She forced herself to look up, but Mrs. Crenshaw’s face stunned her. The older woman was certainly crying, but there was a watery smile emerging as her sobs stilled, and the pinched frown that usually marred the genuine sweetness of her expression had disappeared.
Mrs. Crenshaw pulled her hands from Annie’s, blew her nose, and began to talk excitedly. “Madam Sibyl, thank you. Of course I know I am dying, that is why I so wanted to make this trip. It might be the last time I can see my daughter. But I was afraid to tell Silas this. I have found men don’t deal well with bad news; I am sure in your business you have found this so. I just don’t know why I never thought of asking my daughter to come here! But of course she will be able to come; it will be good for her and the child to be out of Iowa during the worst winter months. Her husband, Stephen, such a good man, will not begrudge me this visit. Perhaps he can get someone to take over the farm for a month so he can be here for Christmas, too. Oh, dear, there are so many plans to be made. Silas will grumble at the expense, but how can he say no to his dying wife? I must get home. I swear, this has given me a new lease on life!”
Later, after the boarding house’s cheerful young Irish maid, Kathleen, had ushered a still animated Mrs. Crenshaw out of the parlor, Annie stood at the small washstand in the back room and jerked the wig off of her head, hoping to release the pressure that had built to an intolerable level. She poured water into a plain white enamel basin and, dipping a washcloth into the water, began to pat at her face. She longed to plunge her whole face into the water, but she couldn’t afford to let the precious elderberry paste she had used to darken her eyelashes and eyebrows be washed away. She tugged down the bodice of her severely cut black silk and tried to ease the restrictive tightness of her corset. She had two hours to rest, but then she had three more clients to meet today.
Annie stared at her reflection in the mirror, poking ineffectually at the mess she had made of her braided hair by pulling off the wig so precipitously. How pale I look, she thought, as she tucked a reddish blond curl back into place. You would think I was the one who was at death’s door. What if Silas Crenshaw comes here demanding to know how I could tell his wife she is dying? What do I say? I don’t even have the excuse that I believe in any of the rigmarole I spout. How much longer can I keep all this up? I’m just not sure what I am doing anymore, and I am so tired.
Chapter Two
Saturday evening, October 11, 1879
“A. J. WELSH, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, 434 California street--Divorces, insolvency, probate cases, etc.; prompt action and low charges, no charge for advice.”
—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
The clatter of wooden planks as the train traversed the Mission Creek Bridge alerted Nate Dawson to the fact he was almost within the city limits and the train would reach the Townsend Street depot in just a few minutes. He put away the copy of the Chronicle he had been reading, in preparation for arrival. After hours of seeing nothing but sun-seared brown hills, he welcomed the glimpses of the narrow, rectangular houses silhouetted in the evening twilight. He was home.
Odd, he’d never thought of San Francisco as home before. Not in the four years he had boarded in town while attending Boys High, nor the last six years he had spent working in the city in his Uncle Frank’s law firm. Home had always been his family’s ranch, nestled among tall oak trees in the hills due west of Santa Clara. That’s where he’d been for over a month, helping with the fall round-up, something he’d done almost every year since his family had moved west when he was fourteen. Even the years when he’d been back east at college and law school, he’d still thought of the ranch as home and longed to be in the saddle gathering up the stock every September. But this year had been different.
This year he had become increasingly restless, anxious to come back, come home to San Francisco, and he knew the reason was Mrs. Annie Fuller. He wished he had the nerve to go straight to her home tonight, but his Uncle Frank was expecting him. Nate knew there would be, as usual, a hundred and one tasks that needed to be completed immediately, but tomorrow was Sunday, and maybe he would be able to break free and go see her. For a brief instant, he could see Annie’s laughing face, the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the soft curve of her mouth.
