Murder in Little Italy gm-8

by Victoria Thompson

  Murder in Little Italy

  ( Gaslight Mysteries - 8 )

  Victoria Thompson

  As a midwife working in the tenements of turn-of-the-century New York, Sarah Brandt has witnessed joy and misery, birth and death. Now Sarah suffers the heartbreak of losing a patient-but not from natural causes. Called to attend a birth in Little Italy, Sarah finds an anxious family - Young Nainsi Ruocco's baby is being born too early. But when he proves to be a fat, lusty lad, their concern turns to fury - the child was obviously conceived before the girl and her husband had even met. The next morning, Sarah to check on the new mother, and finds Nainsi dead in her bed. Soon the mystery has inflamed the tensions between the Italian and Irish immigrants, and Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy must find out the truth before a full-scale street war develops.

  Murder in

  Little Italy

  A Gaslight Mystery

  Victoria Thompson

  “Victoria Thompson shines . . .

  Anne Perry and Caleb Carr fans rejoice!”

  —Tamar Myers, author of Thou Shalt Not Grill

  Praise for the Edgar® Award–nominated Gaslight Mysteries

  MURDER ON LENOX HILL

  “Ms. Thompson is skilled at dialogue . . . and this dialogue moves the book along quickly. [Murder on Lenox Hill]

  grabs one’s interest early, especially since the crimes seem so unsolvable.”

  —The Washington Times

  “Well-crafted . . . Good plot twists and a highly satisfactory wrap up mark this as the work of a master of the period mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Transports the reader back in time . . . Victoria Thompson’s Gaslight Mysteries are first-rate, with a vivid historical setting and a hero and heroine that will keep readers eagerly returning to Sarah Brandt’s New York City.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A tremendous entry in one of the best historical series.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  continued . . .

  “Entertaining and well-written. The pace is very fast and the mystery is particularly rewarding.” —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fine turn-of-the-twentieth-century historical.”

  —Library Journal

  MURDER ON MARBLE ROW

  “Cleverly plotted . . . provides abundant fair play and plenty of convincing period detail. This light, quick read engages the readers’ emotions.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Engaging characters . . . an enjoyable read.”

  —Margaret Frazer, author of The Traitor’s Tale

  “Victoria Thompson has a knack for putting the reader inside her character’s heads, and her detailed descriptions of New York at the turn of the century bring the setting vividly to life.”

  —Kate Kingsbury, author of Slay Bells

  MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND

  “An exciting intrigue of murder, deception, and bigotry.

  Gangs of New York eat your heart out—this book is the real thing.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A thrilling, informative, challenging mystery.”

  —The Drood Review of Mystery

  “There are few mysteries set back in history that I enjoy reading. This mystery series is one of those. The characters and settings are so real . . . I highly recommend this book and series.”

  —The Best Reviews

  MURDER ON WASHINGTON SQUARE

  “Victoria Thompson’s Gaslight Mysteries are always . . .

  exciting treats to read.”

  —BookBrowser

  MURDER ON GRAMERCY PARK

  “The inclusions of [historical] facts make this novel . . . su-perior to most of those found in the subgenre . . . The lead protagonists are a winning combination.”

  —BookBrowser

  MURDER ON ST. MARK’S PLACE

  Nominated for the Edgar® Award

  “Lovers of history, mystery, and romance won’t be disappointed. Exciting . . . Will hold the reader in thrall.”

  —Romantic Times

  MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE

  Nominated for the Best First Mystery Award by Romantic Times magazine

  “Victoria Thompson is off to a blazing start with Sarah Brandt and Frank Malloy in Murder on Astor Place. I do hope she’s starting at the beginning of the alphabet. Don’t miss her first tantalizing mystery.”

  —Catherine Coulter, New York Times

  bestselling author of Born to Be Wild

  “A marvelous debut mystery with compelling characters, a fascinating setting, and a stunning resolution. It’s the best mystery I’ve read in ages.”

