Inez sat up in bed. “What am I doing?” she said aloud. All of her thoughts, all of her concerns and worries since she had awakened had to do with the men, who suddenly loomed large in her life. Harry. Nico. Even the association secretary and Abbott. All of a sudden, what they thought, what they did, seemed crucial to her very survival.
Inez threw back the covers and got dressed. Once she was properly attired except for footwear, hat, and coat, she picked up her walking boot, weighing it in her hand as if it were the sum of her sudden awareness.
In Leadville, she had been in charge of her own destiny, the face of the Silver Queen saloon. The regulars and others had joked how she was the “Silver Queen” herself. “All hail the queen!” they’d say and raise their glasses and hats to her. She had been their equal in drinking, in poker, in facing down danger, and stepping up to protect those she loved.
Coming to San Francisco had been her decision. She had not been following in the wake of some man’s dream. Indeed, one of the things she loved about Reverend Sands was he recognized her independence, her strength, and her determination, and he accepted her as a partner, accepted her as she was. Even when she chose a different path from his.
Inez jammed her foot into the boot and grabbed the boot hook tight. “That does it,” she said aloud. If she had to stand her ground with Harry, stare his rage in the face, so be it. If he threatened to expose her past history in an attempt to sully her reputation in San Francisco, she would not deny it, not slink away, but stand tall on all the good she had done for the women she had helped in her brief time here.
She would fight.
And if, once all was said and done, she lost her claim on the music store, she would not beg. She now had to admit that claim was as flimsy as the paper their agreement was written on. Her eventual half-ownership of the store rested entirely on the whims of the man who owned it, and she suspected Nico would now insist she become his “mistress of convenience” as the price. If so, she would thumb her nose at him and walk away.
It would be his loss, after all.
She would find other opportunities.
Another life to live for Antonia and herself. Whether in San Francisco or elsewhere.
The world was a big place.
No sooner had Inez finished with boots and hat than the doorbell downstairs began ringing. She headed toward the stairs. Antonia popped her head out of her bedroom, a frown creasing her tired face. “Who’s that?”
“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Inez, opening the door onto the landing. Downstairs, the ringing stopped and the pounding began, joined by high, frantic female voices.
The May sisters.
Inez’s first thought: What on earth were the laundresses doing here, breaking down her door, on a Saturday morning?
Words emerged from the general hubbub as Inez hurried down the stairs.
“Mrs. Stannert! Are you there? Answer the door!” That was Bessie.
“Oh, please dear Lord, ma’am, please you must be there!” That was Molly.
Inez opened the door to find them both, out of breath, hair in disarray, and no hats or gloves. “What’s wrong?” Inez asked, because it was very clear something had the women in the extremity of distress.
“The police,” wheezed Bessie, and lurched forward to grip the doorjamb with her wash-worn hand, “they came for Patrick!”
“What?” Inez tried to grasp what she was saying.
“He’s no murderer!” wept Molly. “My sweet boy, he’s no murderer. How could anyone think that? Ah, the Lord God has turned his back on us!”
Bessie gaped at her distraught sister, who had thrown the skirt of her apron over her face and was sobbing hysterically. “Molly! Blaspheming will not bring him back.”
“My darling boy,” wailed Molly, a cry from the heart. “He’s payin’ for my sins.”
Inez drew them into the tiny entryway. “Patrick’s been arrested for murder?”
It was left to Bessie to explain. “They came to the laundry. Nearly broke the door down. Dragged us outside, Molly and me. They were throwin’ our bricks around, the bricks we paid good money for! And then one, he holds up a brick, sayin’ ‘Here ’tis!” and we see, it’s foul and bloody. At least, that’s what they say, ‘We’ve found the foul and bloody brick, that’s proof enough that the boy did it,’ they say.”
“Proof of what? Murder? Murder of whom?” And the light went on as soon as the words left her mouth.
Bessie confirmed Inez’s suspicions, by saying, “The dead one they found by Long Bridge. He was a musician, playin’ for Henderson next door. And we didn’t know this, but after he was killed, Patrick stepped into his shoes. So, they think he killed the poor lad for the job. And we didn’t even know! Patrick, he sleeps on the back porch, and he was sneakin’ over at night, after good people are asleep, and playin’ for that good-for-nothing drunken crimp.” Bessie spat. “When I get my hands on that boy, he’s going to wish he never saw a piano in his life nor set a foot in that vile and vulgar place.”
“The police didn’t arrest Patrick,” said Inez, catching up at last.
“He vanished.” Bessie said. “Went out the back way, most like, when he heard the voices. Which of course, makes him look guilty as sin. So, the one who used to be an officer and was always friendly to us, he’s now a detective, Lynch is his name, curse his eyes, he turns to us and says, ‘Now, Bessie, Molly, where’s your boy?’ He says, ‘It’s no good hidin’ him. We’ll find him sooner or later, and it’ll be the worse for him if it’s later.’”
Molly emerged
