Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue (7 page)

To his amazement, she smiled in delight. “Thank you, dear. That's the reaction I was expecting. So, are you saying it was all right for Maeve and poor Mrs. O'Neill to go there but not me?”

“I'm not saying that at all, but they had business there. You did not.”

“You're absolutely right, my dear, but neither Mrs. O'Neill nor Maeve could possibly deal with the servants. And as you point out, someone must see to getting them positions elsewhere. They shouldn't have to suffer for the sins of their employer just because he had the bad judgment to get himself murdered.”

“Bad judgment?” he echoed, a bit confused.

“And when am I supposed to write these references?”

“I . . . uh, I may have indicated they would have them tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I'm flattered that you think I could accomplish that in one afternoon, and I probably could, if necessary, but now we're back to leaving the house empty. If I give them their references—”

“And their pay,” he added. “They apparently are owed some salary.”

“Of course they are, and we can certainly pay them from the funds Maeve found. If I give them their letters and their salary, however, they will leave within the hour. How will we then keep track of who comes and goes at that house?”

“Who would be coming and going?”

“I don't know and neither will anyone else if the house is empty.”

“But why would we need to know at all?”

“How else will we find out who Pollock's partner was and who the investors are and who might have killed him?”

Decker had so many objections to make that he hardly knew where to begin, but before he could decide, a maid knocked on the door and stuck her head in when he impatiently replied.

“Excuse me, sir, but there's a gentleman here to see Mrs. Decker.”

“Me?” Elizabeth asked. It was much too early for morning calls, which didn't begin until after luncheon.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Who is he?” Decker asked.

The maid stepped into the room and handed him a calling card for someone named Adam Yorke from Chicago. “He said to tell you his sister was Randolph Pollock's
wife.”

M
aeve left the trunk sitting in the foyer. They'd probably be moving it somewhere soon, but she didn't have time to think about that now. After a quick trip across the street to make sure Mrs. Ellsworth was willing to watch Catherine for the rest of the day—which of course she was—Maeve pulled a dress and some undergarments out of the trunk. She folded them carefully and put them into a market basket.

Then she went to the kitchen and wrapped up the leftover cake she found there. Prisoners in the Tombs were allowed not only to bring their own clothing into the prison, but they were also allowed to have food brought in to them.

When she had packed the cake into the basket, she went to the safe and got out a hundred dollars of the Pollock money, which she hoped was far more than she would need. She hid half of it in her corset and put the rest in her purse.
After slapping together a cheese sandwich and wolfing it down as her noon meal, she headed out for the Tombs.

The New York City Halls of Justice and House of Detention had been designed to resemble an ancient Egyptian mausoleum and had consequently been nicknamed “the Tombs” at some point. Built on the former site of the Collect Pond, which had once provided water for the city, the structure had almost immediately begun to sink into the marshy ground and crack. Repairs had kept the place functioning for over sixty years, although no one had been able to eliminate the creeping mold and the stench from the seeping groundwater. The city had finally decided to tear the place down and rebuild it. For a year now, they'd been doing just that while leaving the prisoners inside as the work went on around them.

Maeve identified herself as Una O'Neill's cousin, and after making her way carefully around scaffolding and construction debris, she finally arrived at the women's section of the prison, where a female guard admitted her after checking the contents of her basket for anything untoward.

“Somebody already brought her clothes,” the guard said.

“I know, but this is her favorite dress. She wanted it special.”

The guard made a rude noise. “Special for what?”

Maeve shrugged. “Where is she?” she asked, suddenly realizing she didn't have any idea what Una looked like. How would she explain her failure to recognize her own cousin?

“In her cell. She never comes out.” To Maeve's relief, she pointed to one of the cubicles that lined the large central gathering area. All the cell doors stood open at this time of day, so most of the inmates were sitting at tables or gathered in groups to sew or knit or just gossip.

The buzz of conversation noticeably silenced as Maeve crossed the room and entered Una O'Neill's cell. Most of the
women jailed here would be prostitutes or thieves, so an accused murderess would be something of a celebrity. Her visitors would certainly be objects of great interest to the other inmates.

Maeve paused in the doorway of the tiny cell. The Tombs had no proper windows anywhere, and the narrow, foot-long slit in the outside wall in each cell admitted little light and less air. Gaslights burned in the gathering area, but their feeble glow barely reached here. After a moment, Maeve could make out the figure lying on the bunk, curled into itself as if for protection.

“Una? Are you awake?”