  —Jill Churchill, author of Who’s Sorry Now?

  Gaslight Mysteries by Victoria Thompson

  murder on astor place

  murder on st. mark’s place

  murder on gramercy park

  murder on washington square

  murder on mulberry bend

  murder on marble row

  murder on lenox hill

  murder in little italy

  murder in chinatown

  Murder in

  Little Italy

  A Gaslight Mystery

  Victoria Thompson

  With love to all my Italian relatives, living in this world and the next.

  Thanks for giving me such an interesting and delightful heritage!

  Sarah Brandt was just clearing away the luncheon dishes when she heard someone ringing her front doorbell. She felt a small stab of disappointment, and when she looked down at the little girl helping her carry dishes to the sink, she saw that disappointment mirrored in her brown eyes. They’d both been looking forward to a quiet afternoon playing with baby dolls, but now a real baby’s arrival was probably going to ruin those plans.

  “Should I get it, Mrs. Brandt?” Maeve asked. Maeve worked as a nursemaid for the child Sarah had begun to think of as her daughter.

  “No, I’ll go. You two can finish up here,” she said, taking off her apron. Sarah smiled down at little Aggie, who made a disgusted face. She knew a knock at the door most often meant Sarah had to go off to help deliver someone’s baby.

  Aggie didn’t like it, but she also couldn’t stop Sarah from going. Sarah had explained many times that it was how she earned her living and paid for their food and clothes and home.

  Sarah dropped a kiss on Aggie’s silken head and then hurried to answer the persistent ringing of the bell. As she’d suspected, a young man stood at the door, looking anxious.

  “Mrs. Brandt, can you come? The baby, he’s coming soon.”

  “Mr. Ruocco, isn’t it?” Sarah asked, recognizing him as one of the three handsome brothers she remembered. “From Mama’s Restaurant.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he confirmed. Mama’s was one of the most popular restaurants in Little Italy. Sarah had enjoyed many fine meals there. “I’m Joe. Can you come? Right away?”

  “Of course. I’ll just need a few minutes to get ready.

  Please, have a seat,” she offered, inviting him into the front room that served as her office.

  He didn’t sit down, though. They never did. Instead he stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rest-lessly, as if his constant motion would hurry her along.

  With practiced ease, Sarah checked her medical bag—the one that had belonged to her late husband, Dr. Tom—to make sure all her necessary supplies were packed. Then she went and changed into her working clothes, the dark skirt and jacket that didn’t show the stains. Mr. Ruocco helped her with her cape and offered to carry her bag for her.

  When Sarah called out that she was leaving, Aggie came running for a good-bye kiss and to give Sarah another pout, just to let her know how muc
h she’d be missed. Even after she and Mr. Ruocco had made their exit, Aggie ran to the front window and pressed her nose against the glass to give Sarah one last wave.

  Sarah waved back, her heart so full of love she thought it might burst. Aggie had brought so much joy into her life since she’d found her several months ago at the Prodigal Son Mission on Mulberry Street. Still, Sarah couldn’t help worrying. The child had only spoken twice since the day she’d turned up on the mission doorstep. The first time was to call out a warning to save Sarah’s life, and the other was when Sarah had overheard her telling young Brian Malloy that her real name was Catherine. Aggie must have thought that was safe to do, since Brian was deaf. Sarah hadn’t yet had the courage to admit she knew Aggie’s secret. She’d been hoping Aggie would choose to speak on her own before she had to do so, but she was beginning to think that wouldn’t happen.

  Mr. Ruocco set a brisk pace, and Sarah had to ask him to slow down a bit to accommodate her.

  He apologized profusely. “It’s just that Mama said to hurry.”

  “Is it your wife having the baby?” Sarah asked. “Isn’t her name Maria?”

  “Yes, Maria, but no, she is not the one. It’s Antonio . . .

  his wife.”

  “Antonio?” she echoed in surprise. She’d thought him just a boy, too young to be married already and now with a baby on the way. “Isn’t he the youngest?”

