Murder On Mulberry Bend

made that story up so when you told it to the police, they would think Ugo was the killer. I think that girl is the killer, Mrs. Wells, and you’re the one who knows who she is. Who told you that story?”

Sarah watched the play of emotions across her face as she struggled with her desire to protect the living and her duty to find justice for the dead. “I thought… but you say it had to be a woman,” she murmured, absently rubbing her temple as if to ward off a headache. “I’m trying to remember exactly… But it couldn’t have been Maeve,” she insisted finally.

“Was Maeve the one who told you?” Sarah asked, feeling a chill.

“Yes, but she couldn’t have killed Emilia. She was here at the mission. She couldn’t have left without anyone knowing!” Before Sarah realized what she was doing, Mrs. Wells rose and threw open the parlor door and called, “Maeve!”

Instinctively, Sarah rose to her feet, ready for whatever might happen.

“Maeve, come here at once!” Mrs. Wells called again, and Sarah could hear the patter of running feet.

Maeve skidded to a halt in the parlor doorway, and Mrs. Wells pulled her inside and slammed the door shut behind her. “Did you tell me that Emilia wanted Ugo to see her in her new dress the morning she was killed?”

Maeve looked terrified, her eyes so wide Sarah could see a rim of white all the way around. “I… no, ma’am, I never.” She glared at Sarah. “I told Gina that when she asked me, too.”

Fortunately, Mrs. Wells didn’t ask what she meant by that. “But you did tell me she was going to see her lover, didn’t you?” she pressed.

Maeve looked at her uncertainly, obviously wanting to please her but uncertain exactly how she could do that. “I… no, not her lover. Her mother. She wanted her mother to see her dressed up fine.”

Of course! Now Sarah remembered that Gina had said something to that effect just before she’d noticed the blood on the hat pin. The shock had driven it completely from Sarah’s mind. “But why would she have gone to the park to see her mother?” Sarah asked. “She only lives down the street.”

Mrs. Wells turned to Sarah. Her face looked as if it were carved from stone. “Her mother sells paper flowers there.”

Sarah felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Mrs. Brandt, are you all right?” Mrs. Wells asked in alarm. “Surely, you don’t think… her own mother?”

Sarah remembered Emilia’s mother and how much she had hated the baby girl she believed had been spawned by rape. Had Emilia sought her out in the park that morning to flaunt her new respectability? Had old hatreds overwhelmed her? “I don’t know,” she lied. The idea made too much sense and explained all the strange details of the case. “But I’ll have to tell Mr. Malloy. If she did, he’ll find out.”

“God help her,” Mrs. Wells said.

13

SARAH HAD TO LEAVE YET ANOTHER MESSAGE FOR Malloy at Headquarters, but this time, at least, he wouldn’t be angry. He wasn’t likely to get it until Monday, though, so she would have to go to his flat tomorrow and leave one for him there, too. That would give her a good reason to visit Brian, which she’d been wanting to do anyway. She would’ve gone there right away except she had to get home to dress for the Halloween party she was attending with Richard Dennis. Why had she agreed to that? Probably, because she hadn’t realized she would be so close to solving a murder at this particular time.

As it was, Sarah couldn’t have felt less like socializing. She hadn’t liked Mrs. Donato very much, but she didn’t like learning she was a murderer, either. No matter how many times she was faced with evidence to the contrary, Sarah still wanted to believe mothers loved their children.

Sarah had to ask for Mrs. Ellsworth’s help in getting into the costume her mother had loaned her. She’d thought modern clothes were cumbersome, but the French Queen Marie Antoinette had borne the added burden of an enormously elaborate hairstyle.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed when she saw the wig. “Did women really put battle scenes in their hair back then?”

“The French had an odd notion of style, I suppose,” Sarah said, examining the miniature naval battle depicted in a cavern constructed in the foot-high mound of the wig. The dress itself was bizarre enough, with its full skirt, tight lacing, and decollete neckline. Her mother had also insisted she wear the beauty patch on her cheek.

Sarah picked up a comb to part her hair so she could start wrapping it tightly around her head to go under the wig, but Mrs. Ellsworth cried out a warning that startled her into dropping it on the floor.

“Good heavens,” the old woman said, picking up the comb and placing it out of Sarah’s reach. “You can’t comb your hair at night. It’s bad luck!”

Wasn’t anything safe to do around Mrs. Ellsworth? “How am I supposed to get this wig on then?” Sarah asked in exasperation.

“You can use a brush, of course,” Mrs. Ellsworth assured her. “That’s why women only brush their hair at night: Here, let me help you.”

Sarah agreed with a sigh, telling herself she was irritable only because she didn’t want to go to a party.

By the time Mrs. Ellsworth had placed the wig on her head and helped her fasten it securely in place, she looked as if she’d escaped from a museum painting.

“I certainly hope Richard appreciates this,” Sarah said in disgust.

“I’m sure you’ll be the most beautiful lady at the party,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “You really should try to smile, though.”

That did make Sarah smile. “Have I been terribly grumpy?”

“Just a bit,” the old woman said tactfully. “If you really don’t want to go, I’m sure Mr. Dennis would understand.”

“It’s not that. I’m just… Well, I’ve discovered who killed that girl, the one who was wearing my clothes.”

“I’d expect that to make you happy,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a puzzled frown.

“I’d expect it, too,” Sarah said with a sigh.

She was saved from explaining by a knock on the door.

“That will be Mr. Dennis,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “I’ll let myself out the back door. Have a wonderful time!”

After thanking her neighbor for her help, Sarah carefully made her way to her front door, learning how to balance the contraption on her head and not knock anything over with her skirts at the same time. She opened the door to a tall Napoleon. He grinned broadly when he saw her. “You look magnificent.”

“I won’t if I fall on my face,” she warned him. “You must promise to stay by my side all evening and hold me upright.”

Richard raised his right hand as if taking an oath. “Nothing could tear me away. Come, my queen, your carriage awaits.”

The Graves family lived in a brownstone near Sarah’s parents. The interior of their home had been furnished in excellent taste, with furniture obviously imported from England but notable for its simplicity. They might be quite wealthy, but they felt no need to make a show of it.

Opal and Charles were dressed as Anthony and Cleopatra. Opal exclaimed over Sarah’s costume, then whispered how very glad she was to see Richard looking so happy again. Sarah ignored the provocation and allowed Opal to continue greeting her guests.

Opal found her later, enjoying a moment of solitude while Richard chatted with some business associates who were dressed as Knights of the Round Table.

“I’ve been dying to ask you how your investigation is going,” she said, taking a seat beside Sarah at the edge of the large ballroom.

“I think we’ve found the killer,” Sarah told her with a sigh.

“You don’t look very happy about it,” Opal said.

“That’s because… I know it’s hard to believe, but I think it may have been the girl’s own mother.”

“How awful! Of course, considering her background, I guess we shouldn’t be too shocked. Her family are foreigners, aren’t they?”