by Erin Lindsey
“Rose, dear, is that you?”
Pietro fell silent, and we shared a meaningful look. His questions would have to wait.
“Yes, Mam, it’s me. I’m coming just now.” Hanging my overcoat on the rack, I followed Pietro into the kitchen, where I was met by a heady smell of garlic. Something bubbled on the stove, and little piles of chopped herbs and vegetables covered one side of the table. On the other side stood my mother, chicken in one hand and cleaver in the other, a soiled apron tied around her tiny waist.
For a second I just stood there, too thunderstruck to speak.
“Mam, are you … cooking?”
Pietro arranged himself at the other end of the table and resumed chopping, casual as you please, as though the sight of my mother preparing a meal were nothing special.
“Well, what does it look like, you silly thing?” Mam waved her cleaver in an offhanded way.
It looked like my often-confused mother had a very large knife in her hand, but it wouldn’t do to say so. “I’m just … a bit surprised, is all.”
“You act as if you’ve never seen me cook before.”
I glanced at Pietro, but he was no help; he just winked at me and kept chopping. “Well, it has been a while, Mam.” By a while, I meant years, ever since her dementia had made the task too dangerous to contemplate. The main reason I’d found her a boarder three years ago was to take care of the cooking while I was away at work. Fortunately for Mam, Pietro had proved to be more than competent in the kitchen, and had even managed to coax her into trying something other than the bland cabbage-and-potatoes fare she’d grown up with. These days, Mam enjoyed garlic and tomatoes nearly as much as our boarder. “What are you making?”
“Pollo alla cacciatora,” Pietro replied. “I like to make this sauce with rabbit, but I couldn’t find it nowhere.”
“Couldn’t find it anywhere, Peter.” As a former schoolteacher, Mam never tired of correcting his grammar. It had been the same with me when I was a child, except Pietro handled it with a lot more grace than I ever had.
“Sorry, Mama,” he said affably. “One day I will learn.”
“Are these fresh tomatoes?” I picked up a juicy-looking specimen. “Where did you find hothouse tomatoes around here?” Plenty of posh grocers uptown carried them, but I couldn’t think of any place between Washington Square and … “Ah,” I said, spying a link of salami hanging from the ceiling. “I see you made a trip to Augusto’s.”
There must have been something in my tone, because Pietro looked up. “Sì, I wanted to buy some seeds for the garden. Actually…” Setting his knife down, he gestured at the door leading out to the courtyard. “Come, Fiora, I show you.”
He led me out into the small yard behind the house, where he’d already started removing some of the paving stones to plant a garden. The shade-loving plants would go here, he’d informed me, while he planned to try growing tomatoes and such on the roof. “I bought a few different kinds to try, and they also had these.” He pointed to some baby plants wrapped in burlap. “I will put them in a bucket for now.”
“What are they?”
“Melanzana. I’m not sure how you call them in English.” He made a shape with his hands. “Like a squash, but purple?”
“Aubergines. At least, that’s what we call them. Americans call them eggplant.” Folding my arms, I added, “And you can find them a lot closer than Augusto’s.”
He folded his arms right back at me. “Va bene. You tell me where you were last night, and I tell you why I went to Augusto’s.”
“I was…” Peering around his lanky frame, I checked that the door to the kitchen was firmly shut. “I had a spot of trouble, and…” Oh, just spit it out. “I spent the night in the Tombs.”
Pietro’s eyebrows flew up, and for a moment I thought he was going to scold me. Instead, he burst out laughing. “The Tombs! Non ci posso credere. Beautiful!” Leaning forward, he sniffed at me. “You don’t smell too bad for all that.”
“I’m glad you find it so amusing.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. His dark eyes danced, and he didn’t even try to hide his smile. “But it is a little ironic, no? A detective spending the night in jail? I don’t remember things like this happening when you were a maid.”
“I don’t remember a lot of things happening when I was a maid. Being able to afford my own home, for example.”
