Murder on Sisters' Row

7

FRANK RECOVERED QUICKLY AND FOLLOWED MISS YINGLING upstairs to wherever Mr. Van Orner was waiting for him. As they climbed the stairs, Frank’s mind was racing as he tried to make sense of what he knew about Miss Yingling.

While she had worked as Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary, she’d tried her best to be unattractive. Or at least she’d made no attempt to make herself attractive. Today, however, with Mrs. Van Orner dead, she had made herself as beautiful as possible before speaking with Mr. Van Orner. Frank could think of several reasons for this, none of which reflected well on Miss Yingling. Or on Mr. Van Orner, for that matter.

They reached a closed door, and Miss Yingling knocked before opening it.

“Mr. Malloy is here to see you,” she said, then stepped aside for Frank to enter and closed the door behind her as she left. The spacious room was furnished in the current style, which meant it was stuffed with enormous furniture and cluttered with knickknacks of every description sitting on every flat surface. Dull paintings in heavy frames covered portions of the busy pattern of the wallpaper. A thick and richly patterned carpet stretched across the floor. Heavy velvet drapes shielded the occupants of the room from any hint of sunlight.

Frank needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness before he found Mr. Van Orner. He sat in a wing chair near the fireplace, a glass in his hand resting on the arm of the chair. A thick-chested man whose good looks had softened with age and whose dark hair was thinning, he wore a silk smoking jacket, and he’d changed his shoes for slippers.

He studied Frank through narrowed eyes and made no move to rise or otherwise acknowledge him. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man who’d just lost his wife.

Frank introduced himself. “I’m very sorry about your wife.”

“Did you know her?” he asked.

“No.”

“I thought perhaps . . . because of the charity work she does. Did.” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of the amber liquid. “What do you want?” he asked when he’d lowered the glass again.

Frank wasn’t sure exactly how to start. He took a stab at it. “The circumstances of your wife’s death are . . . unusual.”

“I guess they are. Healthy women don’t usually drop over dead while riding home in their carriages.”

Frank hated asking right out, but Van Orner wasn’t giving him any indication of his wishes. “Would you like for me to find out exactly how she died?”

“That’s what Tamar said you were going to do.”

“Tamar?”

“Miss Yingling,” he said impatiently. “She said you thought my wife had been murdered and you were going to find out who did it, so by all means, find out. That’s what the police do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Irritation flashed in his eyes, but he said, “I don’t know anything about my wife’s little project, if that’s what you want to know.”

“I was wondering if you knew if she had any enemies? Anyone who might wish her harm?”

“Vivian? Of course not. She was a saint. Everyone loved her.” The words were right, but the tone of them was all wrong. Van Orner sounded almost angry and certainly disgusted.

And obviously, if she’d been murdered, at least one person didn’t love her at all.

“Do you know what became of Mrs. Van Orner’s purse? The one she had with her when . . . in the carriage?”

“I have no idea. Ask the servants. Ask Tamar. She knows everything that goes on.” He looked up at Frank, his eyes suddenly shrewd. “And ask her for your fee. She’ll take care of it.” He looked away and took another sip of his drink.

Frank felt his face burning. Everyone on the police force accepted “rewards” or even outright bribes. Since no one could live comfortably on the salary the City of New York paid, the arrangement was a necessity. Most people treated the matter in a businesslike way, but Van Orner was purposely making Frank feel cheap, like a tradesman who was demanding more than his product was worth.

“Mr. Van Orner—”

“That’s all.”

Frank had been dismissed. Having no other choice, he turned and left the room. Miss Yingling was waiting for him in the hallway.

“I told you he’d want you to investigate,” she said.

Frank hadn’t gotten that impression at all. Van Orner seemed more resigned to the fact than anything. “He said you’d show me Mrs. Van Orner’s purse.”

“Her purse? Why do you need to see her purse?”

“The report said she had a flask with her, that she carried it in her purse. If she was drinking from it, maybe there was something in it . . .”

“Oh, I see. Mary!” she called. A young maid appeared, breathless, to answer the summons. “Take Mr. Malloy back to the receiving room.” She turned back to Frank. “I’ll join you there.”

A few minutes later, Miss Yingling found him waiting once again in the grim little room. She carried a ladies drawstring purse and a silver flask.

