Murder on Amsterdam Avenue

by Victoria Thompson

  “So it was in Hannah’s best interest to keep the secret,” Malloy said.

  “But she wasn’t going to have a child by him, which is why she made him sleep in the dressing room,” Sarah said.

  “And if she couldn’t divorce him, and she couldn’t stay married to him,” Maeve said, “her only choice was to murder him.”

  They all sat silent for a long moment. Sarah saw her own doubts reflected on their faces. “But she doesn’t act like a killer.”

  “How does a killer act?” Maeve asked.

  “Guilty, if you’re lucky,” Malloy said. “Or nervous or maybe they’re too helpful.”

  “And they usually don’t ask questions about what happened because they already know,” Gino told her with the gentle patience of a young man trying to impress a girl without making her feel stupid.

  “Did Hannah ask questions?” Maeve asked Sarah.

  “Yes, she did. Not as many as I expected, but I think she just didn’t really care about all the details. Charles was dead and she was a respectable widow, which is all that mattered to her.”

  “Maybe she’s one of those people who don’t feel any guilt,” Malloy said.

  “That might be true. She’s not a very nice person,” Sarah said. “I’m sure of that, at least, and I have to admit, I’d really like for her to be the killer.”

  “And if she isn’t, who is?” Gino asked no one in particular.

  No one in particular had an answer for him.

  “I was sure it was Daisy who killed Charles,” Malloy said. “Even before we heard the story about her being a slave.”

  “She still could be the killer,” Sarah conceded. “And if the story about Jenny is true, then Daisy had an even better reason to want revenge for being left behind.”

  “That’s right,” Maeve said. “If Jenny really had been her mistress, then Daisy wouldn’t expect Jenny to take her North, but if Jenny was a slave girl, too, and they’d somehow passed her off as white . . .”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. “And Daisy could have been furious all these years and finally gotten her revenge on her sister.”

  “And then Jenny would have killed her in a revenge of her own,” Malloy said.

  Sarah sighed. “I told you I didn’t think Jenny was the killer, but I could be wrong. It’s happened before.”

  “How did she act that made you think she was innocent, Mrs. Brandt?” Gino asked.

  “She asked questions. She . . .”

  “What is it?” Malloy asked when she didn’t finish her thought.

  “I just realized her reactions were a little odd. She didn’t act guilty, which is why I didn’t think about it before, but now that I look back, she was acting like she . . . like she knew something I didn’t.”

  Malloy frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. She didn’t seem upset or angry or even horrified when I told her about the poisoned candy. And I’d swear that she had no idea the candy box she saw me with had any connection at all to the killings until I told her.”

  “And if she did, why would she admit that she had one like it?” Gino asked.

  “Because her husband might’ve told someone he gave her one,” Maeve said, not nearly as kind about contradicting Gino as he’d been about explaining to her. “And if she poisoned the candy, she would never have used her own candy box for it, which is why she admitted she had one and got it to show Mrs. Brandt. That could be her way of proving she had nothing to do with it.”

  “So you think Jenny used Hannah’s candy box?” Sarah asked.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Hannah said she’d thrown her box away,” Sarah said.

  Maeve shook her head. “If it was as pretty as you say, somebody would’ve saved it, one of the servants maybe, and Jenny could’ve found it.”

  “You’re all forgetting one thing, though,” Malloy said. “If Jenny killed Daisy, it was because she thought Daisy killed Charles, but if Daisy killed Charles, who washed out his flask to hide the evidence?”

  That stumped them all for a few seconds.

  “If only you could’ve found out who bought the arsenic,” Maeve said to Gino.

  “I can keep looking, but none of the druggists within two miles of the house have any record of it,” Gino said with a sigh.

  “Zeller must have been the one who washed out the flask,” Sarah said, trying to get them back on track. “He just forgot he did it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Malloy said. “He was much too disturbed by the water spots.”

  “What water spots?” Sarah asked.

  “Whoever washed the flask didn’t dry it properly and polish it up, the way Zeller would have done. It left spots on the silver. That person also put the cap back on crooked, so Zeller could hardly get it off again without ruining the threads.”

  “It had a screw-on top?” Gino asked, obviously impressed.

  “And it was engraved with Charles’s monogram. Gerald said his grandmother gave it to him for his birthday.”

  “That’s terrible,” Sarah said. “Imagine knowing that someone used your gift to kill your grandson.”

  “Gerald asked me not to tell her.”

  “I just hope we can keep it a secret,” Sarah said.

  “But we still don’t know who washed it out,” Maeve reminded them.

  “The killer,” Gino said. “It had to be.”

  “And it still could have been Daisy,” Sarah said. “Charles died Monday evening, and Daisy didn’t die until Sunday afternoon, almost a week later.”

  “That was plenty of time to wash it,” Maeve said. “She knew exactly where it was, too, because she’d used it the night Charles died.”

  Malloy shook his head. “Zeller drank out of it yesterday, and he was sick overnight. So he probably drank what was left of the whiskey that poisoned Charles. He said just a mouthful was left, and he swears he didn’t wash it out after he’d drunk out of it either. He figured if someone else wanted to use it sometime, they’d just put whiskey in it again, so why bother?”

