Murder in Chelsea

by Victoria Thompson

  They walked a ways while she thought this over. “Can you find out how long she’s been in the city?”

  “You mean if she’s been here long enough to have killed Anne Murphy? I’ll check with the desk clerk, but we already know she was.”

  “We do?”

  “Didn’t you notice? She said Anne told her some rich woman had taken Catherine from the Mission.”

  “That’s right, she did! And Anne didn’t know that until just a few days before she died.”

  “Not long enough to have written Emma a letter, so that means Emma got to the city and went to see Anne, probably to collect Catherine so she could make her bargain with Wilbanks. Then Anne told her what happened to Catherine.”

  Sarah nodded. “She wouldn’t have been happy to hear that either. If she lost Catherine, she didn’t have any hold over Wilbanks. That might’ve made her angry enough to stab Anne.”

  “It’s possible. If she did stab her, she probably realized her best bet was to pretend she was just going to see Anne for the first time today and didn’t know she was dead.”

  “Which is exactly what she did by coming here to ask about her. What are you going to ask Vaughn about?”

  “I’ll start with when they got to the city and if he was with Emma when she went to see Anne Murphy. After that, it will depend.”

  “On what?”

  “He’s supposed to be a drunk. It will depend on if he’s been drinking and how much.”

  “Will it be better if he is drunk or if he isn’t?”

  “I won’t know that until I see him.”

  They’d reached Broadway, and Frank stepped into the street to hail a cab. As luck would have it, one stopped nearby to let off a passenger, and Malloy quickly secured it for Sarah, paying the driver after giving him her address and helping her inside.

  “Try to eat something when you get home,” he said.

  “Try to eat something yourself. I don’t even know if there’s any food in my house, so don’t wait until you get there.”

  “Mrs. Ellsworth will bring something over, I’m sure.”

  Sarah smiled. “She will if she sees you coming.”

  “If I’m late, start without me. We’ve got a lot to tell your parents, and you know most of it.”

  “I’ll make my father wait until you’re there to tell about his visit with Wilbanks.”

  He signaled the driver to go, and the aging vehicle with its sway-backed horse lurched into motion in an optimistic effort to join the steady flow of traffic.

  Frank watched it for a few minutes, until she was well on her way. Then he turned south on Broadway and headed toward the lower part of the Lower East Side where the La Pierre Hotel housed those well-heeled enough to afford a real bed, however full of fleas or bedbugs, instead of the filthy wooden bunks and straw mattresses of a nickel-a-night flophouse.

  The La Pierre was as bad as he remembered. At first he thought the front desk was deserted, until he noticed the soft snoring sounds. When he peered over, he saw the clerk curled up on the floor and fast asleep. With a grin, he started slapping the tap bell, sending up the kind of alarm that usually brought fire engines to the scene. The desk clerk awoke with a snort and jumped to his feet, looking around wildly to see what all the ruckus was about. When he saw Frank grinning at him, he grumbled, “What do you want?”

  “I want to see your register, for starters.” He pulled out his badge and let the clerk have a good look before pulling the large book over to him so he could skim the entries. He quickly found what he was looking for: Mr. and Mrs. Parnell Vaughn had checked in two days ago, the day before Anne Murphy was murdered. Even a fleabag place like this would expect a couple to pretend to be married. He checked the room number and headed for the stairs.

  “What are you going to do?” the desk clerk called in alarm.

  “I’m going to visit one of your guests.”

  “I don’t want no trouble. We make our payments regular.”

  He meant bribes to the police department, and Frank was sure they did. A hotel like this would have a host of prostitutes servicing the clientele. Police interference would be very bad for business. “If there’s trouble, I’ll take it out of here,” he called back as he climbed the stairs.

  At the end of the grimy hall, Frank found the room he was looking for and pounded on the door. When nobody answered, he called, “Vaughn, are you in there?”

  When that brought no response, he tried the knob and it turned. Well, if Vaughn wasn’t here, he could at least have a look around. He pushed open the door, not sure what to expect.

  What he didn’t expect was to see Parnell Vaughn lying motionless on the bed.

  7

  ALTHOUGH THE CAB RIDE TOOK LONGER THAN IT WOULD have just to walk the distance from Broadway to her house on Bank Street, Sarah was glad for the time alone. She realized she was bone tired from the strain of knowing that any minute someone might take Catherine away from her forever. How would she stand knowing the child she loved was being raised by someone else, someone who may not even care about her?

  Someone who might never allow her to see Catherine again?

  Emma Hardy’s admission that she was willing to give Catherine to Wilbanks if he paid her well enough had chilled her heart. If Wilbanks was dead, what would Emma do with her? And suppose she did turn Catherine over to Wilbanks? What would happen to her when he died? Who would look after her? Lynne Hicks seemed like a nice enough woman, but she had no interest in raising her father’s bastard child, especially when that child’s name would be a daily reminder of how her father had betrayed her mother. Even though Sarah had never met him, Wilbanks’s son seemed an even less likely candidate as a guardian for Catherine, especially if Wilbanks had provided for her in any way in his estate.