“I think this is what you were looking for.”

“Do these belong to Mrs. Van Orner?”

“Yes. She carried the flask in her purse. She . . . Mr. Malloy, I hope we can count on your discretion. I wouldn’t want Mrs. Van Orner’s memory to be tarnished by idle gossip.”

Frank was starting to see the problem. “I’m not interested in gossip, Miss Yingling.” He held out his hand for the flask. With apparent reluctance, she gave it to him. “Why did she carry this?”

“Mrs. Van Orner hated displays of emotion.”

“So you’ve said.”

“She . . . she found that when she was upset, a few sips of . . .”

Frank had unscrewed the top of the flask and sniffed. “Whew! What is that stuff?”

“A liqueur.”

“I know it’s liquor. What kind is it?”

“I told you, it’s a liqueur. A special kind of drink. It’s served after dinner, I believe. It’s very sweet and mint flavored, so . . .” She gestured vaguely.

“So it goes down easier than whiskey,” he guessed. “And she drank it whenever she needed to calm down?”

“She found it calming, yes,” Miss Yingling admitted with apparent reluctance. “No one knew, of course. She was very careful to never let anyone see her.”

“And today she had that argument with this Amy woman at the rescue house, so she probably felt the need for something calming.” He shook the flask. Only a tiny amount of liquid remained in the bottom. “I don’t suppose it spilled in the carriage.”

“I wasn’t here when Mrs. Van Orner got home. I can ask Herman, but . . . Well, it wouldn’t have been unusual for her to empty an entire flask at one time.”

This was all beginning to make sense now. Herman must have known about Mrs. Van Orner’s tippling. That was why he claimed no knowledge of the flask when Frank asked him about it. “Will he tell you the truth?”

“Of course he will. But I can’t see that it matters. Drinking from her flask wouldn’t have harmed her. She did it all the time.”

“Maybe she got a bad batch or something. Can you show me where she kept her supply?”

“Of course not. She kept it in her bedroom.”

Frank had searched a lot of ladies’ bedrooms, but he figured he wasn’t going to get to search this one. “Can you bring me the bottles that are left? Especially any that are open?”

Miss Yingling stepped into the hall and gave the maid some instructions. When she returned, Frank was trying to think of anything else he might need before he left the house. He knew his chances of getting back in were very small. “Can you think of anybody in the house who might wish Mrs. Van Orner harm?”

“Which house?”

Frank remembered the rescue house where she’d been just before she died. “Either one.”

Miss Yingling pressed her lips together and lowered her gaze, just the way any well-bred young lady would if she was asked to blacken the character of another person. “I really hate to gossip.”

“If somebody killed your mistress, you want them to be punished, don’t you?”

She looked up, startled at his bluntness. “Well, of course!”

“Then tell me what you know. Is there anybody in this house who might’ve wanted Mrs. Van Orner dead?”

She flinched but she said, “I don’t believe so. Mrs. Van Orner always treated her staff kindly.”

“What about her family?”

“Mrs. Van Orner has no living family.”

“Not even any children?”

“She was never able to have children.”

“What about her husband?”

Miss Yingling took offense at that. “Mr. Van Orner was devoted to her.”

Frank hadn’t gotten that impression at all, but Van Orner wasn’t likely to give Frank permission to investigate if he’d killed his wife himself. “All right, what about the rescue house? Anybody there have it in for her?”

“Everyone there admired Mrs. Van Orner. The work she did—”

“Not everybody admired her,” he reminded her.

Plainly, she really didn’t like speaking ill of other people. “I guess you mean this Amy person, the one who met with Mrs. Van Orner today.”

“You said you didn’t know what they talked about, but you must have some idea.”

After a brief internal struggle, Miss Yingling decided to help him. “I told you, Amy refuses to do anything to help herself. She’s convinced the father of her baby is going to help her. She even named her baby after the man. She named him Gregory.”

Frank needed a minute to remember. “That’s Mr. Van Orner’s name. Did she claim he was the baby’s father?”

“Not exactly. She hasn’t named the father, at least not right out, but I don’t know what she might have said to Mrs. Van Orner today. If Amy had made such a claim, Mrs. Van Orner would certainly have been upset. Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I just realized, that might explain why she left without me today. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see how upset she was.”

