Pilfered Promises Read online

  Pilfered Promises

  A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

  M Louisa Locke

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2016 by Mary Louisa Locke

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design © 2016 Michelle Huffaker

  All rights reserved.

  Kleptomania

  * * *

  “Long since all women of our day

  The honest path forsook:

  For gloves and shoes sometimes they’ll pay,

  But buttons they will hook.”

  ––Chicago Daily Tribune October 12, 1879

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Other Works by Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Friday evening, November 12, 1880

  San Francisco

  The flickering light from the lamp was just enough for Marie to see her way over to the bedside. As she leaned over to pull up the quilt to cover her sleeping child, she softly rubbed its threadbare border against her own cheek. Conjuring up her grandmother’s presence, she imagined that the familiar spicy essence of the old woman still lingered in the blue and brown patches that formed the Evening Star pattern on the quilt––the quilt her grandmother had given her on her tenth birthday. The quilt lovingly assembled from the silk and satin scraps rescued during a life-time of sewing elegant dresses for vain and thoughtless women. The quilt that her grandmother had promised would one day grace Marie’s marriage bed.

  Not the first or the last of the failed promises in her life.

  She tucked the ends of the quilt around her daughter and carefully lifted an errant curl tangled in the lace collar of the child’s nightdress. Feeling the heavy, silk-smooth strand slip through her fingers, Marie smiled. Her daughter’s hair, the color of dark honey, and her eyes, the blue of the bluest evening star in the quilt, assured a bright future for Emmaline.

  Brighter than her own.

  No. She would not feel sorry for herself. Every choice she’d made in life had been made with eyes wide open…aware of the sacrifices…prepared for the disappointments. But she would not disappoint this precious child.

  They would be so angry when she told them of her decision. Say she’d broken her promises. But the only promises she needed to keep were to her daughter. They were the only promises worth keeping.

  Chapter 1

  “CHARGED WITH SHOPLIFTING

  The Wife of a Respectable Business Man Accused of Theft”––New York Times Dec 19, 1880

  Saturday morning, November 13, 1880

  “Mr. Dawson, sir, this policeman has asked to speak to you.”

  Nate looked up to see his law clerk standing in front of a man wearing the dark navy blue uniform of a San Francisco patrolman. Registering the officer’s copper-colored hair and mustache, he stood up.

  “Thank you, Rodgers. Officer McGee, what can we do for you?”

  Annie, Nate’s wife, rose quickly from one of the sturdy wooden chairs facing his desk when she heard McGee’s name mentioned. “Patrick, has something happened? Is your Aunt Bea all right? Kathleen? One of the boarders?”

  “Come on in, man, and tell us why you are here,” Nate said, sharing Annie’s fear that someone had been injured at their O’Farrell Street boarding house. Walking around his dark walnut desk, he put his hand reassuringly on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Ma’am…sir. Please, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s not anyone. I mean it is someone…”

  The young man wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. “Sir, it’s Mrs. Dawson. I believe she’s your sister-in-law. She’s asked for your help.”

  Annie exclaimed, “Violet? She’s in town?”

  Nate felt as confused as his wife. Violet Dawson was married to his younger brother Billy, and they lived on the outskirts of San Jose, a couple of hours down the San Francisco peninsula by train. He couldn’t think why Violet wouldn’t have sent a letter or a telegram ahead of time if she needed to consult with him.

  “Yes, ma’am, she is, and she needs Mr. Dawson’s help.”

  “What kind of help? Has there been an accident?”

  His sister-in-law was pregnant with her second child, and Nate suddenly thought of all the things that could happen to someone traversing the crowded San Francisco streets—attacks by rabid dogs, runaway carriages, a purse snatcher, a fall from a moving horse car.

  “No sir. No accident. And it isn’t Mrs. Dawson, sir, that’s in trouble. It’s her mother. A Mrs. Kemper, I believe, who has the problem.”

  Nate had only met Violet’s mother a couple of times, but he knew she frequently traveled up to San Francisco to shop, so it made sense that Violet would agree to accompany her mother. But if not an accident, then what?

  Annie, pouring out a glass of water for the young policeman, said, “Please, Patrick. Do explain. What trouble has Mrs. Kemper gotten into? And how might we be of help?”

  McGee took a long swallow, wiped his mustache, and nodded his thanks, handing the glass back to Annie. “Well, you see, ma’am,” he said, taking another deep breath. “Mrs. Kemper and her daughter were shopping at the Silver Strike Bazaar, that big new store on the corner of Powell and Sutter. I’ve been assigned to that beat. So if there is any disturbance, they call me in. This morning, one of the store’s floorwalkers came and got me. Took me up to the owner’s office––Mr. Robert Livingston, a nice old gentleman.”

