Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  “She’s no thief!” Minnie burst out.

  “Quiet now!” Judge Doran grunted his dissatisfaction and dismissed Sinclair’s accusation.

  The rest of the hearing continued without interruption until the testimony was completed. The judge took a short time to consider the petition Daniel had brought.

  They stood to hear the verdict. Daniel noticed Sarah sway like her knees had gone weak. Judge Doran cleared his throat and began to read his conclusions.

  The result was as ruinous for Sarah as Daniel had figured it would be.

  “Look, the others did show up. What did I tell you?” asked Minnie, nodding toward the street, trying to sound chipper.

  The girls waited in a huddle at the base of the broad steps—Cora, radiant as a flame with her red hair; Emma, stern and solid; Phoebe attempting a smile of encouragement, the effort not completely erasing the tension scrunching her shoulders. They were so precious to Sarah. If the judge could simply see the women his ruling impacted, he might have decided upon a different outcome and ignored the story printed—and now reprinted—in the newspapers.

  They waited for Sarah and Minnie to descend to the street. Cora was the first to hug her, but the others crowded in until they surrounded Sarah completely, bulwarks against the storms of the world, secure and safe and so much stronger than she felt right at that moment.

  “We wanted to come into the courtroom and speak our piece,” Cora explained, once they had squeezed Sarah enough, “but some of us were running late, and the deputy in the hall outside the courtroom didn’t much like us trying to push our way in, once the hearing was underway.”

  “You were there for me in spirit.”

  “Better to have been there in body, Miss Sarah,” Cora asserted, the color in her cheeks as high as the brilliance of her hair. “So’s we could tell that judge and that Mr. Cady what we thought of him!”

  “What did the judge say, Miss Sarah?” asked Emma, always straight to the point. Much like Anne, if she’d been here.

  Sarah swept her gaze to take in all the girls, their impatient expressions. “It could have been worse.”

  “It was bad enough,” said Minnie, dropping her false cheerfulness.

  “How bad?” asked Cora, scowling.

  “The judge awarded me five hundred of the fifteen hundred dollars I had left in the bank, and he let Mrs. McGinnis keep the thousand that Josiah gave her in his will.” Sarah rolled her lips between her teeth. “Given that horrible story in the Chronicle, Judge Doran said I didn’t even deserve what I got, but since Josiah had made plain that he intended for me to inherit, he felt obligated to let me have some money. None of the property, though. At least the judge didn’t require that I refund what I’ve already spent on rent and supplies for the shop.”

  “Five hundred dollars is a fortune,” said Cora, who couldn’t conceive scraping together ten dollars, let alone fifty times that amount. “We’ll do just fine.”

  “It is not enough,” corrected Emma, who had been diligent in learning the shop’s accounts. “We need over five thousand a year to pay our bills. We owe rent to Mr. Pomroy and his partners. Miss Sarah owes us wages, and there are debts and taxes to pay. And if no customers come . . .”

  “You don’t have to give me my salary for a while, Miss Sarah,” offered Minnie. “I can do without. I’m still working at the grocery. And the others still have their jobs. We can work part-time at the studio like we’ve been doing. That’ll help, won’t it? You’ll do that, right, Cora? Emma? Phoebe?”

  The others nodded vigorously.

  “I can’t ask you girls to do that,” protested Sarah.

  “You’re not asking,” said Cora. “We’re volunteering!”

  Sarah smiled her gratitude. I love these girls so much. But can’t they see how improbable our future is?

  “What of the house?” asked Phoebe.

  “I have to leave within a week,” Sarah answered.

  Cora fisted her hips. “Quick to throw you out, ain’t he? And I thought Mr. Cady was nice. After saving me from my drowning and all.”

  “You thought he was handsome, Cora,” Minnie chided. “Well, handsome is as handsome does, and he’s proven to be a perfect snake in the grass.”

  “Chut.” With a sharp elbow, Phoebe jabbed Minnie in the side. “There is Mr. Cady now.”

  “I don’t care if he hears me.” She raised her voice. “Daniel Cady is a louse!”

