A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  They looked up.

  Standing there in his shirtsleeves, he seemed to have been caught unprepared for visitors

  “May I help you?” he asked, his voice so soft Inez had to bend forward to hear him.

  She cleared her throat. “We are looking for Mr. Hamilton.”

  “I’m sorry. He is not in at the moment.” Inez experienced a wave of disappointment mixed with relief.

  Carmella spoke up from behind her veil. “We are here regarding a young man found by Long Bridge yesterday. We might know who he is.”

  “Oh.” His quiet exhalation was followed by a long hesitation. “It would be best if you returned when Mr. Hamilton is here. I am his assistant, you see. He was called out but will be available tomorrow morning.”

  “We have come a long way,” said Inez. Submitting Carmella to another long night of not knowing was not going to happen if she could help it. Besides, if Hamilton was not there, perhaps that was a good thing. The coroner might ask far more questions of them than the assistant. They could see what they came to see, then vanish, anonymous as the fog.

  Inez continued, “This has been a big strain on my niece.” She turned pointedly to Carmella, who clasped her gloved hands before her as if in silent prayer.

  She turned back to the assistant. “We only need a moment with the deceased. He may be my nephew. Her cousin. He has not been heard of for some time. If you could see it in your heart to let us in, I promise we will not take much of your time.”

  “The deceased’s face is…” The assistant paused again. “He may be difficult to recognize. The police surgeon said he was beaten with a heavy object. And he was in the channel for a while. He has been examined, washed, and cleaned. We did the best we could, but….You must know all this? You were told by the coroner? That is how you knew to come here?”

  Inez thought of agreeing with all he said, but was loathe to lie outright in front of Carmella. To her surprise, Carmella said, “That is right. We know about the condition. And we are prepared.” She pulled out the handkerchief and waved it, as if it were a magic wand to banish death.

  The assistant retreated a step, beaten back by the strong scent of cloves. In the process he pulled the door further open.

  Inez set a foot over the threshold, repeating, “We will not take much of your time.” She tried to mix the determination in her tone with notes of gratitude and reassurance. “And we are ever so grateful.”

  He retreated further. “Please come in, then, Mrs. and Miss…?”

  Inez had not considered whether it would be wise or not to give their real names. She mumbled “Stanfort.” If it caused problems later, she would claim she had been perfectly clear.

  “Stanfort,” he repeated. “Please, come in.” He directed them into a pocket-sized parlor to the left of the door. Inez spotted a much larger, more formal room on the right, before he said, “A few minutes, please. Please make yourselves comfortable,” and closed the door.

  Inez sat. Carmella lifted her veil over her hat and commenced pacing.

  “It cannot be Jamie,” she said, twisting the handkerchief in both hands. “I thought about this, all last night. Otto is always jumping to conclusions. And Otto said himself, the longshoreman did not know for certain. And how well would a longshoreman know Jamie, anyway, if they only met at a few union meetings?”

  “That does seem possible. Please, Carmella, come sit.” Inez moved a few needlepoint pillows aside on the sofa.

  Carmella continued her restless back and forth. “I am certain it is not him. We will see, then we will go home. And Jamie will show up today or tomorrow. The scolding I will give him! I will tell him what happened, and he and I will laugh, and he will reproach Otto for causing us so much worry.”

  The door opened. The assistant, now be-jacketed, beckoned to them. “Follow me.”

  As they walked down the hallway, he said, “I covered the head separately. That way, you need not look at the face. We washed his clothes. They are to one side. We do not have any of the items or money the police found in his pockets.”

  “He had money on him?” Not a random robbery, then.

  He nodded. “The coroner can give you more details.”

  He veered left and opened a door, “Usually, Mr. Hamilton stays present for the identification.”

  “We would like a few private moments,” said Carmella. “You needn’t worry about us, truly.”

  “I am not certain Mr. Hamilton would approve,” he said plaintively.

  Inez herded him out the door. “If you would, just wait outside. If we need you, we will call.”

  “We have smelling salts,” he said as she shut the door.

  “Thank you, if we need them we shall call you,” said Inez on the other side.

  The two women turned to face a simple casket with a figure under a cloth inside. A separate square of material covered the face.

  The faint, sweet stench of death wafted toward them. Both women pulled out their clove-scented handkerchiefs.

  Inez said, “Let me, Carmella.” Holding her linen to her nose, she moved toward the body. She lifted one side of the cloth exposing a hand, wrinkled as a washerwoman’s. If the body was of the young pianist, the hand provided no clue. She dropped the sheet and moved to the head, pinching her nostrils closed.

  Carmella crowded her shoulder as Inez peeled the cloth back and almost choked.

  Inez dropped the cloth over the face. Or what had been a face. She turned to Carmella, wide-eyed above her handkerchief. “Carmella, I cannot tell whether that is Jamie or not. I hoped the hands…but no, they are too changed. Perhaps the clothes or personal effects will tell us something.”

  Inez moved to the neat stack of clothes on a nearby chair. She picked up a flowered waistcoat on top. “This looks new. I don’t recall seeing it on Jamie before, do you?”

