Fallen Women (36 page)

“A drug made from poppies—” the chief started to explain.

Beret waved away the words. “I know perfectly well what opium is. I…” She decided not to mention her confrontation in Hop Alley.

“Ladies in Denver, even those of the highest social levels, have been known to visit the opium dens. I’m not saying Mrs. Stanton is guilty of that.” The chief’s voice trailed off as if waiting for Beret to interrupt again.

“But my aunt? Surely not.” Beret felt it necessary to defend Varina, although she had begun to wonder if drugs might explain Varina’s failure to grasp reality.

“Well, we are not investigating her. You had only asked…” Mick said lamely.

Beret pulled herself together. “Is there any evidence, any at all, that my uncle did not murder my sister?”

“None,” Mick and Chief Smith answered together.

“Surely you don’t suspect him in the death of Sadie and the attack on the other girl.”

“No, Jonas did those, although we don’t know why. We were trying to put it together just now,” Mick said.

The two men looked at Beret, as if she could shed light on Jonas’s actions. “I believe Jonas must have known my uncle killed Lillie. Perhaps he drove him there, and being of a devious and unsound nature, he was inspired, if you will, to do a similar deed. He must have liked killing. There are men like that, you know.” She looked up at the chief. “Of course you know. You are a policeman. The act unleashed something in him, and he would have gone on killing if Detective McCauley had not stopped him.”

“That’s pretty much what we thought,” Chief Smith told her. He stood, and Beret rose, too. “I’m thinking you might not have to testify, Miss Osmundsen. Your uncle’s guilt is so obvious that he might plead guilty if we would agree to spare his life. How would you feel about that?”

In all that had happened in the past day, Beret had not thought that her uncle might be hanged for killing Lillie. The idea sickened her. “I am against murder, whether by the hand of a fiend or that of the state,” she said.

The chief nodded, then looked down at the papers on his desk by way of dismissal, and Beret left with Mick.

“You believe, then, that the judge murdered your sister, and Jonas was responsible for the other two attacks?” Mick asked, a little uncertain.

Beret took a long time to answer. “Yes.” Her voice was tentative.

Mick stopped and looked at Beret, “You’re not sure.”

Beret was hesitant. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, then added, “Unless Jonas was responsible for all three attacks and my uncle is covering up for him in my sister’s death. But if that is the case, I can’t imagine why.” Then she added, “I intend to find out.”

Chapter 23

The rain had stopped overnight, but the day was oppressive, damp from all the moisture. The sky was overcast and dark, and Beret felt it weigh on her like a wet cloak as she walked to the trolley stop. Mick had offered to see her home, but it was clear that he was preoccupied. She’d assumed he was busy with details of her uncle’s confession, but then a newsman made a remark about the Arcade, and Beret realized Mick had made plans to go off with his fellows later to celebrate the arrest of one of Denver’s most prominent citizens. Mick would be a celebrity as long as the story of the Holladay Street murders was news, and that could be a very long time. Beret would not be asked to join the officers and reporters, of course, and she did not want to interfere with Mick’s plans by allowing him to escort her home. She had no claim on the detective. They were only acquaintances thrown together by the circumstances of her sister’s death, and now that that murder was solved, there was no reason for them to see each other. She was grateful to him not only for his help in solving Lillie’s murder but in protecting her from her uncle. That made her obligated to him, not the other way around.

That idea depressed her even more. After a year alone, she had met a man who had intrigued her, had treated her as an intelligent woman, had made her laugh. And she thought he had liked her. But any hope she might have had that their relationship would go further was dashed. She could marry a second time, of course. There were always men who would marry a divorcée if her fortune were big enough, but Beret would rather live the life of a spinster than wed one of them. And that was the life she envisioned for herself now. Mick had been a pleasant acquaintance, but that was all.

If her uncle accepted some sort of plea agreement, there would be no trial, and this might be the last time she would be with the detective, Beret thought, as Mick took her hand and bowed a little over it. “You have my gratitude. My sister’s murder would not have been solved without your fine work,” she said.

