A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  “Huh.” Antonia looked at the hairpins on the floor and picked up two. “Can I bend one of these?”

  “You may.”

  Ignoring the gentle grammatical rebuke, Antonia bent one of the pins, and said, “I’ll need to break the other.”

  Mrs. S nodded.

  Antonia inserted the head of the bent, two-pronged pin, and, using half of the broken pin, began to work the lock.

  It didn’t take long. A satisfying snick and she was able to swing the hinge plate open. She sat back on her heels, pleased with herself.

  “Excellent!” said Mrs. S and actually clapped her hands. “Now come. It’s time for supper. Mrs. Nolan will be most displeased if we are late.”

  “We’re not going to look inside?” asked Antonia, disappointed.

  Mrs. S took out her pocket watch and opened it. “No, we are not. We should leave now. I’ll take care of that later.”

  Antonia started to grumble, but stopped herself. It didn’t matter, because she could sneak into the room any old time and look for herself. Still, she grumbled just a little, because otherwise Mrs. S might get suspicious.

  Mrs. S locked the room behind them. As she pocketed the key, she gave Antonia the sort of look that seemed to cut right through to every lie she’d ever made. “Have you been practicing on this door? You were very quick with those hairpins.”

  “No’m.” Antonia crossed her fingers again, behind her back this time, and quickly changed the subject. “D’ you think Mrs. Nolan might have apple pie tonight? Or pumpkin? She makes pretty good pie.”

  “Well, we should hustle, because if there is pie tonight it will be gone in a hurry.”

  There was pie, along with chicken and dumplings, which was one of Antonia’s favorites. Mrs. Nolan tut-tutted and fussed over them, saying, “Mrs. Stannert and Antonia! I’ve almost forgotten what you two look like. It seems like a month of Sundays since you’ve shown up for supper.”

  “We have been busy,” said Mrs. S. The other boarders looked at her expectantly, but all she said after that was “I imagine none of your excellent cooking has gone to waste on account of us.”

  Mrs. Nolan seemed pleased at the comment and took to fussing at Antonia, asking how she was doing at school, had she made any friends, and was that a new dress she was wearing, before reminding her not to talk with her mouth full. It was hard to eat and answer questions at the same time, because Antonia was determined to get a second helping of dumplings if she could just shovel the food in fast enough.

  She would’ve been happy to sit a while at the table afterwards, or in the boardinghouse parlor with its cheerful little stove, but Mrs. S hustled her right back out after promising Mrs. Nolan that they would be there for supper on the morrow.

  When they got back to the store Mrs. S hustled Mr. Welles out the door as well, thanking him over and over for helping. Antonia also heard her say, “I need to talk to Jamie’s friends, preferably all together. Do you think you might be able to round them all up tomorrow morning before the store opens?”

  He hesitated. “I can try. Will you need me a full day tomorrow as well? Nico thought that might be the case.”

  “Yes, all day tomorrow. In fact, all this week, if you could, and possibly early next week.”

  “Sure. And I’ll see if I can’t bring the gang along, before opening time.” He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming whatever this is about, it isn’t good.”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s not.” Mrs. S glanced at Antonia, who pretended to examine the music boxes but was really listening to everything. “I’ll explain more tomorrow,” she said and almost pushed him out the door. Then she looked at her pocket watch again. “Any minute now,” she said.

  “What’s any minute now?” asked Antonia, curious.

  “Mrs. Sweet and Mr. de Bruijn are coming. We have matters to discuss.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Brown? Ugh. Is it about Jamie? Can I listen?”

  “You most certainly cannot!” snapped Mrs. Stannert. “We have no idea what is going on here, and I don’t want you involved in anything having to do with Mr. Monroe’s death. And I warn you, should I catch you eavesdropping at the back door or some such, it will not go well for you.”

  “All right! I just wanted to help.”

  Mrs. S softened up at that. “I understand, Antonia, but this is something Mr. Brown, Mrs. Sweet, and I must do. You can help me best by doing your homework, going to school, and staying out of trouble. I don’t need to be worrying about all of this and you too.”

