Murder on Amsterdam Avenue (13 page)

But this wasn't getting him any closer to Charles's killer. “I wonder if Daisy came here to get revenge on Jenny for leaving her behind.”

Gerald frowned and lifted the glass to his lips again, only to discover to his annoyance that it was empty. “Would you like a drink?” he asked as he got up to refill it.

“No, thanks.” Frank waited until he'd sat down again. “Are you sure the two slave women really didn't want to go North with Jenny?”

“That's what she said, but we couldn't have taken them in any case. My father had to get a pass for himself and for Jenny and travel down to fetch her. You don't know what it was like then. Even if you had a pass, you couldn't count on having safe passage. A reb might shoot you just for sport, and what good would a piece of paper do you then? I don't think my mother has ever forgiven me for forcing Father to make that trip.”

Frank could easily believe that. He also noticed that Gerald hadn't answered his question about revenge. Maybe he simply didn't know, but he could be protecting someone, too. Who, though? Not Daisy, whose name he hadn't even recognized. And no one else even seemed like a likely
candidate to have killed Charles. Unless Charles wasn't quite as much of a gentleman as his grandmother had insisted.

“You have a lot of young women working in the house. Did Charles ever . . .” He gestured vaguely.

“What are you asking me? If Charles ever seduced the maids? Good God, man, that's a terrible thing to say.”

“A lot of men do, and a lot of men think colored women are no better than they have to be.”

“Not in this house.”

“Did you know Charles was sleeping in his dressing room?”

Plainly, he did not. He gaped at Frank for a long moment. “Who told you that?”

“Your wife.”

He shook his head and took a long swallow from his glass. “That girl . . .” he muttered.

Frank figured he meant Hannah. “Were they fighting?”

“Hannah and Charles, you mean? Of course they were fighting, or at least she was. Nothing ever suited her. We weren't rich enough and we didn't have the right friends and they didn't get invited to the places she wanted to go and Charles wouldn't take her to Newport.”

“And she didn't like him having a job.”

“No, she didn't. She hated that, although she didn't object to spending his money.”

“Your mother said you'd gotten him the job.”

“My mother? You
have
been busy if you've spoken with her.”

“She came to see me before I even asked.”

“Of course she did. She must be curious. She's never met a detective before.”

“And you used your influence to find him the job.”

“I'd hardly call it influence. I asked some of my friends, men at the Knickerbocker Club. They were very helpful.”

“And which one of them suggested you talk to Virgil Adderly?”

Once again, Gerald Oakes gaped at him. He'd denied knowing Adderly this morning, but he didn't deny it now. Instead he began to weep.

F
rank waited. He'd learned not to comment when a man began to cry. Offering sympathy just humiliated him, and telling him to be a man made him angry.

After a few short minutes, Oakes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his face, and blew his nose. When he'd composed himself, Frank said, “Do you think Adderly had something to do with Charles's death?”

Oakes's eyes were terrible, full of pain and guilt and horror. “If I find out that he did, I'll kill him with my bare hands.”

“But you're upset because you suspect him.”

Oakes stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I
want
to suspect him. There's a difference.”

“Do you know of any reason he'd want to kill Charles?”

“No, of course not. Charles wasn't . . . Well, he wasn't the kind of man someone would murder. But I can't think of
anyone else I know who would even think of committing a crime of this nature.”

“And you think Adderly would?”

Oakes sighed. “I honestly don't know, but he strikes me as the kind of man who would do whatever is necessary.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. He . . . Charles needed a job, and people told me he was helpful.”

“What people?”

“I told you, some men at the club. They told me he has lots of friends in the city, and he likes to do favors for people.”

“And he did a favor for Charles by getting him the job at the hospital.”

Oakes winced. “He said he suggested to the right people that Charles would be a good candidate for the position.”

“Did you pay him?”

“No, that's the funny part. I expected I would have to pay him something, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said he was just happy to help.”

No one in New York was “just happy to help.” Men like Adderly worked hard to cultivate contacts so they could do favors for men who would then be in a position to do them favors in return. The question was, what favor had he asked of Charles and had Charles angered him by refusing to cooperate? Oakes wouldn't know the answer to that, though. Frank would have to find out some other way. “I see.”

“What do you see? Do you think Adderly did it?”

“Personally? No, but he might be responsible. I'll need to know more about what Charles was doing these past few weeks. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid. He never discussed his work with me. I think he . . . Well, Hannah was ashamed of him and
didn't want to hear what he was doing, so he just didn't talk about it at all.”

