Death of Riley

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OUTSTANDING PRAISE

FOR RHYS BOWEN'S NOVELS

DEATH OF RILEY

“An evocative trip through old New York—including the poets, painters, playwrights, and private investigators of Greenwich Village, 1901—in the company of Irish immi- grant Molly Murphy, a spirited and appealing guide.”

—S. J. Rozan, Edgar Award-winning

author of
Winter and Night

“Rhys Bowen's wit makes
Death of Riley
more than equal to her award-winning first book,
Murphy's Law.”

—Maan Meyers, a.k.a. Martin and

Annette Meyers, authors of the Dutchman series

“A fresh and irrepressible new heroine.”

—Romantic Times

“Bowen nicely blends history and fiction…[A] light, romantic mystery.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Molly is a smart, feisty, independent heroine…. [An] appealing series.”

—Booklist

“Bowen's highly detailed picture of New York at the turn of the century is a delight.”

—Kirkus Reviews

More…

MURPHY'S LAW

“History-mystery fans should add Molly to their list of characters to follow.”

—Booklist

“It's always a delight to discover a new book from the pen of Rhys Bowen.”

—Tampa Tribune & Times

“Entertaining.”

—
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“[We] look forward to Molly's return.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Irish humor and gritty determination transplanted to New York, but with more charm and optimism than the usual law attributed to Murphy.”

—Anne Perry, author of
The Whitechapel Conspiracy

“Bowen tells a phenomenal story, and it will be a real treat to see what fate has in store for Molly and Daniel!”

—Romantic Times
(Top Pick)

Also by Rhys Bowen

THE MOLLY MURPHY SERIES

Oh Danny Boy

I Like Flynn

For the Love of Mike

Murphy's Law

THE CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES

Evan Blessed

Evan ys Gate

Evan Only Knows

Evans to Betsy

Evan Can't Wait

Evan and Elle

Evan Help Us

Evans Above

Evanly Choirs

DEATH OF

RILEY

Rhys Bowen

St. Martin's Paperbacks

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any pay- ment for this “stripped book.”

DEATH OF RILEY

Copyright © 2002 by Rhys Bowen

Excerpt from
For the Love of Mike
© 2003 by Rhys Bowen.

Cover photograph © Culver Pictures.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-98968-7

EAN: 978-0-312-98968-2

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / December 2002

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / December 2003

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2

This book is dedicated to my fairy godmother, Meg Ruley, and to Dorothy Cannell, who was kind enough to introduce us.

0
ne

New York July 1901

“You want me to do what?” I demanded so loudly that a delicate young female walking ahead of us glanced back in horror and had to reach for her smelling salts. I burst out laughing. “For the love of Mike, Daniel—can you picture me as a companion?” Then I looked up at Captain Daniel Sullivan's face. He wasn't smiling.

He gave me an embarrassed half-smile, half-shrug. “I was only thinking of you, Molly. You do need a job, and you haven't exactly been successful in your search so far.”

“So I haven't come up with the perfect job yet.” I picked up my skirts to avoid the wet patches around a grand-looking fountain. It had a fine bronze statue of the Angel of the Waters on top, but at this moment the scene was anything but grand. A host of little boys, some of them naked as the day they were born, were scrambling in and out, standing under the curtain of spray before being evicted again, squealing and yelling as they avoided the nightstick wielded by an overzealous policeman. It was Sunday afternoon and we were doing what most

New Yorkers did on hot summer Sundays—we were strolling through Central Park. For once Daniel's day off had actually fallen on a Sunday, and there had been no incidents to drag him away with an apologetic peck on the cheek.

It seemed as if pecks on the cheek were all I was getting these days from Captain Daniel Sullivan. Yes, I know that pecks on the cheek, properly chaperoned, are all that decent young ladies should expect before marriage, but propriety rather went out of the window when I was with Daniel. And I had hoped our romance might have blossomed into something more substantial by now, but as New York's youngest police captain, Daniel threw himself wholeheartedly into his job. I, on the other hand, had no job to keep me occupied.

It wasn't as if I hadn't tried. After my somewhat dramatic arrival in New York, I had looked for something suitable. The saints in heaven will attest that I really put my heart into it. I wouldn't have minded a governess position, in fact I'd have been good at it. But it didn't take me long to discover that an Irish girl, fresh off the boat, and with no references—or at least no references that could be verified (I had made some very convincing forgeries), would not be hired to teach the children of a good family. Nursemaid maybe, but I didn't think I'd last a week as a servant.

After that, I tried my hand at any job I could find, short of gutting fish at the Fulton Street fish market. I did draw the line at standing up to my elbows in fish entrails.