  By the time the cab stopped in front of her town house, Sarah’s head was pounding. Although Malloy had already paid him, she gave the driver a little extra and let herself into her house. The emptiness seemed to echo. How many years had she lived here alone and never thought twice about coming home to an empty house? The months since Catherine and Maeve had lived here with her had changed her forever.

  She took off her hat and coat and had just started to wonder what she would do with herself until her parents arrived when someone knocked on her door. Did she dare answer it? What if it was someone wanting her to deliver a baby? She didn’t have any clients who were due, but babies sometimes came early and many people never consulted her at all until the labor pains started.

  “Mrs. Brandt? It’s me!” a familiar voice called.

  Sarah opened the door to Mrs. Ellsworth. She carried a plate that she’d covered with a napkin. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I had some chicken left from supper, and I thought you might appreciate not having to cook for yourself this evening.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Sarah felt a pang of guilt for telling Malloy she didn’t feel like talking to her neighbor. “You’re probably wondering where the girls are.”

  “I have been worried, knowing that Catherine’s parents were looking for her.”

  “I should have told you. Maeve and Catherine have gone to stay with my mother for a while.”

  “Oh, what a good idea. I saw your mother’s carriage here earlier, and I was hoping that’s where they’d gone.” Not much happened on Bank Street that Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t notice. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen and let me wait on you. I’ll heat this up and make you some coffee. There’s probably some cake left from yesterday, too.”

  Sarah surrendered willingly, and she found that the coffee and the supper greatly relieved her headache. To her credit, Mrs. Ellsworth waited until she’d eaten before asking her what she’d learned about Catherine’s parents since they’d last spoken. Even though that had been only yesterday, so much had happened. Sarah had to break the news that Anne Murphy had been murdered.

  “Dear heaven, how horrible! That poor woman. Does Mr. Malloy think it has something to do with Cather
ine?”

  “I wish we didn’t think so, but what else could it be? At least we’ve identified Catherine’s father, the mysterious Mr. Smith. My father went to see him today, and Malloy and I actually met with her mother just a little while ago.” Sarah quickly filled Mrs. Ellsworth in on what she’d learned from Emma Hardy and Mr. and Mrs. Hicks.

  “Malloy has gone to see this Parnell Vaughn. He said he wanted to question him before Emma had a chance to warn him.”

  “So many unsavory characters. I know it must break your heart that Catherine’s mother is so heartless.”

  “To tell you the truth, it’s almost a relief. As awful as it is to think Catherine’s mother doesn’t love her, if she were kind and loving and desperately wanted her child back, I’d have to give Catherine to her. How could I refuse?”

  “You’re so right. That is a relief. But if her father is dying, are you at least going to let him see her?”

  “I don’t think we can refuse that either, if we can figure out how to do it safely. I just wish we knew who killed Miss Murphy. Then we would know what to do.”

  “What do you think of that lawyer?”

  “Mr. Hicks? He seems like a respectable man.”

  “Respectable? I never met a lawyer I’d call respectable.”

  Sarah didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Well, at least he didn’t look like a murderer to me.”

  “Who does? If people looked like murderers, Mr. Malloy’s job would be a lot easier.”

  Sarah couldn’t argue with that. “But I don’t think he had a reason to kill Miss Murphy.”

  “Who did then?”

  “I have to say Emma Hardy. Whoever killed Miss Murphy did it in a fit of temper. I imagine Emma was very angry when she found out Anne Murphy didn’t know where Catherine was, and she might have lost control and stabbed her.”

  “What about her lover, this Parnell fellow?”

  “I suppose he might have been angry, too. They probably both wanted the money Mr. Wilbanks would have given for her. I must admit, I wish it was Parnell Vaughn. I really hate the thought of Catherine’s mother being a killer.”

  “So do I,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “But who else would have done it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess someone who didn’t want her to tell Miss Hardy where Catherine was.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Well, Mr. Wilbanks’s son, for one. Mr. Hicks told us he’s the only heir, but if Mr. Wilbanks decided to leave some money to Catherine . . .”

  “Oh, yes, money is the root of all evil, as we well know. Is Mr. Malloy going to speak with this son? Oh, my, I just realized he’d be Catherine’s brother.”

  “Half brother,” Sarah said, remembering how upset that knowledge had made Mrs. Hicks. Would her brother be equally appalled? “We haven’t talked about his plans. We’re going to meet with my parents here this evening to discuss what we’ve all learned, and I suppose we’ll decide then.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth frowned. “Your parents are coming here this evening?”

  “Yes, and so is Malloy.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I’d better be going.”

  “Mrs. Ellsworth, you don’t have to leave.”

  “I don’t want to intrude. You have a lot to talk about, and it’s none of my business.”

  “Of course it’s your business. You love Catherine as much as we do.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth smiled. “Of course I do, but I’m not family.”

  And before Sarah could think of any other arguments to make, Mrs. Ellsworth had gone back to her house next door.

  * * *

  DRESSED IN ONLY HIS STAINED BALBRIGGANS, PARNELL Vaughn looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Or combed his mane of dark hair. His skin was an unnatural shade of gray.

