Murder in Burnt Orange (7 page)

“I thought,” said Hilda, “that Mr. Black moved away, after he lost his house and the bicycle factory.”

“Lost everythin' he owned. And he did move away, 'cause he couldn't find any work here. But he's back. Flynn's seen him. And he's lookin' like he's doin' well—fine clothes and all.”

Hilda frowned. “But I thought you liked him. Why would you, why does
anyone
think he has done these wicked things?”

“I did like him, when I worked for him. He wasn't a bad boss, as bosses go. Not good at managin' money, was all, and that led to the trouble, and put a lot of us out of work, when the factory went bust. Anyway, nobody's sayin' he
done
'em.
Mixed up
in 'em, is what they say.”

“What does that mean? And who says so?” Hilda was skeptical. Gossip was interesting, but not necessarily reliable. She wanted facts, details.

“But that's the point, see!” Norah broke in, impatient with the slow pace of the narrative. “The man who was braggin' he knew all about it, claimin' it had somethin' to do with banks and Sam Black and I don't know what-all—that fella was Bill Beeman, and he was burned to death last night at Malloy's Dry Goods!”

O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide!

—William Shakespeare,
Henry VI, Part 3

Was burned to death,' ” Hilda repeated. “Then you do not think it was an accident?”

“Do you?” Norah's tone was scornful.

“No, I do not see how it could have been. The rain, the late hour—no, I think someone tried to make it look like an accident. But that person was not very smart or he would have made it more—more true, more—”

“Convincin'?” supplied Sean, with a grin.

“That is the word. It is not at all convincing, the way it was done.”

“But we're thinkin',” Sean continued, “what if the plan was different, and the rain spoiled it all? See, it had to be on the Fourth if fireworks was to be blamed. So probably they was goin' to do it outside somewheres, and earlier, while everybody else was settin' off their rockets and such. They didn't know it was goin' to pour down like Niagara Falls. After the weather we've been havin', who would have thought we'd have that sockdolager of a storm?”

“Anybody who's lived around here for a while,” retorted Norah. “Heat like that always brings a thunderstorm sooner or later, and this one was overdue.”

“But nobody knew it was goin' to happen just when it did,” Sean argued. “And by the time the rain started, it was too late to change plans. So they waited for a while for the rain to stop, but it never did, and finally they had to move the whole shebang indoors. And that's kind of an argument for it bein' Sam behind it all, if you think about it. He'd only lived here a few months when his factory failed, and then he left town, and he just came back, from what I hear.”

“Hmm,” said Hilda. “But why would Mr. Black do such a thing? Or have someone do it?” she added as both Sean and Norah began to protest. “And why would he choose Malloy's as the place to do it? He did not have a quarrel with Uncle Dan, that I have ever heard.”

And neither of the O'Neills had an answer to that.

It was still raining when Sean and Norah left, not pouring, but a steady drip, drip that looked like it meant to keep up all day. Hilda fretted. She peered out the parlor window. Between the raindrops that made their way steadily down the glass, she could see the maple tree in the front yard, its branches drooping with the weight of the wet leaves. The grass was turning green again, and from some shelter birds were chirping their approval of the weather.

Hilda did not agree with them. Oh, yes, it was wonderful to have cool air to breathe again, but she wanted to talk to Andy, and how was she to manage it?

She looked at the clock. Patrick would not be home for at least an hour, probably more. The fire had closed the store for the day, but there was no doubt a great deal of cleaning up before they could open up tomorrow.

She made a decision and rang the bell.

“Eileen,” she said when the maid appeared, “I am going out. Would you bring me my oldest hat, please? It will not matter if it is ruined by the rain. And ask Mr. O'Rourke to bring the carriage to the door.”

Something in Hilda's voice stilled the protest that trembled on Eileen's lips. She made do with a subdued snort, and went to do Hilda's bidding.

Mr. O'Rourke's criticism was also silent. He was in fact aggressively silent, responding to Hilda's attempts at conversation with grunts. She gave up.

When she arrived at the Oliver Hotel, the doorman handed her down from the carriage with barely hidden astonishment. Very few ladies in her condition arrived at the hotel, and none, in his experience, unaccompanied.