Maeve had to step closer to see that her eyes were open. She met Maeve's gaze fearfully.

“Una, my name is Maeve. I'm here to help you. I brought you some things.” She held up the basket. “I have some cake. Would you like some?”

“She don't eat nothing,” someone said.

Maeve looked back to see a woman standing just outside the cell. She wore a flashy dress cut just a little too low in front, and her hair was a shade of red not found in nature, with black roots starting to show. “Who are you?”

The woman raised her chin defiantly. “Her friend.”

“And I'm her cousin,” Maeve said. She glanced meaningfully around the cell. “I think her mother brought some of her clothes over yesterday. I wonder where they could be?” She looked back at the red-haired woman, giving her the look her grandfather had made her practice in the mirror until she got it just right. “If they've been stolen, it'll go hard on that person.”

The woman's chin dropped instantly. “I been keeping her stuff for her so nobody else would take it.”

“You can bring it back, then. Right now,” Maeve added when the woman didn't move.

The woman's mouth twisted with fury, but she scurried off.

Maeve turned to Una, who stared back with wide-eyed amazement. “You need to sit up.”

Without bothering to get consent, Maeve set down her basket and lifted Una to a sitting position, swinging her feet down to the floor so she sat on the side of the bunk.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Maeve asked.

Una continued to stare at her, and for a moment, Maeve was afraid she wouldn't reply, but at last she shook her head.

“I brought you some cake.” Maeve pulled the bundle from the basket and carefully unwrapped it. She'd scraped off the frosting, as the trip had caused it to crumble a bit, but she knew that wouldn't affect the taste. She broke off a chunk. “Here.”

She held it to Una's mouth, but the woman just continued to stare at her.

“You need to eat. If you don't, you'll get sick and die. Is that what you want?”

The fear-filled eyes flooded with tears, and she nodded.

“Oh, for heaven's sake! Don't be a goose. Do you think you're the only person who ever had some trouble in her life? Do you think you're the only woman whose husband died? Life is hard, Mrs. Pollock, and bad things happen. If people rolled over and died every time they did, there wouldn't be a single person left in this city. Somebody killed your husband, Mrs. Pollock. Don't you want to see that person punished?”

Una blinked, sending the tears rolling down her cheeks, but she nodded.

“So do I. Now eat this cake. It's delicious.”

Una obediently opened her mouth, and Maeve fed her the chunk of cake.

After the second bite, Una took the remaining cake from Maeve and began to feed herself. Maeve stepped back to watch.

Una was almost finished when the red-haired woman
returned with a hastily wrapped bundle. She stopped dead in her tracks. “She eating?”

“Yes, she is.” Maeve took the bundle from her. “This better be all of it.”

“I ain't no thief,” she protested with creditable outrage.

“You're in jail,” Maeve reminded her.

The woman chose to ignore that. She studied Una for a moment. “She won't last long in here.”

“I know that, but she won't have to.”

“Says you. She done for her old man.”

“Says you,” Maeve snapped. “Get out of here.”

“I don't have to take orders from you.”

“Then take a suggestion, if you know what's good for you, and leave me alone with my cousin.”

Maeve's glare worked once more, and when they were alone again, Maeve found Una staring up at her in awe. She'd eaten all the cake, so Maeve took the napkin from her and folded it up.

“Who are you?” Una asked.

“Your cousin Maeve,” she replied with a grin. “Your mother sent me to help.”

Una continued to stare at her, and only then did Maeve really look at her.

When Maeve had packed up the remainder of Una's belongings, she'd noticed the quality of her clothes. Mrs. O'Neill had said Mr. Pollock had bought Una all new things, and he obviously had. Every garment in Una's wardrobe was practically brand-new and expensive-looking. They weren't custom-made, but she wouldn't have expected that. The dress Una wore now was of the same quality except that the entire front of it, bodice and skirt, was stiff with a brownish stain.

Blood.

Sweet Lord in heaven, she was still wearing the blood-stained
dress she'd been arrested in. Why hadn't anyone changed her clothes?

“Stand up. You need a clean dress.”

“No!” she said, her voice little more than a rusty whisper. Maeve remembered that Mrs. O'Neill had said Una hadn't spoken since the murder. Could she have really remained silent until now?

“Why not?”

Una opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Don't you want the world to see what happened to your husband?” Maeve said. “We can show them your dress. We can show them what they did to him.”

Una's face crumpled, and for a horrible moment, Maeve thought she was going to cry. Instead she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and began to unbutton the dress. Maeve had to help. Dried blood made the buttonholes nearly unyielding, but they finally got them all free. Maeve peeled the ruined bodice off her and held her hand while she stepped out of the skirt.

