Murder on Mulberry Bend (31 page)

Richard Dennis hurried down the street to meet her. “Good morning,” he said when he reached her. “I hope you don’t mind my calling this early and waiting for you. Mrs. Ellsworth assured me it would be fine.”

“I’m sure she did,” Sarah said with a smile. She couldn’t help noticing her neighbor had made herself scarce, too, for once. Probably, she was intimidated because Richard was her son’s employer. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, falling into step with her to return to her house. “I felt I owed you an apology after the way I behaved last night.”

“I told you, I had a wonderful time,” she reminded him.

“Until I ruined it with my memories. I’m afraid I was feeling a little melancholy, in spite of the festivities.”

“That’s only natural. I’m sure being with your old friends reminded you of your wife. Won’t you come in? I can make some coffee, and I have some pie.”

He glanced down at the bouquet he still held. “Oh, and I guess I have some flowers for you. To prove my apology is sincere,” he added, offering them to her.

“The flowers weren’t necessary, but they are appreciated,” Sarah said, accepting the gift. They were red roses, and she knew they must have cost a fortune and taken a monumental effort to procure. Flower shops would be closed on Sunday, and roses weren’t blooming anywhere near the city on the first of November.

Without even thinking, Sarah settled Richard into one of the chairs in her front room, by the front window. She didn’t ask herself why she hadn’t invited him into the kitchen, as she always did with Malloy. Richard, she decided, just wasn’t that type of man.

A short while later, she served the coffee and the remains of Mrs. Ellsworth’s apple pie. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“I guess I owe you yet another apology, too,” he said at last.

“For what?”

“For involving you in the mission. If I hadn’t asked you to accompany me there, you never would have met the girl who was murdered.”

“I’ve thought about that a lot,” Sarah admitted. “Life would be simpler if we didn’t get involved with other people, wouldn’t it? On the other hand, if the girl hadn’t been wearing my clothes, there’s a good chance no one would even have known who she was. The people at the mission and” — Sarah had almost said her family — “and those who loved her would never have known what became of her, either.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “On the other hand, if she’d just disappeared, they could have imagined her alive and happy someplace else.”

“That would be difficult,” she said. “Girls like Emilia don’t usually have happy lives, particularly if they just disappear into the streets.”

“Or even if they find a home at the mission, apparently,” he reminded her.

He frowned. “What did the mother say when she confessed? Did she explain why she did it?”

Suddenly, the sweet pie tasted like sawdust in her mouth. “She hasn’t confessed yet,” Sarah admitted. “She hasn’t even been arrested.”

“Then you don’t know for sure she did it,” he challenged.

“Well,” Sarah hedged, “all the evidence points to her.”

“What evidence?”

This was the most animated she’d ever seen him. How odd that he would suddenly be so concerned about this. “The way she was killed, for one thing. It’s obvious a woman killed her.” It did sound flimsy when she said it out loud like that.

“How was she killed?”

“With a hat pin.”

Richard stared at her incredulously. “A hat
pin?”

“There, you see,” Sarah said with a small smile of triumph. “Men simply don’t consider a hat pin a weapon. But think about it. A hat pin is as long and sturdy as a knife blade and sharp on the end. It could do as much damage as a stiletto.”

“What do you know about stilettos, Sarah,” he chided with amusement.

“Probably more than you,” she chided right back. “And we found the hat pin the murdered girl was wearing. It had blood on it.”

“Where was she stabbed with this deadly hat pin?” he asked, still not convinced.

Sarah explained, showing him on her own head how the pin went in.

Plainly, he was horrified at the mere thought. “How could that kill a person?” he asked in amazement.

“By damaging the brain somehow. She looked as if she’d suffocated, so it must have affected her breathing.”

He was going to ask a question, but just then Sarah saw a familiar figure pass by outside on the way to her front porch. “Malloy is here,” she announced, jumping up to open the door for him.

