Scandal On Rincon Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  Kerry Murphy's words cut into these macabre thoughts. I looked back up to find that he had moved closer to the policeman, his face jutting out from a thick neck until it was mere inches from the other man's nose. The Irishman's feet were planted apart, and his normally pleasant voice—ever ready to compliment young ladies' hats and ply small children with sugary treats—cracked with emotion.

  “I'm tellin' ya, Patrick didn't have an enemy in the world, nary a one,” he insisted. “Ask anyone. You couldn't find a better, more decent lad, and that's God's gospel truth.”

  “Calm down there, b'hoy,” said the officer, stepping back a pace or two. “You said yourself nothing was taken from the cash box. Now if it weren't a robbery, then whoever did in your cousin meant to do just that. So, for the last time, who had it in for O'Hara?”

  Kerry Murphy's full face flushed red with anger. “I'm tellin' you no one had it in for Patrick! Yer wastin' yer time with all these damn-fool questions. You outta be out there findin' whoever did this to the boy.”

  “And who would ya have me arrest?” the officer asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “How about you, Murphy? Maybe you had it in for your cousin—him bein' such a pretty lady's man and all? What happened? Did O'Hara steal your girl, so you poked holes in him with an ice pick? Crime of rage, was it?”

  Murphy's face was now beet red, and I saw his fingers ball up into fists at his sides. Before the Irishman could act on his rage, the back storage door slammed open and I heard the sound of feet scuttling through the dim room.

  “Did you find the body?” Eddie's voice inquired in a loud whisper. “Is there a lot of blood?”

  With a grunt of dismay, Samuel reached out to grab the boy before he could go any further. “I thought I told you to wait with the carriage,” he hissed. “Now you've gone and fixed the flint.”

  Both men in the parlor had stopped talking at the sudden disturbance. Samuel cleared his throat and walked boldly into the room.

  “The back door was open, so I let myself in,” he announced, adopting his most amicable smile. “I was sorry to hear about your cousin, Kerry.” He turned toward the second man. “I don't believe we've met, Officer—”

  “Never mind who I am,” snapped the policeman. “Who the hell do you think you are, marching in here bold as brass?” He eyed my brother's blond hair. “Another Murphy, I suppose.”

  Kerry Murphy scowled at the policeman. “This is Officer Dubbs, Mr. Woolson. And if he's an example of the city's finest, then we're in a bloody lot of trouble.”

  “I see,” said Samuel. “Thanks, Kerry.”

  Ignoring the policeman's belligerent expression, Samuel calmly held out his hand. “I'm not a Murphy, Officer Dubbs. My name is Samuel Woolson. I'm a friend of Sergeant Lewis's. He spoke to me this morning about Mr. O'Hara's tragic murder.”

  “So you thought you'd waltz on over here and have a look-see for yourself, is that it?” The officer studied Samuel critically for several seconds, then raised bushy black eyebrows. “Just a minute, I know who you are. You're that nosy newspaper reporter, the one who writes them stories that make coppers look stupid.”

  The man's heavy face darkened as he gave Samuel a sour look of dislike. “Well, you won't get anything nosing around here, so get yourself out before I throw you in the paddy wagon for interferin' in a police investigation.” He grabbed Eddie by the collar and gave him a push toward my brother. “Here, and take this young hooligan with you.”

  Looking beyond the boy, he seemed to notice my presence in the doorway for the first time. “And who is this? What did you do, bring half the street in with you?” He took a menacing step toward Samuel, prompting my brother to grab Eddie's arm and beat a prudent retreat.

  What's that ole leatherhead so riled up about?” asked Eddie, when we were safely back in the alley. He looked at me reproachfully, as if I'd reneged on a promised treat. “And I never saw no body. I thought you said the mark was cut up with an ice pick. Didn't see no sign of that.”

  I was too upset to correct the boy's use of the double negative. And by now I understood that referring to the officer we had just encountered as “leatherhead” was but one of the seemingly endless sobriquets by which the police were known on the streets of San Francisco.

