Pilfered Promises

by M. Louisa Locke

  “Well, yes, you would think. But we have to consider that she may have decided to stay silent for some reason.”

  “You mean she might have seen a possibility for blackmail?”

  “Maybe, Mrs. Dawson. Or could be she discovered something that very night and she was silenced before she could tell anyone the next morning. But we are also going through her things to look for a bank book. See if there were any unexplained deposits. We didn’t find one in her rooms on the fifth floor, nor any will or other official papers. But Villeneuve gave us the address of the dress shop she owns on Green Street near Powell. Prime real estate. He says she rented it out to a former apprentice once she started working here. Thought we would look to see if she left some papers there.”

  “Would you have any objection to me talking to this former apprentice?” Annie said. “I thought if I could interview someone who had worked closely with her, but was not an employee of the Silver Strike, I might learn something about her personal life that would explain why the quality of the work she was doing at the Silver Strike seems to have been slipping.”

  “I don’t see any problem with you talking to the woman; I believe her name is Miss Spencer. But could you wait until we’ve had our shot at interviewing her? I hope to get over there tomorrow at the latest. I will send you a note when we are done and let you know if we learned anything else that might be of interest to you in investigating the thefts…or this other thing about the dressmaking department you are worried about.”

  Annie stood up and said, “I know you need to get ready for your staff interviews. Thank you so much for your cooperation, Sergeant. Do let me or my husband know if there is any other way we can help. However, before I leave, I did want to ask after Mrs. Fournier’s daughter.”

  Thompson shook her extended hand and said, “Thank you, ma’am, for coming. As for the little girl, it is my belief Livingston has asked the Villeneuves to take care of her for now, while we try to find if there are any relatives or if her mother left any indication of who should act as her guardian in case of her death.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You can’t imagine how often the courts end up determining who is going to take care of a child orphaned by tragedy. Parents never think ahead, when just a simple written will saying who should act as guardian would do. At least it seems like the girl may have something to inherit.”

  Nate stood outside the courtroom and watched Mrs. Inglenook walk down the corridor, accompanied by an older woman from her parish church. He felt almost lightheaded with relief. He’d gotten a postponement from Judge Simmons, based on the police report he submitted in evidence. The judge accepted his argument that this report demonstrated that O’Grady had lied under oath when he said he’d never met Mr. Inglenook personally. The police file noted that not only had Inglenook spoken with O’Grady in his cell before he dropped the charges, but that he had pointed O’Grady out to the local constable before the actual vandalism incident. He’d told the constable that O’Grady had been a nuisance and that he should send him on his way if he saw him loitering on their street again.

  Knudson, the opposing counsel, objected, but Judge Simmons, who seemed even more dyspeptic than usual, just banged his gavel and set the date for the trial to resume for next Friday. This gave Nate a week to find other people besides the landlord to testify to O’Grady’s character and hostile attitude toward his half-sister.

  Nate pulled out his pocket watch and saw that it was just nine-thirty and thought about getting some coffee and perhaps a sandwich before going to the law firm. He’d skipped breakfast, wanting to check a couple of legal precedents before court. However, if he went right to the office he might get off a letter to a private investigator in Sacramento early enough for it to arrive in tomorrow afternoon’s post. He hoped this former federal treasury agent the firm had used before would be able to track down some witnesses who could testify on Mrs. Inglenook’s behalf…or at least undermine the testimony of her half-brother. He needed to remember to write Mrs. Pitts Stevens today as well. Tell her about the postponement and make sure she would be willing to cover the costs of getting these witnesses to San Francisco.

  As he started down the hall toward the stairs, he wondered how Annie’s meeting with Thompson had gone. They’d both been in such a rush to get out of the house this morning they’d barely exchanged a few words. Maybe he would sneak home early once he took care of the letter. He was pretty sure Annie didn’t have any business clients scheduled for this afternoon. She had cleared her calendar so she could do more interviews at the Silver Strike, which wasn’t going to happen until the police finished up there.