“Careful. You don’t want Mama to hear.”
There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, and I knew why. Pietro didn’t like keeping secrets from my mother. I wasn’t very happy about it either, but I didn’t see much choice. Mam’s health was improving, but she certainly wasn’t back to her old self, and I doubted she ever would be. Part of her condition was down to the amount of time she’d spent communing with the ghost of her dead mother—a practice Thomas had thankfully convinced her to curb—but another part was what the doctors referred to as dementia, and it left her confused and forgetful. As it was, Pietro and I had to remind her regularly that she lived here now, instead of in the tiny flat on Mott Street where I’d grown up. Just last week, I’d come home to find her sobbing in Pietro’s arms. She’d woken up from her nap with no idea where she was or how she got there. What Mam needed right now was familiarity and routine, and that did not include finding out her daughter was a Pinkerton.
“Are you going to tell me why you were in jail?” Pietro asked.
“It’s a long story, and you probably don’t want the details.”
“You always say that.”
“I do, and we agreed it was for the best.” As far as I knew, Pietro wasn’t the superstitious sort. Though he humored Mam about her ghost, he didn’t really believe her, and I saw no need to burden him with the truth about the supernatural world. “Anyway, it’s your turn. What were you doing down in Five Points?”
“Just saying hello to some friends at the grocery.”
“Anyone I know?”
Pietro’s mouth took a wry turn. “Subtle. No, I didn’t speak to Augusto.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“I’m not stupid, Fiora. I know that part of the reason you brought me here was to keep me away from Augusto and the Mulberry Street Gang.”
“I brought you here so Mam wouldn’t start asking questions about how I could afford a house on a servant’s salary.” We’d told her the place was rented, and that Pietro was contributing as a boarder, just as he’d done in Five Points.
“Sì, and as a nice coincidence, that means there is someone around to help her while you’re out. And, oh, by the way, another nice coincidence: it means your friend Pietro won’t have time to be hanging around that shady Italian grocery. It’s all very tidy, no?”
I couldn’t help laughing, even as I blushed. “Was it that obvious?”
He shrugged. “I know how you love your clever little schemes.”
Not as clever as all that, apparently. Sheepishly, I said, “I hope you don’t feel too manipulated.”
“I used to work for Augusto. Believe me, compared to that, you don’t even know what manipulating means.”
“Then why go back there?”
He sighed. “Please, Rose, you’re not my mama. If I want to see my friends, I will see my friends.”
“Since when is Augusto a friend?”
“He’s not. He’s one of the most important businessmen in Five Points—”
“Who also happens to be a ruthless criminal.”
“—who also happens to have a lot of influence in my community, even with respectable people. I’m Italian, Fiora. Family is important to us, and loyalty. I cannot just go away and expect them to welcome me back when I decide it’s time to make a life for myself. If I want a business of my own one day, and a family, I cannot afford to make an enemy of Augusto.”
I sighed. I might not like it, but I knew he was right. It was true of most immigrant communities to one degree or another. Italians shopped at Italian businesse
s and married Italian spouses and had Italian children. To them, it even mattered what region you came from, and which village. The fact that a Bolognese like Augusto wielded such influence even over southerners like Pietro was proof of the man’s reach. If Pietro wanted a life among his people, he’d have to stay in Augusto’s good graces. “Just promise me you won’t get mixed up with his business.”
“I’m not the one who spent the night in jail.”
“Maybe not this time, but I’ll bet you have.”
“Certo. And since I have some experience, you should take my advice and have a bath.”
I smiled wearily. “I thought you said I don’t smell too bad.”
“No,” he said, “but you probably have fleas.”
