No Comfort for the Lost (10 page)

“We are going to keep Madame Philippe quite busy with all of our questions, it seems,” said Celia.

“Aye, ma’am. She willna mind, I suspect.” Addie nodded. “I’ll go warm your supper.”

Addie departed and Celia picked up the note she’d left behind. The stationery was of poor quality and looked as though it had been torn from a larger piece. She broke the seal and flipped it open.

Her hand began to shake. “Oh!”

Addie rushed back into the room. “Ma’am? What is it?”

“This note. Where did you get it?”

“It was stuck in the back door. Found it earlier, when I went out to the yard to toss the dishwater. Why, ma’am? What does it say?”

Celia looked up at her. “Someone has scribbled ‘careful or you’ll be next’ onto this scrap of paper.”

“What?” Addie snatched the paper from Celia’s fingers to confirm for herself. “We’re going to be next?”

Celia rose. “Show me exactly where you found the note.”

“Out here.” Addie hastened from the room, Celia behind her. They hurried through the kitchen and opened the rear door. Addie grabbed the kitchen lantern and stepped onto the small porch outside, pointing to the ground. “It was here. I saw it flutter down when I opened the door.”

Seizing the lantern, Celia descended the steps and scanned the flagstone path and the bare earth, muddy from an afternoon rain shower, between them and the ground floor of the Cascarinos’ house. She swung the lantern to light their minuscule rear yard. She didn’t spot any sign of who had left the note, but Celia doubted she would recognize clues even if she saw them.

“He must have come by in the last hour and snuck into the yard while I was busy with your supper,” said Addie. “I’d gone out before then and nae seen the note. Besides, the paper is dry and it was raining earlier.”

Which meant the person had crept around behind the house while she and Addie and Barbara were inside, unaware. “I wonder if the Cascarinos noticed anyone.” She looked up at their windows, but the curtains were drawn shut, the rooms dark.

“Looks verra quiet,” Addie said. “For once.”

“Do not breathe a word of this to Barbara. She is already worried enough,” said Celia. “The note is likely merely a prank. Someone read about Li Sha in the newspapers and decided to have fun at our expense.”

“A prank, ma’am,” said Addie, looking dubious. “After that stranger you saw watching the house yesterday, you call this a prank? And those hooligans that Owen knows promising to burn out the Chinese? Maybe they mean to burn down our verra home!”

“Those men would not alert us ahead of time,” said Celia.

“Then maybe someone’s upset by what you’ve learned through your investigating, ma’am.”

“I am not investigating, Addie. Mr. Greaves is.”

Addie rolled her eyes. “Weel,
he
wasna the one who chased Tessie Lange all the way to the Barbary, trying to see what she was about. And
he
wasna the one in Chinatown asking scarlet women about Li Sha. And
he
wasna the one asking that Dora Schneider all sorts of questions like someone from the Inquisition, and you ken she likes to gab, ma’am!”

Celia regretted having shared all that with Addie; she would have to be more circumspect in future. “I will inform Detective Greaves, of course.”

“Of course.”

Celia gathered her skirts and headed to the stairs. “And get the sturdiest padlock you can find and lock the gate. We do not need any more unwanted visitors.”

Addie was staring toward the tall gate. “I hope a padlock can keep him out.”

“So do I, Addie.”

So do I.

“Connor Ahearn?” The widow who owned the boardinghouse where Ahearn lived—a Mrs. Barnes—stared at Nick. “He lives here all right. With his mother and frail sister. In a set of rooms on the third floor.”

“Is he there now, Mrs. Barnes?” Nick asked. “I need to speak with him.”

“It’s Sunday, Detective. He’s at that restaurant he likes down the street. Not that he ever treats his family to a nice steak. Just goes by himself. To meet those friends of his,” she said, her scornful tone suggesting what she thought of Connor Ahearn’s friends.

Mrs. Barnes gave him the name of the restaurant and where Nick could find it. “Do you have time for some questions?” he asked.