The squeal of brakes emerging through the hissing steam and the simultaneous slowing of the car wrenched Nate’s attention back to the train’s arrival at the depot. He stood up and pivoted into the aisle, keeping his right hand firmly on the seat back in front of him, waiting for the inevitable jerk forward and back as the train stopped. He then swung down his leather valise, feeling the contents slide to one end. He never brought much with him to the ranch, since he left his comfortable work clothes there, along with all his saddles and tack. Instead, he had brought the bound copy of the new state constitution, all twenty-two articles of it, as well as a number of law journals. He couldn’t say he had spent as much time reading as he had hoped. He always forgot how physically exhausting ranch work was, and this year the demands were even greater, because, hard as it was to admit, his father was slowing down. His younger brother, Billy, had been his father’s right hand since the age of twelve, and everyone knew that in time he would inherit the ranch. But this fall Nate could see that something had shifted. Billy, not his father, had been in charge.
Nate opened up the latch on the valise and stuffed the newspaper in, meanwhile thinking about why this had bothered him so. He had never envied Billy’s position on the ranch, never wanted to take his place. But taking orders from his father was one thing, taking orders from his younger brother was quite another. It had irritated the heck out of him. Yet his father had seemed fine with the shift.
Nate had even tried to talk to his mother about the situation, but he never seemed to find a time when they were alone together. That was another reason this visit had been a cause of dissatisfaction. Billy’s new wife, Violet, had clung to his mother’s side the whole visit. She was very obviously in a “delicate” condition, which was embarrassing enough, but he didn’t understand why this meant she had to follow his mother around like a shadow, trying to help when it was clear she should be sitting down and resting. She must be carrying twins, to be that huge. Won’t Billy be insufferable then! Nate thought as he began the slow crawl down the aisle towards the back door of the car.
He stepped down to the platform and hurried through the crowd to snag one of the hansom cabs waiting on Townsend. He was sorely tempted to give the driver Annie’s O’Farrell Street address, but squashed the impulse and directed the driver to his boarding house on Vallejo instead. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure if he would be welcome at her home, even if it weren’t this late. Annie was one of the topics he had wanted to discuss with his mother. If I’d gotten a second alone with her, he fumed.
He’d naturally told the whole family about the part he’d played this summer in solving the mystery surrounding the death of his client, Matthew Voss, but when he had tried to explain to them about Annie, and what she’d done . . . well, that had been a fiasco. Violet had expressed shock, Billy teased him about getting mixed up with a “female detective,” and even his mother had frowned. His little sister, Laura, would have understood. But she was up near the Santa Cruz Mountains in her first teaching job, another reason the ranch hadn’t felt quite like home. He might have even been able to tell Laura about Annie’s work as Madam Sibyl. Laura was a strong champion of women’s rights, and she would have sympathized with Annie’s decision to use her business skills to support herself. But he couldn’t have told his parents or Billy about this. They just wouldn’t have understood. He was uncomfortable enough about her work as a clairvoyant, and, if he had his way, she would get out of that business before they got married and his family ever found out.
When they were married—that was the problem. How could he even think about marriage, when he could barely support himself on what his Uncle Frank paid him? He says I’m a partner, but I don’t make much more than a clerk!
&
nbsp; His mother had been telling him for years that her brother planned to retire soon, and then Nate’s income would increase. But he was nearly thirty, and, even if his income went up, it could take years of saving to be able to afford a home and servants, everything a woman like Annie Fuller deserved. He just knew if he had been able to explain to his mother how important Annie had become to him, what his plans for the future were, she would know how to approach his uncle. But that hadn’t happened, and now he was back in San Francisco, in the same limbo he was in when he left a month and a half ago.
