Scandal on Rincon Hill (33 page)

We were pleased to find the back door to the ice cream parlor partially open, and we could hear the sound of male voices coming from inside. Giving the door a barely audible knock and, without waiting for an answer, Samuel pushed it open and we entered what was obviously the shop's storage area. The room was in deep shadow. The only light spilling inside—and that dim enough—came from the front of the parlor. Still, after our eyes adjusted to the dark, it was possible to make out a number of crates lined up two or three boxes high against one of the walls, a sink and half a dozen empty soda bottles piled in more crates to the opposite side of the room.

Samuel motioned for me to tread softly, and we made our way toward the voices. Once we reached the parlor's back entrance, we crouched behind yet more piles of crates stacked to either side of the door, my brother on one side, I on the other.

From this position, we could see a visibly distraught Kerry Murphy speaking to a tall, heavily built uniformed policeman, whose back was turned toward us. His ample body and broad neck was topped by a thick head of black hair, but we could see nothing of his
face. Samuel gave a little shake of his head, indicating that he couldn't place the officer, and for us to remain where we were for the moment.

As I studied the two men, my gaze went to the floor and I stiffened to spy a large dark discoloration staining the worn wood planks. That must be where poor Patrick had been stabbed, I realized, and the crime was sharply brought home to me in all its gory details. I blinked back hot tears; how heartbreaking to think that such a happy young life had been cut so tragically short.

From where we were standing, it was also possible to make out the trail of blood where the boy's body had been dragged into the storage room behind us. I was aghast to realize that there were one or two stains beneath my boots. God help us! I thought, willing myself not to move from my hiding place behind the crates. Repositioning my feet ever so slightly, I fervently prayed that poor Patrick had died quickly, and with as little pain and panic as possible.

“It must have been a mistake!”

Kerry Murphy's words cut into these macabre thoughts. I looked back up to find that he had moved closer to the policeman, his face jutting out from a thick neck until it was mere inches from the other man's nose. The Irishman's feet were planted apart, and his normally pleasant voice—ever ready to compliment young ladies' hats and ply small children with sugary treats—cracked with emotion.

“I'm tellin' ya, Patrick didn't have an enemy in the world, nary a one,” he insisted. “Ask anyone. You couldn't find a better, more decent lad, and that's God's gospel truth.”

“Calm down there, b'hoy,” said the officer, stepping back a pace or two. “You said yourself nothing was taken from the cash box. Now if it weren't a robbery, then whoever did in your cousin meant to do just that. So, for the last time, who had it in for O'Hara?”

Kerry Murphy's full face flushed red with anger. “I'm tellin' you no one had it in for Patrick! Yer wastin' yer time with all these damn-fool questions. You outta be out there findin' whoever did this to the boy.”

“And who would ya have me arrest?” the officer asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “How about you, Murphy? Maybe you had it in for your cousin—him bein' such a pretty lady's man and all? What happened? Did O'Hara steal your girl, so you poked holes in him with an ice pick? Crime of rage, was it?”

Murphy's face was now beet red, and I saw his fingers ball up into fists at his sides. Before the Irishman could act on his rage, the back storage door slammed open and I heard the sound of feet scuttling through the dim room.

“Did you find the body?” Eddie's voice inquired in a loud whisper. “Is there a lot of blood?”

With a grunt of dismay, Samuel reached out to grab the boy before he could go any further. “I thought I told you to wait with the carriage,” he hissed. “Now you've gone and fixed the flint.”

Both men in the parlor had stopped talking at the sudden disturbance. Samuel cleared his throat and walked boldly into the room.

“The back door was open, so I let myself in,” he announced, adopting his most amicable smile. “I was sorry to hear about your cousin, Kerry.” He turned toward the second man. “I don't believe we've met, Officer—”

“Never mind who I am,” snapped the policeman. “Who the hell do you think you are, marching in here bold as brass?” He eyed my brother's blond hair. “Another Murphy, I suppose.”

Kerry Murphy scowled at the policeman. “This is Officer Dubbs, Mr. Woolson. And if he's an example of the city's finest, then we're in a bloody lot of trouble.”

“I see,” said Samuel. “Thanks, Kerry.”

