A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  Gallagher stood, adjusting the silk vest of his black dress-suit, pale eyes cold as ice. “When I want your advice, I shall ask, Mr. de Bruijn. With Poole also looking for Robert, there is no time for niceties, and I am disinclined to wait until morning and make a formal visit, calling card in hand. For now, arrange for the lady Pinkerton you spoke of, and then arrange to keep Mrs. Sweet off the streets and out of trouble for the rest of the evening.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After Nico and John Hee left, Inez shooed the lingering musicians out, saying, “Suppertime, gentlemen, time for me to close the store. I will be back for our usual evening gathering, of course.”

  She knew they looked forward to the Monday night round of cards that she allowed—and subtly encouraged—in the back room. Being that Monday was when the theaters were closed and many of the musical folks were at loose ends, it proved a good time for them to all relax and catch up.

  “Good,” said William Ash. “Had quite a good run at Woodward’s Gardens last week and actually have a few pennies to rub together for tonight’s game.”

  “Which you will no doubt promptly lose,” grumbled his brother Walter. “Just remember to hold enough aside for next week’s room and board. I’ll not float you again.”

  They all left in a gaggle, no doubt to carry on their discussion at one of the many elbow-bending establishments on the edge of the Barbary Coast district that catered to musicians.

  Inez elected to take Antonia to the nearby Russ House, eschewing Mrs. Nolan’s cold boiled ham and gossipy boarders. There, over consommé, broiled mutton chops, mashed potatoes, and apple pie, Antonia poured out her sorry day at school, concluding with when her Swinton’s went spinning into the street.

  Inez tried to listen. Part of her mind remained distracted, torn between the morrow’s visit with Carmella to the morgue, the man who had been following her—at least, according to Antonia—and Antonia’s deceased mother.

  “So, you heard her voice after all this happened, correct?” Searching for pragmatic explanations, Inez surmised that perhaps the strain of the day’s events at school had brought Antonia’s mother “back.” Although she respected the beliefs of others, Inez did not believe in connections between the earthly and less corporeal realms. What she’d seen of the activities of spiritualists, mediums, and various brethren of the table-knocking fraternity reminded her of nothing so much as the flimflam and cagey doings of those employed in the confidence trade.

  Antonia stabbed the remaining crust of pie and flattened the fork, crumbling the flaky pastry into bits. “Yes’m. But I wasn’t thinking about school when I was walking. I wasn’t thinking about Maman. Just all of a sudden, she was there. Inside my head.”

  Antonia was shaken and upset enough that Inez kept her suspicions to herself. She said simply, “Well, no matter. You do realize that you lost your mother just about a year ago, yes? Perhaps that has something to do with this.”

  “Maybe,” muttered Antonia, sounding unconvinced. Her fork chased the crust crumbs around the plate, gathering them and driving them into the sticky puddle of syrup in the middle.

  The two of them finished their evening meal and walked home in the unrelenting rain. As they approached the store, Inez slowed at the sight of two hacks waiting at the curb. One would be for Nico, but the other…?

  Holding the umbrella to shelter both herself and Antonia, Inez approached the glass-paned door to the store. There inside, readily visible in the well-lit interior was Nico in his evening clothes. Standing with Nico was a man she had no trouble recognizing, despite the passage of time.

  Harry Gallagher.

  The lamb and pie in her stomach settled like a lead weight, and she took as deep a breath as she could, given the meal and the suddenly much-too-tight corset. Inez had suspected she would eventually have to face this particular ghost from her disreputable past, just not so soon.

  Both men had cigars. Nico, who seemed to be doing most of the talking, gestured with his, sweeping his arm grandly around the store as if showing off the extent of their wares. The smoke drifted up and curled in the air above their heads, like a vengeful wraith.

  “Who’s that with Nico?” Antonia leaned close to the glass for a better look.

