Hanna chuckled, ruffling Martin’s hair. “I’m glad you’re well, brother. I will go to Broadway Wharf now. Do not tell a soul. I will return before noon.”
“Please be safe.”
“I will,” she whispered. “Do not fret.”
But as Hanna ran from the stable toward the street, she knew she could not promise to stay out of danger. In the Barbary Coast, every day was a roll of the dice.
The gulls cawed and circled overhead. A steamer ship sounded its foghorn while men hollered at one another, hauling nets bulging with cargo onto scow schooners. Hanna smelled the overpowering stench of rotten fish, while giant rats scurried about the planks of the boardwalk. She squealed as one ran across the toe of her boot.
“Move!” a boy shouted, throwing himself onto his belly, capturing the rat beneath an upturned bowl. Hanna had never seen a child covered in such filth, as though he hadn’t washed in his life. He sneered, looking up at her.
“This big ’un gonna get me a dollar in the fights.”
Hanna recoiled. “The fights?”
The boy coughed, his face bruised and ear bloodied. “Big rats like these can kill them little dogs. If my rat wins, I win money. That’s why I catch ’em. Or maybe I’ll set ’im on the belly of a Chinaman. I’d like to see it eat right through his yellow skin.”
Hanna gasped. “Why do you say such hateful things?”
He spat at her, his rat clutched to his chest. “You want these Orientals running our city? Me and my crew, we’ll beat him with a hickory stick till he’s near dead. Then slit his ears and his tongue so he can’t say nothing ’bout who did it.”
Hanna knew of the hoodlums, who grew in numbers. The anti-Chinese gangs had taken over the neighborhood by the wharves, harassing the railroad workers. What had the Chinese done other than provide for their families? They were immigrants, like her.
“Horrible child!” she hissed, though she knew he would not understand her native German. As Hanna watched him scamper away, it pained her to see that this harsh environment had bred such hatred in his heart.
The water slapped the wooden pilings as Hanna walked along the wharf, past men in tweed caps wearing coveralls stained with clay. Sinewy-armed stevedores unloaded barrels and boxes onto the ships. Sitting in groups on the pier, other men mended the nets. Hanna stopped, looking about for Kieran.
“Aye, you girl!”
Hanna turned to see a fishmonger in a stall, frizzy gray hair sprouting beneath a red kerchief. “Buy a head of trout from us?”
The rotten fish heads in the woman’s bucket stared up at Hanna with dead eyes.
“No, thank you,” Hanna said, trying not to gag. “Do you know a boy by the name of Kieran McClaren? He works the docks here.”
The fishmonger frowned, hairs poking from a mole on her mouth. “I know the McClaren boy. He’s down on the wharf a wee bit farther, right that way.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said, picking up the hem of her dirndl so she could walk more quickly. “I’m sorry I’ve no money for fish. Next time.”
The woman grunted, waving a dirty hand. “Be off with you, then!”
Walking toward a scow schooner with its hull jutting over the water, Hanna drew her shawl tighter. Men tugged ropes, lifting large boxes up toward the deck. The pulleys squeaked and the waves splashed in the choppy water below. Others sorted through bins of oysters, crabs, and herring. Those would bring a pretty penny at the market.
Hanna’s eyes landed on a man with sun-browned skin. As he clenched his teeth, sweat trickled from his hairline down his wrinkled brow as he lifted a net of cargo. His bright eyes shone like moonstones in his weathered face. But underneath that sandy mop of hair, Hanna could tell he was no more than twenty, though working out in the elements had given him the lines of a man much older.
A foreman called out commands until the sagging contents finally reached the deck of the ship. Stevedores began to unload the boxes, barrels, and hay bales. The sandy-haired boy let go of his rope, wiping perspiration from his brow.
Hanna took a step toward him, clearing her throat. “Are you Kieran McClaren?”
He wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Who’s askin’?”
“Hanna Schaeffer.”
He tilted his head. “You don’t look familiar.”
“I’m searching for my friend, Margaret O’Brien,” Hanna said, swallowing as she noticed the ropelike muscles in his arms. “Have you seen her?”
