Time of Fog and Fire: A Molly Murphy Mystery (Molly Murphy Mysteries) (12 page)

“Why would he want you to join him if he knew he was in danger?” The lieutenant looked troubled. “Wouldn’t a man usually want his wife to remain safely at home?”

“This is what I’ve pondered about all the way across the country,” I said. “All I know is that he was sent out here on some kind of secret assignment. But what it was, I couldn’t tell you.”

“That is strange in itself, wouldn’t you say?” Lieutenant Addison said. “You don’t send a man cross-country unless it’s to snag a pretty big fish. And if the guys on the East Coast knew we had a big fish swimming in our pond, why not let us do the apprehending? At least come to ask for our help, which Sullivan obviously didn’t.”

“I agree,” I said. “None of it makes any sense. But it doesn’t even matter now, does it? My husband is dead and buried. I’ll have to take my son home again and try to figure out what to do with my life. But first I’d like to see his grave.”

“Of course you would. And I expect it can be arranged. But it’s a good way out of the city. We’d need to have the use of an automobile.”

“Why was he buried so far away?” I demanded, my suspicions rising again.

“They passed a law a couple of years ago forbidding any more burials within the city limits,” he said. “So they’ve created these big new cemeteries way down to the south. We’ll have to ask the officer who arranged the funeral and the burial. I don’t think he was put in the paupers’ field, seeing that we knew who he was and could expect payment eventually.”

“You’d no right to bury him!” I heard myself shouting. My voice echoed in the tiled hallway and policemen passing looked around to see where the noise was coming from. “I don’t want my husband buried here, so far away. He has to be buried near his home, where his father is buried.”

The lieutenant looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I had no part of the decision. They don’t like to keep bodies around more than a couple of days. And as I said I don’t believe he had a home address on him.”

I stood up again, not sure what I was going to do but sure that I no longer wanted to see the officer’s concerned face looking at me with sympathy. “If I wanted to get his body retrieved and have his coffin shipped home, how would I go about that?” I asked.

A worried frown crossed his face. “It’s a lengthy process, having a body exhumed,” he said.

“I don’t want the body exhumed. I just want his coffin taken out of the grave and shipped home,” I said, my voice rising again. “That can’t be hard if he’s only been in the ground a couple of days.”

“It would be up to the coroner, I suppose.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Mrs. Sullivan. You’ve had a horrible shock. Where are you staying?”

“At the Palace Hotel tonight,” I said.

He smiled then. “Well, you can’t do better than that, can you? I’d say go back there, have a good meal, a good rest, and take time to let things sink in. In the morning I’ll try to arrange for an auto to pick you up and drive you out to the grave. All right?”

“I suppose so,” I answered mechanically. He escorted me to the door and down the steps, leading me like a blind person, which, essentially, I was. I walked into the middle of Portsmouth Square and stood among the new flower beds. Daffodils were blooming and something that smelled sweet. An accident, the lieutenant had said. A tragic accident. But my husband was a highly trained policeman. He would not have stood in the dark, alone, on a crumbling cliff top, in a place where he didn’t feel safe. We had been right all along, I thought. Daniel knew he was in danger and had written to me. But had the letter not been to summon me here, but to say good-bye?

I started to walk back down Kearny Street toward the Palace Hotel, and tried to make myself think clearly. So it seemed now I had two options. Liam and I could take the train back to New York, where we would be safe, or I could stay here and try to find out who killed my husband. It only took me a few seconds to opt for the latter. Daniel was not going to have died in vain. He had come here to solve an important case, to catch a dangerous person, to stop a dangerous plot, and had come close enough that he had to be silenced. And if I started to delve into what brought him here, I’d also be putting my life in danger. Liam only had one parent now. Could I risk his future?

I stepped back hurriedly at the sound of a bell being rung furiously, and a cable car went past me, going up Clay Street toward the hilly part of the city. I made a decision. I would not return to the Palace, not yet. Liam was safe in the care of Mr. Paxton and I had not been away long. If I was going to find out more about what happened to Daniel I had a place to start. And that was Bella Rodriguez, who had a mansion on top of Nob Hill.

