Into the Suffering City
Page 17
Jack leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin. “Is the ‘Bob’ you spoke with the Bob Foster mentioned in this clipping?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah.”
“I used the evidence to formulate two separate conjectures. One is that Lizzie felt some romantic attachment with Bob Foster, or that someone wished to convey that impression. Another is that someone wanted to implicate Bob Foster in her death.”
Jack grinned, then laughed. “At last I get a chance to say you’re wrong.”
“State how you think my reasoning is invalid.” She sat down and stared at the coffee pot.
“That clipping is more than likely a cocaine wrapper. Some dope slingers like to associate their product with famous athletes, so they wrap it in little packets ripped from the sports pages. Bob’s a big-time boxer. And he’s in the marrying habit—that headline’s about his second marriage. Which is already long busted up.”
“Even if what you say is true, why would Lizzie have the paper in her mouth?”
“Folks who like coke can’t get enough of the stuff. They put the empty wrapper on their gums to draw out the last bit. Let me guess—Lizzie’s front teeth were a mess, right? Sure sign of a true coke fiend.”
“Your explanation is plausible, yet I will not withdraw my conjectures. More evidence may implicate Bob Foster.”
“More evidence will prove you wrong on that count, Miss Smarty. Seems you don’t know everything after all.” He kicked himself for teasing her. It was like shooting fish in a tub. And who knows? This case had so many twists and turns that maybe Bob really did have a role—the guy had already withheld information at least once. Jack probably should have held on to that letter. “I told you he’s got an alibi.”
“Did you verify his alleged alibi?”
Jack fidgeted in his seat. “No, but I believe him. He’s a decent enough guy.”
“Jack.” She slashed the air, her hand a blur. “You must not only collect data, you must ensure the data are correct. That is how we formulate a theory. Unsupported assumptions have no basis in the scientific method.”
“And I’ll tell you again, Sarah, that the gut is as important as the brain in detective work. Give me a little credit—I might be a dummy but I’ve done this work a little longer than you.” She was staring at the floor as if she spotted a gold nugget. “Found out something else that you should find interesting,” said Jack, hoping Sarah would loosen up a little. “Clara Sullivan was pestering her sister for cash—wanted a cut of a piddly family inheritance. And Clara’s a sneaky little liar—turns out she’s a classy actress who just finished a run at the Maryland Academy of Music doing a show called Doll House or something.”
“Do you mean she acted in A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen?”
“Guess so.”
“Which character did she portray?”
“The lead.”
Sarah sprung up again and went to a distant shelf, where she ran her fingers along book spines before pulling one out. She read in silence until Jack got antsy. “Anyway, that’s what I dug up. How about you—how’d things go with Patterson?”
She didn’t respond until he called to her again. She marched back to her seat, where she opened a small notebook. “Lucas Patterson is a study in contrasts. He is wealthy and yet keeps his office in a poor section of town. He is well educated but is also a ragtime music enthusiast. He can speak rationally one moment and slip into emotional speech the next. He is mercurial—that it to say, he has sudden changes in temperament.”
“He say anything about Lizzie or Nick?”
She set the notebook down. “He claimed Nick as a close friend and praised his musical ability.”
“That’s not all Patterson likes about Nick.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear that the two of them are lovers. Patterson seems to be more emotionally involved than Nick.”
Sarah blinked rapidly. “Patterson indicated great frustration with Nick’s nonmusical activities, most especially in connection with Lizzie. In his view, Lizzie was a distraction of great magnitude.”
“I heard Patterson hated the girl.”
“He did not speak well of Lizzie.”
Jack whistled softly. “Nick’s got one temperamental, frustrated friend. Maybe Patterson killed the competition.”
“I agree that Patterson is elevated as a suspect.” Sarah quickly turned pages in her notebook. “I wish, however, to focus on another suspect. Clara Sullivan may have murdered Lizzie. Or fired the bullet into her corpse.”
“Come on—you think she’d do that to her own sister?”
“Clara Sullivan had the means and the opportunity. You heard she wanted money from Lizzie, which points to motive.” Sarah hugged herself tightly with both arms. “Have you seen her naked body since we last talked?”
Jack dropped his hand on the table hard enough to make the cups dance. “No.”
Sarah flinched, her pale face pinkening. “I ask because Lizzie might have struggled with her attacker and scratched them. The fibers under Lizzie’s fingernails were cashmere, which is a woman’s luxury material. If you observed such scratches on Clara Sullivan—her neck, arm, perhaps even leg or torso—it would be an important clue.”
“I got the same look at Clara as you did.”
“The dress she wore at the lunchroom may have contained cashmere. I request that you obtain a sample of fibers from that dress when you see her next. You may need to use subterfuge to accomplish the task.”
Jack knew Sarah was on to something about Clara, but was irritated with the way she was pushing it. “Are you encouraging me to have sex with Clara to help the investigation?” She glanced down at the table and then over at the far wall and then back at the table. “Sarah, look at me. Answer the question.”
