A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  Riot ran a hand over his trim beard. “There is something. A fair trade of services.”

  Mr Cottrill glanced over his shoulder, at the wall of pipes. “I didn’t know you were a smoking man. You can have your pick. No trade necessary.”

  Riot shook his head. “I’m not a smoking man, but I am a man who has his ear to the ground. During my investigation, I discovered that your wife had a cousin by the name of Mabel.”

  “I know her well. She’s right grieved over Rose’s murder.”

  “Mabel works for a Mr. Alex Kingston.”

  Silas’ face turned grim. “That she does.”

  “Is she mistreated in his employ?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “But you dislike him.”

  “I don’t much trust any man with that much money.”

  Riot nodded in understanding. “If any word of him should reach your ears, Mr. Cottrill, I’d be obliged if you passed it on.”

  “Are you investigating Kingston for a crime?”

  “Let’s just say that I like to see justice done.”

  “A fair trade, is it?”

  “It is, Mr. Cottrill.”

  Silas nodded, and extended his hand. Riot shook it, firmly.

  At the door, Silas stopped Riot with a word. “It helps, you know. My Rose is at peace now.”

  Caught in the act of donning his hat, Riot turned to regard the tobacconist. “I imagine so.” Riot set his bowler on his head and touched the brim.

  The sun was bright, bringing a promise of another warm, San Franciscan winter day. Riot’s right temple throbbed. He resisted the urge to rub the stripe of white hair that hid a bullet scar. He’d find no rest in sleep—not with old memories that reminded him of business left undone.

  In no mood to tempt his luck, Riot hopped aboard a cable car heading west on Market, away from the Ferry Building. The car was full. He stood on the runner, fingers resting lightly on a pole as the car rattled through chaos. The clock tower was the gateway to San Francisco, a heart of travel, and if the building was the heart than Market was an artery. Wagons cut in front of the cable cars, motorcars weaved in and out, and pedestrians ran for their lives.

  Riot felt the personal touch of eyes. He swept a casual gaze over the passengers, trying to pinpoint the source, but it was near to impossible in the crush; the cable car was packed as tightly as a sardine tin. Worse, he had a number of enemies.

  Despite the masses traveling through the city, one began to recognize the regulars: conductors and gripmen, flower vendors, newspaper men, shoe shiners, and a stream of commuters who rode the ropes every morning like clockwork. San Francisco was a sea of familiarity masked in the obscurity of the masses.

  The cable car stopped in the heart of Market, at Lotta’s fountain, a cast iron monument holding its own in the shadow of towering buildings. Over half the passengers disembarked, hitting the sidewalk and hurrying away.

  Riot stepped down, and recognized a woman with umbrella in hand preparing to navigate the runner. She wore a broad-brimmed hat atop a full head of brown hair, vibrant lip rouge, trim jacket and matching green skirt that hugged an hourglass shape. Twice this week, he had ridden the cable car with her, and each time had offered his hand. He did so now. Gloved fingers touched his own.

  “Thank you, sir.” Her voice was deep and sultry and something in her manner pricked his senses. Instead of heading directly towards the Ravenwood offices, he escorted her across four lines of cable cars to the sidewalk.

  “Ma’am,” he made to touch the brim of his hat, but as he pulled away, the fingers tightened over his own.

  “Oh, dear,” the woman said faintly. She wobbled, her fingers loosened, and she fell.

  3

  The Art of Swooning

  ATTICUS RIOT CAUGHT THE fainting woman in his arms. Her hat tumbled off and the umbrella thudded to the ground. Little cries of concern rippled from the masses, but most walked on; some slowed, and only two stopped. With the woman’s hat off, Riot got his first clear look at her face.

  “Hello, Miss Bel,” he whispered to the limp woman in his arms.

  An eye cracked open. Today, the color was amber, reflecting the sun and her lush brown hair. “At least do me the courtesy of feigning surprise,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Nothing surprises me where you are concerned.”

