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

“Absolutely. I have never been one for the conventions of polite society, which is why I have been such a trial to my parents. Twenty-eight years old and still unmarried. What is more, I told them that I see marriage as a legal method of condemning women to a life of subservience. But don’t let me start on that topic—let us get back to our foul play, which is more interesting than my lack of nuptial bliss. How do you propose we tackle this, Molly?”


“I can ask the police if any records were taken of where the body was fished from the water and what kind of state it was in. I suppose they recorded what she was wearing, although if she wore any jewelry which might identify her, it will be in some policeman’s pocket by now.”

Nell laughed. “I can tell you have had experience with our delightful police force since your arrival here.”

“Including three different occasions in jail,” I said. “But I do have a—” I was about to say friend. I corrected myself “—a person I can contact who is a police captain.”

“Splendid,” Nell said. “So you will find what details the police have on this woman. I will attempt to find out everything I can on Katherine’s life here—where she worked, whether she had a confrontation with her boss there . . .”

I caught her gaze. “You don’t think—” I began “—she might have made a nuisance of herself at the sweatshop?”

“Some of the sweatshop owners are in cahoots with the gangs,” Jacob said. “In the past when there have been walkout attempts, the shop owners have hired starkes—strong-arm men—to intimidate the strikers. If they had an employee who was likely to create too much trouble, the simplest thing would be to pay a gang to get rid of her.”

“Holy Mother of God.” I put my hand to my throat. “That had never even crossed my mind. Are they that ruthless, do you think?”

“Definitely,” Jacob said. “Profit means everything. Anyone who stands in the way of profit must be eliminated.”

“In that case, finding out what happened to Katherine is all part of the same fight,” I said. I didn’t add that I was now taking over Katherine’s role. I might soon be seen as a nuisance who should be eliminated.

Jacob looked from Nell to me. “Now that I think about it and have heard the circumstances of her disappearance, my advice to you is to let this lie,” he said quietly. “I have seen much tragedy in my life. You can’t bring this Katherine back to life. Do not risk your own lives for something that can’t be undone.”

“Who’s talking about risking lives?” Nell demanded. “A few carefully phrased questions in the right quarter, that’s all we’re talking about. My first task will be to find out where she worked, and then to ask some discreet questions about that particular shop owner and his foremen.”

“You will never be able to prove anything,” Jacob said. “And the deeper you delve, the greater the risk you take.”

Nell patted his arm. “You are such a fussbudget, Jacob. Molly and I are intelligent, sensible women.”

“I worry because I have met too many people who do not play by the rules,” he said.

“Enough of such gloomy talk. Not allowed in this house,” Sid said firmly. “I shall now produce the hubble-bubble and we will transport ourselves into a Bedouin black tent. And since you are the only male here, Jacob, you may be the sheik!”

We concentrated our energy on the water pipe with hilarious results, and the next morning, after our Sunday ritual of coffee and pastries at Fleishman’s Vienna Bakery on Broadway, we headed for the Lower East Side. I realized that I had become accustomed to it, as Sid and Gus pointed out sights that they found strange and exotic. “Flavors of the Levantine, Gus dear. Does this not make you want to travel there after all? We could take in the Holy Land and Egypt and then on to Morocco and the Bedouins.”

“Think of the dirt, though,” Gus said, picking up her skirts to avoid the rotting fruit, horse manure, and other debris that cluttered the street. “The smell of this is bad enough. I do not think I have the stomach for Oriental alleyways.”

Jacob’s atelier was in a loft on Rivington Street, which was in the more prosperous side of the Jewish quarter. Here the houses were built of solid red brick, trimmed with white brick around the windows, and there was a lively trade going on in the many stores that lined the street. I was about to ask how they could be allowed to open on Sundays when I realized that Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath and Sunday only another ordinary day. I found myself wondering if Jacob observed Jewish rituals and went to worship at a temple.

He came down to greet us and escorted us up the stairs, past doors from which came the smells of fat frying and the sounds of a violin being played and up to the top floor. His studio was stark but neat, with a kitchen sink and scrubbed pine table at one side, a bed behind a screen, and the rest of the space taken over with photographic equipment and photographs he had taken.