Time of Fog and Fire: A Molly Murphy Mystery (Molly Murphy Mysteries) (31 page)

I swallowed back the bad taste in my mouth. “So she’ll go free?”

“We’re under martial law. I’ve ordered my men to shoot looters on sight and I’m pretty sure unjust deaths have resulted, but I have to keep the peace no matter what. I’m afraid a civilian murder is outside my jurisdiction. And Bella Rodriguez was a great benefactor of the city, so one understood.”

I looked him straight in the face. “You’re a soldier. Murder comes easily to you.”

“I assure you it doesn’t, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said. “I’ve regretted every man I’ve had to kill. But I’ve always believed I’ve been working for the greater good. And at this moment the greater good is keeping order in a place of utter devastation. And this is the West Coast. Order is different here. You’ll be back in New York, where there is law and order. In many ways this is still the Wild West. Life is cheap. Winner takes all. That’s just the way of it.”

“Then I’m really glad we’re going home,” I said. I stood up, nodded my thanks to Mrs. Funston, and excused myself.

Thirty-one

Up in our room I tried to swallow down my frustration. Of course everything the general said was right. And it wasn’t anything to do with me in the first place. What did I know about the circumstances? Señor Garcia might have been an evil person who had somehow threatened Bella or wronged Bella. But my innate sense of justice whispered to me that murder is always murder.

As I paced I must have slipped my hand into the pocket of my skirt. My fingers closed around something smooth and sharp. I pulled it out and stared down at a small photograph. It was the snapshot of Douglas and Lizzy Hatcher I had rescued from Daniel’s suitcase. I had completely forgotten that I had it. Not that it would do us any good now. If Douglas Hatcher had really been in San Francisco, he would have escaped and moved on. Or been killed by the quake.

I stared at the picture again, holding it up to the flame of the lamp. Douglas Hatcher’s proud and self-satisfied smile. And his wife looking down, embarrassed at having her picture taken. I stared again, looking harder. There was something about her that I recognized. But surely I had never met her. Then suddenly I knew what it was. Her hands were clasped into tight fists, all of the tension in her body revealing itself in those hands. And I knew where I had seen them before.

I stared down at the photograph, my heart thumping. The table that held the water jug and basin was covered in a dark cloth. I went over to it and held the cloth next to that colorless face. At that moment the door opened and Daniel came in.

“Molly, you were rather rude to our hosts,” he said. “You have to understand that General Funston has to act within the limits of his mandate and…”

“Daniel, stop.” I held up my hand. “I’ve just made an important discovery.”

“Well?”

I took a deep breath. “You were originally sent to locate Douglas Hatcher,” I said. “What if we weren’t looking for a man all this time but a woman?”

He looked amused. “You’re telling me Douglas Hatcher was a woman?”

“No. I’m suggesting that Douglas Hatcher is probably dead and the person we are looking for is his wife.” I held up the snapshot. “This was in your suitcase. I stuffed it into my pocket when I discovered the body and then forgot about it until now. Take a look at it. Douglas and Lizzy Hatcher.”

He took the photograph, studied it, and then said, “Well?” again.

“We both stayed at Lizzy Hatcher’s house.”

He laughed now. “Are you trying to tell me that Bella Rodriguez is really Lizzy Hatcher?”

“I’d like to take a bet on it,” I said.

“But they are nothing alike.” He was still smiling.

“I agree at first glance they bear no resemblance. But remember that Bella wears a black wig. She wears lots of face paint and lip coloring. And—the crucial clue that gave this away. I noticed that Bella always stood with her hands clenched into tight fists, like this. It’s a sign of hidden tension, isn’t it? Now look at the photograph. See her hands?”

He peered at it. “Yes, but…”

I took the corner of black tablecloth again and held it up beside the woman’s face. “Can you picture her now?”

“Maybe.” He sounded unsure.