  “I didn’t want to faint in some strange man’s arms,” she explained, as if that clarified everything.

  “Most women don’t get to choose.”

  “Most gentlemen would look worried,” she retorted. “I require an ambulance.”

  “Do you?”

  “Some panic would do, Mr. Riot.”

  Riot looked to one of the two gentlemen who had stopped. “This woman requires an ambulance,” he said calmly. “The office there will likely have a telephone.” The helpful stranger hastened inside the steamship office. “Anything else?”

  Isobel’s gaze flickered to the Chronicle building clock tower, and back to her savior. “What ever you generally do when a woman faints in your arms.”

  “This is a first.”

  “Improvise, then.”

  “You there, sir,” Riot said to the lingering man, an older gentleman with a trustworthy air. “Could you gather her things?”

  The man bent to comply, and Riot lifted Isobel in his arms, carrying her towards the steamship office. A flustered looking clerk opened the door, and Riot deposited her onto a lobby couch.

  The first gentleman appeared. “They’ve telephoned for an ambulance.”

  Riot nodded, kneeling beside the couch to unbutton the first three buttons of her high-collared blouse. Too many men were breathing down his neck.

  Riot turned. “Not to worry, I’m a doctor,” he announced. “I think she’s overheated. Give her room to breathe and go on about your business.” Whether it was the authority in his tone or the mention of work, he could not say, but all the clerks returned to their desks.

  “She’ll be all right, then?” the older gentleman asked.

  Riot accepted her hat, handbag, and umbrella. “I believe so, with proper care. I’ll attend to her until the ambulance arrives.” The two gentlemen tipped their hats and exited. Riot removed his bowler and dutifully began fanning his patient.

  “Now what if I were too heavy for you to carry?” Isobel murmured when they were relatively alone.

  “I’d drag the couch out to you,” he replied.

  She was studying him under her lashes. Despite the face powder, eye-liner, wig, and lip rouge, she could not disguise her bone structure. He tried not think about the undergarments she had used to achieve her current hourglass shape. All in all, it was a masterful disguise.

  “There have been stranger sights,” she mused. A ripple of movement caught his eye at the back, and she fell silent as the manager came to check on the commotion.

  Riot fended off the gruff manager with assurances that the woman was not going to die in his lobby, and stood his ground when the man suggested that they wait outside for the ambulance.

  “I’m sure you have work to do, Mr. Brown,” Riot said sharply. The manager took his point and stomped off to shut himself in his office.

  When Riot turned back to his patient, she asked, “Aren’t you the least bit curious what I’m doing?”

  “Fainting, obviously,” he replied. Riot perched on the side of the couch, blocking the clerks’ view from Isobel. She opened her eyes to his.

  Those eyes beckoned, and her red lips distracted. Riot had the sudden urge to wipe off the gaudy paint and touch the lips beneath. He tore his gaze away, searching for a less alluring distraction. “Nice umbrella.”

  “There’s a sword inside,” her eyes flashed.

  “Can you use it?”

  She arched a brow. “Mr. Riot, I lived with a fencer in Venice. What else would a young lady be doing in a man’s residence?”

  Riot opened his mouth, shut it, and tilted his head.

  “Not
hing is more tantalizing than a sword and its sheathe,” she whispered with vigor.

  Riot adjusted his spectacles. “I’ve missed you.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I investigated your murder. I’d say I know you well,” he argued.

  “I hope I never have cause to investigate yours.”

  “There are better ways to get to know a gentleman,” Riot agreed. “But if that unfortunate event should ever occur, I have every confidence that you’d bring my murderer to justice.”

  “And God won’t find mercy in my soul.”

  “I’m touched.” And he meant it. “How have you been, Miss Bel, aside from your current vaporous condition?”

  “Settling. You?”

  “Resettling,” replied Riot.

  “You’ve been frequenting your offices,” she said.

  “And I see you’ve taken up with the enemy,” he noted.

