Murder on Nob Hill (6 page)

“My dear Mrs. Hanaford,” he said in a voice that was at once cultured and deeply resonant. He doffed his top hat. “I’ve been meaning to offer my condolences on your recent loss.”

My companion seemed momentarily struck dumb, then belat
edly remembered her manners. “Sarah, I’d like you to meet Mr. Peter Fowler, an old friend of the family. Mr. Fowler, this is Miss Sarah Woolson. Miss Woolson is an attorney.”

“An attorney!” he said in surprise, and again I had the strange feeling I had met the man before. His distinctive voice, in particular, sounded very familiar. “How—interesting.”

“More colorful adjectives than that have been used to describe my choice of professions, Mr. Fowler,” I told him.

Turning my attention back to Annjenett, I was surprised to find her regarding him self-consciously, as if unsure what to do or say next. Her cheeks colored, and after an awkward moment, she made a move toward the carriage. Instantly, Mr. Fowler stepped forward and gallantly helped her into the seat.

“If there's anything I can do to help, Mrs. Hanaford,” he said in that wonderfully rich baritone, “you have only to ask.”

Annjenett flushed prettily. “Thank you, Mr. Fowler. It is generous of you to offer.” With seeming effort, she pulled her eyes off the man and turned to me. “Sarah?”

With the driver's help, I took my seat in the carriage and we pulled out into traffic. Behind us, Peter Fowler stood as if glued to the spot, paying no heed to oncoming traffic. That fellow wears his heart on his sleeve, I thought. Even a fool would recognize the look in those handsome eyes. Whether Annjenett realized it or not, Peter Fowler was deeply in love with her.

From the way she sat rigidly upright beside me, however, not allowing herself a single glance back at the young man still staring at us in the street, it seemed clear to me that she did.

CHAPTER THREE

F
rederick's guests Saturday evening had been chosen with an eye to their usefulness to his political career. City and state officials had been invited, as well as Papa's colleagues on the bench and every prominent attorney in town. Also included were bankers, industrialists, and the behind-the-scene politicians who wielded the real influence in state government.

Guests mingled to create a living kaleidoscope of colors. The women wore the latest fashions, many imported from Paris, and had arranged their hair into impossible styles punctuated by tiaras, bird feathers and every ridiculous manner of jeweled combs and pins. Beneath the gaslights, the rooms dazzled with a brilliant display of diamonds and precious stones.

Henrietta, I’m sad to say, resembled a confectioner's nightmare in a yellow-green satin gown that waged war with her pale skin and was decorated with an overabundance of faux gems and gold beading. Her intricate coiffure overpowered her thin face and seemed to be festooned with every outlandish ornament she’d been

able to lay her hands on. She was obviously in her element, flitting about like an erratic hummingbird, an ingratiating smile pasted upon her lips as she bestowed and received false compliments.

IamsureitwillcomeasnosurprisewhenIsayIhavenever been fond of these soirees, which have always struck me as pretentious and self-serving. An intimate gathering of friends, filled with stimulating and thoughtful discussion, is more to my liking. And since the sole purpose of that night's gala was to launch my eldest brother onto an unsuspecting public, I found it all the more ludicrous.

At Mama's insistence, I’d had a new dress made that was very a la mode, not at all my usual style. The gown was an alarming shade of violet, a color, Mama contended, that perfectly matched my eyes and suited my ivory complexion. On the matter of my hair, however, I drew the line. Nothing would induce me to decorate it with dead bird parts or gaudy baubles.

After Hazel, our ladies’ maid, finally finished torturing me with the curling iron, I examined myself critically in the looking glass. Nearly thirty years on this earth have taught me to judge my looks objectively. I need no one to tell me that I am above the desirable height for a woman, that my thick hair is unruly and unfashionably black, my figure too slender, and my before-mentioned violet eyes too bold for the fairer sex. The reflection staring back at me, therefore, was a pleasant surprise. The dress Mama chose was not as disastrous as I had feared. True, the waist was impossibly narrow and the neckline too decollete, displaying, despite my best efforts to tug the bodice higher, an alarming amount of cleavage. However, if I stood straight and took care not to bend, I judged the overall effect not entirely displeasing.

