Josiah's Treasure (19 page)

She looked gaunt and tired. And frightened. “I need to be going, Mr. Cady. Don’t tell Miss Whittier I was here. I shouldn’t be. There would be questions and I can’t explain. I thought I could, but I was wrong.”

“If there’s something the matter, she’ll want to help you.”

His comment seemed to alarm her more. “I know. Good day.”

She rushed off, bumping into a man exiting the pianoforte maker's shop next door.

“Hey!” the man yelled, annoyed.

Daniel moved to follow her but stopped, letting her slip out of reach; Anne Cavendish wasn’t the sort of woman who appreciated a man’s interference. Within seconds, he lost sight of her.

“Shouldn’t let women like that around here,” the man from the shop muttered, brushing at his sleeve. “They should stay in their own neighborhoods with their own kind.”

“She works across the street,” Daniel snapped. “This is her neighborhood.”

The man scoffed and strode off.

Riled by his attitude, Daniel waited for a horsecar to pass and dashed across the roadway. He turned the studio’s door handle and stepped inside, the bell alerting Sarah, who was alone in the main room and had been sweeping.

“Mr. Cady.” It was sort of a greeting, but with the span of Sarah’s work dress stretched tight across her plank-flat shoulders,
taut as the upright column of her neck, and a broom gripped in her hands like a weapon, he couldn’t be certain.

“Good morning to you as well, Miss Whittier,” he answered, just as stiffly.

She seemed to perceive the abruptness of her attitude, although she was usually abrupt with him. “We’ve had a visit from my landlord, Mr. Pomroy,” she explained. “He came here to talk about you.”

“Ah.”

“He’s worried I won’t be able to pay my rent, now that you’ve mysteriously come back from the dead to claim Josiah’s estate.” She considered him as she leaned against the broom. “Mr. Pomroy didn’t know about you either, Mr. Cady, and he was one of Josiah’s closest friends in this town.”

“Just goes to prove what it meant to be a friend of Josiah.”
Not much.

Sarah returned to sweeping, the whisk of bristles against planking punctuating her words. “Apparently so.”

Miss Samuelson appeared from a back room, a girl Daniel hadn’t met before on her heels. “I thought I heard your voice, Mr. Cady. Sarah said you would stop in today.”

Her words were polite but her typically friendly manner was absent. The girl with her stared at him like he was a mangy dog accidentally let in the front door.

“This is Mr. Cady?” The hint of a rough German accent had the effect of enhancing the scorn in the young woman’s voice.

“Yes, Emma,” Miss Samuelson confirmed. “Emma Schulte, meet Mr. Daniel Cady.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs that led to the upper floor. Minnie clattered down them, her skirts bunched high in her fists, torn stockings showing underneath.

“Mr. Cady, it’s you.” She grabbed the end of the railing and flung herself off the last step to land not far from where he stood. “You aren’t taking everything away from Miss Sarah, are you?
Say you’re not.”

So that’s what Pomroy had come to say. A blunt—and accurate—statement that cast Daniel in the worst light possible. It wouldn’t matter to Minnie or the others that he had a right to Miss Sarah’s “everything.”

“He won’t say that, Minnie, so don’t ask him,” said Sarah, her tone as frigid as the wind off a frozen Lake Michigan. She stabbed the floor with her broom and a bristle snapped.

“He might.” Minnie turned hopefully to him. He couldn’t say anything that would make matters right, so he said nothing at all.

“Minnie, Emma, I think you girls have work to do,” Miss Samuelson reminded them.

“C’mon, Emma. Let’s go help Phoebe.” She trudged off, taking Emma with her to the back of the shop.

Silence stretched. In the rear room, a heavy object scraped across the floor and women’s voices grumbled. The sudden clang of a horsecar bell from out on the street was startling against the dead quiet of the shop.

“I don’t mean to keep you long.” Daniel curled his fingers around his hat brim, loosening them before they closed completely. “I’m glad to see you appear to be fully recovered, Miss Whittier. And Miss Samuelson, I hope your ankle’s not hurting you too much.”