  A flicker of surprise flashed in her eyes. “How could you possibly know what I’m about? You’ve only just recognized me.”

  “Have I?” Amusement danced in his eyes.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “How dull.” But Riot had pricked her ego, and she snagged his bait. “You’ve offered your hand to me, without a hint of recognition, twice in the past week.”

  “So I have.”

  Her brows drew together. “How long have you known?”

  Riot placed his bowler over her glare and consulted the hands of his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Deplorable,” she snorted.

  “It’s a good disguise,” he admitted, retrieving his hat. “But, considering your history, I’m not entirely sure it’s wise.”

  “Not you.” There was immense satisfaction in her voice. “The ambulance service.”

  “For my own sake, I hope they take another hour.”

  “For the sake of fainting women everywhere, I hope not. How did you know what I’m up to?”

  “You glanced at the Chronicle clock when the gentleman said he had summoned an ambulance,” he explained. “That, and your preoccupation with the ambulance.”

  Grey eyes narrowed. “If not lying, then at the very least, you’re guessing.”

  The faintest of smiles played on his lips. “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are,” she stated with certainty. “You’re buying time, in hopes I’ll slip up and confirm your suspicion—whatever that might be.”

  “In that case, I don’t have much time left. Emergency services have improved since Annie Laurie pulled this same stunt.”

  “It’s been done before?” Dismay, mingled with admiration, filled her voice.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Damn,” she swore. Making a sudden, miraculous recovery, Isobel sat up and grabbed her hat. An office of startled eyes looked up from their desks. Isobel waved away their surprise. “Coffee,” she stated. “I just need a stout cup of coffee.”

  But it was too late. The ambulance interns rushed inside the office, firmly told her that she was not all right, and worse, Riot whole-heartedly agreed. Between the three men, they bullied her onto a stretcher.

  “One moment,” Riot said, gathering her things. The interns paused, and when Isobel snatched her umbrella and hat from his hand, Riot bent close. “Dinner, Miss Bel?” he murmured.

  She answered his invitation with a glare.

  4

  She Wrote Her Will in Sand

  ISOBEL SAAVEDRA AMSEL (FORMERLY Kingston) swayed with the ambulance wagon. The shaking was inevitable on San Francisco’s cobbled-streets, but she had hoped for squeaky springs, ached for a grimy cot, an ill-kept wagon bed, or even blood on the planks; unfortunately, everything was spotless.

  The taciturn physician measured her pulse, listened to her heart, and stared into the depths of her throat with nothing but chasteness. Not one inappropriate grope, or even so much as a leer from the broad-shouldered intern.

  Isobel blew out a breath of frustration. The physician stuck a thermometer between her lips. She nearly spat it out, but subsided, determining to salvage whatever she could from her botched ruse.

  When the mercury stopped on a boringly common line, the physician removed the glass, read it, and shook it out. “It will only be a few minutes, ma’am.” The physician offered her an avuncular smile of reassurance, and nodded to his intern, who carefully laid a blanket over her body.

  Isobel closed her eyes, cursing her incompetence. When she was fifteen, she had been sent to a young ladies school in Dresden, returned to a whole mess of trouble when she was nineteen, married a blackmailer when she was twenty and faked her own death two months later. And before that, she had roamed San Francisco and its bay like a wild thing. Hardly any time to keep up with the daily news.

  Still, it was no excuse. Isobel vowed to read every sensational newspaper story that had been published in Riot’s lifetime. Thoughts of Riot surfaced, and she cursed herself again, trying to block out his warm eyes, the ease with which he had lifted her, and his mere proximity—the smell of his hat, of sandalwood and myrrh; felt and polish. How had he guessed what she was up to? An innocent glance at a clock and mention of an ambulance was hardly telling. But the man could read her like an open book. It was vexing.

  A buzz pricked her ears, and she seized the distraction, turning her mind to the two gentlemen in the wagon.

  “…life-saving crew fished the poor woman out. Pretty thing, too,” the broad-shouldered intern was saying.

