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  Murder in Burnt Orange

  A Hilda Johansson Mystery

  Jeanne M. Dams

  Perseverance Press / John Daniel & Company

  Palo Alto / McKinleyville, California / MMXI

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.

  Copyright © 2011 by Jeanne M. Dams

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-56474-751-8

  A Perseverance Press Book

  Published by John Daniel & Company

  A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

  Post Office Box 2790

  McKinleyville, California 95519

  www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

  Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423

  Cover painting by Linda Weatherly S.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dams, Jeanne M.

  Murder in burnt orange : a Hilda Johansson book / by Jeanne M. Dams.

  p. cm.

  ISBN [first print edition] 978-1-56474-503-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Johansson, Hilda (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Fiction. 3. Swedish Americans—Fiction. 4. South Bend (Ind.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.A498M87 2011

  813’.54--dc22

  2011005175

  1

  MOTHERS ARE HELPED

  Happiness of Thousands of Woman Due to Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound and Mrs. Pinkham’s Advice (adv’t)

  —South Bend Times, 1905

  Hilda pushed her plate away, ham and eggs untouched.

  Patrick put down the Tribune. “Are you not feelin’ well, darlin’?” he asked cautiously. “I thought young Kevin was givin’ you less trouble these days.”

  “Kristina is behaving well,” said Hilda, frowning. “Except for kicking me every night. I am not ill. It is too hot to eat.”

  If Patrick sighed, he did it inwardly. “You’ve got to eat, me love. Don’t forget you’re feedin’ two. Eileen could bring you some ice cream, or some strawberries and cream, or—”

  “I do not want to eat, Patrick!” Hilda pushed her chair back and rose from the table, with some difficulty. She felt, and was sure she looked, enormous. She grasped the back of the chair while she found her balance. “I am hot and tired and my back hurts, and I do not want to do anything. I will go upstairs and lie down in front of the fan.”

  Patrick got up to help her, but she fixed him with such a glare that he subsided. His sigh this time, as she left the room, was audible.

  Eileen, when she came into the dining room to clear the table, looked at Hilda’s plate with a frown. “Sick again this morning, Mr. Patrick?”

  “She said not, just hot and out of sorts. She’s gone back to bed. You’d best look in on her later in the mornin’ and see if you can get her to eat somethin’.”

  “It’s starvin’ the babe, she is!” Eileen was near tears. “I could see why she didn’t want to eat while she was bein’ sick every day, but now she’s better, Mrs. O’Rourke and me, we cook things we’re sure she’ll like, her favorites—used to be, anyway—and she won’t so much as taste them. She doesn’t eat, barrin’ outlandish things like sauerkraut and sardines, and them pretzels she can’t get enough of. And I’m sure she hasn’t spoken a good word to me since—well, for months, and her who used to be so nice to me!” The tears were very close to the surface now.

  Patrick rose and patted her on the arm. “Now, Eileen, it’s nothin’ personal. She’s uncomfortable and doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, this bein’ her first and all. And it is hot, right enough. This is a bad summer to be havin’ a baby.”

  There had been heat waves throughout the Midwest that June of 1905, after record cold the preceding winter. Hilda hadn’t minded the cold so much. She was Swedish, after all, born on a farm in Dalarna, where the winters were bitterly cold and dark. Northern Indiana seemed almost tropical by comparison. In any case, the cold lessened her nausea. The heat was a different matter. If Dalarna had ever been really hot and humid in summertime, Hilda claimed she could not remember it. And even if it had, she had not been pregnant at the time.

  “It’s bound to cool off soon,” Patrick continued. “It can’t stay this hot forever. She’ll feel better once we get some rain.”

  Eileen sniffed. “I hope so, sir.”

  So did Patrick.

  * * *

  “You look tired, me boy,” said Mr. Malloy when Patrick walked into the office on the top floor of Malloy’s Dry Goods.

