Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“I shall present the bill to my superiors at the same time as I give them the benefits of my investigation,” she said, looking a trifle smug. “When they see what we have accomplished, I don’t think they will dare turn me down. And it’s not as if I have access to police vehicles like my male colleagues.”


“Quite right,” I said. This woman never failed to impress me. She would be my model from now on.

The cabby and I assisted Mrs. Goodwin to board and seated her with pillows in her back before we set off. There was brisk traffic across the bridge to Brooklyn. The half-day Saturday laws were beginning to take effect, meaning that many city workers were probably headed to the nearest beach to escape the heat. That beach would be Coney Island. I wondered how soon Mrs. Goodwin would be well enough to go there with me. I was anxious enough to go there, but not alone!

We crossed into Brooklyn and the cab deposited us on a street of wood-framed row houses and various small businesses. The brother-in-law’s house was at the end of the row, and the shed beside it sported an impressive sign: GOODWIN’S MOTOR SHOP. AUTOMOBILES REPAIRED.

We knocked and Mr. Goodwin himself appeared at the door—a big, ruddy man with arms like tree trunks, dressed only in an undershirt, with a hairy chest clearly visible.

“Sabella—well, I never. What a surprise to see you. Come in, do. Marge will be pleased.” He went to enfold her in a bear hug, but she blocked his advance.

“I’ve come to ask a favor, Bert,” she said, “and I’d like to introduce my young friend and helper, Miss Murphy. Molly, may I present Albert Goodwin.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He shook hands with awkward embarrassment at the formality. “Now come on in. What is it I can do for you, Bella, my dear?”

Bella explained her accident and our mission, then we had a pleasant cup of coffee in their little kitchen while Bert prepared the automobile. It was nothing like the sleek models that I had ridden in a couple of times before; in fact I suspected that it was partly homemade—not much more than a box on wheels. Bert had to crank it up several times, but at last it popped and banged and then chugged away merrily. He helped me into the backseat, Sabella into the front beside him, and we were off. Even though the ride was smoother than a horse and trap, I could see it was an ordeal for Mrs. Goodwin, although she’d never admit it.

Fortunately the first address was not too far away, on a small side street just off Flushing Avenue. It was obvious as soon as we came to a halt that we were in an Italian neighborhood—the smells, the sounds, the very exuberance of life. Italians don’t talk to each other—they yell, they laugh, they fight, and all with the maximum of arm gestures and flashing eyes. The children played equally loudly. A street musician was singing a haunting Italian song in a rich, pure voice. Our automobile caused much interest. The children stopped playing to swarm around it. Bert leaped out and drove them off before they could damage his precious vehicle or burn themselves on the hot hood.

We asked for the Rosettis’ residence and were escorted to it by a mass of dark heads. The man who opened the door looked as if he hadn’t slept in a few nights. Mrs. Goodwin showed him her badge, and we were ushered inside. A large woman, dressed head to toe in black, appeared from the kitchen.

“They’ve come from the police, Mama,” the man said in broken English.

“They bring news? News of my Rosa?” she asked.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “But we’d like to ask your daughters some questions, to see if they can shed any more light—” she stopped, realizing she was going beyond his English skills—“if they can tell us anything we don’t know.”

“Bene.” He nodded. “Our young ones are here. Lucia come home from the factory soon. Gina! Sophia!” he boomed. “Mama, go get the girls.”

The wife disappeared and immediately two young girls came rushing into the room.

“What is it, Papa?” they asked and stood there looking shyly at us.

“They want to ask questions about Rosa,” he said. “Answer them good. Tell them everything you know.”

“We don’t know nothing, Papa. I told you that already,” the older one answered. “If we could do something to find Rosa, we would.”

Mrs. Goodwin produced the letter. “You say that she went to work at the factory that day and never came home?” she asked the father.

“Si. That’s right.”

“Do your other daughters work at the same factory? Didn’t anyone see her leave?”

“Her sister work there with her, but she’s been staying late. They’re trying to start a union, and my Lucia wants to be part of it. She is very”—he slapped himself on the chest—“my Lucia. Strong. With fire. Big heart.”

“So nobody saw Rosa leave that evening?”

“Another girl say she was in a hurry, and she look excited. But she didn’t tell anyone where she goes.”

“Did she have a young man?”

“Young man?” he boomed out the words. “She was sixteen years old. No boys. Too young. That’s what we tell her. We find her a nice Italian boy when the right time comes.”