Fallen Women (28 page)

“Miss Osmundsen,” he said, startling her, because she had been deep in thought and had not heard him approach.

“Detective McCauley. I hope this is not an inconvenient time.”

He glanced around his desk as if to see whether she had been snooping, then asked, “What can I do for you?” He was formal now, polite but a little distant, as if he were not pleased to see her. He gave the impression that he was busy, and Beret wondered if he’d done that on purpose.

“I had asked when you came to tell us about Jonas whether we could talk again about the murders. Is this not a convenient time?”

He thought a moment. “As good as any, I suppose,” he said, “but this is not the place for it. Come.” Beret stood, and the detective looked over his desktop again, then reached into his desk for something that he put into his pocket. He led her past the police officer with whom Beret had spoken earlier, saying, “We’ll be going now, Jim. Me and the lady’s having a bit of a talk.”

“Your Irish has come back,” Beret observed.

“Only when I’m around other Irishmen. If we try to talk like civilized folks, they think we’re putting on airs.” He steered her up the steps, and they went outside into the sunshine and found a stone bench. “Does this suit, or do you want to go to Charpiot’s?”

Beret sensed the detective was distracted, perhaps pressed for time, and replied that the bench was fine. She would have liked a more private place, where passersby wouldn’t intrude, but she seemed to have no choice. “We could talk at a more convenient time—”

“No, no. I don’t know when that would be.” Mick cut her off. “Except for a few hours’ sleep, I’ve been at the station since I left you. There are reports to be made and interviews. I’ve been cornered by every newshawk in the city. Have you seen the papers?”

“Only one, and the report was dreadful.”

“Don’t bother with the others. Each is worse than the one before it. Will it offend you if I smoke?”

Beret did not know he smoked. He had not done so before. She shook her head, and Mick took out a cigarette paper, sprinkled tobacco onto it, licked the paper shut. He lighted the cigarette, then exhaled. “I don’t smoke much, but this has been a trying time, and it relaxes me. What a pity you ladies can’t indulge.”

“And what makes you think we don’t?” Beret asked.

Mick laughed suddenly. It was not often that the man had laughed in her presence, and Beret was startled. She liked the warm sound of it. “Forgive me for being brusque. I have been under a great deal of pressure since I saw you last,” he said.

“Of course. And I suspect you have little time for conversation, so I shall be as brief as possible. I want to talk about the murders, but first I must make a confession.”

Mick gave her a curious look. “Not another visit to Hop Alley, I hope.”

Beret smiled a little and shook her head. “I did not tell you that I saw my husband, that is, my former husband, Mr. Staarman, a second time. I encountered him in front of the Arcade. I had the sense he might have been lying in wait for me. In any case, he was quick to accost me.” She related the gist of her conversation with Teddy, then said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter now that we know Jonas and not Teddy murdered my sister. But I do not want you to think I deliberately withheld information from you.”

“Why did you?” Mick asked.

“I’m not certain.”

“You must still care about him. Perhaps with your sister out of the way, you’ll take him back.”

The remark was impertinent and Beret thought to rebuke him, but then for a moment, she wondered if he might be right. She had been lonely, and Teddy had once made her happy. There was a fine line between love and hate, she realized. But she replied, “No, I don’t think so.”

They had not gotten off to a good start, and Beret thought she should not have come. It was obvious to her the detective was pressed for time and in no mood to humor her. But she was there, and this might be her only chance to talk to him. He would take on other investigations and have no need to interview her, and it was unlikely their paths would cross socially. So she smiled at him and asked, “Did you think all along that it was Jonas?”

Mick shook his head. “I wish I could tell you so. I thought Jonas an odd fellow, but I was as surprised as anyone when I looked into his face after I shot him and saw who he was. Did
you
suspect him?”

“I did not like him much, although he came to my aid in Hop Alley, and that makes me believe he was both good and bad.” She thought that over. “Mostly bad, I think. He frightened me at times, but no, I didn’t mark him as a killer. Looking back, I can see I missed signs. He followed me, you know, from the first day I arrived. He warned me to watch out for myself, and I thought that was strange. Then one night he came toward me in the library with a blanket in his hands. He claimed he was going to cover me, but I think now he wanted to smother me. It would have been so easy. I don’t know why he didn’t. He took out a knife he carried and must have sensed I was afraid of him. Perhaps he feared I knew too much.”

