A Dying Note Page 3

  Inez turned to him. “I take it that since the longshoreman ‘knows’ Jamie but came to you, that identification is… difficult?”

  “Herr Borg said the face, pardon me for saying this, got the worst of it.” He gulped, a little green about the gills. “Which is why he was not sure.”

  “Are you going to the station today?”

  “I can’t!” The panic in his voice was clear. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. “I have an important job today. For a funeral.” He looked guilty, furtive. “And tomorrow I must be at Woodward’s Garden. Nico told me they are looking for a cornet player, he recommended me. The job is mine. All I have to do is show up. I need the money. Room and board is due for the room. We are already behind, and I have received nothing from Jamie. I may need to pay the whole amount myself.”

  His voice turned pleading, almost wheedling. “He did not come home last night. He was involved with a rough element, you know that, Miss Donato, Mrs. Stannert. What if it is him? I was hoping that you could ask one of the others, someone who is not working today and who comes by, to go to the police, or maybe Nico. I cannot.”

  Inez closed her eyes against his hopeful gaze, considering. Nico was as busy as Otto, if not more so, and his interactions with Jamie were minimal, as far as she knew. As for the others, she doubted they would do any better than Nico in determining whether a disfigured corpse was Jamie Monroe or not. On the other hand, she herself was no stranger to viewing the effects violence could have upon a human being, although not recently, not since moving to San Francisco. Could she perhaps identify him? Inez thought of his hands, beautifully proportioned with long, thin fingers, made for the keyboard. Possibly.

  She opened her eyes, decision made. “I will take care of this, Mr. Klein. Please do not worry yourself further about it.”

  Otto let out a huge breath, obviously relieved. “Thank you, Frau Stannert. If by the day after tomorrow, no one has gone to view him, I will try. But I hope someone will be able to provide an answer before then.” He picked up his hat from the table and turned to Carmella, still in the chair. Only her hands, which alternately gripped and released the fine fabric of her overskirt, gave any indication she was not made of stone.

  He cleared his throat. “I apologize, Fraulein Donato, for causing you distress. I hope it is not Jamie Monroe.” He tamped his hat down, gathered his case, and with a little bow, let himself out the back door.

  As soon as he left, Carmella said, “I will go.” Her voice was as calm as if someone had asked her to pick up bread at the corner bakery.

  Inez stared at her. “Carmella, your brother would be horrified to hear you say that.”

  “He will not hear because I will not tell him. I must do this. And if I must do it alone, I will.”

  Inez sat down across the table from the young woman and took in her aspect. Lips compressed, jaw set, chin high. Then, all of a sudden, Carmella crumpled.

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and buried her face in it. Her shoulders shook noiselessly. Stifling a sigh, Inez pulled her chair around to sit at her side and wait. After several minutes, Carmella raised her head, patting her eyes carefully. “My eyes will be red. I should leave soon, I do not want Nico to see me like this.” She examined the bit of dampened embroidered linen. “Such a useless piece of cloth. Worthless, just for show. Oh, Jamie. Is it him? If so, how could I not know? Today we were to—” She pulled her lips inward, biting on them.

  Inez rested an elbow on the table. “I am sorry you were here for all of this. Please, keep in mind we know nothing for certain at present. So, am I correct in guessing that your concern is more than the concern for an acquaintance, no matter how dear?” She pulled out her own, plain handkerchief and offered it, adding gently, “You have brought me into this, Carmella. I think you should tell me what you are struggling to hold inside, if only so I may forestall your brother’s questions.”

  Carmella sat silent, her knuckles turning white around the crumpled bit of linen. She finally tucked it back up her sleeve and accepted Inez’s utilitarian handkerchief. “We are engaged.” She said it so faintly that Inez frowned, not certain she heard correctly.

  “We plan to tell Nico,” said Carmella quickly, perhaps misinterpreting the frown for displeasure. “We were waiting for Jamie to get a steady job, a good position, so he could hold his head high and ask for Nico’s blessing. He had just found one that, along with his night job, would be enough. He was to start today.”

