Addie blushed, and she turned toward Celia. “I’ll nae be teased so. I’ll be leaving your employ, ma’am, if this is what I’m to endure. I would appreciate a character, if you’ll be so kind.”
“Now, Addie, surely you do not mean you would leave us,” said Celia. Heavens, I dearly hope she does not mean that! “Barbara, apologize at once to Addie for engaging in such a prank.”
Barbara hesitated, and Grace reached over to pinch the top of her friend’s hand.
“Ouch!” she said, but she was smiling. After all that had happened, Celia was grateful that their friendship had survived. Her own relationship with Barbara, strained by her involvement in another murder investigation, was proving slightly more difficult to patch. At least her cousin had not repeated her threat that she wanted Celia to move out of the house.
I will give us time. And perhaps Barbara shall come to understand.
“I’m sorry, Addie,” said Barbara. “Truly. We meant well. You were so blue about Mr. Taylor ignoring you—”
“I dinna ken what you’re saying, Miss Barbara!” Addie blushed again. “I dinna care if the man takes note of me.” She lifted her chin. “’Tis his loss.”
“We should’ve realized, though, you might think the notes were coming from that Mr. Knowles,” said Grace. “We didn’t want you to think that, because we don’t much like him, do we, Bee?”
“Weel, I dinna care for his grinning, either,” said Addie. “And I’ve sent him a note saying I’ll nae be going to the pyrotechnics with him for the Fourth of July.”
“Wait. When did these plans happen?” asked Celia, setting down her cup of tea.
“I didna tell you?”
“No, you did not,” said Celia. “And there is no need to change your plans with Mr. Knowles.”
“Aye, weel, ’tis too late. I’ve gone and told him I’m verra busy.”
“Then come with us,” said Celia. She had made plans to accompany the Hutchinsons, presuming the contusions Mr. Greaves had given Frank would be thoroughly healed and permit him to appear in public without causing gossip. “You would not wish to miss the Fourth of July celebrations, and Jane will not mind. You can help us chaperone the girls; I am certain they would enjoy having you along.”
Addie cast a skeptical glance at Grace and Barbara.
“Please do come, Miss Ferguson,” said Grace. “I’ll tell Stepmama that you’ll be joining us, okay?”
“If you insist, I’ll nae disagree. Let me warm your tea, ma’am,” she said to Celia, and departed for the kitchen, her shoulders straighter and a bounce in her step.
“Thank you, Grace,” said Celia. “That was most kind.”
“After the excitement of the last few days, we all could use some kindness, I guess,” the girl responded. “At least Papa’s forgiven me for talking to that detective about what I’d seen. I wasn’t sure he would.”
“Your father is a good man, Grace. Of course he would understand that you wished to do the right thing.”
“In fact, he’s so pleased that you helped clear his name, he’s told Stepmama to talk to you about how we can help you expand your clinic,” said Grace. “Maybe find a dedicated building for it.”
“My goodness,” said Celia, overwhelmed. She heard the front door open, and Owen strode into the hallway.
“Guess I shoulda knocked, ma’am,” he said, noticing the girls in the parlor and sweeping his cap from his head, leaving his hair sticking up in its wake.
“Good morning, Owen,” said Barbara.
“Owen, I do not believe you and Grace were properly introduced the last time you met,” said Celia. Had it only been this past Thursday when he’d burst into the house with news of a dead body? “Grace, this is Owen Cassidy. Owen, Miss Grace Hutchinson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he stammered as Grace offered him a teasingly winsome smile. She is well out of your grasp, Owen. Do not dream of reaching so high.
Barbara, noticing the looks exchanged by the two, frowned and tapped her friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go see if Addie has anything good to eat and go outside. The sun’s finally out.”
The girls trooped out, and Owen’s shoulders sagged as he watched them go.
“Mr. Hutchinson, by the way, had his daughter bring me a note today. He has agreed to take you back on,” said Celia, “once he finds a supervisor to replace Mr. Kelly.”
“Can’t believe Mr. Kelly was the killer, ma’am. Plum awful.”
“Very awful. How did you find his wife when you went to her house?” Celia asked him. When he’d popped in before Grace had arrived, Celia had sent him with a small hamper of food to check on Maryanne and the baby.
