by Liz Freeland
“Glory hallelujah,” I said.
“Does Elbart mean anything to you?” Otto asked.
“Never heard of it. But that’s good—it can’t be a very big place. Which means the photographer might know the people in the picture.”
His freckled brow pinched into a frown. “But he’s in Nebraska and you’re here. And what if those people in the picture aren’t even alive anymore?”
I inspected their faces. “They don’t look too old.”
“You don’t know when the picture was taken,” he pointed out.
Callie glanced over our shoulders. “That checkered dress with the high neck is identical to one my aunt had. And look at all those pleats. They scream Sears catalog, 1909.”
So . . . about five years ago. Assuming Callie was right, and when it came to clothes she usually was. “I’m going to write Mr. Clemsen.”
I retrieved a pen and paper and skirted around Callie to get to our compact drop-leaf table. Otto joined me and peered at my paper while I wrote. It reminded me of the days when we’d work on lessons after school together at the library in Altoona. The books were housed in an abandoned Presbyterian church, which always made me feel doubly shamed when Mrs. Dunwoody shushed us. It was like being caught talking in the library and church.
“What are you going to write?” he asked in a low voice. Maybe he was remembering Mrs. Dunwoody, too.
“Just the truth.”
Dear Mr. Clemsen,
My name is Louise Faulk, and I’m writing to you for help under sad circumstances. Your business’s stamp was found on the back of a photograph belonging to a woman who died here in New York City recently. The woman’s name was Ruth Jones, and she told her neighbor she was from Nebraska. I am trying to locate any family of Miss Jones.
Otto was reading over my shoulder. “Are you going to tell him she was a suicide?”
“I’m not sure she was. And you know how judgmental people are about that.”
It’s my hope that you will be able to assist me in locating the couple who sat for you in the picture Ruth Jones kept with her, which was obviously a treasured possession. The picture is of a middle-aged woman, not unattractive, with light brown or dark blond hair. In the photograph she is wearing a dress in a checked pattern. She is with an older man, in his fifties, I think, clean shaven, with a stern countenance, salt-and-pepper short hair, and something wrong with his right eye, which appears cloudy in the picture. An associate informs me that, judging from the style of dress the woman is wearing, the photograph might have been taken approximately five years ago.
“You’re Louise’s associate now, Callie,” Otto informed her.
She sauntered over to investigate. “Is it a paid position?”
“Paid in cast-off clothing.” I looked up at her. She’d tried on a short cape from the bag. “That’s nice.”
She straightened, twitching her shoulders a little as she frowned at the garment, unsatisfied. “You think so? It drapes oddly.”
Otto and I both studied the cape, which was made of dark blue wool with black velvet trim. “Looks fine to me,” Otto said.
I turned my attention back to my letter.
Since Elbart is a small town, it’s my guess that you know most of the subjects you photograph. Does the description of the couple match anyone you know? The woman looks a little like Ruth Jones, so I am making the assumption that they are related. I am sorry to relay news that will surely be a blow to Ruth’s relations, but Ruth’s child—a baby, and fatherless—is now an orphan and being kept in the foundling hospital here. The infant had a twin who, tragically, died with his mother. If there is anyone in the world who is a relation to the poor little boy, who might be able to love him as a helpless baby deserves to be loved, I think they would want to know. His name is Edward—shortened to “Eddie” by Ruth—and he is, after all, a last link to a young woman who was taken from this world too soon.
I would be so grateful for any assistance you could lend me in this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Louise Faulk
I closed by writing my address.
“Why don’t you tell him you’re with the police?” Otto asked. “I bet this Mr. Clemsen would be more likely to take the letter seriously then.”
“I’m not sure the NYPD would approve of what I’m up to. Even the nuns at New York Foundling didn’t seem to think it was my business to find Eddie’s relations. I’d rather keep it a private investigation.”
