Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

Sid lifted the lid of a large cast-iron pot and poked at something inside. Then she sniffed appreciatively. “Almost ready, I think.”


“Daniel had expressed interest in joining us,” I said, “but I haven’t heard from him this morning, so I don’t know where he can be.”

“So he has finally come to realize that we are intelligent company?” Gus asked.

“It has more to do with Nellie Bly being present, I fear,” I said, laughing.

“Anyway, since lunch is now ready, it’s too bad for him. What are we eating, Sid?”

One never knew what was coming next when Sid was cooking. It could be anything from Mongolian stew to Moroccan couscous, depending on my friends’ whim and which part of the world was currently capturing their interest. Before I could ask, Sid put the lid back down and announced, “Coq au vin. We decided to opt for simplicity and winter comfort today.”

Elizabeth nodded. “One can’t go wrong with French food, can one?”

It was at times like this that I had to stop myself from grinning. I, who had grown up in a peasant’s cottage, who had lived on potatoes and turnips and the occasional bit of mutton in a stew when we were lucky, was now living among people who thought that coq au vin constituted a simple meal. I wondered if there would ever be a day when I took this life for granted.

“The table’s laid, so why don’t you go through and I’ll serve,” Sid said. “If you’d be good enough to carry the wine, Molly. It has been near the stove so I’m sure we must have chambre-ed it sufficiently.”

I carried the wine bottle and soon we were eating the most delicious chicken, which was cooked so tenderly that it absolutely fell from the bone. There was crusty bread from the French bakery around the corner on Greenwich Avenue to accompany it and afterward that big bowl of figs, dates, and nuts, with a dessert wine.

Sated and a little tipsy, I made my way home, having promised to keep them all apprised of the fortunes of the girl we rescued from the snow. I desperately wanted to know how she was faring and was annoyed that Daniel hadn’t appeared all day. I wondered if he had had second thoughts about working for me, or was angry with me for forcing him into a situation not of his choosing. Then I told myself I was being too sensitive. I had offered him a job. He could have turned it down if it wasn’t to his liking. Maybe something important had come up this morning. Maybe he had been summoned to police headquarters or even to the commissioner’s office. Whatever the cause, I was determined to visit that hospital with or without him before I went to the theater at four.

I hurried to dress in my business suit and was just on my way out when I bumped into Daniel, trudging through the deep snow up Patchin Place.

“Well, here you are at last,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you all day. I was about to dismiss you as an unreliable employee.”

“Don’t joke, Molly,” he said.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“I think I might have caught pneumonia,” he said, holding a thick woolen scarf over his mouth.

“Oh no. You’re sick, are you? Come into the house and I’ll make you a cup of tea or something. Then we’ll get you home to bed.”

“That’s the best invitation I’ve had in a long while,” said the voice from inside the scarf.

“Not that sick then,” I replied dryly, and shoved him into the house. “Here, let me feel your forehead.” I put my hand up to touch it. It was freezing cold. I tried his cheeks. Equally cold. “No fever,” I said. “So it’s not pneumonia.”

“It could well turn into pneumonia,” he said peevishly and slumped at the kitchen table. “I got thoroughly chilled to the marrow working on your damned case last night. Do you know that that Roth fellow stayed out until two A.M?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—then he’s not the paragon we thought he was after all.”

“I didn’t say he was doing anything sinful all that time,” Daniel said, unwrapping the scarf as he spoke. “He was at Delmonico’s, with friends. All young men like himself. But they talked and talked and they were the last to leave. The waiters practically had to throw them out in the end.”

“He was drunk, then?”

“Not in the least. They only had a couple of bottles of wine all evening.”

“So nothing detrimental to report?”

“Yes. That I was frozen to the marrow and this morning my throat was distinctly scratchy. So I stayed in bed all morning as a precaution and got Mrs. O’Shea to make me hot chamomile tea and broth.”

“Oh, you poor dear man.” I laid on the sarcasm so thickly that he got the message.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he said. “You’re going to have to treat your employees better than this if you want them to stay, Miss Murphy.”

“I spent one evening following Mr. Roth dressed only in rags, remember?”

“Yes, but you were home before ten. I was out until two,” Daniel said.