Murder on Nob Hill (3 page)

For the first time, the hint of a smile played at the corners of that hard-etched mouth. I instantly regretted allowing my irritation to show. The sooner we attended to our business and took our leave of the bank, I decided, the better.

“I’m sure we’re keeping Mr. Potter from his work,” I told Ann-jenett. “Perhaps we should see to our errand.”

“And what errand is that?” The attorney addressed this remark to me, and this time there was no mistaking the mocking tone.

I started to reply that it was none of his business, then thought better of it. Tempting as it was to put this arrogant man in his place, making an enemy of the executor of my client's estate might not be in her best interests.

“We’re trying to locate some personal papers belonging to Mr. Hanaford,” I told him, keeping my face, and my voice, civil.

The lawyer's eyes narrowed. “Miss Woolson, I’m sure you must be aware of Mrs. Hanaford's recent bereavement. It is both callous and insensitive to enlist her on this fool's errand. Her affairs are being competently handled.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment, Mr. Wylde,” I said, biting back another stinging retort. “However, as I said, our business is of a personal nature. There is no need to take up more of your valuable time.” I heard his slight intake of breath as I turned back to the manager. “Mr. Potter, shall we proceed?”

I had placed Eban Potter in a difficult position. Clearly, he was in awe of the attorney, yet to object to our request would seem unreasonable and rude. At his hesitation, I sensed Annjenett wavering in her resolve and thought it best to press on.

“I assume that's the door leading to Mr. Hanaford's office?” Without waiting for a reply, I started toward the rear of the bank. Before the widow could follow, the attorney took hold of her hand.

I have since questioned whether the look I caught on Benjamin

Wylde's face at that moment was as malevolent as it seemed, especially since it was so quickly gone. Certainly his voice was calm enough as he told Annjenett, “I’m traveling to Sacramento this evening, but I will call on you upon my return.” I don’t think I imagined my client's relief when he released her hand and turned to me. “Miss Woolson, I trust you will find what you are seeking.”

It was a tribute to the power of the man that we all stood rooted in our places while Benjamin Wylde made his way with long strides though the antechamber and out of the bank.

“Well, then,” I said, breaking the spell. “Shall we proceed?”

In the end, we were disappointed. Mr. Hanaford kept no personal papers in his work safe. Annjenett looked crestfallen.

“The bank was a place to start,” I told her optimistically. “Perhaps we’ll meet with better success at your house.”

Annjenett's home was located on Taylor and California Streets, atop Nob Hill. A block away on Mason stood the turreted monstrosity built by Mark Hopkins, one of the so-called Big Four associated with the Central Pacific Railroad. Next door was the equally ornate, barnlike mansion of Leland Stanford, former governor of California and one of Hopkins's railroad associates. compared with these fortresses, Hanaford's house could almost be deemed tasteful.

Declining the widow's offer of refreshments, I asked to see her late husband's safe. His study, located to the right of the foyer, was a spacious, masculine room, decorated mostly in browns and deep greens. The heavy drapes were closed in mourning, but through the gloom I could detect a number of books and a large mahogany desk centered in front of a cloaked window. Annjenett paused at the doorway, looking uneasy.

“Cornelius—that is, my husband—was murdered in this room. Stabbed—as he sat at his desk.” She indicated an imposing brown

leather chair that backed against the drapes. “I’ve left everything as it was. The police, of course, spent some time examining the room.”

“You heard nothing that night? No one at the door, perhaps? Or your husband crying out?”

“No, nothing. I retired to my room directly after dinner. I wasn’t—feeling well.”

It was only a slight hesitation, but it was enough to cause me to question this statement. The obvious anguish on her face, however, made me reluctant to pursue it further—at least for now.

“What time did you go upstairs?” I asked instead.

“About a quarter to nine.” She faltered. “It was the last time I saw my husband alive.”

“What about the servants? I’m sure they’ve been questioned?”

“Yes. So often that I live in fear they’ll give notice. It has been a most unsettling experience.”