Even worse, what if Annie didn’t want to see him? Their last meeting hadn’t gone at all well. He knew he had been at fault. He’d stopped by, unannounced, and had had to wait while she finished up with one of “Madam Sibyl’s” clients. By the time she entered the formal parlor, two of her boarders, the ancient seamstresses Millie and Minnie Moffet, were staunchly entrenched on the settee, sewing on an elaborate pile of lace. Annie and he had had to sit across from each other in the two stiff wing-backed chairs, with no privacy. The evening had been insufferably hot and Annie had looked so tired, but all he’d done was sulk because they weren’t alone. He’d hoped to recapture the precious bond they’d developed during those weeks in August as they worked together, but events had seemed to conspire against them. First, there was the buggy ride he had planned, which was ruined by a freak late-summer storm. Then Annie had canceled because one of her clients had requested a last-minute emergency consultation. And of course he’d had to say something asinine like—“casting someone’s horoscope couldn’t possibly be any kind of emergency.”
Then, as if fate was determined to pay him back for demeaning her work, he’d had to cancel their next assignation. Annie had agreed to an evening at the theater with him, but at the last minute his Uncle Frank had ordered him to write up a complicated will that he wanted to review that night. He’d sent word that he wouldn’t be able to come, and she had sent a note back that she understood that “of course his work had to come first,” but he had no doubt she was being sarcastic.
What he should have done that last time they met was take her in his arms and tell her how much he’d missed her. Hang the old ladies and their lace! What he had done instead was grumble about being kept waiting, complain about how overworked he was, and make snide remarks about Madam Sibyl. Annie’s responses, in turn, had gotten more and more terse. If only she had lost her temper, ripped into him the way she had several times when they first met! Then they could have had a glorious fight and cleared the air. Maybe she didn’t think he was worth losing her temper over anymore. Maybe she never had cared as much as he did. That was what he feared.
No, he refused to believe that he had misread her—the warmth of the few precious kisses, the way she had burrowed her face into his shoulder, smiled at him. She’d just been angry about how he had acted. Then, to make matters worse, the next day he had gotten the telegram asking him to come a week early to the ranch, and all he had been able to do was send around a short note informing Annie that he would be gone for the next six weeks. He’d every intention of writing a long letter once he had gotten to the ranch, begging her forgiveness for his rude behavior. In fact he’d written a letter, several to be exact, but never sent one. He couldn’t get the tone right. With each passing week, it became harder, until he had finally decided it would be better to ask her forgiveness in person.
But what if she won’t see me? Nate thought, as the cab pulled up in front of his boarding house. What if I have ruined everything?
**********
The girl, wearing a long white nightgown, went to the door to the hallway and listened. She then pulled out the long cord that hung down her chest, revealing a key. She crept over to another door, used the key to unlock it, and began the long climb up the narrow set of stairs. With difficulty, she opened the trap door when she reached the top and emerged into a room, dark, airless, with only one shaft of moonlight that revealed the large armchair. She moved confidently to the chair, picked up the china doll that lay there, which she began to rock. After several minutes passed, she began to sing.
“Hot cross buns, Hot cross buns! One ha’ penny, two ha’ penny, hot cross buns. If you have no daughters, give them to your sons.”
She stopped singing and whispered, “Mama, where are you? You need to save me from the bad man, ’cause I’m the baby, and I sleep with the angels.”
Chapter Three
Sunday, late afternoon, October 12, 1879
“The last section of the Sutter Street Road, terminating at Central avenue…has been completed and is in running order.”
—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
Sunlight fled before the shadows sliding up the hill to where Annie Fuller stared down at the avenue of graves. The wind, fresh from the Pacific, freed a strand of her hair and wove it through the three small feathers that jutted from her navy straw hat.
“Why Mrs. Fuller, whatever are you doing here!”
Annie started, turned, and for a moment couldn’t place the tall, neatly dressed, middle-aged brunette standing on the path beside her.
“Excuse me, I’m afraid… Oh, my word, Miss Pinehurst! I didn’t…I mean, how nice to see you!” Annie gathered her scattered wits and smiled, embarrassed that she hadn’t immediately recognized a woman who lived in the room next to her.