  Frank sighed. He was getting sick of finding dead bodies. Luckily, Vaughn didn’t seem to be completely dead, just dead drunk. His chest rose and fell frequently enough to indicate there was hope Frank might be able to rouse him.

  Frank strolled over to the washstand and found the pitcher half full. He carried it to the bed and dumped it over Vaughn’s head.

  Vaughn bolted up in the bed, sputtering and yelping and looking around wildly. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

  He stared back blankly, as if Frank had spoken to him in a foreign language. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “Maybe somebody you know did something wrong.”

  He blinked his bloodshot eyes a few times. “Emma? Do you mean Emma?”

  “Did Emma do something wrong?”

  “God knows. Why am I all wet?” He looked up as if he expected to see where the water could have entered through the ceiling.

  Frank returned the pitcher to the washstand, grabbed a grimy towel, and tossed it to him. While Vaughn rubbed it over his head, Frank glanced around the room. Except for the bed and the washstand, the furniture consisted of a battered wardrobe and a rickety chair. Two small trunks rested on the floor, propped open and overflowing with discarded garments, the luggage of two traveling actors.

  Frank moved the chair over to the bed, turned it around, and straddled it. Vaughn gave up trying to dry himself and turned his bloodshot gaze back to Frank. “What do you want from me? Where’s Emma?”

  “I don’t know where she is. How long have you been here?”

  “Here? In this room?”

  “In the city.”

  “A few days. I don’t know.” He cast about for something, feeling under the bedclothes. His expression lightened when he found it, but when he pulled the bottle out, it was empty. “You wouldn’t have anything to drink, would you?”

  “No. So what have you and Emma been doing since you got to the city?”

  “I haven’t been doing much of anything. I found a saloon and that’s pretty much all I remember.”

  “What about Emma?”

  “She never tells me what she’s up to.”

  “You must have some idea. Why did she come back to the city?”

  Vaughn feigned an interest in the bottle, holding it up to the feeble light coming from the window as if checking to see if it was really empty. Frank batted it out of his hands, sending it crashing to the floor.

  “Hey!”

  “I can do that to you, too, if you annoy me, so stop annoying me and answer my questions.”

  Vaughn rubbed a hand across his mouth and studied Frank warily with his large, dark eyes. In spite of the stubble and the dripping hair and the damage caused by his latest binge, Frank could see Parnell Vaughn was a handsome man. The liquor hadn’t yet taken his looks, although that would come in time. Then he’d have to play old men on the stage, Frank supposed.

  “What was your question?”

  “What has Emma been doing?”

  “She went to find her kid.”

  “Do you know where the kid is?”

  He licked his lips, probably wishing he had a drink. “Annie has her, or at least she was supposed to have her.”

  “But she doesn’t.”

  “No, Emma came back here screaming like a banshee because Annie put her someplace and now she’s gone and she can’t find her.”

  “I guess she was heartbroken to lose her little girl like that.”

  “Emma? Not likely. But she’d decided she better do something about her while she still could.”

  “What does that mean? While she still could?”

  “I mean, well, do you know about the old man?”

  “Wilbanks?”

  “Yes, Wilbanks. Liked to call himself Smith when he’d come to diddle Emma in that house where he kept her. You know about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cute little place, if you like the country.”

  “You were there?”

  “Hell, yes. How else was I going t
o see Emma?”

  “I thought you two lived together when she’d come to the city to be in a show.”

  “That was later. At first, before she had the kid and then for a long time after, he wouldn’t let her go anywhere, so I’d go there to see her. It’s not like he cared. He hardly ever visited, and even then, I think he would’ve cut her loose except for the kid.”

  “Sounds like you had a pretty nice deal. Wilbanks is keeping Emma and even letting her come to the city for weeks at a time. What made you leave town so sudden?”

  Vaughn narrowed his eyes. “What do you care about all this? What do the police care about all this? It’s not illegal for a man to keep a mistress.”

  “It’s illegal to commit murder.”

  “Murder? Who got murdered? Oh, my God, not Emma!” His gray face went white.

  Frank could have let him suffer for a while, but he took pity on him. “No, not Emma. Anne Murphy.”

  “Annie? No, that’s not possible! Nobody’d kill Annie. She never hurt a fly.”

  “Maybe not, but somebody killed her just the same. Any idea who that could’ve been?”

  “How should I know? I . . .” He blinked his large eyes several times. “Wait a minute, you think I did it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you do. Or you think Emma did. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m here because I found letters from Emma Hardy in Anne Murphy’s room.”

  Vaughn frowned as if trying to make sense of all this. “You didn’t come here because of any letters. Emma wrote those when we were on tour. How’d you know to come here, to this hotel?”

  “Emma told me where you were.”

  Frank watched the flush of anger rise up his face, turning it scarlet. “That bitch! I don’t know what she told you, but I never even saw Annie. She went there by herself. She told me to stay here and rest. That’s what she said, rest, but she meant I should stay here and drink. She even brought me a bottle so she’d know I wouldn’t need to go out anywhere.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “How should I know? I drink, then I sleep, then I drink some more. She comes and goes, and sometimes she wakes me up and sometimes she doesn’t. But if she told you I hurt Annie, she’s lying. I haven’t been out of this room for days.”