“And she would’ve needed a nip or two from her flask.”

A knock distracted them. Miss Yingling opened the door to the maid, who carried in a small wooden crate and set it down on one of the chairs. Miss Yingling dismissed her.

Frank lifted the lid of the crate to find half-a-dozen decoratively shaped, emerald green bottles packed carefully in straw. They might have held fancy perfume, but when Frank picked one up to examine the label, he saw they were, as Miss Yingling had said, some kind of liqueur called crème de menthe. Five of them were still sealed, but the sixth was more than half empty.

“I’ll need to take these with me to have them tested.”

“Do you think . . . Could there be something in it that killed her?”

“Only if somebody put it in there.”

“Oh!” She lifted her fingers to her lips again.

“Is it all right if I take them? And the flask, too?”

“Of course,” Miss Yingling said, taking a step back, as if afraid of contamination. “I’m sure no one else will be interested in them now.”

Frank slipped the flask into his pocket and picked up the crate. “Thank you for your help, Miss Yingling.”

“I almost forgot, Mr. Van Orner told me to take care of your fee.”

Frank tried not to let his annoyance show. “We can talk about that later.”

She let the maid show him out.

SARAH HAD INTENDED TO VISIT HER MOTHER THE NEXT day, to find out what she knew about the Van Orners, but her mother arrived on her doorstep that morning, before Sarah had even finished her breakfast. She’d brought a bakery box of petit fours, which were just the right size for a doll tea party. Mrs. Decker had helped Catherine eat them as they sat around the small table and drank water from the tiny china cups Mrs. Decker had brought on one of her many previous visits.

When the petit fours were gone and Catherine had tired of the tea party and moved off to play with something else, Mrs. Decker came back downstairs to drink coffee with her daughter. After some polite inquiries after her father’s health and her mother’s activities, Sarah finally asked the question she’d been longing to ask.

“Do you know Vivian Van Orner?”

“Gregory Van Orner’s wife? Of course I do. Why?”

“She died yesterday.”

“Good heavens! I hadn’t heard a thing about it.”

“It happened late yesterday afternoon. I don’t suppose they’ve had much time to tell people.”

“What happened to her?”

“They aren’t sure yet. She was alone in her carriage, and when they got to her house, the driver opened the door to let her out and she was dead.”

“She was so young.” Mrs. Decker shook her head in dismay. She was still an attractive woman, although her blond hair was threaded with silver, and fine lines had begun to form around her eyes. “Oh, dear!”

“What?” Sarah asked.

“Was she murdered? Oh, my, of course she was. That’s why you’re interested in her.”

Sarah had to admit it was a logical conclusion, considering how many murders she’d helped Frank Malloy investigate. “I told you, they aren’t sure yet.”

“But if you’re involved . . . You are involved, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Mr. Malloy told her she better not be either,” Maeve offered as she came into the kitchen. She’d brought the dirty plates and cups from upstairs to be washed.

Mrs. Decker’s face lit with interest when she looked at Sarah again. “You must tell me everything.”

“It started when Mrs. Brandt delivered a baby in a brothel,” Maeve said, carefully setting the fragile dishes down in the sink.

Mrs. Decker pretended to be scandalized. “A brothel! Sarah, how could you!”

Sarah glared at Maeve, who ignored her and started to tell Mrs. Decker the story, forcing Sarah to interrupt and tell her own version. After a few confusing minutes, Mrs. Decker had a condensed version of everything that had happened.

“How did she die?” Mrs. Decker asked when they were finished.

“Mr. Malloy thinks she was poisoned,” Maeve said. At some point during the narrative, she had taken a seat at the kitchen table with them.

“That’s what Malloy suspects,” Sarah corrected her. “She could have died of natural causes for all we know.”

“Did you know her, Mrs. Decker?”

“Not well, but all of the old Knickerbocker families know each other,” she said, referring to the original Dutch families who had settled the city of New York. “I knew Gregory’s mother very well, but she died last year, and I didn’t know Vivian’s family at all. In fact, I didn’t meet her until she married Gregory.”

“Did you know about her charity work?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid not many people admired her for it either.”

“I’m sure her husband’s friends teased her about it,” Sarah said.