  “Minnie, that’s enough.” Sarah cast a glance over her shoulder. Daniel and his lawyer had exited the building on the far left side, staying as far away from Sarah and the girls as possible. He didn’t appear to have heard Cora or notice them. They headed for a waiting cab parked at the curb, Daniel’s lawyer, Mr. Sinclair, beaming like a cat who’d lapped the richest cream.

  Sarah watched them climb into the carriage and pull away. She would never see him again and never get a chance to ask him if his attentions to her, his seeming concern, had been a pretense. She also would never have the chance to explain to him about Edouard. Not that he would ever really care.

  “I agree with Minnie,” said Cora, entwining her arm through Sarah’s free one. “He is a louse. Come to San Francisco to get rich like every other man in this godforsaken town. And for him to take everything away from you, Miss Sarah, who has only worked hard and wanted to help us, is the rottenest thing I’ve ever heard. He’s worse than a louse.”

  She glared at the carriage as it drove Daniel away.

  “We’ll forget about him, won’t we, Miss Sarah?” asked Minnie, pulling Sarah in even closer.

  “Indeed, we shall,” she answered, forcing her gaze away from the carriage before she did something silly like cry. “We shall forget.”

  Carve him out of my heart like he never existed.

  “A successful day, Mr. Cady.” Sinclair adjusted his top hat and smiled at Daniel, his teeth vividly white in the dim confines of the hired carriage. “How about a celebratory lunch? I know of a restaurant nearby that serves excellent steak, and a glass of wine or two might be in order, as well.”

  “I don’t feel like celebrating, Sinclair.”

  “Wait, now. You’re feeling remorse and that is natural, but you and your sisters are the legal heirs and there’s no need to feel guilty over the fact.”

  “It’s not every day I’ve ruined someone.”

  “You haven’t ruined Miss Whittier.” Sinclair reclined into the shadows of his seat. “If she landed on her feet before, she will land on them again.”

  The carriage rolled clear of the curb. Daniel looked out the window, glimpsing Sarah and her girls, huddled together on the sidewalk. He cared for her. But then he’d cared for Josiah, too, and look where loving that heartless good-for-nothing had gotten him.

  Sinclair noticed where his attention was directed. “If she had tended to me on my deathbed, I’d probably give her my entire fortune too.” The lawyer chuckled. “Well, her wiles have left her with not much more than a pile of bills and a tarnished reputation. If she were smart, she would hop the first train out of town.”

  “She would never desert her girls.” Not Cora, who liked to sing barroom Irish tunes. Not Minnie, with her friendly manner, or Emma, serious and stern. Or Phoebe, petite and pretty. “She’ll stay and stick it out.”

  “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

  Daniel leaned forward, straining for one last glimpse of Sarah, her straight back, her chestnut hair curling around the edge of her hat, her open and honest face, and wondered at how much he hurt when the hired carriage rounded the corner and she was lost to sight.

  “She’ll stay,” he repeated, certain it was true.

  “Humph.” Sinclair pointed his hat at Daniel. “You really could use some lunch, Cady. You’re white as a sheet. Come have a drink and some decent food. Nothing like a good meal to cure what ails you.”

  Daniel blinked. Outside, the buildings outside passed in a blur, and the clop of the horse’s hooves on cobblestone pounded in his brain. No amou
nt of food or drink was going to cure what ailed him. But it might dull the pain.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. She was alone in the house tonight. He’d been watching for a while and had seen neither hide nor hair of the woman who worked for her, no smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, no lights at all in the rear of the house. Just her alone.

  Frank, my boy, this is going to be as easy as rolling off a log.

  He stubbed out his cigar—his final one, come to think of it, but there’d be cigars by the crate once he found that stash of nuggets—took a look around and, satisfied everything was quiet, hoisted himself over the rear fence. Wiping his hands, he grinned up at the upstairs bedroom light shining through cracks in the blinds. Downstairs, all was in darkness. Easy pickings.

  From his pants pocket, Frank fished out a brand-new lock pick. He’d lost his old pick in his rush to exit the house last time. He could lose this one and it wouldn’t matter, because he wasn’t planning on coming back. With his empty hand, he patted the gun tucked into his pants. He’d sold his pocket watch to buy himself a new revolver, in case she came armed again. Frank chuckled. Her little pistol was no match for his Smith & Wesson.