  “That’s a man for you,” Maeve said to Sarah, earning a grin.

  “But it was probably a woman who washed out the flask,” Gino said.

  “Yes, either Jenny or Hannah,” Sarah agreed. “But why wait until now to do it? The earliest they could have done it was . . . When did Zeller say he’d drunk out of the flask?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Where had it been all this time?”

  “In the pocket of Charles’s jacket, I guess.”

  “And where had the jacket been?”

  “I didn’t ask Zeller that.”

  “That’s a man for you,” Maeve said again, earning a glare from Malloy and another grin from Sarah.

  “We need to find out,” Sarah said. “And find out who knew Zeller had found the flask and put it away.”

  “Hannah would’ve known,” Maeve said. “It was practically in her bedroom, and surely she knew Zeller had been in there. Then the next day she decides to move back into her parents’ house. That sounds suspicious to me.”

  “So we’re back to Hannah,” Frank said.

  “Jenny could have known, too,” Gino said. “Maybe Zeller told her he’d put Charles’s things away.”

  “And it’s her house. Nobody would’ve wondered why she was messing with Charles’s things,” Maeve said. “Maybe she just went looking for it and found it after Zeller put it away.”

  “So we have to go back there tomorrow and talk to Zeller,” Malloy said. “We need to get there early, before Hannah has a chance to get away.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “I think if we can get the answers to our questions, we’ll know who the killer is.”

  “What will you do then?” Maeve asked Malloy.

  “Just what I promised Ge
rald Oakes I would do. I’m going to tell him. Then he’ll have to decide if he wants to destroy what’s left of his family.”

  • • •

  Maeve and Gino had argued long and hard for the right to accompany Frank and Sarah the next morning, but in the end, they’d stayed behind. Maeve had grudgingly agreed to supervise the workmen again, while Gino headed back out to revisit the druggists he’d already seen and ask them new questions.

  Frank and Sarah had ridden the crowed El uptown and been admitted to the Oakes home by a grim-faced Patsy.

  “Who would you like to see this morning, sir?” she asked Frank.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Charles is leaving us.”

  “And that makes you sad?” Sarah asked. Frank thought she sounded a little skeptical.

  “Oh no, ma’am, but it . . . Well, it reminds me that Mr. Charles is never coming back. That makes me sad to think on.”

  “Of course it does,” Sarah said. “Is she leaving right now?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. She’s not even up yet. None of the family is. Maybe you could come back later.”

  “That’s all right. We wanted to talk to Zeller first anyway,” Frank said. “I assume he’s up.”

  “Yes, sir, although he’s still feeling a little poorly.”

  “I can go up to his room if that’s easier for him.”

  “Oh no, sir, he wouldn’t think that was proper at all, I’m sure. I’ll take you to the parlor and he’ll come down to you.”

  Frank wandered around the parlor while they waited, examining all the bric-a-brac that covered every square inch of every tabletop in the room. “Where do people get all this stuff?”

  Sarah smiled at him from where she sat on the sofa. “They collect it. We’ll do that when we’re on our honeymoon.”

  “We will?”

  “Yes, Europe is full of things for Americans to buy and ship back home. Really rich Americans have had whole castles dismantled and brought to America.”

  “That’s insane.”

  Sarah’s smile told him she thought so, too, which was one reason why he loved her. “But we’ll probably find some furniture we like, and some artwork.”

  “Can’t we buy furniture here?”

  “Yes, but it would be American furniture.”

  Frank wasn’t sure he’d know the difference. “Do we really need artwork?”

  “I’m afraid we do. Our heirs will cherish it.”

  “Catherine and Brian?” he asked doubtfully.

  “You might be surprised.”

  He would be very surprised, he thought, gazing up at a piece of artwork hanging on the wall. Why did anyone need a picture of people from ancient Rome in their parlor? People they didn’t even know.

  A tap on the door told them Zeller had arrived. He stepped into the room and gave them a curt nod before closing the door behind him.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Brandt, Mr. Malloy.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Sarah asked

  Frank knew it wasn’t just a courtesy. The man looked awful, pale and haggard, as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he had.

  “I’m better, thank you. Patsy said you wanted to speak with me.”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Please, sit down.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir.” He stiffened his spine and lifted his chin, as if he could defy his illness by force of will. Maybe he could.

  “We’ll be as quick as we can then,” Frank said, glancing at Sarah. She nodded. “Zeller, you said you put Charles’s flask away in his dressing room the day before yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir, that is correct.”

  “Where had it been in the meantime?”

  Zeller frowned. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

  “We’ve figured out that whoever poisoned Charles put the arsenic in his flask. He’d drunk out of it on Monday while he was away from home, which is what made him sick again that day. Daisy was looking after him, and she must have given him another drink from his flask—”

  “—or poured some in the milk Patsy had brought up for him,” Sarah added.

  “And that’s what finally killed him.”

  Zeller flinched at that, and whatever color had remained in his face drained completely away. Frank caught him when he swayed and led him over to a chair.

