A Dying Note Page 7

  “Everything” was left undefined, but Antonia felt her face burn under the bonnet’s wide brim.

  “I’m fine from here,” she said. She really didn’t want him to know where she lived. Up above the music store, with no one but Mrs. S for family. It seemed sad, somehow. “Thanks, Copper Mick,” she added.

  “Well, sure.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll see you at school, yeah? At noontime.”

  “Maybe.” If Persnickety doesn’t have me writing a million lines on the board and missing the lunch hour again. Antonia could almost smell the sharp scent of chalk and hear the squeak of it on the board.

  After they said good-bye and parted ways, Antonia continued to the store, thinking about family. Thinking about Maman, dead and buried in Leadville. How up to the very end, Maman had believed there was a “knight in shining armor” who’d ride to their rescue. Who’d pull them out of the shack in Leadville’s Stillborn Alley where they had lived after being thrown out of the hotel, and they’d all live happily ever after.

  But he’d never shown up.

  Remembering her mother made Antonia sad again. She tried not to think about her all the time, but sometimes she couldn’t help it.

  Rain began, warning spits darkening the wooden sidewalk. Looking up, Antonia recognized the unmistakable form of Mrs. S with her black umbrella ahead of her on the other side of the street, walking toward the store about half a block away.

  Antonia began walking faster, looking for an opening on the street to dart across and catch up.

  Antonia!

  Antonia jerked to a stop as the urgent whisper surrounded her. The familiar voice, the voice of her maman, echoed in her head.

  It had been so long since she’d heard her maman’s voice talking in her mind like that.

  That’s what it was, right?

  Just all in her mind?

  It couldn’t really be her maman.

  She was dead.

  And the dead couldn’t talk.

  Could they?

  An uncontrollable shiver ran up Antonia’s back and breathed ice on her neck. Rain pattered on her bonnet, making small pick-pick-pick sounds.

  She looked around, trying to see if someone else had called her name. Maybe one of the jokers from her class had followed her this far and was trying to get her goat.

  Her gaze snagged on a man across the street from her, some ways behind Mrs. S, walking and also carrying an umbrella. He wore a checked jacket, gray derby hat. She caught the flash of a dark, short beard before all she could see was the back of his jacket and his umbrella, moving away.

  Antonia’s fingers and toes went cold and numb, as if she were back in Stillborn Alley after dark, making her way to the shack where Maman waited.

  Antonia began to walk again, no longer trying to catch up. She watched Mrs. S, who had almost reached the store, and the man in the gray derby who followed her.

  Mrs. S slowed.

  The man in the gray derby slowed.

  Mrs. S. stopped in front of the door and closed her umbrella, glancing up the street.

  The man in the gray derby with the umbrella stopped and pulled out his watch.

  Mrs. S opened the door and went inside.

  The man tucked his watch away. He turned around and began heading up the street in Antonia’s direction.

  She could see he had a small neat beard and mustache, and glasses.

  A roar filled Antonia’s head, like the voice of the wind. Her maman’s voice wove through it, whispering: He is here.

  Thoroughly spooked now, Antonia ducked into the nearest store—A. C. Robison, Importer and Dealer in Birds and Cages. The door slammed shut behind her and she was engulfed in an explosion of squawks, screeches, twitters, and coos. Wings beat against wires, and feathers floated to the bottoms of cages, with some escaping to land on the floor. A man wearing an apron and holding a sack of sunflower seed looked up, first hopeful, then annoyed. “Can I help you?”

  The chill had disappeared, and now she was suffocatingly hot in the store. “My aunt’s birthday is soon and she wants a bird. I heard you have lots of birds.” Lying came easier to Antonia than telling the truth.

  He perked up. “What kind of bird?” he asked. “Does she want one that sings? Talks? We have canaries, finches, nightingales, parrots—including Cuban parrots—but I would recommend the yellow-headed Mexican first, as a talker, with the gray African as a whistler.”