* * *
I took the longest bath of my life, after which I sat down to a nice meal, so I was feeling more or less right with the world by the time I struck out for the el. It wasn’t a long journey. My new house was just half a block from the Sixth Avenue line, which ran the length of the island from the Battery to Central Park. That nearness had its downsides: the only thing noisier than a steam train is an elevated steam train, and Pietro’s rooftop tomatoes would probably end up sporting a healthy dusting of ash. That didn’t bother me. I had thick windows, and besides, those little faults were part of the reason I could afford a house in such a nice neighborhood. You certainly couldn’t beat it for convenience: in no time at all, I was descending from the platform at 58th Street, from which it was a short walk to Thomas’s house.
I took my time, strolling along the edge of Central Park and enjoying the warm sun on my face. Last night’s events already seemed a distant memory, and I marveled at how easy it was to recover from life’s little hiccups when everything else was going smoothly. The worries that had plagued me for so long—about my mother’s health, our finances, my lack of real prospects—were gradually fading into memory. Mam was doing so much better, and now she had a proper place to live. I had money in my pockets and good friends to spend it with. I had a job with real purpose. I was, in other words, happy.
So naturally, when I spied an unfamiliar brougham parked outside 726 Fifth Avenue, I viewed it as nothing less than a harbinger of doom.
I hurried up the steps and let myself in after a cursory knock. Until recently, I’d lived here myself, first as a housemaid and then as a guest, so I didn’t feel the need to stand on ceremony. “Hello?” I called. “Thomas?”
“They’re up in the study.”
Clara appeared in the hallway, a ledger tucked under her arm. That, and the fact that she wasn’t wearing her usual cook’s apron, told me that she was on housekeeper duty at the moment. How she managed to juggle cooking with running a household, I never understood, but manage it she did, and without a lick of nonsense. “Who’s they?” I asked, giving her a quick hug.
“Mr. Burrows is with ’em, but I didn’t catch the other fella’s name. It was Louise answered the door, since I was busy doing the inventory. Did you know there’s four hundred bottles down in that cellar? What’s a bachelor need with that much booze, anyway? Ain’t like he’s throwing any parties.” Pausing, she looked me up and down. “Rose, honey, you feeling all right? You look like a fresh-scrubbed beet.”
I glanced down at my arms, which were indeed rather pink. “You’re not far off. I may have gotten a little carried away in the bath this morning.”
“I bet you did. Mr. Wiltshire told me all about your little adventure at the jail.”
“How thoughtful of him.”
She laughed. “Nobody ever said this Pinkerton business was gonna be ribbons and puppies.” Clara was my best friend, and one of only a handful of people who knew the truth about what I did for a living—ghosts and shades and all. She didn’t much like it, but she’d made her peace with it, and even lent a hand now and then. Especially when I needed stitches, which was more often than I would have liked.
“It was awful,” I said.
“And I wanna hear all about it, but you best get on up there with the others. Looked like business to me.”
I headed upstairs, pausing on the landing to check my reflection in the mirror. Rosy complexion aside, I looked fresh and presentable, my clothing crisp and my strawberry blond hair pinned neatly in place. Thus reassured, I made my way to the study. The door stood ajar, and just as I was about to knock, a high, hoarse laugh sounded from within.
“Good heavens, Burrows, what a rascal you are! Mr. Wiltshire and I are shocked, are we not, sir?”
I knew that voice. It was one of the most recognized in the city, and it belonged to Theodore Roosevelt.
“Miss Gallagher!” He propelled himself out of his chair with his usual vigor. “Good to see you again!” Seizing my hand in both of his, he gave it a hearty shake, sending a familiar buzz of energy up my arm. Most people who met Mr. Roosevelt put that strange tingle down to charisma, but I knew better. Theodore Roosevelt was lucky, and his powers were perfectly suited to a politician. Brilliant though he might be, it was the uncanny magnetism of his luck that drew people to him like moths to a flame. Though he’d lost the mayoral election a few months ago, there was little doubt he had a bright future in politics, and I was very proud to have saved his life. (Twice, not that I was counting.)
“You’re looking well, sir.”
“I suppose you mean well-stuffed,” he said amiably, patting his belly. “I blame the exquisite restaurants of Europe.”
