Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  I was still shocked by Detective Buchanan’s allegations about the deaths of Patrick’s father and brother. I didn’t believe them of course but was shocked that such an accusation could be made.Which of his competitors pointed his wretched fingers at Patrick? Was it someone listed in his ledger? In my mind, the ledger was growing viler each day.

  After our visit to the cemetery, I had tried to recall my memories of Patrick and his father, working together or at family events. I found it difficult to cite an easiness between them—a laugh, a smile, some kind words. They had always been about business. Then, it didn’t seem odd to me, as it had always been that way. I knew that Mr. Dugan had been a hard man when it came to his work. I had heard stories about him firing any man who spoke highly of a competitor. But I had never seen Patrick and his father exchange harsh words, or ever heard Patrick speak ill of his father.Yet I knew that Patrick had shared his father’s ambitions for success and recognition. Patrick, sometimes to my chagrin, emulated his father’s methods of doing business. He too was merciless when anything, or anybody, stood in the way of his profit.

  But I found it impossible to merge the image of the debonair young man, who had married me, with the scheming creature the detective proposed. How could he have killed his father one afternoon and then shared a bed with me that same night? I could remember that night as it was soon after our wedding—remember how I had cried for him, sure that he was being strong for me. How he had allowed me to hold onto him, my wet cheeks sticky against his bare chest. He had played with my hair, lying quietly but seemingly grateful for my love.That was not the behavior of a man who had just killed his father.

  I didn’t remember Patrick’s younger brother, Michael, as well. I had only been nine years old when Michael had drowned on a fishing excursion on the Delaware River. Patrick had been Michael’s sole companion. My mother had told me that Michael had gotten a cramp while swimming, and had been swept away by the river’s currents before Patrick could save him. I had asked Patrick about this tragedy once, and he had brushed me away, telling me that it did no good to dwell on the past.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds from the kitchen—the squeak of a door, feet padding across the floor. My heart immediately sped up. It couldn’t be Patrick. He rarely entered the kitchen and was meticulous about his morning schedule. It was almost six o’clock. At this time, he should be in the bathroom shaving. And Martha generally did not come downstairs before seven. Brigid, who lived at home, arrived around the same time.

  I stood and carefully walked the few steps to the glass door. I shielded myself behind a large palm. Leaning slightly over the top of the tree, I peered through the door into the kitchen.

  Most of the kitchen was in my view. I could see the table and the iron range that was in the far corner. The boiler partially obstructed my view of the sink and sideboard. But all appeared quiet and undisturbed.

  Martha appeared from the direction of the dining room. She walked to the table, and then stood, motionless. She appeared to be listening to something, or perhaps listening for something, or someone, I realized.

  Martha was already dressed for work. She wore her gingham apron, with its bib pinned to her dress. A black silk ribbon was tied about her starched collar. Her white hair was pinned back. Her bangs were flat against her forehead. She must have been up as early as me.

  Martha was looking around the room, checking to see if everything was in its place. She still hadn’t moved from her position beside the table. Only when the features of her face relaxed, convinced that she was alone, did Martha become animated. I saw her step to the sink and lift something from the sideboard. At first, I couldn’t see what it was—not until Martha half turned, swinging the object in her hand toward the table. She was holding the pitcher of water that Brigid had filtered and boiled the night before. Suddenly, Martha changed her mind about placing the pitcher on the kitchen table. Instead, she poured its contents into the sink.

  My eyes widened as I watched Martha place the pitcher under the faucet and turn on the tap. I could hear the pitcher filling. The faucet squeaked closed, and Martha placed the pitcher back on the kitchen table.

  I was stunned. Martha had deliberately set out a potentially poisonous pitcher of water for Brigid to use to prepare breakfast. Was Martha out of her mind? She could make us all sick. How long has this early morning routine been going on? I wondered, horrified by the implication. Is this how Julius became ill, drinking a glass of what he thought to be boiled water? What I had always known hit me with the force of a blow. Patrick doesn’t eat breakfast, or ever drinks the water. He has his tea at the office. All that Martha has for breakfast is a cup of tea, boiled and piping hot.