Frank would have to go to Charles's office and see what he could find out. Not for the first time, he felt his lack of authority. If he were still a detective sergeant with the New York City Police, he could make people talk to him. Now, he had no such power, so he'd have to rely on people's natural instincts to help others. He tried to remember the last time he'd encountered someone with that instinct, but he couldn't come up with anything.

“Are you going to see Adderly?” Oakes asked.

“Probably, unless I find out someone else did it first. But tell me one more thing. That woman with Adderly, the one who fainted at Charles's funeral, did you lie about not knowing her, too?”

“No. I never saw her before in my life. I swear it. I didn't mean to lie to you before about Adderly. I just . . . I couldn't think of any way he could be responsible.”

“Until we find out exactly how Charles died, we won't know who could be responsible.”

“I see that now. I won't keep anything else from you, I promise. Please, Malloy, just find out who killed my son.”

•   •   •

F
rank found Gino alone in the butler's pantry, scowling. “What's wrong with you?”

Gino blinked. “Me? Nothing, why?”

“You look like you lost your best friend.”

“I'm just trying to figure out why anybody would want to kill Charles Oakes.”

“So am I.” Frank pulled out a chair and sat down across the table from him.

Gino's scowl disappeared. “Really?”

“Yeah. Everybody in his family loved him except his wife, and nobody thinks he had enough gumption to make anybody mad enough to kill him.”

“That's pretty much what the servants said. Did you know one of them used to be a slave on Mrs. Oakes's plantation in Georgia?”

“Yeah, Daisy. Mrs. Oakes told me. That's who Hannah thinks killed Charles.”

“Really? Did she have a reason?”

“I think she picked Daisy because she's new.”

“She's new, but she loves Charles just like everybody else.”

“Everybody except his wife,” Frank corrected him.

“All the other maids liked him, too. I thought maybe he was having his way with them, but they said not. They got mad when I even suggested it.”

“They actually got mad?”

“Yeah, but I think they were just insulted that I thought of it. All the cops in New York think every colored woman is a whore, and they wanted me to know they were respectable women.”

“Oakes told me nothing like that goes on in his house, so I guess it's true. I was kind of hoping Charles threw one of them over, and she got even by putting arsenic in his bedtime milk.”

“Patsy, the one who carried the milk upstairs, she was terrified I'd blame her for it. She was near hysterical before I could calm her down.”

“So you don't think she did it?”

“No, and even if I did, they all told me that old Mrs. Oakes doesn't allow them to keep arsenic in the house.”

“That's what she told me, too. Do they know why?”

“No, they don't, and they wish she did because there's no other good way to get rid of rats, and they're pretty put out with her over it.”

“Then I guess it's true, but one of them could've bought some without telling anybody.”

“I guess they could have, but not to kill Charles Oakes. They're all really sad he died.”

“Except his wife.”

“Really? Do you think she could've done it?”

Frank shook his head. “She's a piece of work, but Mrs. Oakes doesn't think she could have done it. She wasn't anywhere near him when he first got sick or any time after. They didn't even sleep together.”

“That's strange.”

“Not for rich people. Sometimes they even have separate bedrooms.”

Gino frowned. “Are you and Mrs. Brandt going to have separate bedrooms?”

“That's none of your business, Gino, but absolutely not.”

That made him grin. “So Charles and his wife had separate bedrooms?”

Frank told him what he had learned about the sleeping arrangements of Charles and his wife and also about the timing of Charles's illness and the delivery of the poisoned milk.

“That's what I heard, too. Patsy said she carried up the milk,” Gino confirmed, “and the cook heated it up. She took it from a crock that had been delivered just that morning, and other people in the house drank out of it before and after without getting sick.”

“So the milk wasn't poisoned until after it got poured. What about the cook?”

“She's in a state thinking something she did might've
poisoned Charles, so I don't think she did it either. She was practically sobbing when I got finished with her, and not because of anything I did.”

“So the milk wasn't poisoned when she poured it. Then Patsy carried it up, but she didn't poison it either. Did anybody touch it or distract her or anything on the way?”

“She says not. She says she carried it straight up to the room where he was. Daisy took the glass from her and sent her away.”

“Who was in the sick room?”

“She didn't see anyone but Daisy and Charles.”

“I thought the butler was in there.”

“He didn't come in until Charles got real bad, after he drank the milk.”

Frank didn't like this at all. “Then Daisy was the last one to touch the milk before he drank it, and she was all alone with Charles so no one saw what she did.”

“And she's hiding something.”

Frank straightened in his chair. “How do you know?”

“She lied to me. She said she didn't give Charles anything except the milk, but I could tell she wasn't being honest.”

