The “boy” Patrick, actually fifteen or so and well on his way to being a young man, possessed a polite demeanor and an uncommon musical talent. He had been at one of the Mays’ first meetings with Inez, had drifted over to the student piano, and asked permission to play. Upon hearing him sound out a skillful two-handed rendition of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” the sisters and Inez were astonished. When Patrick was asked for an accounting, he’d ducked his head and said, “I hear music on the wharf. The tunes go in my head and out my hands.”
Inez had offered him free lessons on the spot.
He was prompt and confided he had access to a piano in a bar close to home. “They let me practice sometimes. My ma doesn’t know, auntie neither, but I don’t get into trouble, and the owner says as long as I play for free, he doesn’t care.” Inez was impressed with his progress, but sorrowed that as a mulatto and of poor birth, Patrick would find his employment opportunities limited.
When Patrick finished, she said, “Much better.” She stood, saying, “Next week, then?”
He nodded and rose.
Even through the ordinary routine of lessons and business, Inez found that the conundrum of Jamie’s death and the looming confrontation with Harry weren’t far from her mind. She had been wracking her brain, trying to think of something she could do, something she could offer to ease the blow.
She kept coming back to the same questions.
Who killed the young musician?
And why?
Was it strictly a random attack?
If so, why did he still have money in his pockets when his body was rolled into the canal?
Perhaps by visiting the area by Long Bridge, the scene of his demise—or at least where he was found—she might make some sense from what seemed a senseless situation. It wasn’t a bad part of town during the daylight hours.
Then, she remembered. “Patrick, do I recall correctly that your laundry is near Long Bridge?”
He nodded.
“How is the rebuilding coming along after the fire?”
He ducked his head and passed his hand over the tight curls. She resisted the impulse to hand him a comb. “We’s got a load of bricks t’other day. I have to work on the wall when I get home.”
She winced at the thought of his expressive pianist’s hands wielding a trowel and mortar. “I should come down and see how things are progressing.”
He looked alarmed.
“I just want to be certain your aunt and mother are getting the assistance they need,” she assured him. “You can’t rebuild it all by yourself! Perhaps hiring a laborer would make sense, hurry up the process. It can’t be easy running a laundry in a place that is still under construction.”
“No’m. My ma and aunt, well, they work all the time, and there’s plenty of business, but like you said, it’s hard.”
“That settles it then. Please tell your aunt and mother I will be coming around tomorrow.”
“Yes’m.”
After Patrick left, she returned to her desk and picked up the agreement she was to go over with the milliner, Mrs. Young, later that day. Her mind kept going back to Jamie’s death. The discovery that Jamie was Robert Gallagher. Carmella’s reaction. The dreaded meeting she would have to have with Harry.
Perhaps she should call the Palace Hotel now and ask him to come to the store.
No.
That was a bad idea.
In addition to the visit from Mrs. Young, she was expecting a buyer that afternoon for one of their upright pianos. He had brought his wife in the previous week, and the missus had given the nod for buying a compact, sound-worthy Steinway. The sale would add a tidy sum to the month’s income. Inez certainly didn’t want to be embroiled in a conversation with Harry about the death of his son and have someone walk in. It would be best to talk with him after hours. Perhaps, if the store was slow at end of the day, she could close early and arrange to meet him at the hotel.
Damn Flo for gallivanting off to the Barbary Coast that afternoon. “I might be able to find out what happened to Robert,” she’d said. “Besides, I have friends in that quarter of the city and elsewhere to catch up with. Best to do so before business hours.”
“You know madams in San Francisco?” This was news to Inez.
“Oh, I never told you? Before I came to Colorado I spent a few years here. Hence, the ‘Frisco Flo’ moniker.” She winked. “Being from the Paris of the West adds a little exotic allure.”
The entry bell clunked. The door squeaked open and slammed shut, with violence. Inez glanced at the pocket watch she’d put on the corner of the desk, surprised to see the time. The day was fleeing away. She stood and walked toward the passage. “Antonia, is that you?”
She was greeted by the sight of Harry Gallagher storming toward her.
Inez involuntarily retreated a step. Part of her wanted to slam the passage door in his face and escape out the back into the alley. Instead, she stiffened her resolve and moved forward to meet him, trying to control the shakiness in her limbs. “Mr. Gallagher, what—?”
He seized her by the arm and without a word propelled her into the office area. He was dressed as always—impeccably, expensively—but there was something wild and alarming in his eye.
He banged the door shut behind them, saying, “Did you send her with that message?”
Inez’s first thought was maybe Flo had had a change of heart and screwed up her courage to tell Harry about his son. That hope exploded when he said in barely controlled
