The Cliff House Strangler (11 page)

Papa gave a little chuckle, which was quickly dashed by a disapproving look from Mama. “I’m afraid, my dear, that Darien Moss was not a very nice man,” he said, very nearly parroting the words Nora Ahern had used to describe the reporter. “I’m sure he has made a great many enemies through that tell-all column of his.”

“Perhaps,” said Charles, who, as a physician, tended to measure death in medical terms. “But to hate him enough to commit murder?
It’s sad enough when a man his age passes away of natural causes. But to die like that. It seems so unnecessary—and tragic.

Frederick was studying me, a questioning look on his broad face. “I would like to know what you were doing at that séance in the first place, Sarah. I’ve never known you to put much stock in the supernatural.”

Samuel’s foot nudged mine beneath the table, but I required no reminder to keep his name out of this affair. So far, I was the only member of our family who was aware of his secret profession as a freelance journalist. A
crime
journalist at that! Papa, who held most newspaper men in extremely low esteem, would have had a conniption fit. As it was, he was growing ever more frustrated that Samuel had not yet taken his California Bar examination.

“I, ah, was just curious,” I said rather unconvincingly. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, hoping no one would notice this slight departure from the absolute truth. I had, after all, been interested in meeting Madame Karpova and witnessing one of her famous séances. On the other hand, it was doubtful I would have traveled all the way out to Land’s End—and in one of the worst storms of the year—had it not been for Samuel’s persistence. “I’d heard so much about Madame Karpova, I thought it might be fun to see her for myself.”

“I knew it!” Frederick exclaimed, his voice accusing. “I warned you this would happen, Father, if you continued to be so permissive with Sarah. First, she had the gall to call herself an attorney, meddling in affairs no decent woman should even know about. Then she disgraced the entire family by opening her own law practice. And now she’s—she’s—”

“She’s taken to speaking to the dead,” said Henrietta, finishing her husband’s sentence. Her stern, angular face was red to the very roots of her mousy brown hair, and her gray eyes flashed with anger. “Really, Papa Woolson, you must do something to stop your daughter’s irrational behavior. Now that Frederick is a senator, we have a social position to maintain. Sarah is making a laughingstock
of us in front of Frederick’s colleagues—indeed, in front of all our friends. Can no one control her?” Abruptly, she stopped speaking and looked around the table, embarrassed to find every eye fastened on her in varying degrees of alarm and distress.

Her face was flushed scarlet as she turned to me in a fury. “Just see where this conversation has led us, Sarah Woolson. As usual, you care nothing about your family, but only about your own irresponsible and selfish aims. I realize it is your birthday, Papa Woolson, but I must insist that we cease speaking of these dreadful matters before the evening is completely ruined.”

Henrietta took a deep breath, attempting, I assumed, to calm her nerves after this outbreak. Gradually, her red face returned to its normal pasty color, and we went on to speak of mundane matters, which captured no one’s interest and caused the remainder of the evening to pass in what felt like an eternity of boredom.

T
he following afternoon, as I attempted to catch up on some correspondence in the library, Mama entered the room carrying an armful of material.

“Ah, there you are, my dear. I would appreciate your help deciding which fabric to choose for the new dining room drapes.”

Spreading the material across the backs of several chairs, she sat down next to me as I wrote at the escritoire.

Her request made me smile. “Shouldn’t you ask Celia, Mama? She’s the one with an eye for this sort of thing. You haven’t forgotten, have you, my attempt to remodel my bedroom several years ago? As I recall, you said the greens clashed so badly they made you seasick.”

“Oh, dear, I remember now,” she said, laughing. “Yes, perhaps I had better ask Celia to assist me.” She started to get up, then spied an envelope lying atop some letters I had yet to answer. “I don’t mean to pry, Sarah, but is that a letter from that nice young man, Pierce Godfrey?”

I groaned inwardly, certain that I was in for yet another lecture on matrimony. I had met Pierce Godfrey when I became involved in the Russian Hill murders several months ago, and Mama still had not recovered from my rejection of his offer of marriage. Shortly after his proposal, he had departed for Hong Kong, where he planned to open a new office for the shipping firm he owned with his brother Leonard.

