A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  Someone had killed Jamie. And according to what de Bruijn said and she had seen, it was a brutal attack, which went far past a blow or two. It was an attack fueled by a passion of the most heinous sort. But Welles stood to lose much, if found out. Family, reputation, everything.

  Would a family man do such a thing?

  Look how much he’s lost, not just last week, but also in the past. It can all add up, whispered that little voice inside of her.

  Inez watched the pianist as he strode through the showroom to the entry door and stepped out into the street to greet one of their sheet-music suppliers. Would she now have to add Thomas Welles to her list of possible suspects? The list only seemed to grow, while the only thing growing shorter was time.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After leaving the store, Inez returned to the apartment to write a quick note to Carmella. She then tore it up. What could she say that wouldn’t sound suspicious if found by Nico? Finally, she went to the corner where she had found the boy who had delivered the message to Flo. The boy was there, hands in pockets, whistling.

  Inez approached him and said, “Do you remember me?”

  He looked up, pulled on the brim of his cap, and said, “Sure. You’re the lady with the message to Mrs. Florence Sweet at the Palace Hotel about hats. D’you have another message for her?”

  “I have another message, yes, but not for Mrs. Sweet.” She explained she wanted him to go to a private residence in the Western Addition—she gave him the address—and ask for Miss Donato. “If the door is answered by a gentleman, say you have the wrong house, apologize, and leave.” She thought it unlikely Nico would be home. It was late enough in the day that by the time the messenger arrived, Nico would be on his way to the music store or already there.

  The boy looked intrigued. “Crikey.”

  Inez continued, “If Miss Donato is home, tell her Mrs. Stannert says, ‘Your friends know and your brother will know soon. Act accordingly. All is well, do not worry, I shall be by to see you in a few days.’”

  “What if she has a message for you?”

  Inez pointed down the street. “See the door next to the music store?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have her write a note, seal it, address the envelope to Mrs. Stannert, and slide it under that door.” She gave him two dimes, thinking the additional distance and time it would take to complete his task was worth it.

  Next on her list: Haskell.

  A short walk brought her to a three-story building. She paused inside the lobby, preparing herself for the climb up a staircase of narrow, steep stairs. Next to the wooden balustrade, which looked as if it could benefit from a good scrubbing and polishing, was a small sign pointing upward that said “The Workingman’s Voice—Organize, unite, be heard!” Below, was the encouraging annotation “Third Floor,” accompanied by an arrow.

  Clutching her satchel and closed umbrella in one hand, Inez gripped the railing with the other and began her ascent.

  A steady stream of men moved in the opposite direction. Many had the “air of the sea” about them while others appeared to be in league with the printing trade, if their ink-stained hands and clothes were any indication. All were unfailingly polite, saying variations of “Excuse me, ma’am,” and stepping aside to let her pass.

  She felt their eyes on her back and guessed that visitors of the female persuasion were few and far between at The Workingman’s Voice. By the time she had made her way to the door of the newspaper office, she was beginning to think that perhaps she should have tried to catch Haskell at the end of the day.

  Nothing to be done about it now. I am here, and I am not leaving without talking to Haskell himself. Too, there were other reasons. Welles had refused to say much. She hesitated to approach Nico directly. If dour Welles looked askance at her digging into the background of the early union, how would volatile Nico respond?

  No, it was best to talk to Haskell, who, although an enthusiastic supporter and advocate of the labor unions and efforts in the city, had not been a member of the musicians union.

  The door opened, emitting another fellow of the printing trade. He held it so Inez could enter. Inside was a cramped office space that included three desks, unoccupied except for the towering stacks of newspapers and other printed materials, and a fourth desk nearly hidden by a clutch of men. From the gravel voice and noxious cigar smoke that erupted from the epicenter, Inez guessed that Haskell himself sat at the desk. She heard him say, “The old guard from the Workingmen’s Party was on the sandlot Sunday, but they’ve lost their fire, no surprise.”

