Death at the Tavern Read online

  Just when Haley was about to give up and make herself a coffee, someone knocked on the door. She could’ve called out for the person to come in, but she’d been sitting for a while and getting to her feet would do her good. She opened the door and was speechless. Standing before her was Miss Hawke.

  “Dr. Higgins, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not at all,” Haley said. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Miss Hawke waved a manila envelope. “You were wondering about these, I bet.”

  “Indeed, I was.”

  Samantha Hawke held out the envelope, and Haley happily received it. She waited for the reporter to leave, yet Miss Hawke remained with a look of expectation.

  “Is there something else, Miss Hawke?”

  “I was hoping you’d allow me to look over them with you. I’ve studied them myself, you see.”

  “And found nothing of use?”

  “Well, not really. But you have a trained eye. Would you allow me to stay? Please?”

  Haley let out a short breath. It would be rude to refuse Miss Hawke’s request, especially since she’d taken and developed the photographs at Haley’s prompting.

  “Certainly. I was about to make coffee. Would you like some?”

  “I would. Thank you.”

  Haley directed Miss Hawke to an empty chair then proceeded to make the coffee with her French press. Haley didn’t mind the silence between them, she was used to a quiet room, but it seemed that Miss Hawke felt it necessary to fill it.

  “I’ve never been inside a morgue before,” she said. “I thought it would be darker and dreary. Sinister even.”

  “It’s a common misconception,” Haley replied.

  “Do you like your job? You know, dealing with death all the time? You don’t find it depressing?”

  “I’m a scientist. I like to use my skills to speak for the dead. I consider myself their advocate.”

  “That’s very noble of you.”

  Haley shot Miss Hawke a look. Was she being smart? No, she didn’t appear to be.

  “I’m no different than any other doctor.”

  When the coffee was ready, Haley poured two cups. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “What about you, Miss Hawke?” Haley said once she had positioned herself behind her desk. “What is it about working for a newspaper that interests you?”

  “Well, I suppose I like that I’m involved with keeping people informed. I normally write the women’s pages. I recently have been assigned a criminal case.”

  “Miss O’Reilly’s?”

  “No. Mr. Marchesi.”

  “Ah. It appears that no one is interested in Miss O’Reilly.”

  “I am.”

  Haley lowered her cup and studied her guest. Haley was acquainted with a lot of attractive women and didn’t hold it against them. They were no more at fault for being pretty than she was for being plain. It was only a problem for Haley when a lady who was so gifted wore it as if it was a badge of honor, and not something unearned.

  Samantha Hawke wasn’t like that.

  “Is that why you want to study the photographs with me. To solve the case?”

  Miss Hawke nodded.

  “And not just to get a story?”

  “You won’t penalize me for wanting both, Dr. Higgins, will you? I’m afraid I can’t have one without the other. You see, it’s not only me I have to think about. I have dependents.”

  Miss Hawke didn’t elaborate, and Haley thought it improper to probe. That didn’t mean she wasn’t curious. Perhaps she had a pile of younger siblings to help feed. It was a common enough situation.

  “Very well,” Haley said, standing. With the envelope in hand, she moved to a bare table and removed the photographs. She arranged the pictures in the order she remembered having Miss Hawke take them.

  With a nod of her head, she indicated that her guest could join her. “Let’s have a look at these then, shall we?”

  * * *

  There had been a brief moment when Samantha thought this serious woman was going to toss her out of the morgue. Dr. Higgins was a brilliant scientist, but despite her no-nonsense presentation, Samantha saw depths of feeling in the doctor’s chestnut-brown eyes. Empathy, that was what it was. Despite their differences in appearance and occupation, Sam realized that she and Dr. Higgins had more in common than not.

  If only the good doctor would come to the same conclusion. A slim possibility hung in the air that perhaps the two of them could become friends.

  Or at least friendly.

  Dr. Higgins had wild, curly hair, barely tamed by the pins that sought to rule and maintain order, and more than once she pushed a wayward strand behind her ear as she stared through a large magnifying glass.

