“And what is it that you need from me,” she whispered at last.
“Is there any reason that you can think of,” he began, hating to be blunt. “Any reason somebody may have wanted to kill her?”
“None I can think of,” she replied quietly. “Really, Mr. Muldoon, she was so good. Not like me. There must be so many boys who want me dead. Any one of that lot back there.” She gestured vaguely toward the men who’d surrounded her moments before.
Muldoon couldn’t believe that. Though right at this moment, those men might feel that way about him.
“Was she a popular girl? Sought out by the boys?”
“Certainly, in her way. She was very beautiful, but perhaps a bit too shy. Still, she had those with whom she danced regularly. But no. No suitors, if that’s what you mean.”
Muldoon nodded. He could understand that lack, with Miss Smith as her best friend. Margaret Hamm, pretty as she was, would be outshone by this belle. They’d reached the end of the promenade, and turned back the way they’d come. Muldoon walked quietly, there wasn’t much more he could ask her. There were more questions he had, but he couldn’t answer them without getting inside the Hamm’s house. But he knew that wouldn’t happen, not for an Irish cop from the Bowery.
“What is it you’re thinking?” Alva asked. “Whatever it is, I want to help.” Her voice quavered a bit, and she dashed her kerchief angrily across her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. For the second time, she rounded on Muldoon. Her eyes sought his, demanded all his attention. His gaze was drawn to hers, as if her searching eyes could see into his soul.
“I want to help,” she said suddenly and stamped her foot. “What is it you need?
He caught her hand as it slid from the crook of his arm, and skimmed down his forearm. “I need to know what was happening in that house. There’s something there that I don’t understand. It's like she was banished, sent to her uncle’s for some reason, and kept there, until allowed to return home.”
“I’ll go visiting then, and learn what I can. Where can I find you again?”
Muldoon colored slightly. “I’m… I mean… I didn’t mean to deceive you.” He let go of her hand, and turned toward the track. The race was over. He hadn’t even heard them call it. And shouldn’t someone have blown a horn?
He turned back to the girl. “I’m a policeman. A sergeant. I work out of Police Headquarters on Mulberry. But you can’t go there, it would be unseemly.”
“Then tell me your address, and I’ll send a note.”
Muldoon nodded. It was a good plan. He scribbled the address on a sheet torn from his little notebook and handed it to her. She smiled as she took it, pleasure gleamed in her eyes. “Be careful,” he said as she took the slip of paper. “It could be dangerous.”
She smiled wickedly.
Part Two
CHAPTER 33
April 25
Alva
sat in her room and brushed her long hair, then pulled the front back and tied it up with a ribbon in a young girl’s style. She knew her father liked to see her this way, looking young and innocent. He had no idea how innocent she really still was. She simply liked to play the part of a coquette to shock Mrs. Astor’s ‘400.’ Of course, her father thought she was partly to blame that they hadn’t been fully accepted into society. But, she knew it was because of their Southern heritage. For goodness sake, her family spoke with a twang! She’d been born in Mobile, Alabama just eighteen years previous. It was where her father, Murray Smith had made his fortune… in cotton, of course. Then, just before the war, they’d moved to New York City. But, their accent made integration into society impossible. Southerners were definitely not welcome in the North during the war. Most people looked at them suspiciously, as if all Southerners were rebels. So, for the duration of the war they went abroad, to Paris. And then they returned here.
As she lay the brush on the table, she thought of the previous day’s events. It had definitely been a memorable afternoon. She’d left the racetrack almost immediately after Muldoon. He’d escorted her back to her box, where she sat beside her companions for a moment, but she’d lost all interest in the races. Feigning a headache, she asked her escort to take her home, which he quickly agreed to. She was sure the man blamed Muldoon. She smiled wickedly at the thought. He was a very handsome man. She couldn’t believe how big he was. She had contrived to place her hand on his chest, and was surprised at the firmness. She had expected a layer of softness, like her father, or like the men who courted her. She’d never known a man with that amount of muscle. And when they walked arm in arm, she’d felt the fluid strength of his muscles. A delicious shiver of… was it fear?… slid down her spine and lodged somewhat lower. He was definitely a dangerous man. Perhaps more dangerous because of the reaction to him that she felt. She’d had a shock, almost of recognition, when he spoke her name. She’d turned to see the largest man she had ever known, gazing down upon her.
