Victoria Thompson - Murder On Mulberry Bend

She’d said that by accident, but it had turned out to be the magic word. “Well, I haven’t actually asked him, but I’d like Richard to help host the party. He already said he was going to make a donation himself, in Hazel’s memory. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind asking others to do the same.”

“How could he possibly refuse?” her mother asked. “We’ll ask everyone to make a donation in Hazel’s memory.”

Sarah could see she was already mentally composing a guest list. “How soon can you arrange it?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I think a week should be enough time. I’ll have my secretary start making out the invitations this afternoon. As soon as I hear from you that Richard has agreed to participate,” she added shrewdly.

Her mother drove a hard bargain. “I’ll stop by his office on the way home and ask him.”

Sarah was probably being cruel, getting her mother’s hopes up like this. Still, she knew perfectly well Richard Dennis wasn’t any more interested in marriage than she was. Sarah would never have to refuse a marriage proposal she hadn’t received, and her mother would have a few weeks of happiness, imagining her daughter marrying her way back into Society’s Four Hundred.

Frank was only too familiar with the Prodigal Son Mission. He’d watched its transformation from a rundown boardinghouse into its present incarnation when Reverend Wells first took possession of it. He’d also watched a parade of young girls going through there during the past several years. Some had gone on to find respectable jobs and even to marry. Others had escaped back into the world they’d originally fled, managing to find men to mistreat and abuse them and make their lives even more miserable than before. He’d long since ceased to wonder why some chose one path and others another.

The girl who answered his knock was Irish, all gangly limbs, frizzy red hair, and enormous eyes that stared up at him apprehensively. People always knew he was a cop, even though he dressed just like every other man in the city. Nobody liked cops, and most people feared them.

A swear word escaped her young lips before she could stop it, and she quickly covered her mouth in horror at the slip. Probably, they frowned on swearing at the mission.

“Is Mrs. Wells here?” he asked as kindly as he could, hoping to reassure her.

“She ain’t done nothing. Nobody here done nothing!” she argued.

“I didn’t say they did,” he reminded her. “Now if you don’t want to get Mrs. Wells, I guess I’ll have to come in and find her myself.”

That prospect frightened the girl even more. “I’ll get her,” she cried, but she slammed the door in his face instead of inviting him in, as she should have. The lapse in etiquette didn’t bother Frank. As soon as her footsteps clattered away, he opened the door and stepped inside anyway.

The place fairly echoed with emptiness. The sparse furniture, bare wooden floors, and religious pictures made him think this was what a convent would look like. He doubted Mrs. Wells would appreciate the comparison.

He could hear the sounds of activity from upstairs, and after a few more minutes, a woman he recognized as Mrs. Wells came down the staircase. She moved slowly, her hand resting gently on the rail, her back rigidly straight, her face calmly expressionless. She was in no hurry to see him, nor was she reluctant. She had nothing to fear from the police.

“Mrs. Wells,” he said, removing his bowler hat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, not at all concerned about whatever he might have to say to her.

Frank glanced up the stairs and saw several young faces peering over the railing above, straining to hear what he was saying.

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“I don’t pay protection money to the police,” she warned him. “Our heavenly Father protects us.”

Frank decided to ignore the provocation. “I have some news about one of your…” He gestured helplessly, not certain what to call the girls who lived here.

“Guests?” she supplied.

“Yeah, one of your guests,” he agreed, glancing up the stairs again. More faces were staring down at them now. All sounds of activity upstairs had stopped.

She glanced up, too, and instantly the faces vanished. The sound of scurrying footsteps was followed by the slamming of a door, and all was quiet. She turned back to Frank.

“Very well,” she said. “Please step into the parlor.”

He followed her into a shabbily furnished room. She didn’t bother to close the doors – or maybe she didn’t trust him enough to close the doors. She turned to face him, neither offering him a seat nor taking one herself.

“What is it?” she asked, making it clear she still didn’t think his visit was important.

“Did you have a girl named Emilia living here?”

Finally, he saw the apprehension he would have expected, although she was trying hard not to let it show. “A girl named Emilia lives here, yes,” she said cautiously.

“Blond hair, brown eyes?”

“Yes,” she said, clearly reluctant to admit it. “Why are you asking about Emilia? What’s happened?”

“She was found dead this morning in City Hall Park.”

She took a moment to absorb the shock. “That’s impossible,” she finally said. People always denied death at first.

“Why? Is she here now?”

Mrs. Wells’s apprehension was slowly giving way to anxiety. “No, but…” She glanced out the doorway, as if expecting to see the girl standing there. “She was going out this morning to look for work. She hasn’t come back yet, but I expect her any moment.”

“She won’t be coming back, Mrs. Wells. She’s dead.”

She shook her head slightly in silent denial. “I can’t… There must be some mistake.”

“There isn’t. She was identified at the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was beginning to look noticeably agitated. “Who could have identified her?”

“Mrs. Sarah Brandt.”

“Who…?” she began, but then she remembered. And frowned with what might have been disapproval. “Oh, yes, Mr. Dennis’s friend.”

Frank felt as if he’d been punched. Dennis’s friend! Sarah had said she came here on Sunday. Had Dennis come with her? If so, she’d been with him on Saturday night and on Sunday, too. She’d only known him for a week! He felt something burning in his chest, as bitter as gall.

“Detective?” Mrs. Wells said sharply. “I asked you a question.”

“What was it?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

“I asked you how Mrs. Brandt came to identify Emilia’s body.”

“She was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing. I thought she might know who the girl was, so I asked her to come to the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was completely bewildered. “How did you know she was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing?”

“Because Mrs. Brandt is a friend of mine, too,” he said with a small sense of satisfaction.

Fortunately, Elizabeth Decker had suggested Sarah telephone to make sure Richard would be in his office this afternoon. He’d planned to go out, but he changed his plans immediately when he learned Sarah needed to see him. After Sarah had luncheon with her mother, she’d been delivered to Richard’s bank in the Decker family carriage, complete with its charming footmen.

Now she was being escorted directly into his private office by an obsequious little man whose plump body had been stuffed into a suit that was too small for him. When she entered his office, Richard rose from behind his desk and came out to greet her, taking her hand in both of his.