  “What do you see?” Samantha asked. She, too, had spent a good amount of time staring at the photographs through an eyepiece and had concluded nothing.

  Dr. Higgins didn’t answer, just moved around the table as she examined each photo, muttering to herself as she reviewed the crime scene.

  “This is from the door. This one from the foot of the bed. And from the window.” Dr. Higgins scoured a close-up of the victim.

  “What do you see?” Samantha said again, failing to keep her voice from sounding too eager.

  “A dead woman.”

  Samantha snorted. “Very funny. There’s obviously something there or did I waste my time? Oh, and money, I might add.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what? There’s something there, or I wasted my time.”

  “One of the two.”

  “Dr. Higgins!”

  The doctor looked up as if she were surprised that Samantha was still there.

  “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m missing something. Forgive my shortness.”

  “Do you feel it in your gut?” Samantha asked. She pressed a fist against her stomach. “I do. I feel it right here. We’re missing something.”

  Dr. Higgins’ gaze dropped to the fist pressing against Samantha’s stomach and then back at the photographs.”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “What’s it?” Samantha asked. “What’s it?”

  Samantha watched as Dr. Higgins gathered the photographs, slid them into the envelope, stepped quickly to her desk, and put them in the top drawer. She then collected her hat and summer crocheted gloves, poked her head into the neighboring office, and startled the older man sitting there. Samantha didn’t even realize they hadn’t been alone all this time.

  “I’m going out,” Dr. Higgins announced.

  “Yes, yes,” the man said, then lowered his chin and closed his eyes.

  The doctor stared at Samantha. “Are you coming?

  14

  Samantha was a little annoyed that Dr. Higgins refused to say more about what she thought she saw in the photographs.

  “It’s just a theory,” Dr. Higgins explained as they drove together in the doctor’s DeSoto.

  Samantha sensed the wall of distrust Dr. Higgins had put up between them. She supposed it was something she needed to get used to if she wanted to pursue investigative journalism. In that regard, writing for the women’s pages was different. The ladies behind the perfume counter at Sears never watched her with suspicion and were more than pleased to be getting free advertising.

  Now she stood beside Dr. Higgins on the stoop of Madame Mercier’s place of business. It was the first time Samantha had noticed Dr. Higgins’ height. With the lower military heel of her buckled-up Oxford pumps, Dr. Higgins had to be close to six feet tall.

  The door was opened quickly when Dr. Higgins knocked.

  A girl with a flushed face wearing a scandalously short housedress blurted, “Are you the midwife?”

  Samantha shared a quick look with Dr. Higgins. As far as she could tell, their decision to visit the brothel had been unannounced. “She’s upstairs. It’s bad.”

  A loud wail erupted from the upper floor, and Dr. Higgins broke into a run. Sa
mantha sprinted after her.

  A stern-faced Madame Mercier stood in the hallway. “It’s not you I called.”

  “As it happens, I’m here,” Dr. Higgins said. “Can I assume that a lady present is in labor?”

  Madame Mercier shrugged a bare shoulder.

  “Then allow me to assist until the midwife you’ve summoned has arrived.”

  “Very well. Her name is Primrose.”

  When they were led to the room where Agnes O’Reilly had died, Samantha raised a brow in question.

  “No one vants to use zees room for entertaining anymore,” Madame Mercier explained.

  The mother-to-be was in bad shape. Her skin glistened with sweat, her hair was matted, and her clothing was nearly transparent from the heat of her exertion.

  “Oh, no!” she cried as another labor pain began.

  “How long has she been laboring?” Dr. Higgins asked.

  “Since yesterday,” Madame Mercier replied.

  The doctor’s dark brows shot up, and Samantha shared her questioning look.

  Dr. Higgins moved to the bedside. “Why has the midwife not been called before now?”

  Madame Mercier’s lips pulled down. “First babies always take their sweet time. Zee midwife charges by zee hour.”

