by Ann Parker
“There is much at stake.” Realizing that might sound cold and calculating, she added hastily, “It is not just you and I. There is Antonia to consider.” She hated offering up her ward as an excuse. It felt as if she was hiding behind the girl’s skirts.
“I thought…” He truly was bewildered, Inez realized. He might not have had a woman refuse his advances before, in which case the possibility of injured male vanity made the situation even more fraught.
“Nico.” She capitulated as far as using his first name and tried to turn the word into a caress. “You have me at a dis-advantage, surely you see that. Surely you can give me the space, the time, I need to think over this change in our relationship.”
He released her and retreated. “Very well.” But it didn’t sound like he thought it was well at all. “It is late. I have kept you from Antonia.” His words and tone also retreated into formality, politeness.
He turned and put his violin away. Inez closed the fallboard and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the sudden chill in the room. They walked out of the store together. After locking up, Nico turned to her and said, “Please, Signora Stannert.” His voice held a tinge of desperate determination. “For very long, I thought you still in mourning and did not want to presume. My intentions toward you are honorable, I swear it.”
“I see.” And she did—but not in the way he probably intended her to see. Inez now realized what particular Pandora had been released when Nico had discovered she was not a widow but a divorcée. Perhaps his intentions had once been “honorable,” but that would no longer be the case. In Nico’s world, and indeed throughout most of society, a widow was a decent woman worthy of respect. A divorcée was not. Nico’s assertions about his intentions could be nothing but an outright lie. Knowing her real status, he did not step back but instead reconsidered his options. She suspected such thinking had been the catalyst for his attempted seduction. Furthermore, she was willing to bet that being rebuffed by an “immoral” woman was unfathomable to him.
Unable to think of anything to add that would neither encourage further attempts nor instigate possible repercussions, Inez said, “Thank you for a beautiful evening. The concert, everything. And it was such an honor to play with you.”
He bowed, a little less stiffly. “I look forward to doing so again very soon.” Before she could respond he grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers, and then let her go, and walked away, back toward Market.
Shuddering, Inez unlocked the door to the apartment, a sanctuary from the mess she’d just sidestepped. The bottle of high-end whiskey she kept in the bottom drawer of her nightstand was the only company she craved in her bed that night. She hurried up the stairs and went to check on Antonia, expecting to find her nestled under her blankets with her nightcap pulled down over her eyes.
Antonia was not asleep.
She sat in bed facing the door, her dark hair tousled, her countenance stormy, chin resting on her pulled-up knees, nightgown clamped tight around her feet. The flannel nightcap lay crumpled on the pillow as if she’d yanked it off and thrown it there.
Inez stepped inside the room, questions dying on her lips. Antonia glared at her, almost vibrating with anger. “You played our song with him. Yours and mine! Why?” She threw herself down on the bed, still curled in a ball, and jammed the nightcap back on, pulling it down over her eyes and nose and nearly to her mouth.
Inez couldn’t come up with any explanation or response besides “I’m sorry,” which seemed ridiculous given the crime she was being accused of. Finally she said, “I thought you would like it, Antonia. I did it for you.”
The nightcap material covering Antonia’s nose whuffled in and out with her sniff.
Inez tried to hold onto her temper. She was tired. The girl was tired. Inez just wanted quiet to think, space to drink, and time to sleep. “Get some rest,” she said. “Tomorrow is Saturday. No need to rise early.” She closed the door.
Pondering her next day’s tasks, Inez paused in their little kitchen on her way to her room. The roller shade was up, and the yellow light from the streetlamp outside made the two chairs, the small table, and the simple stove look very stark.
A single cup sat on the table from the morning’s breakfast, unwashed, alone.
She crossed her arms, staring at the cup and thinking. De Bruijn was recovering. Flo was off on her own mission to protect herself from any repercussions from the failed investigations.
If any progress was to be made in finding out who killed Jamie, Inez realized, she would have to make it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Inez awoke with a dull headache. She couldn’t accuse the champagne since she had only had a sip at the recital, so the whiskey would have to stand alone, guilty as charged. It had only been two fingers’ worth three times over, but she felt as if she had guzzled the entire bottle and had gone down to the store’s office for more.
Thinking of the office and the store brought the previous evening back full force. Inez set the heels of her palms against her eye sockets and groaned. Things were getting entirely too complicated. Nico now probably had certain expectations as to how their interactions would “evolve.” And heaven knows, when Nico had expectations, it took a lot of fancy footwork and careful maneuvering to nudge him off target. She would have to be on guard and distant, but not too distant, whenever he was around. She thought of all the flowers and the bouquets he had showered on her in the past, culminating in yesterday’s sudden, almost desperate avalanche of blooms.
Of course, that was all before he found out she was no widow, but a divorcée.
Why now? Of all times? While she was still trying to figure out the union list, trying to see if what had happened in the past had anything to do with what was going on in the present.
