Chapter 5
Phillip waited until past midnight to get into the rooms where Timothy had been found on the corner of Eastern Street and Washington.
The neighborhood was similar to Wolfe Street, a mixture of single homes and others broken into smaller apartments.
The yards were generally clear of debris, and most buildings were in decent condition, but there was a malaise hanging over the area that he’d seen in the faces of those gathered at that house on the night Timothy had been found in a bloodstained bed.
He'd walked up and down the street and alley a few times, looking for a way to get in without rousing suspicion.
He was standing in the shadow of large shrubbery staring up at the house, where there were no lit windows.
He thought he might take his chances trying to pick the front door lock when he heard a whistle and a bit of a song from someone behind him, walking his way.
The man passed him, staggering a bit but managing to climb the few steps to the front door, when he turned suddenly. “Who’s there?”
“Ah,” Phillip said and stepped out of the shadow, trying to come up with any reason why he might be lurking.
“Forget your key?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Left it in my room. Don’t know if I should try and wake someone or not.”
“Come on, then,” the man said and looked Phillip over as he began up the steps. “Don’t recall seeing you around.”
“Just moved in.”
The man turned from putting his key in the front door lock. “Not that room in the back upstairs. Where the police murdered that poor woman?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
“Don’t know if I could sleep there. Did they at least drag out that mattress? I heard it was soaked in blood.”
“It’s gone, but it doesn’t bother me none,” Phillip said and looked hard at the man. “I don’t really care about that woman or even what happened to her. I got my own worries and ain’t afeared of ghosts.”
The man turned quickly back and unlocked the door.
Phillip watched him hurry to a door straight ahead, glancing back at him now and again.
Phillip turned to the steps he’d gone up the night he’d been here with Hendricks with a smile and climbed quickly, turning left at the top of the staircase to the door ahead.
He needn’t have brought his lock pick, he thought, as the knob turned in his hand.
Nothing had been done to the rooms other than to remove the mattress.
The air was thick with a pungent coppery smell that nearly made him gag.
He held his hand to his nose and walked into the bedroom; the vision of Timothy standing there covered in blood was all he could see.
There was an eerie stillness to the two rooms that sent a shiver down his spine.
He walked past the bed frame to a window and opened the sash; the light breeze would clear the air.
Phillip turned to the room, finally finding a lamp on a dresser with matches beside it.
He lit the lamp and turned a full circle.
There was no sign, not one, of any struggle.
Even a thin or delicate person, a woman, would have struggled, would have tried to defend herself.
But these rooms, whoever they belonged to, looked just as they must have the day prior to the bloody mess he’d seen that day.
Everything in order, a brush and a comb and some hairpins.
A bowl of soap beside a washbowl and pitcher.
He opened a door in the corner, where a cupboard had been built.
The shelf held a bonnet and a man’s hat.
The hooks held an apron, a nightgown, a man’s jacket and shirt.
There was a worn pair of boots on the floor.
Phillip closed his eyes, trying to envision the woman with the knife sticking out of her chest. He didn’t particularly want to, but he needed to know who Josephine Button was and why she was dead.
He thought about her position on the bed, thinking about her arms and neck.
There had been nothing defensive about her posture in death, but she’d seemed “arranged.” And as much as his memory could recall, she was not a frail-looking woman.
In fact, for the brief moment he’d seen her, he could only say she’d been robust. What in the devil was going on?
There was something more elaborate to this incident than he’d first imagined, and more worriedly, he wondered if Station Ten would bother looking past the obvious.
Phillip carried the lamp to the kitchen area in the parlor and looked around.
It didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed since that night.
There was a water kettle on the stove—still heavy, he could feel as he picked it up.
What did it mean that these rooms had not been torn apart like Button’s or Timothy’s rooms?
Had whoever had been searching found what they wanted or did they know that whatever it was, it was not here, in these rooms on Washington and Eastern Streets?
