Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1)

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  Muldoon hadn’t known, but the woman seemed talkative. It might be the easier way to get the information he was looking for. “She was accompanied by her daughter?”

  “Yes, of course. A woman doesn’t travel alone. She had a maid, as well. A mulatto girl… Lydia, I think I her name was.” She waved a fine-boned hand, as though dismissing the servant.

  “And Miss Margaret, she enjoyed her stay in the country?”

  “Certainly. As well as any child of her age, I suppose. She prefers New York, I’m sure, with its parties and socials, the opera, and symphony… ” Her voice dropped, became dreamlike, as she reminisced. Muldoon sensed she thought more of her own past than about Margaret Hamm’s.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Muldoon,” she said suddenly, a curious expression in her eyes. “What exactly are you here for? Are you on business for my brother?”

  “Of a sort,” he replied. “I’d like to speak to Miss Margaret, if I may. He sent me with a message for her.” He hadn’t a message, of course, but if he were to see Miss Hamm, he’d mumble an excuse, feign some inconsequential message from the girl’s father, and beat a hasty retreat.

  Mrs. Wannamaker had a habit of patting her coiffure, to make certain it was in order. She froze, one hand on its way, yet again, to her hair. “But… ” she began. “Isn’t she at home?”

  His heart sank. “Madam, may I speak with your husband?”

  The woman walked stiffly to the bell pull and summoned a servant. Within moments, the maid who had answered the door appeared. “Susan, would you please send Johnson in to the Master? I require his presence.”

  He assumed Johnson must be the butler. No doubt, Mr. Wannamaker was in his office, a room many men kept off-limits to women, including the staff. The butler would be responsible for keeping that room in order.

  Mrs. Hamm moved slowly, trancelike, toward the settee. She sat stiffly erect and motioned Muldoon toward a chair across from her. He knew politeness required him to sit, so he perched stiffly at the edge of the chair, afraid to sit back in case the delicate-looking thing broke under his weight.

  Shortly, a tall man of about fifty entered the room. Like his wife, he seemed all angles, reminding Muldoon vaguely of President Lincoln. The man’s eyes were drawn to Muldoon as he rose from his seat.

  “My dear… ” Mr. Wannamaker began, as he turned to his wife. “You requested my presence? You know, of course, I’m working on a legal matter.” He turned to Muldoon. “I’m an attorney,” he explained.

  “This is Mr. Muldoon. He has just come from the city,” said his wife, her words barely more than a whisper.

  Mr. Wannamaker turned again to Muldoon. He didn’t proffer his hand. His gaze slid over Muldoon’s not-quite-so-fine suit. “Please, Mr. Muldoon, have you business in this household?”

  “Aye, I’m afraid I do.” He pulled the letter of introduction from his pocket and handed it to the man. “I hoped to inquire, and finding everything satisfactory, take my leave without alarming anyone. But I fear that’s no longer possible. It appears young Miss Hamm has gone missing.”

  Mrs. Wannamaker breathed in, a sudden shocked sound, and raised one hand to touch the center of her breastbone.

  “I’m sorry to bring the news in this way. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary,” Muldoon said, concerned for the woman.

  “No, no, it couldn’t be helped,” Mr. Wannamaker said. He strode swiftly toward the pull and rang the bell hard. Within moments, the maid returned. “Get Mrs. Wannamaker a tisane tea, Susan. She’s had a shock.”

  “So, you’re a police officer,” Mr. Wannamaker continued as he turned back to Muldoon.

  “Aye. I’m investigating the disappearance, it would seem. I’m sorry, but I must ask some questions.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Wannamaker said, and took a seat beside his wife. He took her limp hand in his protectively.

  “When did you last see Miss Margaret?” Muldoon began.

  “It was almost two weeks ago.”

  “Yes, on a Tuesday,” Mrs. Wannamaker added. “She was leaving for the train. She was so excited.” The woman’s face paled even more and she slumped back against the sofa cushions.

  “She left suddenly?” Muldoon asked.

  “Yes.” The lawyer’s hand tightened about his wife’s. “She was retrieved… or so we thought.”