“Yes, but the women were worse. Women can be very . . . judgmental about others of their sex who have fallen. They didn’t believe women like that really wanted to be rescued, you see.”

“They should have seen the girl whose baby I delivered. She was desperate to get out of there.”

“I’m sure she was. What a horrible life that must be.” Mrs. Decker shuddered.

“Mrs. Van Orner did have some friends who helped her. Two gentlemen named Porter and Quimby and a Mrs. Spratt-Williams.”

“I never heard of them, but I’m not surprised she found helpers. All the causes with offices in the United Charities Building have dedicated followers. They’re extremely organized, too, I understand.”

“Organized?” Sarah asked.

“They have to be, so people don’t take advantage of them.”

“How would people take advantage of them?” Maeve asked.

“By getting help from one charity until it was worn out and then moving on to a new one. Too much charity encourages sloth. People must learn to make their own way in the world.”

“Mother! Do you really believe people are poor because they’re lazy?”

Her mother looked at her with a puzzled frown. “What other explanation could there be? If they’d just get jobs, they wouldn’t be poor.”

“Oh, Mother, most poor people in the city do have jobs, but they don’t earn enough to support a family, not even when everyone in the family works. In the tenements, little children roll cigars and make paper flowers and do all kinds of piecework for the sweatshops, working twelve hours a day, because everyone has to contribute to supporting the family.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Yes, it is, but it’s true. The poor in New York are the least lazy people on earth!”

“I had no idea . . . Or I suppose I should say, I never really thought about it.”

“Very few rich people do,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Decker sat back in her chair, considering what her daughter had just told her. “I suppose you’re going to say the women who work in brothels aren’t really depraved creatures who have chosen their lot in life either.”

“Actually, they often do choose that life, but not because they’re depraved.”

“Why then?”

“Because they’re starving.”

“Starving? But what about their families?”

“Most of them don’t have families or their families can’t afford to keep them.”

“But I know hundreds of young women work in those sewing factories. Surely a woman can earn an honest living if she wants to.”

“The girls who work in those factories don’t earn enough to keep a roof over their heads. They live with their families, and they’re working to contribute to their support. They could never afford even a room in a boardinghouse on what they earn, though. If a girl is alone in the world, she has a very hard life.”

“That’s horrible,” Mrs. Decker said, obviously moved, “but still, to sell yourself... Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that in front of Maeve.”

The girl had been very quiet during Sarah’s explanations, sitting with her hands folded and staring at the table. She looked up now. “Don’t worry about me. Lots of the girls at the Mission had been whores. I was lucky I had my grandfather to look after me, and when he died, I found the Mission. Otherwise . . .”

“Oh, Maeve!” Mrs. Decker laid her hand over Maeve’s where they were folded on the table. Maeve looked up in surprise, and Mrs. Decker smiled warmly. “We’re very glad you came to us.”

“I . . . I’m very glad, too.”

“I thank God every day that we have her,” Sarah said, “but Maeve is only one of thousands of girls in the city. The woman who runs the house where I delivered the baby claims that dozens of them come knocking on her door every week, begging her to let them work for her.”

“I had no idea.” Mrs. Decker shook her head again. “I was unkind to Vivian. Not to her face, but I laughed at her behind her back. We all did. We made ugly jokes about her dedication to eliminating all the prostitutes in New York. They said her husband . . .” She glanced at Maeve and bit her lip, obviously loath to say whatever she’d been going to say in front of the girl.

“Maeve,” Sarah began, but the girl was already rising from her chair.

“I’ll go check on Catherine,” she said. “I enjoyed the little cakes, Mrs. Decker. Thank you for bringing them.”

“My pleasure, my dear.”

They waited until Maeve was truly gone before continuing the conversation.

“What about her husband?” Sarah asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

“I don’t know for sure, of course, but the gossip . . . there’s always been gossip about him, about how he preferred the company of ladies of the evening.”

“If we can judge by the number of brothels in the city, many men do.”

“It was an ugly thing to talk about, and I’m ashamed now.”

Sarah considered what her mother had told her. “I didn’t tell you everything that happened after Amy was rescued. I didn’t tell you what Amy named her baby.”

“Is this something I would be happier not knowing?”

“She didn’t name him Felix,” Sarah said wryly. Felix was, of course, her father’s name.

“Let me guess. She did name him Gregory.”

