by Ann Parker
He halved the number of days the physician had advised. “Perhaps two. In the meantime, events are in motion, and I need your assistance.”
“Of course.”
He handed her a folded sheet of paper on which he had penned his instructions, a process which had taken him a ridiculously long time to complete. “This is what I want you to do.”
Miss O’Connell opened and scanned the page. “A fair list. I cannot split myself into three, obviously. I will need assistance. I have authorization to hire associates? They come with the most impeccable credentials and are circumspect, of course.”
“Of course.” He was having trouble forming the words.
“Do you have a preference as to where I should start?”
Normally, he would have been able to respond thus-and-so is the first priority, such-and-such is the second. But his head was throbbing and felt filled with water. He heard and understood her words as if from a great distance. He swam to the surface long enough to say, “I suggest you start with the third item. The gentleman.”
Miss O’Connell folded the paper into quarters and slid it into her satchel. “I shall get busy and report when I have something concrete. Mr. Gallagher is due in the city, when, precisely?”
“It could be Monday, but best to have this business concluded by Sunday, if possible.” He closed his eyes. The throbbing slowed.
“Very well,” she said from the other side, where the light still lurked. “Mr. Gallagher will have nothing to complain of when he returns.”
“Remember, what we need is proof.”
“I am aware of the objectives and the desired results. You can count on me, Mr. de Bruijn.”
“Good.” Her skirts rustled through the fatigue threatening to drag him into sleep. A few moments later the door hissed open and shut over the thick carpet, leaving him in blessed silence, the memory of her departing words a balm: you can count on me.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The bell downstairs rang promptly at eight, and Inez descended, pulling her satin-and-cashmere manteau about her shoulders. She opened the door to Nico, dressed in his evening finery.
“Signora Stannert, you are squisito, exquisite!” He doffed his top hat with a flourish and an admiring glance. “You have been hiding your light under a bushel all this time. You outshine the stars.”
Inez wanted to roll her eyes. Instead she smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Donato.”
He looks different, somehow.
Nico offered her his arm. “Please. Allow me. Signore Welles is coming with us. For a recital, I always make certain to gather the musicians together in one carriage. It is my way of assuring we all arrive or none of us do.” He escorted her to the waiting hack.
Inez ducked into the carriage and, with a rustle of satin, sat opposite Thomas Welles, also in black formal evening wear. “Glad you could join us, Mrs. Stannert,” said Welles. “It’ll be quite the crowd in attendance, I understand.” He held Nico’s violin case in his white-gloved hands.
The carriage bounced lightly on its springs as Nico entered and sat next to Thomas. He retrieved his violin, remarking, “And we shall do our best to entertain and enthrall, as only Mozart and Beethoven’s music can.”
Welles rapped on the wall, and the carriage began to move. Nico set his case on the seat. As they passed a streetlamp and turned onto Market, Inez realized what was different about Nico. “Mr. Donato, where is your magnificent cloak?”
Instead of the fine wool overgarment with the distinctive ermine collar he always wore, he had on a black cloak with a luxurious dark fur collar.
“Ah. It is out of fashion. This,” he stroked the dark fur collar as if it were a living creature, “is new. Just this season. Elegant, yes?”
Welles shifted, one white glove rising to hold his top hat as he turned his head toward Nico. “I thought you told me your kingly cape had been ruined.”
“Ah,” said Nico dismissively. “One and the same. Ruined by the fickle turn of la mode. When in the public eye, one must be in vogue, sì?”
Light poured into the carriage windows as the vehicle pulled into the circular driveway of the central court of the Palace Hotel and squeaked to a halt. The musicians exited first and helped Inez down. They crossed the marble-paved floor beset with potted trees and plants. Far above, the glass-encased dome was opaque with the night sky.
Inez recalled being up at the seventh-floor gallery arcade only that morning and looking down onto the carriage court. From seven floors up, the greenery had appeared little more than shrubs. Down at floor level, it seemed a veritable forest.