He closed the window, doused the lamp, pulled the apartment door shut, and walked slowly and quietly down the stairs, pulling the front door closed behind him.
Virginia had invited several women of her acquaintance to afternoon tea at Shellington, hoping to introduce Nancy to some women who could include the new Mrs. Wiest in the social activities of the city.
Of course, Mary Hernsdown and Gertrude Miller, her closest friends were there, just being greeted and introduced to Nancy.
Gertrude had brought her mother, who, while not a follower of the social rounds of entertainment, nevertheless was a respected personage and benefactor in the arts and theater community.
She’d also invited Emily Tinsdale and Gladys Lowenfelt, a friend of Virginia’s mother whom she’d recently visited.
She thought five guests to meet was more than enough for Nancy’s first afternoon receiving visitors.
Virginia’s father had been hovering nervously outside of the parlor before the guests arrived, telling Nancy that she would be wonderful and that everything would proceed without mishap until Virginia asked him to please find something to occupy himself with in his study.
He smiled sheepishly and kissed Nancy’s cheek, which blushed at the public attention.
Virginia heard the doorbell and Mr. Smith’s muted greeting.
The door opened, and Virginia and Nancy rose as Mary, Gertrude, and her mother came in smiling and complimenting Nancy on the flower arrangement in the entrance.
Moments later, Emily and Gladys followed.
“It is so nice everyone could join us,” Virginia said and glanced around the gathering of women as Nancy poured tea and passed cakes and sweets to each woman.
Gertrude Miller, always one to dive directly into whatever was being skirted, turned to Nancy. “I understand you’ve had a rough go of it after your husband died. How are you doing?”
Virginia started to speak, but Nancy laid a hand on her arm and smiled.
“My husband, my first husband, was a kind and sweet man, but he had no idea of finances. When he died, I had no money, even a few debts. I sold some of our furniture to pay those and tried to remain in our home, but I could not manage the rent.” Nancy looked down at her hands.
“I went to work as a cook and took a room for myself and my children, but my oldest, Mark, was sick and the medicine was very expensive. We were sleeping together, the children and I, in a doorway when Virginia found us.”
Mary was dabbing her eyes while Gertrude and Emily sat stone still, wide-eyed. Gertrude’s mother spoke up.
“You were extremely brave, my dear. I’m proud of you for not giving up and keeping your children with you even in the darkest of times. There is nothing wrong with working for a living, regardless of what anyone says.”
“The thing to remember, girls,” Gladys Lowenfelt said, “is that one never knows what circumstances they’ll find themselves in.
Demand to know your family’s finances. Find out if there is anything set aside for you if you don’t marry.
And when you do marry, insist before you are at the altar to understand what your income will be and what your expenses come to.
What if your husband becomes ill and is unable to work? What would you do?”
Gertrude cleared her throat. “Is your son well?”
“Oh yes. Mark is fine and thriving here at Shellington and at the school he and his sister are attending.”
Virginia heard a woman speaking in the hallway just before Mr. Smith opened the door to the parlor, a strange look on his face. But before Virginia could ask what was the matter, Edwina Hopsfelter walked in.
“Edwina?” Virginia asked.
“I heard you were having a little get-together. My invitation must have been misplaced,” Edwina said and turned to drop her wrap on Mr. Smith. “I couldn’t resist getting to know the new Mrs. Wiest.”
Edwina settled herself between Mary and Emily. Mary looked away guiltily when Virginia glanced at her. “Nancy, this is a . . . friend, Edwina Hopsfelter. Edwina, Nancy Wiest.”
“Charmed,” Edwina said and gazed around. “This is a small gathering to meet the new bride of one of our most prominent citizens. Nancy, you must agree to visit me on one of my at-home days. Promise me, won’t you? Next Wednesday would be perfect!”
“I’d be delighted,” Nancy said before Virginia could interject.
Gertrude groaned and slumped back against the sofa.
Phillip went back the following morning to the corner of Washington and Eastern Streets and knocked at the door.
