“Of course you do, Mrs. Fuller...Mrs. Stein was just mentioning last evening at dinner that we all must pitch in and help with the details since you are so busy. She wasn’t sure where you planned on holding the ceremony, but you know that Millicent and I attend Grace Episcopal, and we would be glad to ask about its availability. Such a beautiful place to hold a wedding service...although I expect that you will want to see about using your own place of worship...but just in case...it is my understanding that you often have to reserve churches so far in advance...for christenings and such...and then there is the question of whether or not you will want a place that has a reception hall attached. Of course in our youth, weddings were always held at home in the morning, but I understand from some of our customers that an evening wedding, particularly in the hotter summer months, has become quite fashionable. Then there is the question of your attendants. I know that for a woman such as yourself, who is marrying for the second time, there isn’t always an elaborate wedding party, but as I was saying to Millicent, if you were planning on having dear Miss Dawson, for example, or any others stand up with you, we would want to consult you about their dresses. Yes, Millicent?”
Miss Minnie paused and looked over at her sister, who, as far as Annie could tell, hadn’t said a word. But Miss Millie had put down the material she was working on and was staring intently at her older sister.
Later, Annie wondered if the two sisters weren’t able to send their thoughts through the air—like some invisible telegraph system––but at the time she was just trying to deal with the feelings of panic that Miss Minnie’s well-intended remarks were causing. Of course she wanted Laura to stand up with her, if anyone did, but did she even want attendants, a church wedding, strangers she needed to be nice to because they were Nate’s clients? And didn’t the local newspapers cover her last wedding? What if a reporter discovered her connection to Madam Sibyl or the role she played in the Voss investigation, or...
“Oh Mrs. Fuller, I am so sorry.” Miss Minnie leaned toward her, hands fluttering. “Millicent has rightfully reminded me that I have been shamefully forward...just assuming you would want us to take care of any dressmaking...I mean I can quite understand if you should want to order something from one of the larger houses back east or...”
“No, no, that’s not the problem at all.” Annie took the older woman’s hands in hers. “I came up here specifically to ask if you could possibly find the time to make me something special for the wedding. But I realize I don’t know what kind of ceremony Nate wants...and I am suddenly feeling overwhelmed with all the decisions that need to be made. Mrs. Stein is correct. I am so busy and so is Nate. And I don’t want to disappoint anyone...”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Fuller. I am quite sure whatever you decide will be just lovely. What we can do is get you settled on a dress that will be perfect for whatever setting you choose. I was just saying to Millicent that I have gotten quite tired of every bride slavishly following Queen Victoria in their wedding dresses. White lace on white satin really isn’t very becoming to very many women. But as a widow, you can have a bit of color to your dress.”
Annie’s first wedding dress had been designed by her future mother-in-law’s fashionable modiste and was a wildly over-decorated ensemble of layers of satin and hand-sewn lace, with a liberal scattering of seed pearls, which when combined with a long train, weighed a ton. She’d hated the dress from the first fitting, but every suggestion she’d made was ceremoniously over-ruled by John’s mother. The day of the wedding she discovered the long lace veil made vision nearly impossible, and she’d leaned heavily on her father’s arm going down the aisle, afraid she’d bump into the end of a pew and topple over, never to rise again.
At the time, she blamed her severe disappointment with the dress and everything that happened on that first wedding day on how sad she was that she wasn’t sharing this special time with her mother, who had died years earlier. Later, she realized this was just her first experience with the way this marriage would strip her of her identity and independence, leaving her defenseless against a husband who would always see her as an inferior outsider.
These melancholy thoughts fled a few moments later as Annie’s sense of the absurd reasserted itself. There she stood, looking at multiple fashion magazines spread open on a table, examining dresses in a variety of different styles. There were long narrow princess robes that had no bustles, long basque bodices that ended at the knee, short bodices with high bustles, polonaises with simple drapery in the front, square necklines, round necklines, plunging necklines, underskirts in contrasting colors, underskirts hidden by the overskirt, long narrow sleeves, and short belled sleeves. Instead of having no choice, clearly with this wedding she was going to have too many.
Throwing up her hands, Annie said, “Oh Miss Minnie! I can’t possibly decide. They are all beautiful. Shouldn’t I first pick out the material? As you said, thank goodness I don’t need to have a white dress. But I guess I want something that won’t look out of place if we do decide to get married in a church. Should we go to City of Paris department store for the material? I know that there isn’t time for me to order anything special.”
“Yes Millicent, I think now is the time to bring it out.” Miss Minnie was looking over her shoulder at her sister, who was at the tall wardrobe. Miss Millie pulled down a parcel wrapped in brown paper and brought it over to the table where Miss Minnie quickly cleared away all the magazines.
“I don’t want you to feel you need to choose these fabrics,” said Miss Minnie. “But several months ago, we happened to be shopping at Madam Tormaline’s when a new shipment arrived from Paris. Millicent saw immediately how perfect they would be for you. Well, we bought enough yardage of each, just in case.”