Like a fool, she’d scrambled out of her seat and abandoned her escort and her entourage. Poor Joseph Vanderkook, she’d made him whip his horses to a fast trot and he’d cut through traffic at a breakneck speed just to get her home because of her ‘sudden’ headache. She smiled at the thought of that brash young man… he must be so worried that his courtship was about to be overthrown.
Until now, she’d never met a more exciting man. Suddenly New York glowed! But then he was only a policeman, and she had so many plans for her future. She simply had to marry well… someone like Joseph. Still, this William Muldoon… he was thrilling! She’d spent the rest of the day anticipating her glorious adventure. She would go to the Hamm’s to express her condolences. It was expected anyway, though perhaps not quite so soon. And then she’d see Mr. Muldoon again.
She dressed in her most sedate outfit. Luckily, she liked blue. She found a deep shade, nearly navy, with epaulets, and military trim. She pretended to be unaware of the disapproving frowns it provoked when she donned war-inspired garb. It was the height of style, and just because she was originally from the south didn’t mean she shouldn’t wear the newest fashions. At ten o’clock she called for the carriage, and accompanied by her mother, drove to the Hamm residence. They were let in immediately, and shown into the morning room where Mrs. Hamm held court.
At the moment, they were the only guests. The room had been draped in black crepe, to match that worn by Mrs. Hamm. She’d prepared the scene perfectly, to demonstrate the depth of her loss, as guests arrived to offer condolences. Mrs. Hamm was ensconced on her settee, a pot of tea on the table before her, little cucumber sandwiches displayed proudly. Cucumbers were nearly impossible to find this time of year. They were clearly a show of ostentation. The woman didn’t greet them pleasantly, though she was cordial for the sake of her step-daughter’s friendship with Alva. After this day, she probably didn’t plan to readily accept the Smith’s into her home again.
“Good morning, Phoebe, Alva,” she said, a small smile frozen on her lips.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Smith replied warmly, and the two seated themselves on chairs opposite their hostess. They each accepted a cup of tea and a sandwich. Alva nibbled on hers, she didn’t really like cucumber, but after all, one must be polite. She hid a sigh. She liked stilted, polite conversation even less.
“We are so sorry to hear of your loss,” Mrs. Smith began. “My dear Alva is beside herself with pain. Margaret, of course, was her dearest friend.”
Mrs. Hamm nodded her head politely. “Yes, they were dear friends.” The woman spoke as if Alva wasn’t there. She desperately wanted to argue, to make Mrs. Hamm acknowledge her, but she needed to keep quiet. It wasn’t her way, but she had to listen to the conversation, to catch any untoward nuance. But little of note was said, only the simple inanities of polite conversation.
After a few moments, she decided she’d had enough. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She had looked with excitement on investigating the murder. And she truly did want to help find her friend’s killer
, but this was ridiculous. Nothing was said that could even hint at scandal.
“I need a breath of air,” she said to the ladies. She needed to escape the somber atmosphere.
“Oh… well,” her mother said. “If you aren’t feeling well I suppose I must accompany you home.”
“No, Mama, it isn’t that,” she began again. “I am simply overcome with sadness for my friend. I feel the need to walk in the garden. If I may?” She glanced at Mrs. Hamm. She tried to put the right amount of sadness into her expression, but hadn’t realized how easy it would be. She really did miss her friend.
“Of course, my dear.” Mrs. Hamm tilted her head imperiously. “Please, take a walk and refresh yourself.”