  “Retrieved? That’s an odd expression. As though she were banished here.”

  “In a manner of speaking, she was. Her mother had left with the child, but she was to remain here… until sent for.”

  “And somebody came for her. Who was that, exactly?”

  “It was the footman, I don’t know his name. He arrived on Monday with the news that she was expected the following day. Her train fare had already been purchased. Then, the three of them left. My man drove them to the train.”

  “The three of them?” Muldoon asked.

  “Yes. Margaret, the footman, and her maid.”

  “Lydia, you said?” Muldoon turned to Mrs. Wannamaker.

  “Yes, I believe that was her name. But it’s hard to know… with somebody else’s servants.”

  The maid returned with a tray. She set it on the small table before the settee. Mrs. Wannamaker mumbled a quiet thanks and waved her away.

  “Just a moment,” Muldoon said. The girl stopped and turned to him with a surprised, hesitant expression. “Miss Margaret’s maid… was her name Lydia?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the girl, bobbing a curtsy. Her eyes flicked to Mr. Wannamaker. He nodded to her, and she apparently took it to mean she could speak with the strange visitor.

  “Can you tell me what she looked like?” Muldoon asked.

  “She was kind of brown-skinned, but light, like. With freckles. And her hair was a reddish-brown. She was very pretty, sir.” She glanced quickly again toward Mr. Wannamaker. “If I do say so myself. Oh, and she was real tall.”

  Muldoon nodded at her.

  “Thank you, that will be all,” Mr. Wannamaker said, curtly dismissing the servant. She turned and fairly ran from the room.

  “Do you have more questions, Mister… or should I say Sergeant… Muldoon?”

  “Just a few, if you don’t mind. Her father, Colonel Hamm, seemed to think she was due on the train this past Sunday. Why would that be?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mr. Wannamaker said drily.

  “Oh!” his wife exclaimed. “She had a letter after she left.” The woman stood, rather wobbly on her feet, for just a moment. “I hadn’t sent it on to her yet, it’s on the tray.” Stiffly, she went into the hall and retrieved a letter from a table just outside the door. She handed it to Muldoon, and then sat back down beside her husband.

  “May I?” Muldoon asked, and slit the envelope with his index finger. Inside was a folded sheet, the same stationary on which Colonel Hamm had written his note to the Wannamakers. It was a cursory letter from her father, train tickets enclosed. There was little emotion to the letter, perhaps even a hint of coldness. It was certainly something to look into.

  “This came in the post?” he asked, and handed the contents to Mr. Wannamaker. His wife read over his shoulder, raising a trembling hand to her lips.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Wannamaker answered. “But I didn’t have any idea what it was, or I would have opened it.”

  “You can’t be blamed,” her husband said, and patted her arm comfortingly. “How were we to know? After all, it was her family’s own footman that took her!” He glared at Muldoon.

  With a sigh, Muldoon pulled the blue bible out of his pocket. He opened it and slid a folded piece of paper from between two photos. Unfolding it carefully, he held it out to Mr. Wannamaker. “Is this your niece?” he asked.

  With a little shriek, the woman fainted.

  “You have your answer,” Mr. Wannamaker said. “May I ask why you carry a sketch of Margaret? Especially when you had no knowledge that she was actually missing? Certainly, her father would have given you a photo.”

  The man knew. Muldoon could see
it in his eyes. He spoke quietly, respectfully. “I’m investigating a murder. Two, actually. This drawing is a likeness of the most recent victim.”

  Mr. Wannamaker nodded slowly, holding his wife close in his arms. Muldoon rose, crossed to the pull, and rang the bell. The lady would need to be cared for, the doctor called.

  As soon as she’d been helped away, leaning heavily on her maid, Mr. Wannamaker turned his full attention to Muldoon. “So, she hasn’t been officially identified as yet.”

  “No.”

  “Then, I shall come with you. I would save my brother-in-law this one thing. He’ll have sorrow enough.”

  Muldoon thanked him, told him which train he’d be on, and then took his leave. He suddenly had more inquiring to do in this town. He hoped he could find out all he needed with a stop at the police station.

