by Joanne Dahme
“No. Not when one gets comfortable with them.” He turned to throw a fond glance at his bicycle. “You must try your hand at it, Mr. Parker. I’ve been encouraging Officer Russo, but the officer has no time for anything except investigations. He doesn’t think using them as a means of transportation for work would appear—professional.” Russo only smiled.
I wondered if the detective was employing some new interrogation method to keep me off my guard, although I knew I had no reason to be guarded. I thought of the reports stacked in my office. I had no time for this.
“Detective Buchanan, I don’t mean to be rude, but surely you aren’t here because of a bicycle excursion.” I looked longingly toward my office. “I really have much work to catch up on.”
Buchanan’s eyes still held their friendliness, but his wide smile quickly slipped away. “Of course, pardon me, Mr. Parker.” Buchanan looked at Russo accusingly as if this were Russo’s fault. “As you probably know, I am conducting the investigation of Mrs. Murphy’s death.” I noticed that Buchanan didn’t hesitate. “May we step into your office for a few minutes?”
I didn’t want them in my office. Within such close confines, I imagined that Buchanan could be intimidating, and at the moment, I didn’t trust either of their motives. “If you don’t mind, I prefer to stay in the open air.”
For a moment, the three of us stood silently beside the forebay, staring into the smooth, brown water, covered by a suspended layer of mist. Only the birds and the far off whistle of a steamboat broke the silence. I noticed that Russo was staring at the Nymph and Bittern statue, waiting for the detective’s cue. Buchanan sighed.
“Very well. I’ll only take a minute today,” he added, with restrained emphasis. He shifted his weight and leaned on the rail of the balustrade. “I understand that Patrick Dugan has been a source of trouble for you.” He paused to gauge my reaction.
My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by trouble?” I could detect the anger in my own voice. “If you are referring to Dugan’s desire to build filtration plants—he is just one contractor among many. It’s the City Councils’ philosophy that troubles me, sir, not Dugan’s. Dugan just happens to be a scoundrel, in addition to a wealthy contractor.”
I felt Russo staring at me, but I didn’t want to remove my gaze from Buchanan. Not a flicker of emotion could be seen in Buchanan’s face. The earlier, jovial Buchanan was now inscrutable. “I was told by some officials, who I prefer not to name, that Mr. Dugan believes that you have some knowledge of Mrs. Murphy’s death.”
I knew that I should not have been surprised by Dugan’s accusation, although I drew in my breath sharply just the same. “Surely, you don’t take a man like Dugan at his word, Detective. If that is the case, we are all in trouble.”
“No, we don’t Mr. Parker, that is why we are here,” he replied calmly, completely in control. “I apologize for having to be so bold, but in a murder investigation, there is no way to ask such questions delicately. May I speak with your men?” His tone was polite.
“Do what you must to solve this crime. My men would be glad to assist you,” I replied softly, doing my best to control the frustration laced in my voice.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Parker. We’ll be speaking again soon.” Buchanan held out his thick hand. I accepted it and shook grimly.
“My mechanics are in the turbine room. The laborers are up on the reservoir grounds. I’m sure that Officer Russo can guide you to either location.”
I didn’t look at them as the men excused themselves. Instead, I stared across the forebay at the smooth white figure of the Nymph. I could hear Buchanan and Russo laboriously taking the steps into the lower section of the Water Works to reach the turbine room. I’m going to lose you, I thought, looking sadly at the image of the only woman who had been a constant in my life over the last two years. Something was very wrong, and I didn’t know how to go about fixing it.
I was at my desk, thumbing through the papers and reports that covered its surface. Buchanan and Russo had just left, having completed their interviews with my crew. The men were upset, and George had been particularly incensed by Detective Buchanan’s questions. George had been working with me for four years now, and I knew that George thought of me as a mentor, despite my age. I had done my best to appear objective about the investigation and had encouraged my men to answer all of the detective’s questions honestly should the police visit them again, as I was sure they would.
