Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery (38 page)

Entering the first floor of the
Chronicle
offices, Nate had to push his way past a line of people who were putting in classified ads and work his way down a narrow space between a counter and the wall, to a swinging door that let him behind the counter. The
Chronicle’s
new offices were impressive and he could feel the pounding of the gigantic steam press engines in the basement under his feet. Several men stood outside of Charles de Young’s office at the rear, talking loudly about the newest scandal in Nevada mining shares. The chief editor himself was still missing, rumored to be hiding out in Mexico until the furor over his attempt on the new mayor’s life died down.

Nate took a detour when he noticed that his friend, Tim Newsome, was lounging at the subscriptions desk, chatting animatedly to the young female clerk. Nate hoped that the clerk knew Tim was both a hopeless flirt and hopelessly in love with his own wife.

Newsome looked up as Nate drew near and said, “Hey, Nate, you old rascal, come here and meet Amanda Fitchings, who has the loveliest copperplate handwriting in the whole building. Miss Fitchings, meet Nate Dawson, Esquire. And to what do we, of the Fourth Estate, owe the pleasure of your company?”

“
Miss Fitchings, pleased to meet you, although I hope you will not hold my friendship with Mr. Newsome against me. Tim, I’m looking for Anthony Pierce; he asked me to stop by. Do you know if he’s at his desk?”

“
Not in yet. This is a little early for Pierce, usually doesn’t come in until afternoon. What’s he want to see you for? Got something I might be interested in?”

Tim Newsome draped his arm around Nate’s shoulder and began to direct him back to stairs in the rear that led to the reporters’ offices on the second floor. Tim was a tall Swede, with pale blond hair cut short, a silky mustache, ruddy complexion, eyes the blue of a deep fjord of his native land, and a mischievous smile that had made a devoted friend out of a young, homesick fifteen-year-old Nate Dawson when they’d first met.

Newsome specialized in stories about the state’s agricultural and fishing industries, and Nate thought that Annie might find a lot to talk about with his friend.
I’d bet she’d like Lydia as well, they’d rail about “votes for women” to their hearts’ content.
Having again conjured up an image of Annie, she never seemed far from his mind these days, Nate decided to ask Tim for information about Mr. Abraham Ruckner and the San Francisco Gold Bank and Trust. Wouldn’t hurt to have a tidbit of information to bring with him when he saw her tomorrow, in case his expectations about Pierce’s proposition didn’t pan out. He smiled, thinking how unusual she was, a woman who would prefer a little inside financial information over flowers from a beau.

“
Nate, my boy, you look very much like the proverbial cat with the cream. What have you been up to?” Newsome asked as they wove their way through the large second-story room, crowded with mostly empty desks, Pierce not being the only reporter who didn’t come in this early.

“
I’m helping out a friend, just doing some background checking on a local medium and some of her clients,” said Nate, not wanting to get into his love life with his friend this morning. Tim had a wicked sense of humor.

“
So, that’s why you want to talk to Pierce. I wondered if he was going to do a follow-up on that series, it was a real winner. Circulation went up and the Chief was right pleased. I’m afraid stories about the wheat crop just don’t get that kind of recognition.”

Nate said, “I bet they don’t, though I always try to read your columns last thing at night, best sleep aid I’ve ever used. But you might be able to help me out. One of the clients I’m interested in is Abe Ruckner, one of the owners of Gold Bank and Trust. I understand the man recently lost his wife, that sort of thing can shake a man, affect his business sense, don’t you know.”

Nate was amused to see the change his question produced in his friend. Newsome straightened up, his head pushed forward, like some hunting dog on the scent, and he stood for a moment, very still.

“
Well, well, now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something about the wife’s death,” Newsome said. “But not that it was having a negative effect on Ruckner and the bank, just the opposite. The wife was a McCormick, so he inherited a pretty penny in Harvesting Machine Company shares. He’s going to see a medium, is he? Can I quote you on that?”

“
Tim, no. I don’t have firsthand knowledge about this, and, anyway, the poor man just lost his wife. If I do learn anything concrete, I’ll let you know.”

