“It certainly is,” she said, clutching the offending object to her as if she could shelter it from the evil spirits that might be ready to descend.
“I had no idea,” Sarah admitted apologetically. “I’ll be more careful in the future.” Then she reached down to pick up the umbrella that Mrs. Ellsworth had dropped in her haste to rescue Sarah’s.
“Don’t touch that!” Mrs. Ellsworth cried, startling Sarah all over again. She jumped and hastily straightened, holding both hands up to prove she had obeyed the command.
“It can’t be bad luck just to pick up an umbrella, can it?” she asked in amazement.
“It’s bad luck to let someone else pick up an umbrella you’ve dropped,” she explained as if to a child, bending to pick up it up herself. “Of course, now that I remember, the bad luck is that you’ll become a spinster for the rest of your life. Since I’m not in any danger of becoming a spinster, I suppose it’s all right after all,” she added in amusement.
“I suppose so,” Sarah agreed, taking both umbrellas from her and setting them in the umbrella stand beside the door. When Mrs. Ellsworth made no further protest, Sarah assumed this was a safe way to deal with them. “Come into the kitchen. I was just going to put the kettle on.”
“I must say I’m intrigued,” Mrs. Ellsworth said as she followed Sarah through her front office and into the back of the house. “I can’t imagine what you might need my advice about.”
Sarah put the kettle on, and the two women seated themselves at Sarah’s kitchen table. “Remember I went to visit the Prodigal Son Mission last Sunday?” she began.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with elaborate casualness. “With Mr. Dennis, I believe,” she added expectantly.
Sarah bit back a smile. She wasn’t going to explain her relationship with Richard to the mother of one of Richard’s employees. “Yes, he accompanied me there.” She proceeded to tell her neighbor about meeting Emilia at the mission and then how Malloy had found her body in the park wearing Sarah’s clothing.
“That poor man! It must have been a shock to him, thinking you were dead,” she observed.
Such a shock that he actually hugged Sarah the next time he saw her, but she didn’t mention that to her neighbor. Mrs. Ellsworth already had too many romantic notions about Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. “No one knew who she was, so he came here to find out how she might have gotten my clothes. I was able to identify her.”
“Do they have any idea who might have killed her?”
“Emilia had been involved with several disreputable men before she went to live at the mission, but I really don’t know what Malloy has found out about them. You see, he was so ...” Sarah searched for the proper word. “... distressed by seeing the dead girl in my clothing that he forbade me from having anything to do with the investigation.”
“He’s right, you know. Those Italians are dangerous people.” She pronounced it
Eye-talians.
“You know about the evil eye! They can kill a baby in its mother’s womb with it.”
Sarah seriously doubted that, but she simply nodded her understanding. “Do you know anything about the Black Hand?”
“Only what I read in the newspapers. I don’t know what this world is coming to! We should never allow people like that into our country.”
“Mrs. Ellsworth, everyone in our country came from someplace else at one time or another,” Sarah reminded her gently.
“I know that!” Mrs. Ellsworth said, a little indignant. “I just meant we shouldn’t allow
foreigners
in!”
Sarah was beginning to wonder why she’d thought Mrs. Ellsworth could help her with her dilemma. Mercifully, she noticed the water was boiling, so she got up and fixed the tea. By the time she’d filled the pot and set it and the cups on the table, she figured enough time had passed so she could broach the subject she really wanted to discuss.
“Malloy has forbidden me to help him in this investigation, but I still feel like I need to do something to help,” she began while they waited for the tea to steep. “Because I feel so guilty.”
“Guilty? What on earth for?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in amazement.
“I’m not sure. Ever since I visited the mission, I’ve had this feeling that I’m not doing anything important with my life.”
“That’s nonsense! I’m sure there are hundreds of mothers in the city who think you’re doing something extremely important.”
Sarah frowned. “Bringing babies into the world alive is just the beginning. Think about how many infants are abandoned or killed and how many children end up living on the streets because their families throw them out.”
“You can’t save them all, my dear. One person can only do so much.”