  Inez swiftly guided Antonia away from the storefront and toward the door leading to their living quarters. “A gentleman I’ve been expecting. Business. You shall have to see yourself upstairs and memorize those lines Miss Pierce set forth for you. You can recite them to me over breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you going to play anything tonight?” Antonia didn’t hide her disappointment. One of their after-supper rituals on Mondays was for Inez to play the grand piano. Antonia liked to crawl under the instrument, lie on the rug, and dream to the music. Inez always saved Antonia’s favorite, Für Elise, for last.

  Inez unlocked the door, and they entered the dark entryway.

  “After I’m done talking with the gentleman there, I shall have to prepare for the usual visitation from Carmella’s beaus and the rest.” She had never made a secret of the Monday night gatherings for cards and conversation in the back room.

  “Tomorrow night, I promise.” Inez added. She hated to let Antonia down, but it couldn’t be helped. Inez lit one of the oil lamps waiting at the bottom of the stairwell, helped Antonia hang her wet mackintosh on a peg by the door, and hung her own alongside. After giving Antonia a quick hug and handing her the lamp, she continued, “Now, go along.”

  Antonia dragged herself upstairs, her heavy tread expressing her disappointment.

  Inez stifled a sigh, thinking that she would much rather play for Antonia than deal with what was coming next, then gave herself a shake. I can handle Harry. I have in the past, and I will now. I must remember: the focus of his visit is his son. He wants information. I need only convince him that I have none, and he will look elsewhere. She closed and locked the door, returned to the store entrance, grasped the doorknob, twisted it harder than necessary, and entered, head high.

  The two men turned toward her. Inez placed her umbrella in the elephant-foot stand by the door, eyeing Harry in his bespoke eveningwear. The obligatory swallow-tail coat and black low-cut waistcoat—both of a black so deep and rich it seemed to swallow all light—and the blinding white cravat and shirt said plainer than words he was on his way to an important event. The lid of the nearby grand piano held his overcoat and a silk hat. The two men were dressed almost identically. With their similar heights, the casual way they held their cigars, the equally intent manner in which they attended to her entry, they could have been matching bookends.

  Inez said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” as calmly as her racing heart would allow and walked forward, pulling off her gloves as she approached.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Stannert.” That was Harry, polite to a fault. The years since they had last spoken faded away, leaving her almost dizzy.

  “Ah, Signora Stannert. It appears you have a very wealthy admirer who has traveled all the way from Colorado to see you.” Nico’s obsequiousness oozed as sticky sweet as the apple pie filling.

  Inez wondered what Harry and Nico had been discussing. She was willing to bet it wasn’t pianofortes or Oriental vases.

  However, all Nico said was, “Signore Gallagher was telling me he’s heard you perform in Colorado in the past, and was praising you for being an accomplished pianist. I, of course, readily agreed, having known this since the day of our first acquaintance.” He sounded grudging and dazzled at the same time.

  “Thank you, Mr. Donato, for your kind words on my behalf.” She turned to Harry. “Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Gallagher. What a surprise to see you here.” She couldn’t force herself to add the adjective “pleasant.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Stannert,” Harry responded.

  Nico cleared his throat. “Well. I must be off. I am to perform at the Floods’ tonight and need to ga
ther the rest of the quartet.”

  Harry diverted his gaze to Nico. “I shall see you there, Mr. Donato.”

  “I look forward to that, Signore.” He executed a deferential bow.

  Inez thought sourly that Nico probably hoped to cultivate yet another wealthy patron, even a visiting one. Perhaps he was angling for employment at a soirée or some other private, high-toned function hosted by Gallagher while he was in town.

  Once the door closed behind Nico, Harry said, “Is there someplace private we can speak, where we are not on display to the world like a case of dry goods?”

  The last thing Inez wanted was to be enclosed somewhere private with Harry Gallagher. She glanced at the plate-glass windows facing the rainy, dark streets, considering her response. At that hour, pedestrians, carriages of all kinds still filed past. With the lights inside, the two of them would appear as actors on the stage to those outside. Also not what she wanted. “There is an office in the back. But I only have a few minutes. I am expecting other visitors.” She took an almost childish pleasure in withholding an explanation of whom those visitors might be.