  Patrick took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Not nine o’clock yet, and it must be ninety in the shade. And I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Hilda a bit restless, is she?”

  Patrick mopped his brow again. “Restless isn’t the word, Uncle Dan. Downright fratchety, she is. Nothin’ suits her. First she was sick. Then she was sick and her—well, she felt sore. Then she started feelin’ better, but the baby started kickin’ her and wakin’ her up. Now the baby kicks harder, and gets hiccups, and it all wakes her up. And when Hilda’s awake, I’m awake. She’s hot and tired all the time, and her back aches, and she can’t find food to suit her, and Uncle Dan, I’m about to lose me mind! I don’t remember me mam actin’ like this with me brothers and sisters.”

  “By the time you were old enough to notice, your mother had other children to keep her busy, Pat. You got to remember, no woman knows how to do it the first time. Hilda’s likely scared, too.”

  “Hilda? She’s never scared of anything.”

  “She’s never faced anything before that she thought she couldn’t get out of. Even when those villains kidnapped her, while she was working to save my hide, she reckoned she could get away—and she did. But there’s no escaping this predicament you got her into. She doesn’t know what to expect, and I’m sure she’s heard all the horror stories. That’s a rare spunky woman you’ve been lucky enough to marry, Pat, but of course she’s scared, though she’d never admit it.”

  Patrick licked his lips. They were salty with sweat. “To tell the truth, I’m scared, too. Women do die havin’ babies, sometimes.”

  Dan Malloy acknowledged the fact with a nod. “They do. But not often nowadays, not when they’re strong, healthy specimens like Hilda. Stop worrying, boy. You’ll forget all about the nuisances once the baby’s here.”

  “I don’t know, Uncle Dan. Seems as if the Hilda I married has changed into somebody else. I’m not so sure I even know her anymore.”

  The day grew even hotter under a relentless sun. There were few customers in the store. The ladies who might have been interested in new ribbons or laces or handkerchiefs or parasols were sitting on their porches sipping lemonade, and the men who might have bought these things for their wives or lady friends were sweltering at their jobs. All the windows in the store were open wide to catch the least hint of a breeze, but there was no breeze. Several electric fans produced a good deal of noise, but little relief. Upstairs, the offices seemed so airless it was hard to breathe, and even harder to concentrate on work. By noon, Patrick’s collar was so damp and limp he had to go home to exchange it for another.

  He found Hilda in the parlor, reclining on the couch, fanning herself. She was wearing the silk kimo
no Aunt Molly had given her, and (Patrick strongly suspected) nothing whatever under it. He was a little shocked. A lady simply did not appear downstairs nearly naked.

  “Do you not want to be upstairs, with the electric fan?” he said, after he had kissed her.

  “It is too hot upstairs. And the fan buzzes so, it makes my head ache.” She sought a more comfortable position, allowing the kimono to slip a trifle and confirm Patrick’s suspicions.

  “Then I’ll bring you somethin’ to eat, and we’ll have our lunch together.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  Patrick said nothing, but stalked out of the room.

  He returned shortly with a tray. Eileen followed, carrying a small table that she set down in front of the couch.

  “Patrick! I said I was not hungry.”

  “I know what you said.” He put the tray down. It contained a large bowl of jellied consommé, a green salad, some bread and cheese, and a tall glass of iced lemonade. “You will eat this.”

  “I do not want it.”

  “But you will eat it.” Patrick had an Irish temper, and it had finally broken its restraints. “I’m not havin’ our child suffer because you’re not comfortable. Eat.” His voice was not loud, but it was pure steel.

  He pulled the chair away from the writing desk in the corner, sat astride it, and glared at his wife.

  Hilda glared back. Patrick’s jaw set even more firmly.

  Hilda had a temper of her own, even when she was not pregnant and perishing with heat. For a long moment she considered throwing the consommé at him, but the parlor carpet was new. Even in her fury, her housewifely thrift couldn’t quite allow her to ruin a fine piece of Axminster. Moreover, she knew that when his anger reached this stage, she was not going to win.

