He was like a wasp stinging Anna for the pleasure of it as soon as his queen left the room. But maybe Anna deserved it. Had her father played a role in Mr. Bonsor’s ruin? Had he called in a loan, or refused them one? Or worse?
Joe leaned forward. “I’m very sorry for your troubles, and I’m sure Assistant Matron Blanc is as well. But we are here on official police business. We need to know, when exactly did Elizabeth leave Los Angeles?”
Mr. Bonsor stared coldly. “Why are you asking these questions?”
Joe tried again. “Sir, have you seen your daughter within the last eleven days?”
Mrs. Bonsor appeared in the doorway holding a tray laden with a teapot, cups, and cakes, her face transformed by anxiety. “No, we haven’t.”
The tension in Anna’s belly was unbearable. She cast Joe a painful, knowing glance.
“Tell me about the last time you saw her.”
Mrs. Bonsor put the tray down on a table and perched on a faded armchair. Her hands were shaking. “She was leaving for my sister’s for an extended visit. I had a neighbor take her things to the station in a steamer trunk.”
Elizabeth was undoubtedly dead. Anna had known it all along but hadn’t wanted to accept it. Martha hadn’t given the necklace to her daughter but to her granddaughter. Mrs. Bonsor didn’t wear frillies. Elizabeth did. There were no gray hairs in that braid, just the rich dark tones of youth. The tension in Anna’s stomach unwound into nauseous grief.
Joe shifted his eyes to her as if checking for a reaction.
Anna was a cop first, and a friend second. She wasn’t actually a cop, and technically she was no longer a friend, but that wasn’t her fault. Anna hardened her heart and forced herself to be fine. She even smiled. She hadn’t seen Elizabeth in ten years and had no right to fall apart. Mrs. Bonsor needed her. Elizabeth needed her. She nodded her strength to Joe and made a mental note to retrieve Elizabeth’s steamer trunk from La Grande Station.
Joe turned back to Mrs. Bonsor. “Please, go on. Tell us about the last time you saw Elizabeth.”
“She’s been working as a missionary in Chinatown. My husband doesn’t approve. But she is of age. They argued, and she ran from the house.” Mrs. Bonsor cast an accusatory glance at her husband. “She isn’t in St. Louis, and he knows it. She never arrived at her aunt’s. I assumed she had run away with . . .” She trailed off and stared out the window.
“With who, Mrs. Bonsor?”
Mrs. Bonsor’s eyes focused. “That Chinaman.”
“Leo Lim?”
Her eyes teared. “Was that his name? They couldn’t even be married under the law.”
Anna had always felt a deep sadness for lovers who weren’t allowed to be married, and for unlovers who were forced to be married, and for lovers who were asked to be married and were then thrown off because they wouldn’t consent so that their former lovers were now courting half the girls in Los Angeles.
Joe retrieved the dead woman’s walking shoes from his canvas bag. “Can you identify these shoes?”
“No,” said Mr. Bonsor.
Mrs. Bonsor smiled uncertainly. “Yes, dear. Those are most definitely Elizabeth’s shoes. I bought them for her.”
Joe’s voice was heavy and gentle with a sympathy Anna knew was sincere. “We removed the necklace from a crime scene where a woman was murdered. She was wearing these shoes. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Bonsor cried out, though she must have seen this coming. She dropped the embroidery hoop. Anna crossed the room and knelt beside her, taking her cold hands and patting them, for Elizabeth’s sake. The lady rocked, making anguished sounds.
“Where was the body found?” Mr. Bonsor’s voice was too loud, and his face red. If his daughter hadn’t just died, Anna would think he was angry, not grieving. But men were strange that way. Her father was always angry.
Joe said, “In a trunk in Leo Lim’s apartment. She’d been dead for some days.”
Anna cooed at Mrs. Bonsor. “There now.”
“Do you recall what else Elizabeth was wearing when she left?” Joe asked.
The lady sagged into her chair, half speaking, half sobbing her words. “Yes, because it was obviously expensive. He probably bought it for her, but I didn’t ask.”
“What color was it?” Anna asked.
The lady closed her eyes as if remembering her very last glimpse of her only child. “Blue. Light blue. Was the dead girl wearing blue?”
