Nico frowned again. “Carmella has no respect for tradition. Baking zeppole when it’s not Saint Joseph Day! Then she goes about early in the day, without a companion or a chaperone. Is she here?” He looked around, as if she might suddenly pop out of a cabinet or from under the table. “Foolish of her. Unnecessary. I am beginning to believe it was a mistake for you to introduce her to the Fleurys. They introduced her to the Women’s Cooperative Printing Union. Carmella talks about it incessantly. Have you seen what this union prints? I have been too lenient. Carmella is associating with people not of her station. Her words and actions could cast doubt upon her reputation.”
And make it difficult for you to find a “worthy match” for her, thought Inez uncharitably. Carmella had been right about her brother’s opinion. Apparently, Nico would just as soon keep her at home, doing needlework, baking, cooking, playing the piano—but not too much, just a few non-challenging parlor tunes—until he found her a suitable husband. However, as Inez now knew, Carmella had her own ideas of a suitable mate, and had not waited for Nico to bring a parade of beaus to her door.
“She left for home soon thereafter. You did not see her in passing?” Without waiting for his response, she added, “Otto Klein then came by, with the most distressing news.” She sank onto a chair by the table, staring at the bristling bouquet.
“And what news is that?”
“I should say first, there is some doubt about all this. The information comes from Otto, remember. Early today, someone, who might or might not be Jamie Monroe, was found dead. Murdered.”
“Dio Mio!”
The shock in Nico’s voice was plain. Inez looked up and saw his face was nearly as pale as Carmella’s had been. “Where?”
“In the Mission Creek channel by Long Bridge.” She looked back down and touched one of the fern fronds. “Whether Jamie or someone else, it was apparently a young man.”
“Perhaps one of the men who work on the wharves or in the ships?”
“A longshoreman told Otto he thought it was Mr. Monroe, although apparently the face is badly disfigured. There must have been some reason he believed so. The clothes? Something else? In any case, I would think the man would have known if it was one of his kind.”
“But Jamie Monroe? That area is not a place for a proper young man to be. If it was him, what was he doing down there? I wonder if anyone is asking those sorts of questions.”
Inez raised a hand, palm up. How like Nico to think of reputation and little else. After a moment’s silence she said, “Nothing is known for certain right now. Perhaps Jamie…or whoever this is…was killed elsewhere and brought there, dumped, as it were, in the sewer. Perhaps his killers thought his remains would drift out into the bay. It’s horrible. Treating a human being as if he is a piece of garbage. A tragedy, all around.”
She sensed Nico passing behind her and turned in the chair to view him. His face had regained its normal hue and he appeared appropriately somber. “You are correct, of course, Signora Stannert. I spoke hastily and not with compassion. It is a tragedy, no matter who it is. And it sounds as if the identity is in question. Perhaps we will never know who he is, but that does not lessen the injustice.”
The back door swung open, admitting John Hee. He looked surprised at finding them there, then the surprise vanished, leaving only a polite affect. He removed his large brimmed hat and bowed to Inez. “Good morning, Mrs. Stannert.” A deeper bow to Nico. “Mr. Donato.”
A small, sturdy man of Chinese extraction and indeterminate age, John Hee wore his hat pulled low and a tailored American-style suit. With his long braided queue tucked under the collar of his jacket, no one on the street would give him a glance, as long as he didn’t look up.
“Ah, John!” Nico seemed glad of the diversion. “The Imari vase met a violent end. I will see if I can find another for Signora Stannert’s flowers. And here,” he gestured at the musical case on the table, “is a clarinet that requires your attention at once. William Ash needs it for an engagement tomorrow.”
John Hee opened the case and inspected the clarinet. “Many bent key.”
“Yes, yes. So, if you please.”
John looked from the flowers, to Nico, and, finally, to Inez. Inez wondered how much he had heard before he opened the door. Anything? Nothing? It was clear he had his own opinions and thoughts that he was keeping to himself. In any case, John knew all the young men who spent time in the store, so Inez felt she should tell him, if Nico wouldn’t. “Mr. Hee, we just heard from Mr. Klein that someone bearing a resemblance to Mr. Monroe, the pianist, was grievously murdered. We don’t know the identity for certain. Mr. Monroe has not been seen for a day or two, and did not return to his boardinghouse last night.”
John’s gaze roved from Inez to Nico and back again. “A young man, met with violence? The young, so careless. It is said, he who thinks but does not learn is in great danger.”
“A platitude to ponder while repairing the clarinet,” said Nico. He glanced out into the showroom floor. “I believe I see our first customer of the day peering through the front window. Has the sign been turned from CLOSED to OPEN? Not yet? I shall do so.”
He strode out into the front of the store, his hard leather soles snapping briskly against the polished pine floor.
The noontime church bells began their discordant ringing, vying with each other. Inez wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but abstained. John seemed oblivious to the clamor. He stayed where he was, clarinet in hand, eyes on Inez. He finally spoke, barely loud
