHY'S LAW
“History-mystery fans should add Molly to their list of characters to follow.”
—Booklist
“It's always a delight to discover a new book from the pen of Rhys Bowen.”
—Tampa Tribune & Times
“Entertaining.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“[We] look forward to Molly's return.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Irish humor and gritty determination transplanted to New York, but with more charm and optimism than the usual law attributed to Murphy.”
—Anne Perry, author of The Whitechapel Conspiracy
“Bowen tells a phenomenal story, and it will be a real treat to see what fate has in store for Molly and Daniel!”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Also by Rhys Bowen
THE MOLLY MURPHY SERIES
Oh Danny Boy
I Like Flynn
For the Love of Mike
Murphy's Law
THE CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES
Evan Blessed
Evan ys Gate
Evan Only Knows
Evans to Betsy
Evan Can't Wait
Evan and Elle
Evan Help Us
Evans Above
Evanly Choirs
DEATH OF
RILEY
Rhys Bowen
St. Martin's Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any pay- ment for this “stripped book.”
DEATH OF RILEY
Copyright © 2002 by Rhys Bowen
Excerpt from For the Love of Mike © 2003 by Rhys Bowen.
Cover photograph © Culver Pictures.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-98968-7
EAN: 978-0-312-98968-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / December 2002
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / December 2003
St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
This book is dedicated to my fairy godmother, Meg Ruley, and to Dorothy Cannell, who was kind enough to introduce us.
0ne
New York July 1901
“You want me to do what?” I demanded so loudly that a delicate young female walking ahead of us glanced back in horror and had to reach for her smelling salts. I burst out laughing. “For the love of Mike, Daniel—can you picture me as a companion?” Then I looked up at Captain Daniel Sullivan's face. He wasn't smiling.
He gave me an embarrassed half-smile, half-shrug. “I was only thinking of you, Molly. You do need a job, and you haven't exactly been successful in your search so far.”
“So I haven't come up with the perfect job yet.” I picked up my skirts to avoid the wet patches around a grand-looking fountain. It had a fine bronze statue of the Angel of the Waters on top, but at this moment the scene was anything but grand. A host of little boys, some of them naked as the day they were born, were scrambling in and out, standing under the curtain of spray before being evicted again, squealing and yelling as they avoided the nightstick wielded by an overzealous policeman. It was Sunday afternoon and we were doing what most
New Yorkers did on hot summer Sundays—we were strolling through Central Park. For once Daniel's day off had actually fallen on a Sunday, and there had been no incidents to drag him away with an apologetic peck on the cheek.
It seemed as if pecks on the cheek were all I was getting these days from Captain Daniel Sullivan. Yes, I know that pecks on the cheek, properly chaperoned, are all that decent young ladies should expect before marriage, but propriety rather went out of the window when I was with Daniel. And I had hoped our romance might have blossomed into something more substantial by now, but as New York's youngest police captain, Daniel threw himself wholeheartedly into his job. I, on the other hand, had no job to keep me occupied.
It wasn't as if I hadn't tried. After my somewhat dramatic arrival in New York, I had looked for something suitable. The saints in heaven will attest that I really put my heart into it. I wouldn't have minded a governess position, in fact I'd have been good at it. But it didn't take me long to discover that an Irish girl, fresh off the boat, and with no references—or at least no references that could be verified (I had made some very convincing forgeries), would not be hired to teach the children of a good family. Nursemaid maybe, but I didn't think I'd last a week as a servant.
After that, I tried my hand at any job I could find, short of gutting fish at the Fulton Street fish market. I did draw the line at standing up to my elbows in fish entrails.
“You have to admit that there have been some rather spectacular disasters.” Daniel voiced my thoughts for me, making me wonder whether he could actually read my mind.
“I wouldn't say disasters.”
A breeze blew off the boating lake beyond the fountain, sending a fine curtain of spray in our direction. The cool tingles on my hot skin felt wonderful and I was tempted to stand there for a while until Daniel pulled me clear. “Molly—you'll get soaked to the skin.”
“But it feels divine.”
“It might feel divine “ he said, looking down at me with those alarming blue eyes, “but that's a very fine muslin you're wearing, my dear. We wouldn't want other men ogling you, would we?” He led me firmly away from the fountain terrace, along the edge of the boating lake. I paused to look longingly at those rowboats. A couple came gliding by, the girl's face hidden by a deliciously decadent parasol—all frills and lace and froufrou—as she trailed a hand languidly through the water. Her beau, pulling manfully at the oars in r
olled-up shirtsleeves, didn't look as if he were enjoying himself quite as much. Undignified rivulets of sweat streaked the beet-red face beneath his boater.