“And she told Mrs. Van Orner she was naming him after his father.”

Mrs. Decker sighed. “How cruel of her. But the girl was a prostitute. How could she possibly know who the father was?”

“According to Mrs. Walker, the woman who ran the house where she worked, Amy had been a rich man’s mistress. He’d brought her to Mrs. Walker when he got tired of her. Mrs. Walker said Amy must have already been pregnant when she arrived there.”

Mrs. Decker stared at Sarah for a long moment.

“What is it?” Sarah asked finally.

“Sounds like this Amy person had a very good reason for wanting Vivian Van Orner dead.”

MRS. DECKER HAD TO LEAVE TO HAVE LUNCH WITH SOME friends. Sarah and the girls were preparing their own meal when the front bell rang. Sarah went to answer it, with Catherine at her heels, eager to see who their visitor might be. Thinking it was probably someone summoning her to a birth, Sarah felt a stab of pleasure to see Frank Malloy standing on her doorstep.

“Malloy,” she said in greeting, unable to stop the smile that formed on her lips.

Catherine gave a squeal of joy and threw herself into his arms. He picked her up and returned her hug, but when he looked back at Sarah, he wasn’t smiling.

“Catherine, will you go ask Maeve to set an extra place at the table for Mr. Malloy?”

Malloy set the child on her feet, and she scampered off back to the kitchen.

“I haven’t done a single thing about Mrs. Van Orner’s death except gossip with my mother,” she assured him.

“I know,” he said grimly.

“Then why do you look the way you always look when you’re going to yell at me for doing something you didn’t want me to do?”

“I never yell at you,” he protested.

She crossed her arms. “All right, if you aren’t here to yell at me, then why are you here?”

His expression was pained, as if he’d had a hard time at the dentist’s office, and the words sounded as if they were being pulled from him like a bad tooth. “I came because I need your help investigating Mrs. Van Orner’s murder.”

Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she knew better than to tease him about it. He wouldn’t be here if he weren’t desperate. “You know I’d be happy to help in any way I can. Do you have time for some lunch first? We were just going to eat.”

“I’d be honored,” he said with just the slightest trace of irony.

The girls were both thrilled to have him, and Catherine told him all about the tiny cakes Mrs. Decker had brought for her tea party—she called them “patty fours”—and Malloy pretended to be mightily impressed. Sarah didn’t want to talk about the murder in front of the child, so she waited until they’d eaten and she’d changed her clothes and allowed Malloy to escort her from the house.

This was going to be a very interesting afternoon.

MALLOY COULDN’T BELIEVE HE WAS DOING THIS. HOW many times had he sworn he’d never let Sarah Brandt get involved in another murder investigation, and here he was, asking for her help.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they made their way down Bank Street. He always forgot how good hearing her voice made him feel, even when she was saying something that completely infuriated him.

“To the rescue house.”

“Do you know where it is?” she asked in surprise.

“I was there this morning.” He had to swallow down his frustration. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

Sarah started coughing, and he knew it was to keep from laughing out loud. “I see,” she finally managed.

“I’m sure you do. I believe you were the first person who warned me about that.”

“But not the last?”

“No, Miss Yingling did, too. She did give me the address, though.”

“I suppose you thought the power of your office would overcome their objections.” She was smirking.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” he warned her, only half joking. “I’ve had a pretty bad morning.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Tell me all about it.”

Frank sighed. “Well, I guess it started last night, when I went over to the Van Orner house.”

“I’m sure they were happy to see you.”

“Oh, yes. Van Orner was drinking himself into a stupor, but he gave me permission to investigate his wife’s death. He even offered me a fee.”

“Oh, dear.” She knew how sensitive he was on that subject. “But at least he wants it solved. That probably means he didn’t do it.”

“Probably. And I found out Mrs. Van Orner’s dirty little secret.”

“Dirty?” Sarah asked uneasily.

He wondered what she was imagining. “She drank.”

“She what?”

“She drank. Miss Yingling—that’s her secretary—”

“I know Miss Yingling.”

“Miss Yingling explained how Mrs. Van Orner didn’t like to let other people see her when she’s mad or upset, so she carried a flask around with her. When she started feeling out of sorts, she’d take a little swig or two to make herself calm again.”