  “The victim's body had already been removed, Eddie,” I explained, hastening my step to catch up with Samuel, who had reached the end of the alley. “When you came bounding in with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite, the—”

  “Yeah, I know, the jig was up,” the boy said, hanging his head. “I should 'ave known better.”

  “Well, it's too late now. No sense crying over spilt milk.”

  The boy's head bobbed up, but before he could ask the inevitable question, I explained, “It's just an expression, Eddie. It means there's no use worrying about something once it's over and done with.”

  Despite his chagrin at having interrupted Samuel's investigation, a small impish grin crossed the lad's face. “I like that one, Miss Sarah. That pretty much sops the gravy, don't it?”

  I had only a vague idea of what “sopping the gravy” entailed, but I had caught up with Samuel and had more important matters on my mind.

  “That wasn't very helpful, was it?” I said as we neared the end of the alley.

  “I admit I was hoping for a good deal more,” he replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “If only that policeman hadn't been there, I might have engaged Kerry Murphy in some meaningful conversation.”

  “It's almighty hot today, don't you think?” interjected Eddie out of the blue.

  I shot the boy a curious glance, then looked up at the gray sky. As a matter of fact, it was an uncommonly dreary day, seasonably cool, with the promise of rain hanging heavily in the afternoon air.

  Samuel shook his head, guessing what had motivated the lad into making such a strange utterance. “The shop is closed today, Eddy, remember? There's been a death in the family.”

  “What's that got to do with them dishin' up some ice cream?” argued the boy. “The body's not even in there anymore.”

  “That's true, but when people lose someone they care about, they need time to mourn and work through their pain,” Samuel told him patiently.

  Eddie did not appear completely satisfied by this explanation, but seemed to accept the fact that he would not be allowed to partake of one of Murphy's excellent ice cream dishes this afternoon.

  The boy and I had followed my brother out of the alley and onto Folsom Street, when I noticed a familiar, and decidedly unwelcome, face in the crowd gathered outside the parlor.

  “Samuel, look,” I said, nodding my head toward the man. “It's Ozzie Foldger. And this time I know I'm not mistaken.”

  “So it is,” said Samuel, regarding the rival reporter with ill-disguised distaste. “I'm not surprised he's here. Word spreads fast in this city, especially when it concerns a murder.”

  Just then Foldger caught sight of us. At first he looked dismayed that we had beat him to the story, then quickly recovering his air of self-confidence, he gave me a strangely ironic smile. Then, with a jaunty tip of his cap, he turned and made his way into the alley from which we had just emerged.

  “Do you think he'll get inside like we did?” Eddie asked, following our gaze.

  “Maybe,” Samuel told him. “But he'll get pretty short shrift if he does. Officer Dubbs will be on the lookout for more reporters. Most likely he's already locked the back door.”

  We had begun to cross the street toward the brougham, when I spied Major Zachariah Tremaine's tall head above the crowd. As he came closer, I saw that he was accompanied by the twins, David and Melody, as well as a young boy of about eleven, and a small girl who appeared to be two or three years his junior. I recognized the children as David and Melody's half brother and sister from their father's second marriage to Faith Tremaine. Although I had never been formally introduced to the youngsters, I had glimpsed them at church on a Sunday morning.

  “Look, Samuel,” I said,
taking his arm and motioning toward the new arrivals. I needn't have bothered; my brother had already spotted the foursome—or at least he had certainly noticed the lovely Melody Tremaine.

  “Good afternoon, Major Tremaine,” he said, politely doffing his brown bowler hat to the elderly gentleman. Turning to the twins, he smiled a friendly greeting. “It's good to see you again Miss Tremaine, Mr. Tremaine.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Woolson, Miss Woolson,” replied the older man. “You know my grandchildren David and Melody, I believe. And these two are my son's children by his second marriage. This is Reggie,” he said, nodding to the boy, “and this is Carolyn.” He gazed curiously about at the crowd of mostly young people gathered in front of the ice cream parlor. “What's going on, do you know? Why are all these people milling about outside the shop?”

