Pilfered Promises

by M. Louisa Locke

  Mrs. Dawson said, “I know it’s frustrating, but my understanding is that the police like to concentrate on getting the ringleaders put away. And it does look like Squibbs was the mastermind.”

  Mrs. O’Rourke, who’d been quietly basting the ham, said, “My sainted husband used to say, when you stop a professional from working in your city, it discourages other criminals from coming to town. Cut off the head and the snake dies.”

  “I would imagine your husband would be very proud to see what a fine detective his nephew is shaping up to be,” her mistress added.

  “Ah, that he would. Carrying on the family name in the department.”

  Kathleen thought about how tired Patrick looked when he’d stopped by the boarding house last night. She didn’t think he’d slept but a few hours over the past three days…or had much to eat. But he was so proud and happy, he couldn’t keep from smiling…until he fell asleep at the kitchen table after wolfing down the dinner his aunt had fixed him.

  Since it had been wash day, and Tilly was staying over, Mrs. O’Rourke even let Kathleen move him onto a pallet of blankets on the kitchen floor so he could sleep the night away. In the morning, when she came into the kitchen at five to wake him up, she’d let herself imagine for a second what it would be like to get up every morning and see his precious face.

  She sighed and then went over and carefully took the pulled taffy from the boys, telling them to go wash off their butter-covered hands at the kitchen sink. Carefully laying the sticky, sweet-smelling string down on brown paper, she took one of the sharpest kitchen knives and swiftly cut the taffy into short pieces.

  Her mistress walked over and took one of the pieces, winking at Kathleen, who frowned at her. Mrs. Dawson then said, “At least Nate got Robbie to tell him exactly who he worked with at the commission merchants’ and give him details on how that man, Jack Sweeter, was involved. The police probably won’t be able to charge these men with anything, but they can at least make the owners know what their employees were up to, maybe get them fired.”

  “But you and Nate don’t think any of them killed Mrs. Fournier?” Laura said.

  “Squibbs says he has an alibi for that morning because he was delivering goods all over town. But it’s going to take awhile for the police to follow up on that.”

  “What about Robbie Livingston?”

  “Well, his fellow manager, Gower, can account for him being on the third floor working from 6:30 to 8:00. Robbie says he then slipped down the street to the new store, and Leggett confirmed that he arrived at 8:15, then left again at 9:00. There were, theoretically, two fifteen-minute intervals unaccounted for, but it would be cutting things close. Besides, he really was the one who stood to lose the most if Mrs. Fournier died, and as Laura kept saying the other day. Why shell out money and then kill her?”

  Chapter 31

  “The first boat of the Oakland Ferry leaves San Francisco at 6:10 A. M.: the next at 7, and thereafter every half hour …”––San Francisco Chronicle December 24, 1880

  Friday morning, December 24, 1880

  Three days later, when she heard the front door open, Annie looked up eagerly from where she sat in the formal parlor, waiting for her husband to get home. Nate had promised not to stay long at the law firm this morning. He just needed to tie up any loose ends, since he wouldn’t be back in the office until next Tuesday. She’d been out of the house as well and had some news she wanted to share.

  “Annie, love, I’m home as promised. You will not believe how crowded the streets and horse and cable cars are. And it looks like it is going to pour soon.” Nate walked into the parlor and handed her a thick book, saying, “I grabbed this as I left the office. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before. It’s Bishop’s Oakland Directory; maybe we can find the letter writer, Phillip, in there under the ‘Ds’.”

  “Of course, Nate, that’s perfect. You know how frustrated I’ve been that we are going to go away without being any closer to finding whether or not Emmaline has any relatives, or more importantly, who killed her mother. Did you hear anything from the police about Squibbs?”

  “Yes, a note from Thompson saying they were finally able to trace his movements on Thanksgiving morning, and he definitely is out of the running as the killer. Seems like Mrs. Fournier’s angry lover might be the only suspect we have left. Thompson said that next week he would look into the letters to see if the police could track Phillip down. But maybe we can save them time––see if there is anyone named Phillip who works for the Central Pacific. It’s the 1877-78 directory, the most recent one we had in the office, but if he’s been working for the railroad for the past ten years, he should be there.”

  The directory, which listed people and businesses for both Oakland and Alameda County, was quite hefty, over six hundred pages. She quickly flipped through the front part, with the index of advertisers and the general description of the city, county, and their institutions, until she found the alphabetical list of names, then she continued to flip through until she got to the “Ds” on page 159.

  Running her finger down the names she stopped and said, “Look, there is a Davis who is a car repairer for the C.P.R.R. But his first initials are B. J., and I wouldn’t think a repairer would actually travel back and forth on the trains the way Phillip does.”

  Nate came and peered over her shoulder as she continued to look down the page. He said, “Lots of men listed as working for the Central Pacific. Most of the occupations are just ‘laborer.’ Nope, there’s a brakeman. That’s a good possibility. But again, not a Phillip.”

  Annie looked through a couple of more pages and stopped when she saw another person with C. P. R. R. listed as their employer. Her finger pointed at the words, ‘Donahue, Phillip,’ and she said, “Nate, this might be him…oh my goodness,” she exclaimed.

