Josiah's Treasure (22 page)

Minnie clenched her working girl’s hands atop the snowy white tablecloth. “I’m sorry if you think your promise keeps you from helping Miss Sarah,” she said, her voice on the verge of shaking. “But we’re her family and all she has. And I think losing the shop might mean losing us, and that could kill her.”

Daniel’s jaw tensed. Losing that custom art studio wouldn’t kill Sarah Whittier. She was too tough. “What about her family in Arizona? She could always go home to them.”

Minnie frowned. “She never talks about them. I don’t think they want her back.” Her hand flew to her mouth when she realized she’d said too much.

Just then, Red hustled up to the table, grinning. “Mornin’, Mr. Cady. Here’s your paper. Mornin’, miss.” He doffed an invisible cap at Minnie. “Thought I’d drop by ’cuz there’s some interesting news I know you’d like to hear, Mr. Cady, sir. About that house your pa owned up on Nob Hill. Seems someone tried to rob it last night.”

Minnie gasped. “What? Is everyone all right? Miss Sarah?”

“Think nobody’s been hurt.” The waiter looked a little disappointed to admit that. “But I heard there was gunshots.”

Gunshots.

Daniel shoved back his chair, threw his napkin onto the table, and stood. “I’d like to talk more, Miss Tobin, but I think I’ll go check just how everyone is up at the house.”

“I am positive I’ve seen the man before, Officer Hanson.” Sarah folded her hands at her waist while the policeman squatted to examine the chink she’d shot out of the secretary. Rufus, bent tail flicking, was curled atop the piece of furniture, observing the fellow as he bent to his task.

The hem of Officer Hanson’s indigo wool frock coat grazed the floor right next to a telltale stain, more visible in the morning light than it had been last evening. He glanced down, rubbed a blunt fingertip over it.

“Blood, Officer,” Sarah said in response to the unasked question. “I must have shot him.”

“Hm.” Officer Hanson sat back on his haunches. He scribbled a note on the topmost sheet of a haphazard stack of papers gripped in his fist. “So, is this the same fellow as was here”—he quickly thumbed through his papers—“three days ago?”

“I ken he is,” offered Mrs. McGinnis, pacing between Josiah’s stuffed armchair and the walnut table in the center of the room. “The same hairy beast.”

The scritch of pen against paper stopped. The policeman
looked over at Mrs. McGinnis, the stubble of his poorly shaven chin rasping against his high white shirt collar. “What does he want, do you think?”

“
Och
, now how would I ken that?” Mrs. McGinnis bristled. “’Tis your job to find out, Mr. Hanson, not mine.”

“
Officer
Hanson,” he reminded her, straightening to his full, and intimidating, height.

“Officer Hanson,” Sarah interrupted before he decided Mrs. McGinnis was obstructing his investigation or some-such charge, “my housekeeper and I suspect that the man erroneously believes there are hidden gold nuggets in this house. He must be looking for them.”

The policeman peered at Sarah before making another notation on his paper. “And are there?” he asked, the tone of his voice suggesting she might not be honest in her response.

“No! It’s a rumor and nothing else.”

“A dangerous rumor for an unmarried woman and her servant, living in this big house alone.”

She recognized the admonition in his words. Aunt Eugenie would have implied the same, reminding Sarah that she was a woman just as stubborn, just as imprudent as her mother had been.

“Our neighbor’s male servant and his brother will be here tonight to watch over us.” If they’d both been at the house last night, they would have scared off the intruder. Sarah was confident of that. “They will be sufficient guard.”

The policeman scoffed. “That little China boy I saw skulking on your front porch? He couldn’t chase off a squirrel!”

Every nerve bristled. She was tired of the derision, the dismissiveness. Just another Chinese. Just another Irish girl. Just another woman who doesn’t know her place.
Ah Mong was told to watch over you, Miss Whittier.
Josiah knew what he was doing when he asked the boy; last night’s episode would not be repeated, because Ah Mong would not fall asleep again. She trusted him, even if no one else did.

“If you catch the man who attempted to burgle my house, Officer Hanson,” she said, “I will not have to worry about protection, shall I?”

