“What do you mean?” Inez asked.
“Nico insists I can do better. He wants me to marry someone ‘socially acceptable,’ rich, someone from Nob Hill. Oh! It is ridiculous. Someone like that would never even look at me, the daughter of a fruitmonger, no matter how much they might call on Nico for his violin. And it wouldn’t matter if they did, because I only wanted to marry Jamie!”
Carmella covered her face.
Inez laid a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder and kept her peace. There was nothing she could say to ease Carmella’s grief or shock. Only time would help her to come to terms with her loss.
The carriage rocked on, the squeaks of the harness and rattling of the wheels filling the space. Finally, Carmella’s muffled voice emerged. “Have the driver take me home. I cannot bear any more right now.” She added, “Please, don’t tell Nico any of this.”
“I understand. I will not compromise you. However, at some point, the news about Jamie’s death may come out. You should prepare yourself. You can talk to me anytime, Carmella. You know where to reach me.”
After the carriage dropped Carmella in front of the Donatos’ tidy three-story home in the Western Addition, Inez pondered her next steps. No matter how she looked at the situation, it didn’t look good. She dismissed her first impulse, which was not to tell Harry. He would tighten the screws until one of two things happened: he either accepted that Robert was unfindable or he found out that Robert was dead and had been living under an assumed name.
No.
She dare not chance that he uncover the connection between Robert and Jamie through his detective or through some other means. She would have to tell him. But when? And how?
And what of Jamie’s friends and Nico? They would have to be told at least some of the truth. Once Harry claimed his son’s body, perhaps she could simply tell them family had taken Jamie away for a proper burial, which would be true. The focus would then switch to how he died, and why, and who killed him. Inez closed her eyes for a moment. What a sorry mess. She let the sounds of traffic flow over her inside the womblike closure of the carriage.
Now, of course, she could see the resemblance of the son to the father. The way Jamie leaned against the door, his almost colorless light blue eyes, the angular planes of his face, even the studied casualness in his tone and the cold anger that could grip him in a flash. Stance, cadence of speech, physiognomy—all of it was familiar. Too familiar. Replace the cigarette with a cigar. Replace the worn overcoat with an elegant, expensive tailcoat. Add a mustache.
Harry.
She shook herself out of her reverie. She couldn’t blame herself for not seeing it before. Robert had facial hair in the Leadville photograph, but had been clean-shaven as Jamie in San Francisco. Then, there had been the distraction of having Harry loom over her in close quarters while she examined the image. Even if she had identified Robert from the photograph, it would have been too late. He was already dead.
So, first things first. She would have to meet with Flo and they would have to come up with a plan.
The carriage bumped to a halt in front of D & S House of Music and Curiosities. A window painter was crouched at the large front display pane of glass, methodically scraping off the “S,” his cans of white and black paint close by.
For a terrified moment, she thought that Nico had somehow got wind of her past vocations and less savory Leadville investments, and was erasing her from his life and the store name.
Inez disembarked, paid the driver, and hurried over, demanding, “What are you doing?”
He looked up startled.
“I am the manager. What is going on here?”
“Mr. Donato hired me to spell out the store name,” he said, and wiped a hand across his forehead. Inez noticed that the creases in his hands and knuckles were traced in white. “Since you’re here, I can ask: Stannert is with a double n, right?”
So. Nico was moving forward with the change in name for the store. That must be what he wanted to talk to me about this morning. Inez didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. In any case, she had more pressing things on her mind, so she let it go.
She looked at her pocket watch. There were only minutes before the infernal noontime bells began their chorus. She stepped to the corner and glanced toward the stock exchange. There were any number of street urchins hovering around, who should probably have been at school but weren’t, opting instead to earn pennies by delivering messages to downtown businesses and offices. She hurried up the block, just as the church bells began to ring, and nabbed a boy who looked clean around the ears and therefore perhaps a little more responsible than the rest.
She held up a dime. “I have a very important message that must be delivered in person to a guest at the Palace Hotel. Can you do it? There will be another like this one when you bring back a reply.”
He brightened at the sight of the coin. “Sure!”
“It’s not a written message. You’ll need to commit it to memory, but it’s short. I need you to ask for Mrs. Florence Sweet. When you see her—face-to-face, mind—tell her that you have a message from Mrs. Young. The message is this: Mrs. Young has a bonnet that she thinks Mrs. Sweet would like. A very special bonnet. Add that it is urgent that she come as soon as possible. Emphasize ‘urgent,’ please. And the message goes