“So no one was truly suspicious of him.”

“That’s not quite true. There are any number of my aunt’s friends who told me yesterday that
they
did not trust Jonas and were not surprised to find he was a killer.”

“Ah, of course. The I-told-you-sos. We frequently see them at the police station. Pity they don’t help us
before
a criminal is caught.”

Beret laughed. She had put on her jacket before entering the station, and now she unbuttoned it, because the sun made her hot. She took off her gloves, too.

“Do you agree now that Jonas killed both women?” Mick asked. He threw the cigarette butt into the street and seemed to relax.

“It’s that very question about which I’ve come to talk to you. I would like to compare the two murders—that is, the two murders and the
attempted
murder—and see if we can draw that conclusion.”

“I think I’d like to know that, too. Denver does not have so many murders, you know. And those we do investigate, well, we find the killer—or don’t, as the case may be—and go on to the next crime, without pausing to ask why. I’ve read of a new science that seeks to find the cause of people’s actions. I wish I knew more about it, because, like you, I’m curious about Jonas. Why do
you
think he did it, Miss Osmundsen?” Before Beret could answer, Mick stood. “Would you like to walk down to the river? It isn’t much of a river, not very pretty, but it’s all we have. It’s said about the Platte that it’s a mile wide and an inch deep, and a good part of that is mud. As I say, it’s not much to look at, but we could talk more privately there.”

Beret liked that idea and stood, taking Mick’s arm, and the two walked a short distance until they stood at the edge of the South Platte. It was indeed an ordinary river, sluggish, and its banks were covered with sagebrush and thick bushes. Snow still lay on the ground in shady places, and Beret could see animal tracks across it.

Mick stood in front of her, one foot on a broken branch, and leaned forward. “What reservations do you have about the two killings?” he asked.

“There are certain similarities, of course. Both women were prostitutes. Both were blond. And the killer took items of jewelry.” Beret reached into her purse. “I found these in Jonas’s room in the stable, under a floorboard.” She handed Mick the cheap earrings.

“They were Sadie’s, I suspect,” he said, tossing the earrings in his hand. “We’ve discovered that killers sometimes take such souvenirs. They fondle them later on to relive their triumphs, for to a man like Jonas, I think, that’s what murder is—triumph and power. At least, that’s what I’ve come to believe.”

Beret nodded, thinking that over. “The hiding place held only these. My sister’s earrings were not there.”

Mick looked off to the river as he considered what Beret had told him. “Perhaps Jonas hid them elsewhere. A stable is a big place.”

“Yes.”

“Or he could have sold them. They were diamonds, after all.”

“Perhaps.”

“You are not convinced?”

Beret shrugged. “It seems Jonas would have wanted his plunder close to him. As you said, it is not the jewelry’s monetary value so much as the souvenir’s ability to let him relive the murder. Besides, I do not believe he could have sold the earrings so quickly. They are distinctive, and surely he would know the police were on the lookout for them.”

“You may be overanalyzing.”

“I may be. We criminologists do this.” Her eyes shone at her little joke, and it pleased her that Mick smiled. “But there is one other thing. You told me that whoever killed my sister seemed to care about her, placing her hands over her breast and covering her with her robe. We saw for ourselves that no such gestures were made with Sadie. It’s almost as if my sister were killed by someone she knew, while Sadie was a random victim.”

“Jonas might have had more time with your sister. And he knew her. Besides, if she was his first killing, he might have felt remorse. He was more jaded the second time.”

“I suppose that explains it.” Beret picked a weed and stripped its leaves, then twirled the stalk between her fingers.

Mick sat down beside her and took the remnants of the weed out of Beret’s hand, throwing it away. He asked what else bothered her.

“The why of it.”

