The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14) Read online

  She nodded. “Susan did not sleep well on hot nights. Sometimes she liked to get up and read by the window.”

  “Even so,” I went on. “If a fire started in the room of a normal, healthy person, they would be woken by the smell of burning and the crackle of flames before the fire had a chance to engulf the room. So why were they both found lying in their beds? Do you know if they took sleeping drafts to help them sleep on hot nights?”

  Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “I’m sure they did not.”

  “And was an autopsy ever conducted?”

  She looked confused now. “An autopsy? Mrs. Sullivan, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were burned to death. Their charred bodies were found lying on the iron frames of their beds. It was quite clear what killed them.”

  I wonder, I thought, but did not say.

  Eleven

  “Well, that’s a rum do, isn’t it?” Sid asked, as she returned from escorting Mrs. Hamilton to the front door. “Poor woman. Poor child. I hope you’ll be able to help her, Gus.”

  “I hope so too,” Gus said. “Now it’s come to an actual case, I’m questioning my skills and wondering if we shouldn’t write directly to Professor Freud to ask for his recommendation. He may know of a qualified alienist who is working in America.” She looked from Sid to me. “This is something really serious we’re dealing with. Not just the sanity of a young girl, but a possible criminal case. It’s not for my amusement any longer.”

  Sid turned to me. “What do you think, Molly? You clearly read more into this from the beginning, with the questions you asked. You think it’s possible that Mabel killed her parents, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t met the girl yet, so I can’t make a judgment on that,” I said as I rescued the sugar bowl from my overcurious son. “But I do think there is something fishy about the whole thing. The parents burned to death in their beds while the girl is found completely unharmed and apparently asleep in the garden below. It doesn’t add up, does it?” I put Liam down on the tiled floor and he promptly began to totter toward the open back door. I saw what Mrs. Hamilton had meant about boys being a handful. I leaped up and grabbed him before he could go down the step headfirst.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “There was a reason why those people didn’t leave their bed when the fire started. I’ll talk to Daniel and see if he can look into it.”

  “And will you come with us when we go to see the girl?” Gus asked. “With your background as a detective you might pick up things that neither Sid nor I would find suspicious.”

  “I’d very much like to,” I said. “I admit to being curious. Although it might be difficult now that Daniel’s mother is arriving.”

  “Au contraire,” Sid said. “You’ll have your babysitter, and you’ll need to be shopping for the hundred and one things she’ll point out that you lack.”

  I laughed. “You’re even more devious than I am. But it is true. She will be able to look after Liam—if anyone can,” I added as he squirmed to get down from my lap and almost launched himself into midair. “Speaking of which”—I stood up with him—“I had better get back to my task across the street. And I’ll need to do something about food for tonight. There’s nothing in the larder yet, and I’ve all my staples back at the apartment. Let’s hope Daniel has had time to pack and arrange for everything to be delivered. But I’ll still need something for tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  “Give me a list of what you need right now,” Sid said. “I’ll pop down to Gambarelli’s and have them deliver.”

  “Delivered?” I said. “Well, just this once, I suppose.” I laughed. “I better not get into the habit of having things delivered. Daniel will think I’ve picked up expensive habits in Paris.”

  Then I had another thought. “Actually, why don’t I go to Gambarelli’s? It’s only just across the square. A short walk and fresh air might do me good.”

  “Molly, it’s no trouble,” Sid said. “We’re here at your disposal, you know.”

  “Then could I ask another big favor, and have you dust the living room before my mother-in-law arrives? She is bound to notice every particle of dust. I just tried, and the act of reaching up to dust is still quite painful for me.”

  “Of course it is,” Sid said. “We’re happy to do it, and the shopping too.”

  “I’m sure a short stroll will be good for me, and it’s a lovely day,” I said. “But I will take your advice and have them deliver, just this once.”

  “One of us should come with you,” Gus said. “In case you suddenly feel faint.”

  I smiled. “I’d rather you kept an eye on my son, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine. And if I feel wobbly on my pins, I’ll just turn around and come home.”

  I put Liam down for a nap, then set out down Patchin Place. The warm sun on my shoulders felt good and I tried to breathe in the smell of Mrs. Konigsberg’s roses before another jolt of pain shot through me. I’d just have to accept the fact that I could not make myself heal quickly just by willing it. Maybe I had been foolish to go out for this walk. But as I reached the end of Patchin Place and headed for Washington Square, my confidence returned and I strode out quite briskly.

  Gambarelli’s was just on the far side of MacDougal Street. As I went into the dark interior of the store, the familiar smell of spices and pickles and garlic sausages rose to greet me. I handed Mr. Gambarelli my list and paid the bill. “My boy is just out on an errand, but I will send him straight to you when he returns,” he said. “It is good to see you back in the neighborhood, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  I realized then that everyone must have heard about the fire that destroyed our house.

  “Thank you,” I replied and found myself blinking back tears.

  As I headed back toward the square I had to negotiate gaggles of university students, loitering on the street corner or coming out of the bookshop. Their attire ranged from smart blazers and boater hats to the sort of European student costume I had seen in Paris—the baggy pants and a worn jacket with patched elbows, and on the head a cloth cap. They talked earnestly in small groups and I imagined they were discussing philosophy or literature. This was one of the occasions when I truly envied Sid and Gus their experiences at Vassar.