  Carmella stared at the covered body, her face twisted with indecision, one black-gloved hand clasping the opposite wrist as if to pin it in place. She looked at Inez and the waistcoat. “I’ve not seen it before.”

  She released her wrist and reached into the casket, saying, “Mrs. Stannert, please, I hope you do not think less of me. But I must know, and this is the only way I can be sure.”

  She proceeded to draw the material down from the neck, exposing collarbones, then sternum.

  Inez gasped, shocked. “Carmella! What are you doing?” She had always assumed Nico’s sister was a proper young woman who, despite an occasional defiant kick against convention, followed the sensibilities and mores of her class. Now, that appeared to not entirely be the case.

  A birthmark emerged from beneath the cloth. Large, purple, violent against the dead white skin. Inez watched, speechless, as Carmella revealed a firemark extending over the left side of the chest.

  Carmella’s voice shook, almost inaudible. “Oh, Jamie.” She twisted the sheet back up and turned to Inez, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s him.”

  Inez closed her eyes, as if blocking the sight would deny what she now knew was true. Robert. Jamie is Robert Gallagher.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back in the carriage, Inez listened with half an ear to Carmella’s heartfelt outpourings while she wrestled with her discovery.

  How had she not seen Jamie Monroe and Robert Gallagher were one and the same? Regardless, there was no doubt now. Now, the immediate question was how much, if anything, to tell Carmella about Jamie’s double life.

  “He was a good man,” Carmella was saying. “Nico couldn’t see that. When he saw us talking, even in passing at the store, he would frown. And one time Jamie called on me at home. We were just sitting in the parlor, nothing improper—”

  Inez thought of Carmella identifying Jamie by the birthmark. If nothing “improper” happened in the parlor, something most certainly did at some phase in their courtship.

  “—and
Nico came home. He wasn’t supposed to return, not for hours! He was so cold to Jamie and afterwards gave me such a lecture. He said Jamie was ruining me, my reputation, and said he was not the proper young gentleman he portrayed, but a ruffian. He insisted Jamie was an opportunist, a gold digger, only interested in me because I am the sister of the famous Nico Donato.” She sounded almost hysterical.

  “What do you mean?” Inez asked.

  “Nico insists I can do better. He wants me to marry someone ‘socially acceptable,’ rich, someone from Nob Hill. Oh! It is ridiculous. Someone like that would never even look at me, the daughter of a fruitmonger, no matter how much they might call on Nico for his violin. And it wouldn’t matter if they did, because I only wanted to marry Jamie!”

  Carmella covered her face.

  Inez laid a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder and kept her peace. There was nothing she could say to ease Carmella’s grief or shock. Only time would help her to come to terms with her loss.

  The carriage rocked on, the squeaks of the harness and rattling of the wheels filling the space. Finally, Carmella’s muffled voice emerged. “Have the driver take me home. I cannot bear any more right now.” She added, “Please, don’t tell Nico any of this.”

  “I understand. I will not compromise you. However, at some point, the news about Jamie’s death may come out. You should prepare yourself. You can talk to me anytime, Carmella. You know where to reach me.”

  After the carriage dropped Carmella in front of the Donatos’ tidy three-story home in the Western Addition, Inez pondered her next steps. No matter how she looked at the situation, it didn’t look good. She dismissed her first impulse, which was not to tell Harry. He would tighten the screws until one of two things happened: he either accepted that Robert was unfindable or he found out that Robert was dead and had been living under an assumed name.

  No.

  She dare not chance that he uncover the connection between Robert and Jamie through his detective or through some other means. She would have to tell him. But when? And how?

  And what of Jamie’s friends and Nico? They would have to be told at least some of the truth. Once Harry claimed his son’s body, perhaps she could simply tell them family had taken Jamie away for a proper burial, which would be true. The focus would then switch to how he died, and why, and who killed him. Inez closed her eyes for a moment. What a sorry mess. She let the sounds of traffic flow over her inside the womblike closure of the carriage.

  Now, of course, she could see the resemblance of the son to the father. The way Jamie leaned against the door, his almost colorless light blue eyes, the angular planes of his face, even the studied casualness in his tone and the cold anger that could grip him in a flash. Stance, cadence of speech, physiognomy—all of it was familiar. Too familiar. Replace the cigarette with a cigar. Replace the worn overcoat with an elegant, expensive tailcoat. Add a mustache.

  Harry.

  She shook herself out of her reverie. She couldn’t blame herself for not seeing it before. Robert had facial hair in the Leadville photograph, but had been clean-shaven as Jamie in San Francisco. Then, there had been the distraction of having Harry loom over her in close quarters while she examined the image. Even if she had identified Robert from the photograph, it would have been too late. He was already dead.

  So, first things first. She would have to meet with Flo and they would have to come up with a plan.

  The carriage bumped to a halt in front of D & S House of Music and Curiosities. A window painter was crouched at the large front display pane of glass, methodically scraping off the “S,” his cans of white and black paint close by.

  For a terrified moment, she thought that Nico had somehow got wind of her past vocations and less savory Leadville investments, and was erasing her from his life and the store name.

