Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)

Some of the foreigners seemed to get the gist of this. They nodded to each other, smiling, then they clapped, although they glanced around nervously in case the police might be watching.

"This is a special day," the mayor continued. "Today I unveil a plaque, officially dedicating this magnificent new building. A special cake has been baked by our wonderful New York Italian community and I understand that you'll all get a slice once I've cut it."

Even the foreigners understood this one. They smiled and nodded to each other.

"And since Ellis Island is geographically part of our great city, and you'll all be stepping ashore there in a little while, I've brought some of our finest entertainers to make this a festive occasion."

I don't know about anyone else sitting on those hard benches, but I didn't want to be entertained. My nerves were as taut as violin strings. The sooner I faced those uniformed in spectors and got through this ordeal, the better. Still, I didn't have much choice. A Signora Torchelli, whom they announced as a famous opera singer from Italy, now performing in New York, sang us a song in Italian. She certainly had a big voice to match a big body. It echoed around that hall and bounced back from the newly tiled walls. Then the mayor introduced the toast of vaudeville, that famous monologuist and comedian, the darling of the Irish, Billy Brady.

I'd never heard of him. Neither had anyone around me. Obviously not the darling of the Irish in Ireland. He came to the front of the balcony-- a big, jovial man with a round moon face and curly hair. "For my first monologue, I'm going to remind those Irish among you of home," he

said. He turned away, and when he turned back he was wearing a gray wig and a head scarf. Then he launched into a monologue about an Irish grandmother coming to New York. My, but he was funny. He had that Irish grandmother to a tee. All the Irish in the audience shrieked with laughter. The non-English-speakers stared blankly, trying to catch what might be making us laugh. When the monologue had ended, he took off the scarf, put on a monocle, and did an impersonation of the president, Mr. McKinley. This didn't go down so well. None of us knew a thing about Mr. McKinley. We didn't even know what he looked like or whether Billy Brady was doing a good impersonation of him. But the dignitaries up in the balcony were laughing away, so he must have been good. We clapped politely.

The afternoon concluded with the famous Irish tenor, Edward Monagan. He sang "Tis the Last

Rose of Summer," and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Irish mothers and fathers sobbing into each other's arms, children crying because their parents were. Me? I just wished he'd get on with it and leave. I've never been much of a one for sentimental songs.

After the song had ended the mayor's party began to move away. I thought they were leaving and breathed a sigh of relief.

"When do we get the cake?" Seamus whispered in my ear.

"Any time now, I should think," I started to say when there was a commotion on the stairs and I saw that the mayor and some of his party were coming down, into the registry room. A couple of men with cameras ran ahead of him. He stopped to pose on the steps and flashes went off, filling the air with a bitter, burning smell. Then the mayor came down the aisle toward us, shaking hands and patting babies.

"He's acting more Irish than the Irish," I overheard a guard behind us mutter.

"Yes, well he's only here because of Tammany. He knows he's in Tammany's pocket," his fellow guard responded. I didn't know what that meant at the time.

The mayor came closer. More handshakes. More pictures. We happened to be close to the aisle and the mayor's eyes fell upon Bridie, snuggled sleepily upon my lap.

"Here's a little Irish miss if ever I saw one," he said, attempting to pick her up. "And what's your name, darling?"

"Tell the gentleman it's Bridie O'Connor," I prompted, but of course she hung her head shyly and tried to squirm away from him.

"Bridie Connor--what a lovely name for a lovely child," he said. He tried to set her on his knee and motioned to the photographers to take his picture with her. "Welcome to America, Bridie," he said.

Bridie started to cry again, but before I could do anything, the Irish comedian, Billy Brady popped up behind the mayor and made such funny faces that the child actually started laughing. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh. People around us joined in, and soon half of Ellis Island was laughing.

The mayor patted her head and handed her back to me. "Lovely child. Take good care of her," he said. "Gee, but I could do with a whiskey and soda," I heard him mutter to Billy Brady as they made their way out of the hall.

Seven