Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  Liam grunted.

  “Walk with me, Mr. Taft?”

  Liam’s eyes crinkled to slits. He was a man of few words. But he followed when Lotario headed for an exit.

  Isobel wasn’t really sleeping, only resting in a fitful daze. Pain made sure of that. But Lotario was uneasy with the idea of a Pinkerton visiting her. Especially after Tim described what had happened at the racetrack.

  “Perhaps I should design an official Ravenwood Agency badge.”

  “Are you planning on expanding the agency?” Liam asked.

  “Time will tell.”

  Lotario stepped outside and took a deep breath of fresh air. The fog washed away the smell of disinfectant and blood, and the feel of sheets that were too crisp. Hospitals brought back too many memories of his own recent shooting and tiresome rehabilitation. Pain. So much of it. But that pain was nothing compared to watching his twin suffer.

  Lotario slipped on his fedora, then straightened his cuffs without looking at the Pinkerton. “Why did you want to speak with Bel?” he asked.

  “Just came to pay my respects.”

  Lotario smiled. “That’s kind of you.”

  The Pinkerton had his hat back on, the brim pulled low over his already hooded eyes.

  “I’ve been there.”

  “Shot?”

  “Several times.”

  “I always find it curious—who lives and who dies. A slip off a stepladder and one fellow’s dead. Another is gut shot, and lives to get shot again.”

  Liam took out his tobacco pouch to roll a cigarette. “It’s not their time yet.”

  “Fate?”

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Liam said, his voice like gravel. “We each have an appointment with our Maker. Some sooner than others.”

  Lotario watched the man’s calloused hands move through the delicate process of rolling the paper. When he was finished, Liam stuck the cigarette between his lips and struck a match on his Levi’s. Fire flared, smoke joined fog, and Liam looked down at Lotario. He was a good foot taller, but Lotario was comfortable with his height.

  “Was there anything left of the stable house?” Lotario asked.

  Liam shook his head.

  “It’s a shame your partner shot Carson. We might have caught his clients.”

  Liam grunted. “Sam said the fellow reached for a weapon. You should have told me you had another agent at the track.”

  “Hmm, it slipped my mind.”

  “That boy has a bounty on his head.”

  “Does he?” Lotario asked in surprise. “How much?”

  Liam didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I read your police report. Not sure I could have cracked those ciphers.”

  “I do love puzzles.”

  The edges of Liam’s mustache twitched. “My wife does, too.”

  “I imagine Mrs. Taft is looking forward to returning home to Oregon?”

  Liam dipped his head. “My investigation seems to be wrapped up.”

  “In a neat little bow.”

  “Did Mrs. Riot learn anything from the Nobles?”

  “Only how to clean a bathtub. Why do you ask?”

  “Sam said he saw Mr. Noble in the private box at the racetrack you mentioned in your report.”

  “She was working an entirely different case. Coincidence, I suppose.”

  Liam squinted down at him. He looked long and hard at Lotario, then extended a hand. Lotario shook it. The man’s skin felt like leather, with a grip like a vice. “Been a pleasure, Mr. Amsel. I wish your sister the best.”

  69

  The Plea

  Getting shot was tedious. So when Isobel was finally cleared to go home (she suspected her mother’s daily visits and her little talks with the staff may have expedited her release), she jumped on the chance even though she wasn’t fully recovered.

  Well, not so much jumped as shuffled.

  “I could carry you,” Riot offered, as they stood at the base of a long stairway. It felt good to be home, but as she gazed up at the daunting number of steps, she wished her room were on the first floor.

  “Don’t you dare.” She’d just take one step at a time.

  Riot was close beside her, an arm wrapped around her waist in case she buckled. Sarah was on her other side, and Jin was standing on top of the first landing with arms crossed, looking displeased.

  Isobel climbed one step, then another. Her legs shook, sweat beading on her brow.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous, Isobel,” her mother snapped. “Let your husband carry you.”

  “I’m not a child, mother,” she shot back.

  Catarina threw up her arms. “Then why are you still so stubborn?”

  Anger flashed through her veins, and she used it to conquer a few more steps. Then stopped to catch her breath. “Because I take after you. Why the hell do I have an audience?”

  “Because you are slow,” Jin said from above.

  “That’s my neta,” Catarina said with pride. “Atticus, just pick her up.”

  “I would not dare pick you up without permission,” Marcus Amsel said.

  “You would,” Catarina accused.

  “The last time I—”

  Catarina shushed him with a sharp gesture. “I’ll have Mr. Hop do it then.”

  That comment nudged Isobel up another step.

  “You could not pay me enough, Mrs. Amsel,” Hop said. “I think this is an excellent lesson for Wu Lei Ching.”

  “My daughter being shot and nearly dying is not to become one of your proverbial stories…” As Catarina and Mr. Hop continued their bickering, Isobel stood panting one step away from the first landing.

  “Would you like to get away from your parents?” Riot whispered in her ear.

  “Please rescue me.”

  Riot shifted his hold, and she sank against his chest with relief as he lifted her easily in his arms. She’d been on the verge of collapse. He carried her up to their room, and set her down by the bed, where she fell, more than sat.