“
Same here, just promise me if there is anything, you’ll tell me, not Pierce. I don’t want to be stuck on the farm and fish beat forever. Just what do you need to talk to him about?”

“
He told me last week that he would try to get me a meeting with the incoming state attorney general, see if there might be something for me in Sacramento.”

“
Pierce’s pretty well-connected, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he could. With the new state constitution and the shake-ups on the state level, there’s bound to be some openings. Thing is, Nate, be careful. Pierce has a nose for corruption, and he writes damn good stories, but he’s made enemies along the way, and some of his friends aren’t all that savory. We all operate along the principle of ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ or in your profession’s terms,
quid pro quo
, but I’ve heard that Pierce can extract a pretty high price for favors rendered. He can be awfully hard to read, never know when you end up on his bad side. He did just come back from his mother’s funeral, so he’s been especially touchy. Why are you interested? You aren’t thinking about leaving your uncle’s firm are you?”

Nate removed a stack of papers from the chair next to Newsome’s desk and sat down. “Tim, you know how much I owe Uncle Frank. Damn it, we both do since most of the time when I was young and he had to rescue my sorry hide he rescued yours as well. Thing is, ever since Haranahan died, the firm has begun to stagnate. Old men and their wills seems to be the only business he brings in, and if I don’t start to get some trial experience, I’m not going to do any better. I’d hoped he would find a new partner this fall while I was away at the ranch, someone with a reputation and some big clients, but as far as I can tell he’s done nothing.”

“
Have you asked him what his plans are?”

“
I’ve tried, but he keeps putting me off. I think he still sees me as that raw-boned whelp he took under his wing nearly fifteen years ago. Doesn’t occur to him I’m a grown man with plans of my own.”

Newsome leaned over and said, “Plans of your own, you devil. So who is she? Lydia’s just been saying we haven’t seen you since you got back in town. Used to be you came hanging around every Saturday night, looking for a decent home-cooked meal.”

Nate tried to keep the smile off his face, but couldn’t. “It’s not a done deal, so don’t you go spilling the beans to anyone. She’s a widow; I met her at the end of the summer. Never known anyone like her. Independent to a fault, which, of course, made me think that your Lydia would get along with her like a house afire. Uncle Frank even approves of her, so you’d expect he would understand why I need to make more money. I just think he’s been a bachelor for so long, never occurs to him I might want something different.”

“
I wouldn’t be so sure of that, my fine friend. Just last Sunday I took Lydia for a ride in Golden Gate Park, and I saw your Uncle Frank tooling along in a rented phaeton with a very lovely lady, a Mrs. Matthew Voss. He seemed in fine fettle, and I wouldn’t be so sure his bachelor days aren’t going to be soon over. Say, weren’t there rumors that old Mr. Voss was tied up with some fortuneteller? Couldn’t be that’s what you are working on, is it?”

“
Mrs. Voss . . . fortuneteller, where did you get . . .” Nate had just begun to ask Newsome to explain, when a hand clapped him heavily on the shoulder, and he turned to see Anthony Pierce at his side.

“
My boy, glad you waited. Sorry I’m late. Hope Farmer Timothy there hasn’t bored you to death with his grain reports. Come on over to my desk and sit awhile.”

Nate nodded to Newsome and followed Pierce across the room to a desk that was scrupulously neat, with blotter, inkstand, and stack of papers all perfectly aligned. Since it had always been Nate’s impression that reporters, by nature, were messy packrats, this seemed unusual. Pierce, himself, was spectacularly untidy this morning, and the strong smell of stale alcohol and tobacco drifting in his wake suggested he hadn’t been home after what had been a nightlong revel in some dive. Yet, when he sat down across his desk from Nate, his brown eyes were bright, his ugly face animated, and he showed no lack of energy as he smiled broadly.

“
Dawson, glad you could come. Attorney General Hart got into town Tuesday evening. I met with his chief of staff, Jaffry. Good man. Turns out his wife came from my hometown in Missouri. Small world. Lots of social affairs were planned for this week. All the wives in town were showing off their parlors. Jaffry was ready to bust out last night after all that tea he’d had to down.” Here Pierce’s smile turned wolfish. “Man has appetites, I’ll say that for him.”