“Yes,” Anna said, cutting Joe off before he could tell the hard truth, which no mother needed to hear—Elizabeth wasn’t found in a dress. She was found in her frillies.
Elizabeth’s body had been stripped of its frock, and the gown had been carried off. Why?
Joe said, “You were sending Elizabeth away. Was she with child?”
Anna’s breath caught. The question was indelicate. In her mind, she congratulated Joe for it.
“Not with child. Out-of-control. She did as she pleased.” Mr. Bonsor was trying to exonerate himself. Anna could hear it in his tone. “She was never home. She was always in Chinatown at that mission. If you ask me, we should round up the Chinese and send them all home with their opium, their gambling, and their whores.”
Then, Mr. Bonsor’s face collapsed, and he took a supplicating tone. “Detective, you won’t tell anyone that my daughter was found in the apartment of a Mongolian. Miss Blanc owes us that much.”
Joe didn’t skip a beat, though Anna knew he must be enormously relieved. “We’ll be discreet.”
Mrs. Bonsor spoke in sorrowful hiccups. “Elizabeth felt a burden for the Chinese. She believed they were just as good as everyone else. She taught them English. And she did evangelism plays on the streets. She often played Jesus.”
“She will doubtless go to heaven,” Anna said, knowing Elizabeth was not Catholic and would at the very least spend years in purgatory. Anna resolved to pray for her soul.
Joe leaned forward. “Do you have reason to believe that anyone wished your daughter ill? Someone who might have wanted to hurt her?”
“What is this? The Chinaman obviously did it.” Mr. Bonsor spat when he said it.
Joe spoke in a soothing voice. “He is our primary suspect, sir, but we have to be thorough.”
“Everyone loved Elizabeth.” Mrs. Bonsor paused to dab her nose on a handkerchief. “I suppose some people objected to having women working in the mission, associating with the Chinese men. Many people see the men as . . .” She glanced up at Anna and halted. “You are married by now, Anna?”
Anna folded her hands to hide her naked ring finger. “Yes, of course.”
“People say Chinese men have greater appetites than normal men, and none of them have wives.”
Anna said, “They can’t fault Elizabeth for feeding them. I would feed them, too.”
Mrs. Bonsor began to wail.
Mr. Bonsor went to Mrs. Bonsor and held her, rocking her, muttering sweet words of comfort, and calling her darling. It was a side of him Anna had never seen. She stared, even though she felt like an intruder.
Joe asked, “Mr. Bonsor, may we see your daughter’s room?”
Mr. Bonsor pointed up the stairs.
Anna and Joe mounted the steps and found two doors. She opened the first and held her breath. The room was obviously Elizabeth’s, full of familiar things: a porcelain doll Elizabeth had named Brave Betty, the same lace bedspread they had always used when Anna spent the night, a collection of circus postcards featuring ladies doing tricks on horseback. It reminded Anna of her own room—remnants from the past displayed in much reduced circumstances. If Mr. Bonsor were telling the truth, Anna and Elizabeth were both economic victims of Anna’s cold-hearted father.
And now Elizabeth was dead.
On the wall, a cross-stitched Bible verse read, “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.”
Anna hoped Elizabeth did not suffereth long. Elizabeth had charity. Her lower lip started to quiver.
&n
bsp; Joe was rummaging through the dresser, the bookshelf, and the desk drawer, which were mainly empty. He produced a small black diary with gold lettering, opened the cover, and a photograph fell out. He held it so Anna could see. In the picture, Anna and Elizabeth, about age eight, were having a tea party with Brave Betty and another doll, whose name Anna couldn’t remember. She had had so many. Little Anna held a rolled piece of paper up to her doll’s lips like a cigar. Mrs. Morales, the Blanc’s housekeeper, stood in the background, frowning alongside one of Anna’s nannies. Anna had had more nannies than dolls.
Joe cocked his head. “Is this you?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Yes.”
“You’re so—”
“I know.” She snatched the picture from him. Anna had been scrawny and unfortunate looking until the age of twelve, at which time she had become fortunate indeed.
“Adorable,” he said.
Anna’s lips parted as she marveled at this. She had been ugly, but Joe Singer never lied. “Did you find any clues?”
“Just a clue to you.” He opened the book. “I don’t think this will help us. The last entry is 1897.”