  “Something dreadful happened here last night,” I replied. “I'm afraid that Patrick O'Hara has been kill—” I stopped before actually speaking the dreaded word. In deference to the two young children who were, even as I spoke, darting eager glances toward the shop, I was forced to rethink how best to explain the poor Irishman's death. “There has been an unfortunate accident,” I said, rephrasing my words. “The parlor is closed, at least for the remainder of the day.”

  Melody Tremaine stared at me, her beautiful face puzzled. “Whatever has happened, Miss Woolson? I trust it is nothing serious.”

  I caught Samuel's eye, and with an almost imperceptible nod of understanding, he turned to Eddie. “Why don't we show Reggie and Carolyn your horse? Perhaps you have some oats they could feed him.”

  It took Eddie—who had been gaping in open admiration at the beautiful Melody'several seconds to comprehend that my brother was speaking to him. Shrugging reluctantly, he gave the girl a last, adoring look, then turned and led Samuel and the children across the street to where he had parked the brougham.

  When they were out of hearing, I set out to explain to David, Melody, and their grandfather what had happened to poor Patrick O'Hara. I made my description as brief and delicate as possible, making no mention of the manner of the boy's death, or the trail of blood which had been left behind. As I spoke, David drew in a sharp breath and his sister's face drained of color.

  Holding tightly to her brother's arm, she protested in a stricken voice, “Surely, Miss Woolson, you are mistaken. It cannot have been Mr. O'Hara.”

  “Melody is right,” put in David, looking a bit pale himself. “I can't imagine anyone wishing to harm Patrick. He was pleasant and cheerful to everyone. He even remembered the children's birthdays with a free dish of ice cream. They are—were—quite fond of him. He was an altogether agreeable man.”

  “Yes, he certainly was,” I said, experiencing a pang of regret for causing these two young people such obvious distress. Given their tender years, they undoubtedly lived a quiet, sheltered life, protected by their parents against the violence and other sordid elements which sadly existed in a metropolitan city such as San Francisco.

  Major Tremaine was eyeing me intently, as if not quite sure how to phrase his words. “Who—That is, do the police know who committed this dreadful act?”

  “Not yet, I'm afraid. They're making inquiries, of course, but as yet they don't appear to have any particular suspect in mind.”

  I was alarmed to see Melody's face blanch even more dramatically than before. She swayed slightly, and David reached out an arm to steady her.

  “Mel, are you all right?” The boy's handsome face was pinched in concern. He had taken hold of one of his sister's arms, while Mr. Tremaine grabbed the other. The major's eyes darted around, as if searching for a place where she might sit until she had recovered.

  I hastened forward, having plucked a small vial of smelling salts from an inner pocket of my suit. I had, on more occasions than I care to recall, found it a handy resource in restoring ladies to their senses. Opening the cap, I placed the foul-smelling substance beneath the girl's delicate nose.

  “Breathe deeply, my dear,” I instructed.

  Obediently, she did as she was told. Almost instantly she fell into a violent fit of coughing, and her small hands fought to push away the tiny beaker. To be sure, the mixture of carbonate of ammonium and some sickening, too-sweet fragrance was intolerable. It was, however, an excellent—and speedy—method with which to revive those women who appear prone to light-headedness, or indeed spells of fainting. Once again, I said a private prayer of gratitude that I had never personally been obliged to resort to the nasty stuff.

  In a matter of moments, Melody's delicate face had regained its usual healthy color, and she appeared to be quite restored. Throughout this brief but tense ordeal, however, David had been regarding his sister with an expression bordering on panic. For a frightened minute, I feared he, too, might be in danger of fainting away at my feet. As I started to move the vial of smelling salts to his face, however, he shook his head and gently pushed it away.

  “I have no need for that, Miss Woolson,” he said with a wan smile. “My sister has a fragile constitution, and it worries me to see her fall into such a state.” He bent his head and looked into her face. “What happened to Mr. O'Hara was tragic, Melody, but we hardly knew the man. I wish you would not take it so to heart. It is not good for your health.”

  “David is right, my dear,” agreed their grandfather. “You must not allow Mr. O'Hara's death, however unfortunate, to affect your well-being.”

  “I know, Grandpapa,” she said, darting him an embarrassed look. “And I'm sorry to have made such a bother of myself. But it is just so dreadful to think that Mr. O'Hara's killer is still out here—somewhere in our own neighborhood. We live barely three blocks away!”