“Daniel, it all makes sense now. Douglas Thatcher makes a killing selling phony land grants. He disappears. Years later Bella Rodriguez arrives in San Francisco. I didn’t tell you but one of the things I discovered in her cellar was a trunk full of money. Thousands and thousands of bills. And I’ve just thought of something else—” I paused, putting this thought into order. “She claimed her husband’s ranch was in New Mexico. But Señor Garcia was from Mexico proper. And she told me he had bought her ranch after her husband died. So what if they had fled to old Mexico—a place of little law, where few questions would ever be asked. And Douglas was content to hide out there, but Lizzy was growing tired of his bullying ways. Perhaps they went beyond bullying. Perhaps he beat her.”

I started to pace now, warming to my story, putting pieces together. “And Tiny was their ranch manager and she turned to him for sympathy and maybe more. Together they planned to kill Douglas. They buried him on the property, sold the ranch, took the money, and came here. And Elizabeth turned into Isabella, Lizzy into Bella, a flamboyant Hispanic woman who bore no resemblance to Lizzy Hatcher.”

I had been staring out of the window into the darkness as I spoke, but now wheeled back to face Daniel. “But they didn’t count on Señor Garcia digging up the body. He said he’d been making improvements, building new barns. So he discovered Douglas’s body and I’d wager he started blackmailing her. So she and Tiny had to kill him.”

Daniel was still looking at me quizzically. “Great story, Molly. How would you ever prove any of it?”

“Have the Mexican police find Douglas’s body?”

He shook his head. “After all this time Bella could easily say he died of natural causes. He fell from his horse and broke his neck. In fact she could deny any connection to him and we’d have nothing to link her to that past.”

“Maybe we could persuade Tiny to talk if he thought he was going to hang for a murder?”

Daniel sighed. “I’m afraid the general is right. There is nothing we can do for now. We can keep an eye on her if she returns to San Francisco, but my hunch would be she’d take this opportunity to move away, probably with that trunk of money you saw. I’m sure she knew that Mayor Schmitz and his cronies were in hot water and she was closely linked to them. So like so many people she’d take her chances and disappear.”

“You’re prepared to give up so easily on everything?” I asked.

“No, not give up. Bide my time. We’ve escaped an earthquake and fire, Molly. I have one task at this moment and that is to get you and Liam home safely. After that I’ll hand the matter over to John Wilkie and he can decide how he wants to pursue it.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. I sighed and turned away from him.

“Molly, you can’t always make everything right,” he said. “The world isn’t fair or just. You know that.” When I didn’t answer he turned me toward him and took me into his arms. “You were very clever to figure all this out. I stayed in her house and it never crossed my mind that the person I was looking for was under my nose. I am married to a brilliant woman.”

I gave him a slap, but I was smiling. “Stop trying to butter me up with your Irish blarney.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to bed. It seems like ages since I slept in a real bed, and next to my wife.”

I needed no more urging.

*   *   *

When we awoke in the morning I felt full of excitement and optimism. This was the day we were going home. The ordeal was over. We had survived. We ate a good breakfast of eggs and ham, drank welcome cups of coffee, and then borrowed a valise to pack our meager possessions. I thought briefly about that pink silk dress, the like of which I should probably never own again. But when you have been as close to losing loved ones as I had been you realize how unimportant possessions are.

The general had left before we were awake but we thanked his wife profusely and invited her to our house if ever they were to find themselves in New York. A soldier was sent to accompany us to the ferry building, and to drive the auto back. We set off. It was a clear, bright morning with a sky like blue glass overhead. The Bay glittered and the green hills on the other side looked serene and inviting. But as we drove into the city the clear light only accentuated the utter devastation. From Van Ness Avenue all the way to the Bay there were only blackened ruins where once there had been homes and businesses and churches and concert halls. Soot covered everything and flew up in a cloud as we drove past. Gangs of men were already working heaving bricks out of the streets and piling them onto wagons. I said a silent prayer that Daniel had not been press-ganged into joining them or who knew how long we’d have had to wait before we could go home. As it was we were to catch the next ferry.…

We bade farewell to our driver and stood on the dock, waiting for the arrival of the boat. Other refugees joined us, clutching bundles of rescued possessions. A nun supervised a group of children who stood, huddled close together, looking around fearfully.

