Murder On Mulberry Bend

“Buono,” Sarah said with an approving smile, using one of her few Italian words. She stroked the baby’s thick, dark curls.

“Si, e bello, ” Maria agreed, smiling back. “He is fat like pig!”

“That proves your milk is good,” Sarah said. “You’re a good mother.”

Maria beamed with pride. “You here… more baby?” she asked.

“No, I’m visiting the Donato family. Do you know them?”

Maria nodded, and her smile faded. “I know Emilia, before she go away.”

“Have you heard what happened to her?”

Maria shook her head warily.

“Someone murdered her.”

Maria’s eyes widened in surprise. She crossed herself quickly and murmured what might have been a prayer or a blessing.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “Were you good friends?”

Maria shrugged one shoulder. “I know her. That is all. Who kill her? Lucca?”

“Who is Lucca?” Sarah asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Maria glanced around nervously, afraid someone would overhear. “He bad man,” she said.

Sarah knew there had been two bad men in Emilia’s life. One of them had been named Ugo. “Was he her pimp?” Sarah whispered, wondering how she would explain this if Maria wasn’t familiar with the word.

Maria’s dark eyes grew wide again. Sarah supposed she was surprised Sarah knew the word. “Si,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Very bad man.”

“Do you know his last name?”

She shook her head. “He just Lucca. Very bad man,” she repeated firmly, as if afraid Sarah hadn’t quite understood.

“Thank you, Maria. I’ll be careful.”

“Si, careful,” Maria agreed. “Molta attenta.”

Sarah smiled to reassure the girl. “Could you show me the alley where the Donatos live? I brought them a basket of food from the mission.”

Maria didn’t smile back. “Signora Donato, she not be sad Emilia dead,” she warned.

Sarah was actually counting on that. She hoped the woman’s anger at her dead daughter would loosen her tongue. “I know.”

Maria studied her face for a moment, making sure Sarah wasn’t going to waiver in her mission of mercy, before saying, “Come, I show you.”

“Do you know Emilia’s brother, too?” Sarah asked as Maria fell in beside her.

“Si, Georgio. He play… organ?” She wasn’t sure she’d chosen the correct word.

For a moment Sarah pictured a man in a tuxedo playing a pipe organ in an enormous cathedral. Then she noticed Maria moving her hand in a cranking motion. “He’s an organ grinder,” she guessed.

“Si.” Maria was pleased she had made Sarah understand. “He… no foot,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the ground.

“He lost his foot?” This would explain his organ grinding. He wouldn’t be able to hold a regular laboring job.

“No, he… born, no foot.”

Sarah nodded her understanding. She thought of Brian Malloy’s misshapen foot and wondered if Malloy knew how lucky his son had been, even in his misfortune. At least Georgio Donato had managed to find a profession of sorts, even if it was nothing more than glorified begging.

“Does he play around here?” Sarah asked.

Maria grinned at Sarah’s naivete. “No, he play Macy’s,” she said, naming the popular department store on Sixth Avenue.

Of course, Sarah should have realized an organ grinder would have to go where people had enough money to give him coins for the entertainment he provided. She’d seen various musicians lining the streets in those neighborhoods, looking for alms from the passing throngs, but she’d hardly ever paid attention to them.

Maria had led her down one of the twisting alleys and now she stopped and pointed at the next building. “There,” she said. “Tre steps.” She held up three fingers and pointed up. Sarah understood the Donatos lived on the third floor.

She thanked Maria, wished her well, and insisted she take one of the small cakes from her basket as a reward. When the girl had gone, Sarah drew a fortifying breath and continued with her objective. By the time she had reached the third floor of the Donatos’ building, she was extremely sorry she’d filled the basket so full. She only hoped the Donatos were grateful enough to accept her offerings, because she had no intention of carrying them back down again.

The doors to some of the flats stood open to catch the breeze from the stairwell. This allowed some feeble light to guide her in the windowless area. When she reached the third floor, she saw a woman in one of the flats. She was sitting at her kitchen table. The makings of paper flowers lay on the table before her. Many families in the tenements made flowers or other crafts to sell in the street, putting children to the task as soon as they were old enough to do the work. This woman was simply staring blankly at the wall today. Sarah thought she looked like someone who had just lost her daughter.

“Mrs. Donato?” she tried.

The woman looked around slowly, squinting to make out who was standing in the shadows. Sarah stepped into the doorway. “Are you Mrs. Donato?”

“We pay rent,” the woman said defensively.

Sarah tried a reassuring smile. “I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, too late realizing Malloy might have told them she was the one who had identified Emilia’s body. “I met Emilia at the mission,” she hurried on. “I was very sorry to hear what happened, and I brought some things I thought you might be able to use.”

Mrs. Donato gave no indication she’d ever heard Sarah’s name before. Count on Malloy to be discreet. When Mrs. Donato also didn’t offer any objection, Sarah pulled back the cloth covering the basket to reveal an assortment of delicacies she’d purchased at the bakery near her house. She’d been careful not to choose anything that might look like charity or indicate she thought the family couldn’t provide regular meals for themselves. “For the funeral,” she said. They would need something special to serve the mourners after the service.

Mrs. Donato’s round face darkened. “No funeral,” she said bitterly. “She no Catholic no more. She… mission.” She said the word as if it were a curse.

Sarah remembered what Mrs. Wells had said about Emilia giving up her “popish” ways. She knew how important their faith was to Catholics. No wonder Mrs. Donato sounded bitter. Sarah stood there for a moment, wondering what on earth she could say. That was when she really looked at the other woman and saw what a trained nurse should have seen immediately.

“Mrs. Donato, when was the last time you had something to eat?”

Mrs. Donato’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “We have food. No need charity.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Sarah agreed, “but when was the last time you ate any of your food? You look as if you might be a little dehydrated.”

“No sick,” she protested, probably not recognizing the word. Few people would, even if they spoke fluent English.

“You will be sick if you don’t eat something soon,” Sarah warned. “I’m a nurse and a midwife. I delivered Maria Fortunato’s baby,” she added, hoping that would give her some credibility. “I just saw her down on the street, and she showed me where you lived.”

Mrs. Donato made a sound in her throat. Sarah didn’t know what it meant, but she chose to interpret it positively. She saw a coffeepot on the stove and stepped over to see if it was still warm. The kitchen was small enough, she only needed to take one step.

Warm enough, she decided, and took a cup down from the shelf and filled it. On second thought, she poured a second one. Sarah would sit down with her and force the woman to see her as a guest. With any luck, Mrs. Donato would feel obligated to treat her with some small bit of hospitality. She set the cups on the table, then got a plate from the shelf, too. Digging in the basket, she found some cookies and a sugar cake. She set them on the plate,