A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  Inez was impressed with Antonia’s tenacity but opted for a slight frown of disapproval. “I am disappointed that you went against my express order not to eavesdrop. You put yourself and your friend Mick in a very dangerous position. However, I understand. You were worried and wanted to help. So, I am willing to let this pass, given the circumstances.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  And she indeed looked contrite, with her eyes wide and shining, and her lower lip trembling. Inez had to settle for that and hope Antonia wasn’t pulling the wool over her eyes. For if she is lying to me about this, in whole or part, what else is she not telling me?

  The next morning, Inez tried to keep a semblance of normalcy to their routine. Antonia complained about the staleness of the bread and asked when Carmella might be by with more zeppole or cornetti alla marmellata. “I don’t know, but I shall pay her a visit if she does not come by today or tomorrow and let her know we miss her presence and pastries,” Inez assured her.

  As Antonia prepared to leave, Inez stayed the door with a firm hand. “What will you do as soon as school is out?”

  Antonia’s face was hidden by the bonnet and its brim, but her response was clear enough, if a little sullen. “I’ll come home.”

  “Good.” Inez opened the door to the outside world.

  Antonia lingered, “I was thinking,” she said, “maybe I could see Mr. Brown on my way home and make sure he’s all right.”

  Inez put a hand on her shoulder. “I am visiting him this morning and will share your concerns.” She gave Antonia a little push, encouraging her on her way.

  Antonia took a step, then two, then stopped. “He didn’t have to give me Maman’s locket. She gave it to him. Not me.” Without waiting for an answer, she trudged away.

  Inez leaned against the doorjamb and watched the girl disappear down the street, book bag swinging from its strap.

  Was I so contrary at her age?

  She didn’t really have to pose the question to herself. She had been all that and more. If not for her own iron will and contrariness, she would not have escaped the stifling, pre-determined future prepared for her by her parents. She would have certainly ended up a proper New York matron, married to someone of her father’s choosing and languishing in Newport or Saratoga Springs during the summer season. Instead, here she was, for better or for worse, with no one to blame for her fate but herself.

  And Inez would have had it no other way.

  She went to the store with the idea of glancing at any paperwork, invoices, bills, that might have accumulated. Too, if John Hee was there and she could catch a few minutes alone with him, she thought she would quiz him about the previous night’s events. Instead, she found Nico, once again uncharacteristically early, in deep conversation with Welles as they poured over some sheet music. Or rather, Nico was holding forth while Welles nodded and said, “Yes. I’ve got it, Nico.”

  Inez glimpsed the word Sonaten on the copy Nico was waving around. He said with characteristic intensity, “First, adagio sostenuto.” He drew the words out in a slow, loving fashion, sweeping his sheet music across in a long arc. “And then presto! Presto! Presto!” The sheet music flapped energetically up and down.

  “Yes, Nico, yes. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” Welles’ voice held a trace of impatience.

  “Passion, Thomas! Start and end with passion!” Coda completed, Nico turned to Inez and bowed. He abandoned Welles and strode toward her, expression and tone still intense from his fervent lecture. “Signora Stannert! I hoped to see you this morning. Come! Come! Sbrigati, please!” He hustled her toward the back of the store. As they passed Welles, Inez caught his gaze. The pianist rolled his eyes, just enough for her to see.

  Nico almost pushed her into the office, exclaiming, “Ecco!” and slamming the door behind them.

  Inez gaped. He has gone overboard this time. The office area was a veritable floral jungle, awash with flowers spilling out of vases on every available surface, their competing fragrances an olfactory jumble.

  “Nico, what is this?” She had trouble forming a complete sentence.

  “Before you left to give piano lessons and do whatever takes up so much of your time, I wanted to express my appreciation.” He was directing his stream of zeal toward her now. “These past few days, I have realized how much I have come to depend and count on you. Signor Welles, he is of course adequate, but he cannot replace you. He cannot!”

