Beacon Street Mourning Read online

  RAVES FOR DIANNE DAY

  AND FREMONT JONES

  BEACON STREET MOURNING

  “Day’s astute descriptions of the social mores and day-to-day life in Boston in 1909 are as entertaining as the characters she creates and give much more added pleasure to the reader.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  DEATH TRAIN TO BOSTON

  “Fremont Jones is a laudable and attractive heroine.… Ms. Day has done her research and readers who relish being transported to another time will find this an extremely appealing book. Every facet of the novel—the writing, the characterizations, the suspense, the history—provides knowledge and just plain good storytelling.”

  —The Book Report

  EMPEROR NORTON’S GHOST

  “Fremont is a spirited young woman ahead of her time and her adventures make enthralling reading.”

  —The Purloined Letter

  “[An] appealing portrait of a spirited, irrepressible heroine.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fremont is … [a] delightful, feisty, independent adventurer … [who] exhibits a wry sense of humor.”

  —Southbridge Evening News, Southbridge, MA

  THE BOHEMIAN MURDERS

  “Thrill to the third in this exciting series featuring the liberated Fremont at her bravest.… This knockout setting draws you in like no other. The Bohemian Murders conjures up the murkiest mystery—you can just hear the waves and smell the fog. Bravo.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  “Delightful.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “A plucky heroine, a darkly handsome suitor in the wings, and a glimpse back into history all add to the charms this series has to offer.”

  —Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

  “Light, entertaining and ever-so-slightly racy, The Bohemian Murders is perfect summer reading.”

  —Wisconsin State Journal

  “An attractive and involving historical.”

  —Library Journal

  “Fast-paced machinations keep the reader turning page after page with anticipation.”

  —The Carmel Pine Cone

  “By the third book in a new series, most new sleuths tend to flounder. Not that plucky Bostonian Caroline Fremont Jones … The strong-minded Fremont surrenders neither her independence nor her intelligence.… This liberated woman has come too far ever to go back.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  FIRE AND FOG

  “A winner.”

  —Monterey County Herald

  “Day’s decorous, spirited heroine is as charming as ever as she picks her way through a world of rubble where every acquaintance could be a killer.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “One of the best books of 1996 … showcases Dianne Day’s incredible storytelling abilities.”

  —Mostly Murder

  “The strong-willed, intelligent Jones shines, whether she’s helping her friend, fending off suitors, or fleeing the clutches of ninja smugglers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Great fun.”

  —Nashville Banner

  “An attention catcher … you won’t put the book down in a hurry.”

  —The Times & Democrat

  “A distinctive and appealing voice.”

  —Library Journal

  “A delightful period mystery.”

  —Booklist

  “Excellent, involving tale.”

  —The Bookwatch

  THE STRANGE FILES OF FREMONT JONES

  Macavity Award Winner for Best First Mystery Novel

  “Dianne Day provides a delightful heroine and a lively, twisty, intriguing mystery.”

  —Carolyn G. Hart

  “Wonderfully fresh … as much a quirky, turn-of-the-century character study, a love letter to a city, as it is a traditional romance/whodunit … An impressive performance.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Chilling … Day won’t disappoint even the hard-core suspense addict.”

  —The Carmel Pine Cone

  “Foggy period atmosphere, a dash of dangerous romance and several rousingly good-natured action scenes.”

  —Star-Tribune, Minneapolis

  “A fascinating novel.”

  —The Virginian-Pilot

  “[Fremont Jones] could be the Victorian ancestor of contemporary sleuth Kinsey Milhone. An enjoyable introduction to a new series.”

  —Castro Valley Forum

  “A fine, buoyant literary style … a spirited, likable heroine.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An enchanting book … an extraordinary adventure and a delightful read.”

  —Library Journal

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Strange Files of Fremont Jones

  Fire and Fog

  The Bohemian Murders

  Emperor Norton’s Ghost

  Death Train to Boston

  And coming soon in hardcover from Doubleday

  Cut to the Heart

  This edition contains the complete text

  of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  BEACON STREET MOURNING

  A BANTAM BOOK

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Doubleday hardcover edition published October 2000

  Bantam mass market edition / November 2001

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Dianne Day.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-028190. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-41790-9

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  To my father,

  who died when I was an infant,

  and

  to my mother,

  who lives on

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank Barbara and Rudi Franchi for their hospitality and for sharing historical and background materials, documents, and photographs of Boston; their daughter Susan Frank for being an excellent West Coast source of the same; Karen Levin of Salem, Massachusetts, for patiently driving me many places when I was doing research; Kate of Kate’s Mystery Books in Cambridge just for being there; the Boston area DorothyLers, ditto; Bob Smith for the history of Locke-Ober and knowledge of Cape Cod; and last but far from least, Luci Zahray for her expertise on poisons, without which this book could not have been written.