Miss Millie untied the twine around the package and carefully lifted out three folded squares of silk. She placed the smallest pile, which was a sheer silk the color of a dark evening sky, against the second largest piece of silk, saying, “We thought that we could use this solid piece for a pleated edging throughout the dress. It will show up well against this lighter blue silk, which we would use for the underskirt. Notice how there is a faint stripe to the pattern of the second material that shows up in the sunlight.”
Annie stroked the soft cloth, delighted by the shimmer of the alternating lighter and darker stripes of blue. She said, “These are both so beautiful, and they go perfectly together. What would you call this darker shade you want to use for the trim? It seems familiar, yet it is completely different from the royal blue of the velvet gown you made for me.”
“It is called cerulean or Egyptian blue. Look, Millicent, see how well her ring looks against the lighter blue. Is that the ring Mr. Dawson gave you for your engagement?”
Annie started to show off the ring when her eye was caught by the movement of Miss Millie, who was shaking out the third, largest piece of material, a bolt of heavy silk brocade. The background was a rich dark ivory, and the pattern of small delicate vines and flowers was of the same cerulean blue as the silk for the trim. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized how much the color and pattern of this brocade reminded her of the two small pitchers on the mantel in her room, the last remaining pieces of her mother’s wedding china.
She surprised Miss Millie and her sister with quick hugs and said, “You could not have chosen better for me. I will leave the design to you, with the confidence that whatever else happens, my wedding dress will be perfect.”
And this time, I know I have my mother’s blessing because I will be marrying the right man, for the right reasons.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday, mid-morning, July 8, 1880
“There was nothing done yesterday in the two criminal departments of the Superior Court aside from the various continuances of sentences and arraignments.” San Francisco Chronicle, November 7, 1880
Mrs. Sullivan’s arraignment was scheduled for eleven in the morning with Superior Court Judge Ferral, who was one of the two judge
s who presided over state criminal cases. Nate had been in the other judge’s court several times as co-counsel with Able Cranston, but this was the first time he’d come before Judge Ferral. Fortunately, as he was leaving the law offices, he ran into Cranston, who was coming back from an early morning court appearance.
When Nate asked him for advice, Cranston said, “Don’t feel the need to repeat what you’ve already said in your petition. That irritates him. He’s a busy man, and he doesn’t like long speeches. If he asks you a question, make your answer short and to the point.” Cranston then laughed. “And hope that he has a full docket for the rest of the day. He’ll be much more likely to grant your postponement then.”
“What do I do if Mrs. Sullivan says she wants to plead guilty?”
“Do you think that is a possibility?” Cranston looked at him sharply.
“She’s refused to see me since Monday afternoon when I got her to sign the release form. Makes me think she doesn’t want to mount any kind of defense.”
Nate paused, thinking back to what Seth Timmons told him, and he said, “One of Rashers’ other employees suggested she might plead guilty in order to protect someone else. Can’t help but think that might be why she isn’t being forthcoming with me and is refusing to answer any of Chief Jackson’s questions.”
“Hmm. That’s a problem. Do you know who she might be protecting?”
“Not at this point, although I suspect it could be her husband.”
Cranston said, “Figure out what frightens her more than going to prison. Something you can say to scare her into at least holding off on pleading guilty.”
Nate, who couldn’t imagine anything worse than going to prison—particularly for a crime he didn’t commit––was momentarily at a loss. Then he got an idea, thanked Cranston, and left for the court.
The police took prisoners the short block and a half between the city jail and the court house in a police van. And, since another female prisoner had an arraignment at ten-thirty, they’d brought Mrs. Sullivan over early. Nate was let into one of the small holding cells in the basement of the court house where she sat, head bowed. He sat down across the small scarred table from her while the guard stood outside the cell.
He was shocked at how thin she’d become in just four days. She was wearing a plain black dress, which looked wrinkled and ill-fitting, and even though her hair was neatly pulled back into a coil, there was a faint smudge on her cheek and the unmistakable sour smell of someone who had gone too long without access to bathing facilities.
She glared at him and said in a horse whisper, “You have written to me that you have asked for a postponement. Don’t. I have decided to accept the charge.”
“Then you will never see your mother again.” Nate didn’t have to manufacture the anger in his voice. He didn’t know why this woman had given up, but he knew in his heart it was wrong. “Because if you plead guilty to second degree murder today, you will be sentenced within twenty-four hours and sent to San Quentin for at least ten years––if not considerably longer. I have met your mother, and I don’t see her still being alive when you regain your freedom.”
Florence Sullivan gasped, and for a moment Nate was afraid she would faint dead away. He hated being so harsh, but Cranston’s words echoed in his mind. He leaned across the table and said softly, “But if you let me ask for a postponement, and when you are arraigned, you plead not guilty, you will have a chance at seeing her.”
Florence shook her head in apparent confusion, saying, “I don’t understand.”
“First, if you plead not guilty, there is always the chance that the judge will assign you a reasonable bail amount and you will be free until the trial. Even if that doesn’t happen, the prosecution could decide that they have a better chance of conviction if they lower the charge to manslaughter, which has a much shorter sentence. At that point, if you still want to plead guilty, you can do so. Finally, if you go to trial, there is always the possibility you will be found not guilty. In all of those eventualities, there is a good chance that you will get to see your mother again.”
