Pilfered Promises

by M. Louisa Locke

  “Of course, Adolphe. I believe that Chief Jackson has what he needs from you for now.”

  When Jackson nodded, Villeneuve quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Annie said, “Mr. Livingston, I was surprised as we came through the first floor to see everything lit up and a good number of staff present. Was I incorrect in thinking you’d closed the store to customers today?”

  “No, not at all, my dear. But you see, this is the day when we put up all the Christmas decorations.” Livingston shook his head sadly. “Poor Adolphe. He’s been working on his plans to outdo the City of Paris for months. Every front window is going to display a different scene out of T’was the Night Before Christmas. Featuring goods that can be bought in the store, of course.”

  “Oh my, I hadn’t realized. How many employees were here this morning, if I might ask?”

  Nate saw that Annie looked over to Chief Jackson, as if to get permission for requesting details.

  Jackson motioned to Patrick, who once again consulted his notebook and said, “There were forty-two. Most of them were in the building by six-thirty, and all of them were present when the body was discovered.”

  Livingston nodded. “In addition to Adolphe and the artistic designer and assistant he’s employed to help create the window tableaux, all six managers were here, each of them supervising two clerks, two porters and a floorwalker. Flanagan and his nephew were in the basement helping the porters get out all the decorations from storage as well as supervising the delivery of new decorations. Then of course there was Miss Birdsoll.”

  Forty-two people in the store! All Nate could think of was how many potential suspects this represented if Mrs. Fournier had been murdered.

  Livingston continued, “Adolphe asked everyone to come in early and promised that they could leave at noon. I had invited the Villeneuves, Miss Birdsoll, the six managers, and Mrs. Fournier and Emmaline to come to my house at one for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  The Chief asked, “Was the expectation that all the decorating would be done by one, then?”

  “Adolphe assured me that there would only be a couple of hours’ more work to do this evening. A few finishing touches that he and some selected staff would work on with the designer. But of course the discovery of poor Mrs. Fournier has disrupted everything.”

  Nate asked, “Will you be able to open up tomorrow?” He knew from what Annie had told him that the day after Thanksgiving was one of the most lucrative shopping days of the holiday season.

  Livingston looked over at Chief Jackson and said, “Mr. Jackson has agreed that we could bring staff back this evening to finish up the decorations…and open up at the normal time tomorrow. In return, I agreed that his sergeant could use one of the offices on this floor for doing more detailed interviews with the staff throughout the next couple of days.”

  “Mrs. Dawson,” Chief Jackson said, “I am hoping that you would be able to meet first thing tomorrow with Sergeant Thompson, who will be conducting these interviews. Give him the benefit of what you have learned over the past week.”

  Annie looked over at Livingston and said, “If this is agreeable to Mr. Livingston, since my contract for services is with him and contains a confidentiality clause.”

  Oh good for you, darling. Nate had been about to say the same thing, as Livingston’s legal counsel. But it came better from Annie.

  Livingston replied quickly, “Mrs. Dawson, I am quite happy for you to share whatever you have learned so far with the police. I just want this all resolved as quickly as possible.” He faltered, clearly having trouble keeping his composure.

  Annie patted his arm, saying, “Do you want me to continue to pursue the question of the shortages? Or would you like me to hold off?”

  Livingston frowned and didn’t answer for a moment. Then with decision he said, “I would like you to continue. That is, if the police don’t mind.” He looked over at Chief Jackson.

  “Well, it is a bit unusual. But, since I have worked with the Dawsons before, and they have…to my knowledge…been good about sharing information, I will agree. It is quite possible that at least the female staff might be more forthcoming with her than they will the police. But Mrs. Dawson, I would ask that you share with us any new pieces of information you discover, whether you feel it relates to Mrs. Fournier’s death or not.”

  “As long as she has gotten Mr. Livingston’s permission…based on my assessment of whether or not there are any liability issues involved,” Nate interjected. The shoplifting incident of Mrs. Kemper, Violet’s mother, came sharply to his mind. And Livingston’s desire not to press charges. Once the police had information like that…they might feel they had to act, even if it were not in the best interests of his client.

