Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“Sid the Yid,” she said with an impish smile at my startled reaction. “Sid the Yid was a character in a racial cartoon a few years back. I decided to adopt the name as my own, thus preventing anyone else from being embarrassed by it. Being Jewish by birth, I was never baptized anything, but my given names are Elena Miriam Hepsibah, so you can see that Sid was a big improvement.” She spread her hands out wide. “So Sid and Gus we have become and are content.”


I looked from one face to the next. They were both smiling at me, pleasant open smiles, as take place between friends. For once in my life, I was tongue-tied. I had grown up, in our remote cottage on the west coast of Ireland, unused to the close companionship of women, or of men outside of the louts in my family, for that matter. I now found my social skills sadly lacking.

“You'll have to forgive me, I'm brand-new here,” I said. “I've just come from Ireland where—”

“Where the non-wearing of corsets is no doubt a sin,” Sid chuckled. “That's why we've all gravitated to this delightful place where there are no rules. So let me tell you about us. I write scathingly brilliant articles championing women's rights and Gus here is a painter.”

“Trying to be a painter,” Gus corrected.

“Don't be so modest. Your stuff is damned good and you know it.”

“You're biased,” Gus said and a quick smile passed between them.

“And what brings you to the Village?” Sid asked.

It was neither the time nor the place to tell them my true motive. “I'm—I'm thinking of becoming a writer.” This seemed the safest route to take. If I said I was a painter, I might be called upon to produce an example of my work. (

“What kind of writer?” They both leaned forward in their seats.

More rapid thinking. “Poetry, mainly,” I said. “But I think I'd like to try a play someday.” It couldn't hurt to create this possible link to Ryan O'Hare.

“Poetry. I just adore poetry,” Gus said. “You must read us some.”

“It's not really good enough for public performance yet,” I said hastily. “It still needs a lot of polishing.”

“Rubbish. Poetry needs to be fresh and unpolished. Raw words—that's what I like,” Sid said. She snapped her fingers as the bartender passed our table. “Another round please, George. What were you drinking, Molly?”

I didn't like to say ginger beer. “What were you having?”

“What else in O'Connor's but Guinness,” Sid retorted.

“When in Rome, drink Marsala. When in O'Connor's, drink Guinness.”

I had tried Guinness once or twice in my youth and didn't like it, but I wasn't stupid enough to refuse. “A Guinness for me too, please.”

“So where are you living, Molly? Are you settled in yet?” Gus asked.

“I'm actually sharing a top-floor flat way over on East Fourth Street,” I said, “but it's not working out too well. The noisiest, nosiest Irish family in the world is gradually taking over my life. I found two of them in my bed this afternoon.”

“How interesting—male or female?” Gus crossed her legs and I saw she was wearing men's trousers.

“One of each,” I said, laughing with embarrassment. “A married couple, actually, and they weren't doing anything except sleeping. It was the use of my bed that I objected to.”

“I should think so,” Sid said, turning to Gus. “How are you expected to write if you can't have privacy?”

I saw another look pass between them that I couldn't interpret.

“Look, Molly,” Gus said. “Why don't you come round to visit us tomorrow? We've a dinky little house on Patchin Place, close to the Jefferson Market—do you know it?”

“I know the market,” I said.

“Then you can't miss it. It's the alleyway, right behind the market buildings,” Gus said. “Come round anytime you like. We're always home in the mornings. Sid isn't the earliest riser in the world.”

“I was born a night owl, what can I say. I was almost sent down from Vassar because I could never make any nine-o'clock classes.”

“Until she met me and I made it my life's quest to drag her out of bed,” Gus chimed in. “Thus she is deeply in debted to me for getting out of Vassar with a good degree.”

I hadn't heard of Vassar, but was not about to betray my ignorance. “So you met while you were students at Vassar,” I said.

They nodded. “Do you know Vassar well?” Sid asked. “We had a wonderful time. Truly a heaven on earth, apart from lectures at ungodly hours. Imagine living among women who actually expect to use their God-given intellect, with female professors who expect them to do more than learn how to sew and have the vapors.”

“My parents had the shock of their lives,” Gus added. “They thought that Vassar would be some kind of glorified finishing school—just a way for me to pass the time out of harm's way until a suitable husband was found for me.”

“And instead, she fell among rogues like me,” Sid chuckled, “and never went home again.”

“And never found the suitable husband, either,” Gus said.

“But surely there's still time for that,” I said and didn't quite understand the look that passed between them.

“So where did you get your education, Molly?” Gus asked.