Alva gratefully exited the stifling room, shut the door and leaned heavily back against it. Well, she thought, she had certainly ruined that. It had been her one chance to find out something of note. She walked into the room across the hall, nearly identical to the one she had just left except for the color of its furnishings, and exited through the French doors. Slowly she strolled through the garden, knowing she had let down Sergeant Muldoon.
“Hello.” A tiny voice broke through her reverie.
As she spun about, Alva noticed the small figure of Melanie Hamm curled up on a stone bench. The girl dropped a book into her lap.
“I was trying to read… but I can’t. I, I can’t stop thinking about my sister.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid you’d stay away. Since you two were best friends. And, you know, since Mama and Papa are so… well you know. You are from Alabama.” The child scooted over and patted the bench next to her.
“Do you want to sit here?”
Nodding, Alva perched lightly at the edge of the seat, mindful of her dress. She took the girl’s hand in hers. Suddenly Melanie threw herself into Alva’s arms, big wrenching sobs wracked her small body. Alva hugged her close, holding her own tears at bay, knowing this moment was for the child.
As her tears finally subsided, Melanie pulled back, and Alva handed her a silk kerchief. The girl wiped away her tears, and turned to look at her sister’s friend.
“They never talk to me.” Melanie shook her curls angrily. “It’s like Margaret never was.”
She twisted Alva’s kerchief, pulling desperately at the lace trim. “Did you… did you see the policeman?” she asked between gulping breaths.
“Ah, so you sent him?” Alva smiled.
“Yes, he was so very nice. Don’t you think so?”
“I most certainly do.”
“He thought you might know something about the… about Margaret.”
Suddenly Alva had a thought. Perhaps the girl knew something that she didn’t realize was important. Excited, she carefully began to lead the conversation.
“It must be terrible for you, that Margaret was so far away when this tragedy happened.”
“Oh yes, Mother came home alone. I was never so surprised. I expected to see Margaret, too, but Mother said she wasn’t well. She said she would come home in a few weeks.”
That was the first time Alva had heard of that. She knew Margaret had accompanied her mother to Dayton to have the child. And she, too, had been surprised when Margaret hadn’t returned. But she didn’t know about her illness. And her friend hadn’t even written to her the entire time she was away.
“Did your mother say what was wrong?”
“No. Just that she was very ill.”
“Was your mother angry with her? That she had gotten ill?”
“No, but Father was. He said she could stay there until he was ready!”
“Does your father get angry a lot?” Alva patted the child’s hand.
“Oh no!” Melanie exclaimed. “He’s the most wonderful father in the world. He never gets angry with anyone. Well, except for Mama sometimes. And the footman.”
“He was angry at the footman?” Alva felt a growing excitement.
“Yes, he said terrible things, things I ought not to repeat. Mother says it’s bad language, and the Lord won’t forgive me if I say those things. But a man is different. He’s allowed to say what he wants.”
Alva nodded. “That’s what they say.” She didn’t particularly agree, but it wasn’t her place to argue with the child. “So, why was he mad at the footman?”
“I don’t know. But he wasn’t given a reference. The man was very upset. He kept saying he didn’t do it, and that it wasn’t him. But I don’t know what they were talking about.”
“When was this?” Alva wondered what could possibly have happened to make Colonel Hamm so angry.
“Just a couple of weeks ago.” Melanie screwed up her face as she tried to remember. “Just after Mother came home. Father was in his office, and I followed Mother there. I had a question… but I don’t remember anymore. She went in, and she didn’t shut the door all the way, so I… well, I listened.” The girl hung her head, shamefaced. “But that’s when he got mad. Mother had just told him about Margaret, that’s all!”
“What did she say?” Alva held her breath, her heart knocking heavily against her ribs.
“She said that… Margaret said… that it was somebody Father knew. Somebody really close. Whatever it was, I guess he thought that meant the footman.”
“Was the footman really close?” Alva asked. She couldn’t see how.
