Free Murder on St. Mark's Place by Victoria Thompson Page A

choice but to follow her out to her backyard. The old woman from next door was sitting there, fanning herself with the most elaborate fan Frank had ever seen. Her wrinkled face lit with happiness when she saw him.
    “Detective Sergeant Malloy, Mrs. Brandt didn’t tell me you were expected. I’ll take myself off so you two can discuss... uh ... whatever it is you need to discuss,” she said with a sly grin.
    “That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Frank said, wishing he didn’t feel embarrassed. He had nothing to feel embarrassed about. This meeting was strictly business.
    The old woman rolled her eyes as she gathered her things to leave. “I guess I should’ve expected Mr. Malloy. I broke a needle today, you know. And yesterday I saw three crows together.”
    Mrs. Brandt smiled patiently.. “Does that mean a visitor is coming?” she asked.
    “Oh, no,” Mrs. Elsworth said smugly. “Both those things mean a wedding. I’ll be off now. You two enjoy your afternoon.”
    As soon as the old woman had disappeared through the gate connecting the two yards, Mrs. Brandt said, “Don’t look so terrified. Her omens hardly ever come true.”
    “I’m not—” he began, then caught himself. He wasn’t going to get into a conversation about that. He cleared his throat. “I talked to the detective who’s investigating the girl’s death,” he said instead, figuring that would distract her.
    It did. “Sit down and tell me everything,” she said eagerly. “I’ve found out some things, too.” She took the other chair and began to pour some lemonade from a pitcher. “Take your jacket off. You must be sweltering.”
    Frank briefly considered doing so. He was sweltering, but he didn’t want to start getting comfortable with Sarah Brandt. He wasn’t going to know her that much longer. Besides, his shirt was probably badly wrinkled.
    He did sit down, though, and he did drink the lemonade she offered him. Then he took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow and for just a moment allowed himself to enjoy the cool shade of her yard and the sweet scent of her flowers. But only for a moment.
    “Bill Broughan is investigating the case,” he began.
    She nodded. “I remember him. I tried to get him to tell me where you lived, but he wouldn’t do it. He said it would be worth his life, if I recall correctly.”
    “He’s the one,” Frank confirmed.
    “Is he any good? As a detective, I mean?”
    “When he’s sober.”
    “Which isn’t very often, I’d guess.”
    She was right about that. No need to tell her, either. “He said the girl was out dancing every night. Went with a lot of men. Didn’t have a steady fellow, so there’s no telling who she was with that night.”
    “Even her friends don’t know, the ones who were with her at Harmony Hall,” she confirmed.
    He looked at her in surprise. “Harmony Hall?”
    “It’s a dance hall on Fourteenth Street, over a saloon. That’s where she went dancing the night she died.”
    “If you knew all this, why do you need me?” He was feeling annoyed, although he knew that was irrational.
    “Because I didn’t know it when I saw you last. I met Gerda’s friends at her funeral, and they told me all this. I feel sure the police have uncovered a lot more about her, though. What else did you find out?”
    “Nothing,” Malloy admitted reluctantly. “You might as well forget finding who killed her. Nobody is going to bother to investigate.”
    “They’re giving up already?” she asked, outraged.
    “I told you, there’s no way to find out who killed her. There’s just too many possibilities.”
    “What if I could help you narrow it down to a few?” she asked slyly.
    Frank didn’t like that expression one bit. “How?”
    “Someone gave Gerda a hat shortly before she died. His name is George, he spends a lot of time at dances, and he sells ladies’ furnishing. Someone else gave her red shoes, someone who was with her at Coney Island, and I have a photograph of