Murder On Mulberry Bend

why you should let me help you with this case.”

He turned on her the look that made hardened criminals tremble in their chairs. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going to let you anywhere near this case.”

His glare had no effect on her whatsoever. “Then how will you ever solve it?”

“I won’t solve it. Nobody will. Sarah, listen to me,” he said, forgetting not to use her first name. “You told me yourself this girl was a prostitute.”

“She had been once, but she wasn’t anymore, not since she went to live at the mission!”

As if that made a difference. “Her family disowned her. They won’t care that she’s dead. No one will care. She’ll be just one of the hundreds of people who die in this city every year without being noticed.”

“I’ll notice! I’ll care!”

She’d claimed she was furious a few minutes ago, but she’d only been getting started then. She was really amazing when she got good and mad. “Enough to get yourself killed by asking the wrong people the wrong questions?”

“I’m not going to do that!” she insisted.

“You’ve done it before,” he reminded her.

This time she gave him a murderous glare that almost made him smile, because it meant that for once she didn’t have an answer.

“You can’t just go waltzing down to Mulberry Bend and start asking people who killed this girl,” he said, prepared to be reasonable now that she was silenced. “No one will trust you, so no one will tell you anything. And if you get too annoying, somebody will stick a knife into you, too. I really will find you dead, and if you ever put me through that again,” he threatened, shaking a finger in her face, “I’ll kill you!”

She blinked in surprise, and only when she grinned did he realize how ridiculous his threat was. Whatever ground he had gained vanished, evaporating in the blaze of her smile. “Malloy, you always amaze me.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his salvation. A Hansom cab was coming toward them. He held up a hand to flag it down.

“Where are we going?” she asked when she realized what he was doing.

“You are going home, where you’ll be safe.”

She didn’t like that a bit. “You can’t just let this girl’s killer go free!”

Frank supposed being rich gave you a completely different way of thinking. It wasn’t a very good way, either. “I told you,” he said, trying to be patient when he really wanted to start shouting at her. “Nobody will care that this girl is dead.”

“You mean nobody will pay a reward to find her killer,” she said, knowing full well how angry this would make him. Everybody knew the police solved crimes only when a reward was involved or when someone in power demanded it. Frank hated that it was true, but it was the only way he could support his family, since no one could be expected to live on the meager salaries the police department paid.

He managed to hold his temper and say quite reasonably, “I mean nobody will give me any information, so it won’t matter if there’s a reward or not.” If she offered to give him a reward to solve the case, he really would kill her.

Fortunately, she knew better than that. “Aren’t you even going to try?” she asked, which made him even madder than if she’d offered him a reward.

“I’m going down to the mission now to tell them she’s dead and find out what her last name was,” he said, trying hard not to grit his teeth or sound angry. “Then I’ll try to locate her family and tell them.”

“But…” she began to protest. He held up his hand to stop her.

“I will also ask them questions and try to find out who might’ve killed her. My guess is they’ll swear she didn’t have an enemy in the world and they don’t have any idea who could’ve done it. If I’m wrong,” he continued when she would have interrupted him again, “and they tell me they think a lover killed her or some jealous wife, then I’ll investigate. But don’t count on it,” he added.

He’d expected another argument, but she seemed pleased with this promise. “So if you get some information, you’ll investigate?” she asked.

“Yes, I will.” Now he was gritting his teeth. He couldn’t help it. “Do you want me to take a blood oath or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said with one of her smiles. “Your word is good enough for me.”

The cab had finally managed to pull over to the curb, and the driver was waiting for his passenger.

“Now swear to me you’ll go straight home,” he said as he handed her into the cab.

“Of course I will,” she said, holding up her hand as if to take an oath.

Frank frowned as he gave the driver the address on Bank Street. She’d given in far too easily. She was up to something. He just hoped to God it didn’t get her killed.

Sarah settled back into her seat and tried not to remember how poor Emilia had looked lying there so cold and dead in the morgue. She couldn’t help thinking that she somehow could have prevented the girl’s death, even though she knew that was ridiculous. She didn’t even know why Emilia had been killed, so how could she have prevented it? Logic didn’t prevent her from wanting to weep again, however. She couldn’t explain her tears back there at the morgue, but she knew they had come partly from a sense of helplessness. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop evil from triumphing. And heaven knew, she wasn’t really trying very hard most of the time.

She thought of Mrs. Wells. Now she was trying. And she was succeeding. Sarah might not share her religious fervor, but she had to respect the woman. Look at all those young girls who were safe at the mission, probably for the first time in their lives. They were learning how to take care of themselves, earn an honest living, and have self-respect. Compared to that, Sarah had never accomplished anything worthwhile.

Oh, she knew that saving babies and their mothers from dying in childbirth was important, but what happened to them after that? Perhaps she’d saved them for a life of misery. She had never considered this possibility, and she didn’t like the thought at all. Was it possible for her to do the kind of lasting good that Mrs. Wells did at the mission? She didn’t know. Certainly, not many people could accomplish what Mrs. Wells had. Not many people would have had the courage and dedication to even try.

But if Sarah couldn’t do that work herself, perhaps she could at least help those who did. Mrs. Wells needed volunteers and supporters. She remembered what Richard had said about his wife. Hazel Dennis had first gotten involved when a friend had been asked to make a donation to the mission. Mrs. Wells probably had to work very hard to keep contributions coming from wealthy people like the Dennises. Cultivating wealthy donors would take a lot of time and energy away from the real work she was doing. She would probably greatly appreciate some help in that area, and Sarah was certainly in a position to give it to her.

She reached up and knocked on the roof of the cab to get the driver’s attention.

“Yes, miss?” he called down.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Could you take me to West Fifty-seventh Street instead, please?”

“I sure can,” he replied happily. The longer distance would mean a higher fare. Sarah sat back and began to plan what she was going to say to her mother.

Elizabeth and Felix Decker lived in a townhouse right off Fifth Avenue, not too far from Marble Row, where millionaires flaunted their wealth with marble-fronted homes. The Deckers were more modest about their wealth, but they were probably even richer than anyone on Marble Row.

The maid recognized her instantly and admitted her at once, greeting her by name. Sarah couldn’t help remembering that this same girl had almost turned her away a few short months ago as unworthy to enter. Her long estrangement from her parents had made her a stranger to their household.

“Mrs. Decker is in her salon, Mrs. Brandt,” the girl told her. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

“I’ll go with you and save you a trip,” Sarah offered, certain her mother would be “at home” to her.

Her mother was writing letters at her desk, a delicately carved work of art. She looked up in surprise when the maid announced her daughter, and a smile brightened her lovely face.