Scandal on Rincon Hill (7 page)

I took in Fanny's ample, grandmotherly figure and hid a smile. “Now you sound like my mother.”

Since meeting my downstairs neighbor six months ago, I'd grown inordinately fond of her. Initially, I'm ashamed to admit, I'd considered her a friendly, if somewhat ordinary, shopkeeper, little different from the dozens of other merchants whose stores lined the streets of downtown San Francisco.

I could not have been more mistaken! As part of an ongoing lesson in humility, I have learned to appreciate Fanny Goodman and her remarkable accomplishments. When faced with early widowhood, she'd had the foresight and courage to pool every cent she
and her husband had saved, and open a small millinery shop. A store, I might add, that has proved to be remarkably successful. She is also a staunch supporter of women's suffrage. Ten years earlier she had helped organize the first annual meeting of the California Women's Suffrage Society in San Francisco, a noble cause that she remains actively involved with to this day. To my chagrin, I've learned that there is nothing the least bit
ordinary
about Fanny Goodman!

“Now, what's this I hear about you and Samuel finding a murdered man Sunday morning?” asked Fanny, moving a third straight-backed chair to the table. “What in heaven's name were you and your brother doing out and about in the middle of the night?”

Since Fanny and Eddie were both aware of my brother's secret life as a crime journalist, I was free to tell them the real story of how we happened to be at the Harrison Street Bridge at two o'clock on Sunday morning. When I finished the tale, Eddie had stopped eating and was listening with rapt attention.

“Who was the bloke?” he asked excitedly. “Was there much blood? Do the coppers know who done it?” His eyes grew suddenly bright. “Are you and Mr. Samuel gonna help the leatherheads bag the burker?”

When I first met Eddie, his street jargon would have made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics. Gradually, however, I was learning to follow the boy's more colorful phraseology.

At Fanny's confused expression, I translated, “He wants to know if Samuel and I are going to aid the police in their murder investigation.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling fondly as she shook her head at the boy.

“Does that mean we're gonna have a go at it?” persisted Eddie.

“I'm sorry, Eddie, but neither my brother nor I have any intention of becoming involved in Mr. Logan's death.”

The boy's face dropped as he dolefully lowered his head and took another large bite of doughnut. “But it happened right next to your house, or close enough that it don't matter,” he protested, his
full mouth slurring the words. “Thought You'd be all het up to pinch the bloke what done it.”

“The man who did it,” I automatically corrected.

“That's what I just said,” Eddie replied, giving me a look which implied that he doubted my hearing ability.

I resisted the urge to explain his grammatical error, having no wish to belabor the more minor issues of the boy's education. All in all, the lad was making excellent progress, even though I took exception to Samuel's habit of supplying him with copies of the lurid
Police Gazette
.

“Do the police know why Mr. Logan was killed?” Fanny asked. “Was he robbed?”

“At first everyone assumed it was a robbery, but now they seem to think his death might be connected to a dinner party that night at the home of the Reginald Tremaines. Actually, my parents were there as guests, as were my brother Charles and his wife, Celia.”

“Reginald Tremaine,” repeated Fanny thoughtfully. “Isn't he the fellow who owns the Men's Emporium on Market Street?”

“Yes, that's the man,” I told her. “I gather his store is quite successful.”

She laughed. “It's one of the largest retail stores in San Francisco. I seem to recall that Mr. Tremaine originally came here from Sacramento some ten or twelve years ago.”

“Closer to twelve, I believe. Evidently he left shortly after the death of his first wife. My sister-in-law Celia is a good friend of Mr. Tremaine's second wife, Faith. According to her, he arrived in San Francisco with a new wife and two small children, twins, actually, a boy and a girl. They must be sixteen or seventeen by now.”

She shook her head sympathetically. “It's a real tragedy to lose your mother at such a tender age. I'm sure it must have been difficult for their father, as well.”

“I'm sure it was. I haven't formally met the family, although I've seen them at church. Celia tells me the twins get along well with
their stepmother, who has borne two children of her own since marrying Mr. Tremaine.”

“What do you suppose gave the police the idea that Mr. Logan's death was connected to their dinner party?”