It was his turn to look offended. “Your description of the fellow could fit any number of criminals in this town, Miss Whittier. Unless you can remember where you think you’ve seen him before.”

A memory, faint as a whisper in a crowd, echoed. She had seen him, and not long ago. But where? In a trice, the memory was gone. “I can’t recall.”

“I’ll check the hospitals, but he won’t go to a doctor if he’s not hurt bad. Too risky that he’d give himself away.” The policeman folded his notes and slipped them inside his frock coat, fastening the brass buttons when he’d finished. “I have a hunch I know who he is, though. My men and I have been tracking a fellow in Nob Hill with a similar description for months now.”

“Months? Shouldna you have caught him by now?” Mrs. McGinnis accused.

“He’s a clever fellow.”

“Cleverer than you, it seems!” she retorted, startling Rufus off his perch. The tabby executed an arcing leap to the ground and wandered off, appearing bored with the entire proceeding.

Officer Hanson cleared his throat. “I’ll let you know if there’s news, Miss Whittier. The man likely won’t return, now that he knows he’s been seen and also knows you have a weapon, but lock all your doors. Tight.”

He tipped his tall domed hat, frowned at Mrs. McGinnis, and clomped out of the house and down the stairs. Near his wagon, a crowd clustered together on the sidewalk, including that newspaper reporter again. Sarah had no idea how someone like that had heard about the housebreaker already. Maybe reporters could spot a crime scene like a vulture knew how to locate carrion. As if he could sense her glaring, he looked up at the house and lifted his hat, revealing a balding head that glistened from a liberal dose of bear’s grease pomatum.

“Do not go down, Miss Sarah,” murmured Ah Mong, arms folded, back straight, his eyes on the crowd.

“I have no intention of subjecting myself to that bunch.” She sincerely hoped they would not linger all day. She needed to go to the shop, and she didn’t intend to slip over the rear wall like their burglar had in order to escape.

“Good day to you, Miss Whittier,” the police officer called up to the house. He elbowed the reporter aside, causing the man to stumble on a break in the pavement, and hopped into his wagon.

Mrs. Brentwood separated from the crowd, collected her voluminous skirt, and hurried to intercept Sarah before she could retreat to the safety of the house.

“Oh, my dear Miss Whittier, Ah Mong told me everything over breakfast this morning.” Her hands flitted like a pair of distraught sparrows, and she wedged her body through the gap between Sarah and the doorframe. “He should have informed me last night of your trauma, of course, as soon as it happened, but . . . how dreadful to encounter an armed man in one’s parlor! Though you must be glad you had use of my little Remington.” She winked conspiratorially. “You are very brave. I would have swooned away in a dead faint. Fortunately for me, I have the protection of Mr. Brentwood in such times of distress.”

“Mrs. Brentwood, I would love to talk with you about my ‘trauma,’ but not even a failed burglary and all the excitement can keep me from my shop this morning. I have work to do, bills to pay—”

“You are welcome, Miss Whittier,” she charged ahead, “to stay with us if you are fearful for your life.” Her gaze darted over Sarah’s head and into the parlor, possibly hoping to spy some evidence of the “trauma.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll stay here to protect my possessions.”

Mrs. Brentwood tutted. “Ah, yes, the treasure. Mr. Cady should
never have burdened you with that. Though I can hardly blame him for not trusting the banks. Look what happened to—”

“There
is
no treasure, Mrs. Brentwood, and I hope you haven’t been telling folks, especially that reporter, there is.”

The other woman paled. She
had
told the man. “Mr. Malagisi told me he heard the gunshot last night—you know how close his house is to yours, Miss Whittier—and that he would have contacted the police immediately but he was very alarmed—”

“Has he been talking to the reporter too?” Now both her neighbors were gossiping on her.

“These sorts of stories do get out, Miss Whittier,” proclaimed Mrs. Brentwood with a complacent shake of her head.

Sarah could not afford stories, because rumors and gossip only fueled the sort of speculation that had surrounded her since the day she had arrived in San Francisco. The nosy questions that might, some day, unearth the unhappy truth of her past.