  Livingston said quickly, “Yes, yes. I would be foolish not to listen to the advice of my lawyer. But I am sure that we all have the same goal when it comes to what happened this morning. Tragic as it might be if Marie Fournier tripped and fell, it would be a greater tragedy if she died at someone’s hand. And if there is any chance that person is part of the Silver Strike family…well, this is something I must know…even if there is some financial or other cost to the company.”

  Livingston took out a clean white handkerchief and matter-of-factly blew his nose. Shaking his head sadly, he said, “I feel so sorry for little Emmaline. And to be the one to have discovered the body. Terrible, just terrible. Miss Birdsoll said that she didn’t think she fully comprehends that her mother is dead.”

  Chapter 12

  “Bill No. 296, to appropriate money for support of orphans, half orphans, and abandoned children was passed.”––San Francisco Chronicle February 26, 1880

  Thursday evening, November 25, 1880

  Kathleen dropped into a kitchen chair and said, “Come here, Tilly. Let me rub your feet. You must’ve gone up and down those stairs a million times today.” With Beatrice gone up to bed, she felt it was her job to look after Tilly, whose black curls straggled from a cap that had lost its starch hours ago. This was the girl’s first time serving for a big dinner party, and she’d done very well. Just one broken dish the whole evening.

  It had taken some convincing, but Kathleen finally got Beatrice O’Rourke to retire once the last of the dishes were done. At nearly sixty, the cook wasn’t a young girl anymore, and Kathleen could tell her knees were hurting her something awful.

  Tilly limped over and sat down across from her, obediently unhooking the buttons on her ankle-high boots and putting her right foot into Kathleen’s apron-covered lap. Taking off the girl’s sagging wool sock, Kathleen exclaimed, “Girl, look at that blister! You’ve outgrown these shoes. You will cripple yourself.”

  She then turned her head and nodded to her friend Bridget O’Malley, who was standing at the stove and putting on a kettle for tea. “Biddy, make sure that some of her wages go to getting her a new pair. She’s finally going through a growth spurt.”

  “I’ll tell Ma. They still have some good wear left in them so we can hand them down to Mary Margaret.”

  Kathleen could imagine the difficulties Mrs. O’Malley had keeping all seven of her children…eight if you counted her niece Tilly…in shoes. She began to briskly rub the girl’s foot from heel to toes, skillfully avoiding the blister on the big toe. Tilly groaned softly.

  When she’d finished rubbing both feet, she said, “Go put some of the water from the reservoir in a pan…it shouldn’t be too hot yet after we emptied it doing all those dishes. There are some Epsom salts in the pantry. The large blue box. Go on back to our room and soak them, making sure you dry them well afterwards. And then go to bed. Biddy and I will finish up here.”

  Most days Tilly went home to sleep at the O’Malleys’ so she could help twelve-year-old Mary Margaret get all the younger children bathed and to bed. But Mrs. Dawson had bought a trundle bed to go under Kathleen’s so she’d not have to share with Tilly on nights like tonight when the young maid stayed over. Which was real thoughtful of the mi
stress.

  Once Tilly left the kitchen, Biddy brought over two mugs of tea and said, “Tell me everything. Mrs. O’Rourke said Patrick came and dragged Mr. and Mrs. Dawson off to the Silver Strike because someone died!”

  Kathleen took a welcome sip of the tea and said, “It was around three this afternoon, just before you got here. I was down in the kitchen when Patrick came…rang the front bell and it were Tilly who answered. She said the only thing she really heard were the words ‘murder’ and ‘Silver Strike.’”

  “Murder! My stars. I wonder who?”

  “I don’t know. The master and mistress got back about around five-thirty, but they’ve been busy upstairs with the guests ever since.”

  “Did you hear anything when you took up the coffee?”