  The front door opened. The little bell rattled like it was dying, and the private detective and the parlor hour madam came in.

  “Well, hello there,” sang out Mrs. Sweet. “It’s the little newsie from Leadville. Antonia, right? Goodness, it’s been a long time. And how you’ve grown.”

  Inez nudged Antonia, muttering, “Manners!”

  Antonia managed a “Hello, Mrs. Sweet. How d’you do?”

  “Just hunky-dory, child.”

  Mrs. Sweet sure seemed cheerful, Antonia thought, given they were all running around trying to find a killer. It made Antonia all the more determined to hear what they were going to talk about.

  Mrs. S muttered “Manners!” again, and Antonia turned grudgingly to the detective. “Hullo, Mr. Brown.” Another nudge. “I’m sorry I tried to stab you last night,” Antonia said.

  “You what?” Mrs. Sweet gave Antonia a wide-eyed stare. “Sounds like I missed some excitement.”

  “It was understandable,” said the detective. “I would no doubt have wanted to do the same in your shoes.”

  “Antonia,” said Mrs. S, “you have times tables to work on, I believe.”

  That was her signal to go. “G’night, everyone.” She started toward the door, thinking that, if she moved fast, she could be in position over her knothole before they got settled.

  “A minute if you please, Antonia,” said Mr. Brown and turned to Mrs. Stannert. “May I talk with her privately? For just a moment.”

  Mrs. S frowned. Antonia could tell she didn’t like that idea too much. Mrs. Sweet said, “I recall where you keep the good brandy, Mrs. Stannert. How about if I just go set things up and pour us all a jot?” and off she went, not even waiting for a nod.

  Mrs. S finally said, “You and Antonia can talk by the front door, if you wish. However, I shall wait right here.” She crossed her arms and stared at him.

  He nodded and turned to Antonia. “I have something for you. Something your mother gave to me, which I want to give to you.”

  Antonia hated to hear him mention her maman. She wanted to slap the words from his mouth. But, something of hers? That she gave to him? “All right,” she said grudgingly.

  They walked over to the door, Mrs. S watching them like a hawk. Antonia felt all she had to do was glance her way and Mrs. S would come swooping down with claws bared to save her, if need be.

  The detective crouched down, so he was at her level. “First, I want to say, Antonia, I am not here to take you away from Mrs. Stannert. I want to be certain you are well cared for, above all. That you are happy. Or at least, as happy as you can be.”

  “I’m. Fine,” she managed to grind out between clenched teeth.

  He gave her a sad little smile, which surprised her. She didn’t think he could smile at all, much less like he really felt something. Then, he said, “Very well. Although I will say you don’t look as if you feel particularly ‘fine’ right now. Maybe this will help.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, black braided cord attached to a small silver locket. He said, “I treasure this above everything else I have,” and pushed on the catch. The little silver door sprung open, and inside was a photograph, about the size of his thumbnail. “This is a picture of your mother.”

  Antonia leaned forward, unable to believe her eyes. It was! It was M
aman! Seeing the face she hadn’t seen in over a year, except in dreams and memories, brought a deep pain to her heart. All she said was, “Maman never let her picture be taken. Never!”

  “She allowed it once. For me. Because I asked her to.” The detective then took Antonia’s hand—very carefully and slowly, as if he wanted to give her every chance to yank it away—and put the locket in her palm. “The cord,” he added, “is made from a lock of her hair.”

  Antonia saw the string was indeed a thin braid of dark, shining hair.

  Mr. Brown continued, “She had beautiful hair, your mother, your Maman. Your hair is just like hers, Antonia. You are so clearly your mother’s daughter, in appearance and in spirit. She had a bright spirit, independent, strong, and loved you a great deal.”

  Tears overflowed. She hated to blubber like a baby, but here she was. Everything was blurry, including Mr. Brown, and she couldn’t be seeing very well because it almost looked like he was going to cry too.