“To be perfectly frank, I think they're grasping at straws. According to Samuel, City Hall is exerting pressure on the police to solve the case as speedily as possible. Robbery probably would have simplified matters, but since Mr. Logan still had some cash in his pockets, as well as his gold watch and other jewelry, they've decided to focus their investigation on the Tremaines' dinner.”

I went on to describe what I had learned about Nigel Logan's argument with the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield that evening, concerning Charles Darwin's controversial books on natural selection.

“Personally, I have a difficult time believing that such a relatively small—and hardly unusual—disagreement could have led to a man's murder.”

Eddie looked up after finishing his third doughnut, once again showing an interest in our conversation. “Who's this Darwin feller the coppers think done in the bloke under the bridge?”

As was too often the case, I had a difficult time repressing a smile at the boy's ever-active imagination.

“The police don't suspect Mr. Darwin of being a murderer, Eddie. Charles Darwin is a scientist, a naturalist, actually.” At Eddie's confused expression, I explained, “That means he studies plants and animals. He's written several books and articles that have upset a lot of people.”

Eddie shook his head. “Can't see why a feller would get offed because of some book.”

“No, Eddie, neither can I. However, not everyone is blessed with your common sense.”

Fanny and I spent the next quarter hour chatting about our city's new mayor, Maurice Blake, whose inauguration was that very day. After the turbulent reign of his predecessor, Isaac Kalloch—who built the Metropolitan Temple at the corner of Fifth and Jessie streets, only to be shot in front of this same edifice several years later by
San Francisco Chronicle
owner Charles de Young—the majority of the city's citizens hoped for a more peaceful administration this time around. In my humble opinion, a calm and honest municipal government was asking for a good deal more than our fair city was capable of delivering!

I was about to pry Eddie out of Fanny's kitchen to start his reading lesson, when the bell that hung above the front door rang. A moment later, a familiar voice rang out, “Mrs. Goodman? Are you here?”

Fanny broke into a broad smile. “We're in the kitchen, Mr. Campbell.” She rose and went to the stove to pour another cup of coffee from the pot. “Have a seat at the table. you're just in time for coffee and doughnuts.”

Robert inclined his head politely at our hostess. “That sounds very agreeable, Mrs. Goodman. It's uncommonly cold outside.”

Settling himself in the chair Fanny had just vacated, he turned to me. “When I found your door locked upstairs, I thought I might find you here.” He looked at Eddie's food-smeared face, and shook his head. “I see you have availed yourself of Mrs. Goodman's pastries, Eddie.”

“I been eatin' 'em, Mr. Campbell,” replied the boy, looking confused and a little guilty. “I don't know nothin' about this availin' business. It weren't like I nicked 'em or nothin'. Mrs. Goodman gave 'em to me on a plate.”

This was too much, even for Robert, and I saw him fighting not to laugh. “I'm sure she did, lad. And I can see that you're enjoying your treat.”

Reassured, Eddie grinned. “They're the goldurn best doughnuts I ever et, Mr. Campbell. You otta try one.”

“Yes, Mr. Campbell,” urged Fanny, placing a plate and a cup of coffee in front of him. “Do help yourself while they're still warm.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodman.” Robert reached for one of the pastries, biting into it with obvious appreciation.

“I'm surprised to see you here at this time of morning,” I told him.

Robert continued chewing for a moment, then took a sip of coffee. “I'm due at the courthouse in less than an hour. Trevor Lansing is ill with catarrh today, so I am to take his place as Mr. Shepard's second chair this morning. I thought I'd stop by on my way to ask if you might agree to do a bit of work for me.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and set them on the table, well away from Eddie's sticky fingers. “I've fallen behind at the office and I'd appreciate your help. If you can manage it, of course.”

I was tempted to laugh. Naturally, Robert knew all too well how easily I could “manage it.” My professional self-respect was cut to the quick when I calculated just how much idle time I spent upstairs in my lonely two-room office. Although I knew he would never admit it, I was certain he had made off with the files without Joseph Shepard's knowledge. I am ashamed to confess that this afforded me secret pleasure. If Joseph Shepard were aware of Robert's subterfuge, he would surely have suffered one of his infamous bouts of apoplexy. Ah, yes, he certainly would. And glory be, I would no longer be obliged to stand helplessly by and listen to it!