Her eyes locked on his for three seconds before shifting to a spot beyond his left ear. “I do not enjoy prolonged eye contact with any person. It is extremely uncomfortable for me.”
All the anger flooded away, leaving Jack feeling like an idiot once again. What was it about this woman that stirred him up? “Sorry. I was way out of line. Got a short fuse these days.”
“I accept your apology. I apologize as well.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I often offend people with my speech and manner. I do not intend to do so.”
“Let’s just say that you don’t beat around the bush.”
“I assume that is an idiom.”
“I don’t know what that means. What I’m saying is that you get right to the point without worrying about politeness. I like it—most of the time.” He grinned and then stood. “I need to shove off. Let’s meet back here tomorrow morning to compare notes.”
“That will be satisfactory.” She got to her feet and strode off.
He followed, eyeing her from behind until they reached the door. “Bet you’ll look like a million bucks for your banquet.”
“Jack.” She put both hands in front of her, palms up, and flexed her fingers. The veins in her thin wrists were like violet threads running under a layer of fine white tulle. “Please be careful to avoid further injury.”
“Don’t worry—last thing I want is getting stuck with that needle of yours again.”
One corner of her upper lip barely lifted—possibly the first hint of a smile he had seen from her—before the door closed.
Chapter 13
Sarah—Wednesday, October 13, 1909, 9:00 a.m.
The only thing that came close to the agony of a formal social engagement was getting ready for one—as she was now doing with Margaret’s retinue of seamstresses dedicated to improving Sarah’s appearance.
Wearing a strapless chemise, she stood on a raised wooden box in front of a full-length mirror. All she could think about was the White Queen in Through the Looking-Glass, who was wholly inept in dressing herself and relied on Alice to set things right.
“Let us see the ivory silk charmeuse with the square neckline and crisscross beaded bodice,” said the
chief dressmaker, who sat with Margaret. “Your friend is somewhat deficient in natural development. Fortunately, slim hips have just come into fashion. She clearly needs a well-padded bust improver. That, along with some artful dress alterations, should bring out her womanliness.”
“Let us find something quickly,” said Sarah as an attendant helped her step into a pile of couture pooled at her feet. After the gown came up, she apprised the bodice with its sparkly green beads set against a white satin fabric as predictably garish.
“Lovely, lovely,” said the chief. “I would recommend three strings of pearls with that gown. Either that or a ruby pendant on a diamond necklace. I’m assuming something is to be done with the unfortunate hair, yes?”
“Sarah, what do you think?” asked Margaret.
“The dress is fine. Can we leave? I have urgent matters to attend to.”
“Do you have something a little less busy on top?” Margaret asked. “And in something other than white? Her gown should have some color.”
“Of course, madam.” The chief motioned to one of the attendants. “We have a most striking gown right here. It is a medium-weight burgundy silk dress with lace sleeves and some discreet beading on the shoulders and neckline. Observe the unique embroidery pattern that runs from top to bottom. A lady certainly makes a statement in this.”
After the attendants put the dress on her, Sarah couldn’t take her eyes off the embroidery. It looked like a string of lilies coming into bloom. The topmost lily was about two inches wide, with a succession of gradually smaller lilies running all the way to the fabric bunched on the floor.
“Good heavens,” said Margaret. “That dress is stunning—perhaps a bit too vivid for your taste, Sarah?”
“I favor the embroidery, which looks to be a perfectly expressed arithmetic progression with a common difference of minus two.” She ran a finger along the pattern and thrilled to the thick, ribbed texture.
“The color is a striking contrast with mademoiselle’s pale skin,” said the chief.
“Sarah, please look at yourself in the mirror.”
Sarah pulled her gaze away from the descending pattern of lilies and gasped at her reflection. The woman staring back at her looked like a character from a novel—someone who couldn’t possibly be awkward little Sarah. Could she? Just as Sarah was about to start pulling the dress off, she noticed the lily pattern continued under the bust. Craning her neck behind, she saw the pattern running the length of the train until it disappeared under a plump roll of fabric.
“Well, what do you think?”
This astonishing article of clothing was confounding. She had never worn anything remotely like it, and her resistance to novelty argued for rejection. But there was something strangely compelling about how the woman in the mirror looked in this dress. After a long pause she managed to respond. “I like it more than not.”
“Wonderful, dear. You had better be prepared to turn heads and break hearts at the banquet.”
“Why is that?”
“Darling, in that dress you will attract the interest of any man with a pulse.”
Sarah blinked back at the reflection, which still looked like someone else—even as the woman copied her hand gestures. It took an eternity to have the dress pinned for alteration. Then there was the tedious matter of getting shoes, earrings, and a boxful of cosmetic powders. She was exhausted, but Margaret insisted on having tea. Sarah repeated chunks of the Baltimore and Ohio train schedule to herself while the waiters fussed over them.
“This is such fun,” said Margaret.
“I appreciate your efforts to alter and adorn my body, face, and hair.”