Oh, Josiah. Now what do I do?

T
he answer to her question, Sarah decided, was to go to the shop as she’d planned. No burglar, no inquisitive neighbors could stop her from the one thing she did best—work and work hard.

She hopped down from the cable car at Sansome Street. A burst of rain had left the sidewalks puddled and relatively empty of pedestrians, striped store awnings dripping water onto the pavement below. On the corner, a forlorn newsboy overburdened with unsold papers peddled his wares.

“
Evening Post
! Five cents!” Damp newspapers draped over his shoulder and one suspended from his ink-stained hand, he called out the afternoon’s headlines as Sarah hurried by: British steamer sunk, doomed search for arctic explorer described, an assassination in Ireland.

Burglar on the loose in Nob Hill.

Heavens.
They’d made the news already. Sarah fumbled for a nickel and purchased a paper. The brief article occupied a corner of the front page where it could be easily seen. There was her name along with a sensational tale from Mrs. Brentwood and a lurid description of the intruder. To read the account, Sarah had blasted the man with a Colt revolver when she’d confronted him as he searched for a rumored stash of Black Hills gold. He’d then staggered off, leaving a trail of blood a mile long marking his path.

“Nob Hill ain’t safe no more neither, eh, miss?” the newsboy commented. “Heard that burglar was after more’n gold. Heard there’s silver and diamonds too!”

“Have you really?”

Sarah shoved the newspaper beneath her arm and barged into the shop, the bell almost jangling off its mount.

“Miss Sarah!” Cora spun about. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Cora.” Her hat and gloves and the paper landed in a heap upon the counter. “Nothing for you to worry over, at least. And by the way, I’m glad you’re here and look so well.”

She lifted her shoulders. “No harm done. The doctor thought another day off work might be better, but my brother wouldn’t let me rest for calling me a lazybones, so I had to come in. Minnie wanted me to help her today, anyhow, since none of the other girls could.”

“All the more proof you are not a lazybones.”

“Tell that to my brother.” Cora smirked, then cast a quick look over her shoulder toward the rear workroom doorway. “Anne’s here. Been waiting for you.”

“You don’t have to whisper, Cora.” Anne strode into the main room. She clutched at her cloak, shoulders and hem darkened from the afternoon’s rain shower. Today Anne’s bruises were as purple as ripe plums. Sarah could hardly look at them without wanting to lock the shop door, close the blinds, and whisk Anne away to someplace safe. Safer than the home she shared with that man. “I knew you’d be here today, Miss Whittier. I heard about the break-in, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Break-in?” Cora squealed.

Cora couldn’t read well, so she wouldn’t have already learned the news; Sarah was surprised that Anne, however, had somehow found the opportunity.

“An attempted burglary, Cora. I chased the man off and the police feel quite certain they’ll catch him.”

A shadow of unease crossed Anne’s face. “You weren’t harmed, were you?”

It touched Sarah that Anne was so worried for her. “I’m perfectly fine. But I would feel a lot better if you were here to tell me you’d come to help at the studio today.”

“I can’t. Frank needs me at the house. I’m sorry.” She gathered her cloak around her and headed for the door.

Sarah stopped her as she passed. “As I told you before, I can give you money to leave him. Whatever you need.”

Anne’s eyes seemed to darken until they were black as beads of jet. “Money won’t buy me what I need, Miss Whittier.”

Cora laughed aloud. “It works for me!”

Anne’s gaze didn’t waver. “It can’t buy me peace of mind.”

“Oh, Anne.” Sarah wanted to reach out for the girl, embrace her, but she knew better.

“Who needs peace of mind when you’ve got cash?” muttered Cora.

“Cora, go help Minnie, will you?” Sarah waited until Cora had gone upstairs before approaching Anne. “This studio won’t be half as successful without you. I said so yesterday and I meant it. None of the others can produce a lithograph as beautiful as yours. Besides, we have customers eagerly awaiting your Golden Gate Park prints.” Not the complete truth, in that Lottie had yet to convince Mrs. Linforth to order the lithographs, but what was a slight falsification if the telling encouraged Anne to keep working at the shop? And gain her freedom.