“Well, I guess so,” answered the girl. “He was going to be Father’s valet. His old one died, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Alva!” The call broke through the silence of the garden around them.
“Well,” Alva said. “I suppose I’ve been out here much longer than I meant. It was very nice of you to keep me company.”
The young girl gave her another swift hug.
“I suppose you won’t be coming so much anymore,” she whispered. “Now that Margaret’s gone.”
“I don’t suppose your parents will let me.” Alva smiled sadly.
She rose from the bench and pulled a little pin from her hair, with a tiny crystal dragonfly adorning the end. Reaching forward, she slipped the pin into the girl’s hair, then leaned toward the small blonde head and kissed her where she had placed the jewel. Then she turned and walked away, tears fresh in her eyes.
When Alva finally stopped crying, the carriage had just pulled up in front of their grand house. Her mother tried to console her, but she really did miss Margaret. She put on a brave show most of the time, and now she had lost Melanie, too. Suddenly she wanted to see Sergeant Muldoon. She had planned on sending him a note. But right now, she needed someone to lean on, somebody who wanted nothing from her, and to whom she owed nothing.
“I’m going to take a little ride, Mother,” she said. “I just can’t go in yet.”
“Then you will wait for Mary.” Mrs. Smith looked at her disapprovingly.
“I’m not getting out, Mama. I’ll stay in the carriage, I promise.” Alva didn’t want a fight, but she wasn’t about to have the maid listening in on her conversation. What she had to say was private, between her and the policeman.
Phoebe looked at her a long time. Finally, she agreed. “You do seem particularly distraught, my dear,” She leaned forward and cupped her daughter’s cheek in her hand, then gently wiped away a tear. “Fine, but I will speak to the coachman. He’ll make certain you don’t get into trouble.”
Alva waited in the carriage until her mother was safely inside, then she was whisked away, on up 5th Avenue, as if for a drive through the park. When she was a safe distance, she tapped on the window between her and the driver. Simmons, the coachman, slid the little door open and turned his head a bit so he could hear over the clatter of the street.
“Yes, Miss?”
“I would like to go to Elizabeth Street,” she said, and gave him the address.
“No, Miss, I can’t. I promised Mrs. Smith you wouldn’t be stopping anywhere.”
No matter how much she pleaded with the man, she couldn’t get him to agree. He
’d made a promise, and while she was in his care, she was definitely not getting out of the carriage. At this moment, the man’s loyalty to her parents irked her.
“Well,” she said suddenly. “Then the footman can carry a message to the door for me. I won’t get out at all.”
The driver thought about it, and then finally gave in. She smiled smugly as she leaned back against the seat. He’d only promised her mother that she wouldn’t get out, not that she couldn’t deliver a message. The carriage turned about, picking up the pace now that they had a particular destination. As they headed into the Bowery, Alva looked anxiously out the window. The coachman might have thought he’d made a mistake after all. But, despite any misgivings he might have, he continued on his way. She relaxed back into her seat, but pulled the curtain back a little from the window. If the neighborhood got too rough, he could simply turn around and take her home. The neighborhood was poor, but well kept, so they continued slowly down the street. She read addresses as they passed by, until they finally stopped in front of Mrs. Dunn’s boarding house.
She watched as the Footman leaped down, strode up the walk to the front door, and rang the bell. A maid opened the door, stiffened in surprise, her lips forming an “O,” then she spun about and slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 34
Muldoon
opened the door and looked at Betsy inquiringly. She struggled to speak, her lips moving silently, her eyes huge. She just looked from him to the front door—and back again.
“Ooohh, Sergeant Muldoon, sir,” she finally blurted out. “I’ve never been so surprised in my entire life. A man, dressed ever-so-fine, he’s out on the step. A… a grand carriage waiting behind him. He says he has a message for you, sir.”
Suddenly, she crumpled down in a heap of black and white skirts. “Oh Lord, oh Lord, I ran off to your room and I forgot to invite him in. I’ll lose my job for sure.”
Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
