Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

Red scraped crumbs from the tablecloth and continued to offer his opinions. “Looks like your instinct about her was right. She was worth askin’ questions over.”

  “She wasn’t ever accused of a crime,” he pointed out. Jackson would have uncovered an indictment if there’d ever been one.

  “And don’t that make her pure as the driven snow!” Red answered, grinning like the reporter might.

  Daniel got to his feet; he’d had enough of listening to the Occidental Hotel waiters offer commentary. “Charge the lunch bill to my room.”

  Sarah’s shop was a short block distant, and if he’d come to know her actions at all, she would be there. He had to hear her side of the story, had to get an explanation for how she could have done even a portion of what Jackson had claimed. Needed to square the image the reporter had painted, that of a shameless woman and her thief of a lover, with the one Daniel had come to believe was real.

  Daniel crossed the road, barely missing being hit by an oncoming cart. Leaping onto the curb where the worst that could crush him would be a preoccupied pedestrian, he noticed a man on the sidewalk outside of Sarah’s shop. He was banging on the door and demanding that she come out and talk to his newspaper.

  Daniel ran the rest of the way. “Leave her alone,” he demanded, elbowing the reporter aside.

  “Who are you?” the man asked, glaring up at Daniel from beneath the brim of his bowler hat. “Trying to get the story too? I was here first—”

  He was short and scrawny, and Daniel grabbed his coat collar and easily shoved him toward the curb. “And now you’re leaving.”

  “She won’t talk to you, either.” Harrumphing, the reporter smoothed his rumpled coat and stalked off.

  Not all the blinds on the large plate-glass windows fronting the street were closed, and Daniel peered inside. In the center of the shop stood Sarah, the large oak counter between her and the front of the room acting like a barricade. She was dressed in a striped golden-brown colored dress, the one she’d worn the first day he’d met her, and her arms were clutched around her waist. Her face was colorless and her eyes, unblinking.

  He rapped on the glass. “Sarah, please let me in. I want to talk to you.”

  She heard the noise and her gaze flicked to his face. She frowned. “Go away!” she shouted. The glass muted her voice, but he could read her lips well enough. She rounded the corner of the counter and rushed up to the window, her hand outstretched to tug on the window blind cord.

  “I know you blame me for that story in the paper.” Could she hear him? He pointed at the door. “Let me in. Let’s talk this through.” And tell me I haven’t been deceived once more.

  She stared, her expression rigid as granite, mouthed “go away” again. And yanked the cord, the blinds falling to block out her face.

  How could he come here? After what he’d done . . .

  Sarah eyed the shop door handle as if it might rise up like a snake to bite her. Daniel didn’t rattle it again, though. He’d gotten the message and left her in peace, alone in the middle of an empty shop.

  Slowly, she spun on the balls of her feet and surveyed the room. The counters, glossy with wax, the glass of the cases so spotless you could hardly tell there was glass in them at all, the walls freshly painted and the floor scrubbed clean. Samples of the girls’ work on display on shelves and case-tops. Their whole world, silent and waiting for an opening that was unlikely to arrive. All that next week would bring would be more bills and no customers, unhappiness and disappointment.

  Don’t let ’em see you blink, Sarah Jane. That’s when they know they’ve got you beat.

  “They have beaten me, Josiah,” she said in answer to the echo of his voice in her head. “Daniel Cady and his lawyer and Archibald Jackson have all beaten me.” But really, she’d beaten herself. She couldn’t blame Daniel for the sins of her past.

  There was pounding on the door again. Another reporter? Or Daniel again? Sarah ran to the window and peeked around the blinds.

  Lottie looked back at her and motioned toward the door.

  Sarah hurried to unlock it and usher her inside. “Thank heavens it’s you. I thought it was going to be another reporter. I’ve only had to chase away four so far. A couple dozen papers yet to go.”

  “Oh, Sarah.” Lottie hugged her close. “The story is dreadful. I went up to the house, and when I did not find you there, I came here.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah smiled because it was better than crying all over her friend’s aqua-striped peau de soie gown, ruining the silk. “With Mrs. McGinnis gone, I need a friend.”

