No Pity For the Dead (34 page)

“Okay,” he said, the brim of his hat turning around and around. “I didn't come here just to tell you about Martin and Company, ma'am. I came because I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Oh?”

“The fireworks in two weeks . . . Would you . . . I mean . . . ,” he stammered.

“Would I like to attend with you?” she asked, aware she had never seen him so discomfited. “Well, I do already have plans . . .”

“Then never mind,” he blurted. “I don't know why I asked. Danged Taylor.”

Grumbling, he slapped his hat back onto his head, nearly crushing the crown.

Honestly, Celia, what harm would there be in saying yes to a pyrotechnics display?

“It would be rude of me to back out of my plans to go with the Hutchinsons, but perhaps you could come with us,” she said.

“With Frank?” he asked, sounding as though a bare-legged run through a field of nettles would be preferable to an evening spent with Frank Hutchinson.

“That, I fear, is the price of attending the pyrotechnics with me, Mr. Greaves.”

The breath he released came out as a groan. “You drive a hard bargain, ma'am.”

“I take it you have just agreed?”

“Yes, Mrs. Davies.”

“Good. Very good indeed,” she said, smiling as she entwined her arm with his.

Deciding that she would protect her heart some other day.

On January 8, 1863, San Francisco's
Alta
newspaper ran an editorial decrying twelve years of hill flattening, the efforts to ease transit across town destroying much of San Francisco's natural beauty in the process. The paper's complaints had little effect. Rincon Hill was next in the developers' sights, their plans driven by a desire for easy access to the Pacific Mail Wharves at the south end of Second Street. It didn't hurt that the man most responsible for demanding the cut happened to own property near the city end of the road and expected to profit from the increased worth of his land. The wealthy homeowners atop the hill weren't happy at all, expecting—as the Nashes did in this book—that the value of their property would plummet once Second Street turned into an ugly gouge. The homeowners' complaints had no more effect on the eventual outcome than
the
Alta
's editorial; their opponents would prove to be more politically and socially connected, and unstoppable. In 1869, two years after the events in
No Pity for the Dead
take place, the Second Street Cut was completed. True to the hilltop owners' fears, their property values plunged and the move to what would become known as Nob Hill was on. In 1873, the installation of the first cable car line would thankfully act as a disincentive to future grading projects.

Most of my characters in this series are fictional, but in
No Pity for the Dead
, I have included two very real individuals—Levi Strauss and Joshua Norton, who was also known as Emperor Norton. In 1867, Levi Strauss was already a successful purveyor of dry goods, having taken advantage of the needs of Gold Rush miners by supplying clothing and other items. Despite his position as a prominent businessman, he reportedly asked his employees to simply call him “Levi,” a charmingly humble request in such a formal time period. The invention of the riveted denim pant, which would garner him great wealth, was still a few years in the future. Joshua Norton was a very different character. An English immigrant from South Africa, he had arrived with a modest fortune that he soon lost speculating on the rice market. By 1859, he had reinvented himself as the Emperor of the United States, regularly issuing edicts on the proper running of the country. The eccentric fellow became wildly popular with San Franciscans, feted by business owners eager to profit from the Emp's fame, his attendance at the openings of everything from rail lines to stores to musical entertainments a requirement. In 1880 he collapsed and died on a street, penniless but not forgotten.

My thanks to Sarah Bar-Hillel for her assistance with Yiddish,
and to the folks behind the California Digital Newspaper Collection, a fabulous trove of knowledge if ever there was one. And thanks as ever to Candace Calvert and to my agent, Natasha Kern—without your support, I would have given up on this crazy writing business years ago! Lastly, to my family, I extend my love and
gratitude.

Nancy Herriman
received a bachelor's degree in chemical engineering from the University of Cincinnati, where she also took courses in history and archaeology. She's a past winner of RWA's Daphne du Maurier Award for Best Unpublished Mystery/Romantic Suspense, and when she isn't writing, she enjoys performing with various choral groups. She lives in central Ohio with her husband and their two teenage sons.

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