Murder in Burnt Orange (19 page)

The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.

—Psalms 16:6

The moment passed. Molly's face fell back into its usual pleasant contours. Hilda dared breathe again.

“So,” said Molly. “We need to devise a way that I can find out what Bertha Hewlitt is talking about.”

“And soon,” said Hilda, “because...” She patted the bulge under her shawl.

“Yes, of course. Well, let's see. We can hardly use the Boys' Club as an excuse again so soon. There are no holidays coming up...”

“Labor Day,” said Hilda doubtfully.

“Ah, yes, that would appeal mightily to Mrs. Hewlitt and her friends, wouldn't it? No, I think it will have to be something quite simple. A tea, as you suggested, or—I know! I'll invite her to become a member of the Progress Club!”

That, Hilda knew, was a social and philanthropic organization whose membership included the very cream of South Bend Society. Mrs. Birdsell had been an officer, and one of the Studebaker wives, Hilda forgot which one. “That is a
very
good idea, Aunt Molly. She will be flattered!”

“Yes, well, I'm not so sure that the rest of the club will actually want her, and they have to vote. But I'll have her here for tea, and invite a few of the members to meet her, and it will be nice and cozy and friendly, and we'll get some useful gossip out of her or I'm not an Irishwoman!”

Hilda almost giggled, in spite of all her worries. It would be hard to imagine anyone more thoroughly Irish than Molly Malloy.

“And now, my dear, I think Mr. Malloy would like to see you. Yesterday was a bit hard on him, and he's had no pretty women to look at in weeks.”

“But I am not pretty! I am big!”

“You're a tall, slender woman who's going to have a very large baby very soon. That doesn't mean you're not pretty. Of course, if you're self-conscious, I could give you one of Cook's aprons to cover up everything but your face. I think she weighs nearly three hundred pounds.”

Hilda did giggle at that, and slowly, carefully, climbed the stairs in Aunt Molly's wake.

She found Uncle Dan sitting up in a chair, his face pink, his blue eyes alert. “And if you're not a sight for sore eyes, girl! Mrs. Malloy'll tell you my wanderin' eye's had precious little to wander to lately.”

“You are a wicked man, to say such things before Aunt Molly. Besides, she is beautiful.”

“And that she is, and the joy of my life, like the very sweetest peach. But a man can't always be eatin' peaches. Now and then he wants some good honest apples. And the Lord knows that nurse is pure prunes. So you just sit yourself down right here and tell me what's goin' on in the world out there.”

Hilda looked questioningly at Molly. Dan caught the look.

“And don't think you need to feed me pabulum! I'm no baby. You're up to somethin', as usual, and I want to know what it is.”

Molly gave a tiny nod. Hilda took a deep breath, and said, “I am trying to find Mr. Vanderhoof.”

That, she thought, was a safer answer than saying she was trying to track down Clancy's killer. Besides, it had the merit of being the truth. If she found the one, she was convinced, she would find the other. She watched Dan closely for his reaction. If he lost his temper—or if he was too surprised and shocked—

He took it quite calmly. “So you think he's behind what's been goin' on, do you?”

Hilda sighed with relief. “You think it might be true?”

“Wouldn't surprise me a bit. I never had a lick o' use for that fellow, even before he and his toughs killed Bishop and kidnapped me. All right, Mrs. Malloy, don't fuss. I'm not goin' to blow up.”

Hilda had not thought that Aunt Molly was about to fuss. She had not seen her so much as lift an eyebrow, but Dan could read her mind. Molly smiled and sat back a little on her chair.

“He's back in town, is he, the da—er—dratted scoundrel?”

“I do not know. I think he is, or his—his—”

“Confederates?” suggested Molly at the same time that Dan said, “Stooges?”

Hilda had never heard either word, that she remembered, but she liked the sound of
stooges
. “Men who do his bidding?”

“Smart girl!” said Dan, delighted. “Didn't I tell you this was a smart girl, Mrs. Malloy, when young Patrick first started gettin' interested in her?”

“You did, Mr. Malloy.” He had also said a number of less flattering things related to her nationality and religion and station in life. Molly, too, had been extremely dubious about this girl as a wife for her favorite nephew. The thought now made her squirm inside with embarrassment.

“His stooges, yes,” Dan went on thoughtfully. “They're the sort who wouldn't blink an eye at settin' a fire here or there, or tamperin' with the brakes on a train.” He fell suddenly silent then, and Hilda knew he was thinking about Clancy.

