“Good. I could use a rest.”
“No more of your smartness, Tom. And as for this foreign woman, I hear she’s going around town asking a lot of embarrassing questions about these crimes. Think she’ll portray Placer in a bad light?”
“She won’t.”
Felicity smiled.
The mayor puffed out his rib cage. His face implied a leer. “She is the most beautiful gal to set foot in Placer. A real lady.”
“That and more.”
The mayor pulled out a comb and slid it through his hair. “Maybe I should present her with a key to the city or extend an official welcome.”
“And how is Mrs. Reiger these days? Still suffering from a cold?” Pike grinned.
“You have lots of work to do if you’re going to catch a killer.” Reiger scowled, spun on his heels, and strode away.
Felicity walked back to her house. Pike was right about the mayor. After meeting Reiger, she wanted to check the contents of her bag to make sure her money was still there.
After dinner, she typed up her notes about what she had learned as well as her deductions and thoughts. Based on the cruelty of the murders and the killer’s directing his knife at prostitutes, Felicity ruled out this so-called Midline Gang threatening women in the Red District. The cook at the café where she and Pike had eaten was right in his assumption. Men who made a living off of prostitutes would surely not kill them. Intimidate and scar them, yes, but not murder them.
She also disregarded butchers or any other laborers working with a knife. Unless she was very wrong, and she didn’t believe she was in this case, the killer knew anatomy and, therefore, was educated.
The killer must have known one other thing—Mattie Morgan’s habits, her route to and from her crib to the saloon and opium den. Perhaps he had even tracked her after she got his attention as a possible target. As a result, these murders might not have been as random as they at first appeared. He knew her movements and had waited in the shadows of the blacksmith building. She suspected the killer had also stalked Lily Rawlins.
Retiring to her bedroom, Felicity wrote a letter to Jackson Davies. She informed him about the murder of another prostitute and how the wounds matched those of Lily Rawlins, meaning the same man had killed both. The mutilations on both of the women in Montana also echoed those of the Whitechapel killer, but she needed more proof before she could be positive Jack the Ripper had arrived in America. At any rate, the leads were strong enough that the trip to Montana had been more than justified.
She didn’t write about too much else. She didn’t want to sound too beaten down from the lack of clues steering them toward discovering the identity of the murderer. Still, she was honest about one aspect of the case:
Jackson, so many new inventions have been created. Machines playing music. A device carrying voices on a wire. Automatic machine guns raining bullets. Flying balloons. So many more. The world is spinning into a new age. Somehow, these murders in Whitechapel and now in this mining town of Placer strike me as bizarre forerunners.
A new kind of killer for a modern time.
CHAPTER 13
A breeze rustled Felicity’s skirt and brought a delicate scent from the wildflowers growing thick on the hills above Placer. The lovely scent, however, did nothing to veil the one of human decay as Mattie Morgan was buried at Pauper Grounds.
A small group gathered around the hole into which the plain pine box had been lowered by two men. At the head of the grave, the Reverend T. Phoenix lifted both hands to the sky as if to yank God down to join him. His shoulder-length white hair and blue eyes were striking in the late-afternoon light, offset by a preacher’s outfit: black coat, white shirt, and thin black tie.
“Lord, this woman did wrong as those five whores of Babylon. She let her body be used as a temple of sin and temptation and not as a temple of pure womanhood. But Lord, she is also an example to us all that we should not sin.” His voice boomed. “Give her your blessing and let her stand at the heavenly gates of your kingdom if you so choose.”
Wearing a black taffeta dress, Felicity separated herself from the four mourners, who were all women.
One of the women in a worn dress presented Felicity a shy smile before returning her focus to the service. The woman, who could have been eighteen or younger, held on to a white crocheted shawl marred by a ragged hole in the back. Felicity felt protective of this person she had not even met. The girl’s older companion, however, turned her head to throw Felicity a contemptuous stare. Both had red lips as well as dark-rimmed eyes and painted-on beauty marks. Their profession was clear.
