The Cliff House Strangler (10 page)

I
was not looking forward to dinner Saturday evening. I knew the food would be excellent and the wine carefully chosen to complement each course in what I feared would be a far too drawn-out meal. The servants would be in full livery—although heaven alone knew why, since only the immediate family would be present—padding noiselessly about the candlelit dining room like so many well-trained penguins. In brief, everything would be perfect. The only fly in the ointment was that the party was to be held at my eldest brother Frederick’s monstrosity of a house on Nob Hill. And because the dinner was in honor of Papa’s sixty-fifth birthday, there wasn’t a thing I could do to get out of attending!

Since everyone in the family, excluding Frederick and Henrietta, still lived at our Rincon Hill home, Papa had hired two cabriolets for the occasion. Mama, Papa, and my middle brother, Charles, would travel in one, while Charles’s wife, Celia, my youngest brother, Samuel, and I would go in the second.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the evening, I had to admit that we arrived at Frederick and his wife Henrietta’s house in grand style.

“This house never fails to amaze me,” Charles said as we waited
for everyone to alight from the carriages. Although my brother Charles would never say anything derogatory about someone’s house—particularly his own brother’s—I knew from past visits that he found it a bit of a monstrosity.

“That isn’t precisely the word I would use,” I said. “But yes, it’s something all right.”

As always, the sight of their overblown residence caused me to cringe. Frederick’s determination to erect a home that would compete with the railroad and Nevada silver mine moguls’ multimillion-dollar feudal castles was an ambition doomed to failure, given his modest budget. The end result was a hodgepodge of French and Italian styles, with columns, balustrades, gingerbread trim, and even a dome thrown in for good measure. These conflicting designs seemed to have been added without the slightest regard to aesthetic beauty or architectural harmony. Not only was the edifice an eyesore, but the money Frederick had been forced to borrow to erect it would ensure his continuing indebtedness for years to come.

We were met at the door by Woodbury, Frederick’s stodgy and very proper butler, who showed us into the front parlor. I will not bore you with a description of the interior of the house. Suffice it to say that the rooms reflected the same unabashed disregard for eye-pleasing symmetry as did the exterior. The objective in furnishing the rooms had been to demonstrate my brother’s success and personal worth (even if most of it was owed to the bank), rather than to provide a pleasant and comfortable haven in which to live.

Opening the parlor door, Woodbury announced our arrival as if he were presenting us to European royalty. We were, I saw, just in time for an aperitif and the dreary discourse that invariably accompanied these dinner parties. For some reason I had yet to fathom, my eldest brother and his brittle, rail-thin wife, Henrietta, disdained any verbal exchange that involved conflict or unpleasantness of any kind, or that required more than the most minuscule intellect.
These conversational restrictions, I need hardly point out, made for extremely dull evenings.

I eschewed the glass of sherry Frederick automatically served my mother, Celia, and I, opting instead for the whiskey mix meted out to the men. This was not my usual predinner drink, but given the long, dismal evening stretching before me, I decided that I required all the help I could get.

Frederick’s eyebrows lifted until they nearly collided with his slicked-back and rapidly receding hair. Sensing that I was about to be broadsided by one of his tiresome lectures, I gratefully accepted the whiskey and soda Samuel handed me, a broad grin on his face.

“Don’t bother, Frederick,” he said before our host could protest. “I’ll just help myself to another.”

Samuel had already taken a glass from the side table and was proceeding to fill it with far more of the amber liquid than Frederick’s initial allotment. He added a meager splash of soda, then held it aloft.

“To Father on his sixty-fifth birthday,” he toasted. “May he be blessed with many more.”

“Yes, to Papa,” Celia said, beaming at the in-law who had become more like a father to her than the man who, in 1862, had marched off to join the Confederate army in its first invasion of the North. Celia had been eight years old at the time. She never saw her father again.

“To Father,” the rest of us exclaimed in chorus, even Frederick and Henrietta, although judging by their sour expressions, you’d have thought their glasses contained unsweetened lemon juice.

“I see that Rudolph Hardin’s been talking to the newspapers again,” Samuel said to Frederick. “This time, he’s accusing you of buying your victory in the last election.”

