Maids of Misfortune: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 2

  Men, on the other hand, seemed to require a different atmosphere. For them she lay out Uncle Timothy's crystal decanters, filled with a variety of expensive alcoholic beverages, and she placed, invitingly near at hand, all the little accoutrements of cigar or pipe smoking for those who indulged. In addition, since she had found men seldom stayed sitting, Annie provided a few carefully placed objects d'art for them to look at while roaming around the room.

  Aunt Agatha's father had been a sea captain who plied the Orient. Annie had culled a number of interesting pieces from his collection. It amused her to observe that most men felt much more comfortable turning their backs on her and confessing their fears and hopes to the small jade horse they held in their hand or to the ancient painted leather globe of the world they idly spun in rapid orbits.

  She banished this loot from the Orient, along with the whiskey decanters, to the dark paneled cabinets along the walls, replacing them with the numerous knickknacks that had been her Aunt's pride and joy. When she finished she surveyed the parlor with satisfaction. Fortunately she only had to make the changeover twice a day, once in the morning and again in the afternoon, when women needed to be back at their homes supervising the preparations for dinner and men scheduled appointments for the other end of their work days. Today she'd only two male clients scheduled in the morning; the rest were in the late afternoon, including her favorite, Mr. Matthew Voss.

  The thought of Mr. Voss lifted her spirits. Maybe he would be able to help her solve the problem of Mr. Driscoll and his loan. Matthew Voss was a well-respected manufacturer who had come west in '49 to make his fortune in the gold fields of California. Along with Malcolm Samuels, a man he had met on the trail, he had failed at mining but succeeded in business. In time, their firm, Voss and Samuels, had become one of the leading manufacturers of fine furniture on the west coast. The company, like many other local firms, had faced a difficult time during the recent national panic and depression, and it had been Voss’s desire to put his personal finances on a sounder footing that first brought him to visit Sibyl.

  "Sounds crazy to me," Voss bluntly told Annie the first day he had come to Sibyl for advice. "Can't see why the lines in my hands, lines that come from plain old-fashioned toil, should help me decide what stocks to buy. But I'll try anything once. And if you do half as well for me as you done for Porter, well, maybe you'll just make a believer out of me!" Voss had laughed at this point, a wheezing sort of cackle that had become comfortingly familiar.

  Most of her male clients had developed this way. One satisfied customer had inevitably led to several more. She was really doing the job any good investment broker would do, but of course as a respectable woman she could never hold that position. However, as a clairvoyant, Annie found that most men willingly listened to her advice and freely talked about their own ideas for investments. They didn't worry about whether she could understand the masculine world of finance capital, real estate speculation, and commercial markets because they thought she got her advice from the stars.

  Mr. Voss was different. He took her seriously and she felt a glow of satisfaction when she thought about how, with her guidance, he had begun to recoup his fortune. Recently, their discussions were more about how he should spend his money than how he should make it. He'd been particularly interested in pleasing his wife; he worried that he hadn't been able to devote the time and attention to her that she deserved. "She's a good little thing," Voss once said, "and I haven't liked to worry her about problems with the business. I think we both deserve to start having a bit of fun. Never put much faith in the idea that 'Virtue is its own reward.'"

  So Annie and Mr. Voss had held some lively sessions on the relative merits, astrologically speaking, of the kinds of earthly rewards his wife might like. She suspected a surprise for his wife lay behind the "grand plans" he had referred to in the note she received from him last Wednesday, rescheduling his regular Friday appointment for today. She had been amused by the note, which was, for Voss, uncharacteristically dramatic. Thinking of Voss made her feel more optimistic. She had no doubt he would be able to advise her, perhaps help her get a loan to pay off the debt, if necessary.

  Hoping to find some nugget of financial advice that would further brighten Voss’s own financial outlook and perhaps give her some ideas about how to get out of her own predicament, she picked up the morning edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. She would look specifically for the steamship lists that so often revealed interesting information about the region's commercial health.

  A headline on the second page arrested her attention. MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF RESPECTED CITIZEN. What new scandal was the Chronicle manufacturing? Then she noticed in the first paragraph the words "Geary Street.” Since Voss lived on this street, she read on, thinking that Mr. Voss would certainly be full of the news if a neighbor had died.