“And yours,” he replied.

“I am staying on for a time to help my aunt. I hope I shall see you again.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, although he did not suggest a meeting. The aborted concert date seemed to have been forgotten.

Beret took her leave, pausing in the doorway and glancing back at Mick, but he was already in conversation with one of the officers. There would be other cases for him to solve, and he would remember Lillie Osmundsen mainly because her killer had been an oddity—not a pimp or a vagrant but a man of high social standing. He certainly would not remember the case because of the dead woman’s sister. Mick McCauley had meant more to Beret than she wanted to admit, but it was foolish to think there was anything between them besides their mutual wish to bring a murderer to justice.

Outside, Beret tried to hail a hack, but seeing none, she walked up Larimer Street to the trolley stop. She felt sticky in the dampness and hoped it would not rain again, for she had not thought to bring an umbrella. The wind blew trash into her path, dirt and cigar butts and orange peels, and Beret dodged a sheet of newspaper that flew past her and wrapped itself around a streetlight. She pulled the veil of her hat over her eyes, but that did little to keep out the dirt that swirled around the sidewalk. There was the smell of spices from a tamale cart mixed with the stench of offal in the streets. People hurried past her to get out of the wind. A man’s hat blew off, and street urchins raced to catch it, demanding a penny for its return. A young dandy cursed a wagon that turned in front of him, splashing dirty water from the rain the day before. A bootblack knocked his box against her and failed to beg pardon. Beret paid them all little attention and hurried on, thinking this was an odd city, with snow one day, followed by flowers and blue skies the next, then rain and chill weather on the third.

She reached the streetcar stop just as a trolley started up, which meant that she had to wait for the next one. Drops of water were falling now. She turned up the collar of her jacket, but the dampness of it lay against her neck like some dead thing, and she backed up under the awning of a store whose window displayed men’s collars and shirts. A newsboy held up a paper and shouted out headlines, and Beret realized they were about her uncle: “Extry, extry. Denver judge murders own niece,” the boy yelled.

Would she never get away from the scandal? The story would be picked up as far away as New York now, and some enterprising reporter would undoubtedly discover that Lillie was an Osmundsen. Beret remembered Teddy’s demand that she pay him not to tell the papers in the city. Poor Teddy, she thought with satisfaction. The newspapers already had the story. He could no longer threaten her with selling it. Another of his schemes had come to naught.

The streetcar came at last, but it was crowded, and no man was gentleman enough to offer Beret a seat. She was crushed by shoppers carrying parcels tied with string, by workmen in dirty clothes clutching lunches that smelled of sour pickles and brined meat. A man next to her spat tobacco onto Beret’s skirt. She gasped, but the man only glanced at the fouled garment and aimed in another direction.

The rain had begun in earnest by the time Beret reached her stop, and she hurried along the street, wishing she had bought one of the newspapers with its garish headlines, not to read but to protect herself from the weather, but she had not had that foresight. By the time Beret reached the Stanton house, her hat was drenched, in danger of losing its shape, and she herself was wet throughout, her skirt soiled with dirt and tobacco juice.

The foyer was deserted, and Beret wondered if the sound of rain had kept William from hearing her enter. She found a bell and rang it, then examined her hat, thinking Nellie might be able to steam it back into shape. Her skirt would have to be brushed before it dried. Nellie could take care of that, too. But before anything, Beret wanted the maid to draw her a hot bath. She rang again, and in a moment, William emerged from the butler’s pantry, taking his time, Beret thought, annoyed. Then she reminded herself that he was her aunt’s employee, not hers.

He stood before her and said, “Yes, madam?”

“Would you ask Nellie to come to my room, please. I should like a bath, and my clothes need attention. You can see for yourself that they are drenched from the rain. I could not find a hack and had to take the streetcar home.” He seemed unsympathetic, and Beret understood. Servants could not afford hacks. Nor could they arrive home and demand hot baths. She should have been more discreet. “I shall live, but I smell like a cook’s bad day, and I believe you, too, would appreciate my being more presentable,” she said in a lame attempt at levity.