  “No, Valentina is the youngest. ’Tonio is the youngest boy, though.”

  “Oh, yes.” She’d forgotten about the girl. Valentina didn’t spend much time in the restaurant. The Italians kept a close watch on their daughters.

  They’d come to the corner, so they had no more opportunity for conversation as Mr. Ruocco helped her dodge horses and wagons and piles of manure in the death-defying process of crossing the street to arrive safely at the other side. Each intersection provided the same challenge, and with Mr. Ruocco practically running in between each one, Sarah learned nothing new about the family or their situation.

  At last they saw the weathered red awning that shaded the front of Mama’s Restaurant on Hester Street. Because it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, no hungry customers stood in line, waiting for a table. Instead, the other two Ruocco brothers sat forlornly on the stoop, smoking cigarettes and looking as useless as men usually did when a woman was giving birth.

  “This must be the proud papa,” Sarah guessed, smiling at the younger man.

  They both jumped to their feet, and Sarah saw she’d been right in remembering Antonio as little more than a boy. He couldn’t be twenty yet, and the expression in his eyes was pure terror. “You’re the midwife?” he asked almost desperately.

  “That’s right, and I’m sure everything will be fine,” Sarah assured him.

  “It’s too soon. The baby is coming too soon,” he informed her.

  She glanced at Joe, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned this to her, but he avoided her gaze. “Get out of the way, so she can go inside and get to work,” Joe said gruffly, and the two men parted instantly to make way.

  Sarah noted as she passed that the other brother also looked worried, even if he wasn’t as terrified as Antonio.

  “Mama!” Joe called as they entered. “Mrs. Brandt is here!”

  The dining room was deserted except for two old men in the corner, drinking grappa and arguing. The checked tablecloths had been swept off and straightened from the lunch service and readied for the evening meals that would be served here. In the afternoon sunlight, the room looked like something from the Old World, with its plaster columns where ivy climbed and draped along the ceiling, and the paintings of the beautiful hills of Italy.

  Joe turned to Sarah. “Come, I’ll take you upstairs.”

  Like many business owners, the Ruocco family lived above their restaurant. As Joe led her toward the back of the dining room, a small woman burst through the kitchen door and came bustling toward them.

  “Grazie, Mrs. Brandt,” she said, drying her hands on her apron as she came. “You are good to come so quick.” Patrizia Ruocco was a legend in Little Italy. Fifteen years ago she’d come to America with her three small boys, not speaking a word of English, and against all odds, she’d built a successful business. “You, Giuseppe, go with your brothers,” she said, waving a hand at Joe as if he were a pesky fly. “Give me bag,” she added, taking Sarah’s medical bag from him before he turned to go. He seemed almost grateful to escape.

  “Upstairs, please,” Mrs. Ruocco said, leading the way to a door in the corner of the room. Patrizia Ruocco stood less than five feet tall, but hard work had made her strong. She carried Sarah’s medical bag as if it were filled with feathers, and she climbed the stairs without even losing her breath.

  Once her hair had been jet black and probably her best feature, but now it was streaked with gray. Her body was rounded and womanly—still firm even in middle age—but oddly, she gave no impression of softness. Perhaps it was her dark eyes, which seemed as if they could cut right into a person’s soul.

  The stairs were narrow and twisted around, designed to take up as little space as possible in the house. Two flights up, Mrs. Ruocco opened another door into a hallway. Sarah could see that several bedrooms with neatly made beds and spotlessly scrubbed floors opened onto it. She could also hear moaning.

  Mrs. Ruocco stopped and turned back to face Sarah.

  “The baby, he come too soon,” she told Sarah gravely. “This Irish trash . . .” She caught herself, and her face tightened as she tried to control a fierce anger. “This Irish girl Antonio bring to us,” she continued deliberately, “she is dropping my grandson too soon.”

  “How much too soon?” Sarah asked, remembering her rash promise to Antonio that everything would be fine.