California Street, Mr. Hicks had said. And I remembered crossing California Street as I came along Kearny. With luck there would be another cable car line going up the hill as it had looked long and steep and in my current shaky state I didn’t think my legs would carry me that far. I passed Sacramento Street and came to California with a cable car line conveniently going up the hill to be swallowed into swirling fog. A car arrived, bell clanging, and I hauled myself onboard. It was quite full and I had to join those hanging on to the step outside. On any other occasion it would have been an exhilarating experience, but in truth I hardly noticed as the hill got steeper and steeper and the cable beneath us whirred and groaned.

I stepped down when we reached the crest and stood looking around with awe. Below me was a sea of whiteness with green hills and even the tallest buildings rising out of the fog. And around me were the finest mansions, just as impressive as those on Fifth Avenue in New York. The cable car had moved away, disappearing into fog again as it went downhill and I was left alone in silence. The street was empty. No sign of anyone to ask and I certainly didn’t feel that I could go up one of those flights of steps to a pillared front entrance and inquire about Mrs. Rodriguez. After the burst of energy needed to get me onto a cable car and up the hill, I felt completely drained, like a deflated balloon. If a cable car had shown up heading down the hill again I would have taken it, fled to my room in the hotel, and curled into a tight ball on my bed.

But no cable car came. Instead I heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching through the mist and a carriage came into sight. It stopped outside one of those mansions and a driver climbed down, going around to stand beside the horse’s head. I crossed the street and went over to him.

“Pardon me, but I’m looking for the house of Mrs. Rodriguez,” I said. “Can you tell me which one it is?”

“Further down the street, miss,” he said. “She might be rich but she’s not in the same league as the folks who live here at the top of the hill. These here are the railroad barons and the silver barons—Stanford and Hopkins over there and on this side you’ve got Flood and Huntington and Crocker. Bella Rodriguez is a lesser light. Go past the Crocker mansion and hers is the redbrick with the white trim you’ll come to in a hundred yards or so.”

“Thank you,” I said and set off in the right direction. As I began to descend the fog crept up to meet me. I could hear the mournful hoots of boats down on the Bay. My footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly. It was like being in a world of unreality. Actually my life had become unreal when I first received that letter. Nothing had made sense since. Presumably nothing ever would again.

Thirteen

I took several deep breaths as I stood on the doorstep of Bella Rodriguez’s house. Was this visit sheer foolishness? Nobody knew I was coming here. Shouldn’t I have told Mr. Paxton of my plan so that he knew where to look if I didn’t return? Or was I worrying about nothing? Nobody had anything negative to say about her. She appeared to be a respected society matron. But my husband had written about being well looked after by Bella and my husband was dead. I knew I would have to tread very carefully indeed. And that would not be easy with the current turmoil raging inside my head.

I raised my hand and tugged on the bell. I heard it jangle inside and waited a long while until the front door opened. I suppose it was stupid of me to think that Mrs. Rodriguez would open her own front door, but I certainly wasn’t expecting to see a large Oriental man standing there. I had met many Chinamen in New York City but they had been small and thin. This man was a great hulk of a person with a long, drooping mustache and wearing what appeared to be black silk pajamas.

“Yes?” he said, staring at me coldly. “You want?”

The thought flashed through my mind that what I wanted was my husband alive again, but I forced myself to say, “Is this the residence of Mrs. Rodriguez? I wish to speak to her. My name is Sullivan.”

I saw the flicker of response to this in his eyes although no other muscle moved on his face.

“Come in,” he said.

He opened the door wider to allow me to enter an impressive hallway. The floor was black-and-white marble tiles. There were classical statues and tall potted palms rising to a stained glass dome not unlike the one in the Palace Hotel. A staircase curved upward to our right. It was as impressive as any mansion I’d seen on the East Coast.

“Wait there,” he said. “I see if madam is available.”

The words came out staccato fashion. He went up the stairs, his slippers flapping on the marble steps. I waited, my heart thumping so loudly that I was sure it could be heard echoing in that lofty entrance hall. Minutes went by, but then I heard feet coming down the stairs again.