William stared at her and did not reply, and Beret wondered if he ever found anything amusing. She had never seen him smile.

“So would you please send Nellie to my room,” Beret continued, starting for the stairs.

“That is not possible, madam.”

Beret frowned. “And why is that?”

“Nellie is not here.”

“Surely she was not sent on an errand on such a foul day.”

“No, madam.”

William’s lack of forthrightness was annoying, and Beret demanded, “When will she return?”

“She won’t.”

“What do you mean, she won’t?”

“Nellie is no longer with us, madam.”

Beret stared at the butler, not understanding at first. “You mean she quit?”

“You could say so.”

“Quit or was let go?”

William shrugged.

Beret was angry now and demanded, “I asked you did Nellie quit, or was she relieved of her position?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Was it your idea or Mrs. Stanton’s?”

“You will have to ask her, madam. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is. I assume my aunt is not here. When will she return?”

“She went with the stable boy for a drive. You yourself left with them. Perhaps she told
you
when she would return.”

Beret stared at the butler for a long time, thinking he was impertinent and she didn’t like him. She wondered if he would be more forthcoming later but suspected he would not, so she decided to get the confrontation over drugs behind her. “Do you supply my aunt with opium?” she asked.

William’s eyes went wide with surprise, and Beret congratulated herself at getting at least that small reaction from him. “No.”

“Morphine, cocaine?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then you yourself must use it.”

“You are wrong to accuse me. I have never used opium.” There was a look of defiance—and perhaps hurt—on William’s face.

“But you have been seen in Hop Alley. The police have observed you there. You cannot deny it.”

William did not reply at first, thinking. Then he said, “And so have you?”

Beret bristled to realize that he was aware of her confrontation with Chinaman Fong. “We are not discussing me. Have you been buying drugs for my aunt?”

“No, madam.” He stared hard at Beret before muttering, “I obtained opium for Miss Lillie. Your sister.”

“You what?” Beret was incensed and paused to calm herself. She said, “You gave my sister opiates? How could you? I am disgusted with you, William. That is an offense for which you could be discharged.”

“Begging your pardon, madam, but I don’t work for you.”

Beret ignored the impertinence. “Did my sister take the drugs with her?”

“No, miss. I believe Mrs. Stanton confiscated them.”

“And threw them out?”

“Of course.” He paused. “Did you want to acquire something? Perhaps that was why you were in Hop Alley.”

Beret glared at the butler. Then fearing she would say something she would regret and perhaps cause further anguish for her aunt, she turned and rushed up the stairs to her room, and once inside, she locked the door.

She removed her clothing and brushed the skirt as best she could, but the tobacco stains were still there. She threw the garment on the bed and went into her bathroom and turned on the taps. When the tub was full, Beret climbed into it and sat in the steamy water, wondering whether, as her aunt had claimed, the judge had admitted to Lillie’s murder to protect Jonas. But there was no reason for that. The events of the past weeks had only affected Varina’s mind. She had escaped them by denying reality.

Perhaps after the whole sordid business was resolved, Beret would take her aunt on a tour of Europe. She could live with Beret in the house in New York. She could even help at the mission. There were just the two of them, and they must care for each other.

The bathwater had grown cold, and Beret stood and dried herself, then went into her bedroom and donned a day dress. She did not know what to do with herself. Her aunt had asked her to find the real killer, but Judge Stanton was the real killer. There was nothing further for Beret to investigate. Her refusal to continue looking into the murder would anger Varina, who might ask Beret to leave. But that would be all right. Beret had no reason to stay on, and she was anxious to return to New York now. Varina would come to her senses later, and the two would eliminate any disharmony between them.

Beret went to the window and saw William striding down the street, an umbrella protecting him from the rain. She had been unfair to him, rude even. The disruptions in the Stanton house had interfered with his routine, and she had made things worse with her meddling. She didn’t want to, but she would have to make amends with the butler if the household were to run smoothly.