  As the meaning of the words began to sink in, she found it difficult to breathe. "Respectable Furniture Manufacturer Voss ...found dead by his wife early Sunday morning...cause of death unknown...no sign of unlawful entry...question of recent business reversals...survived by sister, Miss Nancy Voss, wife, Mrs. Amelia Voss, and son, Jeremy."

  Annie stared at the words that seemed to bleed into each other. The unexpectedness of death always left her feeling betrayed. People she cared for seemed to die someplace else, without warning, without her, without giving her time to say good-bye. Voss had been so alive. She had felt no hint of his impending death; she never did. Why was she so blind to death when she was able to see life so clearly?

  Chapter Three

  Monday evening, August 6, 1879

  Annie slowly rocked back and forth in a chair set next to a window crammed with pots of pungent geraniums. The window was open, letting in wisps of fog and the soft sounds of a summer evening. The damp coolness of the breeze was welcome since the old wood cook stove across from her gave out the steady heat necessary for baking bread. An enormous cat lay in a comforting, rumbling mass on her lap. Across the room her housekeeper, Beatrice O'Rourke, leaned over the dishpan, scrubbing the dinner dishes.

  Beatrice was a short woman of ample proportions, but somehow her contours suggested lightness rather than weight. Nearly sixty, she had the energy of a much younger woman. Her husband had been a well-respected captain in the local police force, gunned down ten years earlier in a battle with one of the Barbary Coast gangs. The pittance that the St. Mary's Benevolent Association provided a police captain's widow forced Beatrice back into domestic service, where she had served Annie’s aunt and uncle as housekeeper and cook. Annie, a widow herself, could well imagine the bitterness this might have produced. But Beatrice was always unfailingly cheerful, and it had been a godsend when she had agreed to help run the boarding house. Annie hadn't had the heart to tell her about Driscoll’s letter yet. For Beatrice's sake, as well as her own, she had to find a way to save the house.

  Slowly, as she watched Beatrice's broad back expand and contract and the dimples above her plump elbows wink in and out of sight, the huge knot of misery she had been carrying around all day began to loosen. As she rocked and stroked the cat's soft black fur, she found herself taking long, deep breaths. She realized that all day she had been carrying herself tightly, as if trying to compress herself into the smallest space possible, becoming invulnerable to assault. Where was the immediate threat? Certainly not here in her own kitchen with Beatrice a comforting few feet away. Yet the shocks of Driscoll's letter and the death of Mr. Voss had rekindled emotions from her past when unexpected events had irreparably torn the fragile fabric of her world.

  The cat under her hand stiffened and the rumbling purr ceased. At first she feared that in the thrall of her dark thoughts she had carelessly hurt the animal, but then a small scratching could be heard at the back door, followed by an excited volley of yips. Beatrice turned around and their eyes met. The last knot of the day's despair unraveled as Annie turned to the contemplation of life's real problems and said, "Oh, Bea, Jamie's dog! I'd forgotten.
What are we going to do?"

  Beatrice chuckled. "Right now I think we had better let him in, for if he barks much longer we'll have Jamie down here to see to him, and then the fat will be in the fire."

  Jamie Hewitt, a lively eight-year old, and his widowed mother were boarders who occupied the third-floor back room. Jamie had arrived home that afternoon with a stray dog he rescued from a local bully. He'd pleaded with Annie and Beatrice to let him keep it, claiming that it would make an excellent watchdog. At the time Annie had been fairly brusque with him, thinking angrily, why get a watchdog when in a month she might no longer have a house to watch? But this evening she rejected that attitude as unnecessarily defeatist.

  Watching the older woman wipe her hands on the dishtowel, Annie asked, "Did you get a chance to talk to any of the boarders to see if there would be any objections to keeping a dog?"

  Beatrice replied as she crossed over to the back door, "Well, Miss Lucy isn't home from work yet, but if I remember correctly she mentioned having dogs when she was young, so she probably won't put up a fuss. Neither Mr. Harvey nor Mr. Chapman raised any objection. In fact, Mr. Chapman offered to help Jamie care for it. You know, I think that young gentleman would help take care of an elephant if he thought it might make Jamie's ma take notice of him."

