Where Cowards Tread

by Sabrina Flynn

  “You really think he hates me that much?”

  Tim chuckled. “Hate might not have anything to do with it, boy.”

  Riot couldn’t disagree. Men had killed for less money. “Regardless, we need to find him.”

  Tim grunted. “Monty has a habit of disappearing.”

  “Maybe so. I’ll check some old haunts and see what I can find out,” Riot said, then told Tim about the disorderly drunks.

  “Now there’s a mind,” Tim said thoughtfully.

  “I intend to look into that, too.”

  “Want some company?”

  Riot shook his head. “We need to rebuild the agency. Otherwise, we’ll be selling Ravenwood Manor. But keep your ears to the ground.”

  Tim nodded. “I don’t much like an enemy in the shadows. You watch yourself, A.J.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Tim snorted. “’Bout the opposite way I reckon.”

  Lured by heavenly scents, Lotario Amsel wandered into the dining room. A table long enough for a banquet stretched down the impressive room. He tried to imagine a lone miser sitting at one end, with an elderly housekeeper standing at his side. Zephaniah Ravenwood must have been utterly boorish.

  Tonight the room wasn’t empty—a crowd of lodgers dined under a crystal chandelier. Lotario’s gaze swept over each in turn, as he casually made his way to the buffet. A beautiful woman sat at one end, the two chairs closest to her empty. She could be an artist’s muse, a lust-filled fantasy of man or woman, and looked more suited to the arm of a prince than a miser’s dining room.

  Tall, shapely, with delicate touches of makeup and a sweeping neckline, Miss Annie Dupree was a carefully sculpted work of art. She also happened to be his nieces’s school teacher.

  Lotario helped himself to a plate, and glanced at Sarah, who was just bringing in a fresh tray. “Oh, do take off that silly apron and dine with me.”

  “But Miss Lily needs help,” Sarah whispered.

  Lotario waved a hand at the buffet table. “Does it appear our lodgers are on the verge of starving?”

  “Maybe Mr. Hughes,” she whispered, and then started, putting a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

  Lotario chuckled. “The Amsel’s have sharp tongues. We’ve already corrupted you.”

  “You didn’t meet my gramma,” Sarah said with a twist of her lips. But she didn’t argue any further. She stuffed her apron under the table and went to join him next to Miss Dupree.

  A number of the lodgers started in surprise. He gave the room a warm smile. “I know, the resemblance to my sister is shocking. Lotario Amsel,” he spoke to the room, but directed his gaze to Miss Dupree. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires in the candlelight. “Is this seat taken, Miss…?”

  “Dupree. Annie Dupree. And no, it’s not.” Pleasant, friendly, and completely indifferent to the not so subtle snub of her fellow lodgers.

  A blond-haired man in the middle shot a glower at the pair, before returning to his meal, or attempting to. Lotario had other ideas.

  “So many lodgers under my sister’s roof. Is it always so somber?” Lotario directed the blunt question to the glowering man, who gave a nervous sort of laugh. “Sarah, won’t you introduce me?” Lotario prodded.

  Sarah obliged.

  The glowering man turned out to be a Mr. Dougal. Amelia Lane was a proper sort of woman in a worn dress, who sat with her small son, Frankie. Harry Hughes was an older man with gray mutton chops, an expansive gut, and cufflinks that could pay his rent for a year. Mr. Löfgren was a cheerful man with hair so blond it was nearly white. Mrs. Bee Clarke was a plump, gray-haired older woman who sat at the far end of the table. David Knight, a studious man with short trimmed brown hair and a British accent. Miss Pierce was tall and slightly bowed of back, and Lotario imagined she spent most of the day hunched over a typewriter.

  “What is it that you do, Mr. Amsel?” Miss Dupree asked.

  “I’m an artist,” he said. “Of wood. A boatbuilder.”

  “For the Saavedra shipyards?”

  “I don’t work for them, Miss Dupree. But they do allow me to tinker in a boathouse. I’m a free agent.”

  “Mr. Lotario built the Pagan Lady,” Sarah offered. “He made it suitable for a family.”

  “How quaint,” Miss Dupree said.