  “Thank you. You are most kind.” And most unnerving. She had begun to contemplate whether it would be possible to bring Welles in permanently as assistant manager. That way, once she was legally half owner, she could devote more time to lessons and to cultivating her investments and extracurricular business arrangements.

  “All this is…most beautiful.” She could not figure out what to say.

  “It cannot begin to express the depth of the appreciation, the respect, the admiration I have for you!”

  Things felt as if they were beginning to get out of hand. Inez took a step back and tried to inject a warm distance to her response. “Mr. Donato, I am overwhelmed by your generosity. I don’t know quite what to say. I am happy you appreciate the work I do on behalf of the business.”

  “Furthermore, it is my sincere wish you will be my guest tonight at a recital Thomas and I are to give at the Palace Hotel.”

  “Ah.” Inez frantically tried to form a plausible excuse that would allow her to stay in Nico’s good graces and not offend him.

  He continued, “It will be…” He kissed his fingertips and gestured upward as if tossing glittering superlatives into the air. “The event is a private party, a soirée being given by a visitor to our fair city, Signore Phillip Poole. Thomas and I will perform the Kreutzer sonata. Beethoven, yes? And some Mozart. You will see, it will leave them all dazzled!”

  At the mention of Poole’s name, Inez’s mind stopped searching for ways to escape and began racing. “Mr. Poole, you said?”

  He beamed. “Sì! He heard me play and asked for a reprise! I told him rather than doing the same pieces with a quartet I would bring Signore Welles—who is a very accomplished classical pianist, not just a noodler of low-class ditties—and we would play something truly extraordinary. Beethoven’s Violin Sonata Number 9, Opus 47, the Kreutzer Sonata. He agreed.”

  Phillip Poole. Father of the young woman in Leadville who had killed herself in despair over having been jilted by Jamie when he was in his previous incarnation as Robert Gallagher.

  Phillip Poole. The one concrete murder suspect Inez had not had a chance to meet or evaluate. Yes, Flo was theoretically doing so, but still. Inez suspected once Flo had decided Poole was innocent, she had stopped digging.

  This is my chance. Time is short. I will not have another opportunity to observe him or perhaps to even talk with him.

  Shifting her approach, Inez cast her eyes down modestly and brought her fingers to her lips, as if thinking. “Oh, I am so honored! I would love to attend. My hesitation comes from being not entirely certain I have anything appropriate to wear.”

  Nico seized her hand. “Whatever you wear, you will surpass the belle of Nob Hill and, indeed, the flowers themselves in grace and elegance.”

  His touch sent an unexpected heat racing from her hand to the pit of her stomach. Alarmed and fearing she may have fanned a flame she had not intended to ignite, Inez slipped her hand from his eager grasp and said, “I suppose I could find something amongst the gowns I brought with me from Colorado.”

  “Eccellente! I will pick you up at eight this evening and promise to have you back well before midnight. I know you do not like to leave Antonia alone long after dark. I promise you, it will be an evening to remember, Signora Stannert. And Phillip Poole is also from Colorado, you are—how do you say?—compatrioti. Compatriots! I will introduce you.”

  “How serendipitous,” exclaimed Inez matching her enthusiasm to his.
“But what I look forward to the most is seeing you perform. And Mr. Welles, of course.”

  He beamed. “You will not be disappointed, I promise.”

  She smiled back. I will make certain of that. With luck, I shall meet Mr. Poole myself and perhaps determine what part he had to play, if any, in Jamie’s death.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Time was trickling away.

  Inez could see it in her mind—an hourglass, with the preponderant amount of sand now weighting the bottom.

  Gallagher would be back in a few days. Today was disappearing, and she had much to do.

  First, see de Bruijn. She had promised both him and Antonia she would do so. While she was at the Palace Hotel, she would try to corner Flo and see what she had accomplished the previous day. If anything. Next, a quick trip to the waterfront, yet again, to find Broken-nose Sven and ask him where she might find organizer Frank Roney. Afterwards, talk to Roney, inquire about his connection with Jamie, and see if he had any insights into the union “danger” Jamie had referred to in his letter to Carmella.