I rubbed my tired eyes. I was having difficulty concentrating on the various reports. Nothing seemed as immediate to me as the investigation and the presence of Dugan’s men not far from the Water Works property. I had placed a call to Trout’s office about Dugan’s project but had yet to hear from the chief.
I looked up at the knock on my door. “Just a minute,” I called irritably. If this was Buchanan or Russo again, I couldn’t trust myself to be polite or controlled. But when I opened it, it was Rose who stood in the chill, her cheeks flushed and her green eyes luminous.
“Sean,” she hesitated, possibly noting the tone of my voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
For a moment, I was speechless. Rose was wearing a reefer coat, which made her look years younger. Her coat, like her cape, was green. She could have been a girl of twelve. The tam she wore was also green, and covered most of her pinned hair, so that only a few curls pressed against the side of her face. Her ankle length blue wool skirt, trimmed in velvet at the bottom, looked warm. She was stunning. I wanted to take her into my arms, I was so happy to see her. Embarrassed, I felt my face redden. Dear God, I need to say something.
I grasped her gloved hands. “Rose, please, come in. I am so glad to see you. May I take your coat?” I closed the door. “I apologize that my office is in worse condition than the first time you saw it.” I felt like I was blathering. “Let me clear a chair for you.”
Rose smiled, but I could see that she was nervous. She looked around the small room, to ensure that no one else was there. “I will only need a few minutes of your time,” she said, her voice tinged with apprehension. She remained by the door.
“I had to see you.” A look of surprise was on her face, suddenly aware of her own boldness. “I need to talk to you—about the most recent letter we received.”
“Another letter? Like the one that was delivered to you in the garden?” I frowned at the memory.
“Yes,” she replied. Her gaze lingered on the paperwork on my desk. “It was delivered to Patrick’s office.This one was the most ominous,” she said softly. “Patrick said it arrived the day that Nellie was murdered. I only saw it yesterday.”
“May I ask what it said?” I tried to ignore the impropriety of my question. This letter was the reason that Rose was here.
“It was very chilling.”There was anger in her voice suddenly. She said nothing as she took a few steps to examine a drawing pinned to my wall. The drawing showed the water mains and sewers that connected the pumping station and reservoirs to the surrounding streets. She turned back to me. Her green eyes reflected the window’s probing shaft of light.
“The letter said that Patrick was a contagion and that the writer would do harm to the people Patrick cared for unless he ceased advocating for the filtration plants.” Rose stared into my eyes, a question in her own.
I thought of Buchanan, and his insinuation of the malice between Dugan and me. I took a measured step toward Rose. It pained me that she might believe that I could harm her, regardless of what I thought of her husband.
“I didn’t write them, Rose. Is that want you want to ask me?” I said gently. I could not interpret the emotions on her face.
Her gloved hands were clasped at her waist. She looked down for a moment, struggling with a thought. When she looked up, I could see that she was fighting to compose herself. She took a deep breath.
“I never believed it was you, Sean. It was just that ...” She stopped before saying his name. “The words in the letter were reminiscent of yo
ur testimony before the City Councils.You were warning the Councils about the next contagion.” She turned her head embarrassed. “But I had to ask, for Nellie’s sake.”
I felt a maddening urge to close the distance between us—to grasp Rose’s hands and look into her startling green eyes. I knew there would be no turning back for me if I did.
“Of course. I understand that you must do everything you can. I only wish that I could be of more assistance to you.”
“Thank you, Sean,” she smiled. She looked down and then glanced at the door. “I best be going.”
“Rose, wait.” I hurried to join her at the door. “If there is anything I can do to help you, please do not hesitate to seek me out.” Here my voice died. How could I say it? “I care ... about you,” I finished softly. Care for you is what I almost said.
Rose’s eyes filled with emotion. A tentative smile softened the trepidation in her face. Rose reached for my hand, squeezing it lightly before releasing it.
“I knew that once I spoke with you, I would feel much better.”
“Can I walk you to your carriage?” I asked.
Rose shook her head. “That’s all right. Julius is waiting by the bridge.”
