Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  She looked at his work so far. “Butchery At The Butchers?” she read.

  He snatched the paper away, but she was a fast reader, and had already glimpsed the words underneath. Five Suey Sing Tong highbinders walked into a store and gunned down two members of the Sam Yup Society, adding more names to a growing list of tong murders.

  “It’s a working title.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Mack leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “What’s the trouble with it?”

  Isobel raised a shoulder. “Answer a few questions, and I’ll give you a better option. One that will catch the desk editor’s mousy eyes.”

  Mack glanced at the man behind a horseshoe-shaped desk. “I’d rather have dinner with you.”

  “I’d rather be escorted to a boxing match.”

  “I knew I liked you.”

  “I think you like every woman.”

  Mack snorted. “I can tell you don’t think very highly of me.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  He chuckled. “I can be charming.”

  “I thought you were already making the attempt,” she retorted.

  “That tongue of yours makes up for your ‘run over by a wagon’ appearance.”

  “I’m flattered.” She smiled, and meant it. And he leaned forward. Mack was a big man with a Scottish accent that he worked hard to keep, and even sitting he was nearly at eye-level with her.

  “Are you all right, Charlie? If someone roughed you up, I’ll clean his plow.” Mack cracked his scarred knuckles. And Isobel wondered how many noses those knuckles had broken.

  “I appreciate the offer, but there’s no plow in need of cleaning at the moment. I have some questions about an old story of yours.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Ravenwood murder.”

  Mack grunted.

  “The article seemed brief.”

  “That’s ‘cause the editor butchered it as sure as the hatchet men chopped up that old fellow.”

  “So what was taken out?”

  He crossed his hands over his stretched waistcoat, and thought a moment. “I can’t say off the top of my head. Details mostly. I described the scene in all its gory glory, but that was axed.” He paused to see if she appreciated the pun; she did not. “Then there was a bit about his partner. I forget his name. Odd name though. Matty Wild, or some drivel.”

  Isobel nearly choked. She cleared her throat. “What bit was that?”

  “The fellow got ambushed, captured, tortured, and left for dead with a bullet in his head. Only I couldn’t get the story, because the bullet rattled his brain so thoroughly that he couldn’t remember a thing.”

  Amnesia. It sounded like a lurid romance novel. She said as much, and Mack barked out a laugh. “That’s why I didn’t press it. It was crossing into Sob Sister territory. Why do you want to know?”

  “One can never have too much ammunition before an interview.”

  “I prefer a good pair of fists.”

  “Speaking of fists,” she said. “Have you heard of a pugilist by the name of Lincoln Howe?”

  “Can’t say I have. I can ask around.”

  “I’d rather you not, but I’d appreciate it if you kept an ear to the ground.”

  His bushy red brows shot up. “Dangerous fellow?”

  “Something like that,” she said dryly. “Now, do you want help with your article?”

  “I doubt I’ll use your suggestion. Butchery At The Butcher has a nice ring to it.”

  She offered her suggestion, and he looked like a child tasting a new food. Slowly, the flavor of the words grew on his tongue. Mack grunted, scratched out his own title, and added hers: Record of Blood.

  24

  The Falcons

  A mob of boys loitered outside the Call building. Every single one of them was a waiting explosion of energy. Excitement flashed across quick eyes, and Isobel knew that their feet were even faster.

  She motioned the smallest over. He was thin and covered in so much dirt that she wasn’t sure what color lay beneath. But his eyes were bright, and the curly mop on his head lent him a mischievous air. His hair currently had a dusting of ash on the top. He called himself Bill Cody, and lived up to his name by charging at the other cappers, runners, and snitches like a wild buffalo when pickings got slim. Small, fast, and fierce, he reminded Isobel of herself.

  “’Ello, Miss Bonnie,” he said with a dip of his head. “I got a accident on Market, a lady who jumped off a ferry, a cigar store robbery, and another carbolic acid drinker.” He fired off the growing list like an auctioneer, while he chewed on the stub of a cigar held between his lips. Isobel had recently hired him for exclusivity, but truth be told, she felt sorry for the boy; no one else would hire him. The other reporters went for the ones with longer legs and less smell.