It should have been enough to make her bolt out of bed. Instead, she lay for a while longer, nursing her aching head. She would have to dress for a long day of trudging about the city. First, to the Musical Protective Association’s secretary. There she hoped to obtain Stephen Abbott’s address, and perhaps ask a question or two about Eli Greer. Next, she would go to Abbott, find out whether Jamie had visited him, and, if so, what they had discussed. She only hoped Abbott lived in the city, not across the bay or at some even more remote location, or, as Haskell had surmised, was dead and buried.
And, at some point during the day, she supposed she should talk to de Bruijn.
Uneasy on several fronts, Inez toyed with the idea of bringing her pocket revolver with her. Who knew where Abbott lived and where their conversation might lead her from there? Or perhaps de Bruijn would have insights and that would require her to traipse about in unsavory areas of the city.
Two days until Harry’s return.
Was he already on his way? Had he, perhaps, banked the flames of his anger and desire for revenge with sorrow and acceptance? He might then be more likely to listen to reason, if they failed, and accept that they had tried, she and de Bruijn and Flo, to uncover the killer but had only managed to eliminate suspects.
Inez sat up in bed. “What am I doing?” she said aloud. All of her thoughts, all of her concerns and worries since she had awakened had to do with the men, who suddenly loomed large in her life. Harry. Nico. Even the association secretary and Abbott. All of a sudden, what they thought, what they did, seemed crucial to her very survival.
Inez threw back the covers and got dressed. Once she was properly attired except for footwear, hat, and coat, she picked up her walking boot, weighing it in her hand as if it were the sum of her sudden awareness.
In Leadville, she had been in charge of her own destiny, the face of the Silver Queen saloon. The regulars and others had joked how she was the “Silver Queen” herself. “All hail the queen!” they’d say and raise their glasses and hats to her. She had been their equal in drinking, in poker, in facing down danger, and stepping up to protect those she loved.
Inez jammed her foot into the boot and grabbed the boot hook tight. “That does it,” she said aloud. If she had to stand her ground with Harry, stare his rage in the face, so be it. If he threatened to expose her past history in an attempt to sully her reputation in San Francisco, she would not deny it, not slink away, but stand tall on all the good she had done for the women she had helped in her brief time here.
She would fight.
And if, once all was said and done, she lost her claim on the music store, she would not beg. She now had to admit that claim was as flimsy as the paper their agreement was written on. Her eventual half-ownership of the store rested entirely on the whims of the man who owned it, and she suspected Nico would now insist she become his “mistress of convenience” as the price. If so, she would thumb her nose at him and walk away.
It would be his loss, after all.
She would find other opportunities.
Another life to live for Antonia and herself. Whether in San Francisco or elsewhere.
The world was a big place.
No sooner had Inez finished with boots and hat than the doorbell downstairs began ringing. She headed toward the stairs. Antonia popped her head out of her bedroom, a frown creasing her tired face. “Who’s that?”
“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Inez, opening the door onto the landing. Downstairs, the ringing stopped and the pounding began, joined by high, frantic female voices.
The May sisters.
Inez’s first thought: What on earth were the laundresses doing here, breaking down her door, on a Saturday morning?
Words emerged from the general hubbub as Inez hurried down the stairs.
“Mrs. Stannert! Are you there? Answer the door!” That was Bessie.
“Oh, please dear Lord, ma’am, please you must be there!” That was Molly.
Inez opened the door to find them both, out of breath, hair in disarray, and no hats or gloves. “What’s wrong?” Inez asked, because it was very clear something had the women in the extremity of distress.
“The police,” wheezed Bessie, and lurched forward to grip the doorjamb with her wash-worn hand, “they came for Patrick!”
“What?” Inez tried to grasp what she was saying.
“He’s no murderer!” wept Molly. “My sweet boy, he’s no murderer. How could anyone think that? Ah, the Lord God has turned his back on us!”
Bessie gaped at her distraught sister, who had thrown the skirt of her apron over her face and was sobbing hysterically. “Molly! Blaspheming will not bring him back.”
“My darling boy,” wailed Molly, a cry from the heart. “He’s payin’ for my sins.”
Inez drew them into the tiny entryway. “Patrick’s been arrested for murder?”
It was left to Bessie to explain. “They came to the laundry. Nearly broke the door down. Dragged us outside, Molly and me. They were throwin’ our bricks around, the bricks we paid good money for! And then one, he holds up a brick, sayin’ ‘Here ’tis!” and we see, it’s foul and bloody. At least, that’s what they say, ‘We’ve found the foul and bloody brick, that’s proof enough that the boy did it,’ they say.”
“Proof of what? Murder? Murder of whom?” And the light went on as soon as the words left her mouth.
Bessie confirmed Inez’s suspicions, by saying, “The dead one they found by Long Bridge. He was a musician, playin’ for Henderson next door. And we didn’t know this, but after he was killed, Patrick stepped into his shoes. So, they think he killed the poor lad for the job. And we didn’t even know! Patrick, he sleeps on the back porch, and he was sneakin’ over at night, after good people are asleep, and playin’ for that good-for-nothing drunken crimp.” Bessie spat. “When I get my hands on that boy, he’s going to wish he never saw a piano in his life nor set a foot in that vile and vulgar place.”
“The police didn’t arrest Patrick,” said Inez, catching up at last.
