by Ann Parker
Antonia showed Mrs. S the book she’d purloined from the public library.
Mrs. S had looked at her strangely. The Works of Edgar Allen Poe? “You’re reading this but having trouble with your Swinton’s Reader?”
Antonia had shrugged. “Swinton’s is boring. How do you know all this stuff anyway?”
“I went to school. And I listened to what my teachers said.”
Cheek against the pillow, eyes closed, Antonia sniffed experimentally. Her plugged nose gurgled. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. Maybe she could talk Mrs. S into letting her stay home today….
Her bed jiggled. Antonia’s eyes popped open. The bells were quiet, but she could hear the traffic in the street outside her window.
Mrs. S stood there, a shawl over her shoulders, dressed for the day. “Get up, Antonia. It’s already half past. I can’t understand how you slept through the racket.”
“I’m sick.” She snuffled to demonstrate.
Mrs. S moved to the side of the bed and put a hand on her brow.
“No fever.” Mrs. S gave her the once over. “You’ll be fine. Wear your flannel petticoat and your wool stockings. I’ll give you an extra handkerchief to carry.”
Antonia grumbled and swung her feet out of bed onto the braided rug, pulling off her nightcap.
“And be sure to take your umbrella.” Mrs. S moved toward the door. “It’s not raining at the moment, but who knows about later? I’ll fix your breakfast. Hurry up now.”
Antonia got dressed, feeling as if her limbs were struggling through molasses, and dragged herself to the table. Two round zeppole, white with powdered sugar, waited for her. “Carmella?” she asked, delighted.
Mrs. S nodded, busy at the small stove. “She made those yesterday. I warmed them for you this morning.” She brought over Antonia’s heated, coffee-laced milk. Antonia took it and got a good look at Mrs. S, who looked like she hadn’t slept much.
No surprise there.
Antonia lowered her gaze to the fried dough balls, picked one up and took a bite, focusing on the taste. Antonia didn’t want Mrs. S looking into her eyes and figuring out that she had heard what that man, Mr. Gallagher, had said last night, and what Mrs. S had said back.
She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop. Mrs. S would tan her hide if she found out, but Antonia took great pains to keep her sneaky doings secret. Her little bolthole was in the second-floor storage room, among the trunks and boxes and dust, where no one ever went. Even if they did, they’d never realize one of the knots in the floor planks could be pulled out. This peephole was above the chandelier. No one ever looked up, but she could look down, directly into the back room and see the office and all. Antonia had been pleased as all get-out when she’d managed to pry out the cylinder of wood and had set it up so she could easily pull it out and plug it in whenever she wanted.
And now she knew Mrs. S was in trouble with that silver baron Mr. Gallagher. He’d been all smooth and swank in his topcoat and tails, just like all of the rich folk in San Francisco and Leadville, all those places with money.
Antonia had had a bad feeling about him from the start. She didn’t remember ever hearing about a Mr. Gallagher when she had been a newsie running with the other newsies in Leadville. And they knew everyone, especially the bigwigs, the ones who were flush and tipped big when buying a paper. Mrs. S had never mentioned him either, not in Leadville or here. But from the words they threw back and forth down there and the way he grabbed her arm, it looked like he knew her and she sure as shootin’ knew him.
Back in Leadville, as far as men went, Mrs. S mostly swore at Mr. Stannert, who she finally left, or canoodled with Reverend Sands, who seemed to have left her. Antonia couldn’t figure it, because they had seemed sweet on each other in Leadville. But he had been there, and then he was gone, leaving Mrs. S to take her mister to court and get free of him all by herself.
Antonia didn’t ask about the reverend, where he was or what had happened or any of that. Mrs. S didn’t talk about him, so the only thing Antonia could figure was something sad must’ve happened between them, something Mrs. S kept to herself.
Antonia could understand that.
So, who the heck was this Mr. High-and-Mighty-Gallagher who acted like he was one of the society folk living up on Nob Hill?