“It’s true that we still correspond, Mama, but nothing has changed between us. We continue to be nothing more than good friends.”

“Ah, but that’s one of the most important aspects in a successful marriage, dear,” she said gently. “You’d be surprised at the number of couples who can barely tolerate being in the same room with each other, much less behave as if they’re friends.”

“I know, Mama.” I reached out and squeezed her hand, realizing she only wished to see me happy. Remaining a spinster by choice was incomprehensible to her, consequently she couldn’t imagine such a life could bring contentment and satisfaction.

“I’m exceedingly fond of Pierce,” I went on, remembering the suave, handsome, and, yes, I admit, exciting man who had very nearly swept me off my feet. “But our lives are so dissimilar, I don’t see how a union between us could survive. He’s always sailing off to one exotic place after another, while I’m forever burying my nose in law tomes.”

Mama shook her head and sighed. “You truly are hopeless, Sarah. You have so much to offer a husband: beauty, intelligence, sensitivity, a sense of humor. Ah, well, perhaps if you meet the right man one day, you’ll change your mind.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed. The prospect was exceedingly unlikely, but I loved my mother too much to take away all her hope of seeing me settled and raising a family. With time, I prayed she would be able to accept, if not understand, the path I had chosen.

Leaning down, she kissed my cheek, then picked up the swaths of material she had spread out on the chairs. “I’d better find Celia,
if I’m to place the order for these drapes tomorrow. I’d like to have them up in time for the holidays.”

M
onday morning an unusual September fog billowed in through the Golden Gate. The gray mist crossed the Embarcadero, then slithered up the hills in snakelike tendrils until it was finally dissipated by the sun.

I departed for my Sutter Street office before the fog had given up its hold on the city, and the streets were damp and colder than usual. I did not feel the chill. All weekend I had been formulating plans on how best to serve the first genuine client to find her way into my office. The weeks of doubt and worry about my increasingly dire financial situation were, like the fog, beginning to dissolve, leaving me energized and eager to commence work for Mrs. Sechrest.

Since Friday, I had spent hours sequestered in my father’s library, searching California law books for appellate opinions and legislation pertaining to marriage and divorce. The information I found confirmed what I already suspected: Obtaining a divorce from Mrs. Sechrest’s abusive husband would be relatively simple; gaining custody of her two young sons promised to be a great deal more difficult.

My downstairs neighbor, Fanny Goodman, was just opening the front door to her millinery shop when I arrived at my place of business. As was her custom, she asked me inside for a cup of coffee before I commenced work. Over the past two months I’d made it a habit of accepting these invitations and always found Fanny’s company enjoyable and stimulating. This morning, however, I declined, pleading that I had only come by my office to pick up one or two necessary items before journeying to the Department of Records to conduct further research concerning the Sechrest case.

“Good for you, dear,” she said, beaming when I told her of my new client. “I never doubted for one moment that you’d make a
success of your practice. Mark my words, news will spread and soon you’ll have more clients than you know what to do with.”

It was impossible not to be cheered by Fanny’s enthusiasm, although I knew it was overly optimistic. Yet how nice it felt to have such a steadfast ally.

As it turned out, my plan to leave posthaste for the Department of Records was delayed by the arrival of two unexpected visitors. I had been in my office for only a few minutes when, to my considerable surprise, I found Madame Karpova and her daughter Yelena standing outside my door. Actually, if I had not instantly recognized Yelena, I’m not at all certain I would have known her mother. The last time I’d seen the medium, she’d been dressed entirely in black, and her hair had been hidden by a black turban.

The change in her was extraordinary. This morning she wore a mauve silk dress with a small bustle and a skirt with horizontal pleating. A dark mauve hat with feathers sat becomingly over her thick, dark brown hair, which had been arranged in a neat chignon. Unlike the night of the séance, the psychic’s eyes were not outlined in kohl, nor was her mouth colored, but instead was as nature intended. The effect was to make the woman look a good ten years younger and surprisingly attractive. Her haughty, self-confident bearing, however, remained the same, and she took the seat I offered as if she were honoring me with her presence.