Supper was lavish enough to please even Henrietta, although I doubt she tasted more than one or two bites. Afterward, guests sat

or circulated in small groups, the men discussing business or politics, the women concerned with family, fashion, or the latest social indiscretions.

Celia and Henrietta sat with a group of women that included Mary Ann Crocker, the railroad magnet's wife. Her husband Charles was a loud, blustering man, sometimes likened to a bellowing bull because of the way he had driven the Chinese brought in to lay track for the Central Pacific Railroad. Some people found him spit-on-the-floor crude and arrogant, but unlike some of his more portentous colleagues, I rather admired the man who had rolled up his sleeves and pushed the rails through miles of rock and sheer granite cliffs to Promontory, Utah.

Considering the presence of the Crockers a great coup, Henrietta had fawned over them all evening as if they were visiting royalty, which in a manner of speaking they were. Leland Stanford, Collis Huntington, and Charles Crocker—the surviving members of the Big Four who had amassed fortunes building the railroad— were a powerful economic and, consequently, political force in California. In order for Frederick to obtain a seat in the state legislature, he would have to win over the men behind the railroad.

The aspiring politician, I noticed, was holding court in another part of the room, parroting the current conservative line and promising to rescind business regulations imposed by Denis Kearney's Workingman's party during the last two elections. My brother Charles had been called out shortly after supper on a medical emergency and thus had escaped all the folderol, leading me to wonder if, after all, I had chosen the wrong profession.

Obeying Mama's orders to circulate among our guests, I spied Papa talking to Joseph Shepard. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the elderly attorney seemed agitated, all the more so when Papa threw back his head and laughed. Shepard sputtered, and even

from across the room I couldn’t miss the annoying trumpeting sound in the back of his throat. At that moment, he saw me and his face darkened. Abruptly, he paid his respects to my father and strode heatedly from the room.

I joined Papa, who amused himself by repeating Shepard's litany of my sins. It was when Shepard had attempted to enlist my father's support in “curbing my unorthodox behavior” that Papa had burst into laughter, saying he would rather face a charging bull than stand in the way of anything I’d set my mind on. Papa's only regret, he told me with a hearty chuckle, was that he had missed the look on Shepard's face when I’d marched in like Sherman taking Atlanta and staked a claim to one of his offices.

“The poor man has absolutely no idea what to do with you, my dear,” Papa said. “Truth to tell, he seems quite overwhelmed.”

“He has no reason to be,” I replied, failing to find humor in the situation. “I’ve requested no special treatment. On the contrary, I’m prepared, nay anxious, to accept my share of cases.”

Papa's eyes twinkled. “That's precisely what has him worried.”

He was still chortling as he walked off to join a colleague, leaving me at last free to pursue my plan. I spotted my quarry in the front sitting room, standing with a group of men by the hearth. The tall man occupying center stage was Willard Broughton, local Republican Senator and one of Cornelius Hanaford's mining partners. I was pleased to see that the man standing next to him was Rufus Mills, the industrialist and fourth partner who, along with Benjamin Wylde, had accompanied the late banker to Nevada City some twenty years earlier. I smiled as I walked over to the group, pleased I would be able to kill two birds with one stone.

“Good evening, Senator Broughton.” I smiled at the distinguished man with the graying hair and neatly trimmed mustache,

then turned to his much slighter companion. “Mr. Mills. I’m pleased you could come.”

The two men were a study in contrasts. Broughton, in his late forties, was stylishly turned out. He was self-assured and possessed the easy conviviality of a born politician. Rufus Mills, on the other hand, was taciturn to the point of rudeness. I hadn’t seen the man in several years, but I recalled him as outgoing and nattily attired. Tonight, his clothes were wrinkled and hung loosely on his narrow frame. His face was drawn and pale, and he sniffed and sneezed as if he were suffering from catarrh. His manner, too, seemed ill at ease, almost anxious. His gaze darted about from behind spectacles so thick his magnified eyes reminded me of a frightened deer. This was hardly the dynamic man who had single-handedly forged an industrial empire. What had happened, I wondered, to bring about such a drastic change?