Well, whoever he was, he was looking for his son. And Mrs. S had told him nope, she didn’t know him, but it had sounded like Gallagher didn’t believe her. It had sounded like he might even do something nasty if Mrs. S didn’t do what he said. Someone like that—who was rich and knew other rich folks, and who could scare Mrs. S—was someone not to cross.
Seems like he thought he could come in and push Mrs. S around and tell her what to do, just like the bullies at school did to Antonia. Well, she was going to help Mrs. S out, and see if she couldn’t draw a bead on this Robert Gallagher and get that toff out of their lives.
But how?
Antonia’s wandering mind settled on Copper Mick. His da’s a detective. Maybe Mick can help.
“Are they stale?”
“Huh?” Antonia realized she’d been holding the zeppola up to her lips but not eating while all this rumbled through her mind. “No, they’re great. I just can’t taste very much ’cause my nose.” She took another bite and polished it and the second pastry off.
“The day you turn down Carmella’s zeppole is the day I know you are sick,” said Mrs. S. “Brush the sugar off your collar, and gather your things. You’ll need to hurry.”
Antonia grabbed her glasses and her bonnet, stuffed the extra handkerchief lying by her bookbag up her sleeve, and hoisted her lunch pail to her arm and her book strap with the Swinton’s over her shoulder. “Too much stuff,” she muttered, clattering down the stairs with Mrs. S close behind.
Mrs. S draped Antonia’s coat over her shoulders and handed her an umbrella. “You’ll have to be quick as a bunny to get your lunch from Mrs. Nolan,” she opened the door, “and get to school on time—Oh!”
They both stopped short. Mr. Donato stood right outside, hand gripping the bell twist, prepared to ring the doorbell. “Ah! Good morning, Antonia, Mrs. Stannert. Signora, I’d hoped to have a few words with you before you start your day.”
“I have an appointment this morning, Signore. One I cannot break. We shall have to talk later.”
Antonia blinked. Mrs. S hardly ever refused Mr. Donato, even when he made ridiculous requests. Hearing her say “no” like that reminded Antonia of what Mrs. S had been like when in Leadville. Back then, Mrs. S was almost scary, always carrying her pocket pistol and not afraid of anything or anyone. But plenty of folks were afraid of her. It was like she was invincible, and no one dared cross her. She made Antonia feel safe. But since Sacramento, Mrs. S had been… different. Not weak, exactly, but more wary. Quiet. Like she was trying to be invisible. And now, Antonia didn’t feel as safe as she once did.
Donato seemed as surprised as Antonia at Mrs. S’s response and sputtered out, “But, I—”
“I’ll be back in time to open the store.” Mrs. S took Antonia’s shoulder and marched her down Kearney toward Market.
“Where are you going?” Antonia had the terrifying idea that Mrs. S was coming with her to talk to Miss Pierce or maybe the principal.
Mrs. S squeezed her shoulder. “As I told Mr. Donato, I have an appointment. One that I must keep. And I wanted to tell you something first. Mrs. Sweet from Leadville is in town. Do you remember Mrs. Sweet?”
Antonia wrinkled her nose, which only caused it to run. “Mrs. Sweet? You mean Frisco Flo, the madam who runs the whoreh—”
“Ssssst!” Inez cut her off. “None of that here. I wanted to warn you that she may come by the store at some point to talk to me about a business matter. If you see her, I want you to pretend that you are meeting for the first time. I will introduce you, and you will address her as Mrs. Sweet.”
Antonia noted how the lines tightened around Mrs. Stannert’s eyes as she talked about Madam Flo. “What’s she doing here? In San Francisco?”
“It’s a business matter, as I said.” Mrs. S paused. “There may be other people from Leadville who will be in town as well. Things could become a bit delicate. I don’t think you would know them, but if it happens someone drops by the store and you recognize them from Leadville, don’t be startled. Just follow my lead. I wanted to let you know, so you would understand.”
Antonia wanted to say she didn’t understand anything. Or rather, because she’d been spying on the goings-on last night, she understood some, but not everything. But she couldn’t say that.
