Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  I nodded sadly. “I suspect O’Hara spotted Bruno digging on the Hill beside his shack. When he went to investigate and saw that it was Bruno burying Jonathan Aleric, he probably lent Studds a willing enough hand. But after you were arrested for the murder, Bruno must have feared Tull would reveal who really shot Aleric in order to save you, and the newspaper.”

  “So, the villain set fire to his house?” Remy said angrily.

  “Yes. Finally that was too much, even for Mrs. Montgomery. And, of course, when Bruno took Isabel, that provided the final straw. But even she couldn’t get Bruno to stop.” I paused, remembering the maniacal expression on Studds’s face as he held the gun to Isabel’s head on the balcony. “By then, I think he was beyond the ability to reason.”

  “He could have easily killed Stephen,” Samuel said, obviously sharing my thoughts. “By God, it was a near thing.”

  “You know, you provided me with the final piece of the puzzle, Samuel,” I told my brother with a smile.

  Robert laughed. “All right, I’ll humor her, Samuel. What magic words did you say that resulted in her sudden flash of genius?”

  “Very funny, Robert,” I said, unable to repress a laugh. “The night before the fire, Samuel was telling me what he’d found out about Aleric. He mentioned that he’d been a poor student in school and, lacking any practical skills, joined the Union army when he got out of jail. I was too tired to realize it at the time, but I think something clicked in my mind when he said that.

  “The next day, after Bruno set fire to O’Hara’s house, Samuel said he was beginning to believe that Telegraph Hill was cursed, starting from the night he was shot marching down the hill after Wilde’s reading. It was hearing the word marching, I think, that finally helped trigger that all-important connection: both men had served under General Grant at Vicksburg. After that, everything else just fell into place. I only wish I could have put it together sooner.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, my dear,” said Remy. “I am still in awe of your deductive abilities.” He paused, then went on, “But why did Bruno shoot at you?”

  “She was asking too many questions,” Samuel told him. “After that second visit to Telegraph Hill, Mrs. Montgomery worried that Sarah was getting too close to the truth, and wanted to frighten her away. Unfortunately for her, she was dealing with the wrong woman. My little sister does not frighten easily.”

  Eddie stopped the brougham on Sansome Street just short of the Filbert Street Steps. Remy said he did not mind the climb. In fact, he claimed he was looking forward to enjoying the lovely day, as well as his newfound freedom.

  He bade the men good day, then opened the door and stepped out of the carriage. Once he was on the street, he reached back inside the carriage and took my hand, bringing it gallantly to his lips. Ever the perfect southern gentleman, I thought, even as I felt a slight flush creep into my cheeks.

  “I can never thank you enough for all that you have done for me, my dear. You are amazing. Absolutely amazing. I shall always remain your most faithful servant!”

  * * *

  One month after our first appearance before the city council, Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty, Mrs. Jane Hardy, Samuel, and I entered City Hall to hear the final verdict on the SPCA case against Ricardo Ruiz’s proposed bullring. As before, the seven city council members filed in and took their places at the table set up in the front of the room.

  Across the aisle from us, Ricardo Ruiz sat flanked by his two attorneys and, of course, his usual henchmen behind him. The Mexican’s handsome, aristocratic face was as dark as a thundercloud when he glanced over to where the five of us were sitting.

  “He appears very angry,” Mrs. Hardy said, trying to hide a smile. “I believe that bodes well for our cause, don’t you agree?”

  “I do indeed,” I answered, returning the man’s rude look with a polite smile. He instantly turned his head to speak angrily with one of his lawyers.

  Mr. Shaw, president of the city council, was looking over what I took to be the day’s agenda. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and called our case. I stood, as did one of Ruiz’s attorneys, but neither of us was called to the podium.

  “Señor Ruiz,” Shaw said, turning his attention to our adversary, “have you been able to locate the deed for the San Francisco property issued to your father upon his appeal to the United States Supreme Court?”

  Ruiz’s attorney gave Shaw a blasé smile, looking for all the world as if this matter were hardly worth the effort to comment.

  “Unfortunately, my client has been forced to postpone his trip back to his native Mexico because of pressing business matters, Mr. Shaw,” the lawyer said. “But surely it is a mere formality. As we demonstrated during the initial hearing, all of Señor Ruiz’s California deeds are in order.”

  “Not the deed in question,” Shaw told him. Shifting in his chair, he addressed Ruiz directly. “You were given one month to locate the proper title to that land, Señor Ruiz, yet you have failed to do so. Have you anything to say before the council rules in this case?”

