Mr. Ruiz smiled. “I see that I have touched upon a tender nerve, señorita. So you have heard of the man.”
“Yes, Mr. Ruiz, I have.” Of course Kearney would be against any project proposed by a Mexican, I thought, although his opposition would have nothing to do with the poor animals that would be killed in the man’s bullring. “However, I believe you will find that Mr. Kearney is no longer the political force he was in the seventies.”
“Ah, but there you would be surprised,” he said, seemingly pleased to have an opportunity to further my political education. “Mr. Kearney may not wield the same power that he did during the past decade, that is true. But I assure you that he remains active behind the political scene. He still has the ability to inflame men against members of what he considers to be inferior races.” His face hardened. “Even people who held land in California for a great many years before he entered this country. Long ago, my father purchased thousands of acres of land in southern California. As it happened, he also came into possession of a more modest holding here in your fair city. It is upon this land that I will erect my grand corrida de toros. I assure you, I will not permit Denis Kearney to obstruct my plans.”
I was at a loss for words. What Ruiz said was true. Kearney was a bigot who had been responsible for a great deal of anger and dissension in the city. However, despite my dislike for the man, Ruiz was mistaken if he thought that Kearney’s opposition would be sufficient incentive for me to support his project.
“I’m sorry to hear that Mr. Kearney is continuing to cause trouble, Señor Ruiz. Despite that, it’s impossible for me to muster sympathy for an arena which will be dedicated to the slaughter of defenseless animals.”
My visitor scoffed. “That is utter nonsense, a rank debasement of our national sport. You eat meat, do you not, señorita? Do you imagine that the cows and pigs that provide you with their flesh obligingly hop onto the butcher’s block when you or your countrymen desire a steak or pork chops? Of course not. All over the world animals are slaughtered for food, many of them far more painfully than are our bulls.”
“That may be true, but they are not slaughtered to provide entertainment for a crowd of bloodthirsty spectators,” I retorted. “And I would hardly call it ‘sport’ when the poor bull has no chance to survive, but is doomed to a painful death before he ever enters the ring.”
“But señorita, you miss the point. Corrida de toros has been an honored tradition in Mexico for over three hundred and fifty years. In Spain, it has flourished for thousands of years. It is part of our culture, a graceful ballet, a dance with death, if you will, measuring the courage and heart of the matador.”
“I very much doubt that the bulls enjoy their role in the dance, señor,” I replied. “Quite frankly, it—”
I was interrupted when my office door flew open and Robert stepped into the room, as usual without bothering to knock. He stopped short at the sight of my visitors.
“What in blazes?” he exclaimed as Ruiz’s two companions moved in to flank him on either side. “Sarah—Miss Woolson, who are these men?”
At my colleague’s abrupt entrance, I had risen from my chair. “Mr. Campbell, this is Señor Ricardo Ruiz. Señor Ruiz, may I present Mr. Robert Campbell, who is also an attorney. I cannot introduce Señor Ruiz’s friends, since I have not been told their names. But that hardly matters since they were all about to leave.”
To my surprise, Ruiz did not stand as I performed these introductions. Taking note of this, Robert turned to me as if seeking an explanation for such rude behavior. Finally, almost languidly, Ruiz rose from his chair and reached out his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Campbell,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Señor Ruiz,” Robert replied, barely returning the handshake. He regarded the Mexican suspiciously, obviously sensing the tension in the room but not comprehending its meaning.
“We will take our leave, Señorita Woolson,” Ruiz said. Without warning, he took my hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes never left mine as he executed a formal bow and leisurely kissed my fingers. Even when he straightened, he did not release my hand until I pulled it free with a little tug. “Ah, yes, you are far too encantadora to make your way in a man’s world, señorita. I beg you to consider carefully the matter we discussed.”
“And what matter is that?” Robert demanded, glaring at the man. “What business do you have with Miss Woolson? Legitimate business, that is.”
“Please, Robert, it’s nothing,” I told him, anxious to have Ruiz and his companions out of my office before my colleague exploded.