“That’s always a question, isn’t it? You know human nature as well as I do, rather better, I think, because of your work. But do you want to know what I think?” When Beret replied in the affirmative, Mick continued. “Jonas was a complex young man with an abnormal devotion to your aunt, because she’d saved his life and took him in. I suspect everybody he met before that rejected him, including his mother. He might have seen your sister as a threat to your aunt, someone whose intemperate ways—and because I knew of her socially, I was well aware of them—would cause your aunt grief. He thought he was doing your aunt a service in eliminating her. Or maybe he intended only to talk to her and something she said unleashed his rage.” He grinned and added, “I think I am talking like a criminologist.”

Beret started to interrupt, but Mick held up his hand. “Let me finish. I think it’s more likely that he was in love with her or, if you will, lusted after her, and went to Miss Hettie’s for carnal reasons. Your sister might have rejected him, and for him it brought back all the unhappiness of his young life. Jonas was a complicated fellow, because of his mother and because of his looks, and he would have taken offense. Maybe he only wanted to slap your sister, but things got out of hand.”

“You do indeed know something about the new science of analyzing actions,” Beret said as a compliment.

“I think Jonas might have enjoyed killing. I suspect he hated women, all women except your aunt, because they laughed at him, and this was his way of getting revenge.” Mick laughed a little self-consciously. “I could be far from the mark.”

Beret considered the words as she looked out at the water. A dog or a muskrat or maybe a large rat was swimming along with the current. She had never swum and thought it might be nice to be carried along in the water’s flow like that, although she would prefer a cleaner stream. She considered what Mick had said as she watched the animal fight the current, then reach the shore—it was a dog, and it shook the water off its coat and ran off.

“I think your latter assumption is more likely,” Beret said at last. “Lillie did attract men. You know that yourself. And if Lillie could gain the affections of someone like Mr. Summers, then who’s to say that Jonas wouldn’t have loved her or at least wanted her. He knew what went on in the carriage—and in the house. I interviewed William, and he admitted that when my aunt and uncle were away, Lillie went into the parlor with men and locked the door.” Beret bit her lip. “It pains me to have to admit this.”

“You’re sure one of the men was Mr. Summers?”

“I can’t imagine that William would lie. And Nellie the maid all but confirmed it. No, I have no doubt.”

Mick turned away and stared across the river toward the mountains, whose peaks were still white with snow. A breeze seemed to sweep down from them. Clouds drifted in front of the sun, and Beret shivered, drawing her jacket close to her. The wind blew dead leaves across her, and when she looked down, she saw a snakeskin and wondered if its owner was nearby. She was cold now, and she wished they had gone for tea, although the weed-choked riverbank seemed somehow more intimate.

The detective turned back to her and studied Beret’s face, and then he took her hand and said, “I have something to show you. I was not sure I would do it. In fact, I was not so pleased to see you today, because I knew your presence meant I had to make a decision about it. By rights, it should go in with the other evidence we collected, but I think there is no reason for it now.” Mick added, a touch of acid in his voice, “Besides, I suspect it would disappear if a certain party found out we had it.”

Mick reached into his pocket and withdrew a book. It was small and cheap, a book of poems, the sort of sentimental trash that young girls read—the sort of poetry Lillie liked. Beret knew at once that it must be her sister’s. She reached for it, but Mick held tight to it and did not give it up.

“It’s Lillie’s,” Beret said.

“Yes, I’ll grant you that. Elsie gave it to me. She came in with it yesterday and said she thought you might want it. Her price was high—ten dollars. I got her down to six and paid her myself.”

“Then I shall reimburse you.” Beret thought it odd the detective was withholding the book against the transaction. She would not have paid such a usurious price for the cheap volume, which she would only put into the fire, but she could not allow Mick to be out the money because he had done her what he thought was a kindness. She reached again for the book, but Mick did not give it up.

“It’s not the book that matters. It’s of little importance, I suspect. But Elsie found something of value inside. She said she likes to read and had borrowed it from Lillie’s room the morning your sister was killed—stole it more likely, although she may have intended to return it if she didn’t like the poems. She claims she didn’t open the book until yesterday and then came straightaway to me with it.” He extracted a piece of paper from the book, then handed it to Beret, who took it but didn’t look at it. She held out her hand for the paper, and the detective gave it to her.