I stood in the open doorway and spotted Julius leaning against the balustrade. I returned his nod. Julius looked happy to see me, and I couldn’t help but notice the protective way in which Julius took Rose by the elbow as they walked across the bridge to their carriage in the North Garden.
Standing there, squinting against the light of the cold sun, I felt some relief but was still worried. I watched as the carriage ambled beneath the arch. How could I help her? I wanted to save us all, but I wasn’t quite sure how this diabolical game was being played. Across the forebay, the Nymph gazed back at me placidly, as if nothing could ever change.
ROSE
Istared at the black bunted hearse as the horses approached the entrance to St. Mary’s Cemetery. I listened, in a trance, to the measured rhythm of their hooves slapping the cobblestones as they lumbered down Juniper Street. Their heads bowed by a far greater weight than the black ribbons and feathers that adorned their harnesses and bridles could claim. I dug my gloved fingers into Patrick’s arm and closed my eyes for a moment. I couldn’t stand seeing the throng of mourners lined along the cemetery driveway to the gravesite. Why is it that death demands such homage?
The black dress I wore was of Melrose, its skirt cut plain. The dress was completely trimmed with crape. I had pulled back the veil of my bonnet to look for Charles and Sarah. I knew that they would be in the carriage behind the hearse.
The horses neighed as they reached the gravesite. The priest beckoned the funeral attired crowd to gather around the grave. No one had the heart to speak. I could only nod a tired greeting at the faces I recognized. The mayor and Mrs. Warwick stood at the priest’s shoulder, overseeing the upcoming ceremony. Nellie would have smiled at Mrs. Warwick’s imposing presence. “Now there’s a woman who likes to take charge,” Nellie would laugh. I spotted Sean and Chief Trout in the back of the crowd, many tombstones away. Sean suddenly looked my way, his gaze cutting through the crowd. I nodded to him and quickly looked away.
Patrick squeezed my arm reassuringly as the silent crowd watched Charles step from the carriage and then turn to lift Sarah to place her gently on the ground. I had to stop myself from running to the child. Her pale, freckled face and brilliant red hair—Nellie’s hair—was covered by a cap with long, black streamers, which trailed in the air with the breeze. Charles was stoic and pale too. He gripped Sarah’s hand as if it were all that was holding him to this world.
The morning was gray and cold, and I eyed bitterly the dark, enormous clouds that gathered around the neighboring spire of St. Luke’s Church. The clouds reflected my mood, and I had an almost irrepressible urge to scream. Instead, I held Patrick’s arm all the harder.
The cemetery was an old one and crowded with tombstones. I flushed at the memory of Patrick’s bantering with Nellie about securing a plot at Laurel Hill. I looked at Patrick to see if the same thought might be causing him discomfort, but his face was composed as he watched the priest page through his Bible for the appropriate passage.
It pained me to see Sarah in a black cape trimmed with crape. A broach, bearing Nellie’s photograph and a lock of Nellie’s hair, served as its clasp. Sarah stared curiously at the rows of mourners before her. She was too young to understand that her life was irrevocably changed. Charles was in control at the gravesite, seemingly oblivious to the absence of conversation, despite the large crowd. The cemetery was holding its breath for Nellie. Only the wind stirred, perfuming the air with the sweet smell of newly exposed earth.The priest said his prayers and blessed the grave.
Patrick had his arm around my waist as we approached Charles to offer his condolences, after Nellie’s coffin had been lowered into the earth. I embraced Charles, looking into his blue eyes and finding nothing to say except how sorry I was. His head bent to my shoulder, and I could smell the pungent tobacco of his pipe. Nellie had told me that smoking was Charles’s only exercise, as he paced with a pipe in his mouth. The smell was startling to me as it had nothing to do with death. It only served as a reminder that life continues.
As Patrick pumped Charles’s hand, I dropped to my knees to gather Sarah in my arms.
“Sarah, I will be visiting you soon. We will go to tea together, I promise.” A tentative smile brightened Sarah’s face. I kissed her forehead as I whispered in Sarah’s ear, “I love you.” I did not want to let Sarah go.
