Oh Danny Boy
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OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR Rhys Bowen AND HER Molly Murphy Mystery Series
OH DANNY BOY
“Excellent.”
—Toronto Globe and Mail
“Entertains readers and teaches them about the immigrant experience…charming.”
—Tampa Tribune
“Murder, mayhem, disease, and death…reliable period thrills for Molly’s fans.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Bowen has created one of the most ferociously spunky heroines to grace the pages of a historical mystery series.”
—Harriet Klausner’s Book Reviews
“Beautifully constructed.”
—Booklist
“This is the fourth in a series of this particular character, and a really good one at that…. I will definitely read more by this author.”
—Affaire de Coeur (four stars)
“There’s a reason why Bowen gets nominated for so many awards. She’s just damn good…. Books like [Oh Danny Boy] are the reason I love mysteries.”
—CrimeSpreeMag.com
IN LIKE FLYNN
“Absorbing…well-plotted.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bowen’s best.”
—Toronto Globe & Mail
“An evocatively recreated picture of New York City’s Greenwich Village in 1902 and the city’s rich upstate suburbs…[a] colorful series, a worthy extension of the Maan Meyers ‘Dutchman’ books about historical Gotham.”
—Chicago Tribune
FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE
“Compelling…Rhys Bowen continues her evocative look at the immigrant experience in her third Murphy novel.”
—Hartford Courant
“The strong double mystery is blended perfectly with feisty Molly’s determination to make a place for herself in a man’s world. Add to it the fabulous backdrop of New York City’s seedy underbelly and you have a compelling tale that draws readers into Molly’s world.”
—Romantic Times
“Nail-biting suspense…Molly’s voice is a marvelous one to tell us her story…Here we have turn-of-the-century New York in all its wealth and poverty, its excitement and enchantment, and we have a woman who refuses to be forced into a mold to be what society wants her to be. It is an irresistible combination.”
—Mystery News
“Add brutal city gangs, seamy politics, bribed policemen, even a sweatshop fire, and you have the usual mix that makes Bowen’s books so entertaining.”
—Tampa Tribune
DEATH OF RILEY
“An evocative trip through old New York—including the poets, painters, playwrights, and private investigators of Greenwich Village, 1901—in the company of Irish immigrant Molly Murphy, a spirited and appealing guide.”
—S. J. Rozan, author of Winter and Night
“Entertaining.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Rhys Bowen’s wit makes Death of Riley more than equal to her award-winning first book, Murphy’s Law.”
—Maan Meyers, aka Martin and Annette Meyers, authors of the Dutchman series
“A fresh and irrepressible new heroine.”
—Romantic Times
“Bowen nicely blends history and fiction…[a] light, romantic mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bowen’s highly detailed picture of New York at the turn of the century is a delight.”
—Kirkus Reviews
MURPHY’S LAW
“History-mystery fans should add Molly to their list of characters to follow.”
—Booklist
“Entertaining.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“[We] look forward to Molly’s return.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Irish humor and gritty determination transplanted to New York, but with more charm and optimism than the usual law attributed to Murphy.”
—Anne Perry, author of The Whitechapel Conspiracy
“Bowen tells a phenomenal story, and it will be a real treat to see what fate has in store for Molly and Daniel!”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Also by Rhys Bowen
THE MOLLY MURPHY SERIES
In Like Flynn
For the Love of Mike
Death of Riley
Murphy’s Law
THE CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES
Evan Blessed
Evan’s Gate
Evan Only Knows
Evans to Betsy
Evan Can’t Wait
Evan and Elle
Evan Help Us
Evans Above
Evanly Choirs
OH DANNY BOY
RHYS BOWEN
This book is dedicated to my oldest fan, Marie McCormack, my granddaughters’ dear Mimi.
Also a special note of dedication to Denise Lindquist, who makes a cameo appearance in this book as a dead prositute.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always this book would not have happened without the help and encouragement of my agent, Meg Ruley, my editor at St. Martin’s, Kelley Ragland, and my brilliant support team at home, Clare, Jane, and John. You are the best.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HISTORICAL NOTE
ONE
New York, August 1902
There was that maniacal laughter again. I looked around, but I couldn’t detect where it was coming from. It seemed to be part of the very darkness itself. Black water lapped up at me as I stepped onto the iron lacework of a walkway. I thought I could hear a child’s voice calling, “Save me, save me,” and I started toward it. But beneath me were other faceless forms, and they held up white arms to me, calling out, “Help us first.”