  “I thought so. It’s lovely to have my sister married off to a respectable man, and two nieces thrown into the happy day. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Clarke?”

  The woman blinked. She had that severe look of a woman in a church pew trying to avoid the taint of the masses.

  “Er, yes, Mr. Amsel. I like to see a young woman settled. Are you a married man yourself?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t found my soulmate, though my mother certainly wishes I would.”

  “Don’t do it,” Mr. Knight said. “It’s a trap. A ball and chain. That’s all marriage is.”

  Harry Hughes rumbled a laugh, as he shoved a forkful into his mouth.

  “Not with the right person, Mr. Knight.” This last came from Amelia Lane. She was longish of face, and as pale as her hair. She had dark circles under her eyes, but they were keen and sharp. A gold band encircled her ring finger.

  Lotario glanced at the boy by her side. He looked to be around six years old. “And did you find the right man, Mrs. Lane?”

  “I did.” She glanced fondly at her son. “Only God saw fit to take him from me.”

  “Selfish of him, wasn’t it?”

  Mr. Dougal harrumphed. “I never did buy into that argument from preachers.”

  This triggered Mrs. Clarke, who rose to defend her deity. Within seconds, the silence that had hung over the dining room vanished, leaving Lotario space to sit back and observe the social dynamics.

  Mrs. Clarke warred for dominance with Mr. Dougal, while Mr. Knight looked down his regal nose at them both. Mrs. Lane looked tired of the arguing, Mr. Löfgren embarrassed, and Mr. Hughes chuckled like a fond father over unruly children. And then there were young Frankie and Miss Pierce, who seemed confused by the exchange.

  When Mrs. Clarke started quoting scripture, Lotario leaned on his elbow to whisper in Miss Dupree’s ear. “One thing is certain, I know you didn’t write that article.”

  “Are you so sure?” Miss Dupree whispered.

  Lotario smoothed his mustache in thought. “That article could potentially empty the house of unwanted boarders, but it also brings far too much attention on yourself.”

  “Do I strike you as a woman who minds attention?”

  “Only under the right circumstances.”

  “And what are those circumstances, Mr. Amsel?”

  He gave her a knowing smile. “Discretion and deep pockets.”

  “So you believe the article?”

  “Of course not,” Lotario said, feigning offense. “You’re clearly a schoolteacher of some means, who can afford the best rooms in the house.”

  “Perhaps the article is true, then,” she suggested. Luckily, her voice was too low for Sarah to hear.

  Lotario considered that. “About you being his mistress? I’m sure you tried to seduce Atticus, but he’s immune to charm.”

  There was a slight arch of her sculpted brow.

  “And while my sister is a progressive woman open to new ideas, she doesn’t share well. I know,” he said dryly, “I tried to sleep with her favorite stuffed tiger once. She nearly killed me.”

  Miss Dupree laughed softly, her lashes fluttering just so. Not in an affected way like many women, but natural. Charm and innocence; seduction and intelligence. There was a fine balance to it. And she played the role perfectly.

  “…I’m a better man since meeting my Mary,” Mr. Löfgren insisted to the room. The conversation, it seemed, had shifted once again. “I cannot stop smiling.”

  “You were smiling before,” Mr. Hughes said.

  “I think your Mary is wonderful,” Mrs. Lane remarked.

  Lotario noticed that Miss Pierce hadn’t said a word. A shy sort, he dec
ided.

  “Will your Mary be moving here after the wedding?” Lotario asked, reaching for his wine.

  “Housing is so difficult to find in San Francisco. We had planned to, but…” Mr. Löfgren hesitated. “I’m not sure this would be the best situation for her.”

  “And why is that?” Lotario said.

  “Certain rumors, true or not, can affect a woman’s reputation.”

  “Like the newspaper article, you mean?” Lotario asked innocently.

  One would think he’d tossed a severed head onto the table. Lotario blanched inwardly, remembering that a head once had been placed on this very table—the head of Zephaniah Ravenwood.

  Lotario avoided looking at the center of the table. He wasn’t at all sure the man himself wasn’t still there.

  “Yes,” Mr. Löfgren said with distaste. “I have never read anything so full of lies and indecency.”