  I stepped away from the door, lest Martha should catch a glimpse of me. My heart was pounding. Why would Martha do this?

  I didn’t want to wait around to find out. I needed to tell Patrick. He was so protective of Martha, but this time he would have to admit that Martha was dangerous.

  I peered into the kitchen again. Seeing it empty and dark, I went quickly through the vestibule, pausing only to grab the water pitcher to pour its contents into the sink. I then went into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairway for a moment. All quiet still. Perhaps Patrick was still dressing. I took a few deep breaths by the stairs. I must be calm. Patrick hated hysteria.

  “Ma’am, you are up early. Is everything all right?”

  I turned to see Martha standing at the end of the hallway. An odd smile illuminated her face. My heart was in my throat. But before I could stammer some reply, I heard Patrick’s voice resonate from the top of the stairs.

  “Why so many early risers this morning?”

  I turned to see Patrick leisurely descending. He was dressed for work, in his black morning coat and vest. His dark hair was oiled, parted in the middle and slicked toward the nape of his neck. I was surprised that he still stirred something within me, despite my fear and confusion. I focused on watching his tanned, muscular hand as it slid along the rail of the banister.

  “I wasn’t able to sleep last night. I’m worried about Julius.” I looked into his dark eyes, hoping to communicate a sense of urgency. I felt Martha’s gaze on my face.

  “Rose, dear.You must have faith. I’m sure Julius will be fine.” He took my hand and patted it lightly. He paused on the bottom step. “I need to talk to you before I leave for the office.” He walked onto the landing still holding my hand.

  “Of course, Patrick. What is it you want to tell me?” I asked, glancing at Martha, who was watching us both.

  “Let’s go to my study for a moment,” he instructed, taking my arm and escorting me. His study? I thought. He didn’t make it a habit to invite me into his study. I felt a new alarm. Could it have something to do with his ledger?

  “Good morning, Martha,” he smiled as he sailed us past her. Martha was standing in the kitchen’s entrance. The smile she bestowed on her master was loving.

  He swung open his study’s thick, wooden door, and I was greeted with the familiar musty scent of books and construction drawings. Patrick pulled one of the cherry wood armchairs in front of his desk and indicated for me to be seated. He sat behind his desk—the desk that contained so many secrets. Patrick was looking at me with an amused expression.

  “What is it, my dear, that has you so anxious this morning?” he asked, clearing his throat and rummaging in a desk drawer for one of his Russian cigars. Once he found his prize, he brought the cigar up to his nose to sniff it.

  I looked at him, struggling to speak with a prudent calm. Patrick knew that I wasn’t fond of Martha and only tolerated her for his sake. I didn’t want him to think that I was being petty.

  “Patrick, I know that you have much affection for Martha, and that she has been like a second mother to you all your life, but I think there is something wrong with her,” I said.

  Patrick cocked his head, leaning closer. “Go on,” he urged. “What has she done this time?”

&nb
sp; This time? I didn’t complain about Martha regularly, although I certainly had many occasions to do so. I raised my head defensively.

  “This morning, I saw Martha empty the filtered pitcher of water into the sink and then fill the pitcher with water from the tap. She thought no one was looking . . .”

  “Stupid woman,” he interrupted, suddenly disgusted. “She did that? She’s an idiot, Rose. Nothing more than that. She doesn’t believe in germs. She thinks it’s blasphemous to boil the water, as if we’re questioning God’s integrity. I’ll talk to her, but I won’t let her know you told me.” He paused for a moment. “Will that make things better?”

  I looked at him incredulously. “Not really, Patrick. How do you know she will listen to you? If she doesn’t, she could kill somebody.” I heard my voice crack with frustration. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, almost patronizing and paternal, as if I were some silly little girl tattling on a schoolmate.