He waited, but she didn’t say anything. “You don’t seem real surprised. Did you know she was a drinker?”

“No, I didn’t even suspect, but I’m afraid it’s far too common among women who have too much time and too much money to spend.”

“How can you have too much time?”

“When you have days and days to fill and nothing meaningful to do except visit with other women just like you who also don’t have anything meaningful to do except gossip about the women they know who aren’t with them at the moment.”

“I always thought it would be fun to be rich.”

“Maybe it is for men. They can get into politics or business or whatever interests them. Women have to sit at home and plan parties and knit socks for the poor. I might’ve taken up drinking myself if I hadn’t managed to escape.”

“So that’s why Mrs. Van Orner started rescuing whores.”

He’d expected to get a rise out of her with that, but she just looked unhappy.

“What is it now?” he asked.

“Mrs. Van Orner may have had another reason for her charity work.”

Frank remembered she said she’d been gossiping with Mrs. Decker. “What did your mother tell you?”

“She didn’t know Mrs. Van Orner drank, but she did say that their friends always claimed Mrs. Van Orner tried to rescue prostitutes because her husband was so fond of them.”

Frank overcame the strong urge to swear.

“I suppose this means you’re sure Mrs. Van Orner was murdered,” she said after a moment.

“Yes. The medical examiner said she was poisoned, and they found laudanum in her flask.”

“Laudanum? Oh, dear.”

“What is it?”

“It’s probably nothing, but when Amy arrived at the rescue house, she was nearly hysterical, and Mrs. Van Orner suggested giving her laudanum to calm her down, so they must keep some on hand.”

“That’s pretty common.” Almost every home in New York would have a bottle of laudanum handy to treat everything from headaches to tuberculosis.

“Laudanum is awfully bitter,” she said suddenly. “Why didn’t Mrs. Van Orner notice the taste?”

“Probably because it was mixed in with her favorite drink, crème de menthe. It’s a liqueur,” he added when she gave him a puzzled look.

“I know what it is. It just seems like an odd choice for secret drinking.”

“According to the medical examiner, it’s popular with ladies because it tastes so good, unlike whiskey and its near relatives.”

“I just remembered, she always carried peppermints with her. That would account for the minty smell of it on her breath, too.”

“And the strong flavor would’ve covered up the bitterness of the laudanum. Doc Haynes said it only takes two or three spoonfuls of the stuff to kill you.”

“It’s very dangerous. Suicides often use it because it’s cheap and easy to find and works so quickly and painlessly. Could Mrs. Van Orner have committed suicide?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Frank said, “but I don’t have any reason to think so yet. I have to find out what happened at the rescue house that day.”

“Which is why you need me to go with you.” He could tell she was trying not to gloat, but he guessed she couldn’t help it.

Frank swallowed down his frustration again. “Tell me what you know about the women in this house.”

“I don’t know much. I told you about Amy. She’s the girl whose baby I delivered. An Italian girl named Lisa manages the place. I didn’t meet anyone else who lives there.”

“What about a Mrs. Spratt-Williams?”

“She’s one of Mrs. Van Orner’s followers, I guess you could say. She helps with the rescues. Was she at the house yesterday?”

“Yes, and according to Miss Yingling, she met with Mrs. Van Orner right before she left.”

“She’s a friend of hers, I believe. My mother didn’t know her, but she’s a respectable matron, just like Mrs. Van Orner.”

“Whose husband also likes prostitutes?” Frank guessed.

“You’ll have to ask her about that,” Sarah replied with a knowing smile.

“What do you know about Miss Yingling?”

“Nothing except that she was Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary. She worked in her offices at the United Charities Building.”

“And she lives with the Van Orners.”

“She does? How odd.”

“I thought so, too, but I wasn’t sure how close rich women like to keep their secretaries.”

“They don’t usually have secretaries, so I can’t really say.”

They interrupted their conversation to cross a particularly busy street, an act that required complete concentration to keep from being crushed to death by a horse or wagon. When they had arrived safely on the other side, Frank asked, “I guess this girl Amy was pretty grateful to Mrs. Van Orner for getting her out of Mrs. Walker’s house.”

“Yes,” she agreed with an odd tone in her voice. “I thought so, too, until she named her baby after Mrs. Van Orner’s husband.”