Samuel was referring, of course, to my eldest brother’s major political opponent and archenemy. The two had started out as rivals in law school, and the hostility between them had increased
exponentially over the years. Lately, it seemed as if Hardin’s primary goal was to usurp Frederick’s seat in the state senate.

“The man is an imbecile!” Frederick snapped, growing red in the face. “Every time I open a paper, I find that he’s concocted yet another outrageous story about me. What I don’t understand is why reporters even listen to him. He’s nothing more than a duplicitous windbag.”

“It sells copies,” Papa put in, warming to one of his favorite subjects. “That’s all these damn reporters care about, glorifying violence and blackening someone’s good name. All in the interest of increased circulation.”

I gazed guardedly at Samuel, who, as a covert reporter himself, was squirming in his seat. Well, I thought, appreciating the irony of the situation, that’s what he gets for broaching such a volatile subject around Papa.

Thankfully, dinner was announced before the discussion could grow any more heated, and we were shown into the dining room—a commodious space furnished with a carved Italian walnut table and chairs, a matching buffet and credenza. Some quite lovely murals of Parisian scenes had been painted on the walls. I admit I found this one of the more pleasing rooms in the otherwise-pretentious house.

We had completed the soup and salad courses, and a platter of steamed oysters (Papa’s favorite) had been deposited on the table, when I decided it was time to introduce a more interesting subject than the latest society scandals and the best way to prepare wild duck.

“I ran into your friend Senator Gaylord a few days ago, Frederick,” I said, passing the oysters to Samuel, who sat to my left.

Frederick squinted at me suspiciously. “Oh? And where was that?”

So, I thought, my brother had not yet learned of his mentor’s presence at Madame Karpova’s séance. This did not unduly surprise
me. When I had failed to find his name in any of the newspapers covering Moss’s death, I realized that the Senator must have exerted considerable influence to retain his anonymity. Lieutenant Ahern and his wife had also escaped mention.

Regrettably, Robert and I, along with Theodora Reade, Philippa and Nicholas Bramwell, and, of course, Madame Karpova and her family, had not been as fortunate. Our names had been bandied about in every newspaper, not only as devotees of the occult—an accusation that particularly incensed Robert—but also as murder suspects. This coverage had certainly not endeared the Scot to his employer. And since Robert could hardly take out his anger on Joseph Shepard, I had become the target of his considerable wrath.

“Senator Gaylord and his wife were at the Cliff House séance Robert and I attended,” I told Frederick, ashamed to experience such childish delight in dropping this bombshell. “You know, where Darien Moss was murdered?” I pretended not to notice Frederick’s and Henrietta’s shocked reactions.

“I don’t believe it!” Frederick exclaimed. “Senator Gaylord would never be taken in by such foolishness. Good Lord, Sarah, a séance? Never!”

“I believe he and Mrs. Gaylord were hoping to communicate with their deceased daughter,” I told him, serenely spooning out a second helping of oysters. They really were quite excellent. Glancing at the chair to my left, I could sense Samuel fighting not to laugh.

“It’s preposterous,” Henrietta proclaimed indignantly. “Out of sisterly affection, Frederick and I have put up with your increasingly wild flights of fancy, Sarah. But to malign the good name of one of San Francisco’s most beloved and self-sacrificing citizens is not to be tolerated!”

To my right, Papa chuckled as he heaped his own plate with more oysters. “So, my girl, it seems you were in good company,” he said, ignoring Henrietta’s outraged sputters. “I don’t blame Percival
Gaylord for not wanting word of this to get out.” He slapped the table, as if struck by a hilarious thought. “Just imagine if he were accused of governing the state based on the position of the stars”—by now, he was laughing so hard that he could scarcely speak—“or with the help of otherworldly beings.”

Frederick, whose face had turned a blotchy red, was not amused. “I fail to see what is so amusing, Father. We are discussing a California state senator, a man who surely deserves our respect.”

“Yes, son, you’re right, of course,” Papa admitted, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “It’s just that Gaylord is one of the most dreary and unimaginative men I know. The very idea of him attending a séance is—” Once again, he was overcome with mirth. “Well, you have to admit it’s damned ironic.”