  She scowled, sat up, and took a tiny spoonful of soup.

  Once she began, she found that she was, after all, ravenously hungry. She ate everything on the tray, while Patrick kept a vigilant eye on her, now and then taking a bite of the large ham sandwich Eileen had provided for him.

  “I hope you are happy now,” she said acidly when she had finished. She was not going to allow him the satisfaction of knowing she had enjoyed her meal.

  “I will be happy when you have eaten your ice cream,” he said sternly. He was not going to allow her the satisfaction of knowing he had softened. Not yet.

  When Eileen had brought in bowls of strawberry ice cream and they had both eaten their fill, he came and sat beside her. Taking her hands, he said, “Darlin’ girl, I’m sorry I had to go all hardhearted like that. But I have to make you look after yourself. You were starvin’ yerself and little Kevin before me very eyes.”

  “I am not starving K-Kristina,” said Hilda in a wobbly voice, and suddenly burst into tears. “It is just that I am so fat, and I am so hot and tired, and I want this to be o-over!”

  Once more bewildered and apologetic, Patrick patted and soothed and finally rang for Eileen. “Mrs. Cavanaugh is tired, Eileen. Can you help her up to bed? And turn on the fan, unless it will keep her awake.”

  “I will give her a cool bath, sir. That’ll make her more comfortable. Up you get, ma’am.”

  Still sobbing, Hilda allowed herself to be helped off the couch and up the stairs. Patrick stood irresolute, wondering whether his presence upstairs would make matters better or worse, until the clanging of fire bells interrupted his thoughts. Once a fireman, he still responded to the summons like an old fire horse. This hot summer the sound was all too familiar. Fires started easily and spread quickly from one building to the next. He started out the front door to see if he could figure out where the fire wagon was going, but a shout from Eileen called him back.

  “You can’t go back to the store lookin’ like that, Mr. Patrick!” She tossed a fresh collar down to him from the landing, and grinned. “Don’t fret, now! She’s had a good meal, and a good cry, and she’ll sleep as soon as I’ve cooled her off a bit. And it’s only another two or three months!”

  Patrick crossed himself and raised his eyes to heaven. “May the blessed saints be praised, and may we all survive it, Eileen.”

  2

  FASTEST TRAIN IN WORLD ON LAKE SHORE...IS DESTROYED AT MENTOR, OHIO

  —South Bend Tribune June 22, 1905

  The heat continued. A thunderstorm two nights later served only to increase the humidity without bringing cooler air. The rain helped douse a few small house fires, but others were more serious. A local bank was nearly destroyed. The general feeling was that arson might have caused that fire, since the bank was rumored to be on the verge of collapse, but with the bank records destroyed, nothing could be proved.

  Hilda’s temper did not improve, nor did her appetite. Doctor Clark, when he had examined her, came downstairs with a grave face.

  “She’s fretting, lad,” he said when Patrick had seated him in the parlor. “No, thanks, no whiskey. I’ve other calls to make, and anyway whiskey warms me. I wouldn’t say no to some lemonade.”

  Patrick rang the bell. “But is the baby all right?”

  “Baby seems fine. Good strong heartbeat, and growing like a weed. I take it you are forcing her to eat?”

  Patrick frowned. “I’ll not say I’m forcin’ her. But—well, what’s a man to do? I’ll allow I’ve lost me temper a time or two and pushed her a bit.”

  “Good for you. Keep it up. She’s on the thin side, herself, though the baby’s just fine—a bit big for this stage, if anything. The body will see to that, you know. If there’s not enough food for both mother and baby, the baby gets the lion’s share. But it’s not her nutrition I’m worried about, so much as her nerves. They’re in a bad state.”

  Patrick nodded dolefully. “She’s fair drivin’ me to distraction, and that’s the truth. I don’t know what to do for her. I don’t mind tellin’ you there’s times I’d like to take her and shake some sense into her. Nothin’ I say or do is any help, unless I downright lose me temper, and then she cries.”

