Antonia saw the string was indeed a thin braid of dark, shining hair.
Mr. Brown continued, “She had beautiful hair, your mother, your Maman. Your hair is just like hers, Antonia. You are so clearly your mother’s daughter, in appearance and in spirit. She had a bright spirit, independent, strong, and loved you a great deal.”
Tears overflowed. She hated to blubber like a baby, but here she was. Everything was blurry, including Mr. Brown, and she couldn’t be seeing very well because it almost looked like he was going to cry too.
He reached inside his pocket again, pulled out a card, and put it on top of the locket in her hand. “This is my business card, with my name. W. R. de Bruijn. The W. R. stands for Wolter Roland. Sometime, whenever you wish, we could perhaps talk. You can ask me anything at all and I will do my best to answer. I am staying at the Palace Hotel. If you want to talk, or if you need my help, I will come immediately, without hesitation. At the hotel, give the hotelier this card. Otherwise, you can ask Mrs. Stannert to contact me. Bring Mrs. Stannert with you, too, if you would feel more comfortable having her there.” He stood and brushed his hand over his mustache and beard, as if to stop himself from saying more.
“Th-thank you,” blubbered Antonia.
All of a sudden, Mrs. Stannert was there, an arm around her shoulders, a hip to lean against. “Antonia?”
She snuffled and spluttered, “I’m fine. I’ve got to go w-work on my t-times tables now.”
Clutching the locket tight, she dashed out the door of the music store. Cool, damp air surrounded her and seemed to add more tears to her face. She ran past the storefront, unlocked the door to the second-floor apartment with clumsy fingers, and pounded up the stairs.
It took two handkerchiefs to clear her nose. She threw each wadded piece of linen into the corner of her room. Finally, she took a clean one and wiped her face. After setting the locket on her bedside table, she used one finger to shut the tiny silver door on the image of her maman.
She sat on her bed for a little bit, sadness rocking her like waves on the ocean. Finally, after a long shuddering breath, Antonia removed her shoes, flexed her stockinged feet, and wrapped herself in one of Mrs. Stannert’s old shawls she used as a coverlet on the bed. She picked up the two hairpins, one bent and one broken, and went down the hallway toward the back room and her listening post, whispering the times tables to herself as she went.
Chapter Twenty-six
As Inez and de Bruijn started toward the back of the store, she asked, “And what was that about?”
“A private business,” said de Bruijn, courteously enough, but with a certain firmness that indicated the door to further discussion was closed.
Inez grabbed that implied door and wrenched it open. “Anything having to do with Antonia is my business. I don’t know how much you heard about what happened to her and her mother in Leadville, but believe me when I say I have guarded her life with my own, doing things that could perhaps get me thrown in prison, should they become known. So.” She gave him the eye. “Tell me. Now.”
For a moment she thought he would not respond. Finally, he produced a small, almost indiscernible sigh and said, “I have been carrying a memento from her mother, Drina, since she left Denver with Antonia. Once I uncovered Drina’s fate, I promised myself that I would deliver it to her daughter. That is all.” He set the head of his cane against the passage door, adding, “Well, not quite all. I also gave Antonia my business card and told her she could call on me for aid at any time. No questions asked.” He pushed the door open. “After you, Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez stopped at the threshold. “She has me. I am well prepared and able to protect her from any dangers that may befall her.”
“And if something should befall you? Not to be melodramatic, but that is possible, given the type of business we are dealing with here.” He closed the door behind them.
“What kind of business is that?” said Flo brightly. She was sitting at the round table, an oil lamp in the middle casting a soft light on a bottle of brandy, close at hand and quite a bit emptier than Inez had seen it last.
De Bruijn removed his hat and set it on the table. “We were discussing the investigation.”
A snifter with three fingers’ worth of Inez’s very best sat before the madam. Two additional goblets, only slightly less full, waited in front of chairs to either side of her.
Flo had thrown off her dark coat to display bare shoulders, milky pale in the lamplight, set off by a dress of sapphire blue and a necklace of pearls that suggested many oysters had given up their treasures to grace a generous décolletage that would make most men swoon.
“Excuse me,” she said, fanning herself with a blue silk fan of the same hue. “I have an engagement directly after, and there would be no time to change. Mr. Phillip Poole is taking me to the theater and after-theater-supper at Maison Doree.” She preened a little. “Have you heard of it, Mrs. Stannert? The most fashionable restaurant in the city. I expect we shall see many of the beau monde and bon ton there. It’s the Delmonico of San Francisco. I mustn’t be late in meeting him at the Palace Hotel.”
Her eyes sparkled, with a gleam that some might attribute to anticipation or perhaps a previous helping of brandy, but Inez, long acquainted with Flo, recognized the brightness as the shine of a predator.
“On the hunt tonight, Mrs. Sweet?” Inez asked, sliding into the seat on one side, ignoring de Bruijn’s pulled out proffered chair on