  “You have me. Always.” Lottie hugged her again, hastily. “I must say that Mama has been in a faint since Papa showed her the newspaper. She sent Bridget around to everyone’s house as quick as she could to stop them from coming to my luncheon today. A few arrived anyway. Papa chased them all off without saying a word about you.”

  “Thank him for me, will you? And tell your mother I’m sorry I ruined your birthday. I have your present in my reticule . . .”

  “A present can wait, Sarah.” Lottie’s brows scrunched tightly. “As for Mama, she will recover.”

  “She’ll never forgive me for causing such gossip.”

  Lottie didn’t deny that. “She did try her best to keep me in the house. She told Bridget to watch me every second, but today is her Sunday afternoon off, and Mama is not so mean as to punish Bridget along with me by canceling her lone free afternoon. I did have to practice some duplicity, however.” Faint pink blushed Lottie’s cheeks. “After the fuss died down, I told Mama I was going to church to pray, but I neglected to inform her I intended to see you first. To tell you the truth, I cannot believe she let me outside at all.”

  “Don’t get in trouble for my sake.”

  “I will not go home until I know how you are doing.”

  “Even though I knew the story was going to come out, I’m stunned. And miserable. I don’t know what to do with the shop.” Sarah looked around the room. “I saw Mr. Pomroy earlier. So long as we can pay the rent, we still have the lease, but he warned me to expect there won’t be a single customer.” Sarah eyed her friend, a thought forming. “Perhaps if you ran the studio in my place—”

  “No.” Lottie shook her head, fluttering turquoise-dyed hat feathers. “I am not an artist. I cannot guide those girls without you.”

  “There’s no one else,” said Sarah firmly. “We might hold on to our customers with your name over the shop door. Your reputation is unassailable.”

  “My parents would never let me take over the studio, Sarah. They are not even permitting me to stay in town.” Lottie twisted the ribbon straps of her reticule around her wrist. “At first light, my mother is taking me to stay with my aunt in St. Helena until the gossip blows over.”

  Sarah’s heart sank. “I’m going to lose you too? You won’t even be at the hearing tomorrow?”

  “I am sorry. Papa will be there to offer any advice, however. You will not be completely alone.”

  “Why did this happen?” She flung her arms wide in frustration. “Why did Daniel Cady ever have to show up? Why did he have to go so far as to help that awful reporter to print this story? I’d managed to evade my past for so long . . .” But it had caught up.

  “We cannot know the reason, Sarah. But if you ask the Lord for guidance, He might answer.”

  “He never answers me, Lottie.” She didn’t have to ask God, because she understood the reason. He was punishing her for her sins. Plain and simple.

  Frank dragged his fist across the scarred wood bar and glared at the barkeep. “I said I want another.”

  The barkeep folded his hairy arms over the apron straddling the girth of his fat belly. “And I said you’ve used up yer credit and won’t be gettin’ another.” He frowned, which made him even uglier than normal. “Go home, Burke. Let that woman of yers take care of you.”

  Frank slammed his fist onto the surface, rattling the other patrons’ glasses. Silence cut across the smoke fillin
g the narrow room, the tense and sweaty silence that preceded a brawl. A fellow at the end of the bar slid off his stool and slunk out of the saloon. Frank shot a glare at his departing back.

  “I ain’t got a woman anymore.” She’d left him to drown. His Annie, that bit of nothing he’d scraped off the ground in a wharf-front alley, black and blue and swollen from a beating her old man had given her, had left him floundering in a canal. He would’ve drowned, if some lug of a German hadn’t fished him out, sputtering like a beached carp, a twisted ankle paining him worse than his half-healed gunshot wound. And now they were whispering that she’d left Frank Burke for good. He didn’t believe she had the nerve. She’d be back. Annie didn’t have anyone to run to aside from that Whittier woman. If she were hiding there, he’d flush her out. “So what I need is a drink and a cigar.”

  “Listen, Burke, I’m not giving you either. Not until you pay up.”

  “I told you I’ll be gettin’ the money.” Nobody believed him. Well, they’d be sorry. Those nuggets were still stashed in Cady’s house and Frank Burke would get his hands on them sure enough.