As the trio proceeded to the elevators, Welles engaged Inez, inquiring politely about Antonia, how she was doing, whether she was enjoying school. His eldest, he confided, was in third grade and finding it challenging. As she chatted with Welles, Inez registered Nico was scanning the reception area as if hoping to recognize some of the elite and powerful of the city. Or perhaps, she thought, he was hoping the elite and powerful would recognize him.
The elevator operator whisked them up to the second floor. “We will be in one of the grand parlors,” said Nico. “We have performed there before, Thomas and I.”
Welles nodded. “The hotel keeps their pianos well-tuned. A pleasure to play.”
Inez could hear the swell of voices grow as they approached a set of tall doors. Bright as the gaslight in the open corridor was, the light spilling from beyond the doors shone all the brighter. They paused at a cloak room where Inez shed her manteau, Nico his new cloak, and Welles his overcoat, before entering one of the Palace Hotel’s public “parlor rooms,” which had about as much in common with the humble residential parlor room as the ordinary two-story room-and-board residences had in common with the mansions of the city elite.
The parlor, decorated in a French Rococo style, was of outsized dimensions and glamor, much like the hotel itself. The grand room easily accommodated the hundred or so Inez estimated were in attendance. Massive bronze and gilt chandeliers holding constellations of gaslights shed their brilliant yellow light over the guests. Most of the women were dressed bright as peacocks, while the men were uniformly dark and somber in their eveningwear. Their fans aflutter, the women glided about in form-fitting attire of silk, tulle, taffeta, brocade, and satin on the arms of their male companions. Meanwhile, dark knots of single men clustered here and there, like murders of crows, cigar smoke curling above their heads in languid eddies.
Discomfited, Inez halted inside and snapped her fan open. It had been a long time since she had attended a soirée. There had been balls and fetes in Leadville, to be sure. Yet, this “small concert gathering” was a whole different elevation of entertainment entirely, more akin to the half-remembered balls and parties she attended as a New York City debutante or the elegant gatherings in London and Paris whispered about amongst the girls in her long-ago boarding school.
A waiter approached them with a silver tray, offering champagne. Nico waved him away. “After the performance,” he said as he scanned the room.
Inez determined to slip away at the first opportunity—surely the musicians would need to prepare for their performance—and hunt down one of those bobbing trays circulating the room. As she longingly watched the waiter retreat into the crowd, she noted the young and not-so-young women in their vicinity were directing sidelong glances or boldly open gazes of interest their way. Well, not at her, that was certain. Clearly Nico was the one drawing their interest and stirring their fans into a quickened tempo.
“Ah! And there is Signore Poole,” said Nico. “Come.” Escorting Inez and trailed by Welles, Nico moved through the crowd. Many of the guests acknowledged Nico with a nod or bow, and more than one called out, “Signore Donato!” or “Looking forward to your performance, Maestro!” In the case of the ladies, who by etiquette remained mute, they communicated with smiles demure and not-so-demure. Nico returned all w
ith nods, bows, and smiles of his own, sprinkled with remarks such as “Ah! Signore Walton! Good to see you and the lovely Signora,” and “The concert, you will not be disappointed!” and “Signore Welles and I, we have been hard at work, turning the score into music fit for the angels.”
Inez lost track of what else he said because dead ahead, in the direction Nico was leading her and Welles, was Frisco Flo standing with a cluster of men.
Flo had her back to Inez, but there was no missing or mistaking her. Attired in an orange and crimson confection of bows, ruches, lace, drapes, pleats, and puffs, and with her blond curls caught up with a flowered and befeathered ornament, Mrs. Sweet locked arms with her escort in a manner bordering on scandalous. As for the gentleman, who was middling in height and impressive in girth, his identity was quickly made clear when Nico said to Inez, under his breath and with an air of perplexity, “Is that not Signora Sweet with Mr. Poole?”
Poole turned toward the Leadville madam, saying something. She threw back her head and emitted a tinkling laugh in response.
Inez discarded any thought of trying to deny Flo’s identity to Nico. “I do believe it is,” she said, cheerily determined.