  She cleared her throat and the huddle turned toward her. Conversation stopped dead, hats came off, and the group parted, revealing Haskell squinting through the tobacco-heavy miasma. He rose from his chair, adjusting his tie and tugging his waistcoat down from its rumpled advance upwards over a not-quite-white shirt. “Mrs. Stannert! This is a surprise! But we’ll not look askance at a visit from the manager of one of the up-and-coming fine music stores of the city.” He plucked the cigar from his mouth and grinned. “Welcome to The Workingman’s Voice. You caught us doing what journalists do best—gossiping. So, what brings you to these parts?”

  All those men staring at her made her uncomfortably aware of how unused she was of being the center of attention. She cleared her throat. “If I could take a few minutes of your time, I was hoping you could help me with some labor-related questions.” Inez hesitated, eyeing the men who looked just as rumpled as Haskell. “I do apologize for the interruption. But it’s important that I speak with you privately.”

  Haskell beamed. “No problem! Always happy to provide information on the labor activities of our fair city. ‘Organize, agitate, educate, must be our war cry.’” He turned to his compatriots. “Any of you know who said that?”

  “Henry George? Sounds like something out of his book Progress and Poverty,” ventured one.

  Haskell shook his head. “Susan B. Anthony. Goes to show, gentlemen, never underestimate the ladies.” He balanced his half-smoked cigar on the edge of his desk, perilously close to a pile of what looked like trade circulars. “Shall we continue later? Give me some time to talk with Mrs. Stannert here and to digest the news, eh?”

  The men, who, in absence of introduction, Inez surmised were reporters or scribblers of some stripe or other, filed out of the office, with one tossing over his shoulder, “See ya at the Parker House, Rog.”

  “You dined at the Parker House, Mrs. Stannert?” Haskell cleared off a chair for her, the process consisting of shifting a stack of newspapers off the seat and onto the floor. “Beans baked with green pepper, the best in the city. Highly recommended.”

  “I have not had the pleasure, but shall make an effort to try it some time.” Inez sat, or rather perched, on the edge of the rickety chair. One of its legs was shorter than the others. Looking around, Inez realized her chair was in better shape than the others that she could see. She wondered if the state of Haskell’s furniture was one reason all of the pressmen had been standing, then reined in her mind from idle speculation.

  “I understand you have a vast knowledge of the labor activities and trade unions in town,” she began.

  He nodded. “I’ve been here a long time. Was a newsman on The Call, back when. Reported on the fight for a ten-hour day. Was there in March 1870, the day when a thousand men showed up for a hundred jobs to clear Yerba Buena Park. Listened to Henry George jawbone about the plight of the laboring man and the vanishing frontier, and proofed his Progress and Poverty back in 1875. That book ended up selling like hotcakes, too. The depression of 1877 was tough on workers here. I watched the Workingmen’s Party of California rise and fall, the pick-handle brigade face off against the sandlot rioters. Now, we got Frank Roney, his Seamen’s Protective Union, and the Trades Assembly. Gotta say, it’s never dull.” He raised his tangled eyebrows. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come all
this way to hear me pontificate. What can I do for you?”

  “It has to do with the musicians union.”

  He laughed. “What union? The one that stuttered and collapsed back in ’74? Or the one in young Monroe’s imagination?”

  “Ah.” Inez realized Haskell didn’t yet know about Jamie’s fate.

  After she explained, he sobered. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead. A real shame about Monroe.” He stared down at his desk blotter, his face sagging. “He had a lot of passion. Conviction. I actually thought he might pull it off, once he hit his stride. He reminded me of Roney.” He blinked, then refocused on Inez. “At least the young fella is going home. Glad they found his family.”

  There it was. A natural opening for what she wanted to discuss.