  He reached inside his pocket again, pulled out a card, and put it on top of the locket in her hand. “This is my business card, with my name. W. R. de Bruijn. The W. R. stands for Wolter Roland. Sometime, whenever you wish, we could perhaps talk. You can ask me anything at all and I will do my best to answer. I am staying at the Palace Hotel. If you want to talk, or if you need my help, I will come immediately, without hesitation. At the hotel, give the hotelier this card. Otherwise, you can ask Mrs. Stannert to contact me. Bring Mrs. Stannert with you, too, if you would feel more comfortable having her there.” He stood and brushed his hand over his mustache and beard, as if to stop himself from saying more.

  “Th-thank you,” blubbered Antonia.

  All of a sudden, Mrs. Stannert was there, an arm around her shoulders, a hip to lean against. “Antonia?”

  She snuffled and spluttered, “I’m fine. I’ve got to go w-work on my t-times tables now.”

  Clutching the locket tight, she dashed out the door of the music store. Cool, damp air surrounded her and seemed to add more tears to her face. She ran past the storefront, unlocked the door to the second-floor apartment with clumsy fingers, and pounded up the stairs.

  It took two handkerchiefs to clear her nose. She threw each wadded piece of linen into the corner of her room. Finally, she took a clean one and wiped her face. After setting the locket on her bedside table, she used one finger to shut the tiny silver door on the image of her maman.

  She sat on her bed for a little bit, sadness rocking her like waves on the ocean. Finally, after a long shuddering breath, Antonia removed her shoes, flexed her stockinged feet, and wrapped herself in one of Mrs. Stannert’s old shawls she used as a coverlet on the bed. She picked up the two hairpins, one bent and one broken, and went down the hallway toward the back room and her listening post, whispering the times tables to herself as she went.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As Inez and de Bruijn started toward the back of the store, she asked, “And what was that about?”

  “A private business,” said de Bruijn, courteously enough, but with a certain firmness that indicated the door to further discussion was closed.

  Inez grabbed that implied door and wrenched it open. “Anything having to do with Antonia is my business. I don’t know how much you heard about what happened to her and her mother in Leadville, but believe me when I say I have guarded her life with my own, doing things that could perhaps get me thrown in prison, should they become known. So.” She gave him the eye. “Tell me. Now.”

  For a moment she thought he would not respond. Finally, he produced a small, almost indiscernible sigh and said, “I have been carrying a memento from her mother, Drina, since she left Denver with Antonia. Once I uncovered Drina’s fate, I promised myself that I would deliver it to her daughter. That is all.” He set the head of his cane against the passage door, adding, “Well, not quite all. I also gave Antonia my business card and told her she could call on me for aid at any time. No questions asked.” He pushed the door open. “After you, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Inez stopped at the threshold. “She has me. I am well prepared and able to protect her from any dangers that may befall her.”

  “And if something should befall you? Not to be melodramatic, but that is possible, given the type of business we are dealing with here.” He closed the door behind them.

  “What kind of business is that?” said Flo brightly. She was sitting at the round table, an oil lamp in the middle casting a soft light on a bottle of brandy, close at hand and quite a bit emptier than Inez had seen it last.

  De Bruijn removed his hat and set it on the table. “We were discussing the investigation.”

  A snifter with three fingers’ worth of Inez’s very best sat before the madam. Two additional goblets, only slightly less full, waited in front of chairs to either side of her.

  Flo had thrown off her dark coat to display bare shoulders, milky pale in the lamplight, set off by a dress of sapphire blue and a necklace of pearls that suggested many oysters had given up their treasures to grace a generous décolletage that would make most men swoon.

  “Excuse me,” she said, fanning herself with a blue silk fan of the same hue. “I have an engagement directly after, and there would be no time to change. Mr. Phillip Poole is taking me to the theater and after-theater-supper at Maison Doree.” She preened a little. “Have you heard of it, Mrs. Stannert? The most fashionable restaurant in the city. I expect we shall see many of the beau monde and bon ton there. It’s the Delmonico of San Francisco. I mustn’t be late in meeting him at the Palace Hotel.”

  Her eyes sparkled, with a gleam that some might attribute to anticipation or perhaps a previous helping of brandy, but Inez, long acquainted with Flo, recognized the brightness as the shine of a predator.

