Victoria Thompson: Murder on St. Mark’s place

As Lars passed, Sarah hurried to follow him, wishing at least to find out how Agnes was doing.

“Mr. Otto,” she called, stopping him as he started down the front steps outside. He turned to face her.

Lars Otto was a tall man, thin and lanky, with big hands and feet, and a face too sharp and angular to be called handsome. Sarah noticed his knuckles were skinned when he adjusted his hat, testimony to how difficult his job must be. She thought she remembered he was a butcher by trade. He frowned when he saw Sarah, not recognizing her.

“I’m Mrs. Brandt, the midwife. I’m very sorry about Gerda. How is Mrs. Otto doing?”

“How do you think? Can’t even hold her head up now, with all her friends whispering behind their hands. I work hard to give her a good life, and her sister does this to ruin everything.”

Sarah blinked. She had forgotten the bitter anger cases like this engendered. She resisted the temptation to point out that Gerda hadn’t gotten herself murdered on purpose. “I’m sure no one will hold this against you and your family. Not your true friends, at least,” she added at his grunt of disdain.

Unimpressed, he turned away, anxious no doubt to get back to his family.

“Please tell you wife I’ll come by to see her this afternoon,” she called after him. He gave her no acknowledgment. Well, if he was always this rude, he was probably right to worry, since he probably had no true friends to stick by him.

“Oh, look, he’s already gone!” a voice behind her cried in dismay.

“Go after him, then,” another suggested sarcastically.

“Oh, and chase him down the street, I guess,” the first voice replied, equally sarcastic.

Sarah turned to see the three young women she had noticed earlier emerging from the massive doorway of the church. In the merciless sunlight, their clothes looked even more garish. Plaids and feathers and too much jewelry, painted lips and painted cheeks. Sarah couldn’t believe the girls thought the paint looked better than their natural skin, which was young and smooth and should have still had the flush of health beneath the startling brightness of the rouge.

Behind them, the other mourners came out, casting disapproving looks as they made their way around them. Sarah nodded to those she knew as she made her way back to where the girls stood, arguing about something.

“Are you friends of Gerda’s?” she asked, trying a friendly smile.

They looked up, startled, then grew instantly wary. “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said after a moment. Did they look guilty? Sarah could hardly credit it, but she had to admit they did. Perhaps her instincts had been surer than she’d imagined. She’d thought only to approach them and find out a little about Gerda, but could they know something about her death, too?

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Otto, her sister,” Sarah said, stretching the truth just a bit. “I knew Gerda a little, but not very well. She seemed like a nice girl. I’m sure you’re going to miss her.”

They nodded uncertainly, making the feathers on their ridiculous hats shiver. They were studying Sarah, as if trying to decide what to make of her. Then the plump one prodded the one in the red plaid jacket with her elbow and said, “Ask her. Maybe she knows.”

The girl in the plaid jacket shot her friend an angry glare, but she turned to Sarah and said, “Excuse me for asking, miss, but do you know… I mean…” She hesitated, glancing at her friend for help, but none was forthcoming. The two stared at each other for along moment, silently communicating things at which Sarah could only guess.

“She wants to know did they bury her in the shoes,” the third girl finally said. She was small and fragile looking, her golden hair glittering in the sunlight beneath the frothy confection of a hat she was wearing. Her lips were very red, and the blush on her cheeks was unevenly applied, larger on one side than the other, making her look like a child who had gotten into her mother’s things. But then Sarah looked into her eyes, and there she saw a steely determination quite at odds with her apparent fragility.

“The shoes?” Sarah echoed stupidly.

“The red shoes,” the plump girl clarified. “They was brand-new. Seems a shame to put them in the ground with her, don’t it? Bertha here was wondering-”

“Me!” the girl in the plaid jacket cried in outrage. “You was the one said it first!”

“I was only agreeing with you!” the plump girl insisted.

“Bertha and Hetty both want the shoes,” the blond girl explained patiently, her disapproval obvious.

“To remember her by,” Hetty added hastily, lest Sarah think them ghouls.

Which of course she did, although she decided not to betray her true sentiments. “I can understand that. You were good friends, then?” she guessed.

“We all were,” Hetty said, determined to make Sarah believe her. “Since the day she come to work at Faircloths.”

“She couldn’t hardly talk a word of English,” Bertha added, “but we didn’t care about that. She learned quick, she did. Wanted to be an American, like us. That’s what she always said.”

“You were very kind to befriend her,” Sarah said, and allowed the girls a moment to absorb the compliment before adding, “Since there isn’t going to be a wake, perhaps you’d allow me to buy you ladies a cup of coffee. There’s a shop just around the corner.”

“It’s a little warm for coffee,” Hetty said. “How about some lemonade?”

Sarah was more than happy to supply them with champagne if it meant she’d be able to learn more about the dead girl, so she readily greed. By the time they found the shop, Sarah had learned that the girls were named Hetty Hall, Bertha Hoffman, and the blond girl was Lisle Lasher. They were fascinated to learn Sarah was a midwife, although they couldn’t understand why she’d taken up a trade instead of remarrying. Plainly, they believed-as did most of the population-that a woman needed a man to look after her.

Sarah treated them to cake as well as lemonade, knowing full well their meager salaries would hardly stretch to such an extravagance and figuring they’d be more talkative if they were fed. They sat in the café, glad to be out of the sun, and Sarah tried to imagine what questions Malloy would ask these girls if he were here.

“Does anyone have any idea who might have killed Gerda?” she tried, starting with the most important matters.

“I think it was a robbery,” Hetty said between mouthfuls of cake.

“Are you crazy?” Bertha demanded. “What would a robber want with Gerda? She didn’t have anything worth stealing except them shoes, and they was left right on her feet!”

“Which is why he killed her,” Hetty reasoned. “He got mad when she didn’t have any money, and he killed her.”

Sarah glanced at Lisle while Bertha and Hetty continued to bicker over the theory of the robber. She sipped her lemonade delicately, listening but unmoved by their arguments. She was remarkably self-possessed for a girl of her class, her intelligence obvious. Dressed properly, she would have looked at home in Mrs. Astor’s parlor. When she met Sarah’s gaze, she smiled slightly, as if to acknowledge Sarah’s good opinion of her.

“And what do you think, Lisle?” Sarah asked, interrupting Bertha and Hetty’s squabbling.

Both of the other girls fell silent, waiting for Lisle’s opinion. She was the leader of the group, her delicate appearance notwithstanding.

“I don’t think it was no robber,” she said. “A robber wouldn’t of bothered with Gerda, and if he did, he’d never take the time to beat her up. He might smack her a bit, but they said she was beat to death. That takes time, and a robber wouldn’t take the chance of getting caught.”