  “Oh come now, Mr. Löfgren,” Mrs. Clarke said. “You’re not the only one who saw Mr. Riot return from the theater with Miss Dupree on his arm on multiple occasions. And…” she cut off, glancing at Frankie. “Well, there it is. I’m sure all of you can fill in the rest.”

  Sarah glanced at Miss Dupree, not in shock, but surprise.

  “Oh, rubbish,” Mr. Knight said. “So what if the article is true. This isn’t London society. God knows I came halfway around the world to escape it. One encounters former prostitutes, drunkards, and common thugs at every function in this city.”

  “Mr. Knight!” Mrs. Clarke said. “There are children present.”

  Mr. Knight brandished his fork at the boy across the table. “My point exactly. There’s no society in San Francisco. Children shouldn’t even be eating at our table.”

  “We do things differently here,” Mrs. Lane said.

  “Yes, look at how outspoken the women are,” Mr. Dougal rumbled.

  “Give me a woman with a sharp tongue over a grumbling man any day,” Lotario said. “I like a good lashing.”

  Miss Dupree choked on her wine. To her credit, she hid her surprised snort well, and picked up a napkin to dab at her lips.

  Mr. Knight shot Lotario a hard look.

  Harry Hughes rose to refill his plate. “I, for one, find San Francisco refreshing. One can be at ease with both sexes. It’s rather liberating.”

  “There’s no room for proper society in San Francisco. The geographical location makes it near impossible to house everyone, what with the constant flow of immigrants and visitors and those traveling through. There just isn’t room for propriety.” Miss Pierce delivered her single statement in a perfunctory manner. It was the first time she had spoken, and she seemed embarrassed by her sudden outburst.

  “That’s very insightful,” Lotario said. “What is it that you do, Miss Pierce?”

  “I work in statistics at the Census Bureau. I’m a mathematician.”

  Mr. Hughes slapped his hand on the table. “There you have it! A progressive society for women.”

  “And the same immigrants and influx of female workers make it hard for men to find decent work,” said Mr. Dougal.

  “Is there such a thing as indecent work for men?” Miss Dupree asked.

  “You should know,” Mr. Dougal shot back.

  “Do you enjoy your work?” Sarah asked Miss Pierce, trying to defuse Mr. Dougal’s mounting anger.

  Miss Pierce hesitated. “I’m happy for the work, but I’m paid a fourth of what my male counterparts are paid and reduced to little more than an errand boy.”

  “You’re still stealing a job that could be staffed by an actual boy.”

  Miss Pierce shot a scathing look at Mr. Dougal.

  Sarah’s shoulders bowed slightly. Lotario could see a touch of hopelessness enter her eyes. Though whether it was with the futility of brokering peace between lodgers or her own future as a woman, Lotario couldn’t be certain.

  “Things are bound to change,” Mr. Löfgren said, cheerfully.

  “We can only hope,” Mrs. Lane said. “It won’t change the housing situation in San Francisco, though. Most lodging houses aren’t tolerant of children or single women, and those that are always have a curfew. I’m thankful for this house. I don’t know where Frankie and I would go otherwise. But now, with that article, my employment is at risk.”

  “Women should not be out at ungodly hours,” Mrs. Clarke said.

  “Not everyone’s husband died under suspicious circumstances and left her a fortune,” Mrs. Lane said.

  “If I had a fortune I wouldn’t be here!” Mrs. Clarke snapped.

  Mrs. Lane took a deep breath, looking exhausted. “If you will all excuse us. I have to get my son to bed before heading to work.”

  Mrs. Clarke huffed. It signaled the end of dinner, and not long afterward Lotario found himself sitting alone with Miss Dupree and Sarah.

  “Now that was entertaining,” Lotario said.

  “That was the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had,” Sarah said, pushing food around her plate with a fork.

  “You didn’t find it enlightening?” Lotario asked.

  “That we live under the same roof with people who are at each other’s throats? No.”

  “And there you have it, my dear. Motive.”

  “For what?”

  “The article.”

  Sarah blinked. “Is that why you stirred the pot? To discover who wrote that foul thing?”

  Lotario clapped slowly. “She’ll catch on eventually,” he said to Miss Dupree.