Mrs. S continued, “To reiterate, because this is important, I want you on your best behavior if you are in the store when Mrs. Sweet arrives. Just say ‘Good day, ma’am,’ and absolutely no words about the Silver Queen, State Street, ‘pleasure palaces,’ and so on.”
“I know,” said Antonia. “You don’t have to keep telling me not to talk about Leadville.”
Mrs. S nodded, but she didn’t seem to be really listening. “Good. Now, run along. Be quick or you’ll be late!”
Antonia obediently quickened her stride, leaving Mrs. S behind. However, she couldn’t help but wonder where Mrs. S was going.
Antonia glanced back. Mrs. S wasn’t hailing a hack. So, she was walking somewhere close by.
Was she meeting Frisco Flo?
Mrs. S headed toward Market, but so slow it almost seemed on purpose, like she didn’t want Antonia to know where she was going. Antonia kept up her pace, beginning to sweat in her woolen stockings and warm petticoat. As she turned the corner onto Market, she glanced behind her again. Mrs. S was still coming and had opened her umbrella because it was starting to sprinkle. Antonia ducked into a bakery and went up to the shelves, examining the rows of bread with great interest. A few minutes later, Mrs. S walked by, clutching her coat closed at the throat, head bowed under the umbrella.
Antonia waited a few heartbeats, dashed back out, and opened her own umbrella. The ocean of dark umbrellas on Market confused her until she picked out Mrs. S, taller than the other women and even some of the men. Antonia hung back, sliding along the storefronts in case Mrs. S turned in her direction and she needed to duck inside somewhere.
Mrs. S slowed and stopped by the tall fountain they called Lotta’s Fountain at the corner of Market, Kearney, and Third. A veiled woman also with an umbrella approached Mrs. S. They talked, then started walking in Antonia’s direction, the edges of their umbrellas touching, heads bent toward each other.
Antonia ducked into a basket store, lowering her umbrella so as not to incur the wrath of the storeowner, who stared curiously at her. Antonia waited until the women swept past and followed, cautious.
Was this the important appointment Mrs. S mentioned?
Who was the lady with her? Could it be Madam Flo? With the veil, Antonia couldn’t tell. The other lady wasn’t very tall, and Antonia remembered the whorehouse madam as being pretty short, so maybe.
And where were they going?
The two women turned up Kearney. Antonia followed.
Were they heading back to the store?
But no, they walked past Pine.
They were getting close to the edge of Chinatown.
Antonia walked behind a gaggle of Chinese men talking softly to each other in their singsong language. Antonia’s mind wandered. She wondered why John Hee never seemed to talk to any of his kind. Come to think of it, she never saw him anywhere but in the store, mostly in the repair room. He was nice, though. And he had showed her once how to replace a bridge on a violin and how to string it correctly.
She suddenly realized that it was WAY past the time for the start of school.
Never mind.
She wasn’t going to school that day.
Instead, she’d hole up in the storage room upstairs. Mrs. S would be in the store all day, so she’d most likely not come up to the second floor anyway. Antonia decided she’d stop at Mrs. Nolan’s on the way back, once she knew what Mrs. S and the mystery woman were up to, grab her lunch, and have a picnic all by herself upstairs. Just her and her copy of Young Folks. She could finish reading the Treasure Island installment and see if anything more happened in the office below that would explain what the heck was happening.
Intent on plotting her next steps and what she’d do upstairs once she got home, Antonia almost missed it when Mrs. S and the mystery woman turned to enter a large brick building just past Merchant.
Staring at the building, Antonia slowed and came to a dead stop, then turned around headed back down Kearney.
She told herself that if she wanted to pick up her pickles, cheese, and bread from Mrs. Nolan’s boardinghouse and avoid questions, she’d better move fast.
But there was one question she couldn’t outrun, and it burned in her brain as she hurried away.
What were Mrs. S and the other woman doing in the police station?
Madam Flo wouldn’t have anything to do with the law. It had to be someone else.
What was going on?
Antonia figured if she hung out in the storage room above the office that day and kept her ears and eyes open, she just might find out.