  There’d been an attempt to restore order to their room after the police trashed it. The books were stuffed haphazardly onto shelves; the mattress had been repaired (and was now lumpy); and their clothes had been picked up off the floor and draped over various pieces of furniture.

  Before she could protest, Jin knelt to tug off her shoes, and Sarah opened the curtains to let in light.

  Isobel felt like a doll, too weak to remove her own shoes, and decided fighting over letting others unbutton her clothing was too much effort just now.

  “We’ll bring up a tray,” Sarah said, when they’d settled her under the covers. Jin followed, but not before tucking a blanket under Isobel’s chin.

  “Good Lord, getting shot is humiliating,” she said.

  “Or humbling,” Riot offered, tugging off his collar.

  “Aren’t they the same thing?” Morphine tended to muddle her mind. She thought she could hear a baby crying in the house.

  “Probably,” he admitted. “though I’ve always thought humiliating was from something done to me, while humbling was more a self-realization.”

  “That is far too complicated right now.”

  An hour later Sarah carried in a tray. “Jin is cooking some sort of noodle soup,” she whispered, handing the tray over to Riot. “It will be awhile yet.”

  “Why is Jin cooking?” Isobel asked from the bed.

  “It’s a new hobby of hers,” he said, settling the tray over her lap.

  Their room was quiet save for a crackling fire. It was warm and familiar. It was home. After weeks of hospital food, Isobel was looking forward to Miss Lily’s culinary talents. She took a sip of broth, then coughed, spitting it back into the bowl.

  “This tastes horrid.”

  “About that…” Riot began.

  Isobel gaped. “Does morphine affect the sense of taste?”

  “No.”

  Isobel grappled with the idea that anything in this house could taste so bad. “Is Miss Lily angry with us for hir
ing Grimm? I told Lotario—”

  “She’s gone.”

  “On holiday?”

  “I’m afraid not, Bel.”

  The world swayed. Everything felt surreal. She’d been in the hospital close to a month; why hadn’t Riot told her?

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “The White family is gone. They left the night you were shot, only taking what they could carry. A stable contacted Tim to let him know Mrs. May and our hack were in a carriage house. They’d paid for the boarding.”

  The bowl in her lap blurred. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve asked before. I’ve offered my help, but Miss Lily wouldn’t take it. She warned me they might be gone one day. All she would say was the less I knew, the better. And if I didn’t let it rest, I might not like what I stirred up.”

  Isobel stared numbly at her soup, trying to imagine life without the White family—their wit and banter, their warmth and friendship. And Tobias’s boundless curiosity and courage.

  Her heart lurched.

  “I hired a cook, in exchange for room and board. A Miss Shannon. She has a baby named Fiona.”

  Isobel looked up at him. “The woman who saved your life?”

  He nodded. “She’s not much of a cook, though. And I’m afraid the new Mrs. Löfgren has taken it upon herself to mentor Shannon in the culinary arts.”

  Isobel poked at the soup with her spoon. “Is the, uhm… salty fish taste Shannon’s fault or her mentor’s?”

  “Mrs. Löfgren is Swedish.”

  Isobel laid down her spoon. “That is no excuse for this.”

  “Don’t tell her it tastes bad. Mr. Hop made that mistake, and she burst into tears. Mr. Löfgren said his wife was so mortified she wanted to leave.”

  “And we can’t afford to lose a lodger.” But the look in Riot’s eyes told her that had already happened. “How many left after the police raid?”

  Riot sat on the bed beside her. “Bel, I’ll handle things. Focus on getting your strength back. Heal. That’s all. I’ll deal with the rest of it until you’re better.”

  “You’ve been dealing with all of this for weeks. Along with my injury, it must’ve been… tiresome.”

  “Tiresome?”

  “I’m trying to not be overly dramatic.”

  Words couldn’t express what he felt, so he took her hand and held on tight. “You’re alive.” His voice was raw.

  “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said lightly. But the look in her eyes said something entirely different.

  Isobel untangled her hand from his to run fingers through the wing of white at his temple. He closed his eyes, savoring her touch. She could feel him trembling. Tiresome was definitely not the right word.

  Riot cleared his throat. “On a positive note, the lodgers are eating less food, so our grocery bills have dramatically reduced.”

  She smiled. “Are you handling the finances, too?”

  “Sarah wouldn’t let me near the account books—on strict orders left by Miss Lily. It seems Miss Lily was mentoring her on managing a household.”

  Isobel sighed. “Why is our life such a mess?”

  “According to Mr. Hop, it’s karma for what you put him through as a child.”

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t be involved.”

  “I may have cleaned Hop and your father out during an impromptu poker game at the hospital.”

  Isobel arched a brow.

  “Your father gathered a group of players. He insisted I play.”

  “Did you cheat?”

  “I never cheat, Bel.”

  Isobel wasn’t so sure about that, but she was too tired to argue.

  Riot squeezed her hand. “One thing is certain, whenever we split forces things go badly.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And I’ve been thinking it over…”

  “Good God,” she muttered.

  “I don’t think this is any kind of life for our family.”