“That’s just it. I don’t feel that I’m doing anything at all.”
“What could you possibly do?”
This was what Sarah had been fretting about and why she’d asked her neighbor to come over. “I was thinking perhaps I should volunteer to help out at the mission, the way Mr. Dennis’s wife did.”
The older woman frowned, considering. “What did Mrs. Dennis do there?”
“I’m not sure. I think she may have taught the girls needlework or something like that.”
“Do you do needlework?”
“Heavens, no, but I could teach them something I do know. Like hygiene, how to keep themselves and their homes clean and free of disease. Things like that.”
“Don’t their mothers teach them those things?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in all sincerity.
“Many of them don’t have mothers,” Sarah said tactfully. She didn’t want to explain all the reasons the poor lived in squalor. Mrs. Ellsworth’s opinion of “foreigners” was already low enough.
“In that case, I’m sure they would appreciate knowing such things. In fact, I’m surprised they don’t already have someone teaching those things at the mission.”
“Perhaps they do. I guess I’ll find out when I offer my services.”
“Is that what you wanted my advice about?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked. “Because if it was, I don’t think I was much help!”
“You were a tremendous help,” Sarah assured her. “I think I just needed to hear someone else say it was a good idea.”
“My dear Mrs. Brandt, I’m sure you’ve never had a bad idea in your life,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a smile as Sarah picked up the pot and began to pour their tea.
Thinking of the ideas she’d had yesterday, about visiting Emilia’s family members to find out who might have killed her, she smiled in return. “I’ve had my share, I promise you.”
“Oh, look,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, pointing at the tea leaf floating on the surface of Sarah’s cup. “That means you’re going to have a visitor.”
“Can you read my tea leaves to find out who it will be?” Sarah asked good-naturedly.
Mrs. Ellsworth closed her eyes and pretended to go into a trance. “I see a man who asks a lot of questions. He’s a man who puts criminals in jail. And I also see that he is very fond of you.” She opened one eye and peered at Sarah slyly. “And you, I think, are very fond of him.”
“I think,” Sarah said, “that from now on, I will only serve you coffee.”
Frank was getting tired of Mulberry Bend. Once again he came in the early evening, just as the sun was setting. He’d spent most of last night with Ugo Ianuzzi and learned enough to know the Black Hand probably had nothing to do with Emilia Donato’s death. Except for the weapon used — a thin-bladed stiletto — nothing else pointed to this group.
Emilia’s father was a laborer on the garbage scows, men who were known as rag pickers. They’d acquired this nickname because while their job was to level the loads of refuse as it was loaded onto the barges that would carry it out to be dumped into the sea, they were also allowed to pick through it for anything that might be of value to keep and sell. Most of what they found was rags, which could be cleaned and fashioned into rugs or stuffed into furniture or mattresses. The “cleaning,” of course, usually consisted of merely hanging the rags on clotheslines and letting the rain and sun do their work. Men who did this kind of labor owed their jobs to
padroni,
men who had managed to get the contract from the city and hired laborers to do the work. Mr. Donato, as a lowly laborer, was hardly powerful enough to arouse the interest of the Black Hand, much less inspire them to murder his daughter in some vendetta.
From what he’d learned of Emilia’s brother, he was a crippled beggar, likewise unlikely to have been involved with the Secret Society. Emilia’s lover Ugo, while a bit more successful, paid his protection money and kept in the Black Hand’s good graces. Even if he didn’t, killing his discarded mistress would hardly intimidate him.
That left the pimp who had exploited Emilia. Ugo had said his name was Lucca. Nobody seemed to know his last name. He wasn’t industrious or successful enough to keep a brothel. He exerted himself only to seduce young women and coerce them into prostituting themselves. Then he was content to live off the earnings of his latest victim.
Lucca had a tiny flat in one of the old Dutch houses, according to Ugo. Frank found the place easily enough. The elements had scoured the wooden siding clean of paint years ago, and the planks were now warped and rotting. Some of the windows hung crooked in their frames, the glass threatening to slide out with the slightest encouragement. Lucca rented part of the attic, which meant Frank had to trudge up the filthy, rickety stairs to the third floor. Halfway up the final flight, he could hear an argument going on above.