  “Keep your ears out for anything about a missing man, or one found dead with a wound in his head. I’ll either come by and find you tomorrow, or you can leave a note at the telegram office for me.” She dropped a quarter in his hand.

  “Right then, Miss.”

  Isobel bought a paper from a newsboy, and planted herself in a cafe. She scanned the articles for any mention of Lincoln Howe, an unidentified dead man, or a runaway slave girl. There was no mention of any of them, but she found two articles that mentioned Atticus Riot: the safe return of an abducted woman, Mrs. Artells, and another story involving the girl who’d traveled from Tennessee. He had been busy.

  She read A Careless Injury, and thought that the girl’s uncle, Mr. Lee Walker, was a lucky man, indeed. If one were going to stumble and fall into an open street cellar, then best make it a property owned by a silver baron. She was about to put the paper down when a small paragraph caught her eye. She choked on her coffee, and stood, glaring down at the article.

  AN ARGUMENT BETWEEN DETECTIVES

  A passerby witnessed a confrontation between famed detective Atticus Riot and an unknown man in the early morning hours before dawn. The distinguished detective charged out of Ravenwood estate in a state of disarray, dressed in nothing but suspenders, union suit, and trousers. He stood in the rain without hat and shoes, and exchanged heated words with another man believed to also be a detective. Mr. Riot then stalked off in stony silence. The witness was unable to hear what was said, so one can only speculate on the nature of their disagreement.

  * * *

  Isobel muttered a crude oath at the article. If one could even call it an article. Slowly she became aware of eyes on her. A whole cafe full. Gathering herself, she primly sat back down and made an effort to sip her coffee. Ravenwood house was being watched. At the time, she’d assumed the fellow in the yard was visiting Miss Dupree, the resident prostitute, but it appeared he was a reporter.

  A wave of relief rocked her. Thank God it was dark. The article could have been far worse. Better a fight than a tender exchange between Riot and a young man on the street. More care would be needed in the future.

  In an attempt to calm herself, Isobel gazed out the window into the brightening day. There was a freshness to the city, and the promise of a crystal sky. Hay and lumber wagons trundled by, while cabriolets and phaetons bounced towards Golden Gate Park.

  A single detail clamored to the forefront of her thoughts. Those men had been searching for a girl on the dunes. If the girl was a slave as Isobel suspected, then she wouldn’t be familiar with the city. The Outer Lands stretched for miles, and a lone Chinese girl would attract notice.

  Where would a lost girl run to in a foreign land?

  A bicyclist narrowly missed colliding with a cable car, and an idea lit her mind. She tossed down her coins, and went off to send a telegram and spend her retainer’s fee.

  Wheels sped over gravel with abandon, as Isobel wove in and out of carriages and horses in Golden Gate Park. She was not the only bicyclist enjoying the sun and the crisp, cold air. Others, men in tweeds and women in split skirts and cycling costumes, rode at varying speeds.

  Isobel
made full use of her horn as she sped past most of them. She gripped the handles tightly, and clenched her teeth. Every bone in her body protested the exertion, but her mind would not leave her alone. No matter how her body ached, spending a day lying in a berth bunk was out of the question. Whether resting or moving, bruises still hurt, and Isobel preferred to be on the move. Fresh air, a brisk ride, and some snooping were called for.

  Isobel hit the brakes on her Roadster, and skidded to a stop in front of a tree. If she had followed her mental map correctly, this was the same that Wilson had been tied to. She studied the ground, and saw his hoof prints stamping over the ground. Her own footprints were there, too.

  In the light of day, the park felt friendly. Children played and couples strolled arm in arm. Women displayed their finery, walking like peacocks, in broad, high hats, clinging jackets, and skirts. Isobel’s terror the night before seemed a childish overreaction, and her harried flight to Riot simply foolish.

