Murder On Mulberry Bend

The girl who answered his knock was Irish, all gangly limbs, frizzy red hair, and enormous eyes that stared up at him apprehensively. People always knew he was a cop, even though he dressed just like every other man in the city. Nobody liked cops, and most people feared them.

A swear word escaped her young lips before she could stop it, and she quickly covered her mouth in horror at the slip. Probably, they frowned on swearing at the mission.

“Is Mrs. Wells here?” he asked as kindly as he could, hoping to reassure her.

“She ain’t done nothing. Nobody here done nothing!” she argued.

“I didn’t say they did,” he reminded her. “Now if you don’t want to get Mrs. Wells, I guess I’ll have to come in and find her myself.”

That prospect frightened the girl even more. “I’ll get her,” she cried, but she slammed the door in his face instead of inviting him in, as she should have. The lapse in etiquette didn’t bother Frank. As soon as her footsteps clattered away, he opened the door and stepped inside anyway.

The place fairly echoed with emptiness. The sparse furniture, bare wooden floors, and religious pictures made him think this was what a convent would look like. He doubted Mrs. Wells would appreciate the comparison.

He could hear the sounds of activity from upstairs, and after a few more minutes, a woman he recognized as Mrs. Wells came down the staircase. She moved slowly, her hand resting gently on the rail, her back rigidly straight, her face calmly expressionless. She was in no hurry to see him, nor was she reluctant. She had nothing to fear from the police.

“Mrs. Wells,” he said, removing his bowler hat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, not at all concerned about whatever he might have to say to her.

Frank glanced up the stairs and saw several young faces peering over the railing above, straining to hear what he was saying.

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“I don’t pay protection money to the police,” she warned him. “Our heavenly Father protects us.”

Frank decided to ignore the provocation. “I have some news about one of your…” He gestured helplessly, not certain what to call the girls who lived here.

“Guests?” she supplied.

“Yeah, one of your guests,” he agreed, glancing up the stairs again. More faces were staring down at them now. All sounds of activity upstairs had stopped.

She glanced up, too, and instantly the faces vanished. The sound of scurrying footsteps was followed by the slamming of a door, and all was quiet. She turned back to Frank.

“Very well,” she said. “Please step into the parlor.”

He followed her into a shabbily furnished room. She didn’t bother to close the doors – or maybe she didn’t trust him enough to close the doors. She turned to face him, neither offering him a seat nor taking one herself.

“What is it?” she asked, making it clear she still didn’t think his visit was important.

“Did you have a girl named Emilia living here?”

Finally, he saw the apprehension he would have expected, although she was trying hard not to let it show. “A girl named Emilia lives here, yes,” she said cautiously.

“Blond hair, brown eyes?”

“Yes,” she said, clearly reluctant to admit it. “Why are you asking about Emilia? What’s happened?”

“She was found dead this morning in City Hall Park.”

She took a moment to absorb the shock. “That’s impossible,” she finally said. People always denied death at first.

“Why? Is she here now?”

Mrs. Wells’s apprehension was slowly giving way to anxiety. “No, but…” She glanced out the doorway, as if expecting to see the girl standing there. “She was going out this morning to look for work. She hasn’t come back yet, but I expect her any moment.”

“She won’t be coming back, Mrs. Wells. She’s dead.”

She shook her head slightly in silent denial. “I can’t… There must be some mistake.”

“There isn’t. She was identified at the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was beginning to look noticeably agitated. “Who could have identified her?”

“Mrs. Sarah Brandt.”

“Who…?” she began, but then she remembered. And frowned with what might have been disapproval. “Oh, yes, Mr. Dennis’s friend.”

Frank felt as if he’d been punched. Dennis’s friend! Sarah had said she came here on Sunday. Had Dennis come with her? If so, she’d been with him on Saturday night and on Sunday, too. She’d only known him for a week! He felt something burning in his chest, as bitter as gall.

“Detective?” Mrs. Wells said sharply. “I asked you a question.”

“What was it?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

“I asked you how Mrs. Brandt came to identify Emilia’s body.”

“She was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing. I thought she might know who the girl was, so I asked her to come to the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was completely bewildered. “How did you know she was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing?”

“Because Mrs. Brandt is a friend of mine, too,” he said with a small sense of satisfaction.

Fortunately, Elizabeth Decker had suggested Sarah telephone to make sure Richard would be in his office this afternoon. He’d planned to go out, but he changed his plans immediately when he learned Sarah needed to see him. After Sarah had luncheon with her mother, she’d been delivered to Richard’s bank in the Decker family carriage, complete with its charming footmen.

Now she was being escorted directly into his private office by an obsequious little man whose plump body had been stuffed into a suit that was too small for him. When she entered his office, Richard rose from behind his desk and came out to greet her, taking her hand in both of his.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked in his very charming way as he led her to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Instead of returning to his place behind it, he sat in the other chair beside her. She had his full attention.

“I’m afraid our visit to the mission on Sunday had a profound effect on me,” she began, debating whether to tell him about Emilia’s murder. No use in starting out on such a tragic topic. She’d wait and see if she could work it naturally into her explanation.

“What kind of an effect?” he asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I’ve had a… a reawakening, I suppose you’d call it. I suddenly feel as if my life doesn’t have much meaning, and that I’m not doing anything important.”

“What nonsense,” he said gallantly. “Your work must be very important.”

She chose not to notice that he really wasn’t certain it was. “You’re right, of course. I do save lives,” she added, in case he hadn’t realized it. “But Mrs. Wells changes lives. I don’t think I could do the kind of work she does, but I could help her. I’ve asked my mother if she’d give a party and ask her friends to make a donation to the mission… in Hazel’s memory.”

She’d touched him deeply. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. “Sarah,” he finally said. “I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“I’m not being kind, Richard,” she assured him. “I’m being selfish. I want to feel better about myself by doing something good.”

“I’m sure that’s the basic motivation for all charitable acts,” he said with an understanding smile.

“Perhaps it is. I hope it doesn’t matter what the motivation is, so long as the act itself is good,” she added.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Would you come to the party?” she asked.

He seemed surprised. “Of course. I mean, I assumed you wouldn’t have told me about it if you weren’t going to invite me.”

Had he forgotten that he blamed the people at the mission for giving Hazel her fatal illness? If so, Sarah wasn’t