The laughter grew louder until it was overwhelming. I started to run. Water splashed up at my feet and when I looked down at my shoes they were black. That’s when I noticed it wasn’t water at all. It was blood.
I woke with my heart pounding and sat up, my hands grasping the cool reality of the sheet before I realized I was in my own room. I sat still for a while, conscious of the empty quiet of the house around me, wondering what the dream might m
ean. It was the third time I had dreamed it this week. The first time I’d put it down to an exotic Mongolian meal at my friends’ house across Patchin Place (they were into a nomad phase at the moment), but dreaming the same thing three times must mean more than just plain indigestion.
Back in Ireland dreams were always taken seriously. My mother would have been able to interpret mine for me in a wink, although I rather think her interpretation would be influenced by the fact that I was rude, didn’t mind my elders, and was heading for a bad end. But I recall the women sitting around in our cottage over a cup of tea, debating whether dreaming of a black cow meant future wealth or a death in the family. What would they say about an ocean of blood? I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself.
My life had certainly been in turmoil since I had returned from my assignment on the Hudson, but I couldn’t think what could have sparked such a terrifying nightmare. There was my frightening ordeal in the river, of course. That might have prompted me to dream of water. And I had almost lost little Bridie O’Connor to typhoid. She was still far from well and had been sent to a camp for sickly city children in Connecticut, run by the ladies at the settlement house on Sixth Avenue. Was it her voice I had heard in the dream? Had she been calling for me to come to her? Should I have gone to the country to be with her?
I got up and walked across the landing, feeling the cold of the linoleum under my bare feet. I paused at what had been Bridie and Shamey’s door, almost expecting to hear the children’s regular breathing. But the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantel downstairs. I shivered suddenly, although it was still midsummer and the night was warm. I went back to bed, but I was afraid to sleep again. It occurred to me that this was the first time in my life that I’d been alone in a building. Normally I would have been proud to be mistress of my own establishment, but at this moment all I felt was overwhelming loneliness. I sat hugging my knees to my chest, staring out of the window at the shadows dancing on the houses across the alleyway. When the first streaks of dawn showed in the sky I got up and made myself a cup of tea, drinking it with one eye on the front window until I saw my neighbor Gus go out to buy their breakfast rolls from the Clement Family Bakery around the corner on Sixth Avenue.
I dearly wanted company at the moment. I knew I was always welcome at their house, but my pride and disgust with my own weakness wouldn’t let me barge in on them uninvited at this early hour or tell them about the dream. So I waited until Gus returned, opened my front door with the pretence of shaking out crumbs, then feigned delighted surprise at bumping into her. Of course she invited me in for breakfast, and of course I accepted.
“Look who I just found, Sid dear,” Gus called as we went down the hall to their bright and airy kitchen. At this hour it was still cool. The French doors were open, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle competed with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Sid was standing at the stove, dressed this morning in an emerald green silk gentleman’s smoking jacket and baggy black pants that looked as if they had come from a harem. The striking effect was completed with her black hair, which she wore straight and chin length, like a child’s page-boy bob.
“Molly, my sweet. How good to see you. You’re looking pale. Sit down and have some coffee and a hot roll.” Sid gave me a beaming smile and started pouring thick, murky liquid into a small cup, then handed it to me. I took a sip, pretending, as always, that I liked my coffee to look and taste like East River sludge. Sid always insisted on Turkish coffee and French croissants in the morning. I’d no objections to the croissants, but I’d never learned to appreciate the coffee.
I sat in the chair that Gus had pulled out for me and accepted the still warm roll from her basket.
“And what were you doing up and about so bright and early this morning?” Gus asked.
“I didn’t sleep so well last night.” I was willing to confess to that much. “I just needed to get out of the house and breathe good fresh air.”
“You’re missing those O’Connors, that what’s the matter with you,” Gus said.
“I most certainly am not,” I replied indignantly. “I’ve spent most of my life looking after someone else’s children. I’m glad to be taking a break from them.”
The knowing look that passed between Sid and Gus didn’t escape me.