  He gathered his hat and coat and accompanied her. She was acutely aware of him surveying the store and its “curiosities,” his expression unreadable. He moved through the showroom as all wealthy men did, as if they owned the walls, the floors, the contents, the very people in the room, as well as the air they breathed and the light that illuminated all.

  Inez set her hand on the door, but Harry reached past her and pushed it open so she could pass. His arm brushed hers, igniting memories and a flicker of emotions she did not wish to rekindle.

  She moved quickly away, gathering a box of lucifers to light the paraffin lamp on the round table. “Leave the door open,” she said.

  Harry leaned against the doorframe, smoking, watching her, his ice-blue eyes tracking her movements, intent. “I didn’t think to find you in such a place as this.”

  Inez paused, burning match in hand. “And where did you expect to find me?” Any shakiness in her voice was concealed by sharpness. “On the Barbary Coast, perhaps? Ruling over some dank whiskey mill?”

  Strangely enough, Harry smiled. It was small, almost invisible under his mustache, but definitely there. “Not at all.” He straightened up as the wick took the fire, shedding light into the gloom. “I expected to find you a minister’s wife.”

  Inez pushed a crystal ashtray in his direction and shifted to the other side of the table, putting the wide wood expanse between them. “That’s not what you came here to talk to me about. Let’s not play games or mince words. Clearly, you were looking for me and you have found me. No doubt you twisted Flo’s arm and applied some not-so-subtle pressure.”

  Harry ground out the cigar in the ashtray before pulling a card from his overcoat and spinning it toward her across the tabletop. It slid over the polished surface, coming to rest an arm’s length away. The printed words “Donato and Stannert” blazed up at her from one of the store’s new trade cards. Well, that horse is out of the barn, Inez thought grimly, wishing she’d followed her first instinct and insisted the card be reprinted with the anonymous “D & S.”

  All Harry said was, “You were not hard to find.”

  She pushed the card to one side and decided to forego further digressions or palaver. “Flo told me that you are looking for your son. I’ll tell you straight away so we do not waste time here, I have not heard of nor do I know a Robert Gallagher. Harry, you are on a fool’s errand. Trying to find one young man who doesn’t want to be found, in a city of two-hundred-thousand-plus souls? Who is to say he is even using that name, assuming he is in the city at all?”

  The half-smile vanished. He reached again into the overcoat’s inner pocket and extracted another, slightly larger pasteboard, walking around the table toward Inez. She forced herself to stand her ground as he approached. Without a word, he held the object out to her—a carte de visite of a young man. Inez reluctantly took the studio portrait, and studied it.

  Harry’s son. Obviously.

  Robert was handsome, Inez gave him that. In the photograph he sat in a low-backed chair and was dressed in a well-tailored sackcoat and checked trousers. With one ungloved hand, he balanced a silk top hat on his knee, while holding a walking stick loosely in the other hand. He had the long slender fingers of a pianist. Along with a head of smooth dark hair, brushed back and cut short and business-like, that came to a widow’s peak in front, he sported a mustache and beard, effectively disguising his mouth and chin. The younger Gallagher gazed to one side, in three-quarters view, pale eyes turned away from the probing camera lens. His face held a pensive, guarded expression, as if he wished himself far away.

  Glancing up at Harry, Inez realized that the son did indeed resemble the father in face and form, sharing the same striking pale blue eyes. She returned to the portrait. Those eyes. The widow’s peak. Have I seen them before? On two separate men, or all on one? A prickle raced down her spine.

  Her unease at having Harry so close, his attention so focused on her, made it impossible for her to chase the thought any farther.

  She handed the photograph back. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve not seen him.”

  The lines around Harry’s eyes tightened and his dark eyebrows drew together.

  “I swear it,” she added hastily. “These young musicians, they come and go all the time. If they stay for any period of time in the city, they often show up here.” The minute the words were out, she wanted to bite her tongue.