A woman was pleading and crying while a man was shouting and threatening. Frank could tell this easily, even though he didn’t understand a word of the language in which they conversed. He’d heard countless arguments just like it in many languages, and they were always the same. He quickened his step, hoping to interrupt it before its inevitable conclusion, but he wasn’t fast enough. The sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by a cry of pain and hysterical weeping, came to him just as he reached the top of the stairs.
The man’s voice rose to be heard above her weeping, shouting a warning and another threat. Frank reached the door and pounded on it before he could strike another blow.
“Open up,” he shouted. “Police.”
The door opened immediately, and the man stared back at him defiantly. He wore dirty trousers with the suspenders hanging down around his hips, and a yellowed undershirt. Although slight of stature, he’d planted himself squarely in the doorway and glared at Frank as if daring him to make trouble for what was obviously nobody else’s business.
“Lucca?” Frank asked and saw the instant of surprise register on the man’s face before he could collect himself.
“Not here,” he claimed, lifting his chin impudently. He was vaguely handsome, the way a snake can be called beautiful, no matter how dangerous it might be. The woman was still sobbing pitifully in the background.
“Maybe the lady knows where he is,” Frank suggested mildly, tilting his head to look over Lucca’s shoulder. He could see her sitting on the bed, cradling her cheek in one hand and rocking back and forth to comfort herself.
“She know nothing,” Lucca insisted. “Not here. Come back later.”
Frank looked him up and down. He wasn’t a big man, and what weight he had was soft. “I don’t want to come back later,” Frank said, still not raising his voice. That was why Lucca wasn’t prepared when Frank lunged at him. In one swift move, he threw the man off balance, caught his arm, and twisted it around his back. He propelled Lucca across the small room and slammed him face-first into the wall.
The woman screamed. Frank spared her a glance and was surprised to see she was no more than a girl, probably only fourteen at most. She stared at Frank, eyes filled with terror, her tears forgotten. “Get out of here,” he told her.
She blinked, either too frightened to understand or else she didn’t speak English. “Tell her to get out,” he said to Lucca, twisting his arm a little higher to encourage his cooperation.
Lucca howled with pain, but he said something to the girl in Italian, his voice high and strained.
She started to protest, but he cut her off sharply. Even though she wasn’t dressed for the street, she snatched up a jacket and hurried out. Her footsteps echoed lightly down the stairs and faded away.
“What you want?” Lucca asked. His voice was a little muffled because his face was still smashed against the wall.
“I want to know why you killed Emilia Donato,” Frank said.
“Who?” he asked.
Frank didn’t like people who tried to be coy with him. He gave Lucca’s arm another twist. When he’d stopped screaming, Frank said, “Emilia Donato,” very deliberately.
“Who is this girl?” he asked quickly, before Frank could encourage him again. “I do not know her!”
Was it possible Frank had found the wrong man? “Yellow hair. Emilia. She got sick, and you threw her out,” he tried.
“Oh, si, yes, I know her now!” he assured Frank hastily. “She not here long. I forget!”
Frank wanted to smash his head right through the wall. Couldn’t he at least have the decency to remember their names? “Tell me about her, Lucca,” he suggested instead, his voice dangerously low.
“She lazy girl. No work.”
“You mean she wouldn’t walk the streets?”
“She cry. Say she sick. No go out.”
“So you slapped her around like you did that girl just now?” Frank asked.
“Lazy girl,” he defended himself. “No work. Must work, get money.”
“So you made her go out to make money for you,” Frank offered.
“She go but no make money. Stay out all night. Afraid come home. Afraid I mad. Stay out all night in rain. Get sick.” He shrugged. “What I do? She no can work. I send her away.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Long time. Can’t tell. Long, long time!” he insisted. “She nothing to me. Why you come here?”
“Because somebody killed her two days ago.”
Now the seriousness of his situation was finally sinking in. “Why I kill her?” he cried. “She nothing to me!”