“Horace, please, your language,” Mama put in, then looked embarrassed for having corrected her husband in front of his children.

“You are entirely correct, Mama Woolson,” said Henrietta, darting daggers at me. “This conversation is entirely unsuitable for the dinner table. I have gone to considerable effort to celebrate Papa Woolson’s birthday. I think it is best if we speak of happier matters.”

“Oh, but I find the present conversation quite stimulating,” Papa said cheerfully. “And as you pointed out, Henrietta, it
is
my birthday.”

Henrietta flushed. I could practically hear her teeth grinding as she forced her thin lips into a none-too-convincing smile. “If that is what you wish, Papa Woolson. Although I shudder to think of the ill effects such a conversation will have on our digestions.”

Papa’s eyes twinkled at this concession, knowing what it had cost his daughter-in-law. “Thank you, Henrietta. Now, Sarah, tell us more about this séance. Who else was there besides Percival Gaylord and his wife?”

“Let me see.” I mentally pictured the people seated around the table that fateful night. “Mrs. Philippa Bramwell came with her son Nicholas, and a Mrs. Theodora Reade was also there. Their
names were in the paper, along with those of Madame Olga Karpova, her daughter, Yelena, and her brother, Dmitry Serkov. Oh, and Lieutenant Frank Ahern and his wife, Nora, also attended.”

Papa coughed on some food he was chewing and stared at me in surprise. “Frank Ahern was at a séance? Well, now I really have seen the elephant! What in tarnation was he doing there?”

“Mrs. Ahern’s mother died recently,” I replied. “I believe she was hoping to make contact with her.”

Frederick made a disparaging sound, as if this was just the escape hatch he had been seeking. “That explains it, then. The unfortunate man was dragged to see this charlatan by a gullible wife. As was Senator Gaylord, I dare say.”

Henrietta sniffed. “I regret having to say this, but Maurilla Gaylord has always been far too whimsical for her own good. Now she may have irreparably damaged her husband’s political future. The Cliff House is acquiring a most unseemly reputation. I can’t imagine what she was thinking, forcing that unfortunate man to escort her to such a place.”

“I expect she is so anguished over the death of her little girl that politics did not enter her mind,” said Celia, herself the mother of two small children and expecting a third child in less than two months. Of late, she’d fairly glowed with happy expectation. “Regardless of my personal feelings about clairvoyants and communicating with the dead,” she went on, “I cannot help but pity the poor woman.”

“As do we all,” said Mama, perhaps remembering the death of her first daughter, my elder sister, Kat, when the child was but five years old.

“You say Mrs. Bramwell was there with her son,” Papa said, passing me a basket of freshly baked bread. “If I’m not mistaken, Nicholas Bramwell recently passed the California Bar examination and has obtained a position as associate attorney at Riley and Taft.” He referred, of course, to one of the more prominent law firms in the city.

“He has political aspirations,” Samuel put in as the now-empty oyster plate was removed from the table. “Or rather, his mother does. His older brother is being groomed to take over their father’s construction business, which leaves Nicholas free to pursue a seat in the senate.”

Frederick regarded his younger brother. “And just how do you happen to know so much about Nicholas Bramwell?”

“We belong to the same club,” Samuel replied, spearing a piece of roast chicken from the platter that had replaced the oysters. “I might add that Nicholas is very popular at the Bohemian Club, considering he’s been a member for less than a year. I’d say he possesses the intelligence and personality necessary to get himself elected to public office.”

It was clear that Frederick did not find this a particularly heartening thought. In the years to come, Nicholas Bramwell might well become his political rival. As I held no false illusions about Frederick’s governing abilities, I found this prospect rather comforting. Frankly, it surprised me that California had thus far survived my brother’s first year in the state senate. Still, I saw no reason to press our luck by reelecting my brother to a second term.

“It surprises me that no one at that séance saw or heard anything,” Papa said speculatively, getting back to Moss’s murder. “Seems to me it would be damn hard to kill a man with eleven other people in the room.”

“It’s all rather horrible, isn’t it?” Celia put in with a little shudder. “Who could have wanted to see the poor man dead in the first place?”