“I can imagine.” My sympathy was sincere, but I sensed her anxiety was caused by more than the difficulty of retaining domestic help. “You’re sure your husband expected no visitors that night?”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me. Beecher, our butler, denies letting anyone in.” Her voice took on a hysterical note. “But someone did come in. They had to, didn’t they?”

Unless Hanaford was killed by someone already inside the house, I thought. It was a disturbing idea, but one that couldn’t be ignored. It also occurred to me that since the study was in such close proximity to the front door, Hanaford himself might have admitted a visitor without disturbing the rest of the household. Surely the police must have considered these possibilities. Keeping these thoughts to myself, I entered the study and pulled open the drapes so that I might better examine the murder scene.

“You said your husband's safe is in this room?”

She blinked against the sudden light, then crossed the room to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Reaching inside a panel, she tripped a hidden mechanism and a section of shelves slid open, revealing a concealed wall safe.

“Cornelius insisted I learn the combination, although I rarely used it, and always under his direction.” With care she manipulated the knob and opened the door. “The police searched the safe, but I have no idea what they found.”

I stepped forward and peered into the compartment, which was divided into five sections. The first cubicle contained deeds and other business papers, two more held letters, another a thin ledger, and the last a small stack of cash. Pushing up my sleeve, I reached inside and pulled out the currency that, I was happy to note, amounted to several hundred dollars.

“If nothing else, this should help to tide you over,” I said, handing the money over to the widow.

Annjenett took the bills with delight. “I had no idea Cornelius kept cash in the safe. He led me to believe there was only his will and a few personal letters.”

“Yes, well, let's see what else he kept in here,” I said, placing the contents of the first compartment on the desk.

Annjenett watched while I read through deeds for various town properties, as well as one in Belmont where San Francisco society had recently begun to construct country homes. The last paper was a copy of Hanaford's will. Although pleased to see that he’d left the bulk of his considerable estate to his widow, I was disappointed not to find the document I sought. Placing the first set of papers back in their cubicle, I took out the second set and returned to the desk. It took only a moment to find what I was looking for. With a triumphant cry, I waved a paper at the widow.

“Here it is! Just as I hoped.”

Annjenett flew to the desk. “What is it? What have you found?”

“A separate property list. I suspected that was what your husband was up to when he had you sign papers before starting construction on your home.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Several years ago a civil code was passed enabling a wife to hold property and assets separate from her husband. These were to remain under her management and could not be taken by her husband's creditors. By listing your dowry and inheritance as separate properties, your husband protected them from being attached in the event he fell into debt. Of course he secretly retained control, as do a great many men who avail themselves of this code. In this case, however, the ploy works to our advantage.”

I saw hope rise in Annjenett's blue eyes. “Miss Woolson,” she asked intently. “How much money will be at my disposal?”

“I can’t be sure until I’ve studied the papers, but I think it would be safe to hazard a guess of some ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh, my!” She sank into a chair and looked alarmingly pale.

“Mrs. Hanaford, are you all right?” I began fanning her with the papers, regretting that it wasn’t my practice to carry smelling salts in my reticule.

“Yes,” she replied in a faint voice. “Actually, I’m very well now that you’ve happened into my life.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

“Tomorrow you may inform Mr. Shepard of our discovery and request that the properties and assets listed in this document be turned over to you forthwith.”

Annjenett clapped her hands in delight. “Miss Woolson— Sarah—you’ve worked a miracle. How can I thank you?”

I felt my face flush at this praise and endeavored to keep my ex
pression professional. Inside, however, I could hardly contain my excitement. Despite being summarily rejected by Shepard's firm, I had not only obtained my first client, but had actually been able to secure her financial independence. It was a heady feeling.

“It's a simple matter that could have been easily discovered had Mr. Wylde, or any of Mr. Shepard's attorneys, taken the time to investigate,” I told her truthfully enough, as I closed the safe door and ensured that the lock was set. Annjenett triggered the hidden mechanism and the bookshelf swung smoothly closed.