  “Please believe me, my dear, you and your family are perfectly safe,” I assured her, aware that I was grossly minimizing the severity of the situation. “I'm certain that the villain responsible for poor Patrick's death is many miles from Rincon Hill by now. You need not be afraid.”

  “Miss Woolson is right, Melody,” concurred the major, sending me a grateful smile. “I'm sure the police will soon catch the blackguard who committed this terrible crime.”

  I nodded my agreement, although privately I feared the solution to O'Hara's murder might not be anywhere near that simple. If, as the police assumed, his death had not been the result of a failed robbery, then the killer must be someone who knew the young Irishman—or worse, somebody in the boy's own family.

  A third possibility, I thought as a chill of dread rippled down my spine, was that the same person who murdered Nigel Logan and Deacon Hume had struck yet again. Whatever the answer, as Melody feared, the villain might still be right here, beneath our very noses.

  A most disconcerting thought!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Samuel and I drove in Eddie's carriage the few blocks from the ice cream parlor to our home, we passed several newsboys hawking evening newspapers with the disturbing headlines: LADY LAWYER REPRESENTS CHINKS! JUDGE'S DAUGHTER DOES IT AGAIN! ANGEL DEFENDS CELESTIAL DEVILS!

  Samuel instructed Eddie to stop, then hopped out of the brougham to purchase a copy of each edition. As the carriage once again continued on its way, he scanned the papers.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I can't believe even Ozzie Foldger would stoop this low.”

  “What is it, Samuel?” I asked. “What has he written now?”

  “You're not going to like this, Sarah.”

  Without replying, I took this evening's Tattler out of my brother's hands and scanned Foldger's article. With a cry of alarm, I clapped a hand to my mouth.

  “Oh, dear God!” I gasped. I remembered how relieved I'd been that Ozzie Foldger hadn't seen me at Madam Valentine's parlor house the previous Friday morning. Now the miserable gossipmonger had caught me out after all. He must have been hiding in the shadows along Montgomery Street the night before, when Robert and I entered the brothel.

  The first half of his article dealt with my defending the two “foreign monkeys” who had
been arrested for Deacon Dieter Hume's murder. The last paragraph read:

  Not only is the above-mentioned lady lawyer championing two heathen Chinamen, but she was seen just last night brazenly entering one of Montgomery Street's most infamous cathouses. It seems the very proper Miss Sarah Woolson—daughter of noted San Francisco Judge Horace Woolson—is intimately acquainted with a celebrated courtesan and her stable of naughty nymphs.

  Allowing the newspaper to fall to the floor of the carriage, I closed my eyes and slumped back in my seat.

  “Dear Lord, Samuel. What am I going to do?”

  “Right now you're not going to do anything, Sarah,” he replied, grinding his teeth in suppressed fury. “Not until we come up with some sort of strategy for dealing with this.”

  “Can you imagine Papa's reaction when he sees this?”

  “Yes, but remember that he doesn't read the Tattler. With any kind of luck he may not find out about the article, at least for the next day or two.”

  I shook my head; I was too old to believe in fairy tales. “One of his friends will see the article, Samuel, and someone is bound to tell him about it. By tomorrow, my visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house will be carried in other newspapers as well. The fact that I'm representing Fan Gow and Lee Yup is already a headline story. Just wait until the city reads this!”

  Samuel looked solemn and his brows were knitted into a tense line. “That rotten little bast—” He darted me a sheepish look, then went on, “At least now we know why that good-for-nothing scoundrel has been following you around for the past week.”

  Samuel spent the remainder of the brief ride trying to calm my shattered nerves, but without much success. My mind was too busy imagining my parents' reaction to the story, not to mention the effect it would have on my fledgling law firm. It served me right for letting down my guard. Truth be told, I'd been so intent on my plan to confront Gerald Knight when we'd gone to see Brielle, I'd forgotten all about Ozzie Foldger. I wished now that I'd let Eddie lead Robert and me around to the back entrance of the parlor house, instead of stubbornly insisting on entering by the front door.