“I was sorry to learn of Cornelius Hanaford's death,” I said when I was able to maneuver the two men away from the others, determined to draw as much information from them as possible. “I believe he was once your partner?”

“That was a long time ago,” the senator told me. “Of course his death came as a great shock.”

Mills took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Terrible, terrible,” he said to no one in particular. His oversized eyes were currently focused on our parlor drapes.

“Were you acquainted with Mr. Hanaford?” the senator asked, his sober brown eyes regarding me with interest.

“Unfortunately, no. However, I have come to know his widow.”

“It's very sad. She's such a lovely young woman.”

“Yes, it's been difficult for her. I understand another of your former partners has been named executor of Mr. Hanaford's estate.”

He nodded. “Indeed. Mr. Benjamin Wylde. A fine attorney, I assure you. Mrs. Hanaford is in capable hands.”

“She is now,” I agreed cryptically, then asked the senator if he had any idea who might have wanted to see the banker dead.

He seemed taken aback. “My dear young lady, you need look no further than the streets to find the killer. I assure you, Cornelius Hanaford did not have an enemy in the world.”

“Come now, Senator,” I gently chided. “Have you ever known a man of finance who didn’t have adversaries?”

“Surely not the sort who would kill him,” he protested.

“Perhaps not,” I went on, ignoring his disapproving frown. “But if the servants didn’t let the killer into the house, Mr. Hanaford must have opened the door himself. I hardly think he would have invited a stranger in at that hour of the night.”

Senator Broughton's face suffused with color and I realized I had gone too far. Murder was not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, and certainly not at a social soiree. I was definitely not making a favorable impression.

“Are you suggesting,” he asked darkly, “that Cornelius knew his assailant? That he ushered him into his study so the man could kill him?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Rufus Mills had stopped fidgeting and was giving us his full attention. Again, his expression left me with the distinct impression that he was afraid.

“I’m merely stating the facts as they’ve been presented to me,” I said, turning my attention back to the senator.

“That is the danger of listening to gossip,” he said reproachfully. “It's usually silly and frequently dangerous. This is a matter for the police. That is what they are paid for and—”

“I must leave,” Mr. Mills broke in. “My wife is unwell.”

Broughton looked at his friend in surprise. “What are you talk
ing about, Rufus? Martha spoke to Regina just yesterday and she seemed in excellent health.”

“It was sudden. Quite sudden.” Mills turned to me and nervously cleared his throat. “You’ll inform your parents, Miss Wool-son? And offer my apologies?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Mills. But my mother is right over—”

He didn’t so much as glance in my mother's direction. “I must go.” He gave his friend a harried look, then spun on his heels and all but bolted for the door.

Broughton's expression was difficult to read. Behind his obvious bewilderment, he seemed both concerned and angry.

“You must forgive Mr. Mills, Miss Woolson,” he said after an awkward moment. “He's devoted to his wife.”

“So it seems.” I wondered if his wife's poor health was the reason Mills had seemed so preoccupied. But that couldn’t account for his surprising weight loss, or his slightly shabby appearance. Perhaps my initial reaction was correct and he, too, was ill.

Senator Broughton excused himself, saying he wished to have a word with his wife, who was seated in the group with Henrietta and Mrs. Crocker. I watched as he joined the women and said something that drew laughs, then looked meaningfully at his wife. She flushed, as if her husband had imparted some sort of private message, then quickly stood. Somewhat awkwardly she made her apologies to Mama and the other ladies, after which the Senator bowed, took his wife's arm and led her toward the door. As they crossed the room, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was no longer smiling. And Mrs. Broughton looked embarrassed and near tears.

“I saw you pumping the old boys for information,” Samuel said, coming up behind me and causing me to jump. “Any luck?”

“No, but it was probably asking too much to suppose they’d tell me anything useful. Rufus Mills behaved strangely, though. He

didn’t look well, and he ran out of here as if the place were on fire. Oddly, Senator Broughton and his wife left on his heels.”

“They’d probably had all they could take of Frederick and his mind-numbing party.” He drew out his fob watch. “I wonder how long before I can decently slip out of here myself?”

“Don’t you dare. Mama would never forgive you.”