  Then I heard one of them say, “She’s a corker, all right. Best little barmaid in Greenwich Village,” which dispelled my illusion immediately.

  Then, of course, I realized with a jolt that on the other side of the street was Fritz’s café, where Simon Grossman had drunk a cyanide-laced cup of coffee. I crossed the street toward the café and stood outside, looking and thinking. This was one of those places that had been started by an Austrian to mimic the elegant café scene of his native Vienna. But alas, the location was not right for an elegant clientele, being surrounded by students and immigrants and more recently by starving artists and writers. So it had become a place that served soups and sandwiches as well as little cakes, at prices students and starving artists could afford. I had been in there myself a couple of times since I moved to Patchin Place and had always found it lively and inviting.

  It was crowded now, with students clustered around its marble-topped tables, drinking big cups of milky coffee or dunking rolls into it. I realized I hadn’t been told what time of day Simon Grossman had died, but he had been drinking coffee, so it had probably been in the morning, just like this. I stood in the doorway looking around. The owner, presumably Fritz, sporting an impressive mustache that curled up at the sides, saw me, recognized I wasn’t one of his usual customers, and came out from behind the marble-faced counter to me. “You wish coffee, madam?” he asked.

  Why not? I thought. It would give me an excuse to stay and observe.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It seems rather crowded.”

  “It is always crowded in here. These young layabouts, they would rather sit here and drink my coffee than go to their classes. Wait, I find a table for you.” And before I could stop him, he eject
ed two boys who were sitting in a corner.

  “Oh, no really,” I protested.

  He shook his head. “They have been here over an hour, nursing one cup of coffee. Not good for business.” He raised his voice to them. “Go on. Off with you. Your papa expects you to be studying, not wasting time here.”

  “But we were discussing a philosophy paper, Fritz. Working hard, I swear,” one of them said, although I could tell from his grin that this hadn’t been the case. I decided that their corner table would be an ideal site to observe, and I took a seat at it as they gathered up their books. As Fritz departed to get my coffee, I gave them a friendly smile.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Do you come here every day?”

  “When we can afford it,” one of them said.

  “I don’t wish to sound morbid,” I said, “but were you by any chance here when that student was killed?”

  “You mean the duel last year?” one of them said, his face lighting up. “Wasn’t that something?”

  “Ye Gods. I half expected to have my head slashed off,” the other agreed. “Those guys were insane.”

  “No, I meant Simon Grossman, the young man who drank the poisoned coffee,” I interrupted before they got carried away by their description.

  Their eyes opened wider then. “So it was poisoned!” one of them said. “We often wondered, didn’t we, old sport?”

  The other nodded. “They never said anything. Let us think that he’d had a fit or something, but I always thought there was something fishy.”

  “Did you know Simon Grossman?”

  “Saw him around from time to time, but didn’t have any classes with him. You’d often see him here or in a tavern, usually with a young lady, of questionable virtue, one might say.”

  “He liked to enjoy life, that’s for sure. That’s why it was such bad luck that he croaked like that. And you say it was deliberate? Or did he take his own life?”

  “If he enjoyed life, why would he want to take it?” I asked.

  They looked at each other before one of them said, “Well, one did hear,” the chubbier one began, glancing around to see who might have been in earshot, “that Simon had run up gambling debts. He didn’t want to tell his old man, naturally. His father thought the sun shone out of Simon’s head, you know. Anyway, Simon tried to cadge money from a couple of our friends, but they were broke themselves.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think someone who loves life would kill himself over debts. And certainly not with cyanide. It’s a beastly painful death.”

  “Cyanide, was it?” The two boys exchanged a horrified glance.

  “So I understand,” I said.

  One of them was looking at me cautiously now.

  “That’s right, it was utterly beastly,” the other boy said. “We were sitting at our usual table in the corner here and there was suddenly this tremendous fuss—table knocked over, broken crockery, coffee everywhere, and someone thrashing around on the floor.”

  “Someone said, ‘He’s having a fit,’ and then someone else said ‘He’s dead. My God, he’s dead.’”

  “Tell me,” I said, “was the café really full at that time? Did you notice anyone who wasn’t usually here, anyone hanging around the tables, or anyone who left as soon as all the commotion started?”

  “Why this morbid curiosity?” the one who had been eyeing me curiously now asked. “Are you a newspaper reporter? Because it’s old news now, isn’t it?”

  “No, I’m a friend of Simon’s family,” I said, “and they are still angry that his killer hasn’t been apprehended.”

  “I presume they’ve checked with the Italians?” the chubby one said. “The ones who run the tavern with the gambling parlor in the back, down on Bleecker Street? They’re a wild lot, and if Simon owed them money…”

  “I don’t think cyanide is their chosen method,” I said. “A knife in the back, perhaps?”

  The two young men were now looking at me with horror, and I realized that respectable women don’t usually go in for this type of conversation.

