The Cliff House Strangler

THE CLIFF HOUSE STRANGLER

ALSO BY SHIRLEY TALLMAN

Murder on Nob Hill

The Russian Hill Murders

SHIRLEY TALLMAN

St. Martin’s Minotaur
New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE CLIFF HOUSE STRANGLER
. Copyright © 2007 by Shirley Tallman. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tallman, Shirley.

The Cliff House strangler : a Sarah Woolson mystery / Shirley Tallman.—1st ed.

    p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-35756-6
ISBN-10: 0-312-35756-7
1. Women lawyers—Fiction. 2. Cliff House (San Francisco, Calif.)—Fiction. 3.

San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Seances—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3620.A54C55 2007

813'.6—dc22

2007011274

First Edition: July 2007

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

To Carol, with love always.

And in memory of Kate Fleming, an enormous talent and a
wonderful human being. In her performance as Anna Fields, Kate’s
delightful reading style created the perfect voice for Sarah Woolson
in the first two audio books in the series. She will be sorely missed,
both as a gifted reader and as a friend.

Last, but never least, to H. P.

I want to express my sincere thanks to the San Francisco Sheriff ’s Office, and particularly to Sheriff Michael Hennessey, for introducing me to the jails and penal system of 1880s San Francisco.

Many thanks as well to my good friend Val Nasedkin for helping me with my mostly nonexistent Russian vocabulary.
Bol ’shoe spasibo,
Val!

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Alexandra Sechrest, who kindly allowed me to borrow her lovely name for this novel.

As always, heartfelt thanks to my writing buddy, JoAnn Wendt, for the many hours she spent critiquing this book. Your help is invaluable.

Perhaps some of you have noted that the Cliff House pictured on the jacket of this book is not the edifice that actually stood at the northwest tip of San Francisco in 1881. That earlier building, often referred to as the “second” Cliff House, had a rather lackluster appearance, even after Captain Foster (who leased the property in the early 1860s) tripled the size of the building by adding two wings and a long balcony.

After much thought, my editors and I decided that it would be far more interesting to feature the famous Cliff House erected by Adolph Sutro in 1896, some fifteen years after fictional events portrayed in
The Cliff House Strangler
took place.

Although we apologize for taking this creative, if historically incorrect, liberty, we cannot regret the decision. The depiction of Sutro’s Cliff House—towering in stately majesty over the Pacific Ocean, the night sky lit by jagged streaks of lightning—perfectly sets the stage for Madame Karpova’s séance and the tragic events that followed.

THE CLIFF HOUSE STRANGLER

I
can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” Robert Campbell grumbled.

As if to punctuate this complaint, jagged bolts of lightning flashed across the night sky, followed by a resounding clap of thunder. That brief burst of light revealed my companion’s tense face as the cabbie’s frightened horse nearly ran our brougham off the road. Eddie Cooper—the young lad I’d met several months ago during the Russian Hill murders—quickly brought the dappled gray under control. Unfortunately, he seemed disinclined to lessen his horse’s pace as the first heavy drops of rain splashed onto the roof of the carriage.

My tall, brusque colleague—until recently one of my coworkers at the prestigious San Francisco law firm of Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall—pressed his face against the window to glare outside at what was rapidly turning into a downpour.

“I told you we were in for a storm. But no, nothing would do but that you drag me out to Land’s End in the middle of a hurricane. And for a séance, of all the bizarre—”

“Oh, for the love of heaven!” I sighed, fighting to retain my patience. Robert Campbell, who had proved to be a loyal ally in several
past adventures, nonetheless could exhaust the fortitude of a saint. “Hurricanes occur in the tropics. This is nothing more than a rainstorm. Do stop being so melodramatic.”

Naturally, he ignored me. “If your brother Samuel is so het up to write an article about ghosts and goblins, why didn’t he make this ridiculous trip himself?”

“For the dozenth time, Samuel had to leave for Sacramento this morning. And as he has not as yet acquired the ability to be in two places at once, he asked me to go in his stead.” I was forced to grip the seat, as our carriage wheels bounced over a deep pothole, resulting in a fresh mumble of curses from my disgruntled companion. “Robert, be honest. Aren’t you the least bit curious about Madame Karpova? The city has talked of little else for weeks. From what I’ve heard, her European tour earlier this year was a huge success.”

He gave a low grunt. “I don’t have any patience for gullible people who believe that this—this charlatan can actually communicate with the dead.”

He jerked as another flash of lightning threw the bleak countryside into stark illumination. “And why in God’s name does she have to perform her parlor tricks all the way out at the Cliff House, instead of some decently dry room in the city?” He ran his fingers through his unruly mop of red hair, causing it to stick up in small irregular patches. I also noted that his Scottish
r
’s were rolling along nicely, becoming ever more pronounced as the storm intensified.

Not wishing to encourage Robert’s bad temper with a response, I silently busied myself straightening the folds of my dark lavender skirt, particularly the horizontal pleating, which had become tangled with my boots during the uneven ride. My unhappy colleague did not take the hint.

“It’s a mystery to me why Junius Foster agreed to this crazy idea in the first place. Lieutenant Foster has been managing the
Cliff House for fifteen years, and damn profitably, too. What do you suppose possessed him to turn the place over to a Russian tea-leaf reader, of all people?”

“Apparently, Madame Karpova has some very influential admirers in San Francisco society,” I replied, determined not to be pulled into another one of Robert’s pointless arguments. “I’ve never been to the Cliff House myself, but Madame Karpova evidently claims the place possesses a unique atmosphere conducive to ethereal vibrations.”

“Good lord, Sarah! Do you hear yourself?”

“Oh, do calm down, Robert. I’m merely repeating what Madame Karpova is reported to have said. I suggest you put away your preconceptions for the evening and approach the experience with an open mind.”

He muttered something largely unintelligible by way of a reply, then once again came an inch out of his seat when another flash of lightning lit the carriage. It was quickly followed by a clash of thunder.

“Try to relax,” I said, steadfastly ignoring the frayed state of my own nerves. “I’m sure this bit of weather will soon play itself out.”

Half an hour later, I was forced to eat these words. Not only had the “bit of weather” not dissipated by the time we reached our destination; it had developed into a full-fledged deluge, made worse by erratically gusting winds.

Successfully negotiating the last rugged stretch of muddy road leading up the cliff, Eddie reined up in front of what had become popularly known as the “Second Cliff House.” It had acquired this name some ten years earlier when Lt. Junius Foster added two large wings to the original structure, which, heretofore, had primarily consisted of a saloon and dining establishment. This ambitious remodeling provided hotel accommodations for moneyed guests who, after an overpriced dinner, chose to postpone their long trek back to the city until the following morning. From rumors I’d
heard, these rooms were just as frequently occupied by politicians and gamblers, or by gentlemen seeking a convenient trysting place to bring their paramours.

I looked out the carriage window at the single-storied edifice perched high above the northwest tip of San Francisco. One of the reasons for the Cliff House’s burgeoning popularity was the spectacular view it afforded of the entrance to the Golden Gate—at least on a clear day. Tonight, the churning black sea crashed against Seal Rocks, as if determined to crush them into sand. And for once, there was no sign of the sea lions, otters, and seals responsible for naming the famous rocks, even though they commonly cavorted upon the sandstone cliffs at night. Perhaps Robert is right, I thought, looking out at driving sheets of rain; most sensible mammals would not venture out on a night like this.