I looked up but again it was not Mrs. Rodriguez who came toward me. It was another large man. This one was young and red-haired. Whereas the Chinaman looked as if he were made of granite, this one was chubby. What’s more he was dressed in Western garb and looked to me as if he had come straight from rounding up cattle on a range. And the thing that struck me most was that he was wearing a gun belt with a gun in it.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. “You want to see Bella about something?”

I went to meet him. “I’m Mrs. Sullivan. I traveled out from New York to visit my husband and I’ve just learned that he met with a terrible accident.”

“You’re Daniel’s wife?” There was instantly compassion on that big weather-beaten face. “I am so sorry for your loss, ma’am. Bella was devastated when she heard the news. She had become so fond of your husband.”

I nodded. “He wrote that Mrs. Rodriguez was so kind to him that I thought I should at least visit her to thank her for her hospitality before I go back to New York.”

“Of course she’ll want to meet you,” he said. “Please, come in. We had no idea that his wife was coming out West. You must have traveled the moment you heard the bad news.”

“I just heard it a few minutes ago,” I said. “I am still in shock.”

“I can imagine. So were we all when we heard.” He went ahead of me, through double doors into a lovely octagonal room with windows looking out over the city. At least they would have looked over the city if the fog hadn’t hidden it.

“Too bad the fog came in this afternoon,” he said. “We normally have a lovely view. Bella had this room built on purpose to sit here and look out. She loves this city. I only wish we could have shown it to you in happier circumstances.”

He motioned to a chair upholstered in yellow brocade. I sat. “I’ll go and find her. I think she must still be taking her nap,” he said. “It’s been parties every night recently, what with the excitement of Caruso coming. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” I said mechanically. “That would be nice, thank you.”

I heard his feet clomping up the stairs. I waited. The room seemed surprisingly cold and I shivered. I hadn’t heard her approaching and I jumped when a voice right behind me said, “You poor, poor dear. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Here, let Bella give you a hug.”

I scrambled to my feet. She came toward me, arms open to envelop me. My first impression again was of size. It was only afterward that I realized she was not a big woman, but she created a large presence, thanks to the big sleeves and collar of her dress and a luxurious coil of black hair, piled up in the Spanish style and held in place by a gardenia. It was hard to tell how old she was. Her face was a perfect mask of makeup—white face powder, plucked eyebrows, rouged cheeks and lips. At home only women of dubious professions would wear that amount of face paint, but I presumed it must be acceptable here, if she was a beloved hostess.

Her arms came around me and for one horrible second I thought I might break down and cry on her shoulder. God knows I needed a friend and sympathy right now. When she released me she must have seen the tears brimming in my eyes. “You go ahead and cry, my dear. We certainly cried enough when we heard, didn’t we, Tiny?”

I looked up and saw that the chubby redhead had come back into the room. He nodded. “Bawled our eyes out. Even Francis.”

“Francis?” I asked.

“My Chinese butler. I know, it’s an odd name for a Chinaman but his real name is too hard to pronounce so I rechristened him. I said, ‘If you’re going to work for me, you can’t have some heathen name. And my favorite saint is Francis so that’s what you’ll be.’”

She stopped talking then frowned at Tiny. “Did you not tell Ellen that we wanted tea?”

“Yes, I ordered it. It should be here in a jiffy. I’ll go see.” He disappeared again.

I looked after him with interest. “His name is Tiny?”

“A private joke,” she said. “That’s what the other wranglers called him on the ranch because of his size. He took over as my ranch manager after Señor Rodriguez died and became so indispensable to me that I lured him with me when I sold up and came to the city. Now I rely on him completely.”

As if on cue Tiny reappeared, carrying a tea tray. He poured a pale liquid into dainty cups with infinite care, considering the size of his hands. Then he handed a cup to me.

“I hope you don’t mind, it’s a Chinese tea. We’ve become used to it because that’s what Ellen likes to serve.”

It was too hot to drink but I took a sip. The sensation of unreality returned. To be sitting with a cowboy and a Spanish señora sipping China tea in a world of white fog. Any other time I would have relished the experience and looked forward to telling Sid and Gus about it. Now all I wanted was to be at home.