  Ruiz immediately got to his feet, his manner that of an important individual forced to deal with an inferior assembly who obviously did not know what they were doing.

  “Señor Shaw,” he began, his accent making his erudite voice seem even more striking. The man could certainly turn on the charm when he was so motivated, I thought. One had to give him that. “My family is well-known throughout Mexico. For over sixty years, we have owned property in California. Our claim to the land parcel here in San Francisco cannot be in question. My late father always intended that we should erect a monument to our illustrious family in this glorious city, and I am here to carry out his wishes.”

  He swept out a hand in my direction. “This woman, this Señorita Woolson, dares to stand in my way. She, who calls herself an attorney, attempts to prevent me from fulfilling this sacred obligation.” He paused to look knowingly at each member of the council. “Come, gentlemen, we are men of the world, are we not? My bullfighting arena will bring great prestige, not to mention considerable income, to San Francisco. Are we to allow this naïve young woman to stand in the way of progress? I have already taken steps to correct my father’s temporary oversight in obtaining what truly amounts to no more than a mere slip of paper, from your Supreme Court. I have petitioned them to issue me the deed in question in all possible haste.”

  He smiled imperiously around the room at large, then at the seven councilmen. “There, gentlemen. I believe that should settle the matter to our mutual satisfaction.”

  I was flabbergasted to see several council members nodding their heads in amiable agreement. Furious, I stepped uninvited to the podium before any of them could respond to this shameful display of chauvinistic pomposity.

  “Mr. Shaw, members of the council,” I began, ignoring the seven pairs of eyes regarding me with displeasure. “Señor Ruiz may feel this matter has been settled, but I disagree. It certainly has not been settled to my satisfaction, or to the satisfaction of the SPCA. There is the small matter of the law, which he appears to consider beneath his notice.”

  I heard a noise coming from Ruiz’s seat and hurried on. “This council gave Señor Ruiz one month to produce a valid deed for the property he claims to own in the Mission District. He has not done so. Moreover, even if he were to miraculously deliver such a properly executed title to the land in question, it would not be legally binding due to the matter of adverse possession, which I previously brought up before this council. To refresh your memories, neither Señor Ruiz nor his father has ever resided on that property, nor has either man erected any house, business, or farm there.”

  Behind me, Ruiz was demanding to be heard. In front of me, Mr. Shaw was banging his gavel. I paid no heed to either of them. I pulled out the sheaf of documents I had brought with me and waved them at the seven pompous men seated before me.

  “Also in order to refresh your memories, I have here the necessary city records to prove that the owners
of at least eight businesses and private homes within the boundaries of this property have fulfilled the obligations required to qualify for adverse possession. They have resided on the land for over five years—some of them for more than twenty years—and have dutifully paid taxes on these properties.”

  I took a moment to let my eyes rest on each member of the city council. “If, by any extraordinary possibility, this body finds in favor of Señor Ruiz, I shall personally ensure that all eight of these individuals sue the city of San Francisco for gross injustice, and for generous financial compensation.”

  Ordering Ricardo Ruiz’s attorneys to quiet their client, Mr. Shaw and the other six members of the city council put their heads together to confer. Five minutes later, the San Francisco City Council officially ruled in favor of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

  There would be no bullfighting ring constructed in the Mission District, or in any other area of the city if I had anything to say about it!

  * * *

  The following week, Samuel’s book, which chronicled crime in San Francisco since the Gold Rush days, was accepted by Moure and Atkins Publishing House. There was a great deal of excitement at the Woolson house, and despite the death of his sister, Papa decided we must have a party to celebrate.

  Mortimer Remy had been invited, as well as Robert, George Lewis, and two very special guests, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Parke. The two had been married in a beautiful ceremony, which Samuel, Robert, and I attended. I don’t think I have ever seen two happier people. Although I would never admit it in front of my mother, that afternoon I thought perhaps the institution of marriage was not so intolerable after all. At least for some people, I thought, and for a moment rather wished that it were possible for me to be counted among that number.

  Perhaps the happiest news of all was that the couple had taken in little Billy Dunn to raise as their own son. It was unlikely they would ever be rich, at least by society’s definition of the word. But they would be rich in love, which as far as I was concerned would be to enjoy wealth beyond measure!

  Our entire family was present for the party, even my eldest brother, Frederick, and his wife, Henrietta, whose attendance, under the circumstances, could hardly be avoided. To my surprise, they both behaved remarkably well. Evidently, having a published author as a brother fell within the bounds of acceptable social achievements.