She glanced at Molly, and saw that it was time to change the subject before Dan became upset. “There is a woman who may know something about it,” she said quickly. She repeated the story about Mrs. Hewlitt, leaving out the more outrageous parts. “And Aunt Molly has an idea for finding out more. She is going to invite her to join the Progress Club.”

Dan snorted. “I've seen her in the store a time or two. Can't say I took to her much, but to each her own. If you want to take up with her, Mrs. Malloy, it's fine with me.”

Hilda was about to chide him, to explain that it was all in a good cause, when she saw the twinkle in his eye and the look that passed between them. Will it be that way with Patrick and me, she wondered, when we have been married for so long? Will we know what the other is thinking, know when it is a joke? “It was Patrick who heard Mrs. Hewlitt talking at the store,” she said proudly, “and told me about it.” And the baby seemed to jump for joy at the look of satisfaction on Daniel Malloy's face.

“So the boy's gettin' along all right, is he?”

“Of course he is!” said Hilda indignantly. “He works very hard, from early in the morning until late at night, and on Saturdays even, and...oh. You were teasing me. You knew he was doing well.”

“I have me spies, y'know,” said Dan with a grin. “I knew the boy'd be fine. He's made of the right stuff. And that's why,” he went on, the grin fading, “that's one reason why,” he amended, “I've made him my heir. Made a new will last week, and after my darlin' girl here, it all goes to Patrick.”

The lump in her throat kept Hilda from saying anything at all.

* * *

Later, back downstairs, when Hilda had dried her tears and regained her composure, she was able to say part of what troubled her. “But, Aunt Molly, why did he make his will? I do not like this. I thought he was getting better.”

“As indeed he is,” Molly assured her. “He made his first will years ago, child, when the business first started to do well and we began to have a little put by. He changed it every time we had another child. And now we have but one son, so he changed it again.”

She was very matter-of-fact, but Hilda had to be very stern with herself to keep back more tears. “Patrick is your nephew,” she managed to say. “I do not understand.”

“We've long thought of him as a son, my dear. You know that. Now, if Patrick and his mother agree, we will adopt him legally. It makes no difference to the way we feel about him, you understand, but it saves certain complications. However, if Patrick and his family feel at all uncomfortable about the idea—or if you do, child—we will simply leave the arrangement as it is. Either way, Patrick is Mr. Malloy's heir.” She smiled at the confusion she read in Hilda's face. “You will have to get used to being a wealthy woman, Hilda. Mr. Malloy has a great deal more money than you might think.”

“But I do not want his money!” said Hilda passionately. “There is your daughter. And I do not want him to die!”

“We all die sooner or later, Hilda. The doctor is very pleased with Mr. Malloy's progress, and says now that he may live for years, with care, and I'm sure I hope so. But one day he will die, and so will I. Our daughter will not need our money; she is very well off, you know. Her husband is a banker in Chicago. Of course, Mr. Malloy has made some provision for her, so she won't feel neglected. But by the time we're gone, you will have a fine family. And they will all need shoes—you cannot imagine how many shoes growing children can go through, Hilda—and clothing, and food, and toys, and books, and education—oh, there is no end to it. You will find it comforting not to have to worry about where all those things are coming from.”

“I know about shoes,” she said, gulping back a sob. “I have four younger siblings. We all had to wear hand-me-down shoes in Sweden, and by the time they came to Erik they were almost all holes. He had to wear girls' shoes. He hated it, but there was no money for anything else. Sometimes, if we were very lucky, someone would give shoes to the church and the pastor would bring them to us.” She gulped again. “The very first pair of new shoes I ever had was when I went to work for Mrs. Clem, and she gave me money for a new pair of boots. They pinched at first, but I was so proud of them!”

“How old were you then, child?”

“Sixteen. We came to America a few months before my sixteenth birthday, and I was very lucky to get such a good job. I was just a daily at first, but Mrs. Clem liked me and thought I did a good job, and when the head housemaid left, she gave the job to me.” She sighed. “I wish my sisters did not have to work so hard. I feel ashamed sometimes when I think of how easy my life is now, and how hard theirs is still. They work for nice ladies, but they work hard.”

“One day you will be able to help them.”

“I could help them now, but they are proud. They will not take my help, except I try to give them nice presents for Christmas and birthdays.”

“We will think of some way, some things you can do that they won't resent.” Molly's voice became brisk. “Meanwhile, though, I must organize a tea party, and you had better go home and take a rest. This has been quite a morning for you.”