Chapter Fourteen
At the top of the steps, Inez turned to the heavily veiled Carmella Donato. “Let me do the talking,” she said, laying a hand on the young woman’s arm. She could feel the tension radiating through Carmella.
“It can’t be Jamie,” she whispered back fiercely. “It is not possible, I am certain.”
“First, we must find out where they took the remains.” Inez couldn’t quite bring herself to say “the deceased” or the word “corpse.” “I am certain it would not be here,” she added. “But the Central Police Station seems like the best place to start.”
She stopped talking as a derby-hatted gentleman exited the building and held the door for them to enter. Inez asked him for directions to the Central Police Station. “I understand it is inside somewhere,” she added.
The man pointed to a set of stairs leading down. “In the basement.”
She thanked him and they moved toward the stairs. This time, as they descended, it was Carmella who grabbed Inez’s arm. “Surely not here? He wouldn’t be here?”
“I doubt it,” Inez assured her. Downstairs, they paused. In one direction was the City Receiving Hospital. Doors swung open, emitting a weeping woman leaning heavily on the arm of a man. Behind them Inez glimpsed a seething mass of people, standing, sitting, lying on gurneys and even on the floor. Sounds of pain and fear rolled out before the doors swung shut. Inez spotted the sign to the police station offices in the opposite direction. “There.”
Once in the station, they approached an officer behind a tall wooden desk. He listened more or less patiently as Inez said, “We were notified that an unidentified man was found by Long Bridge yesterday morning. It may be we can identify him.”
“Well now, Long Bridge, is it?” He scratched his bristly mustache. Inez detected bread crumbs of some kind tenaciously entrenched in the upper lip foliage. “Let me see what I can find out for you, ma’am.”
He disappeared down a hallway. They waited, Carmella’s fingertips digging painfully through the wool of Inez’s coat sleeve. He reappeared, his mustache more orderly, crumbs gone, obviously having taken the moment to neaten up. “The unfortunate fella dredged up from the Mission Creek channel, is that right?”
Inez nodded her affirmation.
“Turns out he’s with one of the city’s deputy coroners, Mr. W. T. Hamilton.”
“And where might that be?” inquired Inez.
He gave her the address, 1112 Broadway, then paused. “Surely you ladies have a gentleman with you who will perform the visual identification of the unknown?”
Inez gave him a
tight little smile. “Thank you for your help, Officer. And for your concern.”
She hustled Carmella up the stairs and out the doors, hailed a passing hack, gave the address to the driver, and asked him to wait once they got there. She was becoming concerned about her time away from the store. Too, if worse came to worst, and the victim was, indeed, Jamie Monroe, she didn’t want to subject Carmella to a long wait for another carriage.
They pulled up to a neat building that appeared to be both residence and office, commanding the corner of Broadway and Jones. Inez gave him a coin with the promise they would not be long. He tipped his hat, and went to the boot to pull out a feedbag for his horse. They were on the shoulder of Russian Hill, bay and ocean stretching to the east and north. Carmella pulled her veil back down and faced east toward the bay. The clouds had cleared, leaving the air cool but gentle. Sunlight sparkled on the distant water. Inez joined her, and they stood looking out over the wide-open view. Inez inhaled, tasting the softness of salt.
Finally, Carmella said, “We have so many plans, Jamie and I. So much to look forward to.”
Inez said, “Would you prefer to wait in the carriage? I can take care of this.”
The dark veil shimmered as Carmella shook her head.
They walked up to the door. Carmella reached for the bell twist, and Inez said, “Wait.” She rummaged in her reticule, finally handing Carmella a lace-edged linen handkerchief. “Hold it to your face if the smell is overwhelming,” said Inez.
Carmella took a sniff through the veil. “Cloves?”
“The best I could do on short notice,” said Inez, reflecting she was lucky to find that much in her meager kitchen. Inez pulled out her own clove-scented cloth and tucked it into her coat pocket. Carmella turned the bell twist. A metallic ring answered from inside. Soon thereafter Inez detected a tread, and the door opened partway. A giant of a man with the pitted complexion of a long-ago encounter with smallpox looked down at them.