Ruiz gave me an unperturbed smile, donned his hat, and started for the door. “Until we meet again, señorita.”
Robert opened his mouth to respond to this remark, but I poked him in the side with my elbow. By the time he finished glaring at me, Ruiz and his two compañeros were out the door, closing it sharply behind them.
“What in God’s name was that all about?” he demanded, appearing all too ready to follow the men out onto the street. “That Ruiz fellow was damnably rude!”
“Do calm down, Robert,” I told him, walking around the desk to collect my cloak. “Is Eddie outside? If so, we should leave for the hospital. I promised him he could see Samuel this evening.”
“But that loutish man was—I mean, he seemed to be devouring you with his—” He sputtered to a stop, either unwilling or unable to find words to express his feelings. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the way he was looking at you!”
“It was all a ploy to get me to support his bullring, that’s all,” I said, deliberately making light of what I, too, considered boorish behavior. “And it failed to work, so there’s an end to it.”
He looked at me in surprise, then laughed. “That’s the man with the ridiculous plan to build a bullfighting arena in the city? Ha! Then he truly is a fool.”
“It may be a foolish idea,” I agreed, “but according to Mr. and Mrs. Dinwitty, City Hall is close to allowing the construction to go forward. Come, let’s not keep Eddie waiting.”
* * *
Robert, Eddie, and I spent a pleasant hour visiting with Samuel in his hospital room, Mama and Celia having left several hours earlier. I was greatly relieved to see Samuel able to sit up in bed, at least for a short time. Most heartening of all, his color was vastly improved.
Eddie spent the first few minutes peppering my poor brother with questions about the shooting, then tried to disguise his disappointment when Samuel could remember virtually nothing of the incident.
“It happened so fast,” I told the boy. “Even I’ve had difficulty recalling every detail. That sometimes happens when people witness a violent event.”
“But you remember everything, Miss Sarah,” he said, looking at me with an expression that indicated I had let him down. “Mr. Campbell here says you got a mind like a steel trap.”
Robert cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Have you heard if they’ve made any progress on the case, Samuel?” he said in an obvious attempt to get the conversation back on track.
“George was here this afternoon,” Samuel said in a weak voice, and I could see that he was still having difficulty catching his breath. He smiled at Eddie. “He quizzed me about what happened that night, too. But I couldn’t tell him anything more than I’ve told you.”
“I sure hope they catch the feller what done this to you, Mr. Samuel,” Eddie said, his thin face pinched in anger. “That rounder is savage as a meat ax. It just ain’t right fer him to get away with such a damned awful thing!”
“Eddie!” I exclaimed. Despite the circumstances, I could not sit idly by and tolerate this sort of language.
“That’s all right, Sarah,” Samuel said, smiling at the boy. “He’s upset for my sake, and I’m grateful to have such a loyal friend.”
“We’re all upset, Samuel,” I said, unable to allow the matter to pass without a correction. After all, we three had set ourselves the task of educating the boy
for the betterment of his future. “Yet that doesn’t mean we can completely ignore propriety.”
I heard approaching footsteps and turned to see my brother Charles enter the room. I was startled to note how tired he looked, and deflated, as if it had been a particularly difficult day. He set down his medical bag and went to stand by Samuel’s bed.
“How is our prize patient?” he said, giving his younger brother a smile. “You’re sitting up, that’s a good sign.”
Samuel returned the smile. “I’m doing much better. In fact, I’m eager to leave this place and return home. They’re good to me, but I long for my own bed and especially Cook’s food. The meals here are awful.”
“I’ve just spoken to Dr. Ludlum,” Charles told him. “He says that if you continue to improve, and there’s no sign of infection, he might release you in two or three days.”
Samuel groaned. “But I have a perfectly good doctor in my own home. You! And I can’t think of two better nurses than Mama and Celia.”
Charles passed a hand over his brow, then sank wearily onto the chair that Robert had vacated at his arrival. “Perhaps,” he promised. “We’ll see how you’re doing in the morning.”