  A smirk firmly planted on his face and a rapping amount of confidence puffing his chest, he started across the darkening and empty garden.

  Twenty-Six

  The house was quiet; Rufus ensconced at the foot of the bed; the case clock chiming eleven. Sarah tucked her feet beneath her on her bedroom chair, a book on her lap, as the silence descended like a thick blanket of damp wool. She was worn out, wrung dry of the tears she’d shed today, but couldn’t sleep. With few days left to enjoy the house, she didn’t want to miss a minute spent beneath its roof.

  “What a morose creature I’ve become,” she said to Rufus, who flicked an ear but didn’t lift an eyelid.

  When she’d come home from the courthouse, she had decided to take leave of all the small treasures that would no longer be hers to enjoy, the tabby following her around until he’d grown bored. She’d listened to the sweet chime of the delicate china mantel clock that was so out of character with Josiah’s often gruff demeanor. Examined the painting of the bay that hung in the study. Weighed in her palm his glass paperweight with the tiny fleck of gold at its center, a minute sparkle that Josiah had claimed was the first bit of gold he’d panned. Thumbed through his books. Inhaled the scent of his Spanish cedar cigar box.

  She had saved the garden for last, waiting until after her dinner of sliced ham sandwiches to say good-bye to the marble cherub, to the Rêve d’Or roses. She’d been tempted to take the garden shears to every one of the lilies and lop off their heads. Daniel Cady probably wouldn’t even discover Sarah’s trivial act of revenge; once Sarah had moved out of the house, she suspected Daniel would be too busy totting up the value of the items Josiah had left behind to stroll around the garden and take notice. Sarah just hoped there would be space in her future lodgings for her oil portrait of Josiah. She wouldn’t leave him behind to a son who had no love for his father.

  The candle on the bedside table flickered in a sudden draft. It was growing late. She should go to sleep and get some rest.

  Setting down her book, she threw back the soft cotton sheet on her bed, disturbing Rufus, who jumped down with a protesting mewl. Sarah pondered if Daniel would miss a set of bed linens. Or two.

  She had just removed her robe and stepped out of her slippers when a noise alerted her. “Ah Mong?”

  But Ah Mong wouldn’t be creeping around, stealthily creaking floorboards in the dining room. Her heart pounded. Through the bedroom doorway, she could see a faint glow of light reflected up the staircase. Whoever was inside had the audacity to light one of the lanterns.

  What could she do? If she poked her head out the bedroom window and screamed, who would hear her? No one lived behind her, because the house in back wasn’t finished yet, and Mrs. Brentwood, for all her nosiness, wasn’t the sort to come to the aid of a shrieking woman. By the time Mr. Malagisi responded, it would be too late.

  She wished she hadn’t given back Mrs. Brentwood’s pistol. Wished that Ah Mong and his brother—and Daniel—were standing guard tonight. But they weren’t. And she was alone.

  Sarah grabbed her robe off the end of the bed and shrugged it on. The light in the stairwell had disappeared, suggesting the intruder had ventured into the parlor. She tiptoed down the hallway into her work studio, which lay directly above the room. Crouching down, she pressed an ear to the iron register covering the vent between the floors. She could hear the scraping of furniture across the floor near the front bay window. If he moved closer, she might be able to see him. But who was it? The burglar couldn’t be back; Officer Hanson had thrown him in jail.

  She straightened. She couldn’t continue to hide upstairs. The man would come looking eventually. It was better to go and meet him on her terms.

  Dear Lord.

  In the parlor, a piece of furniture crashed to the floor, startling her into action. As Sarah retied her robe, she made certain the red silk hem was high off the ground and out from under her feet, in case she needed to run. Rushing back to her room, she snatched up the heaviest thing she could find—a silver-plated candlestick—and headed down the steps, her slippers slapping against the carpet runner, the sound barely audible above the thump of blood in her ears.

  Archibald Jackson might not have been able to induce him to drink, but guilt was doing a mighty fine job.