  “Hmm. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to her mother?”

  Patrick snorted. “Her mother and me, we’re not on speakin’ terms these days. I was beginnin’ to talk her around, make her think the Irish weren’t all bad, and maybe I was good enough for her precious daughter. But now Hilda’s takin’ this baby so hard, Mrs. Johansson thinks I’m the devil himself to get her into this state. She won’t even come to see Hilda if I’m here.”

  Doctor Clark nodded. He knew all about the acrimony between Hilda’s Swedish family and Patrick’s Irish people. “Your mother, then. Or your aunt. Hilda needs a sensible woman to talk to.”

  Patrick brightened. “My mother doesn’t like Hilda any more than her mother likes me. But Aunt Molly, now...”

  The next day, June 22, the first day of real summer, brought with it increased heat, a horrifying newspaper headline, and a visitor. Eileen was serving breakfast, and Aunt Molly, after the barest tap on the screen door, let herself in and marched into the dining room.

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” she said to Eileen’s stammered apologies. “You were busy, and I’m family. Do get me a cup of coffee, there’s a good girl. Hilda, how are you?”

  Hilda muttered something and bit the tiniest possible corner off her piece of toast.

  Molly Malloy was not a person to be ignored. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Hilda. I asked how you were.”

  “I am well, Aunt Molly.” It was the merest murmur of a reply, meant to satisfy courtesy, not to convey meaning.

  “You don’t look it,” retorted Molly. “Your hair looks like it’s housed a nestful of mice, and what are you doing downstairs in a kimono?”

  “You gave it to me,” said Hilda, a tiny hint of anger touching her voice.

  “I did that, but not to wear down to breakfast. But never mind. Patrick, have you seen this headline?”

  She thrust the front page of the Tribune under his nose. He pointed to the copy folded beside his plate. OPEN SWITCH HURLS TWENTIETH CENTURY FLYER FROM THE TRACK read the two
-column head. Datelined Cleveland, Ohio, the story included gruesome details of the number of dead and injured, the fire that burned many of the wooden cars, the last statements of the dying. Patrick was not the sort of husband who forbade his wife to read the paper, but he had already decided to keep this one from Hilda’s eyes if he could. In his opinion it was the sort of thing that could mark an unborn child.

  “Yes,” he said to Aunt Molly, with a significant glance toward Hilda.

  “And what do you propose to do about it?” demanded Molly.

  “Do? What do you mean? What can I do about a train wreck?”

  “A deliberate train wreck, Patrick. Have you read the story? The switch was left open on purpose. Those twenty-one people were murdered, Patrick Cavanaugh, and Mr. Malloy was very nearly on that train!”

  “Uncle Dan? But he’s in Chicago.”

  “He is, but he was to have left yesterday evening for New York. But for the grace of God, he would have been in one of those sleeping cars that burned.” Molly crossed herself.

  “What happened?” asked Hilda. Patrick and Molly turned to her like puppets on a single string.

  “Nothin’ you need concern yourself with, darlin’ girl,” said Patrick at the same moment that Molly said, “An accident, but an accident-on-purpose. You’d be interested.”

  “Molly!” said Patrick. Molly and Hilda ignored him.

  “It’s just the sort of mystery you like to solve, Hilda,” said Molly, accepting a cup of coffee from Eileen and sitting down at the table. “No clues at all, and a great deal at stake. You know, of course, that there have been a great many train wrecks of late, and even the Pinkertons haven’t any clues to who’s behind them.”

  “I did not know,” said Hilda. “I have not felt well enough to read the newspaper.”

  “Nonsense! You’re expecting a baby. It’s a perfectly normal state of affairs, not an illness. The trouble is, you have nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself. You need a task, something to interest you.”

  “But I can do nothing! I cannot go out in this condition, only to church. I cannot even have guests in. Polite society—”