“Oh! What time is it?” She fumbled for the watch she usually wore pinned to her dress, and then remembered she wasn't actually wearing a dress.

“It's nearly noon. Patrick will be wanting the carriage to come home from the store with Andy. Scoot, now, my dear, and I'll let you know about the tea party as soon as it's settled.”

Hilda scooted.

A power has risen up in the government greater than the people themselves, consisting of many and various and powerful interests, combined into one mass, and held together by the cohesive power of the vast surplus in the banks.

—John C. Calhoun, 1836

I went to see Aunt Molly this morning,” Hilda announced when Patrick sat down for lunch.

“Oh? How's she bearin' up?”

“As you would expect. She is a strong lady. I saw Uncle Dan, too.” She watched Patrick closely, but his face reflected no unexpected emotions. She went on. “He is feeling very much better. How did he seem to you, yesterday?”

“Better than I expected. Grievin', o'course, but otherwise seemin' pretty healthy.”

“What did you talk about?”

Patrick looked surprised. Hilda didn't usually question him this closely. “This 'n' that. How the store was doin'. He asked me to keep an eye on Aunt Molly, see she didn't worry too much about him or break her heart over Clancy.”

“He did not say anything about his will?”

“His
will
! Why would he talk to me about his will? I told you, he's looking healthy.”

Hilda took a deep breath. “Because today he told me that he has made a new will, leaving everything to you.”

It was unfortunate that Patrick had just taken a bite of his sandwich. He choked and started to cough violently. Bits of bread and cold roast beef flew across the table before he could get his napkin to his mouth. His face grew red. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

When the paroxysm had passed and he had taken a few sips of water, he croaked, “What did you say?”

“What you thought I said. No, do not drink more water, you might choke again! Uncle Dan has made you his heir. After Aunt Molly, of course, and with something—I do not know how much—left to Cousin Mary. And Patrick—he wants to adopt you, make you his real son. He did not say I might not tell you. I think maybe he wanted me to tell you, so he would not have to, not the first time.”

Patrick was silent. Mechanically he began to pick up the bits of food he had scattered across the tablecloth. He sipped a little more water and cleared his throat. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Because he loves you. They both love you. And because there is no one else. Clancy is dead. Their first son—”

“Sean.”

“—Sean is dead. Mary has no need of money, and could not carry on the store, living in Chicago. He wants you to have it, Patrick.”

“I don't want it. I mean—of course I want to carry on the store for him, if that's what he wants. I'd do anythin' for him. Look what he's done for me—for us. But all his money, everythin'—it's too much. Besides, I don't want to even think of him dyin', him and Molly.”

“That is what
I
said. And Aunt Molly said everyone must die, one day, and that our children would need shoes and education and—I forget what else, but she meant that the money would make it easier for us to give them everything they need.”

Patrick's face was getting red again. “I can provide for my children,” he said almost belligerently. “And anyway there's only the one so far, and not even him quite yet.”

“But she will be here soon, and there will probably be more. I have thought about this, Patrick. I have thought of nothing else, ever since Uncle Dan told me. I think it will make him very unhappy if you refuse to accept this. And anyway, he is as stubborn as you. You cannot make him change his will. If you argue with him, it will only make him sad and angry, and he should not be upset until he is well.”

“But—it's embarrassin'! What am I to say to him when I see him next?”

“ ‘Thank you'?”

* * *

After lunch Hilda rested for an hour. She was growing more and more tired and her body more and more ungainly. At least the unbearable heat had eased, but she still found it almost impossible to get comfortable. Soon, she thought. Soon it will be over. And then she thought about what lay between now and the end of her ordeal. And decided not to think about it. “Be gentle with me, Kristina,” she whispered. “Be a good girl and kind to your mother.”

Eileen came in just then and pretended she had not heard. “If you're ready to get up, ma'am, there's that policeman come to call again. I told him you were restin', but he says it's important, so I said I'd see.”

“Oh! Yes, I want to see him. Give him something to drink—tea, I think, since it is a cool day—and I will be right down.”

Eileen helped her mistress out of bed, smoothed her dress and clucked over her hair, and went off to do her bidding.

Sergeant Lefkowicz was just going off duty, having worked the early shift. He was tired, but he had plenty of time to devote to telling his story, and a long and gripping story it was.

“First of all, Miss Hilda, I found the boy.”

“What boy?”

“The other errand boy at the bank, you remember, the one I thought knew something he wasn't saying. Bob Krueger, his name is. A German boy. He's come home, and his ma let me know.”

“Oh! And you have talked to him?”