  “Sarah is an exceptionally bright pupil,” Miss Dupree said.

  Sarah was caught between insult and compliment. She blushed.

  Lotario leaned forward, eager. “Now think, Sarah. Think about what you heard here and put the pieces together.”

  “You can’t possibly know who wrote the article based on that conversation,” Sarah accused.

  “I do.”

  Sarah gaped.

  Miss Dupree was intrigued. “Do you?”

  Lotario flashed her a smile. “And I suspect you do, too.”

  Miss Dupree gave a small smile. “I can’t say I know for sure, but I have my suspicions.”

  “So modest of you,” Lotario said.

  “And hardly any modesty in you.”

  “You have no idea, Miss Dupree.”

  “Oh, I believe I do.” The tone was innocent enough that Sarah showed only a mild interest, but Annie’s eyes said more.

  Lotario brushed her hint aside. “San Francisco is a small city. As you know, Miss Dupree.”

  She inclined her head.

  The subtleties of the interchange went over Sarah’s head. She leaned forward in a conspiratorial matter. “Who wrote the article?”

  Lotario’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “That’s for you, Jin, and Tobias to discover.”

  “Are you giving my pupils an assignment, Mr. Amsel?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “You’ll just change your idea of who wrote it based on what we find,” Sarah accused.

  “I’ll whisper the name to Atticus. And the two of you do the same. Fair?”

  Sarah thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “We can give names all day long. Without proof, it’s only speculation,” Miss Dupree said to Lotario.

  “I have every confidence that the children will find that proof. Besides, I don’t like to get my hands dirty. Now if you’ll excuse me. Ladies.” He rose and bowed, and went to find his sister and her delicious husband.

  Grimm had long legs, and he used them to his advantage. Streets fell away under his feet as he hurried towards a ghostly glow in the fog. It was cold and wet, but then what else was San Francisco at night? Quiet, too. And sometimes dangerous.

  Along with his nickname, Grimm had been called scarecrow more times than he could count. Tall, lanky, and somber, the color of his skin didn’t help. He wasn’t tan, or brown, or a lustrous mahogany like his mother and siblings; he was black as coal. It made people afraid.

  He flipped his collar up and kept his
cap down, hoping to melt into the night. Fear turned people into animals, and patrolmen were the worst of the lot.

  Soon his feet took him to narrow streets lit with red lanterns and braziers. Men in wide hats and wide-sleeved coats stood around the fires, smoking and chatting in low voices, while louder voices drifted down from the high windows. Everything was close in Chinatown—some buildings stared at each other, some leaned on their neighbors, and others threatened to pull their neighbors down.

  Grimm stopped to warm his hands alongside a trio of men. They stared at him with open curiosity. One of them asked a question, in a language that ran together, a sing-song of highs and lows that Grimm couldn’t make sense of.

  It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have answered anyway. Grimm kept moving and searching, but stayed away from the darker lanes. He walked under lines of laundry and paper lanterns, past restaurants blazing with light, and under balconies adorned with green lanterns, where men of all colors came and went.

  As Grimm walked past, he glanced into an open door. Warmth and light invited him in. It was filled with men and silk-clad women. An old man at the door beckoned him over, calling to him in a friendly voice.

  Grimm noticed women more than he liked. It made him restless to be living his own life, but that was difficult to do while he was in hiding. How was he supposed to find a wife when one stray word could put his whole family in danger? They didn’t go to church, they didn’t go to school. The White family kept to themselves for a reason.

  With no strings attached, brothels were an inviting answer to his loneliness. And they were all over the city. Although he was sorely tempted, something about the establishments didn’t seem right.

  Stifling his curiosity, Grimm ducked his head and kept walking. He stopped at a corner, and sighed. Hands in his pockets, he surveyed the crossroads. Narrow lanes branched out every which way. Chinatown was a maze of pathways. From one of the lanes, he heard voices in that same sing-song dialect, only this time female. He saw three men in peacoats strolling under a string of lanterns. They walked past two men with wide hats and wider sleeves.

  Grimm frowned. The night before, when he had followed Sao Jin, she’d stayed away from alleys like these. He’d followed her all through the Quarter until he was lost. As far as he knew, she was too.