Scandal On Rincon Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “Miss Woolson is quite correct, Gerald,” she said, pulling back from Brielle. “This baby looks exactly like you. In fact, she quite resembles our Millicent when she was this age. Millicent is the eldest of our three children,” she explained for our benefit. “She is now eighteen, our son Jonathan is sixteen, and our youngest daughter, Deirdre, is nearly fifteen.”

  Straightening, she looked her husband full in the face. “You may deny your role in this child's parentage until hell freezes over, my dear, unfaithful husband, but the proof of your infidelity lies peacefully cradled in this young woman's arms.”

  “Lily, please,” protested Gerald, taking his wife's arm and attempting to nudge her back to the phaeton. Despite the chill December morning, I saw that he was perspiring heavily. “These women are nothing but cheap burners, out to extort whatever money they can from us. You mustn't believe their outrageous lies. Think of our reputation.”

  Lily gave a dry, sad little laugh. “That's very good, Gerald. I imagine you refer to the reputation you've taken such pains to create through that crusading newspaper of yours. Created out of whole cloth, of course, since not a word of it is true.” At his startled look, she said, “Yes, my dear, I know all about your little peccadilloes. I have my sources, just as you have yours. Ironic, don't you agree?”

  She gave a great sigh, and the energy seemed to suddenly drain out of her. For the first time I noticed the pain etched in the fine lines around her eyes, and the grooves set to either side of her generous mouth. How much grief has she endured because of this man? I wondered. And why has she put up with it for so long?

  The answer to this question, of course, was easy enough to guess. For all his faults, Gerald Knight was a handsome man, fit and strong for his age, with good skin and a fine head of hair. Many woman would undoubtedly be happy to call him husband. Lily Randolph must have been a spinster in her mid-thirties when Knight came along, I calculated. She probably viewed him as a blessed last chance to marry and produce a family.

  He, of course, would have been attracted by her money. According to Samuel, she was the only child of wealthy parents, the Pennsylvania Randolphs, who had made a substantial fortune in steel. A doting mother and father willing to buy their daughter's happiness at any price, I thought.

  How long had it taken, I wondered, before Lily discovered the true nature of the man she had married? Not long, I guessed, given his eye for beautiful young women. She had set men to follow her errant husband, but she had stayed with him. I found this last notion impossible to fathom.

  “Come, Gerald,” said Lily, at last moving away from Brielle and the baby. “We are going to be late for lunch.”

  Without another word to either Brielle or myself, Knight assisted his wife into the phaeton, gave instructions to their driver, and joined the late-morning traffic.

  Moments after the Knights' carriage made its way down the street, Eddie came barreling up in the brougham, his overworked dappled-gray snorting in protest. Muttering abject apologies for leaving us stranded without any notion where he had gone, the boy explained that one of his regular customers had spied him parked in front of the Daily Journal, and had begged him to convey him to his office for an urgent meeting. Sheepishly, the lad admitted that the man always tipped generously, and his office was a distance of a mere mile or two at the most. Adopting his most cherubic expression, Eddie shrugged his thin shoulders as if to say, how could a hardworking cabbie resist?

  How could he, indeed? Cutting off further apologies, Brielle and I entered the carriage, and I instructed the boy to take us back to Madam Valentine's brothel.

  It was a cheerless journey, seeming to take a great deal longer returning to our destination than it had driving to the newspaper office earlier that morning. Even little Emma seemed to sense our melancholy mood, for she soon started to fuss in Brielle's arms. The young mother jiggled the baby gently in her lap, then when that failed to soothe, propped the little one over her shoulder and was promptly rewarded with a loud burp.

  “Well, that is that,” said the girl resignedly, as Eddie lent her a helping hand down from the carriage. “Please do not feel you have failed me, Miss Woolson. I could not have asked for a braver or more steadfast champion. As Madam Valentine pointed out, my future at her parlor house is not the worst fate to befall a woman.”

