“A life cut short,” David said. “Shot in the back, no less. A cowardly act if there ever was one. Who in the world would have wanted him dead?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” The clock in the next room donged seven soft chimes. I stood. “I will make thy breakfast, husband. Thee needs to be at the hospital by eight thirty for rounds, as it is Third Day, am I right?”
“Yes, my dear wife. What is your plan for the day?”
“I have several ladies in various stages of pregnancy coming this morning, and I’ll pay a visit on the lovely Esther Ayensu this afternoon. She’s due in two weeks’ time. You know I like to make a home visit well in advance of the birth to make sure all is ready.”
“She’s the Negro lady you met after the Independence Day murder.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t overexert yourself, will you?” He grabbed my hand and gently pulled me to him, resting his cheek on my belly.
I stood there for a moment, my hand on his shoulder, savoring the feeling of being loved. There was no man alive I’d rather create a family with than this one. I tapped the top of his head.
“This breakfast isn’t going to cook itself, Dr. Dodge.”
He chuckled and sat up straight. “Have I told you I loved you lately, Rose Carroll Dodge?”
Chapter Four
My morning visitors seeking antenatal care had been all abuzz with the news of the murder as well as the Spring Opening events. I’d had to steer each of them back to the reason they’d come, checking their baby’s health and their own. Two were doing well, but one young bride, who had asked if she could barter fresh eggs for her fee, had not gained sufficient weight for her sixth month of pregnancy. I gave her back her basket of eggs and gently encouraged her to eat them, herself.
“We’ll arrange something else after the birth, shall we?” I smiled as I sent her on her way, but I made a note in her chart. I would arrange for an anonymously delivered box of food every week. I hated to see impoverished women go hungry during a time when they needed to be eating more, not less.
The morning post had brought a note from Kevin asking me to stop by the police station this afternoon. After I supped on a simple midday meal of bread and ham as well as a sliced apple and a glass of milk, I mounted my bicycle. I’d go see the detective after I paid my visit to Esther. I pedaled along Whittier Street. I hadn’t ridden much this winter because of the snow and ice, but today was milder than yesterday, and no hazardous ice remained. David worried a little about my bicycling while pregnant. I assured him it was not dangerous to the growing foetus, although I would certainly cease riding about when my belly grew unwieldy.
I coasted halfway down Carpenter Street to the tidy cottage the couple shared. Even though it was coincidence that Esther’s husband, the carpenter Akwasi, had his home and shop on this street, it was aptly named.
Esther welcomed me in and offered me tea in a tidy and cheerful kitchen, with yellow curtains at the windows and an orange-and-red braided rug on the wide pine floor. I thanked her and sat at the table, which was covered with small cards and several pens and bottles of ink. Several of the cards had beautiful lettering on them. She slid them to the other side of the table.
“Is thee a calligrapher?” I asked. When I’d first met her, she worked stitching upholstery for the carriage industry.
She turned toward me from the stove, moving with the waddle of a woman near her term. “Yes. The Board of Trade hired me to make signs and place cards for the various Spring Opening events.”
“Thee is very talented.”
“Thank you. It’s an occupation I can do from home.” She smiled down at her large taut belly and smoothed her dress over it. She was a beautiful woman, as tall as I was, with large eyes, dark curly lashes, and skin the color of melted chocolate with plenty of cream mixed in. Her cheeks glowed with the fullness of her condition.
“That will be good after thy baby arrives.”
“I’ve been getting more and more inquiries from businesses wanting placards and advertisements lettered, even some private invitations.” She brought a teapot to the table. “This’ll need to steep a bit.”
“Where did thee learn to letter so beautifully?”
“I’ve always been drawing, and I started copying nice lettering last year. Using good-quality pens with different-sized nibs helps, too.”
I gazed at the cards. “It looks completely professional. Well done.”
“Thank you.” Esther frowned a little. “Rose, I heard a Mr. Harrington was murdered in the night. Will you be involved in the investigation, as you were before?”
“I doubt it.” Which might not be strictly true. I had dug into the case when her husband was falsely accused a couple of years earlier, and I planned to proceed directly to the police station after I left here. “I did meet the poor victim yesterday afternoon.”
“I encountered him and his wife, as well, when I was delivering a batch of cards yesterday morning. They were talking to a carriage factory owner. William Parry, a rather unpleasant fellow.” She poured out two cups of tea.
“He is a little unpleasant, although he has also suffered tragedy in his life.”
“Mr. Ned Bailey introduced me to the Harringtons as I was leaving the opera house.” She frowned. “Mr. Parry seemed to be having some kind of disagreement with Mr. Harrington.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I pray the police don’t come after my husband with more false charges this time,” Esther said.
“I’m sure
