“Good. Since there is a chance that it is someone else, it seems best if we keep this to ourselves for now and not spread rumors. Wouldn’t you agree?”
At that moment, the door banged open with a vengeance. Welles stopped mid-refrain and everyone turned to look at Antonia in the doorway. She closed the door carefully, as if to make up for her noisy entrance. Violinist Giotto Laguardia smoothed back his dark hair. “Antonia, you are all wet! Did you forget your umbrella again?” All the young men doted on and teased the girl, but Giotto seemed the most eager to please, perhaps thinking that by endearing himself to Antonia, he would eventually worm his way into Carmella’s heart as well.
Ignoring him, she headed for Inez, leaving a line of wet footprints on the polished floor. “Mrs. S, I have to talk to you.” She lowered her voice. “It’s important.”
Inez turned to Nico. “Give us a few minutes?”
Nico fidgeted, glancing at John Hee, who shrugged. “Very well,” said Nico, grudgingly.
Inez put an arm around Antonia’s shoulders and guided her into the back area. As soon as the door closed, Inez asked, “Did something happen at school?”
“No.” Antonia looked a little shifty-eyed and crossed her arms.
Inez mentally filed away a reminder to pursue the school issues later. “What then?”
“Someone was following you. I saw him.”
Inez’s breath caught, and it was her turn to cross her arms. “Where? When?”
“When you were walking down Pine. To the store. I was across the street. When you went inside he turned around and went back the way he came.”
“Have you seen him before, that you recall?”
She shook her head.
“Can you describe him?”
Antonia mentioned the umbrella, gray hat, checked jacket, spectacles. No help there, Inez thought, it could be one of thousands of men.
Antonia finished with, “He had a little beard.”
“Was his beard dark? Light?”
“Dark,” she confirmed.
Inez clenched her teeth, wondering what to do with the information. It wasn’t much to work with.
“Are you certain he was following me?” she pressed. “It could have been just a coincidence.”
Antonia took off her glasses, and polished them with a fold of her dress, finally looking up at Inez. Inez was struck again with those disconcerting eyes—one blue, one brown. Much like those of Antonia’s mother, but less intense in hue.
“I heard my maman.”
The words filled the room, drifting about like a conjured spirit, while Inez carefully composed a response. She knew Antonia was sensitive about these odd auditory apparitions. “It’s been quite a while since you’ve heard your mother’s voice, hasn’t it?” she asked gently.
Antonia nodded. She looked miserable.
“When was the last time? In Leadville?”
“Uh-huh.” Antonia’s mouth trembled. “I thought she was gone. Once we buried her in the cemetery, with the angel statue watching over her and all.”
Inez gave her young ward a moment to compose herself. “Your mother loved you with all her heart. She will never be ‘gone.’ She watches over you, in your heart, and in your mind. Always.”
“Yeah, well…” Antonia put the glasses back on. “She spoke to me. She warned me about the man following you.”
“Really? What did she say?”
Antonia stared out the back window, rubbing one hand against her skirt. The rain had changed into hail, which sounded like gunshots against the brick wall.
“She said my name. And then she said, ‘He is here.’”
Chapter Ten
The client was the client, de Bruijn thought.
The client paid for information, and when information was uncovered, it perforce was delivered.
However, there had been times when de Bruijn held back certain facts and discoveries, if disclosing them would hamper his search. Thus, he had mulled over whether it was wise to impart what he had discovered that day to his client, Harry Gallagher, or whether he ought to wait a bit. After all, he had been hired by Gallagher to find the son. That was the primary objective. Yet, he had decided to go against his better judgment for the time being. Now, he wondered whether he would regret doing so.
De Bruijn contemplated Gallagher’s thunderous count-enance, saying, “This is, of course, good news. Mrs. Sweet’s actions prove we were correct in thinking that she was in contact with Mrs. Stannert and had knowledge of her whereabouts.”
Gallagher shifted, obviously irate. “I anticipated uncovering her whereabouts would be easier.”
“She is too recently arrived in town to appear in the annual city directory or other records,” de Bruijn pointed out, yet again. “So, yes, this took somewhat longer, but we have the same results.”
Gallagher gestured impatiently, silver and diamond cufflinks glinting in the chandelier’s brilliant gaslight.
De Bruijn complied with the unspoken command. He set on the table between them the advertising card he had removed from the sheet music concealed in Mrs. Sweet’s purse. She had been anything but sweet about it when, once she had returned to the hotel, he had insisted she hand over her purse to him.
Gallagher stared down at the card.
“Donato and Stannert,” de Bruijn pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Who is this Donato?”
It was not the question de Bruijn would have asked first if he were in Gallagher’s position.
The client is the client, he reminded himself again. “He appears to be Mrs. Stannert’s business partner. I made a few general inquiries. Nico Donato is a violinist of some local renown. Performs at gatherings of such notables as Collis Huntington, Leland Stanford—”
“Yes.” Gallagher cut him off again.
De Bruijn waited to see if Gallagher had more to say, and continued when he did not. “Mr. Donato is in a quartet performing at a private party tonight, at the Flood residence.”
“It so happens I will be there.”
De Bruijn nodded.
Finally, Gallagher asked the question that de Bruijn thought he would pose first. “Are you certain this is Inez Stannert?”
“Not only did Mrs. Sweet visit the music store, she went to a milliner’s afterwards, which Mrs. Stannert also visited later.” De Bruijn decided not to mention the large part that serendipity and luck had played in his discovery of the