  “No. Not really a fit subject for company.”

  “And Patrick didn’t come back with them?”

  “No. Mrs. Dawson did whisper to me that Patrick’s sergeant had him taking notes during some interviews so that he’d probably be on duty until late.”

  “The boy certainly shows more promise than I thought, Kathleen. Even if he looks about twelve.”

  “It’s the red hair and freckles. Makes him seem young. But you’re one to talk. The two of you could be twins.”

  Kathleen knew her friend hated her unruly red hair, said it made her look like she was fresh off the boat from the old country. But everyone took to Biddy. One smile from that broad freckled face and you found yourself telling her your life story. Did make Kathleen wonder, though, whether any children she had with Patrick would get his red hair or her own not very remarkable dark brown.

  She said, “Well, the good news is that Mrs. Dawson did ask if you’d mind staying long enough for her to come down after the guests left, so she could ask you a few questions, so maybe we’ll get some answers then.”

  “And here I am.” Her mistress suddenly walked into the kitchen. “Kathleen, I see you’ve sent Beatrice and Tilly off to bed. That’s excellent. No, no, you two keep your seats. You both must be exhausted.”

  “Ma’am, can I get you some tea?” Kathleen got up and pulled out a chair.

  “That would be nice. Although I can’t stay long. Nate’s still up with Laura and her friends…and that young medical student, Mitchell. Who seems to have taken a shine to Kitty Blaine. I wonder what her father would think of that for a match?”

  Kathleen said, “At least Mr. Mitchell’s Irish.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be one mark in his favor. But not our problem. At least tonight.” Opening a small pocket book, Mrs. Dawson extracted two dollars and handed them to Biddy, saying, “Thanks so much for helping out. Tell your mother I’ll give Tilly her bonus in person. The girl did a superb job tonight.”

  Kathleen knew she’d get an extra amount in her weekly pay for tonight, but she was glad the mistress was paying Biddy immediately, what amounted to more than a day’s wage for her friend. With Christmas coming, those two extra dollars might mean the difference between there being something in the little ones’ stockings or not.

  “Ma’am, can I get you anything to eat?” Kathleen thought her mistress looked a little peaked.

  “Oh no. I am still full enough to burst. What I do need to do is ask Biddy a few questions since I will be helping the police with their ‘inquiries’ tomorrow.”

  Her mistress proceeded to tell them about the Silver Strike’s dress designer being found lying at the bottom of the fifth floor stairs. And how the police thought that some suspiciously placed bruising suggested her death might not be accidental.

  “Mrs. Fournier…dead!” Biddy cried out when she heard the news. “How dreadful. Who would want to kill her? Such a lovely lady.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Mr. Livingston has requested that I look into whether there is any connection between the thefts I am investigating and Mrs. Fournier’s death. I know that you thought she was a good person to work for, and the Moffets thought she was a superior designer. But beyond that, I really know very little about her. For instance, I had no idea the young girl, Emmaline, was her daughter. I thought she was related to the Villeneuves.”

  She went on to tell them that it looked as if Mrs. Fournier died that morning between six-thirty and nine-thirty, saying, “That was when her daughter got up and got dressed and went looking for her mother, finding her dead on the landing.”

  “How awful!” Kathleen cried.

  Kathleen remembered being brought home from her aunt’s and tiptoeing into her mother’s bedroom soon after she’d died. How still she was, a woman who’d never been still in her life. By that time the neighbor women had cleaned her up and put the stillborn child into her arms. Both of them so white. She could pretend they had both just gone to sleep. Her father…well, she’d been home when her uncles brought his broken body home on a plank. A fall from a second story roof. A sight that still haunted her.

  “Is there a father?” she asked Biddy.

  “I don’t believe so. Poor child.” Biddy pulled her apron up to wipe away a tear.

  “Mr. Livingston told me Mrs. Fournier was a widow. Husband was a ship captain, died at sea. She supported herself running a small dressmaking establishment until Monsieur Villeneuve convinced her to give up the shop and to work full time for the Silver Strike.”