  She looked around at the winged prisoners, some hopping on their perches, others knocking against the bars, others with beaks lowered and feathers fluffed, like they’d given up and were just waiting for whatever life decided to drop next on their little heads. “Uh. I dunno.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll bring her back with me. Later.”

  With that, she slipped out and, holding her breath, scanned the street.

  No gray derby in sight.

  No dead voices whispering in her ear.

  Antonia clutched her lunch pail and book strap tighter, and dashed across the street, heading to the store.

  Chapter Nine

  Rain pattering atop her open umbrella, Inez strode down Pine, thinking about her just-completed visit to Mrs. Young’s millinery shop. She had been pleased at Mrs. Young’s positive response to an offer of buying a twenty-percent share of the business in return for financial stability. “It’s been difficult since my husband passed on, some years ago,” said Mrs. Young.

  Inez had nodded. “I quite understand.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you do.” Mrs. Young had passed her hand over the black grosgrain ribbon on the counter, destined to grace a half-completed widow’s bonnet. Black net drifted over the polished wood.

  Inez had also mentioned, as if in passing, that she had recommended the establishment to a friend of hers, Mrs. Sweet.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Young beamed. “She was here earlier. Very charming, and her husband no less so.”

  “Her husband?” A vision of Harry Gallagher rose unprompted in her mind. But that made no sense. Harry was not the type to care about such trivialities, nor to pretend to be anyone other than who he was.

  Unless it wasn’t Harry.

  Inez said cautiously. “So, Mr. Sweet, he was with her?”

  “Oh, no. He came in later. Wanted to know if she had shown interest in any particular bonnet. Obviously, he dotes on her, he was so solicitous!”

  Definitely not Harry.

  And if not him, then it had to be the mysterious de Bruijn.

  Inez regretted that she couldn’t demand a description of the impostor, since she’d presented herself as such close friends with Flo.

  Unease darkened her mood. On the walk back, Inez pondered if, perhaps, the elusive detective had first followed Flo to the music store, despite Flo’s maneuvers. In that case, it might be that “the jig was up,” and she should steel herself for a visit from the as-yet-faceless de Bruijn or perhaps even Harry himself. Neither was a pleasant prospect.

  Inez stopped in front of the store and tilted her umbrella to protect her hat from a sudden gust. The lively notes of a popular parlor tune drifted out to her. Through the glass, she saw the “Monday night regulars,” including Carmella’s admirers, clustered around the centerpiece grand. Welles was at the bench, playing, while Nico stood off to one side, deep in conversation with John Hee.

  The rain intensified. She looked up and down the street, wary.

  Nothing in particular caught her attention. The usual gentlemen of leisure and business hurried by. A few women, baskets over their arms, hastened home to prepare for family and suppers. No one stared at her. No one suddenly turned away. Jostling umbrellas hid faces for the most part. And even if they didn’t, she had no idea who she was looking for. She closed her umbrella, and went inside the store.

  “Ah, good,” said Nico in an uncharacteristically shorthand fashion. “Mrs. Stannert
, John and I have some business at the warehouse. Now that you are here, we can depart.”

  Welles segued into a salacious tune more appropriate for a battered upright in a deadfall on the Barbary Coast than the elegant keyboard in the middle of an upscale showroom. The others laughed uproariously. Although no one burst into song, it was clear they all knew the lyrics.

  Nico coughed, a small sound of disapproval, and turned to Inez. “You will stay on the floor, no lessons this afternoon?”

  Inez said, “No lessons, however, I have a question for you both.”

  They leaned in toward her, and she lowered her voice so no one else would hear. “Have you told anyone about Mr. Monroe?”

  Hee shook his head. Nico frowned. “No.” He glanced at the merry band by the piano. “I would guess no one has.”