  Inez disembarked, paid the driver, and hurried over, demanding, “What are you doing?”

  He looked up startled.

  “I am the manager. What is going on here?”

  “Mr. Donato hired me to spell out the store name,” he said, and wiped a hand across his forehead. Inez noticed that the creases in his hands and knuckles were traced in white. “Since you’re here, I can ask: Stannert is with a double n, right?”

  So. Nico was moving forward with the change in name for the store. That must be what he wanted to talk to me about this morning. Inez didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. In any case, she had more pressing things on her mind, so she let it go.

  She looked at her pocket watch. There were only minutes before the infernal noontime bells began their chorus. She stepped to the corner and glanced toward the stock exchange. There were any number of street urchins hovering around, who should probably have been at school but weren’t, opting instead to earn pennies by delivering messages to downtown businesses and offices. She hurried up the block, just as the church bells began to ring, and nabbed a boy who looked clean around the ears and therefore perhaps a little more responsible than the rest.

  She held up a dime. “I have a very important message that must be delivered in person to a guest at the Palace Hotel. Can you do it? There will be another like this one when you bring back a reply.”

  He brightened at the sight of the coin. “Sure!”

  “It’s not a written message. You’ll need to commit it to memory, but it’s short. I need you to ask for Mrs. Florence Sweet. When you see her—face-to-face, mind—tell her that you have a message from Mrs. Young. The message is this: Mrs. Young has a bonnet that she thinks Mrs. Sweet would like. A very special bonnet. Add that it is urgent that she come as soon as possible. Emphasize ‘urgent,’ please. And the message goes only to her, you understand?”

  He looked at her curiously. “This important message is about hats?”

  Inez moved the coin closer to his nose. His eyes almost crossed to keep it in focus.

  “Repeat the message back to me, please.”

  He did.

  She nodded her satisfaction. “If she is there, she will give you a message for me. It’s important I receive her reply, word for word. If she is not there, come back in any case and let me know that as well. I shall be in the music store over there.” She pointed.

  Inez returned to the store, switched the sign to OPEN, and retreated to the back. She left the connecting door ajar so she could hear and see if anyone came into the store. Tuesdays were usually quiet, leading her to hope for time to herself until Flo’s arrival.

  Inez planted herself at the desk but couldn’t sit still. She got up, paced around the office, went into the lesson room. Sitting at the student piano, she ran through a few scales and marched perfunctorily through Bach’s Prelude to the Well Tempered Clavichord. Even the easy, flowing music didn’t serve to calm her nerves.

  She got up, paced some more, and noticed there was still a pot of coffee on the small stove. Perhaps brewed for her return by John Hee, who did so now and again. No doubt very strong by now.

  She grabbed her cup and poured in the dark liquid, pleased that it was still warm. The bottle of brandy in the locked cabinet whispered seductively—you need me. She agreed. Inez unlocked the glass doors and added a generous tot to the coffee, wishing she had something more substantial in size than the dainty teacup. Pacing past the desk, she recalled the note to Carmella from Jamie. She supposed she should start thinking of him as “Robert” but just couldn’t.

  She pulled out the envelope from one of the many cubbyholes and stared at the handwriting on the front.

  I shouldn’t do this. I should give it to Carmella, sealed.

  After a swallow of the laced coffee, she sat at the desk. Placing the cup to one side, she slid the sterling silver letter opener out from a drawer, slit the envelope, and pulled out the single sheet of paper. Inez held the note up and away to put some distance between her prying gaze and his passionate words. Words promisi
ng love forever, promising Nico could not keep them apart. …I am close, dear heart, close to having what I need to win Nico over. I know it means very much to you, to have your brother’s blessing, and, upon my life, you shall.

  She set the note down and picked up her coffee.

  Upon my life.

  What an unfortunate choice of words.

  The brandy instilling a comforting glow within, Inez returned to the note and read the rest of the words from the dead man in a rush. …And please, my sweet Carmella, do not think for a moment I am in danger from this union business. Any threats are toothless, groundless, from cowards who dare not show their faces. I wish you had not heard of them, for I would never in a thousand lifetimes cause you worry on my account. I am close to an answer, I know it. Nothing can happen to me for I am shielded by your love and the truth.

  Love. Truth.

  In the end, just how truthful was he with Carmella? He was honest about his philosophy and beliefs, but not about the most basic facts of his life and who he was. Dissembling and wearing a false face to the woman he professed to love.

  And what was this about threats? What had Jamie been up to that he felt the need to reassure Carmella that he was not in danger? Did it have to do with his efforts to organize the musicians, or was it something else?

  The doorbell clunked.

  Inez stood up, hastily shoved the note into the drawer, tossed the empty envelope on top, and went to the entrance of the showroom, expecting the messenger boy. Instead, Frisco Flo Sweet bustled toward her, a gray and rose paisley shawl around her shoulders, a dainty gray hat slanted atop blond curls that looked as if they took hours with a curling iron to get “just so.”

  “Flo! What are you doing here?”

  “You said it was urgent. I decided rather than send a reply, I’d just come myself.”

  “But…” Inez looked toward the entrance in trepidation.