Although Miss Lucy Pinehurst had moved into Annie’s boarding house over a year ago, she remained a bit of a mystery. She had moved into the O’Farrell Street house because it was so close to Market Street and the restaurant where she worked. Nevertheless, her job as head cashier and bookkeeper for Montaigne’s Steak House, which billed itself the “Delmonico’s of the Pacific Coast,” meant Miss Pinehurst left the house a little before noon, when Annie was usually busy at work as Madam Sibyl, often returning well after midnight, when Annie had already retired for the night. Consequently, there were few opportunities for Annie to converse with her. In their brief encounters in the hallways, Miss Pinehurst had been polite, but Annie always imagined she left a faint chill of disapproval in her wake. She was surprised her boarder had decided to approach her this afternoon at Laurel Hill Cemetery. Miss Pinehurst appeared to be almost as surprised as Annie by her behavior.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Fuller, I shouldn’t have disturbed you. It’s just I didn’t expect to see you here. I suppose you must have family, I just … I mean, I often come here on Sundays and I never encountered …” Miss Pinehurst stopped short and began to back away. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Fuller, I didn’t mean to intrude, I will just be on my way.”
“Oh, no, there is no need to apologize,” Annie said. “My aunt and uncle are buried over at the Masonic Cemetery, so I don’t come to Laurel Hill very often. Today I came to visit an old friend.” As she pointed down the hill, Annie realized she was still holding the small bouquet of chrysanthemums she had brought with her to put on Matthew’s grave. “But, before it grows too late, I need to finish paying my respects.” As if to punctuate this comment, the light suddenly dimmed, the sun sinking behind the bank of clouds piling up over the western horizon.
Miss Pinehurst nodded, then thrust out her hand as if to stop Annie, saying, “Mrs. Fuller, I don’t mean to keep you, but I was wondering, when you were done, if you would take a walk with me. I have something I would particularly like to speak to you about.”
Startled by the intensity in her boarder’s voice, Annie paused and then said, “Certainly, Miss Pinehurst, I won’t be but a moment. If you would wait for me here.”
Taking the other woman’s slight nod as a sign of acquiescence, Annie gathered up her skirts and walked quickly down the hill to stand in front of a grave’s white marble headstone, whose crisply chiseled message showed little passage of time.
Matthew Voss 1811-1879
Beloved husband, father, brother
“And He has filled him with the spirit of God,
in wisdom, in understanding and in knowledge
and in all manner of w
orkmanship”—Exodus 35:31
For a moment she was swept up in memories of the past summer, when her attempts to find out the truth behind the death of the man buried here had catapulted her into a few hectic weeks of intrigue that had almost cost Annie her own life. As she leaned over to place the bouquet on the grave, she whispered, “Oh, Matthew, I miss you so.”
She smiled, remembering the picture Matthew’s sister had displayed in her room. Matthew Voss proudly holding the woodworking tools he had used to build a successful furniture business; Miss Nancy holding the large account ledgers that represented her contribution to the company as its bookkeeper.
A bookkeeper, just like Miss Pinehurst, who was probably waiting impatiently for her up at the top of the hill. She gathered her wool shawl more tightly around her shoulders and made her way up the path, surprised again at how little she knew about her boarder, beyond where she worked and that she had a sister and brother-in-law living in town, with whom she usually spent Sundays. This was another reason she hadn’t gotten to know Miss Pinehurst, since Sunday dinner was the one meal Annie usually ate with all of her boarders. This would be a good chance to further her acquaintance with Miss Pinehurst, and she wondered what her boarder could possibly wish to speak to her about.
When she regained the top of the hill, she smiled and said, “Miss Pinehurst, thank you for waiting. It has been such a lovely afternoon, and I do believe we have at least another hour of daylight.”
Having apparently regained her composure, Miss Pinehurst replied, “I should think we have sufficient time. Perhaps we shall miss the press of people who will be trying to catch the five o’clock car to town. I have never seen Laurel Hill quite as crowded as it was today.” She then turned and began to walk briskly down a path that led away from the entrance, deeper into the cemetery.
Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 2