“Yes, but they didn’t.” She looked at me, embarrassed. “I’m ashamed to admit that prior to meeting you, Sarah, I was prejudiced against women in the legal profession. Now I see that it presents decided advantages. Being a woman, you were instantly able to appreciate my predicament, something I have been quite unable to convey to either Mr. Shepard or Mr. Wylde. Please,” she went on earnestly, “say that you’ll go with me tomorrow.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure,” I told her, delighted I would be there to see Joseph Shepard's face when he was presented with the separate property agreement. “Shall we say ten o’clock?”

“Yes. That will do nicely.” She handed me the documents. “Here, take these with you. Study them until you are very certain of our position.”

I agreed, but before I could leave she took both my hands in hers. “You’ll allow my man to drive you home, Sarah. No, I insist. It is the least I can do.”

“That's kind of you,” I said, gratefully accepting her offer. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning.”

Annjenett Hanaford was still standing in the doorway as her coachman clicked the stately bay down Taylor Street toward Rincon Hill.

CHAPTER TWO

T
hat evening everyone was home for dinner, even my brother Frederick and his wife, Henrietta, who had recently built their own house on Nob Hill, away from what they, and most of San Francisco, perceived to be the imminent demise of Rincon Hill. Once the most fashionable area of the city, it stood high above the Bay, half a mile from the nuisances of downtown traffic. Boasting royalty and the finest weather in town, Rincon Hill sat proudly upon its perch until some “big bugs” (one of Papa's pet terms) in city government decided pedestrian and carriage traffic around Market Street and the waterfront would be eased by bisecting it at Second Street.

Frederick urged Papa to relocate before word of the cut became public, but my father refused. Rincon Hill had been home for twenty-five years and, city stupidity notwithstanding, so it would remain. Four years after the first cut was made, Frederick and Henrietta moved out, preferring to borrow money to erect a home of modest but dedicated pretension on the fringe of the Nob Hill

swells. As far as I was concerned, their presence in our house was not missed!

They had joined us this evening in order to put the finishing touches on the plans for a dinner party to be given on Saturday night, only two days hence, to mark Frederick's entree into the political arena. He planned to start with the state senate, then work his way into the governor's mansion. Eventually—heaven help us—he hoped to take up a post in our nation's capital. I shuddered at the thought of Frederick in Congress. What the Confederacy had failed to wrest asunder by force, my brother's dull and extraordinarily narrow mind might well accomplish.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Allow me to acquaint you with my family. I am the youngest of four children and the only daughter of Horace and Elizabeth Woolson. Plagued by a surplus of lawyers in their hometown of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, my parents, two small sons in tow, left in the early fifties to make the long trek to San Francisco, where Papa was convinced there were fresh opportunities.

Indeed there were! My father's transplanted law practice flourished in this chaotic, prosperous town full of gold dust and the callow forty-niners bent on mining it. With such instant wealth, criminal defense, litigation and debt collection cases abounded. Horace T. Woolson's thriving practice soon catapulted him to public office, and eventually to the Superior Court of the County of San Francisco.

Frederick is the eldest of my three brothers and has—to my amazement—become a fairly successful attorney. Charles, three years Frederick's junior, is also married and has gained a reputation as a skilled, if impoverished, physician. My youngest brother, Samuel—my co-conspirator in the episode at Shepard's law firm—
is two years my senior. Samuel remains a bachelor and still lives at home, as does my brother Charles and his family.

There were eight of us, then, at dinner that evening. Charles and his wife, Celia, presented a handsome contrast, he with his dark complexion and Mama's thick ebony hair, she with her fair coloring and golden locks. After seven years of marriage and two lovely children, Thomas and Amanda, the looks they exchanged, the seemingly accidental touch of their hands, was almost—but not quite—enough to weaken my resolve to remain a spinster.

Frederick and his wife, Henrietta, presented a sadly different picture. Tall, heavy-set, looking older than his thirty-eight years, Frederick is, I am sorry to say, a humorless man. His appearance favors Papa, with the same nut-brown hair and dark eyes, as well as Papa's noticeable paunch. Henrietta is also tall, but where Frederick has turned portly, she has kept her thin, brittle figure. They make an impressive, if passionless, couple. I wonder sometimes how they ever managed to produce eight-year-old Freddie, a son of whom Ivan the Terrible would be proud. But that's another story.