Victoria Thompson - Murder On Mulberry Bend

The door opened into the kitchen of the flat, and Mrs. Donato set her basket on the table, which was no more than planks laid over some wooden crates. Frank saw that tonight’s dinner would be some dried-up potatoes and turnips. What appeared to be dead weeds would probably become a salad. Beneath the recently purchased food, he could see a few paper flowers, and the kitchen table held the makings for more. Probably the woman made and sold them for extra money, as many wives in the tenements did.

“Tell me quick, before Antonio come home,” she advised him. “He want to help if she in trouble, so I no tell. We no help her. I have no daughter.”

Frank was beginning to wonder if that could be true. He could see now that her hair beneath the scarf was black, only slightly tinged with gray, and her complexion was the dark olive he would have expected. He wondered if Mr. Donato was blond. Sarah had said that Emilia must be from Northern Italy because of her blond hair, but her mother certainly wasn’t. “Your daughter was found dead this morning,” he said baldly, since she’d already informed him she didn’t care about the girl.

“Dead?” she repeated as if she wasn’t sure what the word meant. “Guasto?”

“Yeah, guasto,” he replied, nodding so she’d understand.

“Emilia?” Was she trying to deny it, as most mothers would, or was she just trying to make sure?

“She had yellow hair,” Frank said. “She’d been living at the mission. She had a lover named Ugo.”

“Sì, Emilia,” she confirmed with a sigh, sinking down into one of the mismatched chairs. She set her elbow on the table and rested her forehead on her clenched fist.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said, interpreting the gesture as grief.

But when she looked up, her dark eyes were blazing with fury. “She trouble, all a time, trouble. Is good she dead. No more trouble.”

Frank had seen reactions like this before, but usually it was because the deceased was a son who’d gone bad. Rarely did a mother react this way to the death of a daughter. Of course, he’d never had to inform a prostitute’s mother that she was dead. With women like that, nobody even knew who their mothers were.

Frank heard the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. It could have been anyone, but Mrs. Donato must have recognized them. She jumped to her feet. “You go now,” she said urgently. “I have no daughter. You go.”

But Frank hadn’t quite finished his business here. He wanted to get a look at Emilia’s father, just to satisfy his curiosity. He stepped out onto the landing and waited. Mrs. Donato hovered anxiously in the doorway. Frank figured her husband might not be as glad as she was that the girl was dead. He wondered why.

The man who emerged from the gloom of the stairway was a little shorter than average height, his body stocky and muscular from heavy labor. His swarthy face had been darkened even further by the sun, and beneath his workman’s cap, his hair was as black as his wife’s. He stopped in alarm when he saw Frank standing there and glanced at his wife with a silent question.

“Polizia, ” she said as a warning. “È venuta dirci che Emilia fosse guasto.”

Frank wasn’t certain exactly what she’d said but recognized enough words to know she’d warned him Frank was from the police and Emilia was dead. The man showed the shock his wife had not.

“Emilia?” He didn’t want to believe it, and he looked to Frank for confirmation.

“Someone stabbed her to death this morning in City Hall Park,” he said.

“No,” he said desperately. “No true!”

“I’m afraid it is. Someone who knows her already identified the body.”

“Who?” he challenged.

Sarah’s name would mean nothing to them. “A lady who met her at the mission.”

“Mission,” Mrs. Donato repeated and spat on the floor to show her contempt. Donato’s shoulders sank in defeat, and he looked as if he might pass out.

This wasn’t going the way Frank had expected. The man of the house was shocked senseless and his wife was spitting on the floor. “Sit down, Mr. Donato,” he tried, guiding the man into the flat and pulling out a chair for him. He sank down as his wife had, but he was suffering from grief, or something very like it. Frank still wasn’t sure.

Donato rubbed a calloused hand over his face. When he looked up, Frank saw strong emotions but none he could identify. “You say she stab?”

“Probably with a stiletto,” Frank said, watching for a reaction.

Donato frowned, and his wife started muttering invectives in Italian.

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Emilia?” Frank asked.

“We no see her, long time,” Mrs. Donato said firmly.

“What about her brother? Has he seen her?”

“No,” Mrs. Donato said firmly. Her husband said nothing.

“Maybe I should ask him myself. When will he be home?”

She crossed her arms beneath her heavy breasts and just glared at him.

“What about Ugo?” Frank asked casually. “You wouldn’t mind if he went to jail, would you?”

Frank expected Mrs. Donato to spit on the floor again, but she just continued to glare at him furiously. He looked down at Donato and gave the leg of his chair a slight nudge.

Donato made a squeak of surprise and looked up, terrified.

“What’s this Ugo’s last name and where does he live?” Frank asked.

“Ianuzzi,” Mrs. Donato hastily offered and added an address farther down Mulberry Street. “He bad,” she added helpfully. “He kill sure.”

“Was he angry at Emilia for leaving him?” Frank tried.

“Si, he hate Emilia. He kill, you see.” She was much too certain, as if she were trying to convince herself, too.

Frank looked at Donato. He wasn’t saying anything, just staring at the table. Frank would have to catch him without his wife. He’d need to see the son, too. They had no intention of telling the police anything. They thought they were well rid of Emilia and her “trouble,” and they weren’t going to let any other family member get dragged down with her.

“I’ll be back,” he warned them and took his leave. Making his way carefully down the dark stairwell, he silently cursed Sarah Brandt. Only she could have compelled him to make such a ridiculous promise. No one was going to be able to find Emilia’s killer. Not only didn’t these people speak English, they were too terrified to tell the truth to the police. They’d also lie to protect each other, even if they were innocent.

He could probably beat a confession out of someone, but he made a point of saving that tactic for people he knew were guilty. In this case, he’d be lucky to find someone who even knew she’d be in the park this morning. On the other hand, she must have been killed by someone she knew. She’d had nothing of value, so she hadn’t been robbed, and she hadn’t been molested, either. Someone who had wanted her dead and knew exactly what he was doing had stabbed her quickly and neatly and walked calmly away, leaving her to fall to the ground and die.

How many enemies so cold-blooded could a girl like that have? And although she’d obviously had at least one, how on earth was Frank ever going to find him when her own mother thought he’d done them a favor?

Sarah could tell by the way Frank Malloy was pounding on her door the next morning that he hadn’t liked getting a message from her at Police Headquarters. She opened the door and said, “My only other choice was to go by your flat and leave a message with your mother,” before he could even open his mouth.

Whatever angry words he’d been about to say died on his lips, but his glare was still fierce. “At least my mother wouldn’t have laughed,” he informed her grimly.