The other two women at the funeral, who appeared to be a society matron in her late thirties and her daughter, piqued more of Felicity’s interest. In a fine dress of deep blue, the older woman was taller than the younger one. She clasped gloved hands in front of her waist, providing the very picture of dignity. Under a wide-brimmed hat, the older woman’s upswept hair was the color of harvested wheat. As if she sensed someone looking at her, she turned to Felicity. Her face was as attractive as it was aloof.
Felicity held her breath.
She was the smiling woman in the photograph. The one Felicity had taken behind the blacksmith shop where Mattie Morgan’s body had been discovered. Felicity bowed her head slightly, and the woman did the same.
The reverend’s voice built momentum. “Forgive this sinner as you forgive all sinners, no matter their great vices and weaknesses. Let us bow our heads and say amen.”
Only the two well-dressed women did so. The other two kept silent but didn’t hide their disgust at the minister. Felicity did not blame them. No one wanted to be told their lives were sinful and hell was all they could ever expect.
Reverend Phoenix slammed his Bible shut. As he marched to his horse, he passed the four mourners. “Hope to see you at church on Sunday. Not too late for you, my dears.”
He tipped his large black hat to Felicity before riding away. The older well-dressed woman set off for a shiny black carriage. Felicity had never seen a female radiate so much self-assurance, not even herself. The woman raised a finger for her younger companion to follow, and they boarded the carriage.
The other two women remained at the grave site. Felicity approached them. “The reverend could use lessons on how to comfort the living.”
“Bastard,” said the older woman, who had black curls high on her head. Her brown eyes were murky and her face wan, as if she had spent too many nights with uncaring men. “The Reverend Phoenix claims he wants to save us, but he don’t even like us. All that talk about going to heaven. He couldn’t find the place if it was nailed to his ass.”
Felicity had to smile at the woman’s turn of phrase.
“What are you grinning at?” The woman glared.
“The accuracy of your description.”
“You don’t sound American.”
“I’m British.”
“Who are you?” asked the younger woman with more curiosity than suspicion.
Felicity introduced herself as a writer of crime stories. “I’m working on a book about a killer who seeks out …” She needed a subtle way to address their work.
“Us strumpets?” the young woman said.
“Us whores.” The black-haired woman leaned into Felicity. “In spite of your fancy airs, you come off as a person of pure tribulation. Why in the devil’s name should we tell you one blasted thing?”
Felicity didn’t back away. “Because I want to know why your friend was killed and most brutally. Can we go somewhere and talk?”
“About what?” the black-haired woman asked in a raspy voice.
“About Mattie Morgan. About the sort of man who stalks, murders, and mutilates humans.”
“That ain’t no man.” The woman’s mood relaxed.
“He is the devil himself,” the young woman added.
“I agree. Please honor me by being my guests for a late luncheon. I’m new in town, so you’ll have to select the restaurant.”
/> The one with the black curls snorted. “If you’re buying, we have just the place.”
* * *
Felicity and the two women had just taken a seat in the Nugget Café when she noticed the sheriff standing in the street and glaring at her. Throwing down his cigar, he stomped toward them. She didn’t want him interfering with her interviews of the women. “Excuse me, ladies. I must talk with the sheriff.”
“Better you than me,” remarked Nellie Smith, the woman with the black curls and full red lips.
Felicity met Tom Pike outside.
“What are you up to?” he said.
“We’re going to have something to eat.”
“I know those girls.”
“You do? I’m shocked.”
“Not that way. They’re girls of the line.”
The two women watched her and Pike through the window. Felicity waved. They waved back. “I find them very pleasant. They’ll help with my writing project.”
“This is no game, Miss Carrol.”
“I agree completely. May I also point out that when you’re upset, you address me as ‘Miss Carrol.’”
“That’s probably because I’m usually cross with you.”
