“It’s just so incredible,” Rayne says, taking a bite of the apple we swiped from the kitchen and pulling her books out of her backpack.
“Which part? The part where I lived in San Francisco over a hundred years ago? The part where I saw Alessandra dead? Or the part where I get hauled off by the police because they think I did it?”
I had to tell her. I know that Griffon said that we have to be careful, but this is Rayne we’re talking about. And I’m not telling her about the Akhet or the Sekhem, just about Alessandra. I can’t get the image of her lying on the ground out of my head. It took me a lifetime to remember it, and now I can’t manage to forget.
“You aren’t a murderer,” she says. “That I know for sure. You can’t be truly evil in one lifetime and then like you are now in this one.”
“So now you’re an expert?”
“Yes. I am. At least when it comes to this kind of thing.” Rayne opens her calculus book, but stares off into the distance. “I wonder who I was in a past life. Maybe Cleopatra. Or Amelia Earhart. That would have been cool.”
“Not everybody is a famous somebody,” I say. “I think most of us were just ordinary people doing ordinary things.”
“Well, somebody had to be famous in the past. Why not me?”
I manage a weak smile. “If anyone was famous in a past life, it would be you.”
“Thank you.” She gives a little bow. “If this all happened at some fancy house party, don’t you think there would be a lot of publicity? An Italian musician falling off the roof of a famous mansion would probably make the papers. I know they had papers back then. Do you have a clue when it was?”
“All I’ve seen is a ferry dock and some horses and carriages,” I say, starting to feel excited. “The late eighteen hundreds, maybe? Before the earthquake anyway, because everything still looked pretty good. There probably were a lot of papers back then.” I look at her. “It might have been in one.”
“Maybe we can look it up online,” Rayne says.
“Not everything is online,” I say. “There’s no way anyone is going to scan hundreds of years of newspapers. But they must have old copies downtown at the big library. Anytime someone needs to find something like this in the movies they end up in the basement of a library, searching through old yellow newspapers.” I look at her, hoping she’ll come with me. “How much homework have you got?”
“Not so much that I don’t want to go on a field trip right now.”
We usually go to the library by my house, so the last time I was at the new one downtown was on a field trip for the big opening back in ninth grade. As we walk through the doors and into the main space, I look up at the ceiling looming several stories above us.
“Jeez,” Rayne says. “I forgot how big this place is. It’s like one of those inside-out hotels where all of the rooms look out over the lobby.”
I stare at the flimsy-looking railings several stories up. “I sure hope they keep the newspapers in the basement.”
“How can I help you?” the librarian at the main desk asks as we approach. She has short, dyed black hair and a nose ring. Trust us to get the only emo librarian in town.
“We need to see some old newspapers,” Rayne tells her.
“How old?”
Rayne looks at me. “Um,” I say, realizing I have no idea where to start. “Somewhere between 1870 and 1906.”
Emo librarian raises a pierced eyebrow. “That’s a pretty big time frame.”
“You don’t have any?” Rayne asks.
“No, we do,” she says. “We have some in the history room on the sixth floor, and there’s microfilm in the magazine and newspaper room on the fifth. It’s just a lot to look through.” She tilts her head. “Is there a reason you didn’t want to look online?”
“They have newspapers online?” I ask. I can’t look at Rayne because I know what she’s going to say.
“Sure,” she says. “At the CDNC website.” She writes down the URL on a piece of scrap paper. “It’s really cool. You can search the entire database using any terms you want, and they scan every page. It’ll save you a ton of time.” She points to a row of computers along one wall. “If you have a library card, you can use the computers here.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the paper with me.
“Not like they’re going to scan in hundreds of years of newspapers,” Rayne says, mocking me.
“I know, I know,” I say. “Don’t push it.”
I grab my library card out of my wallet and punch the number into a vacant computer. As soon as we get to the home page for the CDNC, I stare at the empty search box for the
“How about with the Pacific Coast Club?” Rayne suggests.
I slide over. “You type it in,” I say, my right hand moving involuntarily to the splint on my left. Typing is another thing that isn’t going very well at the moment.
Rayne looks at all of the links that come up on the site. “Everything here is after 1910. Didn’t you say it was called something else back then? The door guy said it that day. The Something Mansion?”
“Right. It was.” I search my memory, but as hard as I try I can’t remember the name. I do the alphabet thing, picturing every letter in my head to see if that jars anything loose. When I get to
“Here we go,” Rayne says, as she clicks the links. Scans of old newspaper pages fill the screen. “Holy crap, there was some crazy stuff going on in San Francisco back then. Look at this one: ‘Banker’s Boy Returned for $5,000 Reward.’” She glances down the article. “They spelled clue ‘clew.’ Here’s one where an army corporal was hanged. A rustler was shot out in Stockton, and there was a high-binder murder in Chinatown.”
“Focus, Rayne,” I say. I put my right hand on the mouse, moving the cursor to a tiny article that’s highlighted. “Look at this! From July 20, 1895: ‘Sutter Mansion Tragedy Trial.’” I read in a whisper. “ ‘The jury in the case of Lucio Barone, on trial for the attempted murder of Clarissa Catalani and second-degree murder of Alessandra Barone last New Year’s Eve, today returned a verdict of guilty on both counts.’”
“Oh my God!” Rayne says. “Is that it? Isn’t Clarissa you? Who was Lucio Barone?”
I sit stunned in my seat. “Her father. Alessandra’s.” I think back to the chaotic scene on the rooftop where Signore Barone is pointing to me as the cops surround me. “I didn’t do it. It was him all along. And he told the police that it was me.” My heart races as I turn this information over in my head, and relief floods my body. “If Griffon’s right, then Veronique must think it was me. That I was the one who killed her. But it wasn’t. And now I can prove it.”
“What’s that about attempted murder?” Rayne says, reading the article over again. “It must mean that her dad tried to kill you too.”
That stops me short. “I have no idea. I don’t remember anything about that. All I know is that I was up on the roof looking down at Alessandra’s body.”
“Well, if there was a trial, there’s got to be more information in here. Somewhere between January and July of that year.” She reaches over and types something else in the search box.
“Who was Paolo Sartori?” she asks, looking back at me as the results come up.
“Paolo was Alessandra’s boyfriend,” I say. “I don’t think I knew his last name.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t take her death well,” she says. She tilts the screen so I can see the article.
January 7, 1895
SUTTER MANSION TRAGEDY CONTINUES—SARTORI KILLS SELF WHILE DESPONDENT
Paolo Sartori, a member of the Young Masters Orchestra involved in the Sutter Mansion Tragedy, committed suicide at 11:20 last night by shooting himself in the head with a small pistol. He died soon after firing the shot. Despondency is suspected as the cause of Sartori’s self-destruction. After returning to the Black Swan Hotel last night, instead of going to his room, Sartori sat at the foot of the stairs, unfastened his coat and vest,
