A Golden Grave--A Rose Gallagher Mystery

by Erin Lindsey

  “By the way, Mei, have either of you heard of a form of luck that can kill at a touch?”

  “Kill?” Mei raised her eyebrows.

  “It sounds far-fetched, I know, but this case Mr. Wiltshire and I are on would seem to suggest otherwise.” I recounted what the witness had seen, including the description of the tall man. “It has to be luck, unless … You don’t suppose it could be magic, do you?” Mei’s late mother had been a witch, and she dabbled a little herself. I trusted her opinion on such things almost as much as Mr. Jackson’s.

  “I have never heard of a spell like that, but…” She trailed off, looking thoughtful. She asked her father a question in Chinese, and they conversed for a moment. “How does the person die?” she asked.

  “All we know for sure is that the victims collapse within moments, and a few minutes later they die. It seems to have something to do with their hearts.”

  Mei and her father exchanged looks. “We may have seen something like this before. Last year, a man brought his friend to see my father. He was having…” She paused, her hand going to her chest. “His heart was not working as it should.”

  “A heart attack.”

  “Yes, a heart attack. My father was able to save him, but he was very sick. Even now, he cannot move part of his face.”

  “That sounds like apoplexy. A stroke, they sometimes call it.”

  “I don’t know, but he had a very bad headache, and then there was no feeling in his face, and he could not see out of his left eye. When we asked what happened, the friend said they had been in a fight in a saloon. One man grabbed the other by the arm, like this.” She gripped her own wrist. “The man’s heart started to go very fast. He could not catch his breath, and then he fainted. His friend insisted it was witchcraft. My father and I told him this was not possible, that the man probably just had a bad heart. But maybe we were both wrong. Maybe it was luck.”

  My own heart was beating very fast by this point. “Did they describe the attacker?”

  Both Wangs shook their heads. “We didn’t ask,” Mei said. “We were too busy with medicine. And we never saw them again after that.”

  “What about the saloon—did they say which one?”

  “No, but it must have been close by, because they came on foot, and the man was very sick.”

  That narrowed things down, but only a little. If you tried to count all the gin mills, bucket shops, and stale-beer dives within a three-block radius, you’d run out of fingers before you hit Bayard Street.

  Still, it was something. “Thank you, Mei. That’s a great help. If you remember anything else, please let us know. In the meantime”—I gave her a quick hug—“take care of yourself. And you, Mr. Wang.”

  My head was spinning as I left the shop. Thomas and I didn’t have time to canvass the neighborhood, but maybe Sergeant Chapman? Or we could hire someone. Pietro was always looking for odd jobs …

  I can’t say I believe in Mr. Clemens’s mental telegraphy, but somehow I wasn’t surprised to see Pietro at the end of the block, as if he’d been conjured by my thoughts. He was taking breakfast at his favorite oyster cart on the corner, the one with the Calabrian chili oil he loved. There was no sign of the roughs I’d seen him with yesterday, so I headed over.

  He smiled awkwardly when he saw me. “Ciao, Fiora. Oyster?”

  “No thank you. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” After the way he’d acted yesterday, I wasn’t too worried about being abrupt.

  Pietro sighed, as if he’d been expecting this—which he probably had. “Let’s go up to the flat.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “It’s half a block.” He didn’t wait for an answer, wiping his fingers on his trousers and heading for the flat. All I could do was follow.

  “Peter, is that you? Oh!” Mam drew up short when she saw me walk in. “This is a surprise. Two days in a row.”

  “Morning, Mam. Just stopping in for some tea.”

  “Look what I brought you, Mama.” Pietro produced a bright red tomato from his pocket, the big, juicy kind you almost never found in the shops. “Last of the season, from Augusto’s garden. Maybe I make you some nice sauce, eh?”

  Mam’s eyes went round, and she snatched it from his hand. “Don’t you dare. This will be beautiful just as it is, with a little sprinkle of salt. Here, I’ll slice it up…”

  With Mam safely occupied, Pietro drew me into the little sitting room. “I’m sorry for yesterday,” he said when we were out of earshot. “It wasn’t—”

  “—a good time. Yes, you said. What I want to know is why.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No.” Seeing my skeptical expression, he added, “Not exactly. But the men I’m working with right now … I don’t want you around them.”

  “You mean those roughs I saw you with yesterday?”

  He frowned. “I thought you left. Were you spying on me?”

  “Don’t be dramatic. I happened to see them on my way past the alley, that’s all.” Not strictly true, but I wasn’t about to let him distract me as easily as he’d distracted Mam. “Who are they?”

  “Just some men who work for Augusto. He asked me to help them for a little while.”

  “Help them with what?”

  “It’s better you don’t know. Please, Rose, it’s my business. I can take care of myself.”

  “So can I. I appreciate you wanting to protect me, but—”

  “It’s not just you I’m protecting.” His gaze flicked meaningfully to the kitchen.

  I went very still then. “Is my mother in danger?”

  “No.”

  “Pietro—”

  “She’s not.” He lowered his voice still further. “But if something bad happens, I don’t want these men, or the police, to go looking for anybody I care about. The less they know about my life, the better.”