  “On the hunt tonight, Mrs. Sweet?” Inez asked, sliding into the seat on one side, ignoring de Bruijn’s pulled out proffered chair on the other.

  “Happily for all of us, yes,” said Mrs. Sweet. She bared her teeth in a smile.

  “Would you wish to report first, then?” de Bruijn inquired.

  Inez raised her hand—wait. She stood and crossed to the door leading to the alley. After half a beat, she yanked it open. Only darkness greeted her. Darkness and a cold breeze, which slithered in, curling around her boots and sliding up her stockings with a moist touch. She strode over to the passageway door and did the same thing. Nothing but empty silence.

  “Brrrr!” Flo pulled up her coat. The shimmering blue dress disappeared in its dark folds. “Was that necessary, Mrs. Stannert?”

  “Yes,” said Inez. “And you know why.” She turned to de Bruijn. “Antonia has been eavesdropping, most likely at the doors. Hence, the precautions.”

  She surveyed the back rooms, her gaze probing the dim corners. She couldn’t help but feel those little eyes were peering at her still, but from where? Inez glanced at the ceiling. Its timbers were beyond the lamp’s glow, lost in shadow. Aside from the table and the light, it was dark, and the only persons within earshot seemed to be the three of them, co-conspirators, bound together in the search for truth as to the death of the young musician Jamie Monroe, scion of silver baron Harry Gallagher.

  “Well, I shall be quick.” Flo touched the hair under the blue and pale pink hat—such a small and shiny object seemed hardly worthy of the name. “I am making excellent progress, given that I’ve only had a brief twenty-four hours to work my way into Mr. Poole’s good graces. I can tell you, he hates Harry and his son like the very devil. He said he’s glad the little bastard is dead, leaving Harry as alone as he is. I’ve seldom met a more thoroughly dislikable gent in a pair of trousers, but he’s also charming in a scoundrel sort of way. He said he has nothing to do with the murder, and I believe him.”

  “You believe him?” Inez couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you going soft, Flo?”

  “Hardly.” Those teeth gleamed again.

 
“We have very little time,” Inez said. “You must get hard proof, one way or the other. Something we can follow up on.”

  “Oh, don’t get your nose out of joint, Inez. Goodness, you are a nervous wreck. Don’t worry. I am an expert at extracting hard proof.” She gave de Bruijn a sly sidewise glance. “I’ll find out where he was on Sunday night and let you know.” She folded her fan and dropped it into her bejeweled reticule and pulled the coat tight around her. “Mr. de Bruijn, you asked the hack to wait outside, correct? Wonderful! Toodle-oo, all, I shall see you later. I’ll turn the store sign to CLOSED for you, Mrs. Stannert, so you two aren’t disturbed.” And with that, she waltzed out. Her rapid footsteps tapped through the showroom fading into silence with the slam of the door.

  Inez picked up her glass. “She certainly does not seem very concerned.”

  De Bruijn didn’t touch his brandy. “Perhaps Mrs. Sweet thinks that by getting in Poole’s good graces she can use him as a shield against Mr. Gallagher’s threats. There is no love lost between the two men. I suspect Poole would welcome any chance to foil his plans.”

  Inez cradled the snifter in her hands. “I’m impressed! You can think like a woman, Mr. de Bruijn.” She swirled the liquid gently, and brought it to her nose, inhaling the golden-brown scent. As always, the aroma brought back memories, both good and bad, of Leadville and the Silver Queen.

  She jerked back to the present, listening to de Bruijn. “Today, I talked with the police surgeon who did the autopsy,” he said, “and with the police detective who was nominally in charge of the investigation. This is what I found out.” He outlined the autopsy findings and Detective Lynch’s comments and theories.

  When de Bruijn mentioned Patrick May, Inez tensed. She tensed further when de Bruijn said, “The second suspect Detective Lynch mentioned was the Chinese man who works here. Your store’s warehouse is on the wharf close by.” There was a small rebuke in his tone, as if he thought she had perhaps withheld this bit of information.