  Daniel, slouched in the most secluded chair in the deepest corner of the Occidental Hotel’s main public parlor, listened sourly to the happy chatter of guests descending the marble staircase to the ground floor on their way to the theater and other pleasures, and swirled the amber alcohol in his glass. He wished every one of them an amusing evening. His own festivities had extended well past the lunch he’d shared with Sinclair, landed him in the Occidental’s parlor where the drinks appeared to be endless and he had decided to partake. Freely. Tomorrow, he would pay the price.

  Sober up, Daniel, and go and talk to her. Ask her what she felt for that man. That French fellow. Do what you’ve wanted to do since she turned you away at her shop. Ask her if she cared for him.

  Cared for you.

  “Want another, Mr. Cady?” From out of seemingly nowhere, Red had appeared.

  Daniel glanced down at his glass, one-quarter full. He didn’t want another drop.

  “I want to send a telegram,” he said, handing Red the glass. He was overdue in informing his sisters of the outcome of the hearing. He’d delayed that as much as he’d delayed talking to Sarah.

  “The office is closed for the evening, sir. But I can bring you a form and see that it’s sent first thing in the morning.”

  “Then that’s what I want you to do.”

  Red scurried off, passing Archibald Jackson strolling through the lounge.

  “Well, lookie here.” Jackson dropped into a chair at Daniel’s left. “Having a few drinks to celebrate your success? You should buy me one. Doran would’ve given her more if my little story hadn’t come out.”

  “Why are you here? You can’t be looking for money from me, now that you’ve published that rot.” Daniel’s head started to throb. “So go away.”

  “I’m dismayed you didn’t like it, Mr. Cady. ‘A Cautionary Tale of Greed and Immorality.’ My editor was impressed.” He grinned. “Miss Whittier didn’t try to defend herself this morning, which makes her guilty as charged in my book. You should be thanking me that I saved you and your inheritance from her thieving clutches.”

  “Jackson.” Daniel sat up straight. “If you don’t leave right now I’m going to turn your head into pulp.”

  Jackson snorted. “That’s a good one, Mr. Cady. You’re so drunk, you couldn’t see a hole in a ladder. You’re not about to turn anyone’s head into pulp.”

  “Want to test me?”

  “You are feeling sorry for her, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “If you think she’s been treated unfairly, why not go
over there and ask her again about those nuggets? Bet she didn’t beg the judge for a larger share of Josiah Cady’s estate because she’s got them to fall back on. Her little stash of gold.”

  Daniel stood, the room seesawing for a moment then righting itself. “I’ll do that, Jackson, and prove you wrong.”

  The secretary lay knocked to the ground, its entire contents scattered at the man’s feet. He spun around to face her, stepping on the leather-cased calendar Sarah kept in the top drawer and had yet to pack away, bending the cover. The lantern, which he’d set on the center table, lit his face, his expression as wild as his disheveled muddy-blond hair.

  Sarah gasped, confused. He spun about at the sound. “You’re in jail,” she insisted. But he wasn’t in jail. He was back.

  “Where is it?”

  In his search, he’d overturned Josiah’s armchair, the horsehair stuffing leaking through a tear in the underside. The settee was pulled away from the wall, its cushions tumbled onto the floor, and sections of wallpaper had been peeled off to look for hidden compartments, she presumed.

  “You already know there’s nothing in here—you searched the room last time.” Sarah didn’t move from the doorway where she could see him and both doors out of the house. The possibility of fleeing gave her a measure of comfort all out of proportion to the reality of the situation. She didn’t miss how he rubbed his hand against his side where a gun-sized bump bulged his overcoat. Any second now he’d pull it out. She hugged the candlestick against her chest. “So get out of here.”

  He eyed the candlestick and chuckled. What a feeble weapon it made against a man of his size. “Thinking to scare me off with that?”

  “There are no gold nuggets, no cash anywhere in the house.”

  “And what if I said I don’t believe you?” He kicked the books and papers aside and lumbered across the room. He drew close, almost treading on her toes. He stank as though he’d slept in a gutter after dropping a full bottle of liquor on his coat. “Annie always claimed you were decent and I’m disappointed yer lyin’ to me.”