He went back into the entryway and returned with the wicker hamper. “She weren’t there, ma’am,” he said, holding it out as proof. “That loony girl next door with the bandage on her arm was hopping around and saying they was . . . were gone. Left this morning. Early. She looked as happy as a tick about to burst to tell me, too!”
“Oh dear.” Maryanne, likely eager to get away from the gossiping and unkind neighbors, must have found somewhere to take her children after all. Hopefully not anywhere too far, though; she would want to be close by when her husband was put on trial. “You can keep the food,” she said, nodding at the hamper.
“I can?” Owen peeked beneath the checked cloth covering the food. “But the widow I room with is gonna think I stole it!”
“Then let me put a note inside that will reassure her.”
“Don’t think she can read, ma’am.”
Addie returned with a fresh pot of tea, setting it on the table in the center of the parlor. “Have you come now for a meal, Owen Cassidy? Always eating, you are.”
He held up the hamper for Addie to see. “Mrs. Davies said I could keep this.”
“Then you’ll nae need me to feed you, will you?” said Addie, turning on her heel and marching off.
“Never sure she likes me, ma’am.”
“Addie adores you, Owen. I think you remind her of one of her brothers.” She shooed a hand at him. “Take the hamper into the kitchen and have a bite to eat. And do not be too rambunctious around the young woman you will find there.” Katie had risen that morning to take a meal in the kitchen rather than have a tray sent up to her room, which she claimed she found to be too “high heeled” for a mere saloon girl. “Miss Lehane is still recovering from a bullet wound.”
“Whoa! Ain’t never boring around here, ma’am!” Grinning, he dashed off, the hamper swinging from his hand.
Celia rose, her hips and back aching in protest, sore from yesterday’s tumble down the stairs. She was fortunate that a few aches and bruises were all she suffered from, she supposed. Taking two tumbles in the span of a few days was not a practice she wished to continue.
Wrapping her mother’s cashmere shawl around her shoulders, she poured herself a fresh cup of tea and went outside to the front porch.
She leaned against the railing as the bells of Saint Francis tolled the hour. At Vallejo’s intersection with Stockton, the Omnibus Railroad horsecar clopped by on its way north to Meiggs’ Wharf. The wagon from Winkle’s Bakery had come from the shop on Battery to make a delivery to the nicest house on the street, the stately brick one a few doors up from them. The grocers on the corner must have received a fresh shipment of vegetables, because a crowd was clustered around the señora in her bright skirts who was monitoring the crates of goods. The neighborhood boys, including Angelo, played a boisterous game of tag in the street, and across the way, Joaquin’s mother was once again sweeping her porch and frowning at Celia. Ah well, thought Celia as she sipped from her cup, what can I expect when trouble seems to find me on a regular basis?
But how ordinary it all was that day. How satisfyingly ordinary.
“Mrs. Davies,” called out Nicholas Greaves, striding down the road.
“Good morning, Mr. Greaves. You have come too soon for me to remove those stitches, I’m afraid.”
“This isn’t a medical visit, ma’am,” he said, climbing the stairs.
“Would you care for some tea, then?” she asked.
“No need to bother. I won’t stay long.” He joined her at the railing and stared out at the street. “I like it up here. Above the city.”
“It no longer feels so much above the city. Every day, there are more houses, springing up like weeds,” she said. “Soon there will be nothing but buildings between us and the shoreline of North Beach.” Even then, the city would no doubt continue to grow wildly; there were even plans to extend that shoreline farther into the bay.
“I’ve heard that Martin and Company won’t be getting the contract for the Second Street cut. The Board of Supervisors decided this morning that nobody will, for a while at least,” he said. “Looks like Nash’s protests have won out, in the end.”
“Small consolation to him or his widow. And oh how Frank shall be disappointed.” The house he hoped to build on California Street to impress Jane’s father might have to wait. “You were mistaken about him, though, Mr. Greaves. His relationship with Katie was ill-advised, but in other regards . . .”
“I was wrong about his complicity in murder, ma’am, but I’m not wrong about him.”
“What did he do to you?”
His hat turned through his hands. “If you want to remain friends with him, I’d rather not say.”
“I shall coax the story out of you one day, you know.”
“I don’t doubt that you will.”