  Isobel sighed as she walked her bicycle along the hard gravel road. She stopped at the spot where she estimated she’d landed. But any marks had been erased by a maze of wheel tracks and footprints.

  A burst of laughter caught her attention. Sounds of unrestrained joy were accompanied by horns and bells, and a cacophony of shouts. A group of women on Racers peddled furiously, in competition with two men on similar bicycles. The women wore caps, riding bloomers, and high leather boots, and were bent over their handlebars.

  A cabriolet jerked to a stop as a bicyclist cut in front of it. The horse danced nervously, narrowly avoiding a rosy-cheeked woman. A barrage of ungentlemanly cussing followed the woman, and she yelled back a lackluster apology. The group sped off, and Isobel thought she’d be hard pressed to keep up with them in her current condition.

  She gazed after the women with longing. Her own life had once been that carefree as she’d jumped from one thrill to the next. But as she climbed back onto her bicycle, Isobel could not help but think of her despicable ex-husband Kingston. Of the constant strain, the toll those months in his company had taken, and the threat those same shadows still held. Death had severed their matrimonial ties, but then she wasn’t really dead. And that left her in a vulnerable position.

  She shoved that mess aside. If she could help even one soul—keep a single girl from being cornered as she had been, she would.

  But at what cost?

  Isobel pushed on a pedal, and let momentum speed her away. The carriage had traveled a winding course, which she followed—in reverse. It was satisfying exercise, both mentally and physically, and it distracted her from her own life. The route crisscrossed and doubled-back through the pathways of Golden Gate Park—just as she’d suspected while bouncing under the tarp.

  A sheen of perspiration coated her skin as she shot onto Ocean Boulevard, and the sharp ocean breeze brought welcome relief.

  The wagon carrying her the previous night had turned north, towards the Cliff House, but then it had turned around at a roundabout she knew well. Still, to be thorough, she followed the attempted ruse, counting seconds as she kept an even pace.

  But that proved difficult. The sun was shining, and no matter the time of year, a sunny Ocean Beach attracted visitors. The Sutro Baths, the Cliff House, the Pavilion, and the Pacific tempted city-dwellers, and the road was packed. So she turned south at the roundabout, rode past the Lurline pier and the life-saving station, then headed towards Carville.

  A host of abandoned street cars had been turned into vacationing cottages, clubs, and cafes. And sitting in the middle of Bohemian glory was a brick building guarded by a wrought-iron fence.

  Isobel swerved to avoid a pothole—the same that the wagon had hit when it exited the brick building’s drive. She did not stop, but kept cycling towards the glistening, Saharan-like dunes. In the distance, lonely tangles of Acacia trees rose, leaning against the wind, their branches and leaves swept back, shaped by an ocean’s fury.

  She glanced back at the three-story brick building. As an eye sore, it was worse than the Cliff House. And knowing what lay beneath—the cellar where she’d been hog-tied for a full day—made her shiver.

  She peddled into a sandy lot, and stopped in front of an old horse car that had been converted into a clubhouse. A sign over the roof proclaimed it Falcons Bicycle Club. A lean-to housed six Racer bicycles, four women’s and two men’s, and under a shelter sat a long table that looked like it could seat a banquet. The bicyclists were sipping drinks on a porch extending from the beached railcar.

  “Hello there,” she called as she walked her bicycle up to the porch. “I saw you riding in the park. Racing, more like.”

  “I hope we didn’t cut you off,” a tall, broad-shouldered woman said.

  “No, not at all, but I was impressed.” Isobel kicked down her stand, and walked up the steps. “Charlotte Bonnie.”

  Handshakes were exchanged along with names, and a drink was placed in her hand. In no time at all, Isobel found herself sipping sherry with a group of men and women who seemed game for most anything.

  “How does one join the Falcons?” she asked.

  “A love of bicycling, and membership dues to help with food and upkeep,” answered Margaret. She was blond and tall and had a boot propped on the railing, relishing the freedom of riding bloomers. Muscles played through the leather of her high boots, and she wore her hat at a jaunty angle. The puffed sleeves of her blouse looked comically feminine on her, and clashed with everything else about the woman.