Patrick’s face had been relaxed as he placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder, leaning companionably to speak into his ear. I had always thought that Patrick liked Charles, had admired his expertise as a lawyer. This respect was present, in the softness of his eyes and the absence of lines about his mouth, lines that dug deep into his tanned face whenever he smiled or grimaced.
I turned away when the gravediggers appeared. They stood off to the side of the crowd and leaned on their shovels, waiting for the group to disperse. I attempted to force myself to greet or speak quietly with the men and women I knew. The mayor and Mrs. Warwick were already returning to their carriage. I didn’t see Sean.
It was while Patrick and I were walking to our carriage on 13th Street that I experienced the unsettling sensation that someone was watching us. I turned to glimpse only the profile of a blond woman’s face as the woman quickly turned away. I did see the woman’s tiny, black gloved hand reach for the hand of the gentleman beside her. Patrick did not appear to notice her.
“Why are you staring at me?” Patrick had asked when we were seated in the carriage. Julius was taking Patrick back to his office. I was going to Nellie’s house for the luncheon. I felt uncomfortable, feeling trapped within the intimate confines of the carriage. Patrick sat opposite me, his knees brushing against my dress with the steady rhythm of the carriage. I was bothered by the blond woman.
Patrick looked at me with a mildly inquiring expression. Something in the way he gazed, a glistening softness in his eye, an encouraging purse to his lips, caused me to ache.
I straightened, allowing the gentle sway of the carriage and the steady clopping of the horses to grant me time. I struggled with the question—a simple question tangled among so many emotions.
“Patrick, will you be home in time for our interview with Detective Buchanan? You promised me that you would give him the letters.” I looked at my own gloved hands. They looked large and indelicate.
Patrick was silent for a moment, never removing his gaze from my face. He was holding his walking stick between his legs. His hands rested on the serpent’s head.The serpent was facing the door.
He didn’t answer my question. “I’m sorry, Rose ... about Nellie. I truly am. I know how much you loved her.” I felt the strong grasp of his hand on my knee. My heart responded with a surprised beat.
“You must believe that Nellie’s death was an accident, a botched robbery. That was all it was, I’m sure.
You should feel no guilt—just loss, which is perfectly understandable.” He leaned close, his face barely a head from my own. I could smell the Macassar oil in his hair and the musty odor of the hall closet in the threads of his coat.
“That—Italian policeman stopped by my office yesterday.” He paused, trying to gauge my reaction. “He asked me a number of rather—insinuating questions, although I’m sure he thought that he was being quite clever about it.” Patrick laughed silently then. “What was the mayor hoping to achieve by allowing Italians into the ranks? They always vote Democrat.” His focus returned to me.
“What do you mean, Patrick? He is simply investigating Nellie’s murder.” I emphasized the word. It alarmed me that Patrick was already shrugging the murder off.
“He was asking about my contracting interests,” he huffed, in a completely different voice, “particularly in regards to the filtration contract.” I was surprised by the annoyance in his tone. Yet his body was relaxed. “I don’t want to hand the letters over to that—policeman.”
“But Patrick, you must,” I protested. He had promised me.This was a promise that I would not allow him to break.
Patrick responded with a patient smile. “I will speak to the detective first. I would prefer to show him the letters, not some lower rank beat cop.”
I nodded. “I understand that the detective would be glad to receive them.” I would say anything to appease him if he would give up those letters.
“Thank you, Patrick,” I added, and then turned to look out the carriage window. We were at Market Street. The John Wanamaker Dry Goods Store was on our right. City Hall was to our left. I watched as a pair of young women in walking suits and capes, their arms hooked together, approached the store’s entrance. The feathers of their hats touched as they leaned conspiratorially to share a laugh and point at a window display. I felt a piercing desolation. I remembered the glove box and the blond woman at the cemetery. I turned away then to gaze out Patrick’s window to City Hall. Its plaza was filled with men in morning coats and top hats crisscrossing its pavements, all in a hurry to reach some appointment.