  —D.D.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter
Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Afterword

  About the Author

  ONE

  SAN FRANCISCO · JANUARY 1909

  WITH THE TURN of the New Year came, as always, a time of resolutions and new beginnings. No more could I afford the vaguely pleasurable limbo in which I’d lately been floating. So I took stock and began to deal with feelings of guilt I had metaphorically swept under the carpet.

  Since my return to San Francisco in early December from a certain trip I didn’t even like to think about, I’d allowed myself to luxuriate in feelings of safety and belonging. I was daily overwhelmed with gratitude at simply finding myself alive—especially considering a number of things that had happened while I was away that might have produced quite the opposite result. There were times when to be alive and in love with my partner Michael Kossoff was almost more happiness than I could bear. Of course there were also times when I wished I were strong enough to throw him off the roof of our house at the top of Divisadero Street, but that’s another story.

  If I were honest, I had to admit that underneath my happiness ran a subterranean vein of the most profound disquiet, and in this vein lay the source of my guilt: deep concerns about my father. I was worried about his health and general well-being, certain I had good reason for worry, and yet I had done next to nothing.

  Oh, I had a good excuse for my inaction: two broken legs that were excruciatingly slow to heal, and some unpleasant mental and emotional aftereffects of that aforementioned trip. I would have denied having any problem other than my legs if anyone had asked, especially Michael; lacking control over one’s thoughts and feelings can be most distressing. My legs were stronger now—I had recently traded my crutches for two canes—and even though I was less sure about strength in the rest of me, I could not wait any longer to do something about Father.

  Ever testing limits, I tucked one cane under my left arm and, leaning only upon the other one, started across the sitting room. Three steps: drops of perspiration broke out on my forehead. This was agony—not so much physical, although there was pain. The embarrassing truth was, ever since giving up the crutches, I’d been afraid of falling.

  Breathing hard against fear’s chill, I thought: Why push myself too far? I needed both the canes, for balance as well as support. Even so, I forced one more step before allowing the relief that flooded me as soon as I put that second cane to the floor.

  If I hadn’t known better, I could’ve sworn this house had grown larger during the time I was away. It took a ridiculously long time to cross this room. Or any room. Finally I reached the other side, as sweat-drenched as if I’d run a race in midsummer rather than walked a few steps indoors on a gloomy, rainy San Francisco winter day.

  Taking a seat at a little antique writing desk that had been a welcome-home gift from Michael, I heard the telephone ring right beneath my feet. Downstairs on my side of our double house is the office suite of J&K, the private investigation agency that Michael and I own and operate together. Not that I had lately been of any use to our operation whatsoever. I sighed, and reached for writing paper.

  The telephone rang three times before it was picked up, then faintly I heard the inimitable tones of Edna Stephenson’s voice. She has a large voice for such a small woman, yet I couldn’t make out her exact words. Never mind, she always said the same thing anyway: “The J and K Agency. This is Mrs. Stephenson, the receptionist, speaking. May I help you?”

  I smiled, then frowned, straining to hear even though I knew the chance of my being able to make out the words through the thick walls of the house was slim to none. Lately my pleasure at being safe and sound has been regularly outweighed by a strong desire to resume all my normal activities, such as snooping. As an eavesdropper I excelled, in large part due to my unusually acute hearing. But here the walls defeated me; in the world at large my physical limitations did the same. What good is a detective who cannot walk unaided? For whom a flight of stairs presents a formidable obstacle? How long, oh how long before I would be myself again?

  My present routine had me going downstairs to the office twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, to meet with the others and hear what cases the agency had going. These two trips up and down were all I could physically handle.

  Sitting in on case discussion was not enough for me. I wanted to do more. I might have stayed downstairs to do typewriting in the mornings, I was physically capable of that—but Edna had become quite a good typewriter. She could run the office alone. She did not need me, and after a few minutes I inevitably felt like an intruder. The office was no longer my territory, I had made myself into a detective, or an investigator, and if I could not detect or investigate then I felt useless.

