Death at the Tavern Page 10

  He was definitely getting something out of it, Samantha thought. There was only one way to find out what.

  “Fine. I’ll go out with your friend, so long as he understands it can never be anything serious.”

  Johnny’s smile pulled up crookedly. “I think he’ll take whatever he can get.”

  Samantha didn’t dare leave the newsroom until Archie August had driven away. She watched out the second-story window as the bright round headlights of his Buick disappeared around the corner, then she grabbed her things and skedaddled. She wanted to spend time with Talia and appease Bina before heading out again that night.

  Bina and Talia were making sweet buns together. They were so involved in their joint task that they didn’t hear Samantha enter. The joy on their faces stirred Samantha’s heart. She felt grateful to her mother-in-law for caring for Talia so well, but also couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. Samantha was meant to take on the role of mothering Talia. She was the one who should be staying at home and baking with her daughter. She was the one who should be taking her to school and picking her up each day.

  The anger she felt for Seth squeezed the breath out of her.

  Bina must’ve sensed that someone was watching—her head turned sharply and her eyes narrowed. “You decided to come home, huh?”

  Samantha shifted her shoulders back and she resisted the urge to rub the tension that tightened the back of her neck. “I couldn’t get away from work. Some days are like that.” She removed her hat and gloves, setting them on the table by the door, and hurried over to Talia and kissed her head.

  “We’re making cinnamon buns,” Talia said with her small voice. “My fingers are all sticky.”

  “So they are. Come to the sink to wash those pinkies.”

  “The last tray is in the oven,” Bina said. “I’ll clean it up, and then we can eat. Leftovers from yesterday. Not that Talia’s appetite isn’t already ruined with the cinnamon rolls. A little girl can’t be expected to wait so long for her dinner.”

  Samantha ignored her mother-in-law’s complaint, and turned each of the X-shaped taps until the hot blended with the cold. Talia stretched on tiptoes, holding her hands under the stream and Samantha scrubbed the dough off with soap.

  “So, how was school today?” Samantha asked.

  The joy seeped from her daughter’s face, and Samantha kicked herself. Still, she needed to know.

  “Okay.”

  Samantha pressed a tea towel around Talia’s fingers. “Did you get teased again?”

  “Only at recess.”

  Inwardly, Samantha groaned. Recess was meant to be fun not a time to endure abuse.

  “You put out the cutlery,” Samantha said to her, “and I’ll do the plates and cups.” Setting the table was a shared chore, and Talia seemed to rally with the routine.

  They ate stew and dumplings and discussed the approaching Yom Kippur Katan, which was a less elaborate version of Yom Kippur.

  “You’re coming,” Bina stated.

  “Why would I? I’m not Jewish.”

  “But you are the mother of a Jewish girl, at least you would be if you converted like you agreed to after you got married.”

  “Except that Seth left before I could.”

  The same issue always came up between the Rosenbaum women. The Jewish line passed through the mother and the fact that Samantha hadn’t converted put Talia’s ethnicity into question. A situation Bina found intolerable.

  “So,” Bina said. “You made a vow.”

  “He made a vow. Anyway, I don’t want to fight with you, Bina. I’ll go if Talia wants me to.”

  Talia’s blue eyes grew round as saucers and flashed with her internal struggle. Samantha could see the battle: please her bubba or please her mother?

  Samantha softened her gaze. “It’s okay, honey. I don’t mind going if it means I get to spend time with my best girl.”

  Talia looked at Bina and Samantha followed her gaze. Bina’s eyes were narrow and commanding. There was no way her granddaughter was going to say no to her.

  “I want to go,” Talia said.

  Bina’s lips curled slightly as her aged eyes flashed with perceived victory. Samantha let her have the win. Any time with Talia was a bonus, whether it meant going to a park or a shul.

  Samantha helped Bina clean up the dishes, then put Talia to bed. After reading The Little Engine That Could, Samantha tucked Talia in and watched her daughter fall asleep while softly chanting, “I think I can, I think I can.”