He shook his head. “I ain’t got time for trouble. Can’t you see I’m working?”
“Margaret is missing. Her mother told me you were her sweetheart. Now, is your name Kieran or not?”
He pulled tobacco rolled in newspaper from his pocket and struck a match, lighting the cigarette. Taking a long drag, he blew the smoke in Hanna’s face. “The old bitch ain’t got no right talking about my business. And yes, me name’s Kieran.”
Hanna coughed, waving the cloud away. “Were you courting Margaret?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I fear she’s been taken against her will. And if you’ve done anything to harm her, I will go straight to the police.”
Kieran sucked his tobacco. “Margaret’s a sweet girl. I wouldn’t do nothin’ to harm her. But she don’t listen. And she ain’t brought me nothing but trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
Kieran stared at the sun. “Margaret knows I have a fiancée. I love me Bridie. We been together since we was fifteen. But I got a little something on the side.”
Hanna’s mouth fell open. “Margaret would never.”
Kieran laughed, his cigarette dangling between two fingers. “Oh, she would. And she did. I’d sneak round her house after midnight, and we’d go in the empty lot behind Sutherland’s pharmacy, or up against the shed at the McGregors’ house.”
Hanna closed her eyes. Margaret wouldn’t. Had she truly given herself up before marriage, and to a man who had promised himself to someone else? When Hanna opened her eyes again, Kieran was smirking at her.
“Don’t look so shocked, love. Margaret wasn’t no virgin.”
Hanna slapped him hard. Kieran reached up and touched his cheek. Hanna flinched as Kieran’s eyes flashed with anger in the same way Father’s did. This time she had asked for it.
“What’d you slap me for?” Kieran asked, rubbing his face.
Hanna raised her fists to her face. “For speaking that way about Margaret. She’s a good girl.”
Kieran’s eyes grew softer. “I’ll forgive you, but only because you’re more innocent than I thought. You’re a maighdean, ain’t you?”
Hanna’s cheeks prickled. She would not give Kieran the satisfaction of admitting he was right. “Please. Did you see Margaret the night before last?”
“Last I saw her was five days ago. She came down here and told me she was up the duff. I told her to get rid of it.”
“You mean Margaret was pregnant?”
Kieran sucked his cigarette and nodded. “Told me she was havin’ my child. But I don’t want no wee ones. Not yet. And I told her I ain’t leaving my Bridie.”
Hanna clutched her head, thinking back to the morning she and Margaret had last sewed together side by side. Margaret’s face had been a little fuller, and her clothing had fit a bit tighter in the bust. But other than that, there had been no signs. Margaret hadn’t been sick or tired. She had been rosy and happy as the friend Hanna loved.
Hanna steadied herself against a metal pole, the wharves spinning around her. This time, perhaps she would faint. A lump rose in Hanna’s throat. Unable to stop the tears, Hanna sobbed in front of Kieran. Margaret was pregnant and alone—in far more danger than Hanna had ever imagined.
“Hey now,” Kieran said, touching Hanna’s arm. “She’ll be all right. I told her the name of a woman I know, to get the baby out.”
“You vile man!” Hanna yelled, slapping his hand away. “You are a monster!” Heat surged through her. “Such a doctor could kill Margaret. I thought your fait
h taught you life is sacred.”
Kieran laughed, but his smile did not reach his eyes. “Catholics say you’ll go to hell for killing a baby. That’s what Margaret thought too. But I don’t believe in hell. It’s right here.” He gestured at the skinny street children by the wharf. “Just look around.”
“Did anyone else know about the baby?”
Kieran stubbed out his cigarette. “If her pa found out, he’d probably kill her himself. You don’t go shaming your family like that. She’s ruined now.”
“Because you ruined her!” Hanna yelled, her eyes welling up with tears again. “And your Bridget, she stays with you?”
“I provide for her, like a good man does. And I put a ring on her finger. Why should she leave me?”
Hanna slowed her breathing, trying to regain control of her emotions. Had Kieran hired the scar-faced man to force Margaret to get rid of the baby? God in heaven, perhaps that’s why Margaret was drugged? In houses of prostitution, there were many women with the potions and know-how to conduct such surgeries.
