Death at the Tavern Read online

  “I’d be happy to come to your aid, Dr. Mitchell,” Haley said. She could use a short diversion from her work.

  “Terrific. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Samantha caught up with her just as Dr. Mitchell had bid her farewell. She looked at Haley in confusion.

  “I thought you were releasing the cabbie?”

  “Oh, yes!” With Gerald Mitchell capturing her attention, Haley had completely forgotten. “He’s probably already picked up another fare.”

  They hurried outside, and the glare of the midday sun momentarily blinded them. Before Haley could speak to the cabbie, who’d been waiting patiently—straw hat tilted over his face as if he were trying to catch a quick wink before his next fare—Samantha touched her arm. Haley turned around.

  “We didn’t talk about what to do next,” Samantha said. “As a reporter, I should probably know, but this is my first case, and you’ve had many. Help a gal out. What should I do next?”

  Haley empathized with Samantha’s nerves. The drive to do a good job—no, a perfect job—could be debilitating. “Let me talk to the cab driver first.”

  Haley stepped to the window, reached in, and poked the man’s shoulder. Lightning fast, he grabbed her arm, causing Haley to yelp in surprise. Then she saw the gun—a beautiful Harrington & Richardson .22 nine-shot pistol with a six-inch barrel and walnut checkered grip. Haley recognized the gun because she had one just like it locked in her desk drawer at the morgue.

  The man raised his head, and Haley suffered another shock when she stared into the eyes of Madame Mercier.

  Haley muttered, “I knew it.”

  Gone was the madam’s French accent. “Whatcha do next is git in the taxi.”

  Haley’s instinct was to tell Samantha to run, but Madame Mercier’s next words stopped her.

  “I know Miss Hawke has a daughter, and I know where she lives.”

  A quick look back at Samantha confirmed that she had overheard. Before Haley could do anything to stop her, Samantha was in the back seat.

  Madame Mercier waved the H&R pistol at Haley. “Git in and drive. Don’t think of doing anything crazy or I’ll shoot your friend.”

  Haley glanced about her hoping to see someone she knew, desperate to give some signal that they were in danger, but there was no one and nothing she could do. Cars zoomed by and pedestrians walked about like there was nothing at all out of the ordinary, like there wasn’t a madwoman in the taxi waving a gun.

  Madame Mercier slid over to the passenger seat. She had her pistol pointed at Samantha and any thoughts Haley had about refusing flew out the window. Why had Samantha rushed to obey? They could’ve gotten a hand up on their captor if she’d only run away instead of jumping into the back seat. There was only one possibility: Madame Mercier had hit the mark and Miss Hawke was indeed a mother.

  Haley got in and closed the door. She placed a hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. She stared hard at Madame Mercier. The woman’s eyes were hard and cruel.

  “Where are we going?” Haley asked. Her voice sounded sure and unwavering, but inside she was trembling.

  20

  Samantha felt as if someone was sitting on her chest. This awful, evil woman had threatened Talia! Samantha had never been one for guns, and she most definitely had never had one pointed at her point-blank. Her peripheral vision blurred, and she was frantic not to let herself faint.

  “What do you want? Just tell us what you want, and we’ll give it to you!”

  Gripped with shallow rapid breaths, in and out, she panted like a dog. Samantha couldn’t get her breath. She was going to black out. She’d die before Madame Mercier could even pull the trigger!

  “Samantha!” Haley’s voice pulled her back to her senses. “Breathe into your hands. You’re hyperventilating.”

  Samantha cupped her palms and held them over her mouth. After a few terrifying seconds, her breath started to ease, and along with it her extreme panic. Haley Higgins was with her. She was calm and collected. She’d know what to do to get out of this mess.

  Talking would help her get a hold of her nerves. “You killed Stefano Marchesi! Dressed like a man, like you are now, you walked into the Bell in Hand and killed him.”

  Madame Mercier’s eyes narrowed and flashed with hatred. “He betrayed me. He was supposed to love me! He—” She cut herself off and shook her head.

