For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)

He handed me an envelope.

“Thank you kindly. And this is for you.” I, in my turn, handed him an envelope. Neither of us checked our envelopes as we went our separate ways. Once around the corner, however, I ripped it open.

Michael and Katherine Kelly. Sailed from Queenstown on the S.S.

Britannic. Admitted to the United States August 18, 1901.

A big smile spread across my face. I had bribed an official, passed money, and got information I wanted. I was turning into a real investigator!





Eight





That Sunday I took up residence in my own home across the street. Even though the houses looked the same from the outside, my new abode had not benefited from Sid and Gus’s loving and artistic care, or from any of their modernizations. There was no beautiful claw-footed bathtub and the W.C. was in a little room outside the back door. The old lady had lived there for thirty years without giving anything even a lick of paint—or a good spring cleaning. So Sunday was spent with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing linoleum so dirty that the roses on it only came to light after hours of elbow grease. Seamus and the children arrived early in the morning and tried to help with the cleaning, but to be honest I’d have done a better job on my own. Seamus was weak after pushing their belongings from the Lower East Side and the two little ones saw an opportunity to play with water.

After we’d moved my meager possessions across the street, we had an impromptu party. Sid and Gus brought over food and wine and we ate at the kitchen table by candlelight (the gas having been turned off when Mrs. Herman left).

“To Molly’s ventures, may they all flourish, and may she stay in one piece,” Sid said, raising her glass. I fervently seconded this. If my current ventures didn’t end in success, I’d not be able to make the rent.

Now that I had good reason to believe that Katherine and Michael Kelly might indeed be in New York City, I had no idea how to start looking for them. Talk about looking for needles in a haystack! How many Irish lived in the Lower East Side alone, not to mention over in Hell’s Kitchen or any of the other tenement districts? And how could I begin to hunt for them in the dark, at the end of my working day? I’d discovered already that being out alone after dark was not wise for a woman. For a lone woman who would be asking questions in run-down boarding houses and taverns in the worst slums of town, it would indeed be asking for trouble. I’ve attracted enough trouble in my life so far, but I’ve never actually asked for it!

Of course I could do nothing until I knew who I was looking for. I had to wait to receive full descriptions from Katherine’s father. In the meantime, I would just have to be patient and concentrate on the bird in the hand and Mostel’s spy.

That Tuesday was election day in New York. I made my way to work through a city draped with bunting and banners. Men I passed in the streets were wearing rosettes with the likeness of either Edward Shepherd or the Fusion party candidate, Seth Low. I knew little of what either of them stood for, and cared even less. If I didn’t get a say in choosing them, then what did it matter?

When I came out of the garment factory twelve hours later, I found the streets full of drunken men singing, laughing, and fighting. It seemed that both parties had lured voters to their side with the promise of drink, or even of a dollar, which had now been spent in the nearest saloon. I passed a polling booth, still in operation. It was decorated with American flags and it looked decorous enough, but the area outside was patrolled by the toughest-looking louts I had ever seen. They swaggered around, swinging blackjacks and pouncing on any unsuspecting man who came past them.

“Have youse done yer votin’ yet?” I heard one of them growl at a thin little fellow in a derby hat.

“Not speaking good English,” the fellow replied, spreading his hands imploringly.

“No matter. Youse go in there and put yer X next to Shepherd, you hear? The one that starts with S—dat’s the one. And when you come out, there will be a whole dollar for ya. If you vote for the wrong one, I’ll break yer head. Understand?”

The little chap scuttled inside fast. I passed the polling booth without meriting a second glance. I was a woman and therefore no use to them. I did, however, have to fight off several amorous attempts as I made my way to the trolley.