  Primrose let out another yelp as a new labor pain took hold. Samantha watched with sympathy, having gone through the experience once herself.

  Dr. Higgins took charge. “Get me some clean towels, and a pitcher of boiled water.” The girl who’d opened the front door for them hurried away.

  Dr. Higgins took Primrose’s hand and smiled down at her. “Hello, Primrose. I’m Dr. Higgins. I’m here to help.”

  The poor girl burst into tears. “I’m so scared. And so, so tired.”

  “Well, try to sleep a bit in between contractions.”

  “Thank you.” The words were barely audible. Primrose closed her eyes, and it appeared to Samantha that she’d fallen asleep.

  Dr. Higgins gently pressed her fingers along the woman’s protruding belly. Her expression tightened in concern.

  “What is it?” Samantha asked.

  Dr. Higgins spoke through tight lips. “Breech.”

  Samantha understood the seriousness of that. The baby was bottom first, and a natural delivery would be very difficult. “Can you turn it around?”

  “It might just turn on its own. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “Have you delivered many babies before?” Samantha asked. This wasn’t something she’d thought a doctor of pathology would tend to do.

  “I worked on several hospital wards as an intern, including maternity, before I decided on my major.”

  Primrose gasped awake as the next contraction took hold.

  Samantha wondered what would happen to the baby when it came. A child on the premises would surely be bad for Madame Mercier’s business, and Samantha couldn’t imagine the brothel mistress permitting it. If the mother kept the child, they were sure to be impoverished. Samantha sighed. There’d be no happy ending here.

  Primrose collapsed back onto her pillow. Her skin was a disturbing shade of white, almost blue, and she was drenched with sweat. Dr. Higgins patted her patient’s face with a damp cloth. She took hold of Primrose’s wrist with two fingers, and Samantha watched as the doctor counted.

  “It’s very low.”

  While Dr. Higgins sat with her patient, Samantha took turns pacing and sitting in the wooden chair in the corner of the room. She wondered why she stayed. It wasn’t as if she were of any practical help, but she felt she could offer moral support. And she did want to see the baby born safely. For some reason, witnessing that was important to her.

  Samantha spoke to Madame Mercier asking for cups of coffee, a request the woman reluctantly conceded to. “Ve’re not a restaurant.”

  One of the girls brought a tray with the coffee.

  “Milk and sugar?” Samantha said.

  Dr. Higgins nodded. “Please.”

  Samantha prepared a mug and handed it to the doctor. “How is she doing?”

  “Poor thing’s completely worn out, and her blood pressure is so low.” She turned away from the woman in the bed and lowered her voice. “I don’t know if she can do this.”

  Suddenly, Primrose sprung up as another strong labor pain began. She let out a guttural cry as she pushed.

  “It’s coming,” Dr. Higgins said.

  Samantha’s heart raced. “Did it turn?”

  “No. It’s coming bottom first.”

  Samantha felt faint as she witnessed the new mother’s agony. Memories of her own experience giving birth returned with a vengeance. Hers had been painful but quick, and her recovery short. Samantha was one of the fortunate ones.

  “One more push, Primrose!” Dr. Higgins said.

  “I can’t! I’m so tired.”

  “You must.”

  Another strong contraction forced the matter, and a tiny, slippery baby landed in Dr. Higgins’ arms.

  Samantha let out a breath of relief as a sense of awe at the miracle of birth flooded her. A tiny, perfectly formed human being let out a soft cry.

  “You did it, Primrose,” Dr. Higgins said. “You have a son.” She wiped the babe down with a damp cloth then wrapped him in a towel. Primrose had collapsed on the large pillow behind her. Pale and drawn, the woman looked frail and completely exhausted.

  Samantha jerked in surprise when Dr. Higgins offered the baby to her.

  “Please hold him,” she said. “The placenta is coming next.”

  Samantha received the snugly swaddled child and stared at his perfectly formed face. “Hi, little man. Welcome to the world.”

  Suddenly, a flash flood of blood turned the white sheets bright crimson.