“What the blazes is going on?” Callie said aloud in a fit of frustration, still fussing with the cape. Scowling, she pulled it off and turned it lining-side-out, feeling the hem. “Where’s the sewing box?”
“Is the cape ripped?”
“No, but it will be. I’m about to perform surgery on it.”
I retrieved the sewing box from my bedroom and watched Callie neatly cut the seam of the lining. She reached in two fingers and brought out a pair of little booklets, which she dropped onto the little table by the sofa.
“What are they?” I picked one up and unfolded it.
“Passports?” Otto was looking at the other. “This one’s an Englishman’s.”
“Mine’s in . . .” I wasn’t sure at first, but then I saw the word Stockholm. “Swedish.”
“There’s another one, I think.” Face tensed, Callie worked the lining until another document was in a position to be pulled out. When it was free, she opened it. “Dutch?” She pulled a torn sheet of paper out of the folds of the document. “The Silver Swan,” she read, showing it to me. The words were written in a careful, looping script. Ruthie’s writing? I suspected so, but I couldn’t be sure.
“I wonder where the Silver Swan is,” I said.
“Not where,” Otto said. “What. ‘The Silver Swan’ is a new song by Scott Joplin.” He looked around as if a piano would materialize in our apartment. We didn’t have one. “He released it as a piano roll but didn’t publish the music.” He hummed a few bars. “Catchy tune.”
“How likely would it be that Ruthie Jones heard it?” I asked.
“Or liked it so much she decided to write down the title and tuck it into a passport.” Callie shook her head. “Bet it’s something else. A tavern, maybe.”
“I can check the business directory at work.” Meanwhile, I was faced with a bigger puzzle.
I spread all three passports before me, picking out what information I could of the three passport holders. All three had men’s names. The Swedish one was a challenge to decipher, but it also contained the most entry stamps from ports all over the world. The British passport belonged to a man named Gerald Hughes, who according to what was written was thirty-eight, with brown eyes and hair. From what I could pick out in the foreign languages, the youngest was the Dutchman, who was twenty-three.
“Why would Ruthie have passports?” I wondered.
“She probably took them off her”—Otto’s face reddened—“customers.”
“Why?” Callie asked. “They’re not worth anything. And she sewed them into a cape. Why go to such lengths to hide them?”
“Because she was a thief,” Otto said. “Of course she wanted to hide them. She probably took their money, too.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Prostitutes were different than pickpockets, shoplifters, and badger-game girls. A prostitute, especially one with a fixed address and no protector, didn’t steal from her customers if she hoped to ply her trade—or live—for long. Even in seedy areas like Hell’s Kitchen, word of mouth about various girls got around.
Then again, Ruthie hadn’t lived long.
“What are you going to do with the passports?” Callie asked.
“She’s going to turn them in,” Otto said. “That’s what a person’s supposed to do, right?”
Callie shot him an incredulous look. “A person, sure. But Louise is cop who just snuck into a crime scene in disguise and swiped all this stuff.”
I was in a pickle, all right. “Bernice warned me this would be troubl
e.”
“Of course she did,” Callie said. “She’s always the voice of doom.”
“Or reason.” Otto straightened. “I can take them to a police station—or do they need to go somewhere else? Is there a sailor’s aid society in town? I bet they were all sailors.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to get anyone else involved in this.”
Although that wasn’t exactly true. There was one person I needed to get involved, simply because I didn’t know who else to turn to.
* * *
After work the following evening I made my way via the subway to Brooklyn, to an address on Henry Street I’d discovered by slightly devious means. The building was a brick row house that many years ago had been ill-advisedly painted yellow. The yellow was now flaking off the brick, although the black trim paint on the windows and front door was still adhering. A smile tugged at my lips as I stood on the stoop and knocked. I never imagined Detective Frank Muldoon’s home would resemble a giant bumblebee.
From inside, footsteps clattered down stairs. When the door swung open, a short young woman with round, dark eyes and cinnamon hair blinked up at me.
