Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

She came down again soon after, a little out of breath, and handed us a photograph. It was a portrait, taken in a studio, and it showed a pretty, plump girl with her hair braided in a rather unflattering way across her head. But the hair was light brown at best, and the girl I had seen on the morgue table had been much smaller.


“It’s not her,” I said, without thinking.

“You’ve found someone?” Krissy asked.

“Yes, a girl’s body,” Mrs. Goodwin said quickly, “but it’s not your sister.”

“Then there is still hope.” She put her hands together in prayer. “I tell you, lady. I feared the worst news. Dilly would never run off and leave me and Mama and Papa worrying about her. She was a good daughter and a good sister. So I really thought something very bad had happened. You read about it in the newspapers, don’t you—bad things happening to girls?”

Mrs. Goodwin touched her arm. “I can’t guarantee that something bad hasn’t happened to your sister, Krissy. Tell me—one thing the police will want to know. Did she have any distinguishing marks on her?” As Krissy looked puzzled she went on, “Anything we could recognize her by? A mole? A broken tooth? A scar?”

“Well,” Krissy said, “she lost the top of a finger once. It got slammed in a carriage door when she was little. You hardly notice it now, but she has no nail on the finger.” She pointed to her right hand.

“Thank you. That’s most helpful,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “May we take the photograph with us?”

“If you bring it back to me,” she said. “It’s all I’ve got now. My parents won’t even talk about her. They won’t even listen.”

At that very moment loud footsteps stomped down the uncarpeted stairs and a big, fair-haired man appeared. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he wore red suspenders.

“What’s this?” he demanded and broke into a flood of Swedish.

His daughter answered him. As she spoke he glared at us.

“Go. Be gone,” he said, gesturing in a threatening manner. “Tell them.” And more Swedish came out.

Krissy looked at him imploringly. “But Papa.”

“Tell them!” he roared.

“He says he don’t want his daughter back no more, even if you find her. He don’t want to know. His daughter is no good. Ruined.” A tear escaped from the corner of her eye. “But please don’t believe him. Please go on searching for her. I beg you.”

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Goodwin gave her a reassuring smile. “We will do our best, I promise you.”

We made our exit with Papa Lindquist watching us go, hands on hips and glaring.

“I fear we have just left two families whose hearts are destined to be broken,” she commented as the automobile got up speed and a warm wind blew in our faces.

Bert’s wife, Marge, insisted that we stay for a meal with them.

“You’re lucky you came today and not tomorrow,” she said as we helped her clear away the dishes. “You’d have got no sense out of him then. He’d be busy tuning and polishing that ridiculous motor vehicle so that it made it all the way to Coney Island.”

“Coney Island? You like to spend the day at the beach?” I asked politely, trying not to sound too interested.

He laughed. “Can’t stand it. Can’t stand crowds either, but I love a good fight. There’s a boxing match going to take place out there tomorrow evening. I reckon half of New York is going. I’ll be going early to get a good seat.”

“A lot of silly men watching two other men beat each other to a pulp,” Marge muttered to us. “You wouldn’t catch me there for all the tea in China.”

“It’s no place for a woman,” Bert Goodwin replied. “But men need their sport. It was a stupid law that tried to shut it down.” He looked at his sister-in-law. “Your husband enjoyed a good fight, Bella. He liked nothing more.”

“I know he did. And I’m quite partial to one myself,” she said unexpectedly. “In fact I wouldn’t mind coming with you tomorrow.”

Bert Goodwin laughed. “You never cease to surprise me, Bella. Come if you want to, but I warn you it will be rough.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” I whispered to her. “You’ll get jostled and bumped in that crowd.”

“But it’s too good a chance to turn down,” she muttered back to me. “And I’m sure we’ll be quite safe with Bert to escort us,” she said in a louder voice.

“Quite safe? I reckon you will be, especially with half the New York Police Department out there.”

“Trying to stop the fight?” I asked.

He threw back his head and laughed even louder. “Trying to stop it? Betting on it, my dear. There’s nothing a cop likes better than a good brawl. Am I right, Bella?”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “I’m sure half the department will be there. Whitey always was.”

“But your little friend here surely won’t want to go, too?” Marge Goodwin looked at me as an ally in the midst of all this barbarism. “She can stay here and keep me company.”