Scandal on Rincon Hill (39 page)

As I watched him flee down the block, I heard an unexpected sound from behind me. Turning around, I realized that the clerk and his three customers were all applauding me!

I
returned to my office so engrossed in my thoughts that I very nearly ran into Fanny, who must have been keeping watch for me from inside her shop. She brushed off my apologies, obviously eager to pass on an important message.

“That nice Mr. Godfrey was here about half an hour ago,” she gushed. “I thought you might have gone to the jail before coming in this morning, so I told him you should arrive at any time. He said he would be back at noon to take you to lunch.”

Fanny uttered these words with so much deference, you would have thought Pierce was taking me to lunch at the White House. I hid a smile, amazed that he had the ability to charm a woman of fifty, every bit as easily as girls in their teens.

“Thank you, Fanny,” I said, wondering what could have prompted Pierce to visit my office. “As it happens, I did stop off at the jail.”

Fanny eyed me anxiously. “What's happened, Sarah? You look as if you've received a shock of some kind. Why don't you come inside and I'll put the kettle on for tea. You can tell me all about it.”

“Not right now, Fanny, but thank you for the offer,” I declined with a distracted smile. “I need to spend some time alone before Pierce returns. I have some thinking to do.”

“Oh, dear. That does sound grim.” She raised salt-and-pepper
eyebrows. “Are they still treating those poor Chinese boys like some sort of animals?” she asked indignantly.

I was surprised that she had touched so closely upon what had occurred at the jail. Once again, I was in awe of my neighbor's amazing perspicacity.

“Yes, unfortunately, they are. But, well, there's more, I'm afraid.” I patted the hand she had rested on my shoulder. “I promise to tell you all about it, Fanny, as soon as I've made sense of it myself.”

“You do that, dear.” Her kind gray eyes were regarding me with concern. “And do enjoy your lunch with Mr. Godfrey. If anyone can brighten your day, it is certainly that man!”

Once upstairs, I removed my cloak and hat and sank wearily into the chair behind my desk. It was only ten thirty, yet I felt as if I had been hard at work for hours.

Mentally, I gave myself a little shake. For the time being, I had to forget Ozzie Foldger, his troubling article, and even Brielle Bouchard's predicament. I had two bewildered and frightened boys counting on me to save their lives, a huge responsibility which required all my attention.

It was hard to believe that the men who had found Nigel Logan had changed their story about the man they spied running away. Were they only now telling what they really saw that night? Or had Jackson's mysterious “boys upstairs” somehow persuaded them to alter their original statement?

For the next hour and a half, I went over every detail I knew concerning the first two murders. As was my habit when trying to organize my thoughts, I had taken out my notebook and was listing everything—no matter how insignificant—I could remember about the crimes. Because I could not totally accept that Patrick O'Hara had been murdered by a cuckold husband, and therefore was unconnected to the other two killings, I added his death to the list.

My jottings had extended to several pages by the time Pierce arrived at my office. As is often the case when I am preoccupied, I
had paid little attention to the time and was surprised to realize that it was already noon.

Beneath his unbuttoned navy blue long coat, I could see that he was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, set off nicely by an elegant gray and blue cravat. His thick, ebony hair looked to be a bit longer than he usually wore it, but as always it was carefully groomed and combed back from a tanned face. Watching him walk with casual grace into my office, I could well understand how even sensible Fanny found him irresistible.

“Hard at work, I see,” he said. He took off his hat, but did not remove his coat, or take a seat. Instead, he remained standing in front of my desk.

I put down my pencil and sighed. “I only wish you were right. Actually, I've accomplished very little.” I straightened in my chair and smiled. “Fanny said that you would like to take me to lunch?”

“I would, indeed.”

“Good, because I'm very hungry.”

“Excellent.” He helped me on with my wrap, which I removed from its customary hook on the coat tree, then started for the door.

W
e walked several blocks up Sutter Street to one of my favorite restaurants. Giuseppe's was not large but the food was good, and the service even better. It was not my custom to dawdle for hours over my midday meal, and I had found the waiters here to be speedy and reliable. It was possible to enjoy a full pasta meal, or an assortment of sandwiches with beer or wine, and be back to work in little more than an hour.