“You wouldn't say disasters?” Daniel repeated, chuckling as he led me away. “The shirtwaist factory?”
“So I got a needle through my thumb. It could have happened to anyone.” I tossed my head, almost losing my straw boater into the water.
“And who sewed all those sleeves on inside out?” Those alarming blue eyes were twinkling.
“That wasn't why I was fired and you know it. It was because I stood up to that brute of a foreman and wasn't about to take any of his nonsense. All those unfair rules— docking their workers' pay every time they so much as sneezed. I knew right away that I'd never be able to hold my tongue for long.”
“Then there was the cafe “ Daniel reminded me.
I gave him a sheepish grin. “Yes, I suppose that counted as a spectacular disaster.”
We had reached the dappled shade of spreading chestnut trees as the path left the lakeside. The effect was instant, like stepping into a pool of cool water. “Ah, that's better,” Daniel said. “Look, there's a bench under that tree. Let's sit awhile.”
I noticed that Daniel seemed to be feeling the heat more than I. His face was as red as the young man's in the rowboat and his wild black curls were plastered to his forehead under his boater. Of course, gentlemen are at a disadvantage on days like this, having to wear jackets whilst we women can keep cool in muslins. But he was a born New Yorker. I'd have thought he grew up used to this heat. I, on the other hand, had come from the wild west coast of Ireland, where a couple of sunny days in a row counted as a heat wave, and we had the chilly Atlantic at our feet whenever we needed to cool off.
Daniel took out his handkerchief and mopped at his brow. “That's better,” he said. “I swear, every summer is hotter than the last. It's those new skyscrapers. They block the cooling breezes from the East River and the Hudson.”
“It's certainly hot enough.” I fanned myself with the penny fan I had bought from a street vendor last week. It was a pretty little thing from China, made of paper and decorated with a picture of a pagoda and wild mountain scenery. “Here, you look as if you could use this more than me.” I turned and fanned Daniel too. He grabbed at my wrist, laughing. “Stop it. You'll be offering me your smelling salts next.”
“I've never carried smelling salts in my life and never intend to,” I said. “Fainting is for ninnies.”
“That's what I like about you, Molly Murphy—” For a long minute Daniel gazed at me in a way that turned my insides to water, his fingers still firmly around my wrist— “Your spirit. That and your trim little waist, of course, and those big green eyes and that adorable little nose.” He touched it playfully. Then the smile faded but the look of longing remained. “Oh, Molly. I just wish …” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the humid air, making me wonder what exactly he was wishing. He was young and healthy, with great career prospects—and a future that should have included a wife too. But I wasn't going to press him on this one. Who knew how men's minds worked? He could be waiting for a pay raise or saving enough to buy a house before he popped the question—if he did indeed intend to pop it. For once in my life I kept silent.
“I'm pretty content myself,” I said gaily. “I have a fine big room of my own and a handsome fellow who comes to call from time to time, and I'm living in a big city, just like I always dreamed I would.”
Daniel let his gaze fall and he sat there for a moment silent, his eyes focused on his hands in his lap.
“There's no rush for anything, Daniel,” I said. “If I could just find a way to keep myself a respectable job where I wasn't abused or overworked …”
“Did I not mention the companion's position?”
I patted his hand. “Daniel—can you see me as a companion to an old lady? Companions are pathetic, downtrodden creatures who cringe when spoken to and spend their days holding knitting wool and combing cats. I tried my hand at being a servant, remember. I wasn't born to be humble. And you know yourself that I can never learn when to hold my tongue.”
“But a companion is not a servant, Molly. You'd be expected to read to Miss Van Woekem and take her for strolls around the park—that kind of thing. What could be easier?”
“She'd be crotchety and finickety. Old spinsters always are. I'd lose my patience with her and that would be that.” I gave a gay little laugh, but still Daniel didn't smile.
“Molly, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that you do need to find some kind of job soon. I know the alderman gave you a small gift by way of apology for what happened at his house—”
“It was a bribe, Daniel, as you very well know.”
“But it won't last forever,” Daniel went on, ignoring my statement. It was funny the way the New York policemen seemed to become suddenly deaf at the mention of the word‘bribe.’ “And you do have rent to pay, even though it's a modest amount.”