  Isobel ignored that comment. “Do you know, I had no idea maids lived such a dangerous life. I freely admit I’m not cut out for that type of work.”

  He gave her a look. “I was referring to detective work.”

  “Oh Lord, Riot. I could slip in the bathtub tomorrow. Your creaky old middle-aged knees could give out on the stairs and you could break your neck. We saved a woman and her child’s life. It wouldn’t matter if you were a plumber. It goes against every bone in your body to turn your back on someone in distress. Besides, I would get bored.”

  “A plumber? Really, Bel?”

  “It’s the morphine talking. It makes me delusional.”

  “And apparently overly dramatic, too.”

  “You cornered me into that,” she accused. “Just remember I got shot working as a maid, not a detective.”

  “And you developed a hump.”

  She glared.

  A knock on the door rescued Riot. He hopped up to open it and found Jin standing outside with a new tray. With a furtive glance out the door, he ushered her inside.

  “I told the salty fish lady I had to cook this soup for a sacred Chinese tradition. I do not know if she will believe me the next time.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Jin’s soup was far, far better. While Isobel was noisily slurping noodles, Jin pulled Riot to the side. “I need to show you something, bahba.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  They left Isobel to her slurping, and Riot followed Jin downstairs, noting that she used the front door to walk around back so they wouldn’t have to risk the kitchen.

  Riot had assumed Jin was leading him to the stable house. Instead, she led him to Tobias’s fort.

  “There is a message on the wall. It was not there before Tobias left.”

  Jin kept her emotions buried deep. It’d been vital for her survival. And she’d been doing it for so long that emotion rarely crept out. But it did now. Her voice had cracked when she said her friend’s name.

  Riot crawled into the fort, then sat back against a wall to study the carvings. The words tugged at his heart as he reached out to trace the letters. The message was hasty. Frantic. His eyes fell on Tobias’s knife stuck deep into the wood. The handle practically quivered with anger and frustration.

  Jin poked her head into the door. “What will we do?”

  “I don’t know, Jin. Miss Lily didn’t want my help.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I do not.”

  Sitting on her haunches, she considered this, while Riot considered the message Tobias had left: Help us. Please. Men after Ma.

  How could he ignore that plea?

  * * *

  AN ENDING

  To be continued…

  Connect with Author

  If you enjoyed Beyond the Pale, and would like to see more of Bel and Riot, please consider leaving a review. Reviews help authors keep writing.

  * * *

  Keep up to date with the latest news, releases, and giveaways.

  It’s quick and easy and spam free.

  Sign up at www.sabrinaflynn.com/news

  Afterword

  I wish I could tell you the Hotel Nymphia is a horrible figment of my imagination. It is not.

  The Twinkling Star Improvement Company opened it in 1899. They intended to call it the Nymphomania, claiming it was a hotel for women suffering from that affliction, but city officials refused to issue them permits, so they changed the name to the more acceptable Nymphia.

  There’s little detail about life inside, though one can fill in the gaps with known facts: the female ‘residents’ had to be naked at all times. Women were not allowed to turn away a man who called. The dime peepholes were really a thing and the women were subjected to constant voyeurism. The peepholes were later done away with when the men started using slugs in place of dimes.

  The San Francisco Call wrote this about the Nymphia in 1909:

  “One of the most notorious of the u
nspeakable dens of vice on the Barbary coast was known as the "Nymphia." It was the worst of almost inconceivably low kennels of infamy, and it aspired to become the worst in the world. The plan was to enlarge the brothel until it should house 1,000 fallen women. This place was run by one Emil Kerlein and a partner named Valentine.

  They were tried before Judge Graham and sentenced to six months' imprisonment each. On a technicality they appealed, and their appeal was tried by three superior judges sitting en banc. One of these was Carroll Cook, who was later to became Father Caraher's arch enemy. Through a flaw in the law found by Cook the men were permitted to go free on payment of $250 fine each.”

  The brothers would later be involved with a political crime boss, who managed to get a puppet mayor elected in San Francisco.

  One visiting ‘Chief of the Detective Department of a certain Eastern city’ commented on the Nymphia: “Is it possible that San Francisco can tolerate and stand for such a place?”

  From the small number of details I’ve gleaned about the lowest dives of the Barbary Coast, I tried to paint a picture of life inside the hotel for the residents, or inmates as they were often called. But out of concern for my readers’ sensibilities, I’ve kept some truly horrible details out of my narrative. Life for the lowest Barbary Coast prostitute was horrendous, and it paints a rather vivid picture of the type of men who frequented the brothels.

  In 1917 a newspaper editor by the name of Fremont Older (an early defender of prostitutes), published a story in the San Francisco Bulletin: A Voice from the Underworld by Alice Smith, a Barbary Coast prostitute. In it she writes: “We were the men’s big show; put there by men; kept there for the use of men, to be used as they chose and talked to as they chose, meant forever to be the satisfaction and the victims of their worst hours. Our trade was not our own; it wasn’t even invented by us; it was created by the men when they had a mind to be lower than animals. And they were animals. I don’t know whether animals have speech; but if they have, they don’t use it as men do. And animals don’t have prostitution. It took men to achieve that.”