Malloy wasn’t smiling. “Didn’t I tell you not to leave me any more messages?” he said before she could even open her mouth to greet him. “Sometimes I think you don’t have the sense God gave a — ” He stopped when he saw Richard, who had followed Sarah to the door, and his face got even redder than his anger justified.

“You know Mr. Dennis, don’t you, Malloy?” she asked sweetly.

Richard looked outraged, and he probably was. A gentleman would never tell a lady she didn’t have good sense, even if she didn’t.

The two men glared at each other for a long moment. Neither offered to shake hands and neither spoke a word of greeting.

“I’m so glad you came, Malloy,” Sarah said, pretending not to notice anything amiss. “Mrs. Wells and I were finally able to figure out who killed Emilia.”

“It was her mother,” Richard said with a satisfied smirk. Plainly, he wanted Malloy to know Sarah had confided in him first.

To his credit, Malloy didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “If you want me to come back at a more convenient time,” he said to Sarah, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Sarah pretended not to hear the sarcasm. “I would hate to inconvenience you,” she said with mock sincerity. “I know Richard will excuse us,” she added with a smile. “I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but I’m sure you understand how important it is to see the killer arrested as soon as possible.”

Richard’s face turned so red, he looked as if he might explode. He hated the thought of leaving her alone with Malloy, but good breeding demanded that he obey her wishes. He needed a moment to regain control, and then he said, “I will forgive you if agree to dine with me tomorrow evening.”

She didn’t dare look at Malloy. “I’d be delighted,” she said quite honestly.

“Good,” Richard said with more satisfaction than was seemly. “I’ll call for you at eight o’clock.” He reached across Malloy and took his hat from where it hung by the door. Then he turned back and gave Sarah a small bow. “Until tomorrow then.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” Sarah said without thinking.

Richard smiled at this final triumph and took his leave. When Sarah closed the door and turned back to Malloy, he looked as if
he
might explode. “It was nice of you to come on a Sunday,” she said as if she were oblivious to the drama they had just experienced.

She didn’t invite him in. She knew he would follow her. She stopped to pick up the dirty dishes she and Richard had been using and put them back on the tray.

“I guess he ate all the pie, too,” Malloy said sourly.

Sarah managed not to smile. “There’s one piece left. Come into the kitchen.”

He didn’t say a word as she poured him some coffee and served him the pie, although she could feel his gaze on her every second. She was being silly to enjoy the small display of masculine rivalry over her, but she was going to enjoy it anyway.

She poured herself a second cup of coffee and took a seat across the table from him. He was still staring at her, his eyes narrowed. She couldn’t read his expression.

“So today you think the girl’s mother killed her,” he said, feigning skepticism. “I suppose you’ve got a good reason for changing your mind.”

“I went to the mission yesterday and asked Mrs. Wells which one of the girls had told her Emilia wanted Ugo to see her new dress. I was sure that girl was the killer and had been preparing Mrs. Wells to give that information to the police.”

“And?” he prodded, not willing to offer any encouragement.

“And when I asked Mrs. Wells, she told me Maeve was the one who had said it, but Maeve couldn’t be the killer because she hadn’t left the mission all morning.”

“She could’ve sneaked out,” Malloy offered.

“I didn’t think of that, but it doesn’t matter. Mrs. Wells called her in and asked her why she’d said that about Ugo. That’s when we realized Mrs. Wells had been mistaken. Maeve had told her that Emilia wanted her mother to see her looking so pretty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Malloy scoffed. “She didn’t even like her mother.”

“But she did love her,” Sarah said. “Children always love their parents, no matter how badly they treat them. And children want their parents to love them back. Mrs. Donato never did because she believed Emilia was the result of the attack — oh, Malloy, I never had a chance to tell you! That isn’t even true!”

“What isn’t true?”

“Mrs. Donato thought Emilia was fathered by one of the sailors who attacked her because she had blond hair, but Mr. Donato told me his story, and that wasn’t the reason at all.”

“What story does Mr. Donato have?” Malloy asked in obvious confusion. “And why did he tell it to you?”

