Mrs. Young had leapt at the bait, her response instant and enthusiastic. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Stannert! Such a remarkable woman! In fact, she is due here shortly to discuss a business proposition with me. I hope to expand my spring offerings, you see. If you and Mrs. Sweet are in San Francisco over the New Year, she should come by. I expect to have all the latest fashions in stock.”
Such confluences of events occasionally happened in his investigations. Even better, he had had to wait in the stand-up bar across the street less than an hour before a woman answering to Mrs. Stannert’s description had walked into the millinery shop without a single glance around. At least she hadn’t arrived while he had been in discussion with Mrs. Young.
He continued his report, “Mrs. Stannert was not there for the hats. It seems she and the milliner Mrs. Young are in business together. I did not have time to pursue the details.” Privately, de Bruijn thought that Mrs. Stannert seemed quite the enterprising woman. He was curious as to how far and in what directions she was casting her net.
“I had hoped that, given Mrs. Sweet’s visit to Mrs. Stannert, that Mrs. Stannert might then proceed to your son’s current location, to warn him, or encourage him. However, she returned to the music store. I followed, and made it a point to get visual confirmation. She is as you described her.”
He forbore to add Mr. Gallagher had described Mrs. Stannert to him most thoroughly. That description had also been delivered with a familiarity that had raised several questions in de Bruijn’s mind—questions he had decided were best left unasked.
“Good,” said Gallagher, although his tone had nothing good about it.
De Bruijn said, “I would suggest we hire a lady Pinkerton of my professional acquaintance, a Miss Elizabeth O’Connell, to keep Mrs. Sweet company tomorrow. That will give me the time I need to pay a visit to Mrs. Stannert and extract what she knows about your son.”
Gallagher swept up the trade card. “As you wish. I’ll pay her a visit this evening before the dinner party at the Floods and question her myself.”
“I would not advise that.” The words slipped out before de Bruijn had time to consider them.
Gallagher stood, adjusting the silk vest of his black dress-suit, pale eyes cold as ice. “When I want your advice, I shall ask, Mr. de Bruijn. With Poole also looking for Robert, there is no time for niceties, and I am disinclined to wait until morning and make a formal visit, calling card in hand. For now, arrange for the lady Pinkerton you spoke of, and then arrange to keep Mrs. Sweet off the streets and out of trouble for the rest of the evening.”
Chapter Eleven
After Nico and John Hee left, Inez shooed the lingering musicians out, saying, “Suppertime, gentlemen, time for me to close the store. I will be back for our usual evening gathering, of course.”
She knew they looked forward to the Monday night round of cards that she allowed—and subtly encouraged—in the back room. Being that Monday was when the theaters were closed and many of the musical folks were at loose ends, it proved a good time for them to all relax and catch up.
“Good,” said William Ash. “Had quite a good run at Woodward’s Gardens last week and actually have a few pennies to rub together for tonight’s game.”
“Which you will no doubt promptly lose,” grumbled his brother Walter. “Just remember to hold enough aside for next week’s room and board. I’ll not float you again.”
They all left in a gaggle, no doubt to carry on their discussion at one of the many elbow-bending establishments on the edge of the Barbary Coast district that catered to musicians.
Inez elected to take Antonia to the nearby Russ House, eschewing Mrs. Nolan’s cold boiled ham and gossipy boarders. There, over consommé, broiled mutton chops, mashed potatoes, and apple pie, Antonia poured out her sorry day at school, concluding with when her Swinton’s went spinning into the street.
Inez tried to listen. Part of her mind remained distracted, torn between the morrow’s visit with Carmella to the morgue, the man who had been following her—at least, according to Antonia—and Antonia’s deceased mother.
“So, you heard her voice after all this happened, correct?” Searching for pragmatic explanations, Inez surmised that perhaps the strain of the day’s events at school had brought Antonia’s mother “back.” Although she respected the beliefs of others, Inez did not believe in connections between the earthly and less corporeal realms. What she’d seen of the activities of spiritualists, mediums, and various brethren of the table-knocking fraternity reminded her of nothing so much as the flimflam and cagey doings of those employed in the confidence trade.
Antonia stabbed the remaining crust of pie and flattened the fork, crumbling the flaky pastry into bits. “Yes’m. But I wasn’t thinking about school when I was walking. I wasn’t thinking about Maman. Just all of a sudden, she was there. Inside my head.”
Antonia was shaken and upset enough that Inez kept her suspicions to herself. She said simply, “Well, no matter. You do realize that you lost your mother just about a year ago, yes? Perhaps that has something to do with this.”
“Maybe,” muttered Antonia, sounding unconvinced. Her fork chased the crust crumbs around the plate, gathering them and driving them into the sticky puddle of syrup in the middle.
The two of them finished their evening meal and