  He smiled, thinking about what he could do with a few hours alone with his lovely wife. Maybe a nap? She had been complaining about how sleepy she got around four each afternoon.

  “What’s got you grinning, young Nate Dawson?” Chief Jackson gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Don’t tell me you won a case before old Judge Simmons?”

  “Not yet, but I did get him to issue a postponement. Thanks, I must say, to one of your officers who took the time Wednesday afternoon to help me track down records on a certain witness for the opposing counsel.”

  “Good, good. Wanted to tell you how pleased I am that Livingston’s retained your firm’s services. Between you and me, his old lawyer wasn’t up to snuff. Too many pitfalls doing business nowadays to rely on some old family retainer.”

  “Thanks, sir. I appreciate your support, and Sergeant Thompson was of considerable help last week in giving me some insight into some of the problems these big store owners face in the area of shoplifting.”

  Jackson shook his head and said, “It’s like kids in a candy store. All those shiny new objects, piled high, right there for the taking. Temptation gets too much for some.” He sighed. “Used to be you went into the corner store, asked to see some tie pins, and the clerk climbed up a ladder to bring down a dusty box that hadn’t been opened since your grandfather’s day.”

  Nate chuckled. Chief Jackson was famous for both his good looks and sartorial splendor, and he seriously doubted the man had ever worn anything that wasn’t the very latest in men’s fashions. But he appreciated the point and said, “My uncle thinks it’s the fault of the newspapers with all those ads going on about bargains ‘for a limited time only.’ Says this encourages people to think that they are going to miss out if they don’t rush out to get whatever is on sale right away, whether they need it or not.”

  “Well, your uncle is a wise man. Speaking of rushing, I’ve gotten Dr. Blach’s autopsy report. He did me a favor and made Mrs. Fournier a priority. Said he knew from experience that by this morning the morgue would be filled up with deceased men who ate their way into apoplexy. Come on down to my office if you would like to read it.”

  Once in the office, Nate opened up the folder Jackson handed to him and began to read the summary report. For one of his cases this summer, he’d consulted Dr. Blach and found him unusually easy to understand, for a medical man. When he finished reading the summary he turned over the page and looked at the diagrams Blach included to indicate the nature and placement of injuries on the body.

  Looking over at Jackson, who’d busied himself with paperwork, he said, “I gather from this that Blach feels pretty sure Mrs. Fournier was murdered.”

  “Yes. He told me that he’s quite familiar with what happens when a woman accidentally trips on her long skirts and falls down a flight of stairs. There are usually numerous contusions on the hip, broken ribs, and bruising and fractures on the forearms. With Mrs. Fournier, the lack of bruising and broken bones on the front and sides of the torso, combined with the multiple fractures of both wrists, is more consistent with a scenario where she was pushed from the top of the steps.”

  Nate remembered that Patrick said that the light at the top of the landing was out and briefly imagined a person hiding in the shadows to rush out and shove Mrs. Fournier as she started down the stairs. He looked again at the page in front o
f him and said, “Blach says here that even if Mrs. Fournier tripped rather than was pushed, her death wasn’t a result of the fall.”

  “No. There is a contusion on her forehead, so she did bang her head and was probably unconscious. But death came from asphyxiation. Someone pulled Mrs. Fournier onto her back and held something over her mouth and nose, suffocating her.”

  Chapter 14

  “A First Class Dressmaker Wishes engagements, cutting and fitting a specialty.”––San Francisco Chronicle November 27, 1880

  Wednesday afternoon, December 1, 1880

  “I can’t believe Thanksgiving was nearly a week ago and it’s already December, ma’am,” Kathleen said to her as they got to the corner of O’Farrell and Powell.

  Annie blew her nose and then pulled her wool scarf more tightly around her neck, saying, “Given how cold the wind is, I can well believe it. Makes me almost think it will snow.” Annie had been fighting a cold since Thanksgiving, and the weather wasn’t helping. Every morning she woke up with a sore throat, little appetite, and by the afternoon she wanted to just go to bed. But there wasn’t time for her to be sick.

