A Proper Pursuit (41 page)

“You don’t know Murderous Maude. She—”

“Murderous Maude?” he asked with a wide grin. “Is that her alias? Is she on a wanted poster somewhere?”

“No, that’s what I call her. Anyway, she was home at the time of her husband’s death. He supposedly fell down the cellar stairs, but isn’t it possible that she pushed him?”

“What about motive? Why would she push him?”

“She wanted his money, I suppose?”

“Not good enough. Too hard to prove unless he was exceptionally wealthy. Was he?”

“No,” I admitted. “They have two small children, and—”

“Children? See, that’s why I don’t believe she did it. If she kills her husband and goes to prison, who’s going to look after her kids? Women think about these things, and it keeps them from committing murder.”

What Silas said made sense. Yet Herman’s mother had seemed to imply that women murdered their husbands more often than people realized. Perhaps I should raise that possibility.

“A close family friend dropped a hint about suspicious things going on behind closed doors.”

“You mean husbands who beat their wives?”

“W-what?”

“I’m sorry. I probably have no business talking about this stuff with a lady of your sensitivities and all.”

“I’m the one who raised the subject, Mr. McClure. I would like to know the truth.”

“Okay. But usually when I hear people talking about what goes on ‘behind closed doors,’ they’re talking about men who get drunk regularly and beat their wives and kids. It happens more often than people realize in the poorer parts of town—and especially in the tenements.”

I remembered my grandmother’s friend Irina—her bruised face and broken leg.

“If I were one of these women, I’d leave my husband,” I said.

“Well, once again, wives usually stay because of their kids. From what I understand, it’s very hard for a woman to get by on her own, especially if she has children. Some women stay because they’re religious, and the church believes that marriage is sacred. And most of these husbands keep promising to change, and their wives keep hoping that they will.”

“What if Murderous Maude pushed her husband down the stairs because he was a drunkard who beat her? Would the police still charge her with murder?”

“They might look the other way and rule it self-defense … unless there were other circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, suppose the police found out that she was—how can I say this delicately?—stepping out with another man while her husband was alive. Now
that
would be motive. It proves that she wanted her freedom so she could marry someone else.”

His words horrified me. The deeper I dug, the more I seemed to implicate my father! I didn’t want him to go to jail. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. All I wanted to do was stop his marriage to Maude. Silas must have seen my shocked expression.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you with such indelicate stuff. Maybe we should change the subject.”

I shook my head. I had to uncover the truth. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Jolly Roger?”

“No, can’t say that I have.”

“It’s on Bishop Street. Do you know where that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could you ask around? Maybe one of your friends has heard of it or knows where Bishop Street is. It might be connected to finding my mother.”

“Sure. I could try.”

He pulled out a pencil and scribbled
Bishop Street
and
Jolly Roger
beneath my mother’s maiden name. He had to lean even closer to me as he tucked the paper and pencil back into his pocket.

We both fell silent for a few moments as crickets chirped in the bushes. My mind raced with thoughts of murder and mayhem and my mother, but Silas’ thoughts had obviously drifted elsewhere.

“Did I mention how pretty you look tonight, Violet?”

“I don’t believe so—but thank you.”

“And isn’t it a beautiful night? Look at those fireflies winking like stars. And that moon!”

Silas might have been talking about the moon, but he wasn’t gazing at it. He had shifted around until he was looking right at me with the same dreamy expression that Aunt Birdie always wore on her face. My heart started thumping like a three-wheeled carriage. I needed to distract him—fast!

“H-how did your trial turn out?”

“My what?”

“You were at the courthouse when we met downtown on Monday, remember? Your friend called to you and said that court was back in session.”

“Oh, that. It wasn’t my case. It was … I mean, I was there with … I can’t explain it.”

“Guilty or innocent?”

“Huh? Oh the, uh, thief was found guilty. Sentenced to three years.”

“Was he your friend?”

“No, the thief wasn’t my friend. I mean …” He exhaled. “I don’t want to waste time talking about this stuff. I came here to ask if you would please consider going to the fair with me again. I promise I’ll find a better chaperone this time. I’d like to make it up to you, Violet. And there’s so much more to see.”

That was true. I’d seen the fair’s elegant side with Nelson and the boring side with Herman and the educational side with Aunt Matt. It would be fun to explore some of the exotic foreign pavilions and of course the Midway. And if I went with Silas—

But no. Silas was hypnotizing me again, dangling adventure and excitement in front of my eyes, hoping I would fall under his spell. I shook myself.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to return to the fair. My father is coming to take me home to Lockport one week from tomorrow, and—”

“One week?”

“Yes. So you see, Mr. McClure, I have to find my mother. Right now the Jolly Roger on Bishop Street is the only clue that I have. It’s connected to my Uncle Philip somehow, and Aunt Birdie says Philip might know where my mother is. I’m prepared to go there myself, even though my aunt Matt said it’s probably not in a nice part of town, but—” “I’ll take you.

I’ll find out where Bishop Street is and I’ll take you there.”

“You will?” I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I would be safe with Silas. He carried a gun.

“Would I still need to find a chaperone?” he asked.

“Not this time. I’ll provide one.” I would sooner drag poor Aunt Birdie along than go out with another one of Silas’ chaperones.

“Suppose I took some time off on Monday afternoon?” Silas said. “Would that work for you?”

“That would be wonderful!”

“I’ll try to find out where Bishop Street is in the meantime. And if I may make a suggestion, Violet—don’t dress too nicely.”

“You want me to wear a disguise?”

Silas laughed out loud. “No, I was thinking that I would hate to be robbed.”