  “Good. Since there is a chance that it is someone else, it seems best if we keep this to ourselves for now and not spread rumors. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  At that moment, the door banged open with a vengeance. Welles stopped mid-refrain and everyone turned to look at Antonia in the doorway. She closed the door carefully, as if to make up for her noisy entrance. Violinist Giotto Laguardia smoothed back his dark hair. “Antonia, you are all wet! Did you forget your umbrella again?” All the young men doted on and teased the girl, but Giotto seemed the most eager to please, perhaps thinking that by endearing himself to Antonia, he would eventually worm his way into Carmella’s heart as well.

  Ignoring him, she headed for Inez, leaving a line of wet footprints on the polished floor. “Mrs. S, I have to talk to you.” She lowered her voice. “It’s important.”

  Inez turned to Nico. “Give us a few minutes?”

  Nico fidgeted, glancing at John Hee, who shrugged. “Very well,” said Nico, grudgingly.

  Inez put an arm around Antonia’s shoulders and guided her into the back area. As soon as the door closed, Inez asked, “Did something happen at school?”

  “No.” Antonia looked a little shifty-eyed and crossed her arms.

  Inez mentally filed away a reminder to pursue the school issues later. “What then?”

  “Someone was following you. I saw him.”

  Inez’s breath caught, and it was her turn to cross her arms. “Where? When?”

  “When you were walking down Pine. To the store. I was across the street. When you went inside he turned around and went back the way he came.”

  “Have you seen him before, that you recall?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you describe him?”

  Antonia mentioned the umbrella, gray hat, checked jacket, spectacles. No help there, Inez thought, it could be one of thousands of men.

  Antonia finished with, “He had a little beard.”

  “Was his beard dark? Light?”

  “Dark,” she confirmed.

  Inez clenched her teeth, wondering what to do with the information. It wasn’t much to work with.

  “Are you certain he was following me?” she pressed. “It could have been just a coincidence.”

  Antonia took off her glasses, and polished them with a fold of her dress, finally looking up at Inez. Inez was struck again with those disconcerting eyes—one blue, one brown. Much like those of Antonia’s mother, but less intense in hue.

  “I heard my maman.”

  The words filled the room, drifting about like a conjured spirit, while Inez carefully composed a response. She knew Antonia was sensitive about these odd auditory apparitions. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve heard your mother’s voice, hasn’t it?” she asked gently.

  Antonia nodded. She looked miserable.

  “When was the last time? In Leadville?”

  “Uh-huh.” Antonia’s mouth trembled. “I thought she was gone. Once we buried her in the cemetery, with the angel statue watching over her and all.”

  Inez gave her young ward a moment to compose herself. “Your mother loved you with all her heart. She will never be ‘gone.’ She watches over you, in your heart, and in your mind. Always.”

  “Yeah, well…” Antonia put the glasses back on. “She spoke to me. She warned me about the man following you.”

  “Really? What did she say?”

  Antonia stared out the back window, rubbing one hand against her skirt. The rain had changed into hail, which sounded like gunshots against the brick wall.

  “She said my name. And then she said, ‘He is here.’”

  Chapter Ten

  The client was the client, de Bruijn thought.

  The client paid for information, and when information was uncovered, it perforce was delivered.

  However, there had been times when de Bruijn held back certain facts and discoveries, if disclosing them would hamper his search. Thus, he had mulled over whether it was wise to impart what he had discovered that day to his client, Harry Gallagher, or whether he ought to wait a bit. After all, he had been hired by Gallagher to find the son. That was the primary objective. Yet, he had decided to go against his better judgment for the time being. Now, he wondered whether he would regret doing so.

  De Bruijn contemplated Gallagher’s thunderous count-enance, saying, “This is, of course, good news. Mrs. Sweet’s actions prove we were correct in thinking that she was in contact with Mrs. Stannert and had knowledge of her whereabouts.”

  Gallagher shifted, obviously irate. “I anticipated uncovering her whereabouts would be easier.”

  “She is too recently arrived in town to appear in the annual city directory or other records,” de Bruijn pointed out, yet again. “So, yes, this took somewhat longer, but we have the same results.”

