“She did a remarkable job of hiding the morphine, too,” Malloy pointed out. “And she would have had to be an accomplished liar to keep her secret from her husband all that time.”

He was right, of course. A woman as desperate and unhappy as Letitia might be guilty of anything, innocent face or not. “So if she knew her marriage was bigamous, then she and Dudley probably didn’t kill Blackwell,” she reasoned.

“Unless the money was just as important to them as being together. If she wasn’t really married to Blackwell, she wasn’t entitled to anything he owned, either. Killing him while she was still his recognized wife would ensure she’d get his estate. And there wouldn’t be the messiness of a scandal, either.”

“So either way they have a motive for killing him,” Sarah realized.

A tap on the back door distracted them, and as Malloy had predicted, it was Mrs. Ellsworth bearing a pie.

“Mrs. Brandt said you enjoyed the one I sent over yesterday,” she explained to Malloy when she stepped into the kitchen.

“I did,” he admitted, doing his best to be gracious, even though Sarah could tell it was a strain.

“It’s the least I can do. If you can find Dr. Brandt’s killer, you will have done a great service.”

“I told you not to get your hopes up,” Malloy reminded her gently, for him. “There really isn’t much chance after all this time.”

“You can do it, if anyone can,” she said confidently. “It’s apple and raisin,” she added, setting the pie on the table. “There aren’t any good berries left this late in the year.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Sarah said.

After some more meaningless conversation, Mrs. Ellsworth reluctantly left, wishing Malloy success in his quest.

“I didn’t realize that coming over here could be so dangerous,” Malloy remarked, looking admiringly at the pie. “If I’m not careful, I’ll be as big as a barn.”

“You don’t have to eat it,” Sarah said with a grin.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to eat it,” he replied, grinning back.

SARAH BRANDT STILL needed some training in being a cop, Malloy mused the next morning as he made his way down Essex Street toward the rooming house where Calvin Brown was staying. She’d met Peter Dudley, but she had no idea where he lived or how to find him. He worked at a bank somewhere was all she could tell him. Letitia Blackwell was hardly likely to be forthcoming with the information he needed either, even if he could get her to see him, which seemed still more unlikely. Short of waiting on the Blackwells’ front steps until Dudley showed up again, Frank had no other means of locating him. He was once again going to have to send Sarah Brandt on police business to obtain the necessary information.

Mrs. Zimmerman answered his knock at the rooming-house door. She patted her carelessly dressed hair, as if making sure she looked her best for her visitor. “Mr. Malloy, how nice to see you,” she said with a smile so broad, it showed her missing molars. Frank thought she might be trying to flirt with him, so he played along.

“It’s very nice to see you, too, Mrs. Zimmerman. How’s young Calvin doing?” he asked, stepping into the house.

“The same as always. He’s been quiet as a mouse this morning. Didn’t even come down for breakfast.”

“Is that like him?” Frank asked, a little disturbed by this news. She hadn’t seen Calvin this morning and hadn’t checked to see if he was still there. Maybe Potter was right, and the boy had finally fled. He didn’t like the idea of explaining that to Potter.

“No, come to think of it, it isn’t like him at all,” she admitted with a frown. “I just thought… He gets up real early. Maybe he was down and got something before I was up this morning. He does that sometimes…”

Frank didn’t wait for her to show him upstairs. He took the steps two at a time, instinct telling him something was wrong. If the boy had escaped, Potter would be furious with him, and rightly so.

He knocked on the door. “Calvin?” he called, and received no answer.

The knob turned easily in his hand, and he threw the door open. To his great relief, he saw Calvin still curled up beneath his covers on the bed, fast asleep.

“Calvin, wake up!” Malloy called pleasantly, going over to shake him. But when he touched the boy’s shoulder, he felt the chill and stiffness of his body.

Calvin Brown was dead.

10

“IT’S NO MYSTERY HOW HE DIED,” THE CORONER explained, having given Calvin’s body only a cursory examination. “The arsenic is sitting in plain sight and see how yellow his face is? That’s always a sure sign of arsenic poisoning.”

Frank had to admit he was right. Calvin had left the box of rat poison out on the dresser. An empty bottle of sarsaparilla sat on the table and had apparently been mixed with the poison to kill the taste.

“There’s the suicide note, too,” the coroner pointed out. “That’s usually enough to convince most people it’s a suicide.”

Frank ignored his sarcasm. He just didn’t want to make a mistake. Or rather, he just didn’t want to be wrong about Calvin Brown. He’d been so certain the boy was innocent, and truth to tell, he’d wanted the boy to be innocent. But here it was, a confession written with his own hand right before he’d taken his own life.

“Dear Mother,” he’d written. “I can’t live with this no more. I shot father and tried to make it look like he killed himself. He refused to help us or even to admit he was my father. I couldn’t stand thinking that he was living so rich while you worked so hard to support us. I’m sorry I did this, and I don’t want to bring more shame on the family by being arrested for it. I love you and the girls.” He’d signed it, “Calvin.”

Frank swore silently as he stuffed the note into his pocket. This didn’t make sense. The boy hadn’t acted a bit guilty, and Frank considered himself an expert in judging such matters. He also hadn’t run away, which would have been the only sensible thing to do if he’d killed his father. And certainly far less drastic than killing himself. There was an irony here, he supposed. Calvin had tried to make his father’s death look like a suicide, and now he’d committed suicide himself.

“He went awful quick,” the coroner said, as if offering Frank comfort. “It’s a mercy. Sometimes they suffer for days.”

Frank had seen the results of such suffering, and he could only be glad Calvin had given himself a large enough dose so that he succumbed almost immediately. “Tell them they can take the body away,” Frank said. “I’ll get his things together to send back to his mother.”

He could have left this for the landlady, but for some reason he felt he had to do it himself. It would be a penance of some sort, to help assuage the guilt he was feeling for his own mistakes. If he’d arrested Calvin, at least the boy would still be alive.

As he collected Calvin’s meager belongings and laid them into the cheap suitcase he’d carried with him from Virginia, Frank couldn’t help thinking how gratified Amos Potter would be to have been proved right. Collecting the reward for solving this case would give Frank no pleasure, though.

While he was putting away the last of Calvin’s things, the orderlies came to fetch the body. They had a time of it, since Calvin was still stiff. When they’d gotten him on the stretcher, lying on his side because he was fixed in a fetal position, he looked small and vulnerable under the sheet, like a child curled up for warmth or safety. It didn’t seem fair that a boy so young should have cut his life short because of a man like Edmund Blackwell. But then, as Frank had learned only too well, life was seldom fair.

When all trace of Calvin Brown had been removed from the room, Frank started down the steps after the orderlies, carrying the boy’s suitcase. He should write Mrs. Brown a letter, explaining what had happened, he thought. That was when he realized he didn’t know Mrs. Brown’s address. Calvin had carelessly not written it on his note, either.