Antonia squatted down. “I know you didn’t kill anybody. But they found a bloody brick at the laundry. Did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“Your ma and aunt came to see Mrs. S and I heard them talking. Mrs. S, she’s trying to track the real killer. I came here to see if I can help you. Maybe I could bring Mrs. S out here and you and her could talk.”
“No!” he sounded alarmed. “But if she’s looking for who did it, I have something I want you to take back to her. Maybe it’ll help.”
He crawled back into the tent. Antonia heard him say, “Where’d you put it? The fancy collar I gave you.”
“You’re not gonna give it to that girl-boy?” demanded Black Bill. “I can get a lot for that one. At least a dollar. Maybe more.”
“Look, I trust Antonia. She’ll make sure you’ll get paid for it.”
“Well, since you gave it to me in the first place…” Some more inarticulate mumbling ensued and eventually Patrick reappeared, a bedraggled something clasped in one hand.
He held it out to her. “Carry this someplace really safe.”
Antonia stared at the item dangling from his large hand. It was limp, like a dead animal. Then Antonia realized it was a fur collar, once white with black fur slashes. It would’ve been regal, if not matted with dirt, brown gunk, and blobs of dried…something.
There was only one person she’d ever seen wearing a collar like this.
A little faint and a lot queasy, she asked, “Where’d you get this?”
“Tell Mrs. Stannert I found it the night of the murder in the spot I showed her. Tell her that on that night, after the ruckus died down and everyone left, I went back and found it there. Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before. I didn’t say anything to her because I didn’t know it meant anything. I just thought it was a rag that might be worth something to Black Bill.”
“Oh, it’s worth more’n the dollar Black Bill talked about,” said Antonia, gingerly taking the fur—was that dried blood all over it?—and stuffing it into her oversized jacket pocket. “This here rag is worth your life, Patrick. It’s gonna prove you didn’t kill Jamie Monroe.”
Chapter Forty-two
It was getting toward dusk, but Inez had one more stop to make.
She had to be sure that her growing suspicion had some basis. That there was motive. To kill a young man because he is enamored of your sister, is that enough? Penny-dreadful novels might be littered with even more improbable tales, but this was a real murder. Inez thought such a motive was pretty thin. There were many ways to discredit a penniless musician and drive him out of town. All Nico would have had to do was whisper to people he knew, and doors would slam in Jamie’s face. It just seemed if Nico was the killer, there had to be something more.
So that is why she directed the hack driver, Joseph Lynch, to Carmella and Nico’s home out in the newly minted Western Addition. An elegant three-story, it sat cheek-by-jowl with neighbors to either side without losing its dignity. Inez paid the driver, thanked him for his time, and made certain to add a generous tip for the Barbary Coast portion of the journey. She mounted the steps and rang the bell, fervently hoping Nico would not be in.
If, God forbid, he was, and they ended up face to face, it would be an exceedingly awkward meeting on several levels. However, she at least had a ready explanation for her unannounced visit. Since Welles had volunteered that he would tell Nico of Jamie’s death and Nico would then tell Carmella, Inez guessed Carmella would have been “informed” by her brother by now. This provided the rationale for Inez to drop by and see how Carmella was faring.
The door flew open. Much to Inez’s relief, Carmella stood there, an apron over her housedress, flour up to her wrists. White splotches along a cheekbone revealed where she must have absent-mindedly rubbed the back of her hand.
Carmella grabbed both of Inez’s hands, effectively powdering her kid gloves. “Oh, Mrs. Stannert! I am so glad to see you! Come!” She pulled Inez inside. “I sent the housemaid and cook home early today. They have been hovering and driving me mad. This means we can talk without worrying about their overhearing.”
She led Inez past a formal parlor to the right and a music room to the left, its bay window facing the street. In the music room Inez glimpsed a parlor grand piano, comfortable chairs, a cluster of music stands holding sheet music, and a few paintings on the walls, before she was whisked further into the house.
“Thank you so much for your message,” Carmella added, herding her toward the rear of the house. “The boy was very precise. He obviously thought it was a strange warning to deliver, but he was very polite and waited for me to pen a response to you. Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did. I take it that Nico told you of Jamie’s death?”
“Ah, sì. And hearing it broke my heart all over again. It was terrible. I couldn’t say anything, I just cried. I think Nico now feels sorry for how he treated Jamie in the past.”
Sorry or guilty? Inez wondered grimly. “Well, thank you for sending a note back. Otherwise I would have been on pins and needles, worrying about you being taken by surprise.”
“And I’ve been on pins and needles myself, wanting to know how last night went. Nico left early this morning, before I was even awake, or I would have asked him.”
Inez, startled, wanted to pursue this pronouncement, but