  “You’ve been telling me you’ll get the money for months. Maybe you plan on stealing it from that woman Anne used to work for. She’s got gold at that house, doesn’t she?” The barkeep chuckled along with a drunk fisting a mug of beer. “Rich as Croesus.”

  “Those are my nuggets. Mine!” Frank shouted, causing the drunk to slosh beer as he scurried away from the commotion. “I heard about ’em before any of you. That Irishman who worked on that house never could keep his mouth shut, blabbed all about that hidey-hole he’d built for old Cady. I heard first! Understand? And I’m gonna get those nuggets!”

  “Right, Burke. Right. But before you do, you should go sleep it off.” The barkeep jerked his head toward the open door, a blurry rectangle of light to Frank’s left. “Just go on home.”

  Frank shoved aside his stool, tipping it over. “I’m going but I’ll be back, and then I expect to be getting all the whiskey I want.”

  Twenty-Five

  Monday morning dawned unfairly bright and lovely, the breeze gentle, the sky as blue as cornflowers. The lark’s on the wing; the snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven—all’s right with the world!

  Robert Browning was spectacularly wrong today.

  Sarah tied her bonnet beneath her chin and inhaled a deep breath, which didn’t calm her fluttering nerves or ease her light-headedness. She glanced around the entry hall and into the parlor, at the bare spots on the walls where paintings had been removed, at the table rug—her rug, purchased on a whim after she’d sold her first painting to a local ship’s captain—rolled up in the parlor, Josiah’s portrait propped against the wall, the few small crates alongside ready to be shipped to . . . to who knew where. Anywhere but this house, soon to be owned by Daniel Cady and his sisters, of that Sarah had no doubt, and then sold. Judge Doran would have to suddenly become possessed by a fit of sentimentality to settle Josiah’s estate in any other fashion. After Jackson’s story, she didn’t see how that would happen.

  Shushing Rufus into the house and locking the door behind her, she took the cable car into town, switching lines until she was finally deposited at the foot of the steps leading to the marble-clad rotunda of the new city hall. Two massive wings extended on either side of the central hall, the sound of masons’ hammers clanging off the buildings across Park Avenue. Sarah stared up at the facade, remembering when Josiah had given her a tour of the city like an awestruck sightseer, and had brought her here. Josiah had questioned if they would ever complete construction of the extravagant building before another earthquake came along and took it down. Sarah wished an earthquake would come along right now and save her from having to climb those stairs. But that would only be a temporary reprieve from the inevitable.

  Skirts gathered, Sarah climbed the steps. She didn’t get far before she caught sight of Daniel. He had paused in the shadow of one of the columns supporting the roof of the curving portico, waiting for a man to join him. Given the stack of folders tucked beneath the fellow’s arm, he must be a lawyer. He slapped Daniel on the back, his confident laughter echoing down to where she stood, frozen, indecisive as to whether to move forward or to turn and flee. Just then, Daniel glanced toward the road and spied Sarah’s approach.

  “Sarah.” He started to head down the steps, but his lawyer grabbed Daniel’s elbow and tugged him through the large front doors, deep into the vast dimness of the rotunda’s entry hall.

  Sarah released a pent-up breath and realized she was shaking. If seeing him outside the courtroom made her quiver from nerves, what was going to happen once they were inside?

  “Miss Sarah!” Minnie hailed her, hopping down from another cable car arriving at the curb. She bounded up the stairs to join Sarah, her skirts held high, showing plenty of ankle to a passing, appreciative clerk.

  “What are you doing here, Minnie? Doesn’t your father need you at the grocery?”

  “And leave you to face a judge all alone?” She looked offended. “I wouldn’t do that, not after I heard Miss Charlotte was gone to St. Helena this morning. I was hoping, though, some of the others would have shown up by now.” She glanced around, as if her searching might cause them to appear.

  “It’s quite all right.” Sarah took her arm. “I’ve got you. That’s more than enough support.”