“Now excuse me, I mustn’t keep them waiting any longer. It’s very rude. Good afternoon, Tom.” She retreated to the café.
“If you learn anything, you better tell me, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with the law.”
She gave a slight twist of her head. “Of course, I’ll share any information.”
Pike mumbled something as he walked away. She couldn’t make out the words but guessed he wasn’t complimenting her dress.
“You in trouble with the sheriff?” the younger woman asked when Felicity rejoined them. She called herself Beth Ray and was a pretty girl with wavy light-brown hair.
“I’m in constant trouble with the sheriff. But enough of that. What do you recommend to eat?” They sized up the bill of fare written on a chalkboard above the counter.
“The beef steak,” Nellie said.
“I like the fried chicken,” added Beth.
“Chicken does sound good.” Felicity summoned the waitress to take their order, including coffee and a piece of pie for each of them.
“I’ve never talked with a writer before. Where do we start?” Beth said.
Felicity pulled off her gloves. “With Mattie Morgan.”
Beth’s eyes darkened with grief. Nellie’s remained defiant.
“I’d like to know about her. I heard she came from San Francisco,” Felicity said.
Beth nodded. “Mattie’s man brought her to Placer so he could dig for gold. She said he made so many promises to her. Promises of marriage, riches, and children. Her own dress shop. He even bought her a silver wedding ring, placing it on her finger and telling her they were good as hitched.”
Certainly it was the ring Felicity had found at the foot of Mattie Morgan’s body.
“When his dreams of gold petered out, her man went to work for the mines, but he tripped on a cable and fell more than one hundred feet into a shaft. A hundred feet. Must have been like a dive into hell.”
“Terrible.”
“They buried what was left of him in the cemetery up on the hill. She loved that man and hadn’t loved anyone since, least that’s what Mattie said. Without enough money to go home, much less open a dress shop, she sold herself in Placer.” Beth’s voice lowered. “Mattie had earned lots of money in the brothels, but her fixation on opium drove her down to the cribs.”
Nellie said nothing but glanced at Felicity with an obvious mistrust. Her eyes were jaundiced with weariness and cynicism. Beth, on the other hand, appeared open and friendly. When she spoke, she was no longer an experienced girl of the line but a young woman of hope and possibility.
“Poor Mattie went days eating just bread and cheese and stuffed papers in her boots to make them last, all to save the dollars and coins. Another year and she said she’d have enough for a train ticket to Denver so she could open her dress shop,” Beth said.
That supported Felicity’s theory about the money hidden in Mattie Morgan’s room.
“Did Mattie ever talk about encountering a gentleman in a long black coat wearing gray gloves, white spats, shiny boots, and a black bowler hat? A customer or perhaps a man following her?” Felicity said. “Come to think of it, have you seen anyone like that?”
The women shook their head.
“Most of the gents go to the brothels,” Beth said.
Felicity sat back. “I’m amazed that a woman such as Mattie Morgan, who was a talented dressmaker, who saved her money and planned to leave Placer, turned to opium in the first place.”
“We all moved to Placer with dreams of getting rich, one way or another.” At last Nellie had stopped answering Felicity’s questions with scorn. “Men can mine and do other labor, but this world is not forgiving for women folk who don’t have a man or family to support them. They have to depend on trading what they got.”
“A lot of girls have the same story, ma’am.” Beth dug into the chicken when the food arrived. “Mattie smoked opium to deal with it.”
“Felicity, please. What kind of men come to see you?”
“All kinds. Lonely miners with no one to love. Husbands growing tired of their wives. Boys who’ve never been with a woman,” Beth said. “Most of them are very nice to us. A few even give us gifts.”
Nellie hooted. “We get the dregs at our cribs.” She chewed as she talked. “Beth is one to coat the world in pretty colors. She didn’t mention the drunks who sweat all over you or who haven’t taken a bath in five years. Then there’re the ones who can’t do anything unless we speak filth to them.”
