Grace's Pictures (37 page)

While Jake healed from what turned out to be severe bruising but no permanent damage, he’d been on desk duty. Owen walked his normal beat alone and talked to the folks he’d
befriended, asking them all if they knew where Michael Taggart was. No luck until he talked to an old gent in a cigar shop.

“I like ye or I’d not be telling ye this, son.”

“I appreciate that.” Owen bought the man’s nickel cigar even though he wouldn’t smoke it.

“No one calls the man Taggart. Ask for Dasher. More likely to find him that way, although I haven’t seen him myself.”

“Thank you.”

Owen hurried out to the newsboys, his most reliable informants thus far.

Stevie, a freckle-faced kid who sometimes slept on the precinct steps, grinned when Owen asked him. “Why didn’t you say so before, Officer? I just saw Dasher walk into the Old House at Home.”

“McSorley’s pub?”

“Yes, sir. East Seventh Street.”

Owen hailed a cab. He could not let this opportunity pass. On the way he shrugged off his coat and placed his badge, hat, and gun firmly inside and wrapped up the bundle. “Hey, driver. Might you have some rope?”

The man reached into a box on the seat next to him and handed Owen a short length. “Planning on tying up your suspect, Officer?”

“Tying my things, is all.”

McSorley’s place was fairly filled to the brim, so he took a stool close to the door, keeping the bundle under his arm. All the seats close to the old stove were taken, but since that was where the regulars resided, Owen figured he’d probably find Dasher there. Owen studied the men’s faces in that spot.

Before long he recognized him. Owen took his bundle over and stood behind the man. “Dasher?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Someone who wants to help you get back at a fella called Goo Goo.”

The man spun around on his stool, nearly spilling his dark ale. That was Taggart’s pockmarked face, all right.

“Let’s talk outside.”

As Dasher spoke, Owen wrote down the highlights on a small notepad.

“I got no use for him, ye know?”

“Yeah. Go on.” Owen didn’t care what had transpired between this man and Knox, only that he was willing to give a description. He’d pay Grace another visit and see if this sparked her memory.

“A wide nose, yeah. You know, what it looks like when a fella’s had it broken.”

Finally he had something credible.

“Won’t do you no good, at least for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ole Goo Goo’s not in Manhattan.”

“Why not?”

“Aw, it’s winter, see. He’ll be back early March, but for about a month or so, he’s out of the city.”

“Where?”

“Cocaine run. Where else?”

“You mean he’s the one who brings in the drugs?”

Taggart turned Owen away from the pub’s entry and whispered, “A deck of the stuff brings twenty-five cents on the street. Sure, he can make a profit by buying it from the druggist and reselling it like everybody else. But Goo Goo sees a big future in the drug, even bigger than opium and morphine. He goes down to South America to buy it all cheap-like and make a bigger
profit. He thinks the price on the street’s gonna rise. Know what I’m saying, copper?”

This was a bigger mess than Owen had realized. “Thank you.” He pointed his notebook at him. “Thank you very much.”

He hurried to the station house to fill Nicholson in.

The captain closed his eyes as Owen told him what his contact had revealed. “Well, then. We’ll wait for him to return to the city. No doubt we have to get him now.” He sighed and then looked at Owen directly. “I think he could be right.”

“I think he’s a trustworthy source.”

“Yeah, and he’s probably right about this drug becoming a bigger menace than anyone realizes.”

Owen no longer needed to rush Grace’s memory in sketching Goo Goo’s likeness. The old Owen would have feared this delay would cause the trail to grow cold. But he wasn’t concerned. A prevailing feeling that all would unfold properly boosted his confidence.
A good detective is patient, waiting for the ideal moment to catch his suspect.
In the meantime it seemed he had been given a breather, time to look into the problem of his father’s business.
God’s timing is perfect.

37

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY,
knowing her mother would arrive sometime in the coming weeks, not even the chilly and gray skies could dampen Grace’s mood. Because it was St. Brigid’s Day, she planned to teach the children how to weave crosses from straw after she picked the girls up from school.

They sat around the children’s table in the nursery. Even Linden wanted to give it a try.

“Your mother taught you?” he asked.

“She did.” It was the one thing she was able to retain in the workhouse. She’d woven the crosses from the bed straw after carefully picking away the bugs.

“Children make these in Ireland?” Hazel asked.

“They do. Every February 1. Now hold one piece like this.” She demonstrated, stopping to do Linden’s for him because his chubby fingers couldn’t hold on to the pieces.

“And St. Brigid’s Day means spring is coming?” Hazel asked, glancing to the window.

“That’s right,” Grace answered. “It’s when we usually see the first snowdrops in Ireland, a wee white flower that blooms early.”

“Like scilla and crocus?” Hazel asked, still gazing out the window. She had apparently learned something from her mother.

“That’s right. ’Twon’t be long before we can plant the coralbells.” Grace gathered up the leftover straw and stuffed it in a bag. “Help me clean this up, so, and then we’ll hang your crosses.”

When they were done, she tied them with string and each child hung a cross over their bed. Grace put hers over the baby’s cradle. The exercise had kept the children busy for . . . oh, ten minutes or so. They were active and needed to be outside.

Some days Grace wished the school had longer hours so she had more time to work alone when the wee lads napped, but mostly she was beginning to enjoy the children. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised to know that?