  Immediately upon returning to town, he went to the station. It was a small building, nothing at all like the behemoth he worked out of in the city. A pleasant young man sat at the desk, and Muldoon doffed his hat respectfully, and then introduced himself.

  “What can we do for you, Sergeant?” the officer asked.

  “I’m investigating two murders, and the disappearance of several people.”

  The young officer sat upright in his seat. “Here?” he said. “We’ve only had the one, and that was a Negro.”

  “A woman?” asked Muldoon, already certain of the answer.

  “Well, yes. Perhaps you’d like to speak to the Chief?”

  “Aye, perhaps I should.”

  The Chief was a big, burly man, but soft-spoken. “She was a Negro,” agreed the Chief. “But she’s been buried already. In the African burial grounds, out of town.”

  “Can you tell me what she looked like?” Muldoon asked.

  The description matched that of the missing maid. He was sure it was the same woman. As he expected, she’d been strangled. He showed the two photos to the Chief, but the man didn’t recognize either person. To his knowledge, neither Mr. Kavanagh nor Mr. Schneider had ever been in town. No, she didn’t have any mysterious bruising on her abdomen. And the police hadn’t seen any stakes with initials carved into them.

  “One more thing,” began Muldoon before leaving. “Mr. Wannamaker… he has a busy court schedule?”

  “Busier than most,” the Chief said. “He’s the best in town.”

  “And he’s been in town the last couple of weeks? You wouldn’t happen to know if he had to go out of town or anything?”

  “No, he’s been in court every day, up until a couple of days ago. He had a major case, a legal dispute between the bank and the railroad. But he got it settled.”

  “That’s good,” Muldoon said as he took his leave. So, he could scratch Mr. Wannamaker off his list of suspects. Now, he needed to find the footman, but there wasn’t a trace of him in Dayton. His trail, Muldoon suspected, would take him to New York City.

  The return trip had been uneventful. Mr. Wannamaker rode in first class, Muldoon in second, so he had been spared the uncomfortable silence that would have enshrouded them. Upon their arrival in the city, Wannamaker took a hotel room, saying he was loath to visit his brother-in-law until after he had identified the body. He wanted to be certain before disrupting that family’s peace.

  Muldoon was glad for the break. He returned immediately to his own rooms, where he was met by Meg McAllister, who demanded a full recital of his travels. He told her about the trip in a vague way, describing people and places. And no, he told her, there was no sign of the man with the cane. What he didn’t tell her was that this had ballooned quickly from a single murder to a triple homicide.

  CHAPTER 29

  April 24

  Muldoon

  watched silently from behind his heavy curtains as Casper Biggs slipped out the door. The man snuck across the front porch and inched his way forward in the darkness, carefully avoiding the squeaky spots.

  Hurriedly pulling on a pair of pants and a clean undershirt, Muldoon stepped into the dark hall. He was sure Biggs headed for another assembly in the Quaker meeting house. He didn’t need to follow him this time. Instead, he made his way up the stairs. He wanted to take a look around the man’s room.

  At the top of the steps, he turned left, and then followed the landing toward the front of the house. When he reached Biggs’ door he paused, and listened intently to the small noises of the house. Quietly, he pulled a small tool kit from his pocket, inserted a pin into the lock, and twisted it about until the mechanism released with a snap.

  Again, he held still and listened intently. The house was silent. He pushed the door open and slipped into the dark chamber. The upstairs rooms weren’t connected to the gas main, so, unlike his own rooms, there wasn’t a lamp on the wall with the constant low glow of flame. A sliver of light filtered in from between the heavy curtains, and he strode toward them. He peered out onto the street. Biggs was gone, and he couldn’t see any movement out there. He pulled the curtains wide so the dim glow from the streetlamp could brighten the room a bit.

  The place was extremely tidy, but he knew that was due more to Mrs. Dunn than to Casper Biggs. The bedcovers were turned down and slightly rumpled, as if waiting for its occupant to return. The table beside it held a stubby candle on a dish, a box of matches at its side. Several books lay atop the table, stacked neatly. Muldoon flipped through them, just in case something was tucked inside. But they were clean.

