Victoria Thompson: Murder on St. Mark’s place

“Mute? What’s that, a fancy name for simple?” Mrs. Malloy demanded.

“No, it means someone who doesn’t speak. Did he cry when he was a baby?”

“Hardly at all,” she bragged. “He was the best baby on earth. Never gave his old Nana a second of trouble, did you, Bohyo?”

Brian didn’t deign to reply. He was moving the horse along the floor, as if the cowboy were going for a ride across the wooden planks. He turned away as the horse rode over toward the sofa. He seemed oblivious to the conversation going on around him. Or maybe not oblivious at all.

“Hah!” Sarah shouted as loudly as she dared.

Mrs. Malloy squeaked in shock, her hand going instantly to her heart. “Whatever is the matter with you?” she cried, outraged at Sarah’s bizarre behavior. “You scared me out of ten years’ growth!”

Indeed, the woman had fairly jumped when Sarah shouted, but the boy hadn’t moved a muscle. He hadn’t so much as hesitated in his determination to take his cowboy on the ride of his life all around the parlor. He hadn’t even noticed.

Which made Sarah think that she knew the real reason why Brian never spoke, and it had nothing at all to do with him being feebleminded.

“He seems very clever with his hands. Did you see how quickly he figured out how to work the saddle?” she asked.

“He’s always been good at figuring things out,” Mrs. Malloy said defensively, as if Sarah had somehow insulted him by hinting his brain might not be as damaged as she had been led to believe.

She glanced at Mrs. Malloy, then back at the boy. Dare she voice her suspicion? No, not to the old woman. She wouldn’t be interested in Sarah’s theories about her grand-son, not from a woman she had decided was out to usurp her position in Frank Malloy’s life. Malloy might not be interested either, but at least he would listen. And if Sarah was wrong, as well she might be…

“Next time I come, I’ll bring you some cookies, Brian,” she tried. The boy was riding his horse up the side of the sofa and didn’t respond.

“Next time!” Mrs. Malloy huffed. “What makes you think you’d be welcome?”

Sarah smiled sweetly. “Not a thing,” she admitted. “But I would appreciate it if you would tell Mr. Malloy that I stopped by. If you do, I won’t have to come back again.”

There, that might be just the motive the old woman needed. But probably she wouldn’t have been able to resist venting her spleen on Malloy over Sarah’s brazenness in calling on a man without so much as an invitation. Whatever her reason, Mrs. Malloy was sure to complain to her son about Sarah, which would, in turn, bring him right to her door. Satisfied that she had accomplished her mission in coming, she took her leave. Brian hardly noticed.

SARAH WAS GLAD she’d bought an extra chop and a loaf of bread at the Gansevoort Market a few blocks away when she saw the man sitting on her doorstep. He didn’t look particularly pleased to be there, but Sarah had expected that. She was pretty sure she could coax him out of his bad mood if she cooked for him, though. It had worked once before.

“Mrs. Brandt!”

The familiar voice distracted Sarah from Malloy’s glowering expression, and she turned to see her neighbor peering at her through her partially opened window. Nothing happened in the neighborhood that Mrs. Elsworth didn’t see and note, and someone as large and formidable as Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy was certainly noteworthy.

“I knew someone would be coming today. I had bubbles in my teacup this morning,” she reported.

“Bubbles?” Sarah echoed in amusement.

“Yes, a sure sign that visitors are coming. Or at least one visitor, in this case. I didn’t think you’d mind if he waited, or I would have told him to be on his way. It’s that police detective, isn’t it? He hasn’t been around in a while.”

The question Mrs. Elsworth was too well bred to ask was fairly screaming for an answer, but Sarah felt compelled to discourage her nosiness since she hadn’t been able to do a thing to quell her superstitions. “No, he hasn’t been around in a while,” Sarah confirmed, “and it’s perfectly fine that he waited for me. I need to speak with him. But maybe you just had some soapsuds in your cup. Did you ever think of that?”

Not waiting for a reply, Sarah strolled on down the sidewalk to where Malloy now stood beside her front stoop, glowering furiously.

“Good evening, Mr. Malloy,” she said. “It was so good of you to come.”

He looked as if he’d like to throttle her, but she was fairly certain he wouldn’t, at least not with Mrs. Elsworth watching.

“What did you think you were doing this afternoon?” he asked, his voice rough but pitched low, so he couldn’t be overheard.

“I was visiting your son, and a delightful boy he is, too.” She’d passed him and gone on up the steps, leaving him no choice but to follow unless he wanted to shout at her.

“My mother almost had a stroke, she was that upset,” he told her as she unlocked her front door.

Sarah could believe it. “She thinks I’ve set my cap for you, Malloy,” she informed him wickedly, pushing the door open.

“What?” he asked, but he was talking to himself because she’d gone into the house. Left with no other choice, he followed her inside.

“Your mother thinks I’m looking for a husband,” Sarah explained, closing the door behind him, “and she obviously believes you’re a good catch, so naturally, she wasn’t very happy to see me, but you can assure her I am no threat to your independence.”

Malloy planted his hands on his hips and made every attempt to intimidate her. She had to admit, he almost succeeded. Malloy could be horribly intimidating when he set his mind to it. “That’s not what she was going on about,” he informed her. “She said you upset the boy.”

“Brian?” she asked, genuinely shocked. She should have guessed Mrs. Malloy would lie to make her look bad to her son. “He wasn’t upset. In fact, he was very happy when I left. Did he show you the horse I gave him?”

“He didn’t show me anything. He was sitting in a corner, banging his head on the wall when I got home, and the old woman was screaming like a banshee.”

“Oh, my.” Sarah frowned, trying to figure this out. Brian had been blissfully happy when she left, and would have remained so as long as he had his new toy to play with. Was it possible? Could the old woman have been cruel enough to take the toy away to upset the boy for his father’s sake? Of course she could, if she believed she was protecting her family from a she-devil, which she obviously did. “Well, then, you’d probably enjoy having your supper in some peace and quiet. Lucky for you I got some extra meat.”

“Mrs. Brandt!” he called after her as she made her way into the kitchen.

Sarah turned back just before disappearing through the doorway. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about why I went to the trouble to get you over here?”

Frank swore under his breath as he watched her go. What on earth had possessed him to come here tonight? He should have remembered what an infuriating piece of baggage Sarah Brandt could be. Oh, she was smart and a damn fine-looking woman, but Frank had never considered intelligence a particularly attractive trait in a female, and beauty is as beauty does, as his mother would have said. He couldn’t have cared less why she wanted to see him, and he felt obliged to tell her so. Besides, she’d left him standing in her office with its strange instruments and equipment, and the mere sight of those things made his flesh crawl.

He found her stoking the fire in her stove. “Mrs. Brandt-”

“It’s too hot in here. Why don’t you go sit on the back porch and wait. I have a little table set up out there to catch the breeze, and I poured you some beer.” She nodded toward a tall glass of amber liquid sitting on her table. “My neighbor makes it,” she explained with one of her sly grins when Frank registered surprise.