Sarah lifted her chin. “I’m doing perfectly fine.”

“Thank you for asking after us, Mr. Cady. We heard from the doctor this morning that Cora is doing well also,” said Miss Samuelson. “But he insisted that she continue to rest for the remainder of the day. She should be back with us tomorrow. Thankfully, because we need her help. We are somewhat shorthanded.”

“I ran into one of your other employees outside the shop a few minutes ago,” he said, just now remembering his encounter with Anne. “Anne Cavendish. She seemed upset—”

“Anne?” Sarah asked, throwing down the broom. “Why didn’t
you say so earlier? Can you not for once understand what’s most important?” she accused and bolted out the front door.

Where is she? Where is she?

Sarah ran halfway down the block before she realized she had no idea which direction Anne might have gone. She wanted to curse Daniel Cady for blathering on about Josiah and asking how she was doing before mentioning that he’d seen Anne. He was a stupid man with mixed-up priorities . . .

Where
is
she?

“Sarah!” Lottie called out and rushed up as hastily as her painful ankle permitted. “Sarah, she is long gone.”

Sarah slapped a hand against her hip. “He should’ve said straightaway she was out here. Anne must be in trouble if she came all this way but then decided not to come into the shop. Or maybe Daniel scared her off—”

“Come back to the shop,” Lottie interrupted. “You are not going to find her out here. Come back and we can talk about what to do.”

Sarah stared down the street, saw the usual assortment of pedestrians and carriages and wagons and someone’s misplaced mongrel, and agreed to return. The girls had heard the earlier commotion and were clustered near the doorway. Daniel stood to one side. Sarah frowned. Why didn’t he just leave? Everywhere he went, troubles followed.

“What did Anne say to you?” Sarah asked him.

He was crushing that hat of his again. “She didn’t say much. But she seemed upset. Scared, actually. She said she had made a mistake to come by and ran off.”

Scared?
Sarah shuddered.

“I’ll bet it’s that man of hers.” Minnie shook her head dolefully. “He looked awfully angry when she hopped down from the carriage after our trip to the park. I don’t doubt he’s the one who
didn’t want her to come to work today.”

Lottie shot Sarah an alarmed glance. “When we asked you earlier about Anne, why did you not tell us?”

Minnie shrugged. “He always looks angry, Miss Charlotte. I guess I didn’t much think about it, until now.”

Sarah knew what she had to do. “I have to go check on her. She needs help. I can just tell.”

“She was worried you’d want to do that,” said Daniel. “She didn’t want you to help.”

What was he suggesting? “I’m not going to go back to sweeping and dismiss the fact that one of my girls could be in trouble! They are like daughters to me. Or sisters,” she said pointedly.

“You do not think to go to her house, do you, Miss Sarah?” Emma looked appalled at the idea. “She lives in Tar Flat.”

“I know where she lives.” A rough neighborhood named for the tarry waste the defunct gasworks once dumped into the local waterways, choking the area with the stench. Nowhere anyone with means would choose to live.

Sarah collected her hat and gloves from the counter. “Lottie, I’d ask you to go with me, but your ankle’s not up to walking on those streets.”

“You cannot go to Tar Flat alone.”

“I’ll be safe,” Sarah maintained, as much to assure herself as Lottie. “It’s broad daylight and the area is simply poor, not truly dangerous. I’m not heading to the waterfront or the Barbary Coast, for goodness’ sake.”

“Mr. Cady, if you want to be useful, go with her before she marches out of here on this harebrained scheme by herself,” Lottie commanded.

He glanced at Sarah before answering. “I’d be happy to, Miss Samuelson.”

“I will see you later, girls,” said Sarah, striding out of the shop without looking back. She knew Daniel would follow; he was becoming about as predictable as a June fog.

“I don’t need your company.” Sarah stepped into the street and signaled a passing horsecar to halt. “I have been to Tar Flat before.”

“So you’ve said.” Without her permission, Daniel took her elbow and helped her climb onto the car’s running board and into her seat on an empty bench. “But Miss Samuelson seemed to think there was cause for concern, and I take her worries seriously.”