  “What? Does he have a wife listed…Oh Annie.”

  “Nate, he’s a porter. Aren’t all railroad porters colored men? At least on the major railroads with sleeping cars.” Suddenly so much that had been mystifying about Marie and her relationship with Phillip made sense to Annie.

  Nate nodded. “It really all fits. He’s from Natchez, proud of his job, but she refuses to marry him, and they have to keep their relationship secret. Of course they would, a white woman in a relationship with a man of color. When you think about it, what is most surprising is that she ever agreed to marry him at all or that he would be angry when she changed her mind. Surely he knew that in this state, like so many others, marriage between the members of the two races is still illegal.”

  Annie stared into space, remembering the photograph of the old woman Marie Fournier had hidden away in the wooden box. She said, “Nate, Miss Spencer told me that the other apprentice who’d worked with Mrs. Fournier thought that the old black woman who had lived and worked with her was an old family retainer, probably a former slave. But now I wonder…”

  She thought about how Phillip had once written Marie that she should tell her grandmother that he ‘promised’ he would never do anything to reveal her secret. When Annie read that, she’d thought that the secret was that she was someone’s mistress. What if…

  “Nate, what if Marie was just passing as white? What if that was the secret Phillip mentioned in the letters? You know that people come west to leave behind their identities all the time. Something she could do if she had such little African blood that no one would ever suspect she wasn’t white. Wouldn’t that make her white?”

  Nate’s eyes darkened, and he said, “I wish that were true, but in California the state defines a person as a mulatto if they have only one great-grandparent who isn’t white.”

  “So, if the former slave that Miss Spencer said lived with Marie was in fact Marie’s grandmother, and therefore Emmaline’s great-grandmother, then it wouldn’t matter who Emmaline’s father was––Emmaline would still be considered a mulatto. And suffer all the indignities that the people of color suffer in this state. People still give them a hard time w
hen they try to ride on the cable cars.”

  He nodded sadly. “And you know that Laura said that even though segregation in the public schools was banned five years ago, there are very few Chinese or black children who attend, and they are often bullied. If our suspicions are true, no wonder Marie decided not to send Emmaline to school but rather teach her at home.”

  “Oh Nate, we can’t let anyone know about this, even hint that it might be a possibility. We could ruin that child’s life!”

  Nate tried to shield Annie from the gusts of cold rain that battered them as they stepped off the ferry onto the slippery paving stones leading into the maw of the Oakland Long Wharf Station. The boat ride across the bay had been extremely choppy. In fact, Annie became ill as soon as they’d boarded, and she’d spent the trip in the women’s washroom. She only came out to meet him on deck just as they docked.

  He really wished he’d not given into her demand that they immediately go and try to find the letter writer, Phillip Donahue. Or he should have at least insisted that this was something he could do on his own.

  As they got in out of the rain, Annie gave him a hug and said, “Don’t worry, it was just a little sea sickness, but I am fine now. Actually, I feel much better. Look, over there is the station ticket office. Let’s see if they can tell us how to find Mr. Donahue.”

  His wife hooked her arm through his and started to walk briskly through the cavernous station filled with people carrying parcels and dragging their suitcases behind them.

  He tugged her to a stop and said, “Wait a minute, Annie. We don’t want to stand in line with all these people trying to get tickets. I think it makes more sense to find a station official to ask. There’s a fellow who looks like he’s a porter. Let’s try him.”

  “Excellent idea,” Annie said and made the left turn toward the man, whose black suit and distinctive hat proclaimed his job as clearly as his dark skin.

  As they came up to him, the porter nodded pleasantly and asked in a soft Southern accent how he could be of service.

  Nate offered him the story Annie and he had concocted in the cab ride down Market Street to the ferry terminal, saying, “I wonder if you could help us? Two of our friends who traveled back east last month just sang the praises of the porter who served them. We wondered if the fellow was going to be working on the train we are taking that leaves tomorrow morning. We would so like to see if we could get him. Man’s name, I believe, was Donahue.”

  The porter smiled and said, “Sir, ma’am, I’m not sure you would be able to get him; the reservations for the sleeping cars are generally assigned at the main office ahead of time. But he is indeed going to be working tomorrow, as I am.”

  Annie broke in and said, “I want to be sure we have the right man. My friend was so ill, and she said he took such good care of her. They left a day or two before Thanksgiving. His first name was Phillip. My friend remembered that because that’s her husband’s name.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you have the right man. Donahue and I always work the same train, and we did indeed leave this station on November 23 and got in to Ogden on Thanksgiving morning.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Annie said. “But poor you. Were you able to at least get a Thanksgiving meal?”

  “If you count turkey sandwiches,” he said with a grin.

  “Well, since the train doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, I hope that you and Mr. Donahue will get to spend Christmas Eve with family and friends.”

  The man shrugged and said wryly, “I’m sorry to say we’re expected to stay on the train the night before the morning departure. In fact, Donahue is up in his car right now, making sure everything is ready to go for the morning. I don’t think anyone would mind if I took you to meet him.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely.” Annie gave the man one of her most engaging smiles.