  “Suicide?” asked the physician.

  “Thomas said it looked that way. There was a message written in the sand, right on shore. Can you believe that?”

  “A bit risky if you ask me. I’m surprised the tides didn’t wipe it clean.”

  “I’d imagine a girl who’s about to do herself in isn’t exactly concerned about that sort of thing.”

  The physician grunted with agreement. “It’s always a shame, that.”

  Isobel had had enough of her charade. She sat up. The men protested, and she cut them short with an edge in her tone. “I didn’t faint, gentlemen. I work for the Call.” Before the indignation in their eyes had a chance to surface, she shook both their hands, firmly. “Charlotte Bonnie, pleased to meet you. I’m doing a follow up story to—” What had Riot said her name was? “Annie Laurie. To test San Francisco’s emergency response services.” From the looks on both their faces, she wagered that the original story had not been favorable. “I must say,” she assured, “the improvements are extraordinary. And you, gentlemen, are exceptional.”

  Isobel graced the men with her most charming smile, and whipped out her fountain pen and notepad. “Your names, if you please?”

  “William T. Cook,” the broad-shouldered intern supplied. However, the physician looked wary.

  “This article will reassure the ladies of San Francisco that their bodies are in good hands with you gentlemen,” Isobel explained, innocently.

  The intern coughed, and the physician cleared his throat but her words loosened his tongue. “Dr. Francis Davies.”

  Isobel dutifully wrote down their names and dotted her I’s. She frowned at the uneven scrawl. The rattling wagon certainly didn’t help her impatient hand. “Now look here, if you take me to the receiving hospital, then I’ll miss my deadline for this story. And you won’t see your names in the Morning Call.”

  “You think it’ll make front page?” Cook asked.

  “I don’t honestly know,” she sighed. “I hope it will. A woman’s got to make an honest living. But say—if I had two stories to submit, like the suicide you mentioned, I could add your names to that one too and it’d double your chances.”

  “There’s a morgue full of suicides, ma’am,” Davies pointed out.

  “But it’s not everyday that a suicide writes her note in the sand, now is it?”

  The physician pondered her question, and before he could make up his mind, Isobel made it for him. “Where was the body discovered?” she
asked the intern with pen poised.

  “Ocean Beach, by the Olympic pier. She was floating in the water.”

  “Do you know what she wrote in the sand?”

  “It was odd,” Cook said.

  Isobel waited patiently for the broad-shouldered man to dredge up the words.

  “Violet loves kindness, and she does not always get it in this country.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a note from a desperate woman to me,” Isobel frowned.

  “That’s what Thomas told me,” Cook shrugged.

  “You said she was a redhead, didn’t you?” Davies asked. His partner nodded. “In my experience, they are of a certain temperament.”

  Isobel waited, hoping that this would at least elicit a lewd comment, or even a glance from Cook, but both men kept their thoughts to themselves.

  When the ambulance wagon rolled to a stop, Isobel gathered her things, thanked the two men, and headed to the closest cable car terminus. Her luck had turned.

  A woman, redheaded or no, did not write her last words in sand.

  ✥

  The sea greeted Isobel like an old friend. Its salt kissed her lips, the waves washed against her ears with gentleness, and the horizon beckoned her home. With the sea a step away, Isobel was never caged.

  Standing on the dunes, she tore her gaze from the ocean blue, and focused on the long stretch of shoreline. A group of morning walkers and eager tourists mingled on the sand. But instead of gazing at the sea, the crowd had their collective eyes on a spot of sand. In the middle of the crowd stood two surfmen in their blues. And farther down, by the pier, another two lingered, dressed in their white duck-cloth and rubber-soled slippers. The police, it appeared, had come and gone. And the reporting vultures had not yet arrived. Isobel was the first such vulture. There were a dozen suicides a week in San Francisco. Most were hardly news worthy, but this might attract attention for different reasons than Isobel had.