“About Mr. Ahearn?”

Nick nodded.

“Come into the parlor. It doesn’t pay to be overheard talking too much about him.”

She led Nick into the parlor off to their right and slid the pocket doors shut. A hodgepodge of frayed upholstered chairs in clashing colors was scattered about. In one corner a black-and-white cat, its tail flicking, examined them from behind a dying potted palm. The place stank of turpentine cleaning solution, stale cigarette smoke, and something that had burned in the kitchen. It was pretty typical for a boardinghouse in this part of town.

“So, what do you want to know, Detective Greaves?” she asked. “And make it quick. I’ve got lunch to oversee.”

“Do you recall if Mr. Ahearn was in his rooms Monday night?”

“He was here, all right. Came in late, which he does a lot. But this time his mother gave him quite the tongue-lashing.” Mrs. Barnes shook her head. “She’s got to be the only person who’s not afraid of him. He’s a big man who scares the colored girl who helps cook and clean for me. He even frightens his poor sister. Thank the Lord he’s not here much.”

“Could you make out what his mother was shouting at him about?”

“She wanted to know what he’d been up to, coming in so late and soaked to the bone from the rain. He told her to mind her own business. Only he used a few choice words I won’t repeat in polite company,” she added. “And I didn’t have to press my ear to the wall or nothing, Detective. They were shouting so loud, I’d guess everybody heard them.”

Interesting.
Connor Ahearn, who happened to live a mere four short blocks from the wharf where Li Sha’s body was discovered, had been out late Monday evening. And his mother hadn’t been pleased about it.

“What about the Chinese?” asked Nick. “How does he feel about them, with what’s been going on lately?”

“Oof, he hates those Chinese people! I’ve heard him going on about how they’re taking his friends’ jobs and need to be packed up and sent back to China, the lot of them. I think he’s been trying to organize one of those Anti-Coolie Association ward chapters,” she said. “But you know what, Detective Greaves? I’ve heard tittle-tattle that he goes to visit those girls in Chinatown.”

Those visits might make Connor Ahearn one of Li Sha’s former clients. He might’ve known the girl very well, and not just because she had worked with Tessie Lange and slept with his good friend Tom Davies.

“Any chance I could speak to his mother and sister?” Nick asked.

“They went to church services this morning and aren’t back yet. Sometimes they visit with the pastor.”

“I see.” Nick returned his hat to his head. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a great help.”

He exited the boardinghouse, descending the steps to the deserted street. Except for the random drugstore or restaurant, most establishments were kept closed on Sundays by law. Nick could list any number of proprietors, however, who’d figured out how to conceal a gambling den in the basement of an innocent-appearing coffeehouse. He wondered if Connor Ahearn’s favorite restaurant had secrets to hide.

“You watch your back, Detective,” called the widow from her front doorway.

“I always watch my back, ma’am.”

She lifted her brows and considered him. “As my dear departed husband might say, with some men, though, you can’t have enough eyes.”

• • •

T
he morning had been cloudy and gloomy, which suited Celia’s mood. She’d passed a restless night, lying awake and listening to the sounds filtering through her partly open window. A late-night reveler galloping down Vallejo, whooping to wake the neighbors. A swain serenading the young Chilean woman who lived across the street. The Cascarinos’ youngest girl crying from a bad dream. Celia had lain awake and contemplated what last night’s note meant, and who could have sent it. If the note was a warning to Barbara, Celia couldn’t imagine from whom it had come. Their neighbors, many of them immigrants themselves, had always been kind to her cousin. But then, the women from the society had always been kind as well, yet they’d had a change of heart on Monday evening.

Celia turned up the flame on the examination room’s lamp. She unlocked the desk’s top drawer and pulled out the note. Spreading the paper flat, she drew the lamp nearer.
Careful or you’ll be next.
Five simple, exasperatingly uninformative words. Were they meant for Barbara or for herself?
Because of your investigating,
Addie had said, convinced the note was related to Li Sha’s death. Celia had to take the possibility seriously.