Pierce and I ordered, then without my having to ask, he explained the reason for his unexpected luncheon invitation.

“I've been to see the Tremaines,” he said, in obvious irritation. “Melody's father flatly refuses to allow her to audition for Joe Kreling when he returns to town.”

As this news was no more than I had expected, I simply shook my head and sighed. “I didn't think he would agree. If he or his
wife had been at home yesterday, we would never have been allowed to take her to the Tivoli.”

“I didn't see the girl, or Mrs. Tremaine. Just Melody's father. I'm afraid she's going to be very disappointed.”

“Yes, she is.” I thought back to how excited she had been the day before at the opportunity to audition, and how beautiful she had looked on the stage. “I doubt that Mr. Tremaine will use a great deal of tact when he tells his daughter that her singing career is over before it has even begun. And I fear she will not receive much sympathy from her stepmother.”

“I've never met her mother, but I saw pictures of her in the drawing room yesterday afternoon. She looks to be an attractive woman, but hardly in the same class as Melody.” He sat apparently lost in thought for a few moments. “You don't suppose Mrs. Tremaine opposes the girl's career because she's jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty and talent, do you?”

I smiled. “The thought has crossed my mind. It can't be easy for a second wife to be so outshone by her husband's first wife's daughter.” Once again, I sighed. “I guess that is that, then. You did your best, Pierce. And Melody certainly proved she has the ability and charisma to enjoy a successful career on the stage.”

Pierce breathed slowly in and out before responding. “I wish I could take Tremaine's pigheadedness as calmly as you, Sarah.”

“You mistake acceptance for equanimity, Pierce. Don't forget I've met the man, and was forced to listen to his views on Melody's singing aspirations.”

I thought back to the night of Faith's birthday dinner. “You know, I don't believe Reginald Tremaine understands his children very well, especially the twins. He's been so preoccupied with building his business, I think he's left much of their upbringing to nannies, and then to his second wife, Faith. I doubt that he has any true idea how much this means to Melody, or how devastated she'll be at his refusal to grant her her life's dream.”

Pierce nodded his agreement. “You should have heard the man. He actually seemed surprised I'd gone to the trouble of scheduling
Melody's audition. He dismissed her ambition as if it were nothing more than a silly young girl's fantasy. Which, I might add, he made clear was beneath the family's dignity.”

“I think he's proud of his daughter, and probably of her singing—but only as a pleasant after-dinner entertainment, or to show off in front of friends. The very idea that she might possess sufficient talent to perform outside the home is completely beyond his frame of reference.”

“I feel sorry for the girl.”

“Yes, I do, too. But there's little we can do about it. He is, after all, her father. Unless she cares deeply enough about a career to defy him when she comes of age, he retains the final word.”

“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps not.”

Before I could question this strange statement, the waiter arrived with our lunches and Pierce fell quiet.

Despite several attempts, I could not get him to discuss the matter further.

D
espite my objections that I had no need for another evening dress, Mama had insisted I have a new gown made for our Christmas party. I was more than a little shocked when it arrived from the dressmaker Saturday morning, to discover several modifications to the design had been executed without my approval. The modest neckline I had chosen for the periwinkle-blue damassé silk-and-satin gown was now cut so low I feared I would be forced to stand bolt upright the entire evening or cause a scandal. Mama had also added—again without my knowledge—a full frill of cream-colored duchesse lace to circle the plunging décolletage, along with a train of cream brocaded satin. Neither of which, I'm sure I need not add, were my style. Investigating these changes, I discovered that Mama had requested them to be made the day after she invited Pierce to the soiree, with instructions to the dressmaker that the gown be delivered to our house the morning of the party, when it would be too late for me to object.

At least I could not complain about the way our ladies' maid, Hazel, dressed my hair. She was so rushed attending to Mama's and Celia's coiffures, as well as mine, that she was content to arrange my ebony locks into a simple cluster of curls atop my head, allowing
the rest of my thick mane to hang in long tresses down my back. And for once she didn't argue with me about adorning my head with anything but a few sprigs of holiday flowers.