“Oy, McClaren, back to work!” yelled a burly man with a thick black moustache. He ambled toward them, glaring at Hanna. “You, girl. Get out of here.”
“Please,” Hanna said, as the man grabbed her arm. “Did you send Sam O’Grady to come after Margaret? The man with the scar?”
Kieran frowned, taking hold of the rope. “O’Grady? He’s a common criminal. A con man. I don’t mess with the likes of him.”
The foreman’s grip tightened around Hanna’s arm. “Leave now,” he hissed. “You’re costing me time and money. Stop talking to my workers.”
He let go of Hanna with a push, and she stumbled to the ground. A few of the stevedores laughed. Hanna brushed her hands on her cotton dress and stood up. “Kieran! You must help me find Margaret.”
Kieran tugged on the rope, his moonstone eyes hard. “You won’t find her here.”
Hanna’s blood ran cold, watching the rope uncoil—rope that could be used to tie someone up or to hang them. Rope pulled by the arms of someone strong enough to strangle the life out of a girl carrying an unwanted child.
Chapter 15
Sarah, Present Day
Thank you so much for meeting me.” I smiled at Anna Heinrich as she sat across from me in Caffé Bianco on Sutter Street.
Anna brushed her gray-streaked auburn hair away from her face. For a fiftyish woman, she had a youthful glow radiating from her laugh lines.
She set down her coffee. “It’s cool you’ve taken an interest in Papa’s old bar. It’s a shame we couldn’t keep it, but it was just too much work. Ed does a great job. And we love what he’s done, bringing in the blues bands.”
“I heard one the other night with some friends. They had great energy.”
Anna shook her head. “If it was all good vibes, I could’ve kept the place. But there were too many fights. People getting drunk and smashing bottles over each other’s heads. One regular died from a head wound, right after I called the cops. That’s when I decided I couldn’t deal with it anymore.”
I winced, holding my latte. “Wow, it sounds as bad as it was back in the Barbary Coast days. I don’t blame you for not wanting to put up with that.”
“Those days were worse than we’ve got it now.” Anna sipped her coffee, then set it down. “Oh, which reminds me! I brought the photos.” Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out a battered shoebox. “They’re all in here. My grandpa kept everything his father had saved. Lots of action happened around that bar.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Any time,” Anna replied. “I hope you find something useful.” She checked her phone. “I gotta run, honey, otherwise I’ll hit traffic on the way back to Sacramento. But you keep those as long as you need to.”
“Thanks again!” I called as Anna walked away from the table. After she left the café, I lifted the lid off the old shoebox, a musty scent filling the air. Reaching inside, I pulled out a stack of sepia prints, many hand-tinted with watercolors. Some had scalloped edges, and my fingers traced the smooth corners of the others. At the bottom of the box, daguerreotypes printed on thin pieces of metal stuck to a clump of photos. Where to start?
I held a picture toward the light, between my thumb and forefinger, examining it. A society woman stifled in her high, ruffled collar. Watercolors accentuated her sad blue eyes, blond hair, and thin pink lips.
In the accompanying photograph, an older man wore a black suit and bow tie over a collared shirt. His big beard gapped without a moustache, in the style of Abraham Lincoln. Watercolors tinted his eyes blue.
Turning his photograph over, I read, “Captain John Worthington, taken in his San Francisco home, 1878, François Dupont.” The same handwriting marked the woman’s photo: “Edith Worthington, wife of Captain John Worthington.”
I jotted their names in my notebook. A photographer named François Dupont had taken most of the pictures, although someone named A. J. Merckel had taken others. Some had no writing, leaving the identity of the people in the photograph a mystery. Nonetheless, the window into the past transfixed me.
Sipping my latte, I pulled another photograph from the box. Children with somber faces stared up at me, sending tingles all the way to my toes. The watercolor tint couldn’t mask what was wrong in this photo. The little red-haired girl at the center of the photograph was too stiff, her pale cheeks too rouged, and her eyes vacant. Without turning the picture over, I knew she was dead.