  “Otto brought Mr. Monroe’s effects to me for safekeeping, just until they can be delivered to the family. I wanted to ask you about some papers that were in his possession.” She pulled out the pages from her satchel and held them out to him. “Welles thought they might be from those union days.”

  He took the papers from her. “Oh, yeah. Monroe came and asked me all about the most recent go-round. D’you know, the musicians have been trying to organize for a long time around here. In 1850, when California became a state, they demanded a wage increase, saying they wouldn’t play at the celebration unless they got one. Well, guess what? No music got played and I don’t think anyone missed it. After that there were two attempts at unionizing. First one was in ’69 and didn’t get far. The second time was, like I said, in ’74. They had better luck then, but it still didn’t last.”

  “I understand you knew the treasurer from the most recent union? Welles told me his name was Greer.”

  “Yeah. I knew Eli Greer pretty well, or thought I did. A strange business, him disappearing when the union dissolved, taking off with the union funds. He sure didn’t seem the type. I guess you never really know what a fellow’s made of until he’s faced with temptation.”

  “I wondered about that when you mentioned it the other night. Didn’t anyone try to find him? Report him to the police?”

  “Oh, sure. Not that our efforts amounted to anything. In fact, I spent some time trying to work out what happened to Eli myself. Talked to his wife, and some of his associates and friends. Even bought a drink or two for the detective looking into the matter. Nothing. It was like he’d vanished into thin air.”

  “Mr. Welles also said you ‘inherited’ some of the organization’s records. Did Jamie look through them on one of his visits here? Could these papers be from them? ” She surveyed the office, noting the stacks and boxes lining the walls and spilling out onto the floor. It was as if a paper army was gathering, preparing to launch itself upon the last vestiges of empty space.

  “He did. He was curious as to why the union failed. I told him what I could. I also suggested he talk to some of the members from that time who are still around. Fellows like Welles, Donato, some of the others. He wanted to look through the records, and I said sure. No one else cared about them. They’ve been sitting there for years.” Haskell nodded at a pile of boxes by the back window, listing dangerously to one side. “I pulled out what I had and left him to it.”

  The newspaperman focused on the pages from Inez, running a cursory eye over them. “I’m guessing this is a list of the members. I didn’t know them all, but some of the names are familiar.”

  “You can read this?” Inez thought back to how both she and Welles had had trouble interpreting the crabbed scribbles.

  “Oh, I come across worse than this in my job,” he said. “Besides, I knew Greer and learned how to interpret his hieroglyphs. When you’re a newsman, that sort of thing sticks with you.”

  “The numbers, could they be funds?”

  “Most likely.” He ran a finger down the column. “Largish amounts. Not typical monthly dues. I wonder. Maybe this is a record of the disbursements to be made when the union dissolved. The numbers are too large to be much of anything else. And original members would’ve received more, while those who joined later would’ve received less. That certainly tracks with what’s here.”

  “Since this was in Mr. Monroe’s possession, I am guessing he had some interest in what happened after the demise of the union. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what happened to Mr. Greer and the funds.”

  Haskell shrugged. “That’s possible. But if so, that trail is long cold. You know, I felt pretty sorry for Eli’s wife, and for the first year or so after he disappeared, I would re-visit things and ask around, just to see if anyone remembered anything as time went on.”

  “And?”

  “Memory is a slippery thing, Mrs. Stannert, and the more time passes, the more imagination takes over where memory leaves off. It all eventually devolved into ‘I might recollect something one guy heard from another guy.’ One member thought he remembered Eli saying how if he ever got the chance, he’d head lickety-split for New York where there were more opportunities. Another thought maybe Eli joined the gold rush to Deadwood, up Dakota Territory way. Someone else thought maybe he once mentioned moving to Arizona Territory. When all those vague stories started being passed around, I knew it was a lost cause.”

  “If no one got their shares, it could have been enough to start over, if he was so inclined.”

  “True. Maybe the temptation was too great. Still, I would’ve thought he’d take the missus with him.”

