“Could be, sir.” Taylor scratched his neck with the edge of his notebook. “I guess.”
Nick exhaled and spun his chair to look out the office window and its basement view of passing legs. Maybe one day he’d get a promotion that provided an office on an upper floor, with windows offering a better prospect than an up-close view of a sidewalk. Or maybe he’d just go out and find another occupation, one that didn’t leave him inhaling the dirt blowing in off the street, or regularly dealing with the cruel and the criminal.
“A burglary at Blanchard’s house with nothing stolen,” he mused. “Thefts from patients at the Hygienic Institute. Someone reportedly following Shaw in recent weeks, alarming him, his family accusing Blanchard of being responsible. Shaw now dead from a heart attack probably brought on from chloroform exposure, gas turned on in his room, his watch and fob chain stolen. Mina Cascarino concussed, her blue shawl outside in the alley, a box of candy from A.S. in the dressing room at Bauman’s . . .”
“Are all those events connected, sir? All of them?”
“You know what I always say about coincidences, Taylor.” Don’t ever trust them.
“A heckuva mystery, sir.”
“Yes, Taylor.” Nick tugged the sash down, rattling the cast-iron window weight. “One that doesn’t make any sense. Not yet.”
• • •
“Mrs. Davies?” Mina looked over at the door, an expectant smile on her face. It slid off when she realized it was Nick. “Oh.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, shooting a look at the chair pulled alongside her invalid bed. Too close to her for comfort.
“You’re not here to ask after my health.” Propped up in bed, she’d been holding a book when he’d entered. She tried to set it on the bedside table, but she missed and the book slid onto the floor.
Nick bent down to retrieve it. Leaves of Grass was embossed on the spine. “I didn’t realize you read poetry, Mina.”
“You never realized a lot about me. Give it back.” She grabbed the book from his hand, wincing at the suddenness of the motion, and set it back on the table. The curtains had been drawn, leaving the bedroom cool and shadowed, but he didn’t need sunlight to observe her irritation.
Knuckles tapped rapidly on the half-closed door. “Mina?” called her mother through the opening.
“I am fine, Mama. Go downstairs.”
They exchanged a few words in Italian before Mina convinced Mrs. Cascarino it was okay to let Nick stay.
“I can’t believe she even let you in the house,” said Mina.
“I can be persuasive.”
She smiled again, and this time it didn’t look pained but genuine. “Don’t I know it,” she replied. “But I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’m not here to rehash what we said to each other at Bauman’s yesterday.”
“I barely remember what we said.” She rearranged the pillow at her back, sliding him a sideways look as she did. “You’re here to ask about Ambrose.”
“I would’ve spoken with you this morning, but Mrs. Davies refused to let me upstairs.”
“I wish she was still here to prevent you again.” She pinched her eyes closed and pressed her knuckles against her temples.
“Are you all right?”
“A dizzy spell. It’ll pass. They always do after a bit.” She pulled in a few breaths, which seemed to steady her. “My head hurts to move. The light bothers me. My brothers and sisters . . . the noise makes my brain pound. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be well again and it scares me.”
“It’ll get better. Trust me.” He waited for a few seconds before continuing. “Have you been able to remember anything at all from last night, Mina?”
“Bits and pieces. It’s like I have a flash of a memory, but by the time I try to latch on to it and hold on, it’s gone like it never existed.”
“What about a key, Mina? Did Ambrose Shaw ever give you one?” he asked, afraid of the answer.
“Mrs. Davies asked about a key she’d found,” she replied. “In my skirt pocket. I didn’t recognize it, though. I don’t know where it came from.”
Damn, damn.
And blasted woman. When was she planning on telling him? Mina had to be somehow involved, though, and Mrs. Davies had arrived at the same conclusion. Which was why she hadn’t exactly rushed to the station with a key she’d discovered.
“Did Mrs. Davies also mention finding a man’s watch and chain?” he asked.
“No.”
“What about purchasing chloroform . . . have you recently for any reason?” he asked.