  “If something bad happens? Pietro, you’re scaring me. Just what kind of work is this?” I paused, recalling the newspaper stories Mr. Jackson had mentioned. “Does it have anything to do with those break-ins they’re writing about in the papers?”

  Pietro looked at me grimly.

  Click. Like the hammer of a gun being cocked.

  “You’re one of them?” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice.

  That hurt him, I could tell. He glanced away. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not one of them. I haven’t done any of those things they said in the papers. I just started working with them this week.”

  “But why?”

  He scowled, still avoiding my eye. “You know better than to ask that. Because of Augusto, of course.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was furious that he’d go along with something like that, however unwillingly. But I’d grown up in Five Points, and he was right, I did know better. Pietro was a survivor. He’d arrived on American shores at the tender age of six, orphaned and indentured, and every day since then had been a struggle. I’d never asked what he had to do to get by—he didn’t owe me his story, and if I’m honest, I probably didn’t want to know—but somehow he’d managed. Not just to survive, but to be a decent person, always there for Mam and me …

  Something even more unpleasant occurred to me then. “What’s Augusto holding over you? Does it have anything to do with that business last January?” Dear Lord, please don’t let it be that. Pietro had warned me that asking for Augusto’s help would cost him, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been too selfish, too wrapped up in looking for Thomas. All I’d cared about was what Augusto could do for me. The padrone had come through, helping me track down the men I was looking for, but of course there was a price to pay. “He’s called in his favor, hasn’t he?”

  “It’s not just one favor. I owe him for many things. Hiring me for jobs, helping you last winter, lending me money when I couldn’t pay the rent…”

  “The rent? But why didn’t you come to me first? I’m earning more these days.”

&
nbsp; He made a wry face. “I am not borrowing money from a woman, Fiora, especially not a working one like you. Besides, that wouldn’t help anything. Augusto pulls on many strings at once, until you dance like a puppet. If it isn’t what you owe him, it’s what he can take from you.”

  What could Augusto possibly take from someone who had nothing to begin with? Then I saw the way Pietro was looking at me, and I understood. It wasn’t what he could take, but whom. “He threatened me, didn’t he?”

  “Not exactly. But he said that if I didn’t help protect the neighborhood, people like my sweetheart might get hurt.”

  “Your sweetheart? He thinks that’s me?” I paused, a little taken aback. I’d had sweethearts before—the usual adolescent affairs, accepting flowers and meaningless tokens in exchange for the occasional chaste kiss. As I recall, there’d been a lot of blushing and giggling and dreamy-eyed looks. I’d never behaved like that with Pietro. “What gave him that idea?”

  Pietro shrugged. “That day you came by the store, the way you were talking…”

  “I remember now.” I couldn’t help blushing a little. “I asked you to come home with me in front of everyone.”

  “Nobody lets me forget it. They keep asking when I’m going to marry you.” He smiled. “I tell them I can’t afford it.”

  That glimpse of the Pietro I knew, the one with the quick smile and easy humor, almost broke my heart. Impulsively, I grabbed his hand. “Don’t let him use me against you. I can take care of myself. In fact, I can help you. I’ve been studying some things, and Mr. Wiltshire—”

  His expression curdled, the way it always did at the mention of Thomas’s name. “The last thing I need is a Pinkerton poking around.”

  Pinkerton. He spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue. What would he say if he knew I was one of them?

  “Anyway, it’s temporary. I do this, and maybe Augusto doesn’t need me for something worse. Besides, I—”

  “Here we are!”

  I snatched my hand away just as Mam appeared in the doorway with a plateful of sliced tomato.

  “I’ve put the kettle on.”

  So there we sat, the three of us, having tea and bread and sliced tomato, the air thick with secrets. If Mam noticed, she didn’t let on, too happy for the company to let anything ruin it.

  Pietro and I parted ways on Mulberry Street, but not before he made one last attempt to reassure me. “These break-ins … It’s a little bit rough, but it’s mostly for show. They’re just making sure the local businesses pay some money, for protection.”

  “They. And what about you?”

  “Like I said, I only started this week.” Ruefully, he added, “But I guess it’s only a matter of time. I’m not happy about it, but nobody is going to the hospital.”

  “Maybe not, but somebody might end up in the Tombs. You might end up in Sing Sing.”

  “It’s only for a little while. The merchants are angry, but they know that if they don’t pay Augusto, they will just have to pay the police instead, and the coppers are a lot more expensive. They will come to their senses eventually, and then Augusto won’t need so many of us anymore.”

  “Until he finds another job that needs doing.”

  Pietro sighed from the soles of his shoes. “One day at a time, Fiora. That is the best I can do.”

  It was the best any of us could do, I supposed. Which was why I couldn’t help him, at least not right now. I had too much else on my plate.

  Even so, it felt like I was leaving a part of myself behind on that corner with Pietro. As if a ghostly version of me hovered at his side, watching myself walk away from a friend in trouble. Glancing back, I could almost see her standing there, that other, shadow Rose. But try as I might, I couldn’t make out her face.