Felicity found it difficult to swallow the food in her mouth. Never before had she heard such honest chronicles. But then, what had she expected they were going to chat about? Needlework and cooking? She swallowed. “In the last four months, have you ever encountered a man who brandished a long thin knife or who appeared violent or mad?”
“One man slapped me around because I stole his watch. ’Tweren’t nothing like what happened to Mattie or Big Lil. Word is they were sliced up like ham.” Nellie sampled the apple pie.
Beth shook her head no as she ate her pie with delicacy.
“Did Mattie or Big Lil have anything in common?”
“You mean besides being dead?” Nellie lit a cigarette.
Felicity didn’t take offense at the woman’s harsh tone. The prostitute’s response reflected the life she led, one of endurance and survival, however the means. “I mean, were they friends?”
“Not that I know of. They lived on different sides of Viceroy Street.”
“A week before she died, Mattie told me she was scared of the Midline Gang,” Beth said. “They want to run the girls of the line and take our money. They’re threatening the gals who don’t go along.”
“I’ve heard about them. Your lives can be very dangerous,” Felicity said.
Nellie put out her cigarette on the side of her plate. “Comes with the territory.”
“One other thing. Who was the tall woman at the funeral?” Felicity took a bite of the apple pie, which was quite good.
“That’s Mrs. Albert. She runs the White Rose brothel on Mineral Avenue. A real classy place.”
“A madam? That is surprising. I believed she might have belonged to a charity organization that helps the girls of the line.”
“Nah, she runs whores.” Nellie smirked and lit another cigarette.
“She’s like you, Miss Felicity, a real lady even though she owns a joy house,” Beth said.
Nellie puffed on the cigarette. “But Mrs. Albert is prickly as a pear. She likes her soiled doves young and stupid. That was one of her girls with her at Pauper Grounds. And I tell you this.” She waved her cigarette. “Mrs. Albert may act like she got manners, but she beats the gals who don’t do what she says, or if they don’t please the customers. ’Least that’s the word around town.”
>
Felicity’s cheeks heated like a sunrise. Nellie laughed.
“Nellie, Miss Felicity is a lady,” Beth said. “She’s not used to our kind of talk.”
“She asked, didn’t she?” Nellie picked her teeth with the fork. She leaned over the table and her gaze focused on Felicity, who shifted under the scrutiny. “Beth girl, if I had it, I’d bet one hundred gold pieces our Miss Felicity here has never been with a man. Hell, she never even been close to one.”
Beth placed her fork down. “Miss Nellie, I do believe you are right.”
The women giggled.
“I haven’t met a real virgin since ’79,” Nellie said to Beth.
Felicity glanced around the place, which was empty at that hour. “Ladies, please. We’re in a public establishment.”
“She’s a virgin, all right,” Nellie proclaimed.
They laughed, and Felicity could not help but laugh, too. So much so, she wished she could loosen her corset.
Beth winked. “When you find the right man, all you have to do is ask us for pointers on how to keep him happy when the lights go out.”
Nellie displayed a mouth of brown teeth. “We won’t even charge you for the advice.”
After lunch with the women, Felicity returned to her laboratory. She inserted a clean white sheet into her typewriter. She typed:
TRAITS OF THE KILLER
Preys on prostitutes
Skilled in use of knives
Knows human anatomy
Wears gloves
Red hair?
Physical strength
Left-handed
Does not molest victims
Cunning
Leaves coins and ring behind. A kind of ritual?
Such a short list.
Since none of the victims in Placer or Whitechapel had been robbed or violated, the motive was not money or sexual hunger. Something else drove the killer. An objective to kill a certain victim in a certain way. This urge was pure emotion. A warped passion ending in death.
She thumbed through German physician Wilhelm Wundt’s Textbook of Human Physiology, in which he wrote about the new study of consciousness and how the human mind could be examined just like a body could be probed for diseases by a doctor. Wundt concluded that the unseen conscious manifested itself in outward behaviors.
Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace Page 12