“Is Detective Muldoon at home?” I asked.
She looked me up and down as she wiped her hands on her pinafore apron. I’d stopped at home and changed into a fresh white shirtwaist and camel-color skirt, which were barely visible beneath my long coat. “Not yet. I’m expecting him any minute. Although ‘any minute’ for a detective isn’t something you can set a clock by, if you get my meaning.”
I did. Detectives worked on a rotating shift schedule like all policemen, but for them the hours in a workday expanded if a case required more attention.
“I’m sorry I missed him. Would you tell him Louise Faulk stopped by?”
“Louise Faulk?” She repeated my name the way Callie might have said “Maude Adams” if I’d told her that her stage idol had knocked at our door. The next thing I knew, she had grabbed my arm. “Don’t go. Frank’ll be back soon, and I’m sure he’ll want to see you. Won’t you come in?”
I peered behind her, weighing the wisdom of taking her up on her offer. I wasn’t sure Muldoon would appreciate me entering his house in his absence. Quite the contrary. I’d known him a year and a half and he’d never invited me here. But the way the woman’s hand was clamped on my arm, I felt like a fish on a hook.
“Are you Anna?” I asked. Muldoon had mentioned his sister a few times.
Her head bobbed. “Please come in. I’ve got dinner warming.”
“I shouldn’t intrude.”
“Nonsense.” She practically yanked me over the threshold, shut the door and turned the key lock. “Louise Faulk. Frank’s told me about you. Let me take your things.”
I unbuttoned the coat and she tugged it off from behind with a deft hand. She offered to take my satchel, but I looped it over my shoulder. I’d need it if Muldoon ever arrived. The passports were in there.
“You’re practically the only woman Frank’s ever mentioned,” Anna said. “A policewoman! And he brought me a few of your aunt’s books, autographed. I love them all. Especially Shy Fern. You can guess why.”
I didn’t have a clue. “Why?”
“Because I’m shy myself.” She piloted me toward the cozy front sitting room of the house, where a small blaze burned in the fireplace. The walls were papered in a dark green trellis pattern, and a few Muldoon family portraits hung next to landscapes and a decent copy of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy. Antimacassars graced every chair and sofa, and lace doilies covered two side tables.
Anna gestured to the sofa. “Please sit down. Do you want tea?”
“No, thank you.” I sat, and though there were three other chairs free, Anna took a seat inches next to me. “Louise Faulk.” She studied me so intently, I squirmed. “Frank’s never brought a girl home before.”
“He didn’t bring me home, either,” I reminded her.
“Oh, but he’ll be delighted.” Her words made me wonder if she was some imposter posing as Frank Muldoon’s sister. I’d never known a man who liked surprises less. “Usually it’s just the two of us now. I’ve done my best since our mama died, but it’s a lot of work, taking care of a house and a hardworking brother. Lonely sometimes, too. But think how it is for Frank! I’m sure no man dreams of coming home every night to his drudge of a sister.”
No woman seemed less of a drudge than Anna Muldoon. She was pert, talkative, and certainly attractive. Her light blue wool dress fit her petite figure like a glove.
“You wouldn’t believe how worried Frank was about you after the two of you fell into the river last year chasing that murderer,” she said. “I was the one who suggested he send the fruit basket. He never sent any other girl fruit, and believe you me, there’s more than one girl in this parish who’d be over the moon if Frank Muldoon brought her so much as a single grape. But does he care a snap for any of them? Not at all. And even though I had to give him the nudge about the fruit basket, it was him who brought it to you, wasn’t it? That has to mean something.”
“It meant he wanted to encourage me to get well. That water was freezing.”
A laugh trilled out of her. “You’re birds of a feather, you two are. He would have put it the same way.”
“Well . . . it’s the truth.”
She nodded and laughed. “The pair of you—it’s like one of your aunt’s old books. The reluctant lovers.”