“The O'Hallarans are being very kind,” I agreed. “I'm sure they could rent out their attic for much more if they chose to.” It was Daniel himself who had found me the pleasant top-floor flat owned by at fellow policeman. “And don't forget Seamus shares the rent, and pays for most of the food, too.”
“I should think so, considering that you cook it and look after his children for him.”
“I'm glad to do it,” I said. “They're no trouble, and how would he manage without me, poor man, with his wife back home in Ireland just waiting to die?”
I had brought Seamus's young son and daughter to New York at their mother's request when she found that she had consumption and wasn't allowed to travel. And in case you think I'm some kind of saint, let me assure you that the arrangement suited my own purposes very well.
“You've a good heart, Molly,” Daniel said, “but this arrangement can't go on forever. I'm not entirely comfortable with you living up there with a man whose wife is back in Ireland.”
I laughed. “Not comfortable, Daniel? Seamus O'Connor is a perfectly harmless individual—you've seen him yourself. Hardly the greatest catch in New York. What's more, we have a kitchen and hallway between us to keep things proper, and Mrs. O'Hallaran downstairs too, keeping an eye on things.”
“That's not the point,” Daniel said. “People will talk. Do you want them saying you're a kept woman?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then may I suggest you listen to me and find a suitable job for yourself that will not end in disaster.”
His reminders of my dismal failures in the world of commerce were beginning to rile me. I didn't like to fail at anything. “If you really want to know, I'm still planning to follow my original idea and set myself up as a private investigator.” I threw this out more to annoy him than anything.
Daniel rolled his eyes and gave a despairing chuckle. “Molly, women do not become investigators. I thought we'd been through all this before.”
“I don't see why not. I thought I was pretty good at it.”
“Apart from almost getting yourself killed.”
“Right. Apart from that. But I told you. I don't plan to deal with criminal cases. Nothing dangerous. I still keep thinking about all those people when I was leaving Liverpool, Daniel. They were desperate for knowledge of their loved ones who had come to America. I'd be doing good work if I united families again, wouldn't I?”
“Did it ever occur to you that the loved ones might not want to be found?” he asked. “And anyway, how would you set about this—this detective business? You'd need an office to start with, and you'd have to advertise …”
“I know that too!”
“And if you discovered that the loved one you were seeking had gone to California, would you take the train to find him? Families of immigrants won't have money to pay.”
“So I'd need some capital to get started.” I paused to watch an elegant open carriage pass on the road beyond the trees. Lovely women in wide white hats and young men in bla
zers sat chatting and laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world—which they probably hadn't. “And I'd just have to take some cases that paid well.”
Daniel turned to me and took my hands in his. “Molly, please put this foolish idea to rest. You don't need to set yourself up as anything. You need a pleasant, dignified job that pays the rent, for the time being, that's all.”
“Maybe I won't be content with a pleasant little job. Maybe I want to make something of myself.”
He laughed again, uneasily this time. “It's not as if you're a man and need to be thinking of a future career. Only something to bide your time until some fellow snaps you up.”
His eyes were teasing again, all seriousness apparently forgotten.
“Snaps me up? But surely you know I'm a hopeless case? Already turned twenty-three and therefore officially on the shelf.”
“You? You'll never find yourself on the shelf, Molly. You'll be just as fascinating at fifty.”
“Hardly a comforting thought,” I said. “Still a companion at fifty? Shall we go on walking?” I got to my feet. This conversation was definitely not leading where I wanted it to. Daniel had had several chances to state his intentions and failed miserably at all of them. It wasn't as if he were either hesitant or shy. Then he said something that made me realize how his brain might be working.
“I wish you'd give the companion's position a try, Molly. Miss Van Woekem is well respected in New York society. My parents really look up to her. Being with her would give you an introduction into society here.”
Then it dawned on me. That was why he was hesitating—he didn't want to marry an Irish peasant girl fresh from the old sod. I'd left Ireland with its snobbery and class prejudice and crossed the Atlantic to find that same snobbery alive and flourishing in the New World. And he with parents who came over with nothing in the great famine! Well, if that was how Daniel Sullivan thought—I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his companion's job, and with Miss Van What's-it too. I stopped myself at the last second. He presumably thought he was doing this for my own good. He wanted me to fit in and become acceptable and accepted in society here. What's more, it certainly beat out fish gutting. What did I have to lose? “All right, if you think I should take it, I'm prepared to give it a try.”