  “Do you miss your father, Patrick?” I asked, surprised at myself, as if the question slithered from my grip. I had promised Detective Buchanan that I would say nothing about our mausoleum visit, but Patrick’s cavalier attitude about Martha angered me.

  “Why do you ask me that now, Rose?” Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he took a draft of his cigar. Now it was he who looked annoyed.

  “My dreams,” I replied honestly. “I dreamt of Nellie last night, and I realize with each terrible dream how badly I miss her.You must feel the same way about your father at times.” I watched his face to see it soften, but he continued to stare at me, saying nothing for a moment.

  “Of course I miss him, Rose. He was a demanding father but taught me much.”

  “You’ve never really talked to me about his death, Patrick. I think it helps us cope if we talk about our tragedies.”

  He dismissed the invitation with his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind. But there is something that I must talk to you about.”

  “Please do, Patrick,” I said, looking away from him. I felt another trill of anger.This morning he refused to share himself with me.

  “As my wife, you are also my financial partner,” his tone had become pure business. “I need to bring you up to date on some issues that will affect our lives.”

  Now it was me who couldn’t help but narrow my eyes. Patrick never talked to me about business.

  “As you know,” he went on, “Detective Buchanan and Officer Russo have been talking to many of my former business acquaintances.” He looked at me for a reaction. I stared back at him, my face mirroring his own countenance.

  “I know that they are delving into my past because I know what type of self-righteous men they are. You find them everywhere,” he added with obvious contempt. “Just like your Mr. Parker. They feel they need to protect people, the world at large, even when there is nothing to protect anyone against.”

  “Mr. Parker is protecting himself against people like you, Patrick. I’m sure the detective has told him about your allegations.” I straightened and looked into his face with what I hoped passed for a firm resolve. “You are wrong about him, and it is not right for you to blame Mr. Parker for those letters. What proof do you have?”

  Patrick’s eyebrows arched in surprise. His eyes glimmered at the challenge in my voice.

  “Why, Rose, my dear. You are still angry about that? Well, I’m sorry you disagree with me, but I still believe that Parker is guilty. Now we will close this subject and continue with my topic, if you don’t mind.” His smile was strained.

  “Please go on, Patrick,” I replied coldly.

  “As I was saying, the danger for us is—if they get people to believe some of the things they are suggesting, they will ruin us. You and me. Sean Parker is one of these men.”

  He stopped, waiting for me to remark or disagree. He began flipping the cover of a book up and down with his hand.The sound was jarring in the strained silence.

  “I am listening, Patrick,” I said. I had folded my hands in my lap. I had decided that my best course of action was to show no reaction at all.

  Patrick suddenly slammed the cover down. I couldn’t help but start in my chair.

  “I am not the man they say that I am,” he said, his voice oddly devoid of the emotion just physically released. But Patrick had always been like this, I knew, able to maintain a sometimes-frightening calm, no matter what the circumstances.

  “And if I were . . .” he now smiled, almost pleasantly, leaning intimately toward me, “I’d also be the type of man to find ways to take care of my enemies. Would I not?” he asked reasonably, pausing to allow his words to penetrate.

  “Patrick, what are you saying?” I asked, alarmed by the transformation. “You are not serious about harming anyone. You couldn’t be.You are not that sort of man,” I insisted.

  I stood. I couldn’t abide him speaking this way.

  “Don’t pay any attention to what people are saying. Those who truly know you will recognize such gossip as only that. Nothing more,” I added.

  “But I will do what I must to defend myself, dear. Surely you cannot fault me for that.”

  He is threatening to harm them, I realized, whomever they may be. But why is he telling me this? Does he want me to warn those that I know who are in some way connected to Nellie’s murder and the letters—someone like Sean, to make them back away from their charges? Or does he wish to frighten me enough so that I will stop my campaign to find Nellie’s murderer and shut myself away in this house?

  “Of course not, Patrick,” I managed. “You are my husband, and I believe in you. I believe that you will do what is right.” I realized that I was trembling, more in anger than in fear of what his next act might be.