Those last words gave me a jolt. “No, it’s not.”
As if I’d said nothing at all, she inhaled a deep, happy breath. “A few more visits and you’ll be wanting to move in and take over the household, and I’ll just have to step aside.”
“Anna, I came here to talk about a case.”
“Mm-hm, I know.” She winked.
“You should put whatever you’re thinking out of your mind. Completely.”
She patted my knee. “One thing I don’t want you to worry about is me. Frank’s never wanted me to work, but maybe I’ll take a job in a shop in Manhattan. I could save and go traveling. Now wouldn’t that be something?”
Had the IRT dropped me down a rabbit hole? It was all madness here. My gaze sought the door, and I wondered if I could make an escape. The only time Muldoon had spoken of his little sister at any length, it was to tell me what a good head she had on her shoulders. Little did he know it was a head crowded with fantasies. Not much of a detective in his own home, evidently.
“I should go now.” I half stood, but Anna tugged me back down.
“There’s stew for dinner. A whole pot of it. If Frank’s not here in five minutes, we’ll start without him.” She patted my hand. “It would serve him right for taking you for granted.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here.”
Did she hear me? I couldn’t tell. She’d already flitted to another topic. “You probably live in Manhattan. So sophisticated!”
“Greenwich Village. Not exactly Millionaires’ Mile.”
“To me it would be. I’ve only been to Manhattan a handful of times. Frank thinks people there are all frivolous and loose. Of course he’s there almost every day. He can’t imagine why I’d find it exciting.” A dreamy smile touched her lips. “I’d love to go to interesting places, wouldn’t you? I was just reading a book set in Ceylon. It sounds intriguing—so torrid.” She sighed.
I bolted up before she could stop me. “I really should go.” Just as I turned toward the door, the sound of a key turning in the front door reached us. Anna also hopped up in anticipation. When Muldoon appeared, divested of hat and coat, we were both planted in front of the sofa, an awkward two-person welcoming committee.
Seeing me, Muldoon did everything but take a step back. His frame filled the entrance to the parlor. For a flicker of a second, a smile lit his face, but when his dark-eyed gaze traveled between me and Anna, he assumed a more guarded look.
“Louise.” His voice didn’t exactly fizz with enthusiasm. “What are you doing here?”
Before I could an
swer, Anna scolded him. “Right now she’s here to eat dinner. I’m hungry, and I’m sure you both are too. Come into the dining room.”
The four-person table was set for two, which Anna quickly remedied. The consternation on Muldoon’s face as she did so didn’t ease the situation.
“Anna insisted I stay,” I explained in a low voice when the swinging door to the kitchen had shut behind her.
“Why did you come out all this way? You could have found me at the precinct.”
“A delicate situation came up. I need to talk to you in private.”
Anna swung back through with a serving bowl and spoon. “Sit down, you two, and I’ll serve you.”
We did as instructed. Anna ladled stew into our bowls and then brought out a loaf of bread. She handed her brother the bread knife, and he did the honors with the slicing and divvying.
Over the past year, my first year in the police force, Frank Muldoon had become a mentor to me. Of course my fellow policewomen had been essential to me in settling into my work, but I’d known Muldoon six months before I’d joined the police. He’d been my introduction to the NYPD, and despite the fact that he didn’t particularly like the idea of policewomen, he’d written a letter in favor of my application when I applied for the job. He’d also helped me catch two murderers—although he’d say it was the other way around. Sometimes he visited my aunt, who adored him. There had been occasions when a feeling of intimacy had sprung between us, but those moments were rare. And thank heavens for that. A staid traditionalist like Muldoon didn’t want a fellow police officer as a girlfriend, and for many reasons I didn’t want a romance in my life.
In short, Muldoon was more than a friend, but far less than what Anna was hinting at.
Just the thought made my face redden, which unfortunately occurred as my eyes met his over the hunk of bread he was offering me.