He waited several minutes until finally a man answered.
He was wearing trousers, suspenders holding them up, and a sleeveless shirt.
His hair stood on end, and his beard was dark around his thick red lips.
“Good morning. Can I ask you a few questions about the murder that took place in your building?”
“Who you be?” the man said and scratched his underarm.
“I’m investigating the murder.”
“Police boys were here a day or two ago. Didn’t they tell you?”
“I may not have received their report yet. And it cannot hurt to double-check everything.”
“’Spect not,” he said and turned away from the door. “Come along, then.”
Phillip followed the man into the rooms directly beside the front door. A young boy sat at the table shelling peas. The man dropped into the chair beside him and pointed to the other chair at the table. Phillip sat down.
“Can I ask your name, sir?”
“Hiram Moulder.”
“You’re the owner of the building?”
Moulder shook his head. “Good Lord, no. Just the caretaker. Collect the rents. Make sure the privy gets cleaned out. Fix a broken window, here and again.”
“The owner’s name?”
“No reason for him to get involved, and he don’t like his name mentioned. You want to know anything, you can ask me.”
“Can you tell me who rents the rooms upstairs where the murder took place last Monday?”
“Bessie Turner and her man. Don’t really know him. Bessie drops off the rent. She ain’t here much.”
“Have they been back since then?” Phillip asked.
“Nope. Don’t expect to see them, if you want the truth.”
“I always want the truth, Mr. Moulder.”
“Coppers are all the same except when they ain’t.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“Never saw her before, even when she weren’t dead,” he said and laughed a little. “What was her name?”
“Josephine Button.”
“Miz Button?” the boy said. “I seen her. She give me a present.”
Moulder turned. “What are you gabbing about? We don’t know anybody named Button.”
“Uh-huh! She were here a while ago with Miz Turner. It was real hot that day. So hot you made me fetch extra water for Nellie.”
“That was clean back in July or maybe the beginning of August. What’d she give you? Are you holding something back from your pa?”
The boy shook his head. “Nah. It was nothing.”
“Better be nothing,” Moulder said and stood at a knock on the door.
Phillip looked at the boy. “What did she give you?”
“You can’t have it.”
“Don’t want it. Just want to know what it was.”
The boy bent his head low to the table and covered one side of his mouth with his hand. “A doll. Just a rag doll,” he whispered. “But it’s pretty with yellow hair out of yarn. I hid it from Pa. He’d sell it.”
“You keep it hidden, then,” Phillip said. He stood when Moulder closed his door. “I’ll be going, then. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I try,” he said when another knock sounded at his door. “What now?”
The pounding was harder until he opened the door. Phillip slipped out as a woman began shouting at Moulder. He was on the street when he heard steps behind him and turned. The boy was standing there.
“Mr. B. That’s who Pa says he works for. Mr. B.”
Phillip watched the boy hurry around the back of the house, no doubt sneaking in where only a ten-year-old boy would know about or fit through.
Phillip stopped at Station Five on his way back to Wolfe Street and asked the messenger boy to find Hendricks. He waited just a few minutes until the front door opened.
“What have you found out?” Hendricks asked as soon as they’d walked away from the front of the station.
Phillip told him then about Josephine Button’s rooms, torn up like Timothy’s, about the conversation with Moulder, and that a woman named Bessie Turner rented the room where the murder had taken place, but without any sign of struggle.
“Moulder’s son ran after me after I’d left and said the man his father worked for was Mr. B. There’s more to this than Timothy having a fit of violence and killing a woman he was in bed with. It wasn’t even the woman’s rooms!”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I need to know what cases he was working on or had just closed. Nothing is fitting together.”
“I can find that out tonight when the office empties out. The sergeant won’t say anything if I’m at Timothy’s desk. Hoping the drawer isn’t locked.”
“Figure a way. Something isn’t adding up. Did anyone claim the woman’s body yet?”
“Still at the morgue from what I hear.”
“Find me tomorrow.”
“Will do.”