“Good afternoon,” she said haughtily. “I wish to speak to Andy—” she searched her mind frantically “—to Andy Mueller, if he is available.”

The doorman's expression changed. He studied Hilda's face (his attention having formerly been concentrated on her figure). “You've been here before,” he said almost accusingly. “You're that woman who goes around asking questions.”

“I am Mrs. Patrick Cavanaugh,” she said, her voice icy. “Perhaps you have heard of my uncle, Mr. Daniel Malloy. Show me in, please, and call Andy for me.”

Well, of course Daniel Malloy was Patrick's uncle, not hers, but now that Hilda had important relatives, she was not above using them. Especially to put an officious doorman in his place.

She was shown to a corner behind a potted palm, and in due time Andy came to her.

He was worried. “Miss, you didn't ought to have come here. People might see you. And me talking to you.”

“Yes, I know, Andy. I came only for a moment. I must talk to you about the fire at Malloy's. Can you come to see me after work? I will give you your supper, and some food to take home to your family,” she added hastily.

He stood up straighter. “Dad's workin' these days. We don't need no charity.”

Another mistake! Hilda bit her lip. It was so hard, finding her way into her new position in life. “I know that, Andy. But Mrs. O'Rourke makes very good chocolate cake, and I thought the children might like some. And it is better, I think, to talk there. Will you come? I can stop at your house on my way home to tell them you will be late.”

“I don't got nothin' to tell, miss.”

Hilda took a deep breath. “Andy. A boy died last night, a boy not much older than you. Oh, I know, he thought himself a man, but he was only eighteen. Eighteen years old and murdered. Will you help me?”

Andy looked at the floor. “Yes, miss. I'll come to your house. No need to tell Ma; I'll have my chum Tom let her know. He lives almost next door.”

The next obstacle was Patrick. Hilda made it home before he got there, but not by much, and of course Mr. O'Rourke had told him all about Hilda's little excursion. Patrick was tired and discouraged, and not in the best mood to hear that his very pregnant wife had been “out gallivantin',” as he put it.

“You promised,” he grumbled. “You said you wouldn't leave the house, and here you've gone to the hotel, of all places!”

Hilda was tired, too, tired of making apologies and excuses. “Yes. I went because I must talk to Andy, and I knew he would not come here unless I asked him myself. He will be here for supper, Patrick.” She gulped another breath. “I know I said I would not involve myself in these matters, Patrick, but that was before a boy died. In your store, our store.

“It is not, now, just a train wreck that happened many miles away. Now it is a train wreck here, and a fire here, a fire that killed someone. Now it is a threat to where we live, where you work and where Sven and Sean work—to this whole city. So now I must find out all I can. Maybe I cannot solve the puzzle, all of it, but I must do what I am able.” She fixed her eyes on him. “I am sorry if you and your family are unhappy with me. I do not want to make you unhappy. But I must do this.”

Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. Patrick saw them and sighed. “Darlin' girl, I should have learned long ago not to try to stop you doin' anythin'. Just be careful, will you promise me that? And—” he held up one finger “—don't be goin' behind my back again. Tell me what you're gonna do, before you do it, and if I can help, I will.”

That was a promise Hilda could keep. Most of the time.

Mrs. O'Rourke was sour about baking a chocolate cake at the last minute. She had planned tapioca pudding for dessert. Hilda kept her temper with some difficulty. “I could order a cake from Osborn's Bakery, if it is too much trouble for you to make one.”

“Hmph! No bakery cake is goin' to be served from
my
kitchen, trouble or not!”

Eileen was sour about serving Andy at the table. With her, Hilda took a different tack. “Eileen, when you worked for Mrs. Schmidt, you did not always have enough to eat. Now you have all you want, yes?”

“Yes, ma'am, but—”

“Andy is a working boy, as you are a working girl. He often does not have enough to eat. He is proud, and will not beg, but when he does me a service, I want to give him something. Thanks to Mr. Patrick, I can do that, now.” So far as Hilda knew, Andy and his family seldom went hungry, at least not when his father was working. A strict regard for the truth had never impeded her.

“Yes, ma'am.” Eileen was still reluctant, but resigned.