I regarded my elder brother with concern. “Charles, what’s the matter? You looked exhausted.”
He regarded me sadly. “I lost a patient this afternoon, on Telegraph Hill, actually. I think you and Samuel met her, Sarah, at Mr. Remy’s house. Young Mrs. Dunn died in childbirth. The midwife waited too long to call me in, and when I got there it was too late.”
“Mrs. Dunn?” I said, stunned. “You mean Lucy Dunn?”
He nodded.
“And the baby?”
“A healthy boy,” Charles said, this time with a genuine smile. “Although how that worthless husband of hers is going to raise the child on his own is anybody’s guess.”
CHAPTER SIX
Two days later, Samuel was allowed to come home from the hospital. Since Papa’s study was located on the ground floor and within convenient proximity to the family, Mama, Celia, and I converted it into a temporary sickroom. There, the patient was settled into a daybed and supplied with books, newspapers, hearty soup, tea, and a variety of sweets from Cook’s kitchen. Although he was being more than adequately cared for by a doting staff, Mama hovered over him like a maternal angel, ministering to his every need, whether real or imagined.
After two days of this, my brother took advantage of a few minutes we shared alone late the next evening to beg me to get Mama out of the house, if only for the afternoon.
“She’s smothering me, Sarah,” he said. “She bathes my wounds and changes the bandages so often, I fear I’ll have no skin left to heal. When I try to read, she offers to read to me, then as often as not complains about my selection of reading material. I am then brought the Bible, along with some miracle potion a friend has recommended. My pillows have been poked and fluffed so many times it’s a wonder there are any feathers left in them. Please, little sister,” he begged, “I’ve got to get some rest.”
Since I, too, had been laid up with an injury some months before, which resulted in my being subjected to my mother’s untiring ministrations, I sympathized with my poor brother. Mama belonged to the school of nursing that dictated a patient be under constant supervision, preserved from drafts, filled with food and wholesome, if unsavory, liquids, and not permitted to strain his eyes lest it unsettle the body humors. Charles had more than once attempted to convince her that there was little validity in this ancient theory, which held that sickness resulted from a disproportion of the four body humors—blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, and although she was careful to assign the affliction alternate names, her treatment remained unchanged. It made for an exhausting recovery.
After promising Samuel to do my best, I had a quiet talk with Celia, and the following morning we put together a couple of baskets that we planned to take to Claude Dunn and his new baby son on Telegraph Hill. The hamper was filled with infant robes, bonnets, soft cloths, and various creams and lotions, as well as some mutton, cooked vegetables, and a loaf of bread, compliments of our sympathetic cook. As part of the conspiracy, we said nothing to Mama, only ensuring she would be in the general vicinity of the foyer when we collected our coats and set out on our errand of mercy.
I must admit that I fostered ulterior motives for suggesting that we perform this duty. I had not, you see, given up on my vow to uncover the coward who had shot my brother. If anything, my resolve had grown stronger with each day I was forced to watch Samuel languish helplessly in his bed, suffering pain that his pride would not permit him to acknowledge. The best place to start my investigation, of course, was at the scene of the crime: Telegraph Hill. Ignoring any pangs of conscience, I vowed to use any excuse that came to hand in order to facilitate this scrutiny, including Lucy Dunn’s tragic death.
Our plan to involve Mama in this effort worked to perfection. On her way to deliver yet another foul-smelling concoction to the sickroom, she spied our butler, Edis, helping us out the front door with our hampers. When we explained the nature of our mission, she turned Samuel’s miracle potion over to our maid, Ina Corks, to deliver, quickly donned her own coat and gloves, and set off with us for Telegraph Hill.
Neither of my companions voiced a complaint about the steep wooden stairs leading up the side of the hill. At least it was daylight, I thought, which made the trek much easier than it had been the night of Remy’s get-together. But I truly believed that both my mother and my sister-in-law would walk through a blizzard, if necessary, to help someone in need.