  “Oh ma’am, that would be grand. Last time it snowed here was when I was six. I remember my ma took me out and helped me make a snowball. I threw it at my brother Colin. He’d of been only three. I cried the next morning when I got up and saw it had all disappeared.”

  Annie smiled, picturing a small Kathleen, dark curls, red cheeks, and pert nose, entranced by snow. “It can be pretty. But when it piles up in the streets for weeks, covered with ash and pocked with horse dung and urine, it isn’t so beautiful.”

  “Is there lots of snow in New York City where you lived?”

  “Yes, but the one that broke records was what they called the Great Snow Storm of 1872. It came the day after Christmas.” Annie stopped, thinking back to that time. She’d been married just over a year…a year of increasing misery. What she remembered most vividly about the storm that paralyzed the city was how glad she was that it would keep her father from coming to dinner as planned. That way she wouldn’t have to explain how she’d gotten the bruise on her cheek.

  “Ma’am, shall we wait for an omnibus to take us up Powell?” Kathleen asked, drawing Annie away from her moment of reverie.

  “You know, that might be a good idea. It looks a lot like it might start to rain.”

  It occurred to Annie that Kathleen might welcome a chance to sit down and not walk the thirteen blocks to Green Street where Mrs. Fournier’s former dress shop was located. After all, while Annie had been sitting at a desk all morning, reading the newspapers for bits of financial information to give her clients, Kathleen had spent that time on her feet. In addition to her usual chores, the maid had ironed the last of the tablecloths and napkins left over from Monday’s wash, and as soon as they got home she would launch right into helping Beatrice cook dinner.

  Given how busy Kathleen was, Annie wouldn’t normally have asked her to come at all. But she’d promised Nate, who was in Sacramento interviewing potential witnesses, she would take someone with her. She wasn’t sure what trouble she could get into visiting Miss Spencer, the woman renting the dress shop. However, she knew how much Kathleen enjoyed being part of her inquiries, so she’d agreed to his request. That didn’t mean that she needed to make the young girl spend twenty minutes walking uphill.

  Fortunately, they had no sooner crossed to the other side of Powell when an old omnibus lumbered toward them. At one in the afternoon, the car was only half full, and they sat near the back where they could speak without being overheard.

  “I gather Patrick stopped by last night,” Annie said. “Did he have anything new to report about the police investigation into Mrs. Fournier’s death?”

  “He said they finished all the interviews yesterday. But with everyone running up and down the stairs to get decorations from the basement it were impossible to rule out anyone, except maybe some man called Flanagan, who pretty much everyone said stayed by the back door the whole morning.”

  “I was afraid of that. Do you know if the police found out why Mrs. Fournier was on the stairway that morning at that time? I suppose that she might have volunteered to help out with the holiday decorations, but it seems odd that she would just leave her daughter asleep in her room.”

  “Maybe she was just running down for a minute, thought she’d be right back. Do you know what’s going to happen to the little girl?”

  “No, so far as I know she doesn’t have any living relatives. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to go today to interview Miss Spencer. See if she could tell me more about Mrs. Fournier. The police, I am afraid, will just focus on the people who were in the store and their motives for killing her.”

  “And you think it might be something from her past?”

  “Or at least from her personal rather than her professional life. I only met her once, and at the time she just seemed a pleasant, competent woman. And Kathleen, I am probably being silly, but Emmaline reminded me of Evie May. A beautiful child, but old beyond her years.”

  “Oh ma’am!”

  Annie reached over and squeezed her maid’s hand. They’d both met Evie May in the middle of another one of Annie’s investigations, and she knew Kathleen would understand how upsetting it was to think there might be a connection between that troubled girl and this one.

  “Oh, we just passed Vallejo. We need to get off. Green Street will be next,” said Annie, glad for a reason to change the subject.