Mrs. O'Rourke outdid herself in the matter of supper. Her honor as a cook had been called into question, so fried chicken followed tomato soup, with baked beans and potato salad and a green salad and homemade pickles and fresh bread and strawberry jam, and then the famous chocolate cake. Andy ate until he could eat no more.

“Gosh, miss,” he said when they had adjourned to the parlor and he had regretfully turned down another piece of cake. “Do you have this much food every day?”

“No, Andy, this was in your honor. But we have been eating little when it was so hot, so it is nice to have a good meal. Now. I want you to tell us what you have heard about the fire.”

“Well, miss—and sir—there's a lot of talk. You know it was Bill Beeman who died?”

Hilda and Patrick nodded.

“Well, like you said, he wasn't much more than a boy. And he wasn't rich—I mean his family wasn't—so he hung around with some of my chums. He bragged a lot when he got that job with the bank, but he wasn't nothin' but an errand boy. He kept sayin', though, that he was in with the bankers, now, and he could go right to the top.”

Patrick nodded sadly. “He might have been right, too. Times are bad, but a hard worker can still climb the ladder.”

“That's what he said. But then—well, he never talked to me all that much, but the guys he did talk to said he began sayin' things wasn't all hunky-dory in the bank. Not his bank, he didn't mean, I guess, but the bankin' business. Some funny stuff goin' on, he said.”

Hilda leaned forward, or tried to. She sat back with an annoyed glance at her swollen belly, but asked eagerly, “What kind of funny stuff?”

“I never heard that. I guess he didn't say, just hinted, like. But he said he was goin' to get to the bottom of it, and then he'd get a raise, sure. Instead, he got...” Andy's voice trailed off and he dragged a sleeve across his face.

“I have heard,” said Hilda, “that he claimed he knew who was behind some of the—troubles.”

“He said he did. He said it was that Mr. Black, the one whose factory failed.” Andy's voice wasn't friendly. Hilda couldn't remember if his father had lost his job when Black's failed, along with Sean and Flynn and the others, or if Andy was simply bitter on general principles about anyone who cost honest working men their livelihoods.

“Andy, why do you think Bill Beeman was killed?” For that he was killed, Hilda had no doubt.

“Everyone thinks he was killed because he knew too much, and talked too much. And that's why, miss, I don't want to come here no more. It's not that I'm scared, miss, anyway not much, but—well, I don't want anything to happen to you. And besides, my family needs me, see.”

Hilda saw. “I understand. But Andy, there is still one thing you can do for me. If you learn something really important, will you tell Erik? He still comes to talk to you, does he not?”

“Yes, miss, almost every day.”

“Then no one will think it strange if you talk to him. If it is something important, though, do not let others hear what you say.”

“It could still be dangerous, miss.”

“Yes, Andy, it could. But there is also danger, to everyone, in doing nothing. We cannot escape danger; we can only do what is right and believe that the
Herre Gud
will protect us.”

Andy crossed himself and made off for home, carrying with him half a huge chocolate cake carefully wrapped in a tea towel.

Hilda was quiet for the rest of the evening, so quiet that Patrick was a little worried about her. “Are you not feeling well, darlin'?” he asked finally.

“I am well. I am t'inking.”

Only rarely, these days, did Hilda lose control of her digraphs—usually when she was under considerable stress. Patrick looked at her sharply, but she seemed serene. He waited.

“I must plan. Now that I cannot go about the city as I used to, I must think how to find things out while staying at home. I wish I could ask Aunt Molly to talk to people for me, but she came today to ask me to stop my questioning. She was very strange about it. She made hints, but would say nothing definite.”

“Uncle Dan's actin' a bit queer, too. Seems like he's thinkin' of somethin' else when you're talkin' to him. But it's only to be expected, what with the fire and all.”

“I think it is more than the fire, but I cannot guess what it is. But as long as Aunt Molly is acting peculiar, I must find other people to ask questions for me.”

She looked pointedly at Patrick. He sighed loudly. “I've me own business to tend to, y'know. But tell me what you want to find out and I'll do me best.”

Thus it was that Patrick went to work the next day armed with questions for Dan Malloy and others at the store. He never got them asked.