  Samantha quietly changed back into the evening dress she’d worn when she went to the speakeasy with Johnny. Frowning at her image in the mirror, she realized she couldn’t go back wearing the same outfit. She chose a different hat and a pair of red T-strap shoes, and this time, added a belt.

  * * *

  Haley took her turn to cuddle the baby while Molly made dinner. The swaddled baby boy tucked nicely inside her elbow with his small head in the palm of her hand. When he whimpered, she gently swayed him up and down until he fell back to sleep.

  “He really is a miracle,” Molly said over her shoulder as she slipped a chicken in the oven to broil.

  Haley’s mind flashed back to the complicated birth and had to agree.

  “Indeed, he is.”

  Master Proust slept in the makeshift crib, a basket Molly had padded with a quilted blanket, and they were able to enjoy their meal in peace. They’d barely finished eating when he started to fuss. Molly hurried to pick him up as Haley cleared the table and started on the dishes.

  “Please, leave the dishes,” Molly said.

  “Well, if you don’t mind.”

  Molly hummed a tune and kissed the child’s head. Haley frowned.

  “Don’t get attached, Molly. He’ll be adopted out soon.”

  Ellen Proust’s family had been contacted, but they refused to claim the baby. They already had too many mouths to feed, and money was scarce.

  “I know,” Molly said. “I’m sure I’ll be glad of it in the middle of the night.”

  Haley dried her hands and hung the tea towel to dry. “I have a few things I’d like to do tonight. Will you be okay with the baby for a few hours.”

  “I’m sure I will. I thought you were finished working for the day.”

  “I am, but there’s someone I want to visit. A friend of the baby’s mother.”

  “Yes, well, you should do that I suppose.”

  Haley gathered her hat and thin summer gloves, but before she slipped them on, she took a moment to pet Mr. Midnight.

  “You have the life of luxury, don’t you?”

  The cat seemed to grin as his green eyes stared up at her.

  “I won’t be long,” Haley called out to Molly and headed for the door.

  Haley was thankful that she owned a car. Most Bostonians still had to rely on public transit and their own two feet. Very few women owned their own vehicle. She put the car into gear and rumbled down Grove Street toward the brothel.

  It was true that she wanted to talk to Primrose’s friends, but not for the compassionate reasons Haley had led Molly to believe. No, she was returning to the brothel because she had finally realized what was out of place in the photographs.

  16

  Haley had brought unusual things home to Molly before—old bones, organs sealed in mason jars, miscellaneous objects of interest to science—but this was the first time she’d brought home a newborn.

  Molly’s round jaw slackened, and her mouth opened. “A baby?”

  “He’s a guest, Molly. Only temporary.” Haley lowered the baby basket onto the kitchen table along with a canvas bag containing glass baby bottles, a stack of small diapers, plastic pants, diaper pins, and spit-up cloths she’d obtained from the hospital nursery. “His mother died during birth,” Haley explained.

  Molly made cooing sounds as she hovered over the child. “Oh, poor thing.” She glanced up at Haley who was preparing a pot of water to heat on the stove. A bottle of formula bobbed about inside.
“Let me do that,” Molly insisted.

  “I fed him at the hospital, but he’s going to need feeding every three hours.”

  “The mite is on the small side, eh?” Molly said.

  After a few minutes, Haley dripped a bit of formula onto her wrist to test the temperature. “This should do it.” She held it out to Molly. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  Molly’s flushed face broke into a smile. “I sure would.”

  Molly settled in a rocking chair in the living room and teased the baby’s lips with the rubber nub. Haley was pleased to see that he took it eagerly, a sign that he was in good health.

  “Oh, aren’t you as cute as a bug’s ear,” Molly cooed. “Aren’t you?” To Haley, she said, “He’s got a good appetite.”

  “Speaking of food,” Haley said. “I’m starving.”

  “There’s a ham and cheese sandwich in the refrigerator.”

  Haley retrieved the sandwich along with a glass of milk. She broke her own rule about eating in the living room and snuggled in beside the feline form curled up on the divan.