  He turned to the small bureau and methodically rifled through the drawers, careful to leave no trace of his search. At the bottom of the second drawer, he found a stack of envelopes, each slit open at the top. He pulled them from the drawer and carried them toward the window. In the dim light, he could just make out the writing. All were addressed to Biggs. He slid the first letter from its packet and held it up to the dim light.

  “Dearest Brother Casper,” it began. Muldoon raised an eyebrow. The man didn’t have a brother… did he? He turned again to the letter.

  “I have received your letter of February the 3rd. We are very interested in your activities in New York. As brothers in this endeavor, we would certainly like to see our little enterprise spread its roots in your Northern region. Perhaps even beyond, to Massachusetts, and to Maine! It takes this kind of effort to form any party, and we hope our brotherhood can become an organization to challenge that of the Democrats and the Republicans. Of course, we are most concerned with the new Radical Republicans, and would gladly see a demise in its membership. Still, that is for another day!

  As for the brotherhood, if you can arrange the use of the meeting hall you spoke of, we can guarantee a slate of speakers. You must, as always, work quietly. Though this is the noblest of causes, it is one which stirs angry sentiments among those unenlightened few who praise the Negro and the Irish… ”

  Something outside moved!

  Muldoon dropped to one knee and peered from behind the curtains. He was sure he’d seen a slight movement out on the street. There… it came again. He could just make out the shape of a man in the shadows beyond the streetlamp. The figure turned furtively about, and then ran toward the boarding house.

  Quickly, Muldoon replaced the letters in the bureau drawer and smashed the one he’d read, along with the envelope, into his pocket. He paused at the door, then opened it a crack. Over the landing, he could see a slowly growing patch of light as the front door opened and the top of Biggs’s head came into view. Damn, Muldoon thought. How the hell do I get out of this one? Biggs must have forgotten something, he reasoned. Perhaps the very letters he’d held, and now come back to get. The man would come up the stairs and find him in the room… and he had no excuse. He might have his suspicions, he knew Biggs was involved with some strange brotherhood, but he had no real knowledge of their plans. As long as they took no action, they could say anything they wanted. At this moment, it was he, Muldoon, who was in the wrong… won’t the Captain enjoy this one, he thought.

  Muldoon shut the door with a tiny click. Quickly, he moved towar
d the window, pried it open and slid it up in the frame. He pushed the table to the side so he could get close. Carefully, he pulled himself through and balanced on the sill. He looked down at the shingled porch roof, praying that it would hold his weight. He stepped out onto the roof… it held. Spinning quickly about, he reached up and pulled the window closed behind him… just as the inner door opened.

  He dropped to his hands and knees, then crawled to the side of the porch and dropped off the edge, landing heavily on the ground. He pressed against the wall, hiding in the shadow. Quickly, he inched between the two buildings. It was a tight squeeze. New Yorkers liked to fill every spare inch with structures. His own window was shut tight. He continued to push his way between the buildings, toward the back, hoping to break out into the open space before Casper Biggs caught him.

  Up above, he heard Biggs open the window through which he’d just made his escape. He imagined the man’s features twisted with rage, wondering who had invaded the sanctity of his space. The man climbed out onto the porch roof. Muldoon heard feet scraping on the wooden shingles.

  Suddenly, he reached an unlatched window. It was open wide, not his own, but Meg McAllister’s. He thrust his upper body back, and balanced across the windowsill. He walked his feet up the next building and pushed himself through the window, rolling as he hit the ground. A table nearly fell over when he hit it, but he grabbed it, steadied it. Glass tinkled as it broke… some trinket, or perhaps a cup and saucer. Quickly, he regained his feet, yanked the window down, and pulled the curtains closed. Just in time, he breathed…

  CHAPTER 30

  Muldoon

  arrived at the morgue a few moments before Mr. Wannamaker. Hesitantly, the man walked the length of the chill hallway to the marble room of the dead. He held a handkerchief tightly against his nose to minimize the smell. Muldoon felt sorry for him. He knew the man would feel guilty for a long time to come.