  “This is most improper,” he protested when Frank made him sit down.

  “It’s more proper than falling on your face,” Frank said.

  Sarah was already up and she poured a small amount of whiskey into a glass for him. He protested that, too, but Sarah pressed it to his lips and made him drink it. Then he tried to rise again, but Frank clapped a hand on his shoulder and held him in place.

  He looked up at them with pain-filled eyes. “Daisy didn’t do it on purpose. She couldn’t have known about the poison.”

  “We don’t think she did,” Sarah said, which wasn’t exactly the truth.

  “Now where was the flask from the night Charles died until you put it away?” Frank asked.

  “In Daisy’s room.”

  Frank exchanged a puzzled look with Sarah.

  “Why was the flask in her room?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t. I mean . . . It was in the pocket of Mr. Charles’s suit jacket. After she . . . Well, I didn’t trust the other girls to go through her things, so I did that myself. I found the jacket there. I couldn’t imagine why she’d taken it to her room, but then I noticed one of the buttons was loose. She’d probably taken it to mend, and then . . . Well, I can’t know for certain, of course, but I imagine she realized there was no reason to mend it with him dead, so . . . You have to understand how much she loved him.”

  “Loved him?” Frank echoed incredulously.

  “He was her nephew, you understand. She’d lost everyone she’d ever loved, so when she found him and he was such a kind young man . . .”

  Frank glanced at Sarah and saw his own confusion mirrored on her face.

  “Zeller,” she said gently, “Was Daisy bitter about the way her sister had left her behind all those years ago?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure you’d say she was bitter. They were both so young, and from what Daisy told me, Mrs. Gerald had promised to send for her. Neither one of them knew how hard that would be, with the war and then after, with things so unsettled. Daisy had gone with the Union army, and Mrs. Gerald wouldn’t’ve had any idea where to look for her after the war was over. Then when Daisy came to the city and she had so much trouble finding Mrs. Gerald . . . Well, I think she understood.”

  “Was Mrs. Gerald happy to see her?” Sarah asked.

  “I think she was,” Zeller said. “I’ll never forget that first day Daisy came here, asking to see Mrs. Oakes. Patsy came to get me, to ask if she really should tell Mrs. Gerald that some colored woman was here claiming to know her from back in Georgia. Mrs. Gerald was surprised, as you can imagine, but when she saw Daisy, she threw her arms around her, and they both started crying. She sent me out right away, but they sat together for hours. When she finally rang for me again, she told me Daisy would be staying and she’d be Mrs. Gerald’s personal maid.”

  Just because Jenny was glad to see Daisy didn’t mean Daisy didn’t want revenge, Frank thought, but he could see this cleared both women in Sarah’s mind. They hadn’t gotten all the information they needed from Zeller, though.

  “So when you found the suit jacket in Daisy’s room, with the flask in the pocket . . . ?”

  “Yes. That’s when I was feeling so low, thinking about Mr. Charles and now Daisy, and when I found the flask, I thought I’d drink a little toast to them or something.”

  “You’re lucky there was only a little bit left.”

  Zeller nodded forlornly.

  “Zeller,” Sarah said, �
�who knew you’d found Charles’s flask?”

  “What do you mean, who knew?”

  “Someone washed it out after you’d put it back in his dressing room,” Frank said. “Probably the same person who put the poison in it in the first place.”

  “And the killer wouldn’t have known where it was from the night Charles died until you found it in Daisy’s room,” Sarah said, her arched eyebrow silently reminding him that if Daisy had been the killer, she would have washed the flask out at once since she was the only one who knew where it was. “Who knew you’d found it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I don’t remember mentioning it to anyone. Who would care?”

  “The killer,” Frank said. “Was Mrs. Charles in her bedroom when you put the jacket away?”

  “No, of course not. I would never have disturbed her.”

  “And you didn’t mention that you’d been in there?”

  “No, although . . . I did ask Mr. Gerald if I should see about packing away Mr. Charles’s things. I didn’t know Mrs. Charles would be leaving, you see, and I thought it might distress her to see them still there.”

  “What did he say?” Sarah asked.

  “He said to wait awhile. He said Mrs. Gerald might want to go through his things, and she wasn’t ready to do that just yet.”

  “Did any of the servants know you’d put the flask back in his room?” Sarah asked. Frank could hear the urgency in her tone. Someone must have known because the killer found out somehow.

  “I don’t know why they would, but maybe . . . I’ll ask them.”

  Frank was thinking he’d ask them himself when the parlor door opened and Gerald Oakes walked in. He seemed older than he had yesterday, as if his son’s death was aging him years with each day that passed.

  Zeller jumped to his feet, horrified at being caught sitting in the presence of guests. He started sputtering an apology, but Gerald waved it away. “Do you have any news for me, Malloy?”

  “Not yet,” Frank said. He didn’t add that the more information they collected, the farther from a solution they seemed to get.

  “How is your wife doing?” Sarah asked.

  “I have no idea. She retired to her room last evening, and I haven’t seen her since.”