  “Or maybe he was an easy mark for murder.”

  “True again.”

  Inez pondered on Mrs. Greer and what it must have been like for her. Perhaps her husband had kissed her good-bye one morning, promising to be home in time for dinner, and then…nothing. Much like what had happened to Inez the day her husband Mark had disappeared. “What happened to Mrs. Greer?”

  “She stayed in town for a while, hoping he’d surface or that someone would eventually find him. Finally, she went Back East to her kin. I lost track of her then.”

  So much for talking to the wife, Inez thought resignedly. If there was anything to be found out about the vanished treasurer and funds, it would have to be through the list that Jamie Monroe had kept hidden under his mattress.

  “What about the first name on this list?” Inez asked. “There’s a checkmark by it, in pencil. The mark could have been original on the ledger, but looks more recent to me.”

  “Hmmm.” Haskell squinted. “Abbott, S. I’ll bet that’s Stephen Abbott. I remember him. Lost use of his hands shortly before the union went bust. A musician who can’t use his hands has it pretty tough. Haven’t heard about him in years.”

  “Any thoughts on how I might find him, if he is still in the city?”

  Haskell scratched his jaw. “There’s the city directory, of course. But it doesn’t catch everyone. You could try the Musical Protective Association. They assist sick and disabled members and families. Been around since ’64 and reorganized in the mid-70s, right around the time the union went belly-up. They might know of him, or what happened to him.”

  “Where would I find this society?”

  “They meet the second Tuesday of every month.” He held up his hand at her exclamation of dismay. “Yeah, you just missed it. But if you’re in a big hurry, and it seems you are, I’d say go talk to the secretary, John Baumann.” Haskell broke off and snatched up his cigar, which was still smoldering on the edge of his desk.

  Inez noted that the scarred wood was pocked with old burn marks and now a new one as well.

  Haskell stuck the cigar in his mouth and mumbled around it, “Hold on a minute.” He opened a drawer, extracted a battered copy of the city directory, and thumbed through it. “No Stephen Abbott. Let’s try Baumann. Here we go. I’ll write down the address for you.” He turned to a tin can on his desk, bristling with sharpened pencils, took one, and neatly block-printed the address on the top page of the list.

 
; He handed the papers back to her. “There. Now, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”

  Inez sighed. “I wish I knew. I am trying to figure out what Jamie Monroe was doing the last few days of his life. This list was tucked away, hidden.” She hesitated. “He had indicated, not directly to me but to someone else, that there was some…danger…coming from his activities in the labor movement. I’m trying to see if that perhaps had anything to do with his demise.”

  Haskell crossed his arms over his ample stomach and peered at Inez. “Seems more a job for the local law than the lady manager of a music store.”

  She thought briefly of her previous life and the many times—too many times—she had become entangled in murderous goings-on in Colorado. I am not in Colorado now. I must be more circumspect. “You are quite right, of course. But I can’t stop thinking of Jamie, his family, the awfulness of the entire situation, and wishing I could do something, no matter how small, to shed light on what happened. I suppose it is human to want to make sense out of senseless violence. I am probably grasping at straws. Should I discover anything useful, I would of course go to the police.” She mentally crossed her fingers.

  Haskell nodded. “Good. See that you do. We’d miss those Monday night palavers over cards should something befall you.” He gave her a small smile. “That was a joke, but not a good one. And we’re not the only ones who’d miss your presence. Nico’d be lost without you. Dunno if he’s made it clear to you, Mrs. Stannert, but he’s real impressed with how you turned his business around. And in case you didn’t know, he’s a hard man to impress.”

  He put his elbows on the desk and leaned over it. “You didn’t hear that from me. But seriously, if you’re going to be nosing around the edges of Monroe’s involvement with the local labor movements, be careful. There are some dangerous characters out there. Not the musicians, of course, but should you go farther afield in your queries as to his activities and associates…” He let that hang.