  Samantha caught Haley glancing back at her in the rearview mirror. With a slight nod, she encouraged her to keep talking.

  Samantha roused up every bit of bravery she could muster. “What about Snowflake? Did she betray you too?”

  Madame Mercier laughed. “You know she did. That spawn was Stephen’s.”

  “And Primrose? She carried Mr. March’s baby too. Why didn’t you shoot her as well?”

  “Because of the size of the child! I’m not a monster. And providence took care of her for me anyway.”

  Madame Mercier had directed Haley to take them back to her townhouse on Endicott Street. When the place drew close, she waved the nose of the pistol and said, “The back alley.”

  The lane that ran behind the row of houses was only wide enough for one vehicle at a time. Two ruts were worn in the dirt, and Haley struggled with the large steering wheel to keep the car aligned. Tired wooden fences flanked the alley and leaned precariously from years of wind and the heavy weight of wet winter snow. Wild grass reached skyward between the planks of wood, with summer wildflowers blooming in all the colors of the rainbow.

  One lone lopsided gate was propped open, a forethought by their captor.

  “Turn here,” Madame Mercier demanded. “And park.”

  There wasn’t much of a backyard, and what was there had been uncared for. Only the front yard and the interior were necessary for appearance’s sake, Samantha supposed.

  Madame Mercier threatened them once again. “Now put your hands on your heads and git out. And no funny stuff. I’ve got plenty of bullets to go around.”

  Samantha shuffled out of one side and Haley out of the other. Samantha wondered if Madame Mercier meant to lock them up in her house, but it was worse than that. She spied a cellar door opened up against the back wall.

  Madame Mercier caught her looking. “That’s right. Go on down, the both of yous.” Samantha walked around the nose of the taxi, noting the bug splatters that covered the large round headlights and the dirty grille. If only there were some way she and Haley could disarm Madame Mercier. As it was, the madam had been clever enough to keep her distance, and she never dropped her guard when it came to her gun.

  The cellar was musty and cool. At least the change in temperature provided a physical comfort. Samantha felt soaked from the natural humidity in the air combined with nervous sweat. The only light came from the rays of sun that cut through the immediate darkness.

  Madame Mercier backed up the steps, her pistol at the ready. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said before closing the cellar door above and throwing them into darkness.

  * * *

  There was a small crack of light coming from the cellar door that illuminated the steps, but behind them, everything was black. Haley became aware of Samantha’s breath, once again growing shallow and rapid. She said softly, “Breathe into your hands.”

  Samantha’s breath became muffled, and Haley knew she was doing as instructed. Haley kept her eyes on the crack of light and pushed on the doors, but beyond a slight buckle, it wouldn’t move. Madame Mercier had padlocked them in.

  Maybe there was another way out. Some cellars could be accessed from inside the house as well as outside.

  “Samantha, you should sit on the steps.”

  “Are you going to sit on the steps?”

  “No. I’m going to search the cellar for another way out.”

  “It’s pitch black.”

  “I know.”

  “What about mice and spiders? This place is full of cobwebs.”

  “I�
��ll take the risk.”

  “Then I will too.”

  Haley was glad it was dark at that moment. She wouldn’t have wanted Samantha to see the doubt that tightened across her face.

  “Very well. You start on the right side of the steps, and I’ll start on the left. We’re looking for some change in the wall feature, the outline of a door or panel—a doorknob or latch.

  The rough concrete of the cold room snagged the tips of her fingers, and Samantha had been right—there were plenty of cobwebs. Every couple of seconds Haley had to rub her face along her arm to clear it of sticky silk and loose dust that showered down.

  On the other side of the cellar, Haley heard soft moans of disgust and outright fear. “Find anything?” Haley asked.

  “No. Just a row of empty shelves with who knows what growing on it.”

  She admired Samantha’s determination to push through her obvious phobia. The tremor in her voice had receded. Haley thought it would be good to keep her talking.