If the note was connected to Li Sha’s death, the person must believe Celia possessed information that would unmask the killer’s identity. It was a disturbing thought.

Did this note have anything to do with the stranger she’d seen watching the house on Friday? It seemed reasonable to presume it did. And also, though she’d been convinced the watcher was a man, given the trousers, broad-brimmed hat, and long coat the person was wearing, Celia had to consider that she might be wrong. Obscured by shadows and seen at such a distance, the person could have been a woman in disguise. If Celia had to take into account every woman and man who knew both her and Li Sha, the list would be a lengthy one.

“Then whittle it down,” she murmured.

She retrieved every piece of correspondence stored inside the desk drawers and within her files. She’d had an idea that those five words might reveal who had penned them. Celia stacked invoices from the Langes’ shop—how fortunate that one had been compiled by Tessie—atop a list of charges from the greengrocer, written in his heavy hand. For good measure, she included invoices from her butcher and the coal deliveryman. She found notes from several ladies at the society, along with one from Mrs. Douglass and another from her husband. They were thank-you letters for a charity event Celia had hosted at the house last spring, the praise for her efforts effusive. How readily a change in the winds could snuff out Mrs. Douglass’ enthusiasm. And as absurd as it was to consider the society’s ladies possible suspects, Celia also placed their notes alongside the others.

Next, she tackled the files occupying the bookcase. She found a letter from her minister, welcoming her to the parish and informing her of all the volunteer opportunities available. She tossed it onto the growing pile atop her desk. Everyone, she reminded herself. Everyone she or Li Sha or both of them had ever known that Celia had correspondence from, no matter how preposterous it might be to consider them responsible for the message. Next came messages from the investigator, Mr. Smith, notes about his progress in locating, or not locating, Patrick. There would be nothing from Owen Cassidy—as far as she knew, he couldn’t write—or from any of the neighborhood boys. And nothing from the women in Chinatown, who spoke limited English and surely couldn’t have penned the note. Several of the Chinese merchants spoke and wrote passable English, but she had no correspondence from them to compare. She would simply have to omit them from her analysis.

Lastly, she found an old set of letters from the Palmers, both Elizabeth and her husband. They bore dates from 1864, the year Celia and Patrick had first arrived in San Francisco and had met the Palmers at a function at the Chinese Mission, which Patrick had been loath to attend. There was a Christmas letter with a brief postscript in Emmeline’s hand, and an invitation to a formal holiday dinner. Patrick had been much happier to attend that event than any fetes at the Chinese Mission. Her husband, a poor Irishman who had suddenly found himself in the middle of proper society, had wanted to cultivate the Palmers’ friendship. Regrettably, Patrick had partaken too freely of the champagne that evening. Though Barbara and Celia were still welcome at the Palmers’, no more invitations came that had included him.

The front bell rang and Addie hurried through the house to answer it, rousing Celia from her recollections. She put away the files and examined the papers spread beneath the glow of the desk lamp. She set the note at the center of her desk, sat in her chair, and began working through each piece of communication, relegating them to one of three categories: possible, unlikely, and uncertain. If only the note’s author had been more verbose; five words were hardly enough when one was comparing the loops and lines of people’s penmanship.

“What are you doing?” asked Barbara.

Her cousin still wore her dress from church that morning, the floral-print aqua-on-cream with the beautiful aqua lace trim that was her favorite gown and usually made her smile. She was not smiling now. “It has to do with that note, doesn’t it?”

Before church that morning, Barbara had overheard Celia telling Addie to take a message to Mr. Greaves informing him of the warning they’d received. They hadn’t succeeded in keeping the news from Barbara for long.

“I am attempting to discover who may have written it by comparing the handwriting,” said Celia.

Barbara crossed the room. “Do you think this is wise, Cousin? If we’re in danger, we shouldn’t be trying to discover who sent the warning. We should tell the police and leave it at that.”