Ignoring the policeman's belligerent expression, Samuel calmly held out his hand. “I'm not a Murphy, Officer Dubbs. My name is Samuel Woolson. I'm a friend of Sergeant Lewis's. He spoke to me this morning about Mr. O'Hara's tragic murder.”

“So you thought you'd waltz on over here and have a look-see for yourself, is that it?” The officer studied Samuel critically for several seconds, then raised bushy black eyebrows. “Just a minute,
I know who you are. You're that nosy newspaper reporter, the one who writes them stories that make coppers look stupid.”

The man's heavy face darkened as he gave Samuel a sour look of dislike. “Well, you won't get anything nosing around here, so get yourself out before I throw you in the paddy wagon for interferin' in a police investigation.” He grabbed Eddie by the collar and gave him a push toward my brother. “Here, and take this young hooligan with you.”

Looking beyond the boy, he seemed to notice my presence in the doorway for the first time. “And who is this? What did you do, bring half the street in with you?” He took a menacing step toward Samuel, prompting my brother to grab Eddie's arm and beat a prudent retreat.

W
hat's that ole leatherhead so riled up about?” asked Eddie, when we were safely back in the alley. He looked at me reproachfully, as if I'd reneged on a promised treat. “And I never saw no body. I thought you said the mark was cut up with an ice pick. Didn't see no sign of that.”

I was too upset to correct the boy's use of the double negative. And by now I understood that referring to the officer we had just encountered as “leatherhead” was but one of the seemingly endless sobriquets by which the police were known on the streets of San Francisco.

“The victim's body had already been removed, Eddie,” I explained, hastening my step to catch up with Samuel, who had reached the end of the alley. “When you came bounding in with all the subtlety of a stick of dynamite, the—”

“Yeah, I know, the jig was up,” the boy said, hanging his head. “I should 'ave known better.”

“Well, it's too late now. No sense crying over spilt milk.”

The boy's head bobbed up, but before he could ask the inevitable question, I explained, “It's just an expression, Eddie. It means
there's no use worrying about something once it's over and done with.”

Despite his chagrin at having interrupted Samuel's investigation, a small impish grin crossed the lad's face. “I like that one, Miss Sarah. That pretty much sops the gravy, don't it?”

I had only a vague idea of what “sopping the gravy” entailed, but I had caught up with Samuel and had more important matters on my mind.

“That wasn't very helpful, was it?” I said as we neared the end of the alley.

“I admit I was hoping for a good deal more,” he replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “If only that policeman hadn't been there, I might have engaged Kerry Murphy in some meaningful conversation.”

“It's almighty hot today, don't you think?” interjected Eddie out of the blue.

I shot the boy a curious glance, then looked up at the gray sky. As a matter of fact, it was an uncommonly dreary day, seasonably cool, with the promise of rain hanging heavily in the afternoon air.

Samuel shook his head, guessing what had motivated the lad into making such a strange utterance. “The shop is closed today, Eddy, remember? There's been a death in the family.”

“What's that got to do with them dishin' up some ice cream?” argued the boy. “The body's not even in there anymore.”

“That's true, but when people lose someone they care about, they need time to mourn and work through their pain,” Samuel told him patiently.

Eddie did not appear completely satisfied by this explanation, but seemed to accept the fact that he would not be allowed to partake of one of Murphy's excellent ice cream dishes this afternoon.

The boy and I had followed my brother out of the alley and onto Folsom Street, when I noticed a familiar, and decidedly unwelcome, face in the crowd gathered outside the parlor.

“Samuel, look,” I said, nodding my head toward the man. “It's Ozzie Foldger. And this time I know I'm not mistaken.”

“So it is,” said Samuel, regarding the rival reporter with ill-disguised distaste. “I'm not surprised he's here. Word spreads fast in this city, especially when it concerns a murder.”

Just then Foldger caught sight of us. At first he looked dismayed that we had beat him to the story, then quickly recovering his air of self-confidence, he gave me a strangely ironic smile. Then, with a jaunty tip of his cap, he turned and made his way into the alley from which we had just emerged.

“Do you think he'll get inside like we did?” Eddie asked, following our gaze.