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  A pause, and then, “It’s not something I advertise. I’ve gone to work as a single woman not a single mother. No one will hire a married woman, so I went back to my maiden name.”

  “Is your husband deceased?”

  A harsh chortle. “No. He robbed a pharmacy and skipped town.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s another thing I don’t like to boast about. Haven’t laid eyes on him for six years, so for all I know, he could be dead.”

  “Tell me about your daughter?”

  “Her name is Talia. She’s six. Beautiful. Smart as a whip.”

  By now they had both made it to the back wall and were closing in. So far, no second exit.

  Then Samantha screamed.

  A cold shiver raced down Haley’s spine. She called into the darkness. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “I think a mouse just ran up the back of my leg!”

  Haley let out a short breath of relief. “Shake it off.”

  “What do you think I’m doing? A flippin’ swing dance in the dark, is what!”

  “Is it gone?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Who takes care of her when you’re working?”

  “What?”

  Haley wanted to keep Samantha distracted. “Your daughter. Who watches her when you’re not home?”

  “My mother-in-law. Bina Rosenbaum drives me crazy, but she’s good with Talia. Bina loves her as much as I do. I owe my mother-in-law a lot, but she’s just so—stubborn, and belittling. She never thought I was good enough for her son, because I’m not Jewish.”

  Haley suddenly saw Samantha in a new light. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Why?” Samantha said.

  “I’ve misjudged you terribly. I assumed you were just another ruthless journalist who didn’t care who they stepped on to get a story—that you were one of those modern women with something to prove. I thought you were weak. But you’re a working single mother, the toughest and strongest type of woman there is.”

  There was a beat before Samantha answered. “Thank you. I’ve misjudged you too.”

  Haley braced herself. It wasn’t easy to hear about other people’s negative perceptions about who you were. Yet, if you were about to die, it was a good time to clean the slate.

  Samantha’s words reached her through the blackness. “I thought you were clinical and unfeeling. Angry about something or hurt, and burying yourself in your work so you wouldn’t have to face it.”

  “You didn’t misjudge me,” Haley said. “Your reporter instincts have hit the bull’s-eye.” If Haley was going to clear her slate, she’d better do it.

  “My brother Joseph was murdered back in ’24. I have three brothers, but he and I were the closest in age, and we were pals growing up. I was a tomboy, and to him, I was just another brother—at least until I hit a certain age. We played baseball, shot squirrels, fished in the river, worked on the farm. It was like we were twins, sharing the same soul.

  “I was living in London when it happened, but came back to Boston immediately. I worked with the police, hired my own private investigator, did my own sleuthing, everything I could to find out who murdered my brother and bring him to justice.”

  “You never found who killed him?” Samantha said. They were standing side by side now.

  “No,” Haley answered. “The case is cold and forgotten.”

  Haley took Samantha by the elbow, and together they shuffled toward the line of light seeping through the cellar door, and collapsed on the steps where they did the only thing left they could do. Wait.

  Time passed, but the light in the crack remained strong. With the long summer days it was hard to know what time it was, yet with the rumbling of her stomach, Haley guessed they were into the evening. Haley’s only hope now was that Gerald would grow concerned when he came to pick her up at seven and, on not finding her, would call for a search. Maybe Samantha’s boss would worry too. And Samantha’s uptight mother-in-law might sound an alarm as well.

  The fact that Madame Mercier hadn’t brought them anything to eat or drink didn’t bode well. It meant she didn’t intend to keep them alive. Haley hoped she didn’t mean to leave them in the cellar to die of thirst. Haley knew enough about how the body mechanics worked when deprived of water to feel truly distressed. Her parched throat was made worse from the fine dust they’d stirred up in their search for a way out. Tired of doing nothing, Haley had even made a grid of the small room, shuffling like a blind woman, arms stretched out, hoping to come across something that could be used as a weapon, but the cellar had been completely cleared out. The advent of electric refrigeration in the convenience of your own kitchen made outdoor treks to cold-storage cellars less necessary.