Eighteen ninety-seven, just before their friendship had come to an abrupt end.
CHAPTER 11
Anna and Joe descended the steps of the Bonsors’ faded Victorian. The weight of the parents’ grief clung to them like humid air. The light was graying as the sun sank closer to the horizon.
Joe slipped his arm through Anna’s. “I’m sorry your friend is dead.”
“Thank you. She was a good friend.” Anna couldn’t help but think she herself was not. She had abandoned Elizabeth for no other reason than paternal threats of . . . what? A spanking and a night without supper? Now that she had dedicated her life to doing whatever she pleased, it seemed a waste not to have begun sooner. She had loved Elizabeth. It would have been worth a licking to see her again. Maybe two or three. Given that Anna’s father only caught her in mischief about a third of the time, for three bruised bottoms, she might have seen Elizabeth nine times. To be sure, they had fought on occasion, as both girls tended to know what they wanted. But Elizabeth had always kept Anna’s confidences—such as when Anna had put catnip in the nuns’ tea—and never spoke ill of Anna, to her knowledge.
And couldn’t it just as well have been Anna in that trunk, except for the being a missionary part. After all, Anna had run off with the wrong man.
Anna felt her head tilting toward Joe’s shoulder, but was saved from the intimacy by the brim of her hat.
Joe didn’t appear to notice. “Do you really think your father had a part in Mr. Bonsor’s ruin?”
“I don’t know. He’s capable of it, and it would explain the precipitous break between our families.”
Joe squeezed her arm. “You’re not him, Anna.”
Anna looked straight ahead, because if she looked into Joe’s Arrow Collar Man eyes, she would cry. “I’m going to catch her killer. I owe them that.”
“No, Sherlock. I’m going to catch the killer. You’re going to keep yourself safe. Plus, don’t you have prisoners to take care of?”
A woman, apron coated in flour, stepped out on a porch and rang a cowbell to call her children home for supper. Four little beasts came running.
“Only one, and she doesn’t need me. You need me. We have to interview the apartment manager’s wife again. She lied about not knowing Elizabeth. The missionary women have been teaching her English. Mr. Jones told me so.”
“I don’t like you being in Chinatown. Not now.”
“It’s my assignment. You don’t get to choose for me.”
Joe closed his eyes. “All right. Maybe her husband will be home. We need to interview him as well. I’ll try to contact Mr. Jones and see if he will come to translate.”
“His English is very good.”
“Yep. He went to Yale.”
Anna’s well-groomed eyebrows met in the middle. “Yale?”
“We’ll go in the morning. It’s safer.”
“Murder can’t wait!”
“I’ve been invited for supper at . . .” He mumbled, “Um, someone’s house. I said I’d go. I’ll only stay an hour or so.”
She dropped his arm.
CHAPTER 12
Joe escorted Anna back to the station without touching or further conversation. He made a phone call at the exchange desk and left, undoubtedly off to play beau to one of his many sweethearts. Anna had better things to do than to moon over Joe Singer. She perched at her desk, took up a fountain pen, and scrolled an account of their interview with the Bonsors in her monogrammed, leather-bound notebook. Stowing it in her drawer, she decided to see how the lost boy was getting along. Anna felt a twinge of guilt about saddling the girl prisoner with the four-year-old boy, though one could argue that the girl owed a debt to society for her crime. Still, in penance, Anna collected a box of Cracker Jacks from her desk drawer. She hesitated and then grabbed two boxes, wincing with the pain of her own generosity. Charity suffereth. She said a silent prayer to Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, patron saint of the young, that Wolf would never find out about her nursemaid scheme.
A patrolman passed her, heading for the kitchen, smelling of wool and cigarette smoke. She inclined her head in greeting. “Hello Officer Bowen.”
He touched his helmet and wished her a good evening in a booming, baritone voice. Anna guessed he’d stayed in doing paperwork and now went to raid his dinner pail. Most patrolmen dined in restaurants on their beats because no one ever charged them.
Her own stomach growled. If only the cooks of the city would feed police matrons, too.