“If I do not help the police identify the author, Barbara, what will stop the culprit from returning?” Celia considered the stacks of notes. Two uncertains—a letter from one of the society ladies and an invoice from the coal man—and thirteen unlikelies. She could already see that the remaining two, the notes from the Palmers, would bear no fruit.

Barbara looked over Celia’s shoulder. “Have you found a match?”

“Not among our acquaintances, no.”

“I guess it’s good it didn’t come from somebody we know.”

“The author still could be someone we know, Barbara,” Celia explained. “They simply may be clever enough to disguise their handwriting.”

Barbara stared at the warning note. “Maybe we should leave town until Tom’s trial is over.”

“I cannot leave, Barbara. I have patients who need me.”

“Mr. Palmer wouldn’t make Em stay if she wanted to leave.”

“Now, Barbara—”

“He wouldn’t. He’s too kind. Kinder than
you
!
You
only care about your patients and nobody else!” Barbara stumbled out of the room, bumping into Addie, who was coming in from the vestibule.

Addie stared after her. “Now, what has provoked her to say such things?”

“This is one of those times, Addie, when I wish that assuming the guardianship of a teenaged girl had come with an instruction manual,” said Celia, dropping the Palmers’ letters onto the unlikely stack. “She wants to leave town, but it’s not possible. My patients rely on me to be here.”

“Are you nae worried it would be unsafe to stay, ma’am?”

“I will admit I am a little afraid, but I cannot go.”

“Then perhaps the braw policeman I’ve shown to the side yard might be willing to stand guard,” Addie suggested with a wink.

• • •

T
he
braw
policeman was slowly traversing the narrow side yard, inspecting both the flagstone path Uncle Walford had laid down and the dirt on either side of it. How revealing it was that when Addie had mentioned a handsome policeman, Celia had hoped it was Nicholas Greaves.

Addie stood to one side as Celia greeted Officer Taylor. “I was not certain anyone would be at the station on a Sunday to get my message,” she said.

“I always come in for a spell on Sundays, ma’am. Don’t have a wife or kids at home to mind.”

A piece of news that visibly cheered Addie, causing her to fuss with her hair. Officer Taylor wasn’t at all bad looking and must earn a nice living. He would be a good catch for Addie, who’d come to America seeking a better life, leaving behind a cramped turf-roofed farmhouse in rural Scotland and the poverty that had starved her and her eight brothers and sisters.

While Officer Taylor scouted the side yard for clues, Celia glanced up and noticed Angelo peeking around the curtain in the Cascarinos’ second-story window. Most of the others had gone out for the day, but Angelo must have had another sore throat and been forced to stay behind with his mother. Once the rest of his family returned home, he could boast about getting to watch the policeman do his work at Mrs. Davies’ next door.

Officer Taylor squatted on his heels next to a footprint stamped into the ground. City soil was as hard as stone in the summertime, and her uncle had worked in clay and compost in an effort to get anything other than weeds to grow. As it was, only a few shoots of Bermuda grass poked up their heads. The soil was soft, however, from the recent rains, and the passage of feet that had wandered off the flagstones had left clear imprints.

“Who’s been through this way recently, Mrs. Davies?” he asked.

Addie spoke before Celia could open her mouth to answer. “Since yesterday’s rain, only the lad athwart the way, Officer Taylor. He came by in the afternoon yesterday to deliver some eggs from the chickens his mother keeps in their yard.”

“But no men?” He stood again and placed his own foot next to the print, which was an inch or so longer than Officer Taylor’s boot.

“You are certain that print was left by a man, Officer Taylor?” Celia asked.

“Yes, ma’am. A workingman’s heavy boots, I’d say.”

“You do not think it could have been a woman wearing a man’s boots?” she asked. Because it would not take much to slip on a pair in order to complete a disguise.

Officer Taylor peered at her warily. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of somebody doing that, ma’am.”