“These poor mites all lost their parents,” she said. “Either killed or just got separated from them. I’m taking them out of harm’s way, up to Oregon, where they’ve been offered a refuge. But who knows if any of them will be reunited with their families? It breaks the heart, doesn’t it?”

I nodded, unable to speak, and thinking how close I came to losing Liam. Daniel was holding him, pointing out the ship that had docked on a nearby pier and was now unloading crates and bales of supplies. The ferry came and we piled aboard with the other refugees. Oakland station was also crowded. We learned that a train would be arriving in an hour, but it was only normal carriages, no sleeping cars, and we’d have to change in Denver, to get to Chicago. Since all we wanted was to be away, we bought two tickets and were lucky enough to find seats, while others had to stand.

In such crowded conditions we pulled out of the station. Luckily quite a few people disembarked in Sacramento and we were able to enjoy the view as the train huffed and puffed its way up the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. The peaks were still snow-clad and the late afternoon sun painted the snow pink in scenes worthy of romantic painters. More people disembarked in Reno and we were met by reporters as we tried to buy food at that miserable shack at the station. The station was full of them, waiting their chance to take the next train to San Francisco, to report on the events. When I was questioned about my own exciting earthquake experiences, I told them about chasing the nursemaid into Chinatown and being hit on the head and losing my son. They seemed enthralled. Just the sort of story they wanted; full of drama and the human touch. And to my astonishment they handed me ten dollars for sharing my story, much to Daniel’s disgust. But as I pointed out, I’d lost a whole wardrobe of clothes, for the second time in two years, and every penny counted.

We ate cold beef sandwiches. Daniel drank a beer, I a glass of sarsaparilla. Liam had a glass of milk and the rest of the muffin Mrs. Funston had packed for him. Darkness was falling as we set off again across the high desert. Eventually Liam fell asleep on Daniel. I was feeling restless and went for a walk. At the end of the last carriage I stood out on the little balcony, feeling the cold wind on my face and watching the moon rising over high desert and distant mountains. Snow still clung in hollows and there was no light, no sign of human habitation in any direction. The feeling of remoteness and loneliness swept over me as well as a great longing to be home and safe. How many years had my life been tinged with danger? Ever since I fled from Ireland and found myself on Ellis Island facing a handsome police captain who wanted to arrest me for murder.

I was tired of it. I wanted a normal family life. I wanted more children and to watch them grow up safely. At last the cold got the better of me. I returned to the warmth of the train car and started to make my way back to my seat. As the train lurched more violently than usual I had to grab onto the back of a seat. I was almost thrown onto the woman sitting there. I looked down at her to apologize. I started to walk on, but then I turned back and slid into the seat beside her. She was an older, grandmotherly type with gray hair and round spectacles. And she was knitting. She nodded and smiled to me.

“Lizzy Hatcher, I presume?” I said. “Or should I say Bella Rodriguez?”

Thirty-two

She gave me a puzzled smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. The name is Minnie Fenway.”

I grinned. “Oh, that’s right. They mentioned you originally came from New England. I’d forgotten that. You must be more creative with your choice of names, Mrs. Hatcher.”

I saw her give a swift glance at our fellow travelers but they were either reading or settling down for a long night. There was nobody within hearing distance but she lowered her voice anyway. “I am Minnie Fenway, widow of Arthur Fenway of Massachusetts,” she said. “And I defy you to prove differently.”

“And what happened to Bella Rodriguez?”

“I understand that she died in the fire,” she said smoothly, “like so many other poor souls. I’m glad to see you survived, my dear.”

“And where is Tiny? Has he become a Bostonian too?”

“Tiny is no more, so I heard,” she said. She was still speaking in that sweet, soft voice. “It would seem that Bella sent him back to the house to check on certain things for her, but soldiers saw him coming out of the house and he was shot for looting. Such a tragedy.”

“And did Bella happen to tip off the soldiers that someone was looting her house?” I asked.

She sighed. “He was becoming a burden. A nuisance. He had outlived his usefulness.”

“How conveniently you dispatch with people who are a nuisance to you,” I said.

There was a swift flash of wariness on her face.

“I know all about Señor Garcia,” I said. “I went down to the cellar. Such interesting things you kept in trunks there.”