If he’d put on weight, I didn’t see it; his stocky frame looked as powerful as ever. A lingering suntan and hints of red in his hair and mustache only added to the impression of vitality. “And what brings you to us this afternoon?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.
He flashed a toothy grin. “Why, have you forgotten? I did warn you back in October that I’d have some business for the two of you come spring.”
“In Dakota. I remember.” Forgetting something and putting it out of one’s mind are not quite the same. Taking a seat next to our other guest, I added, “I didn’t realize that business involved Mr. Burrows.”
“Does my presence offend you, Miss Gallagher?” The gentleman in question gave me a lazy smile, as though he didn’t much mind about my answer. Which he probably didn’t. Jonathan Burrows had the sort of good looks and careless charm that routinely sent Fifth Avenue princesses to the fainting couch, and he knew it. Add to that a fortune to rival the Rockefellers, and you had a man too pleased with himself by half. He was also brave and loyal and generous, but he could be thoroughly exasperating, and hardly a week went by that I didn’t want to break something over his pretty golden head.
I made sure my gaze said as much. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Burrows. I’m only thinking of our client.”
“We did discuss the need for discretion when we spoke last fall,” Thomas put in, shooting a warning glance of his own at his mischievous best friend.
“Much appreciated, both of you,” Mr. Roosevelt said. “But few gentlemen of my acquaintance are safer with a secret than my old college chum here.”
“There we cannot argue,” Thomas said. “Moreover, I gather from what you said before Miss Gallagher came in that the two of you have discussed the matter already.”
“A little, yes. It came up in a roundabout sort of way. Burrows and I were having luncheon earlier, and I mentioned that I’m completely ruined.” Mr. Roosevelt’s laugh was even higher-pitched than usual. “Then I recalled that the three of you were close confederates, so I felt free to unburden myself.”
“Ruined?” I exchanged a look with Thomas. “Do you mean financially?”
“That was my principal meaning, but at the risk of sounding sentimental, I will confess that I am also utterly heartbroken. We’ve had a terrible winter at the ranch, you see. I lost a great many of my backwoods babies. Cattle, that is.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Was it a very large herd?”
“Thirty-two thousand head,” he replied wistfully. “Plus more than a thousa
nd calves. That was last fall, mind you. As of now, I couldn’t give you a number. We’re still rounding up the stragglers, but we estimate the losses at about sixty-five percent.”
Thomas jerked forward in his chair. “Sixty-five percent? Good heavens! I’d read in the papers that the industry had taken a blow, but this … why, it’s staggering!”
“I fared better than most, if you can believe it. And though perhaps ruined is a touch overstating the case, I am exceedingly strained, and I don’t know that I can sustain the investment.”
“It’s hard luck, Roosevelt,” Mr. Burrows said.
Our guest grunted. “What an interesting choice of words, old fellow. It’s some kind of luck, if I have any nose for it.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Are we to understand that something more than nature was at work here?”
“I will not claim to master all the secrets of Mother Nature, Mr. Wiltshire, but one thing I know for certain: Something strange is going on in the Badlands. Something evil. And the way things are going, by this time next year, there will be no one left to stop it.”
CHAPTER 3
CAMPFIRE TALES—POWDER KEG—A MURDER, A MONSTER, AND MAGIC
“Evil?” Thomas arched a dark eyebrow.
“It sounds dramatic, I know,” Mr. Roosevelt said. “Please believe I use the word quite deliberately. There has simply been too much death and mishap to put it down to chance. This horrid winter is just the latest episode. When I came to you last fall, I would have sworn things couldn’t get much worse, and now here we are.”
“Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning,” Thomas suggested.
“Indeed.” Mr. Roosevelt sank deeper into his chair, as if settling in for a long tale. “Misfortune comes in threes, isn’t that the saying? It certainly has in this case. It all began last spring, or thereabouts.”
“Thereabouts?” I echoed. “You can’t be more precise?”