  CHAPTER 17

  MAKE-BELIEVE—AN UNWELCOME GUEST—A PREEMPTIVE STRIKE

  The reception for Theodore Roosevelt was scheduled to begin at five-thirty. Yet here it was four-thirty already, and I was nowhere near ready, struggling into my multitudes of undergarments while Clara performed surgery on my silver Tiffany bracelet with a tiny pair of pliers.

  “Such a shame,” I said, eying the ruins of one of the prettiest things I’d ever owned. “I only got to wear it once.”

  “You can console yourself with your new wristwatch.”

  “It’s not a wristwatch anymore. The guts have been replaced. It doesn’t even tell time.”

  “Shucks. I guess now it’s just a diamond bracelet.”

  I frowned. “It’s not as though these trinkets are gifts, you know.” Well, except the emerald brooch, but that was … complicated.

  “What do you call it when somebody gives you something for free?”

  “It was only a party favor.”

  “Only.” She snorted softly. “It’d spoil the looks of a month’s salary, and you got me chopping it up like cabbage.”

  I paused, petticoats dangling about my hips. “These things don’t even belong to me, not really. They’re part of a disguise, that’s all.”

  “A damn good one, too. I’ve known you for years and I barely recognize you.”

  After what happened with Pietro that morning, that struck a nerve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She sighed. “Nothing. It’s just … What’re you gonna do when this case is over and you gotta go back to real life?”

  “They’re only clothes, Clara. It’s just make-believe.”

  “I know that. I just hope you do.”

  “It’s not as though I could forget,” I said irritably. “Not if Ava Hendriks and her ilk have anything to say about it. They’ll take every opportunity to remind me how far beneath them I am. And that’s the make-believe me, mind you—the real me is barely fit to polish their silver.”

  “That ain’t so,” Clara said severely, pointing her pliers at me, “and don’t you go thinking it. Lord Almighty, Rose, we been having this conversation for years. You’re always looking up to these rich folks, thinking they’re better than the rest of us. You been spending so much time around them lately, I thought for sure you’d finally see that they ain’t no different from the rest of us. Instead you’re trying even harder to impress them.”

  “It’s part of the job. I need to convince them that I belong. That I’m one of them.”

  “Convince them or convince yourself?”

  As if I ever could. “Look, this is awkward for both of us. I understand if you don’t want any part of it.”

  She gave me a wry look. “You couldn’t strap yourself into this getup if you had two extra arms and a week to do it. So unless you’re planning to ask Mr. Wiltshire for help, you’re stuck with me.”

  “He wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “Men know more than you think. If they can get ’em off you, they can work out how to get ’em on again.”

  Which remark threw me into a fit of flushed daydreaming, the general outlines of which you can probably guess.

  As soon as I was properly assembled, I headed down to the parlor, where I found Thomas waiting. “Sorry for being late. It took longer than I thought to adjust the watch.”

  “Not to worry. Burrows is constantly chiding me for my punctuality. Apparently being on time is not the thing.”

  “Speaking of, I wish he were here. We could see if this contraption really works.” I brandished the refitted wristwatch, which now resembled a cross between the charm bracelet and a platinum bangle set with tiny diamonds. “It’s one thing to make it work in the lab…”

  “… and another out in the field.” He took my gloved hand, casual as a lover, tilting my wrist to inspect the watch. “At least it looks the part. It’s quite lovely on you.”

  “You have excellent taste, but we knew that already.”

  He smiled. “Hopefully we can corner Burrows and run a quick test.”

  “In the meantime, I can make a fool of myself by being the only woman in the room who smokes cigarettes.”

  “Nonsense, you’ll seem very exo
tic and fashionable.”

  I doubted that, but there was no help for it now. Thomas grabbed our overcoats, and we were on our way.

  The Fifth Avenue Hotel was already bustling by the time we got there, at least a hundred elegant people sipping champagne and milling about the dining room. The space had been completely reconfigured for the event. At one end sat several long tables extravagantly set for supper; at the other, the floor had been cleared save for a few small tables of hors d’oeuvres. Hothouse flowers and potted palms formed an island between the two spaces, like a small park complete with benches.

  “I don’t see Price yet,” Thomas said, “but we have time. Roosevelt probably won’t arrive until just before he’s due to give his speech.”

  “Which is when?”

  “After supper, when the women retire to the ladies’ drawing rooms upstairs.”

  I gave him a sharp look. “You’re not thinking of sending me off with the rest of them, are you?”

  “Certainly not. In fact, I doubt you’ll be the only woman interested in hearing Roosevelt speak. Believe it or not, suffragists are occasionally found among society circles.” He accepted two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to me, using the gesture as cover to touch the cigarette holder against my wristwatch. “Look at that,” he said in an undertone. “Tesla must have started up his coil.”

  I glanced down to find the minute hand suspended halfway between one and two. “To think there’s electricity running through this room right now. Running through us.”

  “A disconcerting thought,” he agreed, handing the probe back to me. “What about the pulses? Can you feel them?”

  I let my arm fall to my side so that the dangling charm rested alongside the cigarette holder. The moment the two bits of silver touched, I felt a buzzing sensation against my wrist. “There’s a sort of vibration, as if…” I paused. “No, wait, I feel it now. And the minute hand has started to—”