  A few minutes later they were standing in front of a modest two-story building. A couple of dressmaker forms in the large front window displayed a navy wool walking suit and a dark emerald green silk evening dress. An awning shielded the window from the direct sun, and a nicely painted sign over the door said, Madam Fournier’s Dress Shop.

  When Kathleen pushed open the door, a small bell rang, and they entered a large room furnished very much like the ladies dress department on the second floor of the Silver Strike, including the full-length mirrors scattered among the upholstered armchairs, settees, and wooden tea tables. A well-dressed brunette, with dark grey eyes and a pleasant smile, came to welcome them.

  “Miss Spencer?” Annie said, and when she was given an affirmative, she continued, “I hope you will be able to spare me a moment of your time. My name is Mrs. Dawson, and this is my maid Miss Hennessey. I have been commissioned on behalf of Mrs. Fournier’s former employer to look into the circumstances of her tragic death.”

  When Miss Spencer uttered a little cry and began searching blindly for her handkerchief, Annie said, “Oh, dear, I am sorry to have caused you distress. Please, sit down. Can Miss Hennessey get you something? Water perhaps?”

  Annie sat beside the dressmaker on one of the settees, while Kathleen poured some water from a carafe on one of the tables, handing it to Miss Spencer as she blotted her tears.

  After taking a long sip of water, she said, “I am sorry, you said your name is Mrs. Dawson? I guess I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that Marie, Mrs. Fournier, is gone. When the police came last Friday, I frankly couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. They demanded access to the room she has upstairs, where I could hear them rummaging around, then they left. Yesterday morning, I read in the Morning Call that the police were treating her death as suspicious. And you say you are looking into her death?”

  Annie told her briefly about Mrs. Fournier’s body being found on the fourth floor landing Thanksgiving morning. “There are certain aspects of her death that make it unlikely that it was simply the result of accidentally tripping down the stairs,” she continued. “This has led to questions about who might have wanted to do her harm. Her employer, Mr. Livingston, is understandably concerned to know if her death has anything to do with some problems the store has been having. Problems which I have been hired to look into.”

  Miss Spencer nodded, but Annie could tell she was still confused, so she went on, saying, “Since Mrs. Fournier had only worked for
Mr. Livingston for two years, I thought you might be able to fill in a little more about her background.”

  Miss Spencer dabbed her eyes again and said, “Yes, I started as one of her two apprentices in 1871, and I continued with her until 1878, when she left to take up her position at the Silver Strike Bazaar.” She leaned forward, her brows knit. “Mrs. Dawson, do you have any idea what is going to happen to this shop now?”

  “I’m not sure. One of the reasons that the police were here on Friday was to see if there was a will or any other official papers since there was nothing in her rooms at the Silver Strike. I gather they didn’t find anything.”

  “They certainly didn’t find anything that I saw.”

  “Am I correct that you have been renting the shop from her for the past two years?”

  “Yes. I actually have a rental agreement, if you would like to see it. The police didn’t ask about it…and well…as I said, I was having trouble taking it all in. We were so close. She taught me everything I know about dressmaking…treated me as if I were her younger sister.”

  “Aunt Mary. Oh, we didn’t mean to intrude.” Two young women stood hesitating in a doorway that probably led to a back workroom. Miss Spencer beckoned them over and introduced them to Annie and Kathleen, saying, “These are my two nieces, Julianne and Bethanne. They are my apprentices, and I am attempting to teach them all that Mrs. Fournier taught me.”

  As the two young women, both with Miss Spencer’s serious gray eyes and wavy brunette hair, shook hands with Annie and Kathleen, their aunt told them of the purpose of the visit. Then she asked Annie if it would be all right for them to stay, saying, “What happens to the shop is as important to their future as it is to mine.”

  Miss Spencer explained that while she’d always been a skilled seamstress, she’d never considered it as a career until her betrothed was killed in a mining accident a month before her marriage. “I didn’t want to be a burden on my older sister, who at that time had four children at home to care for, including Julianne and Bethanne. So, when I saw the advertisement in the Chronicle looking for someone to learn the dressmaking trade, I applied.”