  Gallagher gestured impatiently, silver and diamond cufflinks glinting in the chandelier’s brilliant gaslight.

  De Bruijn complied with the unspoken command. He set on the table between them the advertising card he had removed from the sheet music concealed in Mrs. Sweet’s purse. She had been anything but sweet about it when, once she had returned to the hotel, he had insisted she hand over her purse to him.

  Gallagher stared down at the card.

  “Donato and Stannert,” de Bruijn pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “Who is this Donato?”

  It was not the question de Bruijn would have asked first if he were in Gallagher’s position.

  The client is the client, he reminded himself again. “He appears to be Mrs. Stannert’s business partner. I made a few general inquiries. Nico Donato is a violinist of some local renown. Performs at gatherings of such notables as Collis Huntington, Leland Stanford—”

  “Yes.” Gallagher cut him off again.

  De Bruijn waited to see if Gallagher had more to say, and continued when he did not. “Mr. Donato is in a quartet performing at a private party tonight, at the Flood residence.”

  “It so happens I will be there.”

  De Bruijn nodded.

  Finally, Gallagher asked the question that de Bruijn thought he would pose first. “Are you certain this is Inez Stannert?”

  “Not only did Mrs. Sweet visit the music store, she went to a milliner’s afterwards, which Mrs. Stannert also visited later.” De Bruijn decided not to mention the large part that serendipity and luck had played in his discovery of the connection between the milliner and Mrs. Stannert. How he had, after “acquiring” the advertising card and locking Mrs. Sweet in her room as a guard against further unaccompanied wanderings around town, gone to Mrs. Young’s and led the woman to believe he was Mr. Sweet. An unfortunate deception, but necessary. How, during an innocent conversation of hats, bonnets, and chapeaus of various styles, materials, and decoration, he had managed to slip in Mrs. Stannert’s name in connection with Mrs. Sweet, to see what might come of such a fishing expedition.

  Mrs. Young had leapt at the bait, her response instant and enthusiastic. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Stannert! Such a rem
arkable woman! In fact, she is due here shortly to discuss a business proposition with me. I hope to expand my spring offerings, you see. If you and Mrs. Sweet are in San Francisco over the New Year, she should come by. I expect to have all the latest fashions in stock.”

  Such confluences of events occasionally happened in his investigations. Even better, he had had to wait in the stand-up bar across the street less than an hour before a woman answering to Mrs. Stannert’s description had walked into the millinery shop without a single glance around. At least she hadn’t arrived while he had been in discussion with Mrs. Young.

  He continued his report, “Mrs. Stannert was not there for the hats. It seems she and the milliner Mrs. Young are in business together. I did not have time to pursue the details.” Privately, de Bruijn thought that Mrs. Stannert seemed quite the enterprising woman. He was curious as to how far and in what directions she was casting her net.

  “I had hoped that, given Mrs. Sweet’s visit to Mrs. Stannert, that Mrs. Stannert might then proceed to your son’s current location, to warn him, or encourage him. However, she returned to the music store. I followed, and made it a point to get visual confirmation. She is as you described her.”

  He forbore to add Mr. Gallagher had described Mrs. Stannert to him most thoroughly. That description had also been delivered with a familiarity that had raised several questions in de Bruijn’s mind—questions he had decided were best left unasked.

  “Good,” said Gallagher, although his tone had nothing good about it.

  De Bruijn said, “I would suggest we hire a lady Pinkerton of my professional acquaintance, a Miss Elizabeth O’Connell, to keep Mrs. Sweet company tomorrow. That will give me the time I need to pay a visit to Mrs. Stannert and extract what she knows about your son.”

  Gallagher swept up the trade card. “As you wish. I’ll pay her a visit this evening before the dinner party at the Floods and question her myself.”

  “I would not advise that.” The words slipped out before de Bruijn had time to consider them.