  “I need those towels!” Dr. Higgins said.

  With the tiny baby cradled in one arm, Samantha hurried to grab the stack of towels on the opposite end table. It was obvious by the amount of blood that Primrose was hemorrhaging.

  Samantha watched in horror as Dr. Higgins struggled to stop the flow of blood, but there was no resisting Mother Nature.

  “Can you save her?”

  Dr. Higgins took Primrose’s pulse, then stared back at Samantha with sorrow in her eyes. She pushed back dark curls from her weary-looking face. “I’m afraid she’s already dead.”

  15

  Samantha stopped briefly at a hotdog stand and ate as she walked from the brothel to the newsroom where she profusely apologized to Mr. August for her long absence.

  “Did you at least get a story?” Archie August demanded.

  Samantha thought of the photographs she’d shown to Dr. Higgins and realized with chagrin that through all the drama and trauma, she hadn’t got an answer to her question: what had the doctor seen in the photographs?

  “I got a strong lead,” Samantha said.

  “A woman dying in childbirth is not a story,” Archie August said. He shook his head. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake promoting you.”

  “No, sir, you didn’t,” Samantha said earnestly. “I promise you, you’ll have a story. A great story!”

  Archie huffed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Hawke.”

  Samantha removed her hat and settled into her desk chair.

  Johnny watched her with a smirk. “Hard night, last night, Miss Hawke.”

  Samantha scowled back. “I’m not late because of that. I was working.”

  “Oh yeah,” Johnny sauntered over to his desk, hands in his pants pockets, shoulders relaxed. Darn that man! She still hadn’t forgiven him for interfering with her time dancing with Edoardo. “What are you working on?” Johnny grinned like the mouse who had got the cheese.

  “Same thing as you, I presume.” Samantha snapped. Then she wondered, maybe Johnny had a new lead. “Did you find out anything more about the Marchesi story?”

  “Nah. I was hoping maybe you had.”

  “If you had butted out last night, maybe I would have.”

  “Ah, Sam,
don’t be sore. Besides, I might’ve done you a favor.”

  “How so?”

  “My pal Tom Bell has taken a shine to you.”

  Samantha blinked hard, then whispered, “I’m married.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “Who is not available.”

  “So you keep saying, though I don’t see no ring on your finger.”

  “Shh!”

  Guiltily, Samantha glanced at her left hand and its bare ring finger. “I take it off for work. I can’t very well claim the title ‘Miss’ while sporting a wedding ring. It’s less complicated that way.”

  Johnny leaned in close. “I have to tell, the guys are starting to talk. Wondering why a pretty girl like you doesn’t seem to be interested in men, if you know what I mean.”

  “Buzz off, Milwaukee! I won’t take sass from you or any man. Now leave me alone!”

  Johnny Milwaukee never moved an inch. Oh, that man! He could be so infuriating. Samantha opened a file and decided that ignoring her co-worker would be best practice. Not that it ever worked.

  “Come on, doll,” Johnny said. “I told Bell I’d put in a good word. He’s a cop.”

  Samantha’s head shot up. A cop? She hoped to make a contact at the police station.

  “Did you tell him I’m m—?” Samantha pinched her lips together, not finishing the M-word.

  Johnny shrugged. “He knows your old man skipped town a few years ago.”

  Samantha couldn’t keep the shock off her face. “How does he know that?”

  “Don’t be so surprised, Sam. It’s not like Seth Rosenbaum was a saint. He’s got a file six inches thick.”

  Samantha sighed. It was naïve of her to believe her private life was at all private; that her co-workers were unaware of her husband, or his nefarious past, and that her byline was phony.

  “If I agree to go out with him,” she began, “what’s in it for you?”

  Johnny had the nerve to look insulted.

  “Nothing. Just the joy of knowing I’ve made two friends happy.”

  “Yeah? I thought you wanted to date me.”

  “I did, but you know what they say. It’s not a good idea to mix business with pleasure.”