“Yes, yesterday after supper. I'm doing this on my own time, you know, it not being exactly a police case.” He sipped from his teacup and picked up one of the molasses cookies Eileen had brought.

Hilda shook her head. “Fires and train wrecks and murders, and it is not a police case. I sometimes think I am not the one who is crazy.”

The sergeant tactfully did not respond to that. “Well,” he went on, “he was pretty scared at first. I thought it was just me bein' a policeman, and Polish, and all. The Poles and the Germans in town don't always get along, you know.”

“I know. I think it is a great pity that all of us immigrants do not band together. We fight prejudice all the time. We should not be prejudiced against each other. But go on.”

“Well, I talked to him for a while, tried to get him to see I wasn't going to hurt him, I just wanted to talk to him. And it turns out he wasn't looking for another job after all. He just left town for a few days because he thought it was safer. It's not me he's scared of.”

Hilda waited.

“I was right that he wanted to talk to me when I went to the bank that day, but he didn't dare in front of his boss. And then, after I left, the boss gave him a talking-to. I guess he—the boss, I mean—had seen the look on Bob's face, too. Anyway, the boy was told he'd better mind his own business and not go talking to policemen. The boss said banking was a confidential business and Bob had better learn that if he ever wanted to be more than an office boy. Oh, there was a lot more to it, but the upshot was, Bob understood he'd better not say anything if he didn't want to get booted out.”

“But what was there to say? Why was his boss so worried?” Hilda waved her hands in frustration. Was this going to turn into another dead end?

“What Bob told me was that something funny was going on. He didn't know what, but he had carried messages to a lot of other banks in town, and there had been meetings.”

“Meetings about what?”

“He didn't know. They were held in a room with very solid doors. But he knew who was in the meetings, because he had to show them upstairs. And they were other bankers, including James Andrews.”

Hilda drew in her breath in a sharp gasp. “Andrews! But he was the one—”

“The one you dealt with about getting your family here. Vanderhoof's henchman. Yes. And another man in the room at the bank was John Goodman.”

“I do not know that name.”

“Prominent Republican in town. He was one of Vanderhoof's men, too. Now I don't know about you, Miss Hilda, but when I hear of a meeting with two of Vanderhoof's—”

“Stooges,” supplied Hilda.

Lefkowicz grinned. “All right, his stooges. When I find the two of them in a room with a lot of other influential people, I begin to smell a rat.”

“And the name of the rat is Vanderhoof.”

“We can't prove that, you know. But I agree with you. So the question is, what are they up to?”

“Does—what is his name, the errand boy?”

“Bob Krueger.”

“Yes. Does he know any more?”

“No, he just has a feeling that it's something bad. He says his own bank seems okay, but some of the other bankers are acting strange. They're being too nice to him, he says. Making jokes, smiling at him and shaking his hand, even giving him tips sometimes for ordinary things, things he does as part of his job. He says it's as if they want him to think they're good people.”

“But they are not.”

“We can't prove that, either, Miss Hilda. What I've asked Bob to do is to try to get his job back. He's going to claim a sick grandmother took him away for a couple of weeks. If he can't get his job at Merchant's back, then he'll try other banks. He'll keep his eyes and ears open, and come to me if he gets any clue to what's going on.”

“That will not do, not for him, Sergeant! Bill Beeman was killed because he knew too much, and even Andy Mueller is being followed. Or he was, before we took him in.”

“Yes, Bob knows he's in peril. He's willing to take the risk.”

“But could we not protect him somehow?”

“How? As I said, this isn't a police case. Even if it were, we haven't got enough men on the force to use them for protection services.”

“But is that not what the police are for? To protect?”

“Part of what we're for. Mostly, Miss Hilda, we put drunks and pros—and loose women in jail, break up fights, find lost kids and dogs, and march in the town parades. As you know perfectly well.”

She sighed. She knew that the police force was not all it should be. “Then I have an idea. We—I—can hire a Pinkerton's detective to keep watch over Bob. I can afford to do that. I think I can. How much would it cost?” she asked, belatedly cautious.

“Not all that much. Yes, I expect you could afford it. But I'm not sure you want to do that.”

“But why not? I know they are not as good as they claim to be, not as detectives. They have not yet found out who caused that train wreck in Ohio, and that happened two months ago. But this is not asking them to be detectives, only to be guards.”

Instead of replying, Lefkowicz picked up another cookie, but didn't eat it. He put it down again. “Miss Hilda, how do you feel about unions? Are you for or against?”