  “That, I can do,” said Isobel.

  “Do you swim?”

  “I do. Sail, too.”

  A round of gasps traveled around the group. A few eyes glinted with plans for future excursions. Her membership was secured.

  Margaret leapt to her feet. “Come see the inside.”

  Isobel followed the woman into a Bedouin paradise of luxury in the dunes. “It reminds me of a ship’s cabin,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind living out here.” And she meant it. With the constant waves and salt in the air, she didn’t feel so claustrophobic here. Land usually made her itch; it made her feel trapped.

  “It’s splendid here. I stay over at night sometimes. And we swim when no one’s looking.” Margaret flashed a grin, making it clear that traditional swimming costumes weren’t involved. “We play cards and host dinners—artists, musicians, writers, and even a mayor or two. Are you a working woman?”

  “I’m a reporter for the Call.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened a fraction. “Have I read anything by you?”

  “Did you read The Mysterious Savior?”

  Margaret gave a high-pitched squeal more suited to a school girl. She stuck her head out the door and told the club. At once, Isobel found herself the center of attention.

  “Was it true, then?” a gentleman asked. Victor was thin and muscular, and wore his riding tweeds like a second skin. Everything about him seemed to be shaped by the wind.

  “Course it was,” Isobel replied. Most of it, at any rate.

  “And the other story where he rescued the opera singer?” asked Gertrude. She was dark-haired and stout, and the daughter of a lumber yard owner. ‘Lumber is as good as gold these days,’ Gertrude had confided.

  “Yes, that one too.”

  “Minnie, here, has it in mind to meet that detective—even if it’s to be her own murder,” Gertrude said.

  Minnie was a quiet, petite woman who didn’t look much older than seventeen. She blushed pink. But Isobel found little humor in the jest. What had once been a fascination was now her reality. Behind every murder was a face, a life. Both victim and killer. And sometimes killing was perfectly justified. It wasn’t a game. She wondered what she’d uncover in this investigation.

  A barrage of questions about the mysterious detective followed, which she skillfully deflected, giving only minimal answers. Isobel had no idea that her stories about Riot had generated so much enthusiasm—mostly among women it appeared. That had been her intention, she just hadn’t realized how
successful she’d been. It was both flattering and alarming. San Francisco had a way of building up legends, and then ripping them apart.

  “Are you working on a story now?” This last question came from Ed, a brawny English gentleman who seemed more interested in Minnie than in cycling.

  “I’m always looking for a story,” Isobel said, flashing a grin. “But I’m mostly enjoying the sun today.” She glanced slyly at the group. “You wouldn’t happen to have something stronger?” The bold question was answered with grins, and a bottle of whiskey was brought out.

  “I had a feeling you did.” She raised her glass, and took a sip. “I should do a piece on your club. I’d never have found you if it weren’t for your sign.”

  “We have something of a reputation,” Gertrude said proudly. “We can’t let the Fuzzy Bunch outdo us.” It was another club in the area, full of long-haired Bohemians. Lotario was a regular of that club, and ran with its members.

  Isobel glanced down Ocean Boulevard, towards the first signs of gentrification. “That brick building doesn’t seem to fit in with Carville.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t fit. And it ruins the character of Carville. We come out here to get away from the snobs, and then they plant their foot right in the middle of our territory.”

  “We’re not all snobs,” said Gertrude. “But it does put a damper on things.”

  “Is it a clubhouse? A residence?” Isobel asked.

  “We aren’t sure,” admitted Victor.

  Ed crossed his arms, displaying muscles that bulged and stretched the fabric of his sleeves. “It’s a horseman’s club. And boxing, I wager. Nothing more than a gentleman’s retreat.”

  “You’ve been inside, then?” Isobel asked.

  Laughter erupted—the laugh of shared mischief between friends.

  “We dared Ed to try and get inside,” Victor explained. “The Chinese doorman knocked him flat.”

  Ed hit Victor in the shoulder—a good-natured punch between brothers.