  Return to the home of the Musicians Protective Association’s secretary for the address of Stephen Abbott, the first name on Jamie’s list and the only one who had warranted a checkmark. If she was correct in her thinking, the list was important since Jamie had removed it from the union’s records and hidden it. Why did Jamie take it? Did he talk to Stephen Abbot? If so, did Abbott know something connected to the so-called danger that Jamie tried to warn, and then reassure Carmella about?

  Finally, she had to be back in time to meet Antonia for supper—she dare not let the girl down again—and be ready for Nico at eight.

  Grain by grain, more sand sifted into the bottom of the hourglass.

  The physician was in de Bruijn’s hotel room on the seventh floor when Inez arrived. She waited in the open corridor dotted with tropical plants and classical statuary, cooling her heels.

  When the doctor emerged, she pounced, bombarding him with questions about de Bruijn’s condition and prognosis until he unbent far enough to say, “He received a nasty blow to the head, but is recovering. I’d advise a few days of bedrest. Two or three, at the least. I suggested a nurse, but he declined vociferously. I will have the hotel staff check on him routinely and notify me if he seems worse. The curtains must stay drawn. He is fairly coherent right now. Tires easily, so keep your visit short.”

  Inez thanked him and entered the room, which seemed vast in the gloom. A small lamp guttered on the nightstand. De Bruijn was propped up in bed, surrounded by a mountain of pillows. He was dressed in a clean shirt, sans collar, and a paisley dressing gown. His waistcoat and jacket hung over the back of an overstuffed chair by the heavily curtained window. His hat waited on the seat, his shoes on the floor. All in all, he seemed prepared to jump up and throw on his attire the moment he was able.

  “Mrs. Stannert. Good. I need you to tell me what happened last night. Much of it has vanished from my memory.”

  As best she could, she recreated the events as Antonia had related them, finishing with, “I don’t believe John Hee is in any way connected with the murder.”

  “Maybe not murder,” he muttered. “But, there’s something.”

  “What?”

  He opened and closed his mouth, took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I cannot recall. Only that I had some certainty of misdoings. Illegalities.”

  “Well, until you can recall what it is, I suggest we set John Hee aside as a suspect. I have made some progress on delving into Jamie’s union activities. I also discovered he had a set-to with a previous employer, a Mr. Henderson, who owns a crimp house and saloon called The Three Sheets.”

  “Henderson,” muttered de Bruijn. “The name is familiar.”

  Inez recounted what she had found out, beginning with Otto’s discovery of the hidden list of names and her subsequent visit to The Workman’s Voice. “I believe Jamie was interested in the previous union’s dissolution—the reasons for it and so on—and also was perhaps looking into the disappearance of the union’s funds. The common consensus seems to be the union treasurer, Eli Greer, made off with the money. Haskell and others apparently tried to unearth what happened, without success. I’m wondering if Jamie might have uncovered anything in that direction.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. All my queries so far are coming up empty.”

  “When would this have occurred?”

  “Seven years ago.”

  “A very cold trail.”

  “So it appears. But I can’t help but think this list is significant and worth following up on.”

  The doubt on de Bruijn’s face was plain. “Anything else?”

  Inez moved on to The Three Sheets, explaining that Jamie had lost his position when another musician offered to play for less and skirting how she obtained the information. “Today,” she finished, “I’m off to track down this Stephen Abbott from the list and to see if I can’t find Frank Roney as well. Oh! I would like a couple more of your business cards, if I may.”

  She had been focused on the wavering lamp flame during her report. When silence greeted her request, she glanced over to find de Bruijn with his eyes closed. Hating to wake him, but needing to clear up one last point, she cleared her throat. His eyes flew open and he said, “Yes?”

  “Have you seen or heard from Mrs. Sweet?”