“And anyway, they’ll be back soon enough when Bridie is quite recovered and healthy again,” I went on. “She’s making splendid progress, you know. And in the meantime, I’m doing some serious thinking about my future.”
They looked at each other again, this time with amusement.
“Did you hear that, Gus? Serious thinking about her future. Will she be reconsidering the earnest Mr. Singer’s proposal, do you think?”
I picked up The New York Times that had been lying on the table. “Would you be quiet, you two? Why should you of all people think that any young woman’s future would automatically have to be linked to a marriage proposal? I have no intention of accepting any proposals, decent or indecent.”
Then I opened the paper and buried myself in the advertisements page, ignoring their chuckles.
“How about Nebraska?” I looked up expectantly from the The Times and saw two bewildered faces staring at me.
“Nebraska?” Gus asked.
“Yes, listen to this. ‘Schoolteacher needed for one-room schoolhouse. Start August. Must be unmarried, unencumbered, Christian, and of impeccable character. References required. Accommodation provided. Apply to the school board, Spalding, Nebraska.’” I paused and looked up again. My friends were still smiling.
“Dearest Molly, are you suggesting that you should become a schoolmarm in Nebraska?” Sid asked, pushing her bobbed hair back from her face.
“Why not?” I demanded. “Do you not think I’m up to life on the frontier? And where is Nebraska anyway?”
At this they both broke into merry laughter. Gus reached across to me and patted my hand. “You are priceless, my sweet,” she said. “Who would make us laugh if we let you escape from our clutches?”
“And why this sudden desire for the frontier, anyway?” Sid looked up from spreading more apricot jam on a croissant.
“Because I’ve had enough of New York City. Life has become too complicated.”
“And you think it would be less complicated having to kill grizzly bears with your Bible on the way to school each morning or having to fight off amorous pioneers in need of a wife?” Sid asked.
I put down the newspaper and sighed. “I don’t know. I just want to make a new start somewhere faraway. Never have to see Daniel Sullivan’s odious face again. Never have to convince myself that I don’t want to marry Jacob Singer, however well behaved and earnest he is.”
“One can accomplish both these things without going to Nebraska, I should have thought,” Gus said. “If you’ve finally decided to give up this crazy notion of being a lady investigator, I’m sure we could help you make a new start in the city here. But if you insist on escaping, I’m sure I can come up with some connections in Boston for you, even if my own people don’t want to know me anymore.”
I looked at Gus’s sweet, elfish face, framed in its pile of soft, light brown curls, and finally smiled. “You’re really too good to me by half. I don’t deserve your friendship. I do nothing but interrupt your breakfast with my whining and complaining.”
“Nonsense,” Sid said. “Just think how dull and ordinary our lives would be without you.”
Since Sid and Gus lead the least ordinary lives I had ever encountered, I had to smile at this. I suppose I should mention that their real names are Elena Goldfarb and Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts. Both families had cut them off without a penny, but thanks to a generous inheritance from Gus’s suffragist great-aunt, they lived a blissfully unconventional existence in Greenwich Village. Gus was attempting to make her mark as a painter, while Sid wrote the occasional left-wing article. Mostly they just had fun, hosting the literary and bohemian
set to wild and extravagant parties. They had taken me under their wing when I had been new to the city and treated me as a spoiled younger sister ever since. As I looked at them I realized how I would hate to move away from their company.
“All right,” I conceded grouchily, “maybe not Nebraska.”
Sid went over to the stove and picked up the coffeepot. “Have another cup of coffee. You’ll feel better,” she said.
“I haven’t finished this one yet,” I said hastily.
“So let’s see.” Gus put down her own cup and stared across at Sid. “What sort of job should we find for her? Bookshop, do you think?”
“Too dreary. Not enough life.”
“Ryan could help her get something to do with the theater. She’d like that.”
“Ryan is unemployed and seriously short of funds himself at the moment.”
“Well, if he will write plays that mock the American theatergoing public, what can he expect?”
I looked from one to the other, amused that I was not being consulted in this discussion.
“You don’t understand,” I finally cut in. “It’s not the change of profession I’m anxious about. It’s worrying about whether I’m going to find Daniel Sullivan lurking outside my front door every time I come out. Or Jacob for that matter.”