A dark-haired boy of about twelve laid a hand on the shoulder of the redheaded girl. Pillows propped her up in bed, her head haloed by a garland of red roses. To her right stood a younger boy, his hair sandy colored, and next to him a blond girl who clung to a teddy bear. She couldn’t have been more than three or four.
Postmortem photography was common in the Victorian era, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing. I shuddered, looking away from the children and focusing instead on the furniture in the room. From the chandelier overhead and the velvet chairs, I could tell this family was wealthy. Even the privileged couldn’t escape death. Turning over the picture, I read the small, neat handwriting.
Robert Havensworth with his sister Clara Havensworth [deceased] and cousins, Lucas Havensworth and Georgina Havensworth–taken in the home of Mr. William Havensworth and Mrs. Elizabeth Havensworth, San Francisco, California, 1858.
I nearly choked. Havensworth? It wasn’t a common last name. Looking again at the chandelier, the way the brass curled and the crystals hung in tiers . . . I recognized it. And the chair—I knew that chair.
Setting the photograph down, my hands trembled. There was a reason Hunter’s parents’ mansion had always given me the creeps. A little girl had died in that house, in one of Gwyneth and Walter’s many rooms.
A car pulled away from the curb with a screech—a Lexus with darkened windows. An uneasy feeling washed over me. Was I being paranoid, or had someone been watching me?
“How’s your story coming along?” Mariko asked.
“It’s good,” I said, noting the concern in her deep brown eyes. “I’m making headway.” Bouncing my heel beneath her desk, I hoped she believed me.
I averted my eyes, looking instead at the pretty potted plants in Mariko’s office, the leaves of spiral bamboo shoots pointing toward the ceiling. My graduate advisor had trusted me when she’d given me permission to change my thesis topic, and now I feared my lack of progress had caused Mariko to regret her decision.
But hadn’t I always done well when given the opportunity to use my voice? Frank, the former editor in chief of Pulse of the City magazine, had taught me so much about finding the right hook and reeling our readers in with a good story. I knew telling the tale of Hannelore and Margaret was the right one. I needed to figure out what had happened to them and to write my best piece of journalism yet.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to finish your article within the next two weeks?” Mariko asked, her perfectly penciled eyebrows drawing together.
<
br /> I swallowed. “Yes, that won’t be a problem.”
With the discovery of the painting at Havensworth Art Academy I had a new and unexpected lead, the connection between Hannelore and Lucas. But time was running out, and I still didn’t know what had become of Hanna and Margaret.
“Remember,” she said, her expression serious. “If you want to brainstorm with me, or if you need to refine the direction of your pitch, I’m here to help. I’ll provide you with constructive feedback, but I expect a completed draft by May 30.”
“I understand,” I said, gripping the base of my chair. “I’ll have it ready by then.”
Mariko pressed the tips of her fingers together. “You still have your novel to fall back on.” She sighed, and then shook her head. “I don’t know, Sarah. I’m glad you’re excited about this new idea, but my concern is that the story will feel too rushed.”
In our series of meetings over the past year, we’d always had a good working relationship. Mariko had provided me with extensive feedback on the early drafts of my novel, pushing me to delve into fiction. I’d tried flying by the seat of my pants, going where inspiration pulled me, but nothing I’d written had felt right.
“I want to publish this,” I said, meeting Mariko’s stern gaze. “And I promise I won’t turn in something half-baked.”
She smiled. “I like your determination. You’ve shown promise in your writing, and that’s why I’m allowing you this last-minute change. I want you to prove to me, and to the graduate committee, that this is your very best work.”
“I will,” I said, standing up. The fog had begun to settle like a blanket around the white spires of St. Ignatius, the Catholic Church at the heart of the USF campus.
Mariko shook my hand. “Good luck, Sarah. See you next week.”
Leaving Mariko’s office, I watched through the window as tendrils of mist clung to tree branches in the courtyard. Even within the warm hallway of the faculty building, I shivered, thinking of the email on my phone. I know what you’re doing. And I strongly advise you to stop. Was it from Walter or someone else?
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