“How does she even know him?” Nico sounded baffled.
“It’s a small world, I suppose,” said Inez, attempting to sound offhand.
Poole must have seen them approaching, for he turned to greet Nico with a welcoming smile. At least, Inez surmised it was a smile, given the crinkling around his eyes, as his “friendly muttonchops” served as a thicket to hide his mouth from view. “Mr. Donato, you have arrived!” His voice was surprisingly deep and sonorous. “I was afraid we would run out of champagne and conversation before your concert was to begin. And who is your lovely companion?” He was now staring at Inez in a manner she found very disconcerting and, even worse, vaguely familiar.
Those muttonchops. That voice. I know him.
Flo looked around when Poole began speaking. The madam’s expression reflected the same horror and trepidation now welling up inside Inez.
Nico said, “Signore Poole, may I introduce you to Signora Stannert, and here is my accompanist for the evening, the esteemed pianist Signore Thomas Welles.”
Poole stepped out of the knot of men, pulling Flo with him. He seemed hardly to acknowledge Welles beyond an absent nod. All of his attention was focused on Inez. “Mrs. Stannert, you say? An honor to meet you, ma’am.” He hesitated. “Have we met before?”
Inez sucked in her breath, and along with the ambient scent of tobacco, a memory formed, as it were, out of the smoke. The venue was one of her former husband Mark Stannert’s infamous poker gatherings, upstairs in the exclusive card room of Leadville’s Silver Queen Saloon. An evening of high-stakes games peopled by high-rollers, silver mine investors and owners, Colorado capitalists and entrepreneurs. She was now certain one of the players, seen once and never again, had been the man now giving her a piercing once-over.
Flo quickly interposed herself between Poole and Inez, blocking his view. She sent her fan to fluttering and directed her baby-blue gaze along with her considerable charm at Nico. “Why, Mr. Donato, here you are! And not a moment too soon. As I was telling Mr. Poole, I am so excited you will be playing for us tonight!” She clasped her hands together in girlish anticipation, allowing the fan to swing from one shapely wrist. “I absolutely must have a seat in the front row! I do not want to miss a single note.”
She looked over her shoulder at Poole, pouting slightly, head atilt, her décolletage deepening, thanks to her bent arms and bosom-level clasped hands. In this single pose, she somehow managed to be beguiling, pleading, and commanding, all at once. “With Mr. Donato and Mr. Welles here, we should begin, don’t you think?”
Poole, his attention re-focused onto Flo, said indulgently, “Of course, Mrs. Sweet, your wish is my command.” He crooked his arm for her, but she waved him off. “I need another moment with Mrs. Stannert.” With a final glance at Inez, Poole proceeded to the far end of the room where rows of chairs faced a grand piano.
Welles said, “Sounds like our cue, Nico. Ladies, shall we escort you to the front row?”
“Thank you,” said Inez, “but Mrs. Sweet and I will make our way there in a moment.”
Welles bowed and headed toward the piano. Nico captured Flo’s gloved hand and bowed. “Signora Sweet, such happenstance! We shall play for you and Signora Stannert.”
Flo simpered.
Nico turned to Inez and, taking her hand, performed the same gesture. “My music is my gift to the two most beautiful women in the room.”
Inez said, “I am looking forward to it.”
As Nico hurried off, Flo snapped open her fan and, using it to shield the lower part of her face, she whispered to Inez, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Inez opened her fan with a flick of the wrist and fanned herself slowly. “The invitation was extended by Mr. Donato. I could hardly say no. Especially when I heard Mr. Poole had requested the concert. I thought I would ask him a few questions. But now, that does not seem like a good idea. And what are you doing here? Why haven’t you been in touch?”
“Because,” she hissed, “there is nothing further to tell you! I already told you Phillip Poole had nothing to do with our problem.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Flo actually snorted, but quietly. “First of all, I know on Sunday night he was, shall we say, ‘fully occupied’ at Diamond Carrie Maclay’s brothel.”