  The line of light eventually faded to darkness. Though Haley couldn’t see Samantha, she knew her companion lay on her back across one of the steps, having given in to her fatigue some time ago.

  “I’d die for a glass of water,” Samantha finally said, then chuckled thickly. “Bad choice of words.”

  Haley commiserated. “I feel like I swallowed a sock.”

  “Speaking of socks, my poor stockings are ruined.” Haley heard Samantha sit up, and rustle about. “I might as well just take them off.”

  Haley was glad she’d worn her pantsuit.

  The removal of Samantha’s stockings was quick. “There you go, mice. Make a nest.”

  They heard voices overhead and the rattle of a key turned in the lock. The cellar door slammed open, and a bright light kept them blinded. Haley cupped her eyes and eventually made out the male figure peering down, aiming Madame Mercier’s revolver at them. It was Bobby Ryan from the Long Wharf.

  He held up two sets of handcuffs, then tossed them down. “Put these on.”

  21

  A swath of dark clouds shielded the moon, and the cooling breeze stirred the leaves in the trees. Rain fell in softly, and Samantha tilted her head back, mouth open wide, eager to lap up every little drop.

  A torturous bright light streamed into her eyes, and she squinted back at the source. Madame Mercier’s impatient voice revealed the owner of the flashlight. “Come on, git in the car!”

  Samantha felt helpless. She and Haley were handcuffed and held at gunpoint. They were going to be taken somewhere and killed. Samantha held back a sniffle. She should’ve spent more time saying goodbye to Talia that morning. How was she to know it was the last time she’d ever see her daughter?

  Madame Mercier handled the pistol while Bobby Ryan drove. With their hands cuffed behind their backs, neither Samantha nor Haley could brace themselves as Bobby steered recklessly around corners, forcing them to lean into each other. The electric lampposts made it clear where they were headed—back to Long Wharf.

  “Where’d you get a taxi from?” Haley said.

  Samantha was glad Haley had asked. It wasn’t like you could just rent a taxi to use whenever you wanted one.
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  Madame Mercier reverted to her French accent. “Zere are fellas who’ll do anysing for me.”

  This fake French woman was getting on Samantha’s last nerve. “Like shooting the outside of the building to conceal that you shot a man in cold blood from inside?”

  Madame Mercier settled a steely gaze on Samantha. Then she stroked the side of Bobby Ryan’s face. “Like I said, I got fellas.”

  Samantha had never understood how men could be so obsessed with a woman that they’d risk going to prison or taking the death penalty. Seth Rosenbaum certainly wouldn’t have done that for her, the bum.

  In the daytime, Long Wharf was busy and noisy with people coming and going, shouting instructions, and starting up truck engines. Ships glided in and out blasting their horns to announce their intentions.

  At night, the wharf was as quiet as a cemetery with only the lapping of the waves hitting the dock resounding. An odd light shone through the row of brick warehouses situated along the length of the wharf where someone was working late. Even if they happened to look out the window, they wouldn’t see Madame Mercier’s car because Bobby Ryan had parked behind a loading bin.

  There was a boat moored near the shore, a schooner with chipped and weatherworn white and sky-blue paint. The word Maelstrom was scrawled along the side in hand-painted script. Standing on the deck was the fellow with the cauliflower ear.

  Bobby Ryan parked the car, got out, and opened the back door on Samantha’s side.

  Madame Mercier barked, “Git out.”

  This was bad.

  Samantha’s heart raced like rats in a gutter, and she could barely swallow. She shimmied out of the car—Haley doing the same right behind her—and made an effort to stand. Her knees quivered, and she hoped she wasn’t about to faint. The salty air stung her eyes, and she couldn’t help the tears that leaked out. With all the mascara she’d put on that morning, she didn’t doubt that she looked like a wet raccoon

  “Hey, Boyle,” Madame Mercier said as they drew closer to the vessel. “I have a package for you to deliver.”