  He looked at me for a moment, one eyebrow raised, a smile threatening to break his controlled demeanor. “Will you be seeing Julius again today?” he asked dryly.

  “Yes, I will,” I replied. I became aware of the throbbing at my temples.

  “I’m sure he is recovering,” he said briskly. “Just be sure to properly wash after you see him.”

  “I’ll give Julius your best wishes,” I said, turning for the door.

  “You look a little tired this morning, dear. Have a good breakfast. It will make you feel better,” he advised, his voice suddenly warm. “And don’t worry about Martha. Please tell her that I wish to see her now. I promise you that everything will be taken care of.”

  “Of that I am sure, Patrick,” I whispered. I decided then that as soon as he left for the office, I would be out the door too.

  The November sun was up when I hurried down the front steps of the house, although the light it cast seemed pinched by the cold. It was almost seven thirty in the morning, and I glanced anxiously past the row of thin, now completely naked trees along Spring Garden Street. I did not see Sean’s lean, energetic form striding in my direction, although traffic was already brisk, with the horse-drawn carriages and wagons trotting in a steady cadence single file in both directions. Periodically, a wagon festooned with black bunting and ribbons plodded among the business traffic. I noticed how people averted their eyes at the intrusion. No one liked staring death in its face.

  I was beginning to feel the chill working through the threads of my coat as I waited for Sean. By seven forty-five, I knew he wouldn’t be coming. It was then that I decided to walk to the Water Works. It was only six blocks down Spring Garden to 25th Street and the Fairmount Reservoir and the brisk walk would warm me.

  I pulled up the collar of my reefer coat as I passed the arch on my way to the forebay bridge. I noticed that the park had lost its color since I had last been there. The grass looked like dried hay, and the branches of the magnificent weeping willows swayed in the wind like the strings of a mop. The fountains were dry. Nellie’s death had robbed the park of its beauty.

  As I approached the bridge, I saw a figure walking with clear purpose in the direction of the riverbank. It was then that I recognized Peter Brophy, Patrick’s foreman.
He veered toward the steam boat wharf, although the boats bobbed idly in their docks. The ticket office was closed, and no one was around.The wharf was on the other side of the channel that directed water into the forebay. I stopped. I hoped I was shielded from his view by the trees and shrubs between us.

  I didn’t like Peter Brophy. He reminded me of a bully, and he leered at me whenever he stopped by the house to talk with Patrick about a job or to pick up a plan. What bothered me even more was his fresh, almost innocent face, freckled and fair. He could pass for an overgrown boy. Patrick had told me that he had made Peter a foreman because he was obedient. He never questioned his boss. Patrick liked that in his men. Looking at him, I couldn’t believe that any woman would have him. In my heart, I knew that the gloves in Patrick’s desk could not belong to Peter.

  I shielded myself behind the trunk of a thick, weeping willow tree. Something was not right about his being here. There was no working crew. Only Peter. Peter himself paused. The same realization just dawned on him, but he didn’t bother to look around. Instead, he pulled at the strap of whatever was hanging on his hip. He then walked to the river’s bank and slid down on his heels, suddenly dropping out of sight.

  I hesitated for a moment and then walked the few steps closer to the forebay channel until Peter was in view again. Peter was standing in the glazed mud of the north bank of the channel. He had crouched down and was squatting as he stared in the water. Suddenly he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and plunged one hand into the water. He grabbed hold of something below the river’s surface and shook it vigorously. Satisfied, he released whatever it was and brushed his hand against his pants. Then he quickly turned, looking in my direction, sensing my eyes upon him. I held my breath until he looked back at the water. Somehow, he had missed seeing me.

  Still squatting, he twisted around to pull whatever it was that rested on his hip. As he swung it around, the sun flashed against metal. He pulled at something and then dropped the object into the river, holding it underwater. I wanted to get closer to see what it was he held, but I didn’t dare.