When we reached the Dunn house, we were invited inside by Isabel Freiberg, the young woman I had seen with her father at Mortimer Remy’s house. She informed us that she was caring for little Billy, Lucy Dunn’s baby son, while his father was at his desk in the back room, attempting to write a story for one of the local newspapers. I introduced my mother and sister-in-law, who passed over the baskets we had prepared for the widower and his motherless baby.
“That is exceedingly kind of you,” the young woman told us, gratefully accepting our offering. “Especially the food you’ve brought for Mr. Dunn’s dinner tonight. I must return to my own home in a few minutes, as I have piano lessons planned for this afternoon, and there is very little to eat in this house. One of the neighbors has been bringing over meals when she can, but this will be most welcome.”
She looked about the sad, poorly furnished cottage, bare of any real comforts except a worn wooden table and two straight chairs. There was a fireplace, but it contained only one log of any size, surrounded by a collection of twigs and branches. And despite the coolness of the day, it was unlit.
For the first time, I noticed a cradle had been placed beside the hearth. Walking closer, Mama, Celia, and I peered inside to see a tiny face, eyes screwed shut in sleep, snugly wrapped inside several hand-sewn coverings. The cradle had been decorated using the simplest of materials, with a small yellow bow fastened neatly at its head. My eyes filled with unexpected tears. I wondered if poor Lucy Dunn had been able to hold, or even see, her baby before she’d succumbed to one of the many perils of childbirth. I heard my mother sniff and saw that both she and Celia were also crying. How could one not at such a heartrending sight?
At least the infant had survived, I told myself, trying to find even the shadow of a rainbow at such a dark time. True, Claude Dunn had lost his young wife, but having a healthy son should bring the widower some degree of comfort.
I half expected to find Lucy Dunn’s body prepared and laid out, awaiting her funeral, as was the usual custom for a family of humble means. To my surprise, Miss Freiberg informed me that Mrs. Katherine Montgomery, the elderly widow who lived in the big house atop the hill, was assuming responsibility for the funeral expenses. Lucy had been taken to a local mortuary and would be laid to rest the following morning.
“That was most kind of her,” Mama said, using her lace handkerchief to dab away t
ears that had appeared on her cheeks. “But what is to become of the baby? How are you feeding him now that his mother is … is gone?”
“A neighbor, Mrs. Sullivan, has generously volunteered to wet-nurse him along with her own baby,” Isabel Freiberg told us. “Her fifth. It’s just a temporary arrangement since she and her husband are moving to Los Angeles next month, but it will give the poor little tyke a good start. After that … well, I have heard that hand feeding by sucking bottle has been much improved over the past decade. They now come with an artificial nipple made of India rubber, of all things. That may provide a more long-lasting solution.”
Looking down fondly at the peacefully sleeping baby, the young woman pulled on her coat, obviously preparing to return to her home.
“How is poor Mr. Dunn taking this tragic loss?” Celia asked, her lovely face creased with concern. My sister-in-law was a devoted mother to her own three small children, and the thought of a newborn babe deprived of such maternal love obviously broke her tender heart.
Before Isabel could answer, the widower himself joined us in the main room of the cottage. He looked terrible, nothing like the robust, outspoken man I had met the night of Oscar Wilde’s reading. His eyes were red and ringed beneath with dark circles. His strong face was pale and drawn into deep lines of worry. Although I hadn’t been particularly impressed with him the night we’d first met, I couldn’t help feeling a deep pang of sympathy for him now, given his terrible loss. This feeling of sympathy, I am sorry to say, lasted only until the brute opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t tell me you’re leaving, Isabel,” he cried in a voice so loud that it startled and woke the baby. He glanced fearfully at the fussing infant. “You can’t go. What am I to do with—with that?”
Three sets of astonished eyes stared at him. Isabel quickly crossed to the cradle. Bending down, she cooed at the infant, gently rocking the cradle in an effort to soothe him back to sleep.
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 8