  Before I could respond, she turned and hurried up the steps and into the house on Montgomery Street. She was not quick enough, however, to prevent me from seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  In spite of Brielle's kind words, I had seldom in my life felt more disheartened as when I trudged up the stairs to my office on Sutter Street. Eddie expressed surprising willingness to endure his weekly mathematics lesson—his least favorite subject—but for the first time since I began tutoring the boy, I could not muster the energy to teach.

  After he left to continue his day's work, I sat a long time at my desk, going over our visit to the Daily Journal, and wondering what I might have done, if anything, to ensure a happier outcome. My only consolation was that since we had confronted Gerald Knight in the presence of his wife, the unfortunate woman could no longer be in denial about her husband's infidelities. I prayed that she would somehow find the courage to pack his bags and order the bounder out of her house!

  I am ashamed to admit that I had completely forgotten the appointment I had arranged with the Chinese interpreter, Sun Kin Lu, to visit my office this afternoon. Because of my preoccupation with Brielle and the abhorrent Gerald Knight, I was taken aback when I heard a timid knock on my door shortly after one o'clock. Wondering who it could be, I was surprised when the diminutive man entered my office, executing his usual low bow of respect.

  “You ask see me, missy,” he began, declining my offer of a seat on the other side of my desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Sun,” I replied with equal formality.

  I explained Fan Gow and Lee Yup's arraignment at the courthouse the following morning, and we established a time and a place to meet which suited us both. I went on to inquire if there was anything we could bring the men from Chinatown, which might add to their comfort and well-being during their incarceration.

  Sun thought for a moment, then suggested that an assortment of dried delicacies would certainly be welcomed, given that the white man's food at the jail was unpalatable. He went on to list dried duck, dried pig livers, and perhaps even dried frogs and oysters as possible offerings, followed by lychee nuts, lily seeds, and pickled almonds.

  Sun was quiet for several moments, and I thought he had come to the end of a mostly futile list of food the jailers would almost certainly not allow their inmates to enjoy. However, he had one more suggestion.

  “They likee if we bring joss sticks. Burn sandalwood with cedar or fir—make bad smell go way. It be nice, missy. No more stink in cell. Bring good luck.”

  I was considering how best to inform the well-intentioned Mr. Sun how difficult it would be to bring in most of these items, particularly the joss sticks, when Samuel burst into the room, his usually immaculate appearance spoiled by a wrinkled shirt and a crooked cravat. His blond hair was uncharacteristically sticking up in clumps, as if he'd been running his fingers through it.

  “Samuel, what's wrong?” I asked in alarm, my thoughts immediately going to our mother and father, who were getting on in years. “Is it Mama? Or Papa? Don't tell me it's little Charlie?”

  I was referring, of course, to Charles and Celia's four-month-old son, Charles, Jr. Sadly, it was not uncommon for babies to succumb to a variety of childhood illness during their first year of life.

  “No, everyone's all right,” he assured me, not bothering to take a seat.

  “Well, actually not everyone,” he hurried on. “I'm afraid there's been another murder.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After sending Sun Kin Lu on his way, I followed Samuel out of my office. I was more than a little surprised to see Eddie waiting atop his brougham in front of the building. Samuel explained that he a
nd the boy had arrived there at the same time, which was fortunate since my brother wouldn't have had time to contact him otherwise.

  “I was worried about you, Miss Sarah,” explained Eddie, looking a bit sheepish to admit to such a weakness. “You looked pretty peaked, so after my last fare I thought I'd come by and see if you was okay.”

  In spite of the horrible news my brother had just delivered, I couldn't help but smile at the boy. One would have to look long and hard to find a friend as loyal and dedicated as this young waif off the street. Once again I was observing firsthand the truth of the old adage that you cannot judge a book by its cover!

  “That was most thoughtful of you, Eddie,” I told him, resisting the urge to give him a hug, a gesture he would undoubtedly consider beneath his dignity. Instead, I reached out and casually ruffled his already messy hair. “And it seems you are just in time. Where is it we're going, Samuel? You've yet to tell me the name of the victim.”