  The man of the hour was beaming with pride, all the while attempting, mostly unsuccessfully, to appear humble. I suspected that he was secretly still pinching himself when no one was looking. After all, it wasn’t every day that a writer’s fondest desire was realized.

  Now that Mrs. Montgomery was awaiting trial on multiple murder charges, the literary foundation she had established was temporarily in limbo. I say temporarily, because her sister, Abigail, seemed to have discovered a surprising inner strength beneath her fluffy exterior and had expressed a desire to see the Butter Ball Literary Competition continue in her nephew’s memory.

  Because of her age and frail physical condition, Katherine Montgomery would most probably be spared the capital punishment she had predicted, although I wondered if spending the rest of her life in prison might be an even worse punishment. Bruno Studds would not be spared the hangman’s noose, although his lawyer was attempting to plead insanity. But this was an extremely difficult defense to prove and would more than likely fail. Frankly, I hoped it would. The lives of four human beings, no matter their moral vicissitudes, must in the final analysis count for something.

  Unfortunately, my brother Charles had been called away to handle a medical emergency, but Celia was circulating about the room, helping my mother cope with the enthusiastic guests, while our maid, Ina Corks, passed around finger food, and my father was practically bursting his vest buttons with pleasure and pride at his youngest son’s accomplishment. Reporter or no, all of Papa’s expectations about my brother following a legal career seemed to have dissipated like the morning fog wafting over San Francisco Bay.

  “Well, he did it,” Robert said as he handed me a glass of punch. “And the first time out of the gate, too. You must be very proud of him.”

  “He has genuine talent, Robert, and this is a dream come true for him. I’m so thankful that he persevered and followed his own path in life. He was never cut out to be a lawyer.”

  “Just as you weren’t cut out to be a wife and mother, Sarah?” His voice was soft and just a bit wistful.

  “It isn’t that I don’t want those things.” I paused, trying to find words to explain. “I just don’t see a way to obtain them and…”

  “Fulfill your own dream,” he finished for me.

  I sighed. “Yes. Society, contemporary standards, other people’s expectations … It’s difficult to be true to oneself, particularly if you’re a woman. Look how hard it was for Samuel, and he’s a man.”

  “If you weren’t such a damn good lawyer, I’d try to argue the point with you.” He let out his own sigh. “Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, at least for your clients, you’re one of the best attorneys in town.”

  He looked down at me, his blue-green eyes sparkling in the glow of gaslights. “Someday, I hope to use another form of persuasion on you, my dear,” he added, his Scottish r’s rolling nicely as he bent his head closer to mine. “One that even you might find difficult to resist.”

  Suddenly, I found it impossible to swallow. “I, ah, that is, after Mortimer Remy and the SPCA cases, my firm is actually solvent, at least for the next six months.” It was such a pathetic change of subject that I blushed in embarrassment. I had no idea why he had the power to wreak such havoc on my otherwise sensible emotions. “I wish you would reconsider joining me, Robert. Together, we would make a formidable team.”

  “I have no doubt of that. Of course, if the money you have just brought in is to last six months, it will be necessary for one of us to forgo regular meals, not to mention a roof over his head.”

  He smiled, his eyes twinkling now. “Let me see, Campbell and Woolson, how does that strike you?”

  “I’m sure you mean Woolson and Campbell.”

  “Hmmm. How about Campbell and Campbell? I think that has a very nice ring to it, don’t you?”

  I attempted to reply to this astonishing suggestion, but no sound issued from my throat. For one of the very few times in my life, I appeared to have been struck speechless.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a debt of thanks to Patrick Buscovich, San Francisco structural engineer, and Edgar Oropeza of the San Francisco Planning Department, for their assistance in helping Sarah defeat Ricardo Ruiz’s proposed bullfighting arena. Also, many thanks to the San Francisco office of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Your help is greatly appreciated.

  ALSO BY SHIRLEY TALLMAN

  Scandal on Rincon Hill

  The Cliff House Strangler

  The Russian Hill Murders

  Murder on Nob Hill

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Shirley Tallman moved to San Francisco at an early age. She and her husband, Bob, live in Eugene, Oregon, where she works as a novelist and screenwriter. Visit her on the Web at www.shirleytallman.com.

  Photograph of the author in period costume for bookstore appearances by Robert Tallman

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  DEATH ON TELEGRAPH HILL. Copyright © 2012 by Shirley Tallman. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover photograph of Engraving of Golden Gate from Telegraph Hill in San Francisco (1872) © Lutheran History Images

  ISBN 978-1-250-01043-8 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9781250015242 (e-book)

  First Edition: October 2012

   

  Shirley Tallman, Death on Telegraph Hill