She watched the wagon from the bakery pull away from the curb and turn the corner, the driver tipping his hat to a young woman crossing the road. She heard the laughter of the boys as they chased one another. She breathed in the aroma of Mr. Greaves’ shaving soap, carried on the breeze, and felt her will to protect her heart weaken. I should tell him. I should tell him about Patrick.
“Mr. Greaves, there is something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“I . . .” The urge faded. Don’t be impulsive again, Celia. He ignored you for more than three months. Do not forget that. “Never mind,” she said. “It is nothing.”
“Okay,” he said, the brim of his hat turning around and around. “I didn’t come here just to tell you about Martin and Company, ma’am. I came because I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Oh?”
“The fireworks in two weeks . . . Would you . . . I mean . . . ,” he stammered.
“Would I like to attend with you?” she asked, aware she had never seen him so discomfited. “Well, I do already have plans . . .”
“Then never mind,” he blurted. “I don’t know why I asked. Danged Taylor.”
Grumbling, he slapped his hat back onto his head, nearly crushing the crown.
Honestly, Celia, what harm would there be in saying yes to a pyrotechnics display?
“It would be rude of me to back out of my plans to go with the Hutchinsons, but perhaps you could come with us,” she said.
“With Frank?” he asked, sounding as though a bare-legged run through a field of nettles would be preferable to an evening spent with Frank Hutchinson.
“That, I fear, is the price of attending the pyrotechnics with me, Mr. Greaves.”
The breath he released came out as a groan. “You drive a hard bargain, ma’am.”
“I take it you have just agreed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Davies.”
“Good. Very good indeed,” she said, smiling as she entwined her arm with his.
Deciding that she would protect her heart some other day.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On January 8, 1863, San Francisco’s Alta newspaper ran an editorial decrying twelve years of hill flattening, the efforts to ease transit across town destroying much of San Francisco’s natural beauty in the process. The paper’s complaints had little effect. Rincon Hill was next in the developers’ sights, their plans driven by a desire for easy access to the Pacific Mail Wharves at the south end of Second Street. It didn’t hurt that the man most responsible for demanding the cut happened to own property near the city end of the road and expected to profit from the increased worth of his land. The wealthy homeowners atop the hill weren’t happy at all, expecting—as the Nashes did in this book—that the value of their property would plummet once Second Street turned into an ugly gouge. The homeowners’ complaints had no more effect on the eventual outcome than the Alta’s editorial; their opponents would prove to be more politically and socially connected, and unstoppable. In 1869, two years after the events in No Pity for the Dead take place, the Second Street Cut was completed. True to the hilltop owners’ fears, their property values plunged and the move to what would become known as Nob Hill was on. In 1873, the installation of the first cable car line would thankfully act as a disincentive to future grading projects.
Most of my characters in this series are fictional, but in No Pity for the Dead, I have included two very real individuals—Levi Strauss and Joshua Norton, who was also known as Emperor Norton. In 1867, Levi Strauss was already a successful purveyor of dry goods, having taken advantage of the needs of Gold Rush miners by supplying clothing and other items. Despite his position as a prominent businessman, he reportedly asked his employees to simply call him “Levi,” a charmingly humble request in such a formal time period. The invention of the riveted denim pant, which would garner him great wealth, was still a few years in the future. Joshua Norton was a very different character. An English immigrant from South Africa, he had arrived with a modest fortune that he soon lost speculating on the rice market. By 1859, he had reinvented himself as the Emperor of the United States, regularly issuing edicts on the proper running of the country. The eccentric fellow became wildly popular with San Franciscans, feted by business owners eager to profit from the Emp’s fame, his attendance at the openings of everything from rail lines to stores to musical entertainments a requirement. In 1880 he collapsed and died on a street, penniless but not forgotten.
My thanks to Sarah Bar-Hillel for her assistance with Yiddish, and to the folks behind the California Digital Newspaper Collection, a fabulous trove of knowledge if ever there was one. And thanks as ever to Candace Calvert and to my agent, Natasha Kern—without your support, I would have given up on this crazy writing business years ago! Lastly, to my family, I extend my love and gratitude.
Nancy Herriman received a bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering from the University of Cincinnati, where she also took courses in history and archaeology. She’s a past winner of RWA’s Daphne du Maurier Award for Best Unpublished Mystery/Romantic Suspense, and when she isn’t writing, she enjoys performing with various choral groups. She lives in central Ohio with her husband and their two teenage sons.
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