  “Move over, Mr. Midnight.”

  “Does this baby have a name?” Molly asked.

  “Not officially. The mother’s name was Ellen Proust.” Haley had garnered this piece of information from Madame Mercier.

  “We’ll call him Master Proust then.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Is there a father?”

  “Presumably, but no one seems to know who.” In this case, Haley thought, it could be any of a number of men. “We’ll try to locate the mother’s family once we know who they are.”

  “I see,” Molly said with understanding. The child was illegitimate and abandoned. She smiled softly at the baby. “He’s fallen asleep.”

  Haley yawned. “I suppose we should sleep when he does. Shall we take turns feeding him overnight?”

  “Not on your life,” Molly said. “You have to work in the morning. Let me take care of little Master Proust.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Molly seemed confident, but Haley had never seen her work with children or babies before. “Taking care of an infant is a lot of work.”

  Molly huffed. “I’m the oldest of nine. I practically raised my younger siblings.”

  “Very well, if you’re sure. In the morning, I’m going to see about finding his family.”

  Molly’s gaze moved to the clock sitting on the mantel over the fireplace. “Don’t you have to go back to work?”

  “I told Dr. Guthrie I was taking the rest of the day off.”

  “Good for you, Dr. Higgins. You work too hard.”

  It was Molly’s usual complaint. Haley didn’t have the heart to tell her she still meant to work that evening, just not at the morgue.

  As serendipity would have it, Chantilly, wearing a thin shawl over bare shoulders, was approaching the door of Madame Mercier’s house just as Haley pulled up. Haley honked, startling the poor girl.

  She jumped out of the car and approached. “Hi Chantilly, sorry to scare you like that.”

  “I-it’s fine.” Chantilly had large hazel eyes and a small upturned nose. Her brunette hair was bobbed and pushed behind her ears. Her forehead was damp with perspiration.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” Haley said. “Could I buy you a coffee or some dinner?”

  “I really should get inside.”

  “I’ll talk to Madame Mercier if it makes a difference.”

  “No. You don’t have to do that.” Chantilly got into the car. “It’s so nice of you to offer.”

  The Bell in Hand was only a few blocks away, and Haley thought she might kill two birds with one stone—question Chantilly about the brothel while keeping an eye on Mike Tobin and the happenings at the tavern.

  Mr. Tobin scowled when he first saw Haley walk in and did a double take when he saw who she was with.

  “Do you two know each other?” Haley asked as they claimed a table.

  Chantilly responded slyly. “We’ve met.”

  Haley wouldn’t be surprised if Chantilly had met a lot of the men in the area.

  Mr. Tobin forced a smile as he took their order.

  “Those are straight coffees,” Haley said with a look. She didn’t think he’d bring whiskey in coffee cups, but she wanted to be sure.

  Coffee was served along with the tuna sandwiches Haley had ordered, and Chantilly nearly inhaled hers. Did Madame Mercier not feed her girls? They were rather thin, but that had been the style for a long time. Haley hoped the fad to appear boyish was on its way out.

  Once her appetite was satisfied, Chantilly said, “What did you want to ask me?”

  “Do your visitors ever leave their shoes behind?”

  “What?”

  “I spotted a pair of men’s shoes in the wardrobe.” This was the fact that had niggled at Haley’s subconscious. In the photograph, the heel of man’s leather shoe could be seen through the crack of the wardrobe door that had hung ajar. “Is there ever a reason that a man would leave his shoes behind?”

  Chantilly chuckled. “Not unless he was too drunk to notice he was in stocking feet.”

  Haley hummed. Maybe it was as simple as that, and she was making something out of nothing.

  “Was that what you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yes, but not all. I was hoping you could tell me a little more about Primrose.”

  Suspicion flashed behind Chantilly’s eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  “Is it possible that Snowflake knew who the father of Primrose’s baby was?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Do you know who the father was?”

  Chantilly crinkled her upturned nose. “I don’t see why it’s important.”