  A look of real regret passed over my brother's handsome face. “It was Patrick O'Hara, Sarah. The young man who works at Murphy's Ice Cream Parlor, between Second Street and Folsom. Damn it all, he was only twenty and well liked by everyone.”

  “Did you say Murphy's Ice Cream Parlor?” Eddie asked, hopping lithely down from his perch. “Is that where we're goin' then?”

  “Something terrible has happened there, and it won't be open today,” Samuel told him. “We're just going to have a look around, so you can stop salivating.”

  “Sali—what?” the boy asked in confusion. “What's that you say I'm doin'?”

  “You're drooling, my lad,” explained Samuel. “Just the mention of ice cream and you get that silly grin on your face. I'll thank you to remember this is serious business we're about this afternoon.”

  Properly chastened, Eddie saw us seated inside the brougham, then jumped easily back up onto the driver's seat at the front of the carriage. As he took off with his usual abandon, I was once again forced to put my faith in whatever god had taken on the considerable task of guarding over reckless boys, especially those who drove a cab for a living.

  “How was poor Patrick killed?” I asked, picturing the good-natured lad with the curly head of strawberry-blond hair and flashing Irish eyes.

  “He was stabbed with an ice pick they kept in the shop.” He gave a little grimace, then went on tightly, “After O'Hara was killed, he was evidently dragged to the back of the shop, where he wasn't found until this morning. The only reason I know about it is that I stopped by the station to see George on my way back from Cunningham's law firm.”

  “Oh, Samuel, I'm so sorry,” I said, belatedly remembering the appointment Papa had arranged with his old friend Arthur Cunningham. “I forgot all about your meeting this morning. How did it go?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind about that now. I'll tell you all the gruesome details later.”

  I started to press him about it, then realized he was far more interested in the tragedy that had taken place at the ice cream parlor than an interview to fill the position of associate attorney, a job I knew all too well that he had no interest in pursuing.

  “All right, then. Tell me what else you know about the boy's murder?”

  “Not much, I'm afraid. It isn't George's case, and no one connected with it would give me much information. I came here as quickly as I could to get you.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “To get me? Why?”

  “There's got to be a damn good story behind Patrick O'Hara's death,” he explained, then looked shamefaced. “I know that sounds callous, but every reporter in town will be running hell-for-leather to Murphy's to get a scoop. I want to be the first one there to have a closer look at where the poor fellow was killed.” He gave me an ironic smile. “Since a good number of courting couples frequent the parlor, I thought you would provide excellent cover.”

  “Surely it will be closed today,” I protested. “After what happened.”

  “I don't expect it to be open, Sarah. Still, I'd like to nose about the place on my own if I can.”

  “Did George say it was a robbery?” I asked. “You don't think O'Hara was deliberately singled out, do you? He was such a sweet boy. Who would want to harm him?”

  “That's just it, Sarah, apparently it wasn't a robbery. And that, taken with Nigel Logan's and Deacon Hume's murders—”

  “You think Patrick was murdered by the same person?” I was about to say more, when the brougham's right front wheel hit a pothole and we were nearly bounced out of our seats. I resettled myself and secured my hat, then took the precaution of holding tight to the seat in the event we hit another bump in the road. “I don't see how it could be the same killer, Samuel. I doubt that Patrick O'Hara even knew Logan and Hume. They had absolutely nothing in common.”

  “No,” he said reflectively, “still, it seems an extraordinary coincidence, don't you think? Three murders in just over a week?”

  We fell into an uncomfortable silence for the remainder of the ride, lost in our own desultory thoughts. Afternoon traffic was uncommonly light, and we arrived at Murphy's Ice Cream Parlor in good time. Despite being told that the shop would be closed, Eddie had added to our speedy arrival by zigzagging his horse in, out, and around any vehicles unfortunate enough to stand in his way. Despite all our protests, once he had ascended to the driver's box Eddie seemed capable of only one speed—and that was fast!