When Mr. Parker returned home from the office as usual, a quarter hour before Mr. Crawley picked her up, Grace cautiously approached him. “May I have a moment, Mr. Parker?”

“What is it, Grace? I’ve plenty to worry about without complaints from my maid.”

Like how to press more rent money out of immigrants?
She squeezed her fingers together. “My mother is coming next month for a visit.”

“From Ireland?”

“Aye.”

“I suppose you want time off?”

“Well, aye. Yes. If . . . that is . . . if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I mind. I’m not sure when my sister will be back.”

“Could my mother come with me? At least for part of the day? She could help. For no pay.”

“Hmm. We will see. I’ll inquire of Edith.”

“Thank you.” She darted out of the parlor before he could create some kind of an objection.

The weeks that followed were as routine as Grace could have expected, being the nanny of a busy household. Even so, the days drew out excruciatingly long. Mrs. Hawkins had given her a calendar to mark off the days. She had admonished her to remember her late husband’s words:
“Count not the days on the calendar, marking them off number by number, but instead note the time spent with those you love.”
Grace had been counting the days without her mother. Now she would count them toward an end to that separation. Mr. Hawkins had probably meant something more, though. She’d remember that to ponder later.

Even though she didn’t know the exact date her mother would arrive, she knew it would be in early March, so when she turned February’s page over, her heart soared. All the city seemed abuzz with talk about McKinley’s second term and the inauguration of New York’s former governor as vice president of the United States. But to Grace, the really important news was that her mother would be arriving any day.

On the eighth day of March, Grace got word that her mother and S. P. had arrived in New York. Grace had cleaned her room and emptied a corner of her travel chest for her mother’s things. Here, among these Americans in this modern city, Sean Patrick Feeny would not be able to come between Grace and her mother. Finally.

Mrs. Hawkins met Grace in the hallway and grabbed both her hands. “I’ve prepared a shepherd’s pie, love. I do hope your mother and her husband will enjoy it.”

“I’m sure my mother will adore your cooking, Mrs. Hawkins.” Grace was tempted to tell her that in Ireland they ate little more than boiled potatoes and gruel. Grace’s mother would be as
famished as Grace had been when she stepped ashore. “But the process at Ellis Island takes hours, Mrs. Hawkins. They probably won’t be here in time to eat your meal.”

“Oh, didn’t Mabel tell you?”

“The neighbor? Tell me what?”

“Your mother’s husband telephoned. They are already in New York. After a brief stop to speak to someone at the hospital, they will be here.”

“What?” Grace should have known S. P. would find a way to get favors and speed through immigration. “Why the hospital? Is my mother all right?”

“He assured Mabel everything is fine. She wondered also. Now, we just have a few things to get ready.”

“Special, you are.” Grace kissed the woman’s cheek and then headed to the kitchen to check on the meat pie she smelled cooking. Just as she pulled the Dutch oven out, Grace heard voices at the front door. As quickly as she could safely do so, she set the pot on top of the stove and scrambled down the hall.

At the front door she saw her. Ma’s face beamed. Running into her arms, Grace was overcome with sobs. “Ma, Ma! I’ve missed you so.” She tried to squeeze her mother tight, but there was a bundle between them. Grace heard a gurgle.
A baby?

Ma lifted the bundle, and Grace saw a crown of bright-red hair. Feeny hair. “Grace, I’d like you to meet your wee brother, Patrick.”

Grace looked back to her mother. “What? You were expecting?” As thin as her mother was, and with a heavy cloak and shawl, Grace had not realized her mother was with child when they said good-bye in Dublin. The thought had never entered her mind.

Ma just smiled and nodded.

Grace gave the man standing next to her a curt nod and then turned back to her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mrs. Hawkins and Annie gathered up coats. “Please come in by the fire. We will serve tea while you catch up.”

Grace stood to the side so her mother and S. P. could enter the room. S. P. approached the fire and rubbed his hands in front of it. “Give me the boy, Ellen. ’Tis a bit warmer by the fire.”

Her mother handed the child over, and Grace watched as the man gently took his son and cooed to him as he rocked him in his arms.

Grace and her mother sat on the sofa, holding hands. Ma gazed toward the baby. “He’s doing much better, he is. Born with a lame foot. The doctors at the American hospital said there is hope that treatment will enable him to walk. Isn’t that fine, darlin’?”

That’s why they went to the hospital. Maybe it’s why S. P. agreed to come to New York in the first place.
“Fine, ’tis very fine.” Grace took her eyes off the lad for a moment. “Ma, you should have told me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you, lass. I wanted you to do well for yourself in America, and you have.” She squeezed Grace’s hand. “You have indeed.”

S. P. had pulled up the stool Annie sometimes used when she mended by the light of the fire and sat on it, cradling the babe. “Walter says you have a fellow sweet on you, Grace. An American copper, he says.”

“Walter Feeny is a busybody.”

S. P. tilted his head back and laughed the way only an Irishman can. “Why do you think I chose him to check on you, lass?”

She wanted to say the man’s nephew was worse than that, but she truly did not want to engage the man. She turned back to her mother. “You don’t have to go to the boardinghouse with him, Ma. You can share my bed here, you and the baby.” She hoped Mrs. Hawkins would approve.