When I descended the stairs to help greet guests, my mind was in a turmoil. I had not seen or heard from Robert since the previous Tuesday evening when he, Samuel, George Lewis, and I discussed the recent spate of murders. Since then, I had vacillated over the wisdom of his attendance tonight. Given his illogical dislike for Pierce, I feared what might happen if he were forced to spend an entire evening with him in the same house. On the other hand, the thought of Robert sitting home alone in his dreary rooming house so close to Christmas made me feel heartless in the extreme.

I had no worries concerning Pierce's behavior; he would remain a gentleman however much Robert baited him. My hotheaded colleague, on the other hand, could be alarmingly unpredictable. If he precipitated a scene with Pierce during tonight's festivities, my mother would never forgive me.

It was Samuel's opinion that I was once again making mountains out of molehills. “they're grown men, Sarah,” he'd said earlier that afternoon. “They know how to behave.” I could only pray that he was right. Truly, my life at present was so full of life-and-death issues, I had no need for added complications, especially those of a romantic nature.

Celia and Charles came downstairs shortly after me. My sister-in-law looked lovely in a shaded emerald-green lampas gown, trimmed with faded gold satin. That she could look stylishly slender so soon after giving birth recently continued to amaze me.

I was relieved to have them by my side when the first guests to enter were my eldest brother Frederick—who is, to California's peril, a state senator—and his wife, Henrietta. Thankfully, they had left their unpleasant nine-year-old son, Freddy, at home. Unfortunately, they had brought their latest grievances concerning me with them.

“Sarah,” my eldest brother began, as soon as they had turned over their wraps to our butler, Edis. “I cannot believe Mother permitted you to show yourself in public tonight. The papers are full of your peccadilloes. This time you have gone too far!”

My sister-in-law Henrietta was wearing a gown in a shade of pale green which was not at all flattering to her sallow complexion. I knew by the cut and the quality of the material that the dress was costly. Why, I wondered, did the unfortunate woman insist on spending so much money on clothes which so ill suited her?

“You seem determined to bring this family to ruin,” she hissed, glancing around to ensure no other guests were close enough to overhear talk of her sister-in-law's latest scandal. “What possessed you to agree to defend yet another Chinaman? I would have thought you'd learned your lesson the last time you put us through such a humiliation. And to visit a—a—”

“A cathouse?” I offered serenely. “I believe that is how the
Tattler
described it. I must admit that I'm a bit surprised to learn that you have taken to reading the gossip journals.”

It was rewarding to see Henrietta's pasty complexion turn an almost pleasant shade of pink. She sputtered in an effort to find words sufficiently rancorous to describe her moral outrage.

My brother beat her to it, making no attempt to lower his own voice. “I am going to demand that Father do something about your conduct, Sarah. You are sullying not only my reputation, but his as well. If you refuse to behave like a proper young woman and marry—supposing, of course, you can find a decent man willing to accept you—then you should be placed in a nunnery, or at the very least settled in the country where you can no longer bring shame upon the family's good name.”

“Frederick! That is enough.”

We all turned to find Papa standing in the hallway, angrily regarding his eldest son. Behind him, our mother was looking in acute embarrassment at some guests who had gathered behind my brother and sister-in-law, awaiting their turn to enter the house.

“We will discuss this later,” Papa told Frederick in a low tone. He regarded me meaningfully. “I have not yet had an opportunity to speak to your sister, but rest assured, I will.”

Assuming a welcoming smile, he brushed past us to greet the new arrivals. With a scathing look in my direction, Mama followed. Taking advantage of their preoccupation, I slipped quietly into the kitchen where, given the hectic activity going on in the room, I was hardly welcome.

After nearly tripping our Irish maid, Ina Corks, who was bustling out the door carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres, I moved quickly out of the way. As I did, I spied our part-time gardener and handyman, Marco Ciatti, entering the kitchen from the back porch, a block of ice slung over his shoulder. Unable to tip his cap because of his heavy load, he nonetheless smiled cheerfully, and continued on into the scullery, where I presumed the ice would be cut or slivered depending on its intended use. Marco was frequently pressed into performing the odd chore here and there when our family entertained.