Scandal on Rincon Hill (10 page)

Before I could reply—although I had no idea what that reply might have been!—the waiter returned with our soup. Pierce released my hand and refilled my glass with the excellent wine he had ordered.

Raising his glass, he toasted with a smile, “To friendship. And to a lovely Christmas.”

Try as I might, I could find no fault with these sentiments. Vaguely wondering why my justifiable anger had suddenly evaporated, I found myself returning his smile. I raised my glass and clicked it against his.

“To friendship,” I said. “And to Christmas.”

W
ednesday morning found me seated behind my desk in my Sutter Street office, plodding through the mind-numbing legal work Robert had deposited with me the previous day. Although I was grateful for the supplemental income, even this welcome addition to my meager coffers was hardly sufficient to keep the wolves from my door. I expelled a deep breath. How I longed for the day when my modest law firm would provide me with financial independence!

You note that I employ the word “when” and not “if.” I am not one to promote false modesty; it is, therefore, no more than the simple truth to admit that I am a competent attorney. Were it not for the happenstance of being born a member of the so-called fairer sex, I am certain I would not be facing this particular adversity. However, since one cannot change one's gender, I had little choice but to play the cards the Almighty had seen fit to deal me.

As I trudged through Robert's work—a tedious and extremely boring responsive brief concerning one of Shepard's lesser clients—I frequently consulted my timepiece. I was ready, nay, eager to put the wearisome documents aside the moment Miss Bouchard arrived for our meeting. To my disappointment, however, there was
no knock upon my door at the appointed hour. Nine o'clock came and went, then nine thirty. Where could she be? I asked myself.

This question had hardly taken form in my mind than the door suddenly flew open and Robert Campbell strode purposefully into my office.

“I came to see if you've completed the work I left with you yesterday morning,” he said without preamble.

As I am sure I have mentioned ad infinitum, Robert Campbell is sadly lacking in the social graces. Nor, I might add, does he appear to care one jot if he ever acquires them.

“I see you continue to refuse to adopt the civilized habit of announcing your arrival with a knock upon my door,” I told him sardonically.

“Knock?” he asked, as if this word were strange to his vocabulary. “This is a law office open to the public, is it not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And I am currently visiting that office as a client, is that not also correct?”

I knew, of course, where this was headed, but was forced to nod my head in reluctant agreement. “I suppose you could technically be termed a client.”

“Oh, aye? Have I not brought you business, you ungrateful woman?” he declared, his Scottish burr rolling along nicely. “And have I not paid good money for your legal services? From the dearth of clients queued up at your door, I should think You'd regard me as a very fine client, indeed.” Without waiting for an invitation, the irksome man sank into the chair opposite my desk. “Now, have you finished my work or not?”

Once again I consulted my lapel watch. “It is barely nine forty-five, Robert. Even I cannot proceed that quickly. I am barely halfway through the Walton brief, a very wearisome one, too, I might add.”

I was taken aback, and not a little irritated, when the big Scot laughed. “Why do you think I brought it to you? For some odd reason, Joseph Shepard has decided that I possess an inexhaustible tolerance for drudgery. Since he is mistaken—and you are in need
of income—I have settled on a mutually satisfactory solution to the problem.”

I felt my temper rising. “So, you finally admit that you are bringing me this work out of pity?”

He looked affronted. “What are you going on about? I just finished saying that you were doing me a favor by attending to this claptrap. Damn it all, woman! Why must you always read drama and intrigue into even the most straightforward conversations?”

My temper bridled at this. “I am doing nothing of the sort, Robert. I'll have you know that my law firm is doing very well, considering I have been open for less than—”

I broke off as a knock sounded on my door. I straightened in my seat, certain that it must be Brielle Bouchard's tardy arrival. I would have to send Robert quickly on his way so that we might have a private conversation. To my surprise, however, Fanny Goodman poked her head in, giving us a cheery smile.

“I saw Mr. Campbell going upstairs and thought the two of you might enjoy some fresh coffee and a bit of a morning nibble.” Balancing a heavily laden tray, she held the door open with her ample hip, then passed inside. Although Robert rose to offer her a helping hand, she cheerfully brushed him aside and made her way to my desk. I was not particularly pleased by the interruption, but the aroma emanating from the tray was tantalizing, especially the large gingerbread cake still warm from the oven.