  His brows drew together and he lifted a hand as if to run it through his hair, only to wince when he touched the bandage. “I don’t think so.” The uncertainty in his voice was new to Inez. He added, “I am almost certain I have not seen her since our last meeting.”

  “Well then, I shall have to run her to ground.” Inez rose, studying him. Even in the dim light, he looked wan, his face etched in pain or perhaps exhaustion. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “Unless you have a magic powder to make this infernal headache disappear, I am afraid not.”

  Inez smiled. “Alas, I do not.”

  “Well then.” He closed his eyes. “Let me know what you find out. This evening, I think I should be better. Once I rest. We need reinforcements. I must consider.” The words were coming slower, tinted with a slightly foreign cadence and an inflection Inez had not detected previously in his speech. For the first time, she wondered if de Bruijn originally hailed from the Continent.

  She moved to go, and he stirred. “The Italian, a philanderer. He, the Chinaman, be careful.” he murmured, then lapsed again into unconsciousness.

  Inez frowned.

  The Italian? As in Nico? If so, de Bruijn wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t ascertained about Nico’s proclivities.

  And did de Bruijn mean “he” as in “the Italian,” or “he” as in “John Hee”? John had nothing to do with the murder, she felt certain. But de Bruijn indicated other activities, illegal perhaps, were afoot. She wanted to ask him more, but it was clear he was not in a state to respond lucidly, if at all. Then, she remembered he hadn’t responded to her request for business cards.

  As Inez debated whether to wake him yet again, he turned a little in the bed, a small snore escaping. That decided it. Loathe to wake him, she tiptoed to the overstuffed chair and proceeded to rifle his pockets with impunity. His waistcoat yielded what she sought: his business cards. Inez took two, then one more for good measure.

  Now, for Flo.

  Inez returned to the front desk only to learn Mrs. Sweet’s room was two doors away from de Bruijn’s. Curbing her impatience, she rode the elevator back to the seventh floor. She knocked softly, then firmly upon the designated door, with no results. No rustling inside, no imprecations hurled at the unexpected visitor, or shoe thrown in a temper against the paneled wood.

  Flo was not an early riser, which led Inez to just one conclusion. Flo appeared to have fled. Inez wagered with herself the madam had either returned to Leadv
ille or decamped to Poole’s rooms. She was betting on the latter. She didn’t think Flo would leave town without at least sending a message to her. But who could say?

  From there, it was time to catch the horsecar back to the Mission Creek waterfront. Inez chafed silently as the driver stopped at what seemed like every single corner on the way. By the time she made her way to Johansson’s lumber wharf, it was noon. She stopped two men carrying their tin lunch buckets and was directed to the foreman, who said, “If you’re looking for Broken-nose Sven, you’ll find him on the pier with the others.”

  She headed in the direction he was pointing. The day had warmed, and the stench of the waterway was all-encompassing. She spotted a group of men sitting on a stack of lumber, their lunch pails open. If it had been her, she would have preferred to sup far from the foul waters sluggishly lapping at the pillars beneath the pier. The men’s animated conversation, in a language Inez guessed was Swedish, came to a halt, and they watched her approach, curious. Broken-nose Sven, wearing the same blue-and-gray checked cap as previously, stood and with a remark that was unintelligible to Inez—she theorized he might have said something like “Here is the crazy lady again”—approached her.

  He removed his cap. “Mrs. Stannert, good day.”

  “Hello again, Mr. Borg. My apologies, but I have one last question of some urgency for you.”

  “Ja?”

  “Where could I find Frank Roney? I must speak with him today.”

  “Well.” The word came out vell. “He is an iron molder. You will have to talk to him after work.”

  He threw what sounded like a question to his lunchmates and received a torrent of responses in a foreign tongue.

  Sven turned back to Inez. “Tonight, he will be at the sandlots, where the new city hall is being built. He is there first, and after the men gather, they go to Meiggs wharf to talk to the sailors. To warn them of the crimp houses and tell them about the Seamen’s Protective Union, ya know.”