“And you let her get away with it?”

“I let Zeller stay while I questioned her. I know!” Gino held up his hands to stop Frank's outraged protest. “I shouldn't have, but she was so scared, I was afraid she wouldn't talk at all if he didn't stay. He's . . . I think he's sweet on her or something.”

“Sweet on her? What makes you say that?”

“Because of the way he treated her. He was protective of all the maids, but Daisy was the only one he wouldn't leave. He . . . I don't know, but he acted like he was worried about her, the way you'd be worried that somebody was going to hurt your sister's feelings or something.”

“So he treated her like a sister?”

Gino shook his head. “A sister or a wife. A woman you care about.”

“There's a difference between a sister and a wife.”

“If you're asking me if he is in love with her, I don't know, but I didn't want to risk pushing her and making him mad. He could've told the other maids not to talk to me.”

“You did the right thing. We'll get another chance at this Daisy.”

“Maybe we should get Mrs. Brandt to talk to her. She'd probably be too scared of you, too.”

“You might be right. Is there anybody else here you think we need to talk to?”

“I think I saw all the servants who know anything. What do you think we should do now?”

“What do
you
think we should do now?”

Gino sat back in surprise. “I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I . . . Well, I guess we should find out where Charles was and what he was doing the day he first got sick.”

“And if he was doing anything that could've made somebody mad enough to kill him.”

•   •   •

“T
his is exactly what I've been afraid of,” Sarah said.

“You've been afraid of riding in a carriage?” her mother asked as her carriage carried them through the city streets.

“Of course not. I've been afraid that you're going to draw me back into society, where I'll spend my days visiting other society ladies and drinking tea and gossiping.”

“I hope you think more of me than that, Sarah. Really, I wouldn't have suggested this if I didn't think it would help Mr. Malloy find out who killed poor Charles Oakes.”

Sarah didn't believe that for a minute, but she did, at least, believe her mother thought she was helping. “Tell me again why we're going to see this Mrs. Peabody?”

“Because she's known the Oakes family all her life, and she's the biggest gossip I know.”

In the world of New York society, where gossip was the grease that smoothed the gears of conversation, this was quite an achievement, Sarah knew. “But what do you think she can tell us that Malloy can't find out for himself?”

“We won't know that until we hear what she has to say, will we? But I do know she's been friends with Prudence Oakes since they were in the nursery. If Charles was involved in anything unsavory, she'll have caught wind of it.”

Esther Peabody lived in a comfortable home on a once-fashionable street in Murray Hill. Many of her former neighbors had moved to newer parts of the city, and all around her, their old houses were being razed for more modest brownstone town houses. Sarah understood as soon as they were ushered into Mrs. Peabody's slightly shabby parlor that she lacked the means to follow her old friends and would spend the remainder of her days living here in reduced circumstances, as many of the older families did.

Mrs. Peabody was a plump woman with the face of a cherub. She wore an old-fashioned lace cap over her graying hair, and her lavender dress spoke of a half-mourning period for her late husband that would probably never end. She perfectly matched the overstuffed and lace-doilyed decoration of the room, which had been the style of the previous generation.

She greeted Mrs. Decker warmly and seemed delighted to see Sarah, who had become an object of curiosity ever since the notice of her engagement to Frank Malloy had appeared in the newspapers.

“Have you set a date for your wedding?” Mrs. Peabody asked Sarah when they were settled on the faded horsehair sofa and had been served tea.

“Not yet. We're waiting for our house to be ready.”

“And will you have a big wedding? I should love to see it,” she said hopefully.

“I'm afraid it's going to be a small affair, just family and a few close friends.”

“It's the second marriage for both of them,” her mother said. “And Mr. Malloy isn't accustomed to being in society.”

“You must tell me how you came to meet such an interesting man, Sarah,” Mrs. Peabody said, and Sarah understood that this was her repayment for whatever information Mrs. Peabody would give them in return. She told a very brief version of her first encounter with Frank Malloy and how they had, together, solved the murder of a young woman Sarah had known.

“How thrilling,” Mrs. Peabody said. “I can truthfully say I have never known anyone who was murdered.”

“At least to your knowledge,” Sarah's mother said.

Mrs. Peabody smiled over her teacup. “Quite true. One does wonder sometimes, when inconvenient spouses conveniently die, doesn't one?”

“Or a young person is suddenly taken ill,” her mother said.

“And especially when the two things happen together.”

Sarah's mother feigned surprise. “Are you speaking of someone in particular?”

“You know I am. You were at Charles Oakes's funeral, too.”

“Do you think Hannah found him inconvenient?”