  “Maybe he wants the baby.”

  Chantilly scoffed. “Too late for that.”

  “Why?”

  “Fine, I’ll tell you, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Haley got the feeling Chantilly was dying for a bit of gossip. “Go on,” she said, encouragingly.

  “It was that March fellow.”

  Stunned, Haley stared back. “Stephen March?”

  Chantilly’s eyes twinkled. “He was killed here, wasn’t he?” Her hand went to her mouth. “Don’t tell me we’re sitting at the very table!”

  Thankfully, they were not. “No. He died further back in the room.” Haley pressed on before Chantilly could take them off subject again. “So tell me, how could Primrose know for sure? Surely, there were other men—other possibilities.”

  Chantilly pushed her plate, which had barely a crumb remaining, to the side and sipped her coffee. “Mr. March was particular. He didn’t like to share, you see. He paid extra for exclusive privileges.”

  Stefano Marchesi must’ve had access to some family money. Haley didn’t think work on the wharfs paid that much. Of course, rum running could be lucrative.

  “And Primrose was reserved for him?” Haley confirmed.

  “That’s right.

  “Did he know the child was his?”

  “Primrose’s?”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, it was Snowflake that he loved. Or at least, that’s what Snowflake said.”

  “Wait a minute; I’m confused. Stephen March was responsible for both? I thought Primrose was his exclusive.”

  “He was her exclusive. Didn’t mean he had to be exclusive. Created a lot of tension between Primrose and Snowflake. They were good friends once. Both came from the same Midwestern town, forget now which one. Came to the city looking for work.” She flicked a hand at herself. “Like a lot of girls, they ended up like this.”

  Haley sympathized.

  Chantilly picked up on Haley’s look. “But don’t pity us. At least we have three meals a day and a roof over our heads. That’s more than a lot of folks can say nowadays.”

  Haley conceded. America was in a depression, and life was hard for many.

  “Why did Mr. March have to make use of Madame
Mercier’s business? Surely, a man at home with the ladies wouldn’t have to pay for female company?”

  “Snowflake said he didn’t want a steady girl. Just the fun, ya know.”

  Haley was starting to form judgments against this guy. She shook her head to push the thoughts out. Sipping her coffee, she mused over this new information. Primrose had conceived first. If she had found out about Snowflake and Stephen March, maybe she’d become consumed with jealousy. It would be motive for murder. With Snowflake out of the way, Primrose might’ve hoped Mr. March would make her an honest woman and legitimize his child.

  Her thoughts were brought back to the present by the sound of Chantilly’s voice. “Besides, he was so charming, you couldn’t help but fall in love with him just a little bit.”

  Haley considered Chantilly’s statement, then asked. “Did you fall in love with him?”

  “Who me?” Chantilly spoke a little too quickly. “No way.” A wave of red spread across her neck, convincing Haley that Chantilly was being less than truthful.

  Had Chantilly been responsible for the death of Agnes O’Reilly? She was the first person to happen upon the crime scene. In fact, she might’ve been the one to hold the pillow over Miss O’Reilly’s face and pull the trigger.

  If that were the case, what had Chantilly done with the gun? Haley made a mental note to ask Detective Cluney if a weapon had ever been found.

  Chantilly squirmed under Haley’s scrutiny. “I should go. I don’t want to make Madame mad.”

  Haley agreed, and as they got up, Haley caught sight of another man talking with Mike Tobin at the bar. Of average height and weight, the man wore a flat cap that sat above his ears. The right one which faced Haley was deformed. It was the man she’d encountered on the docks, carrying the suspicious box. He tilted his head to the left as Mr. Tobin spoke.

  The man must’ve come in through the back door. Was he bootlegging for Mike Tobin? Why else would he not enter the tavern from the main entrance like every other customer?

  An irate Madame Mercier greeted them at the brothel door. She was dressed in a form-fitting evening gown, hair done to perfection and make-up thickly applied. Clearly she was about to go out—must be a very special client, Haley mused—and was waiting on Chantilly’s return.