  Nate watched with amusement as his wife moved along beside the porter, chattering about the fictitious relatives they were going to visit back in New York City. She did enjoy play-acting. But he knew that much of her high spirits were the result of learning that Phillip Donahue, Marie’s secret lover, couldn’t have been her killer since he was on a train pulling into the Ogden station that morning.

  The man standing before them was stiff and unhappy. They were in the crowded corridor of one of the Silver Palace cars whose compartments turned into sleeping quarters each night. The helpful porter they’d been speaking to had simply said to Donahue that they were passengers who wished to ask him a question about accommodations. Then he sped off on his own duties.

  Donahue had been in the act of cleaning one of those compartments, his jacket off and an apron over his white shirt and black vest. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders. His dark skin was unlined, but his closely shaved hair and small mustache showed a few sprinkles of gray.

  He murmured a polite apology as he whisked off the apron and darted down to a room at the end of the car to grab his coat and hat. Obviously feeling better now that he was back in uniform, he’d asked how he could help them.

  That was when Nate said they wanted to talk to him about Marie Fournier and asked if they could do so in a more private place than the corridor. Donahue’s face had frozen, and his whole body went rigid.

  Then he’d said, “Sir, I believe you have made a mistake; I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Her husband replied, “Donahue, I know this is going to be difficult. But let me tell you who I am and why it is so important I speak with you. My name is Nate Dawson, and this is my wife. We have been hired by Mr. Livingston, who owns the Silver Strike Bazaar, to help the police in their inquiries about Mrs. Fournier’s death.”

  Nate pulled out one of his business cards and held it out to Donahue, who reluctantly took it. He continued, “In the course of our investigations we came upon letters from you to Mrs. Fournier. Before we were able to figure out who you were…we told the police about these letters and they will be trying to track you down after the holidays.”

  Annie saw the man stiffen further, and she said quickly, “Sir, the last thing we wanted to do was reveal any of Mrs. Fournier’s personal history that might hurt her daughter. All we are interested in is determining what is best for the future of Emmaline. But to do that best, we need information. We’ve just discovered that you were not in town the day of Mrs. Fournier’s death, and we will be glad to let the police know that. We have no desire to get you in trouble and will do what we can to dissuade them from trying to find the author of those letters. But, to do that, we need to figure out what did happen to Mrs. Fournier. Why she was murdered. Can you help us?”

  After a long pause, Donahue pointed to the compartment he’d been cleaning and said, “Ma’am, if you and your husband would take a seat, I’ll close the doors between the cars to give us some privacy. But first, let me pull down the curtains so no one can see in.”

  After accomplishing these tasks, and with Annie and Nate seated on one of the upholstered seats, Donahue stood in the doorway to the compartment where he would be able to see if anyone approached. He lifted a mobile eyebrow, which her husband took as a request to continue.

  Nate said, “Why don’t we tell you what we know or suspect and then see if you can fill in some of the gaps?”

  He told the man that they knew that he had met Marie in Natchez, that he’d started an intimate relationship with her over ten years ago, but that at that time she’d been the mistress of a local man, who they assumed was white. When the man died in ’77, she discovered he’d forged her name on a loan and she’d then decided to rent the dress shop out and go work for the Silver Strike. They knew that Donahue wanted to marry her, that she’d finally agreed, but that a few days before Thanksgiving she’d broken off her relationship with him. What Donahue might not know was that the day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Fournier got money from someone to pay off her loan, and the next morning, someone pushed her down a flight of stairs at the Silver Strike and then when she was incapacitated, suffocated her.
And that her daughter had found the body.

  “Oh sir, no, not poor Emmaline,” Donahue gasped. “Oh, unfortunate child. What is going to happen to her?”

  Annie knew then that this man would help them, and she said, “That is where information from you might aid us in figuring out what is best for her. First of all, do you believe Emmaline is your child?”

  Donahue looked down at his feet then said softly, “No, ma’am, I don’t believe so. Sometimes I wanted it to be true. But the few times I saw the child, I saw none of me or my people in her. And the older she got, the more Marie seemed certain that I wasn’t the father.”

  Annie knew that this next question had to be handled very carefully. So she said, very gently, “When you knew Marie in Natchez, was she already passing as white?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Marie was white. That is why she wouldn’t marry me. Why she wouldn’t come away with me.” Donahue clenched his fists.

  Nate said, “But she did say she would marry you, and she did say she would come away with you.”

  Annie added, “But she never said she would bring her daughter, did she?”

  Donahue shook his head, brow furrowed.

  She continued, “And we suspect that was because she’d promised her grandmother, old Nana Charlotte, that she would never do anything that could bring into question the fact that Emmaline had African heritage.”

  He looked up and glared at her, and she felt Nate shift at her side as hot anger filled the small compartment.

  She said quickly, “Mr. Donahue, I swear to you. We will not reveal that secret, to anyone, not even to Emmaline, unless she figures things out herself and asks us. But we need to know the truth because it is possible Marie’s past and this secret is what got her killed.”

  The anger in the air slowly slipped away, and Donahue sighed.