“Fanny, it smells wonderful, but I'm expecting a client at any moment.”

“If you mean that Bouchard girl, I don't think she intends to keep her appointment.” She set the tray down on my desk, then poured coffee into several cups she had brought up from her kitchen.

“Excuse me, Fanny,” I said. “What makes you think Miss Bouchard will not keep her appointment?”

“Because she's been here and gone,” she replied, handing each of us a cup of the steaming brew. “I saw her not thirty minutes ago crossing Sutter Street with the same determined look on her face she wore the first time she came to see you on Monday. I thought
I'd just step out of my shop and take a quick peek at that darling baby of hers, when two men came out of nowhere and stopped her dead in her tracks.”

“What sort of men, Fanny?” I asked in growing alarm.

Robert looked from Fanny to me, his blue-green eyes suspicious. “What's this about two men, Mrs. Goodman? And who is Brielle Bouchard?”

“Miss Bouchard is a new client, Robert,” I explained. “Well, actually a prospective client. She was to meet with me here at nine o'clock this morning.” I turned back to my neighbor. “Can you describe the men, Fanny?”

Fanny hesitated in the act of cutting a generous slice of gingerbread. “Let me see. They were both young, maybe in their late twenties or early thirties. One was tall with a lot of wild-looking black hair. The other man was shorter, but very thin and well on his way to going bald. Both men had mean faces that gave me the willies.”

I thought about this disturbing news. Then, as Robert drew in air to speak, I said, “You say Miss Bouchard changed her mind about coming up to my office after she spoke to the men? Could you hear what they told her?”

“I could see them plain as day from my doorway, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying. I can tell you one thing, the poor Bouchard girl didn't look any too happy to see them. I could see she was trying to back away from the bullies, all the while clutching that dear little baby of hers. Then she suddenly turned and bolted back across the street as if the devil himself were after her. The two thugs had a good laugh behind her back, then took themselves off up Sutter Street.

“Good Lord!” Robert jumped out of his chair. “What kind of men would threaten a woman, especially one carrying a baby? You said they went up Sutter Street, Mrs. Goodman? Maybe I can catch them up.”

Fanny seemed a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm. “You'll never find them now, Mr. Campbell. They've had too much of a
head start. And I was ready enough to call for help if they'd shown any sign of actually harming the girl.”

“Frightening the poor young woman was crime enough,” he said, his deep voice tight with indignation. “There is only one fit place for men such as that, in jail!”

I started to speak in support of these sentiments, when I heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to my office, and an ever exuberant Eddie Cooper burst into the room. To my dismay, I spied a copy of the
Police Gazette
tucked beneath the boy's arm. If Eddie thought I could be persuaded to use this rag sheet in lieu of Mark Twain's exciting tale
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
for his reading lesson, he was very much mistaken.

The boy's eyes grew large when he saw Fanny and the tray of gingerbread on my desk. “Mornin', Mrs. Goodman,” he said, politely removing his cap as I'd instructed him when in the presence of a lady. “Mornin', Miss Sarah, Mr. Campbell,” he added as an afterthought, his eyes never leaving the food-laden tray.

“I see we've come just in time,” my brother Samuel remarked, entering the room behind the boy. “Hello, Fanny, Robert. It's good to see you.”

“And you,” Robert replied, shaking my brother's outstretched hand. Although the two men came from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds, they had formed a genuine friendship over the past year.

“Fetch yourself a cup from the back room, Mr. Samuel,” Fanny directed him. “The coffee's hot and fresh.”

She nodded toward the spare room that, as I have mentioned, I currently used for reading and brewing tea. Eventually, I intended this second room to serve as my law library, but so far I'd been able to stock it with only a handful of legal tomes, most of them borrowed from my father's home library.

“What brings you here, Samuel?” I asked, reading the barely suppressed excitement on his handsome face. “Why do I have the feeling that this is more than a social call?”

“I come bearing news,” he replied. “But first I must assuage my
craving for Fanny's excellent coffee and gingerbread.” He glanced teasingly at Eddie. “I don't suppose You'd care for a slice, would you, lad?”