  Kathleen couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl, suddenly orphaned. “How old is she…this Emmaline?”

  Her mistress said, “I think that someone said she was ten. Although she seems very self-possessed for that age. Biddy, do you know what sort of education she’s had? She appears to speak fluent French with Madam Villeneuve, although Marie Fournier had a southern accent, not French.”

  “Far as I know, little Emmaline doesn’t go to school. One of the other seamstresses said Mrs. Fournier mentioned her daughter was sick a lot…reason she didn’t send her. But she always has a book in her hands. Real serious little girl.”

  “Perhaps the father was French. There is a large French population in the city. Maybe there are some relatives there who can take care of her.”

  Kathleen, who felt odd sitting doing nothing, got up and started to fix some hot cocoa, which she would then take up to the Misses Moffet in their attic room. They said it helped them sleep. On the way back down, she would make sure both parlors were tidy, the fires out, the grates cleaned. Over her shoulder she said, “Biddy says she’s dug something up for you.”

  Biddy nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, ma’am. With the news about Mrs. Fournier, I just forgot. One of the cash girls whose sister works with me in dressmaking comes up and has lunch with us in the work room. She said there’s this floorwalker who is sweet on one of the older cash girls named Cherry. Covers for her if she gets in late or takes too long getting back from the cashiers…and gives her little presents. Causes bad feelings among the other girls.”

  “Do you know the name of the floorwalker?”

  “Nope. But the girls call him ‘the rooster.’ He has this slick-backed red hair that tends to stick up in a comb when his pomade dries out, and he walks around with his chest all pushed out.”

  “What floor does he work on?”

  “That’s just it, ma’am. He works all over. Mirabelle, that’s my friend’s sister, says the ladies just eat up what he is dishing out. So the managers love him. And he’s likely to be working wherever there is an opening. You know, when someone is sick or there is a special sale in a department. And he takes Cherry with him.”

  Kathleen saw how interested her mistress was in this information. She could just see the wheels turning in her head, like one of those mechanical men at an exhibition at Woodward’s Gardens last summer.

  “That is very useful information, Biddy,” her mistress said. “While it might be nothing, on the other hand if this Cherry was part of a gang…or the floorwalker is…this could explain why there have been problems in all the departments.”

  Just then a bell above the door to the back stairs announced that people wer
e leaving by the front door. Kathleen started to go up since it was normally her job to escort people out…make sure they had their scarves and wraps and such.

  Her mistress waved her back, saying, “No reason for you to go up. Nate or Laura will be there to let them out. You finish making Miss Minnie and Miss Millie their cocoa. But I should go up soon. If you pour me a pitcher of hot water, Biddy, I will take that up with me. But before I go, if you aren’t too tired, I would like to ask one more question.”

  Biddy said, “Of course, ma’am. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Miss Minnie said she thought that the quality of the dresses that were custom made by Mrs. Fournier had gone down…in particular that she was using inferior material. And I found that there has been an increase in returns in men’s shirts and some of the ladies’ and children’s clothes coming out of your workshop. Have you noticed anything different in terms of the material you have to work with?”

  “Oh, ma’am, I have! But I thought it was just something that happened when a store bought in bulk that way. Truth be told, all the cloth at the Silver Strike is a hundred times better than any of the rough stuff I used to sew with my ma when she made shirts for a jobber.”

  “But you think there has been a change?”

  “Yes. Looser weave, more imperfections. Some faint splotching with the dyed silks and satins. A few of the women who have been sewing for Livingston even before he opened the Silver Strike have been grumbling. Saying standards are going down.”

  “Was there any particular pattern of the changes…does it come from specific manufacturers?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, they just hand out the material to us. I don’t know where it comes from. But there is definitely something going on. One of our most skilled finishers even complained to Mrs. Fournier, who got quite snippy with her. Not like her at all. Usually she is…she was very soft spoken.” Biddy teared up again.