  “Where?” asked Inez, already wondering if this new job could have anything to do with his absence. Or his death, if it was indeed Jamie lying in a morgue somewhere.

  “I don’t know.” She smiled, just a little. “He teased me about it. He could see how excited I was, how happy I was for him. For us. He refused to say, although I begged him. He said he would see how it went, and if it went well, he would tell me.” The smile disappeared. “I hoped he could talk to Nico this week. Maybe even today.”

  Inez found it hard to believe Carmella and Jamie could have been so naïve as to think that simply nailing down a good-paying, respectable position would bring acceptance from Nico. Even being hired by the eminent Baldwin’s Academy of Music would not guarantee acceptance of Jamie as a serious suitor for Carmella’s hand. And there were other considerations. Inez suspected Jamie of living hand-to-mouth, given the sad state of his suits, and now there was Otto’s claim that Jamie had not been contributing to the rent. Nico was understanding of the penniless state of musicians new to town and struggling. But not so understanding as to embrace one into the family. Too, Nico would not be pleased that Jamie was entangled in trying to organize a professional musicians union and was hobnobbing with labor activists.

  “And what did you plan to do if Nico refuses?” Inez asked. “I am certain you two must have considered that possibility.”

  Carmella stared at Inez, some of the indomitable Donato determination and stubbornness suffusing her face. At that moment, she was very much her brother’s sister. “We will elope, tell Nico afterwards, and if he will not accept us, then we will leave and not look back on him or on San Francisco.”

  Shocked, Inez leaned back in the chair. What Carmella had just proposed was exactly what Inez had done when her now-ex-husband Mark Stannert had appeared out of nowhere a decade ago, whirled her around the dance floor, and wooed and won her. I was the same age as Carmella. And just as foolish and headstrong. Left my family without a backwards glance when my father disowned me for marrying without his consent. What a strange world, or are all twenty-year-old women blind in the face of what they think is love?

  Carmella interrupted her musings. “If I don’t see or hear from Jamie today, I am going to the police station tomorrow. I will not be able to live without knowing.”

  “And how do you propose doing this?” Inez said a trifle harshly. “Are you going to march in, present yourself as a secret fiancée, and ask to see the body? Do you think it will be so easy?”

  Carmella looked down at Inez’s handkerchief. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I will find a way.”

  Drumming on the tabletop, Inez deliberated. Carmella wiped her eyes, then smoothed the damp piece of fabric out on the table. Inez caught sight of initials in the corner: “MMS.” It was one of Mark’s old handkerchiefs that had made its way into her trunk in Leadville and from thence into her dresser drawer in San Francisco. Even after the divorce, he had found a way to wiggle into her life. Damn his eyes! she thought, even as something undefined contracted in her heart.

  Inez took a deep breath. “Let’s do this. Tomorrow morning, we shall go down to the station together. I will present myself as a distant relative. A second cousin or such.” She thought it was a good thing she had had no interactions with the San Francisco gendarmes and had worked hard to stay anonymous in the large city. “You can be my daughter,” said Inez. “But you should be heavily veiled. We will say we hea
rd this might be James Monroe, and we are the only local relatives.” She paused. “The body will most likely be with an undertaker. If it is a terrible death, they may not allow you to attend me.”

  Carmella had been brightening perceptibly during this recitation. Like the dawn of a new day, her face took on a hopeful shade of pink. “They will,” she said with conviction. “They will! And as you say, it may not be Jamie at all. The longshoreman did not know for certain. He could be mistaken. And there are times I do not hear from Jamie for days. He said he wanted to be sure of this position. Maybe he needs another day or two, before he comes to tell me. He may even be living at the theater, or wherever he is working. Maybe they have given him living quarters and that is why he has not been back to the boardinghouse. He has been busy, and I know he doesn’t tell Mr. Klein everything. Even though they share living quarters and friends, they live separate lives.”

  The scenario the young woman wove seemed to give shape to her prayers and put hope in her heart. The paleness faded from her face, and her eyes were again shining, but not with tears.