This was not the first time Robert had pressed me to accept paperwork from Shepard's firm since I'd established my own law office. At first, pride had prevented me from availing myself of this extra income—although heaven knows the money was sorely needed. In the six months I had been in business, I had represented but two paying clients. One payment had consisted of an exquisite antique tea service—the kettle filled with cash. The other had been an old gold brooch which supposedly had belonged to Maria Alexandrovna, the wife of Russia's Czar Alexander. It was a lovely piece of jewelry, and despite my ailing finances I could not bring myself to sell it.

It was imperative, however, that I do something to fortify my dwindling savings. And as it says in Proverbs 16:18, “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” Admonishing myself to count my blessings, I accepted the papers from Robert. “Of course, I shall be more than happy to give these my attention.”

“Excellent.” Looking relieved, he helped himself to another
doughnut. “You have surpassed yourself this morning, Mrs. Goodman,” he told Fanny. “If you were to add a small bakery to your millinery store, your fortune would be made.”

Fanny's flushed cheeks revealed her pleasure at this praise. She was fast learning that the Scot's rare accolades were not to be taken lightly.

Tucking Robert's paperwork into my own briefcase, I rose from the table. “It is past time we commenced your lesson, Eddie. Come,
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
awaits upstairs.”

Eddie's eyes went to the few doughnuts remaining on the table, then sighed and rose up from his chair.

“Don't know why we can't use the
Police Gazette
,” he complained. Noting my disapproving expression, he hastily amended, “Although I guess Tom Sawyer ain't such a bad feller when you get right down to it.”

“He
isn't
such a bad fellow, Eddie,” I corrected. Then at his puzzled look, I said, “Oh, never mind, I'll explain it to you later. Before we leave—” I nodded my head at Fanny and gave the boy a pointed look.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, correctly interpreting my silent prompt. “Thanks for the doughnuts and hot chocolate, Mrs. Goodman.”

“you're very welcome, Eddie, dear.” My neighbor beamed at the boy. “Why don't you come by after you finish driving your cab this evening? I'm making shepherd's pie.”

“Yes, ma'am, I will,” he promised, eyes alight as he anticipated one of his favorite dinners.

I doubt that Eddie ever saw meals, much less pastries, like this at his own home. The boy spoke little about his family life, but from the odd comment he occasionally let slip, I gathered he had a number of younger siblings, an alcoholic father, and an overworked mother who was not in the best of health. No wonder he had embraced Fanny as his surrogate grandmother, as readily as she had adopted him as her grandson.

After bidding Robert a good morning, Eddie and I stepped through Fanny's tidy millinery shop, and out onto the street. Before
we could ascend the stairs to my office, however, our progress was impeded by a gentleman, who stepped forward to block the doorway.

I started to address this rude behavior, when the rebuke died in my throat. Moving my eyes upward, I was stunned to realize that the interloper was none other than Pierce Godfrey, the tall, enigmatic shipping mogul I had met several months ago when I'd become involved in the Russian Hill murders.

I had forgotten how handsome he was: his tanned face, ebony hair, and midnight-blue eyes nearly took my breath away. He was wearing a dark gray, fashionably cut suit, a white shirt, and had tied a tasteful dark blue and gray cravat beneath his well-muscled neck. If possible, his broad shoulders seemed even more powerful than I remembered, by contrast making his slender waist appear even more taut.

“Mr. Godfrey, I—that is—you're back in town,” I sputtered rather lamely.

My chest seemed bereft of breath, and I wondered why I had suddenly lost the ability to speak coherently. The man who had offered me my first proposal of marriage had left San Francisco some months earlier to open Godfrey Shipping's Hong Kong office.

Naturally, my discomfort did not escape his notice, and his self-satisfied grin did nothing to alleviate my embarrassment.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said, his voice as rich and compelling as ever. “Since you instructed me to send all my correspondence to this address, I thought it best to visit you here, rather than at your home.”

“Yes, ah, of course. I'm glad you did.” Furious with myself, I struggled to get my thoughts in some semblance of order. I'd requested that he direct his letters to my office because my mother, who was increasingly desperate to see me married, tended to become overeager when she spied Pierce's name in the post. Given that I had long since disavowed the married life to pursue a career in the law—and not wishing to cause my mother pointless pain—I did my best to avoid conversing with her on this sensitive subject.