She eyed him warily. “I don’t use chloroform. Why would I buy any? Was it used on Ambrose Shaw? Is that what happened?”
She wasn’t so concussed that she couldn’t reason clearly. “Do you mind if I search through your clothes?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed like the Mina he’d always known. “What if I told you no?” She frowned and pointed to her left. “The end of the hall.”
A couple of Cascarino children watched him from the stairwell as he strode down the hall and into the room. A small but tidy space, flower-print curtains at the window to cheer it, Mina’s clothing folded neatly at the end of the largest bed.
He lifted her tan gown, unfolded the rest. He’d touched her stockings, her petticoats before—she favored fine linen undergarments, the best she could afford. A small luxury in a cruel world, she’d explained. And he’d been vain enough to think her purchases had been meant to please him. You deserved better than me, Mina. You still do.
But the folds of her clothes and pockets were empty.
“Well?” she asked when he reappeared at the bedroom doorway.
“No watch.” Maybe Celia Davies had taken it, too.
“I didn’t do it, Nick. I had nothing to do with Ambrose Shaw’s death,” she insisted, her face ashen. “I’m positive.”
“How can you be, Mina? You keep telling me how fuzzy your memory is.”
“I’d remember something as horrible as that.” Her eyes locked on his, pleading with him to believe her. To believe in her. “Wouldn’t I?”
• • •
Owen leaned against the slice of brick wall between the windows of a liquor retailer and a watchmaker’s store, cleaning his teeth with a wood toothpick like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t in any rush to return to some menial job like a poor slob. Even though he was in a rush to get back to the confectionary store.
Dang. When is that fellow gonna leave the building so I can give him Caleb’s message?
A side door to the Hygienic Institute opened, and a woman stepped through with a bucket. She tossed its contents out onto the alley, looked around, spotted Owen staring at her—shoot!—scowled, and went back inside.
Owen slunk against the bricks, which didn’t exactly offer any cover but did succeed in getting a customer marching out of the adjacent liquor store to notice him skulking like a criminal. A not very good criminal, at that.
“What are you doing there, boy?” the man shouted. As if he owned the spot on the sidewalk or something.
Owen yanked the toothpick from his mouth and straightened. “Enjoying the weather, sir.”
“Move on, or I’ll find the nearest police officer and report you for loitering.”
“I got a right to stand and enjoy the sunshine,” said Owen, jutting his chin.
The fellow turned an ungodly shade of crimson. “We’ll see about that,” he snapped and charged up the road. In search of the nearest cop, no doubt.
The corner newspaper boy, who’d been shouting the headline about some Shaw fellow who’d gone and died, had overheard and doubled up with laughter.
“What are you cackling about?” asked Owen, angrily kicking at a broken chunk of brick and sending it skittering across the plank sidewalk into the gutter.
The boy, still laughing, dashed out into the road to hawk papers to the passengers descending from a stopped horsecar, leaving Owen to scowl after him.
&
nbsp; Durn it all.
He should get going, because that fellow from the liquor store would be showing up with a cop soon enough, and it might not be one of the officers Owen was friendly with. Just then, a woman loaded down with a bulging carpetbag and a small trunk pushed through the front door of the Hygienic Institute and headed down the street.
A fellow with bushy whiskers and spectacles chased after her. “Mrs. Wynn, please reconsider,” he yelled. “I assure you, you’re perfectly safe.”
Safe?
She halted and said something to the man, but the bells of the church a block away took to clanging the hour right that very second and Owen couldn’t hear a single thing. Not that he was close enough to hear much anyway, and not that he was sure he should be bothering with eavesdropping on them, either. She looked hopping mad, though. Finished with her response, she turned on her heel and continued her march down the road. The bushy-whiskered fellow shook his head and went back inside.
Huh.
He couldn’t stand there much longer. That fellow would be back with a policeman, and Mr. Roesler would be wondering why Owen was late for work.