  Minnie grinned at the compliment. “Let’s go up, then, and show them all, shall we? Because if you’ve taught me anything, Miss Sarah, it’s to face the world head-on.”

  “Oh, Minnie.” She smiled back at the girl, so much more confident than when Sarah had first met her. If she lost it all, she had at least achieved some good, which had to be worth something.

  Sarah clutched Minnie’s arm and faced forward. “Let’s go.”

  Archibald Jackson was the first person Daniel noticed as he entered the courtroom, and the last one he wanted to acknowledge.

  He pushed past the reporter, headed for the chair Sinclair was indicating he should take. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Jackson.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Cady, that’s awfully unfriendly. Story surprised you, I guess.” He looked around with a smug grin. “Bringing in a crowd today. Don’t expect it to go well for her. None of these folks do, either.”

  “Not after those lies you published.”

  Jackson lifted his hands. “I’m only the messenger, Mr. Cady, and they’re not lies. Don’t let a pair of fine brown eyes and a trim figure convince you differently.”

  Daniel glared in response, but he didn’t know who he was madder at—the reporter, Sarah, or himself for being gullible.

  The bailiff restrained Jackson from following Daniel to his seat, forcing the reporter to stay behind the railing and find a spot on the benches reserved for the public. Daniel glanced behind him as he settled into the hard wood chair set aside for the plaintiff and caught Jackson’s smirking wink.

  It wasn’t long before Sarah entered the courtroom, the crowd’s murmurs rising on a swell tide. She had come with one of the girls, Minnie, who hugged Sarah before taking the nearest spot she could to the defendant’s chair. Her lawyer met her at her seat, whispered in her ear. She was pale but composed, nodded a few times. She must be missing Miss Samuelson; Daniel had learned from Sinclair, equally as informed as the waitstaff at the Occidental, that she’d left town. Been forced from town was more likely. The scandal of the story had rippled faster than the circling rings of a pond after a stone had been tossed, and it had ensnared Charlotte Samuelson too. Sarah likely never dreamed her actions would harm her closest friend. In that regard, she’d turned out to be just as thoughtless as Josiah. Maybe that’s why they had gotten along so well—they were two peas in a pod.

  Judge Doran entered from a side door, a robust man with a heavy chin and thick sideburns, and climbed the steps to his bench.

  Sinclair leaned into Daniel. “I’m not anticipating any problems. Doran’ll sort out the truth and you’ll
leave this courtroom very well off, Mr. Cady. Very well off, indeed.”

  “That’s what I hired you for, Sinclair,” he said, sourly. The money was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The reason he’d spent months searching for Josiah. Not just to keep a promise to his mother and the girls, but to return to Chicago with gold in his pocket, finally able to give his sisters the sort of social acceptance and respectability that came with lots of cash in the bank. There was no need to feel bad for Sarah. No need at all.

  Daniel sat rigid in his chair, his spine pressed against the wood slats, as the proceedings got underway. Sinclair presented Daniel’s affidavits and recounted the circumstances leading up to his challenge of the probate. He submitted that Josiah Cady had left his children out of his will because he believed them to be deceased, a statement Sarah was forced to confirm, which meant they deserved their rightful portion of his estate. Judge Doran nodded and encouraged Sinclair to continue.

  “I also submit, Your Honor,” Sinclair proclaimed, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, “that Miss Whittier’s claims upon Mr. Josiah Cady’s estate ought to be reviewed. Especially in light of certain aspects of her character that have brought into question her motives behind tending to Mr. Cady in his final days.”

  The courtroom buzzed as loud as an angry hive. Sarah flushed. Minnie leaned over the railing and rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Judge Doran gaveled the crowd into silence. “Please clarify what you are suggesting, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Sinclair scowled as if Sarah were the greatest trickster ever to perpetrate a fraud. “I propose that Miss Whittier coerced Mr. Josiah Cady into naming her the primary beneficiary.”

  “Do you have proof of such an accusation?” the judge asked. If Sinclair did, she’d never see a penny of Josiah’s money and probably be required to pay back Daniel everything she’d already spent. “Any witnesses willing to testify?”

  “Her association with a thief has been widely reported, Your Honor.”