  Inez herself remained unconvinced that the unfortunate victim was Jamie Monroe. Too many uncertainties. Still, she wasn’t willing to commit one way or the other, so she simply said, “That may well be. In any case, you should head home, or proceed with whatever you planned to do today, and be as normal as you can. Can you do this?” She stood.

  Carmella stood as well and handed Inez back the handkerchief. “Yes. You know, the more I think about it, Mrs. Stannert, the more I think it highly unlikely to be Jamie. He would not put himself in danger. And Otto, poor Otto, always jumping at shadows and to gloomy conclusions.” She laughed a little then hiccupped and sniffed. “I am such a silly girl for falling apart like that. Surely I would have known, in my heart, if something happened to him. Wouldn’t I? I love him.” Carmella smiled at Inez, full of faith. “I have not said that out loud to anyone before, besides Jamie of course. I am glad that I can say it to you. And soon I will be able to proclaim it to the world! So, what do we do, Mrs. Stannert? About tomorrow?”

  “It would be best to meet after Antonia goes to school but before the shop opens. Let’s say ten in the morning at Lotta’s Fountain. You know where it is?”

  “At Third, Market, and Kearney. Perfect!” Carmella suddenly moved forward and embraced her. Inez found her nose buried in the frothy purple feathers of Carmella’s hat.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert. I have had no one to talk to about Jamie. We didn’t dare breathe a word, but how often I longed for a confidante. I am sure we will put this nightmare behind us, and it will prove as insubstantial as the fog come tomorrow.”

  Patting Carmella’s back awkwardly, Inez almost added, “We shall see,” but stopped herself. She reflected that despite her best intentions of a few hours previous, here she was, thoroughly enmeshed in the affairs of Jamie Monroe and Carmella Donato. The handkerchief with her ex-husband’s initials, damp in the palm of her hand, almost seemed to mock her previously unwavering determination to remain divorced from the world of love and passionate emotions.

  Staring at the broken bits of vase and dead flowers that still needed to be cleaned up, preferably before Nico made his appearance, Inez tried to draw in some of Carmella’s optimism. The entire incident might indeed be as insubstantial as the fog. But fog could hide a great many dangers. And despite all the arguments she lined up discounting Otto’s suppositions, Inez couldn’t help but feel she teetered on the verge of a cliff, unseen and shrouded in gray mist, a single misstep away from plunging into the void.

  Chapter Four

  Inez was on her knees, mopping up the last of the mucky vase water with the rag she usually used to polish the piano played by her students, trying to keep her dark gray skirts from soaking up the extra in the process. A key scraped in the back door lock and she looked up, half-expecting Carmella again, triumphant, with Jamie Monroe in tow. Before she left, Carmella had thoroughly talked herself into believing the longshoreman was wrong. It was a mistake, she insisted. It could be anyone who met such an unfortunate end. In fact, she ought to hurry home, because there might be a note waiting for her or even Jamie himself!

  The door swung open to reveal not Jamie and Carmella, but Nico Donato, Carmella’s older brother, owner of the store, violin virtuoso, and the musician most often requested to play for Signori Huntington, Hopkins, Crocker, and Stanford, and those of their ilk. Or so Nico frequently proclaimed.

  Nico looked around, puzzled, before his gaze traveled down to Inez, still on her knees like a common washerwoman. In one hand, he held the key. In the other hand, a large, ornate bouquet bursting with flowers the colors of autumn: golds, reds, oranges, with green fern fronds and leaves adding highlights.

  Dark eyes questioning, brows creased in a slight frown, he said, “Signora Stannert, what are you doing?” Then he held out the flowers, tilting them to bring them to Inez’s eye-level. “For you,” he said. Then added, “For the office.”

  It was only then that Inez realized that Carmella might have been subtly, or not so subtly, testing Inez’s interest in her brother.