Sighing, he started down the street, bound for the candy store, which happened to be the same direction Mrs. Wynn was heading. He shot her a glance before turning onto the street where the store was located. She’d rounded the corner across the way when a red-haired fellow came striding down the road. The fellow Caleb had wanted Owen to give a message to! He scuttled around the same corner where Mrs. Wynn had gone and stopped her.
Ain’t . . . isn’t that interesting?
Tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants and whistling the first tune that came to his head—“Camptown Races,” as it turned out—Owen strolled across the road, hustling at the last moment to avoid being hit by a fast-trotting buggy. Mrs. Wynn and her companion didn’t notice him sauntering their way. Heck, most folks didn’t pay any mind to a kid walking along. Unless he looked like he wanted to sell ’em something or pickpocket them.
Owen halted a few feet away and bent down to tie his bootlaces. Near enough to overhear; far enough to not draw their attention.
“Where’s the watch?” the fellow hissed, his voice echoing off the window at the woman’s back.
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Mr. Platt?” asked Mrs. Wynn, sidling away from the fellow.
“It’s gone. Along with the fob chain,” said the man, sounding sorta menacing. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know why you’d be accusing me of stealing Mr. Shaw’s watch,” she spat. “Please leave me alone.”
“Owen! Why you there?” a voice called from up the road.
Shoot! What is Angelo Cascarino doing in this part of town?
Mrs. Wynn shot Owen an alarmed glance. “Cease bothering me, sir,” she said to Mr. Platt, hiked her skirts, and dashed for the horsecar coming to a stop in the street.
Her companion noticed Owen. “What do you want, kid?”
“Um . . . Mr. Griffin says to pay him the money you owe. Now.”
The fellow bared his teeth, sorta like an angry dog, and brandished his fists. “Get the hell outta here or else.”
Owen didn’t require a second invitation to do just that.
“Go home, Angelo,” he snapped at the boy, wide-eyed over Mr. Platt’s threat, and scurried off. He didn’t dare check if Mr. Platt was chasing.
• • •
“Mr. Greaves, is it true about Mina?” asked Bauman, wiping his hands on a clean rag as he came out from behind the saloon’s long bar. “One of the girls tells me she is very ill. Mr. Taylor did not tell me that last night when he was here.”
Nick couldn’t recall ever seeing Bauman from head to toe. It seemed the fellow was always standing behind the bar, a barrier between his clientele and him. Or between them and his beer taps and precious supply of liquor. Currently, the saloon was empty aside from Bauman and his wife, cooking in the tavern’s kitchen, getting ready for the men who’d soon arrive for a meal after work.
“She’s got a concussion,” Nick replied, taking off his hat.
“Not good. I need her here. Giulia sings instead of Mina, but the customers complain.” He pulled a face. “She must return.”
“Hopefully she will soon.” And not need to be slapped in jail. “Has a Mrs. Celia Davies been here? Blonde, British woman?” After visiting Mina, he’d gone next door and pried Mrs. Davies’s plans out of Addie Ferguson, who’d reluctantly relinquished the information.
Bauman shook his head. “No.”
“Well, I expect she’ll turn up soon enough.”
Nick looked around. At the neatly arranged tables and chairs, the recently cleaned wood floor gleaming a warm golden brown, the spotless framed mirrors on the paneled walls reflecting the gas lights. It was a nice place, the sort of place respectable men—and sometimes women—would feel comfortable in. Respectable men like Ambrose Shaw.
“Was Ambrose Shaw a regular here, Herr Bauman?” he asked.
“The politician? The man who died yesterday?”
The news had reached the papers. Even the ones a German saloonkeeper read. “Yes. Him.”
“Three . . . four times.” Bauman finished wiping his fingers on the cloth and tucked it into the band of his apron. “No more.”
“Were he and Mina . . . you know . . .”
Bauman raised his thick eyebrows. “Friends?”
“You could put it that way,” he said. “The sort of friend who gives gifts of chocolates.”
“I doubt Mr. Shaw ever gave gifts to Mina,” he said, despite the box Nick had seen for himself. “He did like to talk to the girls, though.”