“You have to admit that there have been some rather spectacular disasters.” Daniel voiced my thoughts for me, making me wonder whether he could actually read my mind.

“I wouldn't say disasters.”

A breeze blew off the boating lake beyond the fountain, sending a fine curtain of spray in our direction. The cool tingles on my hot skin felt wonderful and I was tempted to stand there for a while until Daniel pulled me clear. “Molly—you'll get soaked to the skin.”

“But it feels divine.”

“It might feel divine “ he said, looking down at me with those alarming blue eyes, “but that's a very fine muslin you're wearing, my dear. We wouldn't want other men ogling you, would we?” He led me firmly away from the fountain terrace, along the edge of the boating lake. I paused to look longingly at those rowboats. A couple came gliding by, the girl's face hidden by a deliciously decadent parasol—all frills and lace and froufrou—as she trailed a hand languidly through the water. Her beau, pulling manfully at the oars in rolled-up shirtsleeves, didn't look as if he were enjoying himself quite as much. Undignified rivulets of sweat streaked the beet-red face beneath his boater.

“You wouldn't say disasters?” Daniel repeated, chuckling as he led me away. “The shirtwaist factory?”

“So I got a needle through my thumb. It could have happened to anyone.” I tossed my head, almost losing my straw boater into the water.

“And who sewed all those sleeves on inside out?” Those alarming blue eyes were twinkling.

“That wasn't why I was fired and you know it. It was because I stood up to that brute of a foreman and wasn't about to take any of his nonsense. All those unfair rules— docking their workers' pay every time they so much as sneezed. I knew right away that I'd never be able to hold my tongue for long.”

“Then there was the cafe “ Daniel reminded me.

I gave him a sheepish grin. “Yes, I suppose that counted as a spectacular disaster.”

We had reached the dappled shade of spreading chestnut trees as the path left the lakeside. The effect was instant, like stepping into a pool of cool water. “Ah, that's better,” Daniel said. “Look, there's a bench under that tree. Let's sit awhile.”

I noticed that Daniel seemed to be feeling the heat more than I. His face was as red as the young man's in the rowboat and his wild black curls were plastered to his forehead under his boater. Of course, gentlemen are at a disadvantage on days like this, having to wear jackets whilst we women can keep cool in muslins. But he was a born New Yorker. I'd have thought he grew up used to this heat. I, on the other hand, had come from the wild west coast of Ireland, where a couple of sunny days in a row counted as a heat wave, and we had the chilly Atlantic at our feet whenever we needed to cool off.

Daniel took out his handkerchief and mopped at his brow. “That's better,” he said. “I swear, every summer is hotter than the last. It's those new skyscrapers. They block the cooling breezes from the East River and the Hudson.”

“It's certainly hot enough.” I fanned myself with the penny fan I had bought from a street vendor last week. It was a pretty little thing from China, made of paper and decorated with a picture of a pagoda and wild mountain scenery. “Here, you look as if you could use this more than me.” I turned and fanned Daniel too. He grabbed at my wrist, laughing. “Stop it. You'll be offering me your smelling salts next.”

“I've never carried smelling salts in my life and never intend to,” I said. “Fainting is for ninnies.”

“That's what I like about you, Molly Murphy—” For a long minute Daniel gazed at me in a way that turned my insides to water, his fingers still firmly around my wrist— “Your spirit. That and your trim little waist, of course, and those big green eyes and that adorable little nose.” He touched it playfully. Then the smile faded but the look of longing remained. “Oh, Molly. I just wish …” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the humid air, making me wonder what exactly he was wishing. He was young and healthy, with great career prospects—and a future that should have included a wife too. But I wasn't going to press him on this one. Who knew how men's minds worked? He could be waiting for a pay raise or saving enough to buy a house before he popped the question—if he did indeed intend to pop it. For once in my life I kept silent.

“I'm pretty content myself,” I said gaily. “I have a fine big room of my own and a handsome fellow who comes to call from time to time, and I'm living in a big city, just like I always dreamed I would.”

Daniel let his gaze fall and he sat there for a moment silent, his eyes focused on his hands in his lap.

“There's no rush for anything, Daniel,” I said. “If I could just find a way to keep myself a respectable job where I wasn't abused or overworked …”

“Did I not mention the companion's position?”

I patted his hand. “Daniel—can you see me as a companion to an old lady? Companions are pathetic, downtrodden creatures who cringe when spoken to and spend their days holding knitting wool and combing cats. I tried my hand at being a servant, remember. I wasn't born to be humble. And you know yourself that I can never learn when to hold my tongue.”