Sarah couldn’t mistake the esteem in his tone. He liked Lottie, which gave Sarah an odd feeling she didn’t have the time or energy to ponder. She settled against the seat back without comment while Daniel sat next to her, his closeness comforting in spite of her request he not accompany her. Tar Flat was not as safe as she claimed.

“Is it wise to go asking after Anne at her house?” he asked, lifting off his hat and running fingers through his thick hair. “You might anger this man of hers. Plus, she won’t thank you.”

“I meant what I said earlier about needing to check on her.” Sarah realized she’d been staring at the movement of his hands. What a time to be noticing his hair or his strong fingers. “That she doesn’t want me to only makes me worry more, and more determined to find out what might be wrong.”

“You are very headstrong, Miss Whittier.” There was a light in his eyes that, for once, looked curiously like admiration.

“I warned you I was.”

“Yes, you did.” His eyebrows lifted before he resumed watching the passing scenery. “And I must say, I believe you.”

I
t took only fifteen minutes to arrive at their destination. Every example of a dwelling, shop, or factory could be found in the neighborhoods south of Market and west of the industries packed against the wharves like smoked fish in a tin. Church spires towered over the stone edifices of office buildings and porch-fronted shops. Every example of humanity could be found there as well, thought Sarah as she and Daniel descended from the Third Street horsecar. All except the Chinese, most of whom stayed close in Chinatown, steering clear of the German and Italian factory workers and stevedores, the Irish with their sharp wit and sharper tongues, the Mexican laborers whose families had worked the hills and valleys for generations. After she’d settled into Josiah’s house, Sarah had tried to learn German, Italian, and some Gaelic to add to the Spanish she already knew and the smattering of French Edouard had taught her, in order to better communicate with the girls she intended to help. Sarah had abandoned that plan when she realized the time it would take to learn all those languages would detract from the time she had to paint.

“Not exactly Nob Hill,” Daniel observed, taking hold of her elbow when they stepped off the planked sidewalk onto the rutted cobbled street thick with horse droppings.

“That would apply to most of San Francisco, Mr. Cady.”

Workers, in a rush to return to their jobs after breaking for
lunch, crowded the road and walkways. From the doorway of an oyster house, a rumpled fellow in a rough-hewn coat and pants sawed at his gums with a toothpick, eyeing the gent and his lady deigning a visit to the inferior part of town. She would have ended up in a place like Tar Flat if Josiah had not taken her in. Found work in a bakery or a fruit seller’s while she hawked the paintings she’d brought with her from Los Angeles and watched her aspirations to become a successful artist diminish year by year.

“Anne’s lodgings are past Howard Street,” she stated, and dodged a pair of young boys tumbling out of a tin shop onto the sidewalk.

They turned into an alleyway. If Sarah remembered correctly, the rooms Anne lived in were one door down from the corner. Adjacent to the saloon she and Daniel were passing. The smell of stew and frying sausages, sweat and beer wafted through the bar’s entrance, doors flung wide in welcome. A thickset man with a scraggly beard, unkempt muddy-blond hair, and a stained neckerchief scowled as he stumbled out of the dark interior, shouldering Daniel aside in his haste to hurry up the alley.

“Here goes.” Sarah knocked on the house’s front door, its yellow paint rippled and peeling. A flake dislodged and drifted to the ground. “Anne, it’s Miss Whittier. Are you there?” she called through the gap between the door and its frame.

She heard the muffled clink of a pot falling against a basin or a sink, but no answer.

“Let me.” Daniel stepped around Sarah and pounded firmly. “Miss Cavendish, are you in there?”

A woman across the way flung open her window and poked her head through. “You’d best leave that sort alone, were I you!”

“Thank you, but I’m Anne’s employer,” Sarah called to her.

“That’s a thumper of a lie. You don’t own the saloon next door.” The woman, her gray hair bundled around her head like a nest of steel wool, scoffed.

Sarah frowned. “Do you have the correct woman? Anne
Cavendish is employed as a seamstress.”