  He was a handsome devil, there was no denying, what with his regal bearing, his wavy dark hair, his classical nose, and long-fingered musician’s hands. It seemed Nature had also been dazzled by his good looks, for she had additionally bestowed upon him an inordinate amount of charisma. The total effect was never more apparent than when he was dressed for an evening appearance in an ensemble that, without variation, included a black swallow-tailcoat, white bow tie, white low-cut waistcoat, black trousers, a blindingly white shirt, and highly polished pumps. Even in the warmest of San Francisco evenings, not that there were many of those, he invariably topped it all off with a cloak that complemented his dramatic style—black with a white-and-black ermine collar.

  Over their months of association, Inez had observed how skillfully he used his appearance, confident bearing, and dazzling charm to full effect on the wealthy and well-connected men of San Francisco, and especially on their wives and daughters.

  With San Francisco’s eligible and not-so-eligible women at his feet, why in the world did Nico constantly bring her flowers? Inez often wondered. The first time, Inez had been taken aback, then puzzled, and finally, suspicious. He always claimed they were for the office, so she never demurred in accepting them. However, his attitude toward her when he presented his offerings varied. Sometimes he was all charm, which put her on her guard. Other times he almost seemed to sulk or want to drop them at her feet and run away, which made her want to roll her eyes. Now, when he showed up with his ostentatious offerings—they were always huge, expensive arrangements, hardly fit for putting on the desk—Inez was bemused.

  “A minor accident, involving one of your flower vases, I’m afraid.” Inez tugged at her long skirts preparing to stand. Nico stuffed the key into the pocket of his morning coat and offered to help her up. She eyed his glove—spotless, immaculate—and thought of her own less-than-clean bare hands. “Thank you, Mr. Donato, but I can manage. You look as if you are dressed for an engagement.”

  She rose to her feet as quickly as she could to forestall any insistence on his part and brushed her skirts, which now had water stains. “The vase was from the display window. It had a handpainted scene on one side with a blue tree and varicolored flowers. I hope it wasn’t one of your especially valuable curiosities.”

  “Ah, the Japanese Imari.” He sounded dismissive. “It was flawed. Why did you not wait for John Hee to arrive? He would have taken care of the cleaning. You should not be bothering with such. I know you have other work to do.” He glanced at her overflowing desk. “No matter, Signora. Do not give the vase a second thought.”

  Seeming to recall the bouquet, he repeated, “For you, Signora,” and placed it on the table with no more élan than if he were handing off a sheaf of invoices. “I will go and find another vase.”

  Circling the table,
he stopped suddenly and picked up one of the loose advertising cards from the stack that Carmella had left. His mouth curved up into a satisfied smile as he examined the front and back. “Ah! They arrived! And you are pleased, Signora Stannert? Yes?”

  Inez opened and closed her mouth. From his tone, it was very clear that he was pleased. In any case, she decided, this was not the time to dive into the whys and wherefores of the store name. There were more pressing matters at hand. “They are lovely, indeed. Carmella did a wonderful job in helping design them. They should be an asset in increasing business at the store.”

  He shot her a measuring look. “Carmella was here this morning?”

  Inez prepared to weave a story of the morning’s events, most of them true, but embroidered with a small white lie. “Oh, yes, she was here early, with the cards and a basket of zeppole.”

  Nico frowned again. “Carmella has no respect for tradition. Baking zeppole when it’s not Saint Joseph Day! Then she goes about early in the day, without a companion or a chaperone. Is she here?” He looked around, as if she might suddenly pop out of a cabinet or from under the table. “Foolish of her. Unnecessary. I am beginning to believe it was a mistake for you to introduce her to the Fleurys. They introduced her to the Women’s Cooperative Printing Union. Carmella talks about it incessantly. Have you seen what this union prints? I have been too lenient. Carmella is associating with people not of her station. Her words and actions could cast doubt upon her reputation.”

  And make it difficult for you to find a “worthy match” for her, thought Inez uncharitably. Carmella had been right about her brother’s opinion. Apparently, Nico would just as soon keep her at home, doing needlework, baking, cooking, playing the piano—but not too much, just a few non-challenging parlor tunes—until he found her a suitable husband. However, as Inez now knew, Carmella had her own ideas of a suitable mate, and had not waited for Nico to bring a parade of beaus to her door.