“Did his attention make her angry?” Enough to want to permanently get rid of the annoyance?
Bauman chuckled. “Mina? She is afraid of no man.”
That was Mina, all right. Fearless. A trait he’d always admired. A trait Celia Davies had, too. In abundance. “How was she yesterday? Upset, for instance?”
“Her mind was not on her work.”
Distracted by her plans, perhaps. “You told Taylor that she left around six thirty,” said Nick. “Did she say where she was going? Maybe to the Hygienic Institute? Have you ever heard her talk about the Institute?”
“She never spoke about that place. Last night, she only said she had important business and did not seem happy.” He scowled. “My wife had no one to help until Giulia came in at seven.”
“Do you mind if I search through the dressing room in the back, Herr Bauman?” asked Nick.
The saloonkeeper narrowed his eyes. “It is open, Detective.”
He felt the man’s gaze on his back as he strode down the hallway. Frau Bauman paused her cooking to stare at Nick, too.
Damn.
Not much had changed since he’d been inside the room yesterday. There were still chairs stuffed in the corner, although the number of beer casks looked to have decreased. San Francisco never lacked folks fancying a drink or two. Or more. The dressing table had been tidied, the hair ribbons and pins, the pot of rouge all stacked to one side. The cracked mirror also remained, but the box from Roesler’s was gone. It wasn’t in the repurposed basket being used as a waste can. It was possible one of the others girls had helped herself to the candies. Mina’s blue shawl wasn’t in the room, either.
The dressing table chair, one leg shorter than the rest, wobbled as he sat. He located a box of percussion matches and lit the lantern, the sulfurous smell of the burnt match head lingering in the air. The table had a single drawer, and he rummaged through its contents—some hair combs, a dry brass inkwell, and an old tin of sugared almonds—but nothing incriminating. Nick dragged over the wastebasket. Somebody had dropped torn shreds of paper into it. He picked them out and spread them flat on the table. A restaurant receipt. A note addressed to Giulia—Mina’s inadequate replacement—praising her beauty and suggesting they meet someplace private after work. A scribbled list of items to purchase at the grocers. No instructions from an ac
complice detailing a plot to murder Shaw. No receipt for chloroform. No evidence that proved the fearless Mina Cascarino was guilty. Or innocent.
• • •
Celia paused on the pavement outside the basement entrance to Bauman’s lagerbier saloon. The door was open, and the sound of voices and clinking dishes drifted out onto the street. It was early for an evening meal, but clearly patrons were gathered inside. She’d been delayed by a brief visit to a patient, or else she would have arrived before the place was busy with customers.
She reached for the banister that would guide her down the steps but did not budge.
Why am I standing here as though my feet have been nailed to the planking?
She knew the answer. She was afraid she’d embarked upon discovering a truth about Mina Cascarino she did not want to learn. That Herr Bauman would tell her Mr. Shaw had been bothering Mina, and the young woman had come to fiercely resent the man.
“Enough to wish to be rid of him,” she murmured aloud. A girl passing on the street, a basket laden with vegetables tucked beneath her arm, gave Celia an apprehensive glance and hastily scurried past.
Celia glanced around to see if anybody else was staring at her and thinking she was a raving madwoman. Fortunately, the majority of the people on the road were more interested in their own affairs than those of a well-dressed Englishwoman who had a habit of talking to herself.
She closed her gloved fingers around the iron handrail—evading an unidentifiable residue splattered on the railing’s surface—and charged down the stairs.
The most delicious smell of grilling sausages met her as she stepped inside. The flare of a solitary gas lamp, suspended in the hallway at the far end of the space, provided a meager supplement to the light coming through the open front door. A moment passed before her eyes adjusted from the brilliant sunshine outside to the gloom.
After several years spent residing in San Francisco, Celia was used to the stir she created whenever she entered an establishment such as Bauman’s, the sudden hush from the male occupants followed by a whirl of whispers. That the reaction passed so quickly this time was the only surprise.
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