“Maybe,” Samuel told him. “But he'll get pretty short shrift if he does. Officer Dubbs will be on the lookout for more reporters. Most likely he's already locked the back door.”

We had begun to cross the street toward the brougham, when I spied Major Zachariah Tremaine's tall head above the crowd. As he came closer, I saw that he was accompanied by the twins, David and Melody, as well as a young boy of about eleven, and a small girl who appeared to be two or three years his junior. I recognized the children as David and Melody's half brother and sister from their father's second marriage to Faith Tremaine. Although I had never been formally introduced to the youngsters, I had glimpsed them at church on a Sunday morning.

“Look, Samuel,” I said, taking his arm and motioning toward the new arrivals. I needn't have bothered; my brother had already spotted the foursome—or at least he had certainly noticed the lovely Melody Tremaine.

“Good afternoon, Major Tremaine,” he said, politely doffing his brown bowler hat to the elderly gentleman. Turning to the twins, he smiled a friendly greeting. “It's good to see you again Miss Tremaine, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Woolson, Miss Woolson,” replied the older man. “You know my grandchildren David and Melody, I believe. And these two are my son's children by his second marriage.
This is Reggie,” he said, nodding to the boy, “and this is Carolyn.” He gazed curiously about at the crowd of mostly young people gathered in front of the ice cream parlor. “What's going on, do you know? Why are all these people milling about outside the shop?”

“Something dreadful happened here last night,” I replied. “I'm afraid that Patrick O'Hara has been kill—” I stopped before actually speaking the dreaded word. In deference to the two young children who were, even as I spoke, darting eager glances toward the shop, I was forced to rethink how best to explain the poor Irishman's death. “There has been an unfortunate accident,” I said, rephrasing my words. “The parlor is closed, at least for the remainder of the day.”

Melody Tremaine stared at me, her beautiful face puzzled. “Whatever has happened, Miss Woolson? I trust it is nothing serious.”

I caught Samuel's eye, and with an almost imperceptible nod of understanding, he turned to Eddie. “Why don't we show Reggie and Carolyn your horse? Perhaps you have some oats they could feed him.”

It took Eddie—who had been gaping in open admiration at the beautiful Melody'several seconds to comprehend that my brother was speaking to him. Shrugging reluctantly, he gave the girl a last, adoring look, then turned and led Samuel and the children across the street to where he had parked the brougham.

When they were out of hearing, I set out to explain to David, Melody, and their grandfather what had happened to poor Patrick O'Hara. I made my description as brief and delicate as possible, making no mention of the manner of the boy's death, or the trail of blood which had been left behind. As I spoke, David drew in a sharp breath and his sister's face drained of color.

Holding tightly to her brother's arm, she protested in a stricken voice, “Surely, Miss Woolson, you are mistaken. It cannot have been Mr. O'Hara.”

“Melody is right,” put in David, looking a bit pale himself. “I can't imagine anyone wishing to harm Patrick. He was pleasant
and cheerful to everyone. He even remembered the children's birthdays with a free dish of ice cream. They are—were—quite fond of him. He was an altogether agreeable man.”

“Yes, he certainly was,” I said, experiencing a pang of regret for causing these two young people such obvious distress. Given their tender years, they undoubtedly lived a quiet, sheltered life, protected by their parents against the violence and other sordid elements which sadly existed in a metropolitan city such as San Francisco.

Major Tremaine was eyeing me intently, as if not quite sure how to phrase his words. “Who—That is, do the police know who committed this dreadful act?”

“Not yet, I'm afraid. They're making inquiries, of course, but as yet they don't appear to have any particular suspect in mind.”

I was alarmed to see Melody's face blanch even more dramatically than before. She swayed slightly, and David reached out an arm to steady her.

“Mel, are you all right?” The boy's handsome face was pinched in concern. He had taken hold of one of his sister's arms, while Mr. Tremaine grabbed the other. The major's eyes darted around, as if searching for a place where she might sit until she had recovered.

I hastened forward, having plucked a small vial of smelling salts from an inner pocket of my suit. I had, on more occasions than I care to recall, found it a handy resource in restoring ladies to their senses. Opening the cap, I placed the foul-smelling substance beneath the girl's delicate nose.

“Breathe deeply, my dear,” I instructed.