The boy grinned from ear to ear. “You know better than that, Mr. Samuel. No one bakes better gingerbread than Mrs. Goodman.”

Fanny beamed at this compliment, while at the same time good-naturedly slapping at the boy's fingers, which had begun inching toward the cake plate. “Not so fast, young man. First, go wash those filthy hands.”

The boy scooted into the back room where I kept soap, a basin of water, and a towel to freshen up during the day. He was back so quickly, I had to wonder how thorough a job he had made of it. Fanny must have been satisfied, though, for as soon as Eddie returned she began to cut him a very generous piece of the cake.

“Now, eat this quietly and behave yourself,” she told him with a playful wink.

“Thanks, Mrs. Goodman,” he said, accepting the plate. Grinning broadly, he carried the gingerbread over to his favorite perch on the windowsill. There he sat and, opening the rag sheet I was sure Samuel had just given him, began to devour Fanny's unexpected treat.

“So, Samuel,” I said after we had all been served. “What's this news you're bursting to tell us?”

“I should leave,” Robert said, once again rising from his chair, “before Joseph Shepard has a fit of dyspepsia. Trevor Lansing is still ill with catarrh, so I must take his place as second chair to Shepard in court again this morning.”

“Please, Robert, just another minute,” Samuel said, holding up a hand. “I'm sure what I have to say will interest you, as well.”

Robert nodded and sank back onto the edge of his seat. Despite his hurry, he looked intrigued, as did Fanny and I. “All right, but I really can't stay long.”

We were all staring at Samuel, and as I watched his expression grow somber, I felt a sudden chill trickle down my spine.

“What is it, Samuel? What has happened?”

“There's been another murder,” he told us gravely. “And once again it's happened on Rincon Hill.”

Fanny drew in her breath. “Another murder?” She executed a hasty sign of the cross, and sank down heavily on the chair Samuel had placed for her beside Robert. “Lord help us, who was it this time?”

“The victim is Dieter Hume,” explained my brother. “I'm sure you're acquainted with him, Sarah. He was the deacon at the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield's church.”

Fanny, Robert, and I sat regarding him in stunned silence. Eddie abruptly ceased reading the
Police Gazette
, and was staring avidly at Samuel, his thin cheeks bulging with gingerbread.

“Was it a robbery?” I asked.

“Apparently not,” my brother said. “His wallet was still in his pocket, and his watch was left undisturbed.”

“Deacon Hume was a guest at the Tremaines' party Saturday night,” I mused. “And didn't you mention that he was a friend of Mr. Logan's?”

“Nigel Logan,” Fanny put in thoughtfully. “You mean the poor fellow who was beaten to death under the Harrison Street Bridge last Saturday night?”

I nodded solemnly, then turned to Samuel. “Surely the two murders must be somehow connected.”

I caught Robert giving me a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye, but he forbore to question—or censure—this very logical statement. Given the link between the two men, as well as the fact that they had died in the same neighborhood a mere four days apart, surely he could not accuse me of manufacturing “drama and intrigue,” as he was wont to phrase it.

“My thoughts exactly, Sarah,” Samuel said. “Hume's body was found this morning only a hundred yards or so from where they discovered Nigel Logan.”

“Again, only two blocks from our own home,” I muttered.

Robert was beginning to look concerned. “Isn't that unusual for Rincon Hill? I thought that area was relatively free of violent crime.”

“It is,” I answered quietly.

“How was—that is, what was used to kill the poor man?” Fanny asked in a small voice.

Samuel hesitated, fearing, I was sure, that the details might upset my matronly neighbor.

Fanny must have guessed what lay behind his uncomfortable silence, for she said, “Don't think that whatever you have to say is going to cause me to faint dead away, Samuel Woolson, because I'm made of stronger stuff than that. Now, give us the truth of the matter.”

“Yeah, Mr. Samuel,” Eddie said, staring wide-eyed at my brother from his window seat. “What done in the bloke?”

“I'm afraid he was bludgeoned to death, just like Nigel Logan,” Samuel reluctantly explained, regarding Fanny, despite her assurances, with a wary eye.