“He vanished.” Bessie said. “Went out the back way, most like, when he heard the voices. Which of course, makes him look guilty as sin. So, the one who used to be an officer and was always friendly to us, he’s now a detective, Lynch is his name, curse his eyes, he turns to us and says, ‘Now, Bessie, Molly, where’s your boy?’ He says, ‘It’s no good hidin’ him. We’ll find him sooner or later, and it’ll be the worse for him if it’s later.’”
Molly emerged from beneath the apron, eyes red and raw. “You have to help us! You have to find Patrick! He can go to the police and explain, tell them he was nowhere near the place on Sunday night.”
Bessie crossed her arms. “Molly, it’s the devil or the deep blue sea. They won’t believe him.” She turned to Inez, eyes intent. “It’s either turn himself in or vanish for good. I think his best chance is to leave.” She had to lift her voice to be heard above Molly’s wail of anguish. “Leave and never come back. But first, we have to find him.”
A small sound up on the landing made Inez and the Mays look up. Antonia was gazing down, still in her nightclothes, a stricken expression on her face. “Patrick’s in trouble? They think he killed Jamie Monroe?”
Inez pointed up at her. “Back inside, Antonia.”
Without a word, Antonia retreated.
“Monroe? That’s the name Lynch gave the lad they pulled from under the bridge.” Bessie stared at Inez. “You knew him.”
“I did.” Inez’s mind raced frantically. Suddenly, her day was complicated many times over. “I will do what I can. The best way to clear Patrick is to find the real killer.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Molly in despair. “The police, they’re not looking for anyone but Patrick. D’you mean me and Bessie have to find the murderer? How are we to do that?”
Inez looked from sister to sister and finally said, “Not you. Me.”
Chapter Forty
Inez grabbed her reticule from the stand by the door, pulled out a few coins, and gave them to the sisters. “Take these. Give them to Patrick if he shows up. He will need to be careful, but perhaps he can take a ferry across the bay, make his way to Sacramento. They won’t look for him there. He must manage for just a while until I straighten this out. Then he can return.”
Molly promised through her sobs that if Patrick should reappear, she would insist he disappear again.
After the sisters left, Inez rummaged in her handbag, checking for the business cards she had lifted from de Bruijn’s waistcoat. Assured they were still there, she returned upstairs and added her pocket revolver to the bag. She headed out, calling, “Antonia, I am leaving. Fix yourself breakfast and work on your school assignments while I’m gone. I have a lot to do today, but I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
A muffled “All right,” emerged from behind the closed bedroom door as she left.
Once outside, Inez glanced toward the store. It was before noon, so Welles had yet to arrive. What about Nico? whispered a little voice inside. Inez silenced the voice. She had other, more important worries on her mind today.
Pulling out Jamie’s list, she read again the address Haskell had neatly printed out for her. She walked around the corner onto Kearney and hailed a passing hack. It was Saturday and surely early enough to catch Baumann, the Musical Protective Association’s secretary, at home.
When she approached the secretary’s house, she was pleasantly surprised to see a gentleman tending to a rosebush in the tiny pocket garden. “Mr. Baumann?” she inquired.
He turned around, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, shears in hand. “Yes?”
“I was here yesterday and the day before. My apolo
gies to you and your housekeeper for being late yesterday.” She held out her hand.
He removed his gardening glove and they shook. “Ah, yes,” he said. “About the association. First, may I offer condolences if they are in order, Mrs….?”
Inez allowed herself a brief smile and said, “Again, my apologies. I did not explain my business as it was a sensitive matter, and I did not want to disclose it to anyone but you.”
She fished out one of de Bruijn’s business cards from her reticule and handed it to him. “Mrs. Wilhelmina de Bruijn.”
He took the card, read it, and raised his eyebrows. “A female private investigator? First time I’ve met one. And what does this ‘finder of the lost’ mean?”
“Well, Mr. Baumann, in this case, it means I am looking for the whereabouts of one of your members who is due to come into a bit of money. Unfortunately, he is not listed in the city directory.”
Baumann adjusted his spectacles and said, “This sounds like good news for a change. Most of the visits I receive on association business are sad affairs. Please, come in.”
Once they were inside, his housekeeper magically appeared, barking, “Shoes! Dirt! I just cleaned the floors!” and then, just as mysteriously, vanished into the back of the house.
Baumann set his shears, cap, and heavy gloves aside, removed his shoes, and slipped on what looked like an exceedingly comfortable pair of velvet carpet slippers. Inez admired their finely beaded roses while he noted, “Martha’s bark is worse than her bite. I’m quite used to it, but she sometimes terrorizes the visitors.” He showed Inez to the parlor, asking, “What is the name of the gentleman in question?”
“Stephen Abbott.”
Baumann nodded and shuffled across the hall to a small office. She watched him go behind a desk, pull out an oversized record book, and turn the large pages. She held her breath, hoping he would not slam it shut and declare Abbott not on the roles. When she saw him pick up a pen, dip it in a bottle of ink, and draw a piece of paper toward himself, she inwardly rejoiced.