  Here Patrick paused. Nate saw his face flush. The young man was embarrassed. Why? Whatever could have occurred?

  When he didn’t continue, Nate prompted him. “You were called into Mr. Livingston’s office. And is that where you encountered Mrs. Dawson and her mother, Mrs. Kemper?”

  “Yes, sir.” Patrick nodded. Then in a rush he said, “It seems that Mrs. Kemper was caught trying to leave the store with some items she’d not paid for. She’s been accused of shoplifting.”

  “Now tell us exactly what they said when you were brought into Livingston’s office,” Annie’s husband said once the three of them squeezed into the cab he’d hailed.

  As the horse jerked the cab forward, Annie glanced over at Nate, marveling at how different he was from the young patrolman across from them on the pull-out seat. Patrick McGee, with the freckles and coloring of a typical Irishman, had widely spaced blue eyes and such an o
pen countenance that even his sharply waxed mustache failed to make him look dangerous.

  Conversely, something about her husband’s dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, and hawk-like nose he’d inherited from a Shawnee ancestor gave Nate the appearance of a predator. Until he smiled at her, as he just had, making her heart contract.

  She’d decided to stop by Nate’s law offices this morning to ensure that her husband of nearly four months would come home for lunch. Nate was preparing for a difficult case that was to start on Monday, and he often lost track of time when he felt under pressure. She’d been at a job on Washington Street, going over the books for the Chinese Rescue Mission, one of the many charitable organizations who’d hired her as their accountant. Going to Nate’s offices on Sansome Street meant a detour of several blocks, but at least she would have the pleasure of walking home with him, sharing information about their morning activities, and then watching as he wolfed down one of her cook’s sandwiches before he returned to work.

  In any event, it was fortuitous she’d been with Nate when Patrick arrived because she knew that Violet, at least, would be glad of a sympathetic woman’s presence in helping calm her mother, who, according to Patrick, was in the midst of full-blown hysterics.

  Patrick took out a leather notebook, consulted it, and said, “Mr. Livingston was there. Quite distressed. As was some other older gentleman who said he was one of the managers on the first floor of the Silver Strike. Seems that one of the clerks at the notions counter noticed Mrs. Kemper take several silk ribbons and stick them into the umbrella she was carrying. When the girl pointed this out to the manager…Jenkins is his name, I believe.” Patrick checked the notebook. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Anyway, this Jenkins said that he’d simply asked Mrs. Kemper if perhaps the ribbons had fallen into her umbrella by mistake.”

  “That seems like a sensible way of handling a potentially embarrassing situation,” Nate said.

  “Yes, sir. But from what I understand, Mrs. Kemper got quite upset, actually started hitting Mr. Jenkins with the umbrella. And that is when the three pairs of silk gloves and an expensive fan…they said it was from Japan…fell out and onto the floor.”

  “Oh dear,” Annie said, stifling a totally inappropriate laugh. “Poor Violet. How upsetting.”

  Her relationship with her sister-in-law was not without conflict. For example, they didn’t see eye-to-eye on the propriety of a woman earning an income, particularly after marriage. But this summer the two of them had become closer after working to solve a family crisis. In consequence, she’d developed a good deal of admiration for the younger woman. She knew that Violet, who had high moral standards, would find the idea of her mother stealing anything completely mortifying.

  Nate continued to question Patrick. “That was when they escorted Mrs. Kemper to Livingston’s office?”

  “Yes, the floorwalker who was sent to find me confided that they practically had to carry Mrs. Kemper through the store. Thank goodness, they have a couple of those new steam elevators installed. Whisked her right up to the top floor…away from the other customers.”

  “And when you arrived at the office, Mrs. Kemper was still carrying on?”

  “She was screeching something awful. Threatening to sue the store…for something about de…defaming…”

  “Defamation of character?”

  “Yes, that’s the ticket, sir. Said that Mr. Livingston should fire the manager and get the clerk thrown into jail.”

  “Whatever for?” Annie said.

  “Mrs. Kemper accused the girl of putting the goods in her umbrella.”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she burst out.

  “Now, Annie, let’s withhold judgment until we get the whole story,” her husband said. Then he smiled and shrugged, adding, “Although why some poor shop girl would do such a thing is beyond me.”

  “Well sir, there did turn out to be a real problem with Mrs. Kemper’s accusation that someone must have put the items in her umbrella on purpose.”

  “What problem?” Nate said, frowning.

  “It wasn’t her umbrella. It was a new kind the store just got in and put out for sale today. And it still had its price tag affixed to the handle, with no receipt to show that Mrs. Kemper had bought it. I gather that is when they decided they better send for me.”