  She laughed. "Oh Bea, you're quite right. But I am afraid it will do him no good."

  Miss Lucy Pinehurst, a no-nonsense woman in her late forties who lived alone in a small room on the third floor, was the cashier in one of the more prestigious restaurants in town and usually worked late. Mr. Harvey and Mr. Chapman shared the small room behind Annie's on the second floor, since they couldn't afford anything larger on their minuscule salaries as clerks in the city. Mr. Chapman had been showing distinct signs of being smitten with Jamie's mother, Barbara Hewitt, who taught English literature at Girl's High. But the departed Mr. Hewitt had evidently ruined her trust in all men.

  Bea paused before opening the door and turned. "The Misses Moffet expressed great delight at the idea of having a watchdog. Well, at least Miss Minnie was delighted. As usual Miss Millie didn't say a word. It seems that they had been worrying a good deal about burglars. What I think is that Jamie had been campaigning for their support before dinner. That boy has a way with him for certain. Do you suppose he'll grow up to be a senator?"

  "Heavens, I hope not! At least not one of those dreadful ones under the railroad's thumb!"

  "Of course not. Not our Jamie! He'd be a champion for the working classes," replied Beatrice, as she opened the door. "Anyway, Mrs. Stein was of your mind. She felt a dog might be good for the boy."

  By this time the object of concern had come prancing in. He was a small bull-terrier mix, with the pugnacious, squashed-in muzzle of a dockside tough and the soulful brown eyes of an Italian poet. After sticking his non-existent nose into everything he could reach, the dog came and sat at Beatrice's feet, thrust his skinny chest forward, cocked his head to one side, and looked up expectantly.

  Annie chuckled. "Well, it looks as if he is a smart young thing, for he clearly knows who will cast the deciding vote. You have enough to do around here, without adding the care and feeding of a dog."

  Beatrice responded by looking significantly at the extremely alert cat in Annie's lap. "It seems to me that the deciding vote must come from that old puss, for if she won't put up with him, there will be no peace in this household. I know she is getting old and crotchety, but I won't have her bothered, even to please the young lad."

  As if she knew she was being spoken about, the cat sat up in Annie’s lap, drew herself tall and then sprang lightly down onto the kitchen floor. After arching slowly, she walked sedately across the floor until she stood facing the young bull terrier. He sat very still, without blinking. Annie could see that the effort he made not to bark was tremendous. Then, with a swiftness she found remarkable, the cat stretched out her right paw and lightly batted the dog on his forehead, right between his ears. Beyond emitting the smallest of yips and producing the fleeting impression that he had gone cross-eyed, the dog did not stir. The cat then stalked majestically across to her basket in the corner, circled twice, and curled up into instant sleep.

  A collective sigh of relief from both Beatrice and the dog followed this performance, and then the sound of laughter came from the doorway leading to the front part of the house.

  "I could have told you they'd get along, Ma'am," said her servant Kathleen. "That old cat already showed him who is queen of the castle this afternoon in the backyard. No, Ma'am, as long as he stays in his place and acts the gentleman, they'll get along just fine."

  As always, Annie was cheered by the sight of Kathleen Hennessey, who, while only seventeen, was already very wise in the ways of the world. Some family misfortune had orphaned her and sent her into service at the age of twelve. Beatrice had taken her under her wing and brought Kathleen to work for them as soon as they had opened the boarding house. She had proved to be a prodigious worker. Annie was amazed that such a slip of a girl could do so much in any given day. Annie, moderately proportioned and not more than 5'4" tall herself, felt like an Amazon next to her. Kathleen’s coloring was unremarkable, dark-brown hair, pertly tilted nose, and clear blue eyes. But even the curls that fringed her face seemed to wiggle with excess energy, and her laughter was a tonic to weariness all by itself.

  Stepping into the kitchen, Kathleen bustled around assembling the materials needed to soak the table linens so they would be ready to wash in the morning. As she did so, she asked, "So, is it agreed Jamie gets to keep the dog? I do think I would feel safer sleeping back of the kitchen with that dog here to sound the alarm if any one tried any funny business. Patrick is always going on and on about how unsafe this neighborhood is."