The station’s tile floor shone, recently mopped by the prisoner who cleaned the building—someone in for a minor offense. The cells at the back of the station now smelled like bleach and ox-head soup. It was the supper hour. Behind bars, one of the cots distracted Anna. The sheet looked dark in the middle from the dirt of men, and mud stained on one end, as if a prisoner had gone to bed wearing boots. The dirty linens were long overdue to be changed and washed, and Matron Clemens was probably counting on Anna to handle it. But who normally washed the linens? Anna didn’t know. Not Matron Clemens. She could get the girl prisoner to help make the beds, but one prisoner couldn’t do all the washing on her own. Also, Wolf was bound to free the girl soon. Anna would ask Mr. Melvin what to do.
In the cells, prisoners slurped broth and chewed yesterday’s bread, which Mr. Melvin bought cheap from the baker. Most of the men were white or Mexican, guilty of brawling, vagrancy, or wife beating. The police suspected one of stealing a bicycle, but Anna didn’t think he’d done it. His left leg dragged, and he obviously couldn’t pedal. She swished down the corridor, past the men, erect and commanding—at least she tried to be. It set off a chorus of belches, followed by wicked laughter. Anna ignored them.
She climbed the stairs to the ladies’ ward and approached the girl’s cell surreptitiously. She peeked in from the side. When she saw her prisoner, a ripple of tension released down her back and she smiled. The boy slept in the arms of the seventeen-year-old girl, who lay on the cot with her eyes closed. Anna watched the peaceful rise and fall of his baby breath. Her guilt subsided, and she congratulated herself. She deposited the Cracker Jacks through the bars and tiptoed away.
Anna flounced to the reception desk to ask Mr. Melvin if he knew what to do about the dirty linens. The wood counter glowed from being touched by hundreds of hands, despite the iron rails designed to keep the guilty at a distance. Mr. Melvin, perched on a captain’s chair, typed furiously at a desk behind the counter, as if his fingers had drunk too much Coca-Cola. Anna leaned over, creasing her dress on the brass rail. “Hello.”
Mr. Melvin stopped typing. “Hello,” he said in a whisperish hiss, not meeting her eyes, as was his custom. His pockmarked cheeks reddened.
Anna inclined her head and whispered back. “The linens are dirty.”
“The prisoners can wash them. There are tin tubs and soap in the basement behin
d the stables. The jailer will make them do it. You just have to remind him.”
Anna sighed like a bicycle tire with its cap off. It wouldn’t fall to her. She leaned close over the counter. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Without looking up he continued. “Have you seen Joe?”
The corner of Anna’s lips turned down. “No, but he’s meeting me soon.”
Mr. Melvin stood and slipped a sheet of paper across the glossy wood counter toward Anna. “Mr. Jones asked to meet Joe in Chinatown at six.”
Anna swept up the note and read it. “Did Joe get this message?”
“I don’t know. It came while I was out.”
Anna consulted the wall clock. A quarter to six. Had Joe seen the note and deliberately gone to Chinatown without her? A distinct possibility. He had only planned to stay at supper for an hour or so. Alternately, if he hadn’t seen the note, then Mr. Jones would be waiting in vain.
Anna deliberated. Though she didn’t relish going to Chinatown alone, it hadn’t been so awful when she’d gone with Joe. There were bloodstains on the sidewalks, sure. But there must be cops in the quarter—the Chinatown Squad. The sun would shine long enough for her to reach the crime scene in daylight. Also, Mr. Jones would be there waiting at the apartments, and he was big, strong, and full of manly vigor. Joe trusted Mr. Jones with Anna in chains, and Anna trusted Joe, for the most part. She had a good feeling about Mr. Jones. A good, hot feeling. Likely, Joe was there already, or would arrive soon and could escort her home, though he would be mad.
Mr. Melvin showed Anna a handful of papers, like bookmarks, but painted with Chinese words and symbols. “Captain Dixon confiscated these on a raid in Chinatown. They’re talismans.”
“They’re beautiful.” Anna didn’t believe in charms. Except for the St. Christopher’s medal she sometimes wore around her neck. And holy water.
“This one is a peach blossom talisman for luck in love.” He showed Anna a yellow paper covered in elegant Chinese characters, red octagons, and a square. He pulled out several more papers, which were red with black symbols. “And these are for gambling luck. Would you like one?”
The Woman in the Camphor Trunk Page 8