Murder On Mulberry Bend

“What evidence?”

This was the most animated she’d ever seen him. How odd that he would suddenly be so concerned about this. “The way she was killed, for one thing. It’s obvious a woman killed her.” It did sound flimsy when she said it out loud like that.

“How was she killed?”

“With a hat pin.”

Richard stared at her incredulously. “A hat pin?”

“There, you see,” Sarah said with a small smile of triumph. “Men simply don’t consider a hat pin a weapon. But think about it. A hat pin is as long and sturdy as a knife blade and sharp on the end. It could do as much damage as a stiletto.”

“What do you know about stilettos, Sarah,” he chided with amusement.

“Probably more than you,” she chided right back. “And we found the hat pin the murdered girl was wearing. It had blood on it.”

“Where was she stabbed with this deadly hat pin?” he asked, still not convinced.

Sarah explained, showing him on her own head how the pin went in.

Plainly, he was horrified at the mere thought. “How could that kill a person?” he asked in amazement.

“By damaging the brain somehow. She looked as if she’d suffocated, so it must have affected her breathing.”

He was going to ask a question, but just then Sarah saw a familiar figure pass by outside on the way to her front porch. “Malloy is here,” she announced, jumping up to open the door for him.

Malloy wasn’t smiling. “Didn’t I tell you not to leave me any more messages?” he said before she could even open her mouth to greet him. “Sometimes I think you don’t have the sense God gave a – ” He stopped when he saw Richard, who had followed Sarah to the door, and his face got even redder than his anger justified.

“You know Mr. Dennis, don’t you, Malloy?” she asked sweetly.

Richard looked outraged, and he probably was. A gentleman would never tell a lady she didn’t have good sense, even if she didn’t.

The two men glared at each other for a long moment. Neither offered to shake hands and neither spoke a word of greeting.

“I’m so glad you came, Malloy,” Sarah said, pretending not to notice anything amiss. “Mrs. Wells and I were finally able to figure out who killed Emilia.”

“It was her mother,” Richard said with a satisfied smirk. Plainly, he wanted Malloy to know Sarah had confided in him first.

To his credit, Malloy didn’t bat an eye. Instead, he drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “If you want me to come back at a more convenient time,” he said to Sarah, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Sarah pretended not to hear the sarcasm. “I would hate to inconvenience you,” she said with mock sincerity. “I know Richard will excuse us,” she added with a smile. “I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but I’m sure you understand how important it is to see the killer arrested as soon as possible.”

Richard’s face turned so red, he looked as if he might explode. He hated the thought of leaving her alone with Malloy, but good breeding demanded that he obey her wishes. He needed a moment to regain control, and then he said, “I will forgive you if agree to dine with me tomorrow evening.”

She didn’t dare look at Malloy. “I’d be delighted,” she said quite honestly.

“Good,” Richard said with more satisfaction than was seemly. “I’ll call for you at eight o’clock.” He reached across Malloy and took his hat from where it hung by the door. Then he turned back and gave Sarah a small bow. “Until tomorrow then.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” Sarah said without thinking.

Richard smiled at this final triumph and took his leave. When Sarah closed the door and turned back to Malloy, he looked as if he might explode. “It was nice of you to come on a Sunday,” she said as if she were oblivious to the drama they had just experienced.

She didn’t invite him in. She knew he would follow her. She stopped to pick up the dirty dishes she and Richard had been using and put them back on the tray.

“I guess he ate all the pie, too,” Malloy said sourly.

Sarah managed not to smile. “There’s one piece left. Come into the kitchen.”

He didn’t say a word as she poured him some coffee and served him the pie, although she could feel his gaze on her every second. She was being silly to enjoy the small display of masculine rivalry over her, but she was going to enjoy it anyway.

She poured herself a second cup of coffee and took a seat across the table from him. He was still staring at her, his eyes narrowed. She couldn’t read his expression.

“So today you think the girl’s mother killed her,” he said, feigning skepticism. “I suppose you’ve got a good reason for changing your mind.”

“I went to the mission yesterday and asked Mrs. Wells which one of the girls had told her Emilia wanted Ugo to see her new dress. I was sure that girl was the killer and had been preparing Mrs. Wells to give that information to the police.”

“And?” he prodded, not willing to offer any encouragement.

“And when I asked Mrs. Wells, she told me Maeve was the one who had said it, but Maeve couldn’t be the killer because she hadn’t left the mission all morning.”

“She could’ve sneaked out,” Malloy offered.

“I didn’t think of that, but it doesn’t matter. Mrs. Wells called her in and asked her why she’d said that about Ugo. That’s when we realized Mrs. Wells had been mistaken. Maeve had told her that Emilia wanted her mother to see her looking so pretty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Malloy scoffed. “She didn’t even like her mother.”

“But she did love her,” Sarah said. “Children always love their parents, no matter how badly they treat them. And children want their parents to love them back. Mrs. Donato never did because she believed Emilia was the result of the attack – oh, Malloy, I never had a chance to tell you! That isn’t even true!”

“What isn’t true?”

“Mrs. Donato thought Emilia was fathered by one of the sailors who attacked her because she had blond hair, but Mr. Donato told me his story, and that wasn’t the reason at all.”

“What story does Mr. Donato have?” Malloy asked in obvious confusion. “And why did he tell it to you?”

“He told it to me when I went over there to discuss Emilia’s burial plans. You see, Emilia wasn’t the Donatos’ child at all! Their child died at birth. The midwife who delivered it had just delivered a baby to a prostitute. She was going to take it to an orphanage, but Mr. Donato decided to switch the babies, so Mrs. Donato wouldn’t be upset because her baby died.”

“And that’s why the girl didn’t look Italian,” Malloy guessed.

“And why Mrs. Donato thought she’d been fathered by a sailor.”

“And why Mr. Donato never questioned the girl’s paternity,” Malloy decided. “But it still doesn’t mean Mrs. Donato killed her.”

“Maeve said Emilia wanted her mother to see her in her new clothes. Mrs. Wells told me Mrs. Donato sells paper flowers in City Hall Park. Emilia would have known that. She went down there to see her mother. They must have gotten into an argument, and all of Mrs. Donato’s anger made her finally kill the girl she’d always hated. You see, Malloy, this explains everything. Now it all makes sense – why she was in the park and why the killer used a hat pin. Everything makes sense.”

She knew she was right, and Malloy knew it, too. She could tell by the way he was frowning. He hadn’t even tasted the pie yet.

“Does she know Emilia wasn’t her child?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t think so, unless Mr. Donato told her since I saw him, but I can’t imagine why he would after all these years.”

“I can use that, then,” he said thoughtfully.

“Use it for what?”

“To break her and get her to confess.”