  Patrick was a nephew of Beatrice's, a current member of San Francisco's police department. He dropped by quite frequently to "check on his Aunt Bea," but Annie had long suspected that the real object of his visits was Kathleen, who had several admirers vying for her attention.

  Kathleen continued, "Even in the posh neighborhoods in the Western Addition past Van Ness you can't always sleep safe at night. Patrick really thought there had been another burglar at work when that old lady pulled him off his beat yesterday morning. She was sobbing and screeching something terrible about robbers and murder."

  At this point Kathleen turned and looked at Annie, her usual dimples banished and a serious expression in her eyes. "It was your gentlemen that usually comes Fridays. I recognized the name when Patrick said it was a Mr. Matthew Voss. You did know, didn't you, Ma'am, that he's dead?"

  Annie nodded mutely, fighting to hold back the tears this reminder called forth.

  Kathleen went on. "Patrick said the dead gentleman's wife found him early yesterday morning, just lying across his desk, cold as can be. Patrick says it couldn't be a robber, no matter what the old lady said, because the wife said all the doors were locked, and there wasn't anything taken. She, the old gentleman’s wife, told Patrick that it must have been his heart. He had been working too hard. Patrick said she’s a real sweet lady, the wife is, and terrible upset by it all. But Patrick said the police doctor said it looked more like he drank something that didn't sit right. Maybe he drank poison, by accident or something."

  At this point Beatrice sharply interrupted. "That's enough of your gossip, girl. 'Patrick said this and Patrick said that.' Since when did Patrick McGee become the fountain of all wisdom? A good-for-nothing boy who wouldn't know how to button his own coat if his mother didn't show him how every morning. He'd better watch his tongue. When my sainted husband was on the force, no man would have dared talk about a case off-duty. He would have had young Patrick on report, nephew or no nephew. Now you just tend to your own duties and stop chattering."

  Quite startled by the ferocity of Beatrice's scold, Annie realized that her distress over the death of Mr. Voss must be pretty obvious if Bea had felt the need to snap at Kathleen in that way. But what had Kathleen meant, something
Voss drank? The newspaper story hadn't mentioned any poison. She was just about to question Kathleen further when the bell connected to the front door rang. Kathleen wiped her hands, curtsied, and swiftly made her escape, running up the stairs.

  Once Kathleen was out of the room, Annie turned to Beatrice and said, trying to make her voice sound calm, "Bea, you really shouldn't have been so hard on her. She didn't mean to upset me. And I do want to know more. I'd like to understand how this terrible thing could have happened. Do you know anything more about it?"

  Beatrice shrugged. "Well, Patrick did stop by here when he got off duty this morning. He was practically reeling from lack of sleep. That poor Mr. Voss was discovered very early yesterday morning, toward the end of Patrick's watch. Since Patrick was the first to see him, his chief expected him to stay on duty for most of the day to answer questions. By this morning he'd been awake for nearly two days. It’s his first death, so he was terribly excited and...."

  Annie interjected at this point, "But what did he say? Was Mr. Voss poisoned or not?"

  Bea looked searchingly at her, and continued, "Daft boy, he said a good deal, most of it nonsense. I sent him home to calm down and get some sleep. He'll probably stop by here tomorrow morning and be talking his fool head off again. But what I think, dearie, is that it would be better for you not to dwell on this. I know you were rare fond of the old gentleman, but what is done is done, and fretting isn't going to bring him back."

  Annie frowned slightly. Beatrice was just trying to protect her, but she was no longer a child and didn't want to be shielded from the truth. She was trying to frame these thoughts into words when Kathleen reappeared, short of breath.

  "Mrs. Fuller, it's a gentleman, come asking after Sibyl. I did as you told me always to do, said she wasn't available and that he should leave his name and address so she could get in touch with him. But he wouldn't do it. He insisted that it was very important he get in touch with her tonight. Said if she wasn’t in, he would like to see who was in charge. I didn't know what to do, so I put him in the drawing room and said I would see. He looks to be a fine gentleman and ever so handsome, but he seems awfully angry about something. Do you think Mrs. O'Rourke should see him and find out what he wants? Oh, here is the card he gave me."