Her daughter Yelena looked much recovered from the attack she’d suffered four days earlier at the Cliff House. She was dressed in a light green day dress that displayed her slim figure to good advantage but, because of its high collar, hid the neck wound that I was sure must still be noticeable as it healed. Her hat, which was a bit smaller than her mother’s, was decorated with artificial flowers instead of feathers, and had been placed upon her head at a jaunty angle.

“Madame Karpova, Yelena,” I said, once the two women were settled in their chairs. “What may I do for you?”

Yelena glanced at me nervously, then looked to her mother.
Madame Karpova sat ramrod straight, her handsome head held high, her unblinking eyes squarely meeting mine.

“We come, Miss Woolson,” she began in that rich, deep voice, the slight Russian accent ironically making it even more captivating, “because I fear for my daughter’s safety. Since her assault last Thursday night, the police have done little to apprehend her assailant. Because we are Russian, they do not care if we are attacked, or even murdered.”

“I’m sure Lieutenant Ahern and his men are doing everything they can to find whoever did this to Yelena,” I said, hoping this was truly the case. Unfortunately, she was correct; our police department did not always spend as much time on crimes committed against foreigners as they did to those perpetrated against their own citizens.

“Do not speak nonsense, Miss Woolson,” the woman chided. “You know as well as I do that is not the case. The authorities regard us as villains. Even now, they waste valuable time treating my brother as if he is a murderer. All day they question him, then come back the next day and ask him the same questions again. If I could, I would take Yelena out of this city of violence. But your police will not let us go.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Madame Karpova,” I said, feeling genuine sympathy for the woman and her brother. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do to put a stop to it. That’s the way murder investigations are carried out in this country; people are questioned while the police attempt to discover the truth. In this case, everyone who was present at the séance will remain under suspicion until they do.”

“Do they question
you
?” Madame Karpova asked bluntly. Her dark eyes fastened on me with steely resolve. How was it, I wondered, that she could go so long without blinking?

“I’ve been questioned,” I said hedging, fully aware that my brief interrogation could not be compared with the grilling Dmitry was receiving. The fact that he was a foreigner—and truly did look and
dress like a villain in a dime novel—only made his situation worse. “We’ve all been questioned.”

She swept out a hand, as if brushing aside this pathetic answer. “Not like Dmitry. He is Russian, so they persecute him. You must make it stop!”

“I wish I had the power to do that,” I told her. Despite her arrogant manner, she and her family were strangers in this country. Now they were involved in a homicide. They must feel very confused and frightened, I thought.

“The police won’t listen to me, or to anyone else, until they identify the murderer,” I went on. Her eyes did not move from my face; indeed, they appeared harder and more determined than before. I sighed and searched for a way to make her understand. “Madame Karpova, let me give you some advice. The best way for Mr. Serkov to convince the police of his innocence is for him to answer all their questions completely and honestly. It is very important that he hold nothing back, for it will all come out in the end and will look even worse for him if he’s prevaricated.”

The woman raised her chin so that she gave the appearance of looking down her nose at me. “What is this word,
prevaricated
?” she demanded.

“It means to evade or stray from the truth. That’s the worst thing anyone can do in a murder investigation.”

Once again, my guest made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Dmitry does not trust your police. But he does not lie to them.”

I watched her closely, but she was too much in control of her emotions to allow a facial expression to betray her inner feelings, or distress. “Then your brother has nothing to fear. Nor do you, Madame, if you’ve been equally candid with the police.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Yelena Karpova start in her chair. Giving the girl my complete attention, I saw her delicate nostrils flare slightly and noticed that she had turned a trifle pale around the mouth.

“What about you, my dear?” I asked. “Have the police been distressing you, as well?”

The girl looked at me in surprise, taken aback, it seemed, to be spoken to directly. Her lovely brown eyes had grown very large, and she was twisting her hands nervously in her lap.