“But why the postponement?”
Nate felt encouraged that she was paying enough attention to ask that question. “Because it will give me time, even if just a few days, to develop my arguments for why you should be granted bail as well as begin to prepare for the trial or, if you insist on pleading guilty, to prepare the arguments to convince the district attorney to lower the charge to manslaughter and ask for a lighter sentence.”
Nate waited as the seconds slipped by and Florence stared downward at her clenched hands. A flurry of movement outside the cell caught his attention, and the guard nodded to him. It was time.
She shook her head, and his heart sank. Then she whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this. But Mr. Dawson, I will try. If I am asked to plead today, I will plead not guilty.”
*****
Judge Ferral only asked Nate one question. He looked up from the petition in front of him and said, “What difference will it make if I postpone the arraignment until next week?”
Nate told him that it would give him time to finish his preliminary interview of witnesses and consult with the doctor who did the autopsy so that he could give his client the best advice possible. The judge then announced that the arraignment was postponed until Wednesday morning, July 14, at eleven. And that was that.
As the court bailiff started to lead Florence toward the back exit, Nate told her that he would visit this coming weekend and that he hoped she would agree to see him. She looked over at him and nodded. He sighed as she disappeared through the exit, her back stiff, but her head bowed. At least he’d bought a little time.
As he turned to leave, he noticed a clean-shaven young man of moderate height standing at the back of the courtroom. Alan Sullivan? Who else would have attended the arraignment? His wide-spread brown eyes stared at Nate without flinching, and the well-formed mouth over a very determined chin was not smiling. Nate walked up to the young man, noticing the wide shoulders under the brown wool suit jacket and the spot of bleached out ink on his shirt cuff, and said, “Are you looking for me, by any chance?”
“Yes. I am Alan Sullivan...you asked to see me.”
Nate directed him out of the courtroom, which was beginning to fill up with people connected with the next case. The sun had burned off the morning fog, and he suggested that they walk over and sit on one of the benches on Portsmouth Square across from the Old City Hall to talk. As they walked, he asked after Mrs. Tonner, Florence’s mother, and Sullivan told him that the woman he had hired to stay with her came in early so he could attend the arraignment. The rest of the way they walked in silence, Nate trying to figure out how to ask a man if he thought his wife might have been in love with her employer. That was going to be more difficult even than asking if he thought his wife might have then killed that employer.
As usual, he found himself wondering what Annie would suggest he do. That led to thinking about tomorrow night, when they were to have dinner together. Maybe then he’d get a fix on just what she had in mind for the wedding. When they set the date, he’d been thinking a simple ceremony, a wedding breakfast with his family and the boarders, then the boat trip down to Los Angeles, and a month seemed a reasonable length of time to prepare. If she wanted something more elaborate...and with the time this case was taking...he wasn’t so sure.
When they found a bench, they sat, Sullivan holding his slouch hat in his hands.
Nate said, “I know this is difficult for you, but I could really use your help. For whatever reason, your wife has not been willing to talk to me about what happened Friday night. In fact, she’s refused to talk to me about much of anything...so I hoped you could tell me a little bit about her...give me some idea of how I might get her to trust me enough to listen to my advice.”
Sullivan looked sharply over at him and said, “You’re saying she hasn’t admitted to killing Rashers? The police made it sound like...then why has she refused
to see me?”
“She hasn’t admitted to anything...to me or the police. I don’t know why she isn’t proclaiming her innocence, but I don’t think she did it.” Nate saw Sullivan’s shoulders lift, as if his words had removed a weight from them. He just hoped his confidence in her innocence turned out to be well founded.
“Can I call you Alan? Good. Then why don’t you start with some basic details? Tell me about how you met your wife.”
“It was the summer of 1870, during the short typographical union strike, you’ve heard of that?”
When Nate nodded, Sullivan continued. “I was only thirteen. I had just started working a few weeks earlier as an apprentice on the presses for the Morning Call. The strike lasted less than two weeks, but the Call temporarily hired a few women to replace the typesetters who went on strike. Florence was one of them. She was two years older and very kind to me. I was away from home for the first time...my family lives up near Sacramento. She invited me to come to Sunday services with her at Calvary Presbyterian.”
“You stayed working at the Call?”
“Yes, but Florence didn’t stay longer than the strike. I later learned that Iris Bailor used Florence to test if the paper would hire a woman. I think Iris was considering whether to try to get a job with the newspaper back then.”
“Is Bailor the woman who is now forewoman at the Women’s Co-operative Printers Union?”
“Yes. Florence and Miss Bailor stayed friends.”
Nate noted the lack of enthusiasm in Sullivan’s voice and wondered if there was some problem between Iris Bailor and Alan Sullivan. But he didn’t want to get side-tracked. So he asked, “Did your wife go back to the WCPU when she left the Call?”
“I don’t think so. I think she moved with a Mrs. Pitts Stevens to work on her own newspaper about that time. I really didn’t know Florence well then. I joined Calvary, so I saw her at services...but to her I was just a country boy she’d met once.”
Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 12