“Oh. I see.” I was disappointed. I had liked the idea of traveling incognito.

“I guess I’d better go,” he said, rising to his feet. “But one more question: If we do find your mother before next Saturday, then will you go to the fair with me?”

I gave him my famous enigmatic smile. “Perhaps.”

As I was writing in my diary later that night, I realized how much fun it had been to piece together clues and discuss crimes with Silas. Of all the things I had done since coming to Chicago, tonight’s conversation had made me feel more alive and invigorated than I’d felt since … since … riding Mr. Ferris’ wheel—with Silas.

What in the world was wrong with me?

Chapter

28

Friday, July 7, 1893

S
ilas McClure had given me an idea when he’d asked for my mother’s maiden name. The women who had danced at the settlement house on Folk Night had all been Bohemian like my mother. Perhaps one of them knew her or had heard of her family. I needed to go back and talk with them. I would ask for my mother by her maiden name. Somebody might have heard of her. I made up my mind to get out of bed early for once, overcome my loathing for horrific smells, and go to work with my grandmother.

“Are you going to the settlement house today?” I asked her on Friday morning. She was bustling around the kitchen making breakfast, but she stopped to stare at me in surprise, a frying pan in her hand.

“Why, Violet Rose. You’re up very early this morning.Would you like some eggs? They’re fresh.”

“No, thank you.” I couldn’t risk returning to that neighborhood with a full stomach. “But I would like to go with you today, if that’s okay.”

“I thought you didn’t like working at the settlement house?”

“I have a hard time with the stench. But Father is coming for me next week, and … and so I would like to go with you.” I was deliberately vague about my reasons. It was hard to lie to a woman who was as kind and good as my grandmother was. Even so, I couldn’t risk telling her about my search for my mother. I didn’t know how she would react.

I wouldn’t have believed it possible for the neighborhood to smell any worse than it had the last time I’d visited, but it did. The first week of July had been scorching, and all of the decaying, molding, putrefying odors had intensified tenfold. From the looks of things, the garbage hadn’t been collected since the last time I’d visited either. I nearly swooned the moment I stepped off the streetcar. I clutched my perfumed hankie to my nose, longing to run to Miss Addams’ house for refuge.

“Let’s go inside the main house,” my grandmother said, “and see if we can find a job for you in there. The soup kitchen will be much too hot today.”

I pushed open the heavy front door and rushed inside like a sprinter reaching the finish line. I could hear the chant of children’s voices in the distance. The massive beauty of the home’s woodwork struck me once again, each window and door framed with ropy carving that resembled thick braids. How did the immigrants handle such loveliness when their own lives were so stark?

“Would you like to work with the kindergarten children today?” my grandmother asked. “I believe I hear them in the parlor.”

“Where will you be working?”

“I’ll go wherever I’m needed, dear.”

“I guess I could try it.”

“Good. Then if it’s okay with you,” my grandmother said, “I’ll leave you here and see if Magda needs help in the soup kitchen.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you later.”

I found the children in the parlor, sitting on the floor in a circle while their teacher read a book to them. Louis Decker sat crosslegged on the floor with them. The children were very young, no more than five or six years old, but they looked more like shrunken old people to me than children. The hard life they’d endured was deeply etched on each somber, careworn face. Every one of them looked hungry.

I couldn’t do this job either. I couldn’t get involved with these little ones and let them into my heart, knowing that some of them would die of polio or typhus or dysentery before the year ended. How did gentle, kindhearted women like my grandmother and Miss Addams ever cope?

I stood in the doorway and leaned against the jamb to watch. The teacher held up a picture book with drawings of farm animals. She pronounced the name of each one carefully—cow, pig, goose—and then the children repeated it after her. My heart nearly broke. She may as well have been showing them unicorns and fire-breathing dragons. The only farm animals they were likely to see would be hanging in the window at the butcher shop.

When the teacher closed the book, Louis Decker glanced up and saw me. He scrambled to his feet. “Miss Hayes! It’s so nice to see you!”

“I-I’ve come to help.”

“That’s wonderful!” He introduced me to the teacher, Miss Dow. “Violet plays the piano beautifully,” he told her. “Maybe the children would like to hear a song?”

“Yes, please, Miss Hayes. I’m sure they would enjoy that.”

It was the very least I could do. I made my way over to the small spinet piano in the corner and rifled through the sheet music that lay on top of it. I found a few pieces that I could sight-read and pounded my way through them, then finished with a lively etude that I had memorized for a recital at school. The children applauded my efforts. The sound of their tiny, clapping hands brought tears to my eyes. I stood and bowed.

“Thank you.”

For the next hour or so I assisted Louis with the children as Miss Dow led them in a variety of educational chores: learning to tie a bow, learning their left hand from their right, recognizing shapes such as triangles and squares. Each time I helped a child I would ask, “What’s your name?” Most replied with only a first name. “And can you tell me your family name?” I would ask. None of their nearly incomprehensible replies sounded like Cepak.

Eventually, it was time to take the children outside to play. I had no desire to leave my stenchless sanctuary, so I remained indoors. I wandered into Miss Addams’ library and greeted a woman who seemed to be working there.

“Do a lot of people in the community borrow books from you?” I asked.

“Quite a few. Especially the ones who are trying to learn English. But our neighbors work very hard, you see, and don’t have much time for reading and other leisure pursuits.” I spotted what appeared to be a list of names lying on the round wooden table where she was seated.

“You probably see a variety of ethnic names, working here,” I said. “I find foreign names fascinating. May I?” I gestured to the list.