  “They are married only . . . not six months,” Mrs. Ruocco said, the admission a vile taste in her mouth. “The baby was started before they marry, but not long before. A month, maybe two.”

  Sarah nodded. A month, or even a few weeks, could make such a difference—the difference between life and death for the infant. She’d know when she talked to the mother if they had those weeks or not. “Sometimes babies who are only a couple of weeks early don’t live,” Sarah warned her.

  “If this one is two whole months early—”

  “I will do anything for the baby to live,” Mrs. Ruocco told her fiercely. “I will pay anything you ask. I want my grandson.”

  If force of will could give the baby life, this one would live to be a hundred. “I’ll do the best I can, but God is the one who decides these things, not me,” Sarah reminded her.

  “He better decide my grandson lives,” Mrs. Ruocco hissed before turning and leading Sarah down the hall.

  As they approached the last door on the right, the moaning grew louder and a female voice cried out. “It’s coming again! Mary, Mother of God, make it stop!” The last word ended in a shriek of agony.

  Mrs. Ruocco set Sarah’s bag on a chair just inside the door and hurried over to the bed where a girl even younger than Antonio lay, wailing like a banshee. Before Sarah could guess what she had in mind, Mrs. Ruocco drew back her hand and slapped the girl soundly across the face.

  The wail ceased instantly, and the girl gaped at her in shock, holding a hand to her burning cheek.

  “Stop screaming,” Mrs. Ruocco ordered her. “You disturb your husband.”

  The girl blinked stupidly, but she didn’t utter another sound.

  Mrs. Ruocco turned to the other woman in the room, whom Sarah hadn’t yet noticed. She recognized her as Maria Ruocco, Joe’s wife.

  “Mrs. Brandt, she here,” Mrs. Ruocco told Maria. “Do what she say. If she need anything, get.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Maria replied calmly. If the sight of her mother-in-law slapping her sister-in-law had alarmed her, she gave no indication.

  Mrs. Ruocco turned back to Sarah, who still stood trans-fixed in the doorway. “If you must choose, save baby.”

  The girl on the
bed gasped but quickly covered her mouth when Mrs. Ruocco turned that razor-sharp gaze toward her again. Satisfied the girl was adequately intimidated, she nodded and took her leave, ushering Sarah into the room and closing the door behind her.

  Sarah took a deep breath and somehow managed a smile she hoped was reassuring. “I’m Sarah Brandt,” she told the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Nainsi O’Hara,” she replied in a whisper, then quickly shook her head. “I mean Ruocco. Nainsi Ruocco.”

  Irish trash, Mrs. Ruocco had called her. She was certainly Irish, with her reddish hair and smattering of freckles. She was probably pretty under better circumstances, and Sarah doubted she was older than fifteen.

  “Well, Nainsi, can you answer a few questions for me?

  Honestly, because I need to know the truth so I can help you.”

  The girl glanced at Maria, who nodded permission. “All right,” she said reluctantly, still rubbing her cheek.

  “When did . . . when did your baby get started?”

  Again the girl glanced at Maria, and this time a flush rose up her neck and colored the cheek that wasn’t already red from the slap. “I . . . August,” she said. She’d be embarrassed by that, of course, since she hadn’t been married in August.

  Sarah’s heart sank, but she didn’t allow Nainsi or Maria to see her dismay. She went to the washstand and washed her hands thoroughly in the warm water someone had re-cently carried up, drying them on a crisply ironed linen towel. Then she opened her medical bag and got out the pocket watch that had belonged to her late husband. She handed it to Maria.

  “Would you keep track of how often the pains come? It’s probably been about four or five minutes since the last one.”

  Maria took the watch carefully and nodded. “They are still far apart,” she reported. “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, relieved to know she’d have a little time. “Nainsi, I’d like to examine you. It’s so long before your baby is due that maybe you aren’t really in labor at all. Lots of women have false labor pains.”