“He could have hired someone to do his dirty work,” Inez muttered from behind her fan.
Flo’s fan fluttered faster. “Phillip arrived the same time as Harry—”
“Phillip. On a first-name basis now, are we?” Inez murmured.
Ignoring her comment, Flo continued, “And just like Harry, he had no idea where to look and had no idea Robert had taken on the name of Jamie Monroe. Nobody did. He was completely shocked when I told him Robert was dead. Then, he said, ‘Good riddance,’ and said he wished he could’ve challenged Robert to a duel and shot him himself. It’s all bluster, though. The kind of violence he does is in the boardroom, not on the streets.”
A few arpeggios and scales floated from the direction of the piano. Nico began tuning his violin. “Ladies, gentlemen,” called Poole, “please take your seats.”
Inez and Flo drifted toward the chairs arranged in semicircular rows facing the musicians.
“If you are done with that line of investigation, why haven’t you contacted us?” Inez whispered. “De Bruijn was attacked in Chinatown. He’s recovering, but I could use your help. There are only a couple of days left.”
“I am helping,” said Flo in an aggrieved but subdued tone. “I’m helping us both. Listen Inez, the gold rush may be over, but there are still opportunities aplenty to make money in San Francisco. I’m working to make sure neither of us ends up in the gutter as a result of this affair. You know and I know, we’ll never find the killer. We’ve been running in circles and nothing has turned up, right?”
“There’s still a chance we can identify a reasonable suspect.”
“In two days? Look, we’re going to end up telling Harry his son was probably killed by some unknown thug or cutthroat down on the wharf. Harry won’t like it, so I’m making sure to get some ‘protection’ from Poole against Harry’s wrath. Harry is a big gun in Leadville. If he is determined to shut me down there, maybe he could. But San Francisco is a big city and his influence probably isn’t as strong here.”
“He was able to shut down the police investigation into his son’s death,” Inez pointed out. “I still don’t understand why. They have the resources to deal with this. Why turn to us?”
Flo gave her fan an irritated little flit. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, he’s limited in what he can do here. As for the police, they are the same all over. Pay their extra fees and taxes and they look the other
way. Anyhow, I’ve had my eyes open for local business opportunities. And trust me, there are plenty of opportunities!”
“In the flesh trade?” asked Inez, not believing her ears.
“Of course in the flesh trade. I’m not going to open a candy store! And I want you to be my partner. If Harry decides to tar you with the same brush, you might as well be damned for a sinner than for a saint.”
“I can’t believe this,” muttered Inez, shaking her head at both Flo’s machinations and her muddled turn of phrase. They had reached the front rows. Nico and Poole were in deep discussion while Welles warmed up on the piano. Nico glanced at the two women and with a slight smile gestured with his violin bow to two empty chairs front and center. Flo beamed at him then turned to Inez, closing her fan as she did so.
“I hope they’re not talking about us,” she murmured. “It could get awkward. You should have stayed out of this.”
Inez lifted her eyebrows, smiling pleasantly. “And how was I to know Mr. Poole would recognize me?”
Flo wiggled into her seat and tapped her closed fan on her lap. “Leave him to me. But you’ll have to handle the charming signore yourself. Just remember what I said about business opportunities, should he decide to give you the heave-ho.”
Once everyone was seated, Nico stepped forward and the coughing and rustling subsided. “Benvenuto e buonasera. And thank you to this evening’s host, Signore Poole, for providing such an elegant setting for us to offer our modest musical talents for your entertainment.”
Inez heard several of the nearby women sigh when Nico rolled out the words with what seemed a stronger than usual accent. Nico gazed around the assemblage. “I see many I recognize,” he began, “but some new faces as well. For those who do not know me, may I introduce myself? I am Signore Nico Donato, and my accompanist is Mr. Thomas Welles.”
Inez could hear the rapid flip and flitter of fans behind her and on either side, accompanied by feminine whispers. She was certain if she turned around she would see batting eyes, modest blushes, and eloquent smiles, all directed at the signore with the violin.