“He told it to me when I went over there to discuss Emilia’s burial plans. You see, Emilia wasn’t the Donatos’ child at all! Their child died at birth. The midwife who delivered it had just delivered a baby to a prostitute. She was going to take it to an orphanage, but Mr. Donato decided to switch the babies, so Mrs. Donato wouldn’t be upset because her baby died.”

“And that’s why the girl didn’t look Italian,” Malloy guessed.

“And why Mrs. Donato thought she’d been fathered by a sailor.”

“And why Mr. Donato never questioned the girl’s paternity,” Malloy decided. “But it still doesn’t mean Mrs. Donato killed her.”

“Maeve said Emilia wanted her mother to see her in her new clothes. Mrs. Wells told me Mrs. Donato sells paper flowers in City Hall Park. Emilia would have known that. She went down there to see her mother. They must have gotten into an argument, and all of Mrs. Donato’s anger made her finally kill the girl she’d always hated. You see, Malloy, this explains everything. Now it all makes sense — why she was in the park and why the killer used a hat pin. Everything makes sense.”

She knew she was right, and Malloy knew it, too. She could tell by the way he was frowning. He hadn’t even tasted the pie yet.

“Does she know Emilia wasn’t her child?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t think so, unless Mr. Donato told her since I saw him, but I can’t imagine why he would after all these years.”

“I can use that, then,” he said thoughtfully.

“Use it for what?”

“To break her and get her to confess.”

F
RANK SUPPOSED HE WAS GOING TO BE ANGRY every minute for the rest of his natural life. He didn’t see any other possibility as long as he continued his acquaintance with Sarah Brandt. The worst part was that the thing he was angriest about was something he didn’t have any right to even feel. That thing was, of course, jealousy of Richard Dennis.

Why should he be surprised to find Dennis at her house on a Sunday afternoon? He was exactly the kind of man she deserved — a man with money and social position and good manners. Frank supposed he should be grateful for the good manners. In Dennis’s place, Frank would’ve thrown a scruffy police detective out into the street for speaking to Sarah the way Frank had spoken to her today. Not that she didn’t deserve it, of course, but still, he’d been pretty rude.

On the other hand, Frank would have preferred being beaten senseless to hearing Sarah accept Dennis’s dinner invitation. The man might be well bred, but he knew how to inflict exquisite pain just the same. Frank would carry the bitter memory of her “delighted” acceptance for a long time to come. His mother would tell him he’d gotten no more than he deserved for trying to get above himself. Even worse, she’d be right.

Fortunately, Frank had the trip from Bank Street down to Mulberry Bend to get himself back under control again. He even managed to give some thought as to how he would approach Mrs. Donato. Remembering how dangerous the Italians could be with their knives — and their hat pins — Frank picked up a couple patrolmen at Headquarters to accompany him. He left one downstairs at the front door, and the other he instructed to wait in the hallway outside their flat.

When they had reached the top of the stairs, however, Frank saw that he needn’t have worried. The door stood open, and Frank could see Mrs. Donato sitting alone at her kitchen table. The remains of the family’s Sunday dinner still sat, untouched, and she was simply staring at nothing, oblivious even to her visitor.

“Mrs. Donato?” Frank said, startling her.

She looked up, not recognizing him at first. “We pay rent,” she said, hardly able to work up any indignation.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy from the police,” he said. Her eyes widened in alarm, but he hurried on, “I want to ask you some more questions about your daughter.”

She seemed to shrink into herself at the mention of Emilia. “I know nothing. No can help you.”

Frank went into the flat and pulled out a chair. He turned it and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and leaning in close to Mrs. Donato. He could see her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t been sleeping, and her face was gray. She had been suffering the torment of the damned, but Frank was going to give her an opportunity to bare her blackened soul.

“You didn’t like your daughter much, did you, Mrs. Donato?” he began.

She stiffened. True or not, such a thing would be difficult to admit. “She bad, all a time bad. No listen. No good.”

“Maybe she just wanted her mother to love her,” he suggested.