  “So you didn’t notice anyone behaving suspiciously, or anyone leaving in a hurry? You didn’t see someone who might have been a member of the Italian underworld?”

  One of them shrugged. “To tell you the truth, we were chatting with some other fellows and only turned around when we heard the crash. And it was pretty crowded at the time—fellows coming and going and waiting for tables.”

  “But in answer to your question,” the other said, “I didn’t see anyone who stood out, I’m sure. Everyone looked like a regular student. I think we’d have noticed, just the way we noticed you come in, if there had been someone unusual.”

  The chubby one nudged his friend. “We have to go or we’ll be late for class again.”

  “Excuse us.” They nodded to me. “I hope they find the guy who did this. Everyone seemed to like Simon Grossman, even if he did enjoy his vices. Who’d do a foul thing like that?”

  I wished I knew. I tried to chat with Fritz after that, but he hadn’t seen any suspicious strangers, and he told me he had been so busy pouring coffee that he too had only looked up when the table crashed over. I did take from him the names of the students who were sitting with Simon, but was told they were his regular group of pals, with whom he met at the café every morning. I suspected that Daniel would already have grilled them and discovered nothing, and I didn’t think that they’d reveal to a strange woman any incriminating facts about Simon Grossman. As I paid my bill and walked out, squeezing between tables, I saw how incredibly easy it would be to drop poison into a coffee cup while the occupants of the table were engrossed in conversation. But I had also learned that an outsider, an Italian gang member, for example, would have been noticed in the café. So whoever did this was likely one of them.

  And it was only when I was crossing the street on my way home that I realized I might have been reckless to go out like this. Not because of my delicate health, but because the killer might have been watching my house and caught sight of me.

  Daniel would not be pleased, and I decided to say nothing of my visit to the café, at least for now.

  Twelve

  There was no sign of Daniel all day. The delivery boy brought the food, and I had just finished stacking it in the pantry when a hansom cab turned into Patchin Place. It stopped only a few yards into our little backwater. Drivers didn’t like to come any farther, as it was hard to turn and even harder to back up the horse. I had been watching from the parlor window—a real lace-curtain twitching Irishwoman for once—and saw the cabby helping down my mother-in-law from the seat. Then my heart gave a leap of joy, because I saw the cabby swinging down young Bridie. She was the child I had brought from Ireland when I came to New York, and she had been abandoned by her father and brother when they went to work on the building of the canal across the Isthmus of Panama. No news had come from them in quite a while, making me wonder whether they were still alive. One heard awful things about the conditions and the diseases down in that hellhole.

  My mother-in-law had taken in Bridie to train her as a maid, but had grown fond of her and now seemed to be raising her to be a young lady. Either way, she had blossomed into a sweet young girl, almost twelve years old, and I was delighted to see her. I went to the front door to meet them.

  “Mother Sullivan, how good of you to come,” I said. “And Bridie too. What a lovely surprise.”

  “I thought she might be useful minding the baby,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “And it’s lonely for her up at the house with just Martha to talk to. And of course she pestered me until I agreed she could come.”

  Bridie gave me a sheepish smile. “I didn’t pester. I asked nicely. I didn’t want to miss out on seeing Liam.”

  “Only Liam, I notice.” I grinned as I ruffled her hair. “You’d no real desire to see me then?”

  Bridie came over and hugged me fiercely.

  “Careful, child. Molly’s been injured.” Mrs. Sullivan touched my shoulder as if I
was made of porcelain as she leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “But you, my poor dear girl. What a terrible thing to have happened to you. When we read about it in the newspaper I said to Martha ‘I just hope nobody we know was riding on that train.’ And then we got Daniel’s telegram. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, saints be praised.”

  “Yes, it is a miracle,” I said. “I almost got in the car ahead, but there was a man coughing and I didn’t want Liam to catch a disease. That was the car that plunged down and so many people were killed. I was in the car that hung down over the edge. We would have fallen all the way to the street as well, but we came to rest against the side of a building.”

  “Awful!” she exclaimed again. “And Daniel says you’ve broken ribs?”

  “Either cracked or bruised, not broken,” I said. “But they certainly hurt enough when I try to do anything like pick up Liam.”

  “Of course they would. Well, I’m here now.”

  Mrs. Sullivan turned to the cabby who was struggling with a large trunk. “Bring that up to the house, will you?” she said. The cabby gave a sigh as he heaved it onto his shoulder and followed us. I opened the front door.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” I said. “Please do come in. I’m afraid the house isn’t quite ready yet, but Sid and Gus have lent me some items so we’ll get by for now.”

  “They are still living across the street then?” She shot a disapproving glare at their house. “Last thing I heard they were off gallivanting in Europe.”

  “Yes, they just came home recently from Vienna. Miss Walcott has been studying with Professor Freud.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Not that awful man who says that all we think about is…” She lowered her voice and said, “S-e-x.”

  “I can spell, you know,” Bridie said. “But you never told me what sex is.”

  “Later, dear,” Mother Sullivan said. She turned back to the cabby. “You might as well take that upstairs to my room.”

  “I’m a cabdriver, not a footman or a delivery boy,” he said. “I’ll leave it in the front hall. You can do what you like with it after that.”