“You’re more than welcome. It is so wonderful to spend time with you in this way. We must do it more often.”
“We should discuss how to obtain the glasses I require for evidentiary purposes.”
Margaret’s lips pressed tightly as she patted Sarah’s arm. “I’ve been thinking—you relied on school for many years to focus your powerful mind. Are you perhaps now desperate for some other distraction?”
“I do not understand your question.”
“Is that unknown man still helping with your . . . investigation?”
“If you are referring to Jack Harden, the answer is yes.”
Margaret reached over the table and took hold of Sarah’s hands. “If you insist on working with this man, I would like to meet him. Perhaps he could visit later this afternoon?”
“Jack is not familiar with society etiquette. In any event, he is engaged in gathering information.”
“I am willing to suspend the formal rules in his case. How about if we meet after the banquet? Even a brief encounter outside the hotel would satisfy my curiosity.”
Sarah considered Jack’s professed sensitivity regarding class and knew that he would bridle at being summoned to meet with Margaret in her evening gown on the sidewalk amid other well-dressed society people. “No. As I said, Jack is far too busy.”
Margaret sighed deeply. “You are too absorbed in this detective story of yours, dear. You need to ground yourself in the world as it is, rather than as you pretend it is. Perhaps we could take a shopping trip to New York? Or even Paris. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Sarah pulled her hands free. “Margaret, I have given you no reason to suspect that I am deluded. And I assure you that Jack is a tangible human being upon whom I do not project fantastic thoughts. My mind is clear and my thoughts rational.” She arranged her silverware while pondering why yet another person thought she was losing her mind. Dr. Anson must have passed on concern about Sarah’s mental health when Margaret telephoned him. A headache building since the early morning now blossomed.
“There is no need to feel any shame,” said Margaret. “You have every right to your emotional distress after such a difficult life. Your mother deserted you. Your father and Grace died horribly—”
“You do not need to keep reminding me about my family. I have not forgotten them.”
Margaret got up, walked behind Sarah, and embraced her. “I know. Forgive my dwelling on those awful facts. You have been under such a terrible emotional strain for so long. I worry so much about you.”
As much as she was enjoying the embrace, Sarah pulled away and stood. “I acknowledge your concern. I must now return to my duties at the hospital.”
Margaret reached for her but then pulled her arm back. “You are in danger, dear. Remember your time in that place.”
“It remains firmly in my memory.” Sarah wanted to say something to allay her friend’s worry and struggled to form the right words. They did not come. All she could manage before departing was “I shall appear at your residence tomorrow morning to complete preparations for my appearance at the banquet. Good day, Margaret.”
Sarah tried to suppress her thoughts during the cab ride to the hospital. It was unwise to fixate on the deaths of her father and sister, but Margaret had brought the memories back to life.
When she was sixteen, her father introduced a new wife: Marie, a widow with social ambition. Marie insisted that Sarah formally enter Baltimore high society, and her father reluctantly agreed, despite his long-standing empathy for Sarah’s social difficulties. The calendar was cruel, as Marie demanded that Sarah come out at a grand charity ball just six months away.
Margaret was appalled and lectured her parents about the hardheartedness of expecting Sarah to dance gracefully, display exquisite manners, sparkle with charm, and otherwise meet the expectations of a debutante. Marie was unmoved.
At Margaret’s direction, an extremely patient ballet master worked to teach Sarah dance. Margaret also spent hours tutoring the young woman about how to pass as a proper young lady. Eventually Sarah learned enough to get by and even managed a semblance of charm through memorization of stock phrases such as “Your hat suits you,” and “Do tell me where you got your dress.” Sarah successfully navigated her debutante ball despite spilling grape punch on her white silk dress and long white gloves.
A couple of weeks later Sarah, Grace, and her father fell ill. Doctors diagnosed typhoid and ordered bed rest. Her stepmother, usually cold and aloof with the girls, tended to them with copious amounts of tea and soup. Sarah refused much of it—her finicky taste buds could not tolerate the liquids.
When her father and sister died within hours of each other, Sarah had a breakdown, switching between catatonia and nonstop wailing. Marie convinced the doctors that Sarah had lost her mind and had the girl packed off to an insane asylum selected for its low cost and distance from Baltimore.
Sarah recalled nothing of her first hours in the place, but found herself in a small closed room with an iron-barred window and a dozen other women. Her bedding was a straw pallet, a dingy sheet, and a foul-smelling blanket. She found it difficult to sleep, as her roommates variously shrieked or babbled at all hours.
Attendants regularly clomped into the room, one holding a lantern and another using a stick to poke inmates to make sure they were still alive. In the morning Sarah put on a worn woolen dress and was marched with the others into a cold dining hall for a breakfast of lumpy porridge and weak tea. Afterward she was taken to see a well-dressed young man, who asked her name and other personal details. She rationally answered all his questions as he leisurely wrote in a large notebook.
“Who are you and why am I here?” she asked.
“I am Dr. Grant. You are here because you are hopelessly demented.”