  As far back as I could remember, Murphy's Ice Cream Parlor had been one of Rincon Hill's happiest landmarks. Located on the southeast corner of Second and Folsom streets, Mr. Murphy's homemade ice cream had been one of our favorite treats when Samuel and I were growing up. Every Saturday afternoon, rain or shine, Papa had taken his two youngest children by the hand to walk the several blocks to Lachlan Murphy's bright orange and yellow shop for our weekly treat. Mr. Murphy had passed away some twelve years earlier, but his eldest son, Kerry, had taken over the parlor.

  The only changes Kerry made to the shop were to hang a new, but equally colorful, sign above the door, and to add ice cream sodas to the menu. This new innovation—which was created by adding ice cream to one of half a dozen soda water flavors—quickly became a sensation with his customers, especially courting couples out for a summer evening stroll.

  Most customers in the neighborhood were aware that Patrick O'Hara was Kerry Murphy's cousin, his mother's sister's youngest son. He was a large, happy, handsome lad, extremely popular with the young ladies who frequented the family-run parlor. It was difficult to believe that this pleasant boy had been the victim of such a vicious attack. If Samuel was right, and it hadn't been a robbery gone awry, who could have disliked the simple, good-natured young man enough to take his life?

  When Eddie reined up on the corner of Second and Folsom streets, he parked the brougham across from a police van, which was drawn up directly in front of the parlor. As we expected, the door to the shop was closed, but a number of curious bystanders were milling about the entrance. I noticed that the majority of these onlookers were young women in their late teens or early twenties. Some of them were actually in tears.

  Glancing warily at the group clustered about the doorway, some peering inquisitively through the windows, Samuel touched my arm.

  Speaking softly, he said, “I'm going around to the rear entrance to the shop. I'd like a word or two with whoever has been assigned to the case.”

  Instructing Eddie to stay with the carriage, he nodded to me and we unobtrusively made our way around the corner and into the narrow alley backing the shops that fronted on Folsom Street. I knew without being told that the last thing we needed was for the host of gawking girls to follow upon our heels.

  We were pleased to find the back door to the ice cream parlor partially open, and we could hear the sound of male voices coming from inside. Giving the door a barely audible knock and, without waiting for an answer, Samuel pushed it open and we entered what was obviously the shop's storage area. The room was in deep shadow. The only light sp
illing inside—and that dim enough—came from the front of the parlor. Still, after our eyes adjusted to the dark, it was possible to make out a number of crates lined up two or three boxes high against one of the walls, a sink and half a dozen empty soda bottles piled in more crates to the opposite side of the room.

  Samuel motioned for me to tread softly, and we made our way toward the voices. Once we reached the parlor's back entrance, we crouched behind yet more piles of crates stacked to either side of the door, my brother on one side, I on the other.

  From this position, we could see a visibly distraught Kerry Murphy speaking to a tall, heavily built uniformed policeman, whose back was turned toward us. His ample body and broad neck was topped by a thick head of black hair, but we could see nothing of his face. Samuel gave a little shake of his head, indicating that he couldn't place the officer, and for us to remain where we were for the moment.

  As I studied the two men, my gaze went to the floor and I stiffened to spy a large dark discoloration staining the worn wood planks. That must be where poor Patrick had been stabbed, I realized, and the crime was sharply brought home to me in all its gory details. I blinked back hot tears; how heartbreaking to think that such a happy young life had been cut so tragically short.

  From where we were standing, it was also possible to make out the trail of blood where the boy's body had been dragged into the storage room behind us. I was aghast to realize that there were one or two stains beneath my boots. God help us! I thought, willing myself not to move from my hiding place behind the crates. Repositioning my feet ever so slightly, I fervently prayed that poor Patrick had died quickly, and with as little pain and panic as possible.

  “It must have been a mistake!”