  “Then I am correct to think he has probably been here, and you may have seen him.”

  She shook her head, in annoyance at herself as much as in denial. “I told you. He does not look familiar to me. Honestly, they come to see Mr. Donato, for the most part. He draws them in and encourages them, the new ones in town. You might show Signore Donato your carte de visite and see what he says.”

  “That popinjay.” Harry sounded dismissive. “It’s clear he only has eyes for the mirror and for himself.”

  “That’s not true!” Even though she secretly agreed, Inez came to Nico’s defense, stung by the critique of her business partner. “Mr. Donato is extremely talented and well-recognized and admired locally. He works hard at bettering his professional reputation and never shirks from helping those who are talented but less fortunate than himself.”

  Harry pocketed the photograph. “In that case, I’ll make a point of speaking with him tonight at the Floods’.” He started toward the door leading to the showroom. “I am staying at the Palace Hotel, Mrs. Stannert. I expect you to send word if you catch sight or hear any mention of my son. Even the slightest of rumors or whispers. Robert is here. Sooner or later he will surface, and if this is where musicians new to town assemble, he will show himself. Robert is not one to hide in the shadows.”

  Relieved their meeting had not involved much drama, and they had skirted discussion of their shared, volatile past, Inez hurried to catch up and lead him out of the store. However, Flo’s warnings nagged at her, and she had to ask. “Flo said you threatened to ruin her and me should we not succeed in helping you find your son.”

  Harry stopped so abruptly that Inez collided into him. He turned to face her, taking her arm. Inez assumed he was just trying to help steady her after she’d nearly been knocked down. When he didn’t let go, she began to reconsider.

  “Mrs. Sweet’s mind jumps to dime novels and melodramas.” The tightening grip on her arm, the way he pulled her closer, just the slightest bit, belied his calm words and tone.

  An electric jolt ran down her spine as he continued, “I cannot imagine a scenario in which you or Mrs. Sweet would elect to hide any information you might have about my son from me. Therefore, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Inez’s breath caught in her throat. She managed to blurt out, “Harry, I’ll tell you exactly what I told Flo. Looking for your son will be like looking for
a needle in a haystack.”

  He leaned toward her, his hold steady. She drew back as far as his grip would allow.

  “You have a son, Inez. I know the lengths you went to ensure his safety and well-being, even sending him away to live with relatives. If he were a grown man, but young and foolish, and disappeared, leaving no word, and he was traveling down a wrong road, a road filled with dangers he knew nothing about, what would you do to find and protect him?”

  She didn’t reply. The answer that she bit back behind closed lips was I would do whatever I had to do. Whatever was necessary.

  He must have read it in her face, because he nodded once and released her arm.

  She stepped back one pace, then two, before she rallied. “What do you mean dangerous? How dangerous? And how do I know he would not be in more danger if I learn something that led to you tracking him down? I heard about his Leadville fiancée, Vivian Poole. I heard her father, Phillip Poole, is out for blood and that he is in the city as well.”

  “Where did you hear this?” The question was mild, the tone was not.

  Too late, Inez remembered that Flo had come by that bit of information through stealth. She sidestepped a direct answer, countering, “If it’s true, doesn’t that concern you? Maybe Robert disappearing is best, if you fear for his safety.”

  Inez caught an unmistakable ripple of worry surge across his face before it vanished, leaving his expression cold and distant. “Inez, you are meddling in family matters that are none of your business.”

  He pulled out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and glanced at the face. “I’ve tarried long enough. I said what I came to say, except for this.” He closed the cover with a snap and surveyed the back room slowly—the office, the gathering area with the round table, the practice room with the pianos. “You have a new life in San Francisco. One you have obviously worked hard to achieve. One clearly divorced from your past in Leadville. Far from State Street, the Silver Queen, various unsavory escapades, and your shared ‘business endeavors’ with Mrs. Sweet. I understand your desire to keep it that way.”