Nate nodded ambiguously. “I was glad to hear from you. You said you had a proposition for me?”

Pierce’s smile widened. “Now, young man, let’s not be hasty. Got to do the preliminaries.”

He then opened up his bottom drawer and fetched out a bottle of bourbon, and two tumblers, filling them up and pushing one across the desk. Nate hated drinking this early in the day, but he felt he couldn’t turn the man down. He knew that politics and hard liquor went hand in hand, even among Republicans. If this was the world he wanted to enter, it behooved him to play the part. So he took the glass and drank the amber liquid down, feeling the hot flash of instant well-being.

Pierce refilled Nate’s glass and then leaned back in his chair, holding his own glass up to the sunlight and saying, “Tell me, any new developments in your investigations on the Framptons? Client hasn’t decided to give it up has she?”

Nate sipped at the drink, trying to bring his mind into focus. “I wish to hell she would. I mean, I haven’t turned up any evidence strong enough to interest the police, but my client is pretty determined. Feels sure that Simon Frampton and his wife are involved in some sort of swindle. Can’t say I disagree. There’s just nothing on which to base a criminal complaint. People don’t always understand that even though something’s wrong, it isn’t always against the law.” Nate thought he should try that argument on Annie tomorrow night if she went back on her agreement to make the séance on Friday her last.

Thinking of Annie, Nate shook his head slightly, suddenly impatient. “Tell me, Pierce, what’s the story? Did you talk to Hart about me?”

Nate noticed Pierce was frowning and he thought,
God damn it, Tim told me to watch it. Damn bourbon.

He tried to frame his next words, but Pierce intervened. “That’s what I like to see, enthusiasm. Next best thing, I talked to Jaffry, who really does all the vetting for appointments, and I puffed you up plenty. He’s interested, real interested. But, like Hart, he’s a busy man, so you’re going to have to jump when I get the word to you he’s got time for a meeting. Don’t know whether it will be sometime tomorrow or Saturday. I’ll send a boy round with a note, give time and place, and you better come on the double.”

Nate’s first thought was this might mean he wouldn’t be able to honor Annie’s request that he accompany her tomorrow night, in the place of Kathleen. If he couldn’t go, Annie couldn’t either. It was time she gave up her part in the investigations anyway. Surely she’d understand this meeting takes precedence.
After all, it’s her future as well as mine at stake.

With this thought, Nate stood up and leaned across the desk to shake Pierce’s hand, saying, “Sir, thanks so much. You can count on me. Send word and I will be there. No matter what else is going on.”

“
L. Pet Anderson, Medium, 850 Market, Developing class, Tues evenings”
—
San Francisco Chronicle
, 1879

Annie sat at a table with Mrs. Rowena Nickerson in the restaurant at Woodward’s Gardens and tried hard not to let her mind stray to the last time she was here, with Nate. That day had been cold and rainy, but today the sun had quickly burned off the fog and they were able to sit comfortably on the outdoor patio. She hoped the warm weather persisted so that the Halloween party tomorrow night could safely spill into the backyard. As of this morning, the number of young people who were going to attend had climbed precipitously when Kathleen got word her brothers and some of their friends were going to come. She had fussed about them being proper hooligans, but Annie could tell she was pleased.

“
Mrs. Hunt and her friend, Mrs. Gordon, seemed quite taken with my Evie May, don’t you think?” Mrs. Nickerson’s question brought Annie back to the here and now.

Evie May’s mother continued. “I remember ever so well when Mrs. Hunt traveled to Lynn to speak, right before the war started. She was so young and beautiful. I went with my husband, Mr. Sewell Nickerson. Since his father owned one of the biggest boot and shoe factories in town, we had special seats, right up close to the stage. Nothing was too good for me back then. Of course I was quite young myself. A child bride, you would say. And to think that Mrs. Gordon was also a medium when she was young. Her name was Laura de Force? I think I remember hearing about her. I am so pleased that they are taking an interest in my Evie May. You said Mrs. Gordon is also a famous journalist? Good heavens, wouldn’t it be too wonderful if she wrote a piece about my Evie May for the papers. I have been telling Simon, dear man, that we need to get more press for my darling girl.”