  Annie hadn’t been in the Silver Strike Bazaar before, although on the southeast corner of Sutter and Powell, it was only a short walk from her home. She didn’t have the time…or the money…to fritter away in any of the grand new emporiums that were springing up in the city, like the City of Paris on the bottom floor of the Occidental Hotel or the White House located on Kearney. But she knew that many ladies…like Violet’s mother…found wandering around these stores to be a pleasant and respectable way to spend their days, meeting friends, making purchases that showed how successful their husbands were, and relieving their boredom.

  As the cab pulled up in front of the store, Annie remembered that an article in the San Francisco Chronicle reported that Robert Livingston, the primary owner, had made his fortune in one of the Comstock silver strikes in Nevada. Hence the name of the store and, she supposed, the decision to paint the store’s brick facade a light grey.

  “Do we just go in the front entrance?” Nate asked Patrick as he paid the cab driver.

  “There is a back entrance, but the front way will be quicker, sir.”

  As they entered, Annie was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds they encountered as they hurried through the crowded main aisle to the elevators at the back of the building. The gas-lit crystal chandeliers bounced light off mirrored walls and glass-topped counters, picking up the intricate silver leaf patterns that wound around the rows of columns holding up the twenty-foot high ceiling. The bright hues of the clothing of the fashionably dressed ladies who thronged the aisles added to the profusion of colors from the dress goods piled high on every counter, and the voices of customers and clerks filled the air with a confusing babble.

  She sighed with relief when the doors of the passenger elevator closed behind them. She’d only been in one other elevator before, in the Palace Hotel. This elevator appeared to be of a similar design, constructed to look like a small parlor room, with a dark mahogany wooden floor and wainscoting and mirrors on the walls. Its wooden door added to that illusion, until with a disturbing jerk, the room began to rise.

  Annie was glad to see that Nate looked as startled as she felt, but it amused her to see Patrick McGee cross his arms and nonchalantly lean back against the back wall as if he’d been riding in elevators every day of his life. The frock-coated man operating the elevator’s controls followed Patrick’s instructions to “go right up to the top and make it quick,” and in less than half a minute the doors opened up onto the fourth floor and a utilitarian hallway.

  As they got off the elevator, Annie was startled to see the back of a young girl retreating down the hall and disappearing around a corner to their right. Could she be lost? Surely the elevator operator wouldn’t have let a girl this young come up here alone?

  Before she could voice these thoughts, Patrick ushered them to the left, down a short corridor. He knocked on a door with a brass plate that said, “Robert Livingston, Proprietor,” and the door was opened by a small dapper man in black formal attire.

  Patrick murmured, “Mr. Jenkins, I am pleased to introduce Mr. Dawson and his wife.”

  Annie nodded politely to Jenkins, who was, if she remembered correctly, the manager of the notions department. Then she broke away to join her sister-in-law Violet, who was ineffectually patting the shoulder of a woman who was weeping, without restraint, into a damp handkerchief.

  Annie assumed this was Mrs. Kemper, who like her daughter was a petite, blue-eyed blonde, although Mrs. Kemper’s crimped hair had the artificial brightness that usually meant the use of some bleach to hide the beginnings of any grey.

  When Annie had once complimented Violet on her looks, she’d demurred. She’d said that she was a grave d
isappointment to her mother, who was accounted a great beauty by everyone, because Violet’s own nose was too short, her eyebrows insufficiently arched, and her cheekbones were too round.

  In Annie’s opinion, “beauty was as beauty does,” and Mrs. Kemper’s behavior was definitely ugly at this moment, as she whined petulantly when Violet turned away to greet Annie. Ignoring Mrs. Kemper, Annie hugged the younger woman tightly and said, “Violet, what can we do to help?”

  “Oh, Annie, thank heavens you and Nathaniel have come. I don’t know what to do!”

  Noticing simultaneously that Violet was trembling and that her pregnancy was far advanced enough to have created a firm bulge beneath her corsets, Annie felt a spurt of anger. Whatever had Mrs. Kemper been thinking to drag her daughter to the city at this stage in her pregnancy? Much less subject her to this kind of public humiliation?

  Pulling her sister-in-law over to a chair, she said, “Violet, my dear, you must come and sit down.”

  Violet disjointedly said something about needing to attend to her mother, but she abruptly sat down as if her legs had given way. Annie looked over at Mrs. Kemper, who was now moaning theatrically, and heartily wished the selfish woman in perdition. But she knew that reassuring Violet that her mother was being attended to would be the swiftest way to help the younger girl.