Her underclothes were stained as well, and Maeve helped her strip off her chemise and petticoat. She pretended not to see the bruises. Some were freshly dark while others had faded to green or yellow or even rose. Just as the maid had said, he'd hit her only where the marks wouldn't show. Maeve was afraid to see what might lurk beneath her corset and drawers so she quickly dug out a clean petticoat and slipped it over Una's head before she could think to remove the rest of her clothes.

“What dress would you like to wear?” Maeve asked. She only had the choice of the one her mother had brought yesterday and the one Maeve had randomly chosen to bring today.

“I should wear black,” she said.

“I don't think you have anything black,” Maeve said as matter-of-factly as she could manage. “You'll have to order something. In the meantime, why don't you wear this?”

She chose the darker of the two dresses, a royal blue that would bring out the blue in Una's eyes. She was, Maeve had to admit now that she'd gotten a good look at her, a truly beautiful young woman. Or she would be under other circumstances. Her haunted expression gave her a helpless air that Maeve didn't like at all. Men might find it attractive, or at least some men might. Not Frank Malloy, of course, and she hoped not Gino Donatelli. Randolph Pollock probably would have found it irresistible, along with her raven black hair and her bright blue eyes.

When Una was decently clothed again, Maeve sat down on the bunk beside her.

“Has your attorney been to see you?”

“Attorney?”

“Yes, your lawyer. Your mother hired him.”

“Why would she hire a lawyer?”

“The police think you killed your husband.”

For the first time, a spark of spirit flared in her lovely blue eyes. “I wouldn't kill Randolph! He's my husband. I love him!”

“You were the only one there when they found him, and you had blood all over you.” Maeve nodded to where she'd dropped Una's ruined dress on the floor of the cell.

“I don't remember that.”

“Do you remember if your lawyer came to see you?”

“A man was here.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I don't . . . Nothing. He asked me some questions, and then he went away. I didn't talk to him, though. I didn't know what he was asking me.”

Maeve knew the attorney well. He'd know what to do about the bruises. People might feel sorry for Una if they knew her husband beat her, but that also gave her a reason to kill him. Maeve wasn't going to tell anyone else about it until she'd talked it over with the attorney.

“What happened that day?”

“What day?” Una asked. She seemed perfectly sincere.

“The day your husband died.”

She winced. “I don't know.”

“You don't know or you don't remember?”

“I don't remember.”

“The servants said someone was arguing with Mr. Pollock.”

“Really? I don't know who that could have been.”

“Did he have a business partner?”

She frowned. She looked even more helpless when she frowned. Maeve would never understand the appeal. She wanted to slap Una. “He had business
associates
.”

“That's what he called them?”

“Yes. He would tell me he was meeting with his associates and I wasn't to bother him.”

“Do you know their names?”

“I met a few of them. We had them to dinner sometimes. He wanted them to see what a lovely wife he had.”

She seemed proud of this, although Maeve found it disturbing. Had Pollock literally shopped around until he found a woman who would look nice sitting at the dinner table? He'd hardly known Una when he proposed to her, so he couldn't have chosen her for any other reason.

“Was there anyone in particular who was . . . ?” How could she phrase it? “Who was there more often? Or who was more important than the others?”

“I don't . . . Well, maybe Mr. Truett.”

“Who was he?”

“He was . . . I guess you could say he was more like Randolph's friend. He never came to dinner, but he would visit Randolph in his study. He came almost every week.”

“Do you know his first name? What did Randolph call him?”

“He called him Truett. He was very nice to me. Randolph didn't want me to talk to him, but sometimes I would see him, and he always had a kind word to say.”

“That's nice,” Maeve said, although the words wanted to stick in her throat. Who was Pollock to tell her she shouldn't talk to someone? “Did he visit Randolph the day he died?”

Una stared at her with sad eyes. “I don't remember.”

“I'm sure it will come back to you. Now I'm going to talk to your attorney, and he'll come to see you again. This time, you need to answer his questions and do whatever he tells you to do.”

“Are you going to leave me here?” she asked in alarm.

“I have to. You'll be safe here.”

“But these other women—they don't like me.”

“Don't worry about that. They don't like anyone.”

“But they're mean to me.”

Maeve felt a small stab of pity, although she knew it was wasted. Still, she couldn't leave Una here unprotected. “If anyone tries to hurt you, call out for the matron.”