  Downstairs the sound of Edna’s voice ceased; involuntarily I winced as she banged the earpiece back on its hook, a gentle hang-up not being Edna’s style. For a moment I pictured her slipping out of her chair—she is a short woman whose feet do not quite reach the floor when she sits at her desk—then tottering on tiny feet across the front office, through the conference room, and then into the kitchen. I glanced at my pendant watch—another gift from Michael, who has been showering me with entirely too many presents lately—to confirm the time. As I’d thought, it was about 4 P.M. In another hour I would make my way down the stairs to follow the same path Edna had just taken in my mind’s eye, back to the kitchen where she and Michael and Wish and I would discuss what they had done today. Wish Stephenson is our other investigator, and Edna is his mother. The others would talk and I would listen; greedily, enviously I would drink in their words along with Edna’s scalding coffee.

  But right now I had a letter to write.

  I had been thinking about this letter for a long time. It was the sort of letter that would start something, would lead to irrevocable consequences—and so I hadn’t dared to write it until I believed I could handle those consequences. This letter would say words that, once said, could not be taken back. It would bring an outside person into a situation that, thus far, had been private. It was a difficult and possibly a dangerous step to take. Yet I hesitated no longer; words flowed from my pen.

  The sound of a pen moving across paper is irresistible to a cat. Sometimes to my detriment I forget this. I was completely engrossed when Hiram leaped upon the desk, tucked his haunches under and sat on a corner of the paper, his golden eyes tracking the moving pen with a born stalker’s fascination. Uh-oh. I put the pen down just in time. He blinked at me quite crossly for ruining his fun.

  I have not had Hiram for very long; I acquired him as a tiny kitten on that trip I do not like to think about. To say that he is growing rapidly would be an understatement. I suppose in cat time he must be entering adolescence; certainly he has the cat version of that gangly look, as if the rest of him may never catch up to the length of his legs and tail. He has become somewhat clumsy as well. I clapped one hand over the inkwell before we could have a nasty accident.

  “How kind of you to join me,” I said acerbically, as I picked Hiram up and tucked him in my lap beneath the fold-down panel of the desk. “If you want to stay, then you must sit there quietly and behave yourself.”

  He stretched his neck and stared at me upside down as if to judge whether I meant what I’d said. “Really,” I added for emphasis.

  This apparently convinced him, for he stretched once and then shaped himself into a purring ball of sleek black fur. I stroked him for a while, rereading what I’d written thus far; then I caught my lower lip in my teeth (which somehow facilitates thought) and continued to write. I did not stop until I had finished the whole letter. Then I read it through. Though the paper trembled in my hand, I was satisfied that I’d said what needed to be said:

  Divisadero Street

  San Francisco

  January 10, 1909

  Mr. William Barrett

  Great Ce
ntennial Bank

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Dear William,

  I write to ask for your assistance in a matter pertaining to my father, Leonard Pembroke Jones. I do hope you will forgive my presumption in approaching you after an absence and silence of so many years. My memory of your past kindness prompts me to do so. I have such a warm recollection of your solicitousness on those occasions when, after my mother’s death, I served as my father’s awkward young hostess. You made things easier for me then, and I hope now you will be able to do the same—although the present situation is, alas, far more serious. In truth, William, I do not know where else to turn. I trust I may rely on your discretion, as this is a matter of some delicacy.

  Before proceeding with an explanation, I should say I am well aware that Father is no longer at the bank, that he is “retired,” though in Father’s case I am not sure what the exact meaning of that word would be. While I am sorry on his account, as he was always a man whose work meant much to him, I do hope his departure may have meant promotion for you. I know he would have thought you a worthy successor.

  In essence my dilemma is this: I have been lately unable to make contact with Father. Over the past two months I have sent him three telegrams. Only the first of these was answered, by Father’s faithful secretary Gladys, who told me he was no longer at the bank due to his (aforementioned) retirement. The two subsequent telegrams, sent to him at the Beacon Street residence, have gone unanswered, though Western Union has assured me they were delivered.

  If I may speak plainly: I suspect the intervention of Father’s wife, Augusta (as was) Simmons. I cannot imagine any circumstance under which Augusta would have any right or reason to intercept a communication from me, or indeed from anyone, to my father. If Father had received my telegrams himself, I am certain he would have replied. Because I know the telegrams were delivered to the house but Father has not replied, I can only conclude they were delivered into hands other than Father’s. Whose else but Augusta’s? I do not wish to be unfair, but I can reach no other conclusion.