at a hack driver who was whipping a nag. “Lillie, that is, Miss Osmundsen … well … you see … Dr. Death, that is, the coroner…” Mick turned back to Beret and looked her in the eye. “He said she was pregnant, your sister. She was going to have a baby.”
Chapter 4
Stunned, Beret left Mick and stumbled down the street in a daze, no longer able to hold in her emotions. Tears streamed down her face, and she twisted her hands together, leaving scratches on their backs. She was as shocked by the detective’s parting information as she was about her sister’s murder, and wiped her eyes with her gloved hand. Prostitutes knew how to keep from getting pregnant, and they were careful, although no preventive method was perfect. That was why so many desperate women came to the clinic begging for black pills, the reason there were so many doctors specializing in conditions “peculiar to woman,” as they put it—abortionists, they were. Beret had buried more than one woman who had tried to rid herself of an unwanted baby by stabbing herself with a knitting needle or eating rhubarb leaves.
The chances were that Lillie’s condition was an accident, of course, but Beret couldn’t help wondering if it weren’t. The pregnancy, the dark-complexioned man. How could she not connect them? Had Lillie gotten pregnant on purpose, one more way to spite Beret? Or maybe there was indeed some gentleman who’d hoped to set her up, as Elsie had said, because he was the baby’s father. But how could anyone tell the real identity of a baby’s father? Would Lillie try to blackmail a wealthy man into thinking the child was his? A year before, Beret wouldn’t have thought it possible, but that was before she’d known about her sister’s betrayal. Nothing would have surprised her after that. But still, she thought, a baby! She wiped her damp cheeks again.
Jonas had driven her to the police station, but Beret had dismissed him. She had not known how long she would be there and thought her aunt might have need of the carriage. Now, she hurried up Larimer Street in the twilight, past streetlamps that sent the long shadows of passersby across the sidewalk—businessmen in top hats, sleek women in sealskin cloaks, tramps shivering in their wretched clothes, their hands out. She passed restaurants with smells of rancid grease and fried meat emanating from some, fresh-baked bread and capon simmering in wine from others. The smells mixed with the odor of manure that came from the streets. Office clerks and shopgirls dressed in cheap coats and hats with tawdry bits of feathers and artificial flowers clinging to them scurried out of buildings that were tall for Denver but not so impressive when compared to the skyscrapers in New York. A man jostled her and apologized, but Beret ignored him, not caring whether his touch had been an accident or he was approaching her. Behind her, she heard “What’s your hurry, hon,” a prostitute’s come-on to a john, maybe the very man who had bumped against her. All of that washed over her in a kind of daze.
Beret drew her coat around her. She had planned to walk to her aunt’s house, a distance of a little over a mile. But the air was chill, and she was distraught, anxious to return to the comfort of the Stanton house. Sorry that she had let Jonas go, she hurried on down Larimer to the streetcar stop and boarded a car crammed with people, leaving behind a man who had been following in her wake. She hadn’t noticed him. He paused a moment, as if to board the car himself, but changed his mind and jogged off.
A gentleman offered Beret his seat, but before she could take it, a large woman with an umbrella and a basket containing potatoes and cabbages plopped herself down and gave Beret a smug smile as she set the basket on her lap and wrapped her arms around it. Beret wanted to protest but saw the woman was dressed in black and white, her ankles swollen, and knew she was a domestic who needed the
Chapter 4
Stunned, Beret left Mick and stumbled down the street in a daze, no longer able to hold in her emotions. Tears streamed down her face, and she twisted her hands together, leaving scratches on their backs. She was as shocked by the detective’s parting information as she was about her sister’s murder, and wiped her eyes with her gloved hand. Prostitutes knew how to keep from getting pregnant, and they were careful, although no preventive method was perfect. That was why so many desperate women came to the clinic begging for black pills, the reason there were so many doctors specializing in conditions “peculiar to woman,” as they put it—abortionists, they were. Beret had buried more than one woman who had tried to rid herself of an unwanted baby by stabbing herself with a knitting needle or eating rhubarb leaves.
The chances were that Lillie’s condition was an accident, of course, but Beret couldn’t help wondering if it weren’t. The pregnancy, the dark-complexioned man. How could she not connect them? Had Lillie gotten pregnant on purpose, one more way to spite Beret? Or maybe there was indeed some gentleman who’d hoped to set her up, as Elsie had said, because he was the baby’s father. But how could anyone tell the real identity of a baby’s father? Would Lillie try to blackmail a wealthy man into thinking the child was his? A year before, Beret wouldn’t have thought it possible, but that was before she’d known about her sister’s betrayal. Nothing would have surprised her after that. But still, she thought, a baby! She wiped her damp cheeks again.
Jonas had driven her to the police station, but Beret had dismissed him. She had not known how long she would be there and thought her aunt might have need of the carriage. Now, she hurried up Larimer Street in the twilight, past streetlamps that sent the long shadows of passersby across the sidewalk—businessmen in top hats, sleek women in sealskin cloaks, tramps shivering in their wretched clothes, their hands out. She passed restaurants with smells of rancid grease and fried meat emanating from some, fresh-baked bread and capon simmering in wine from others. The smells mixed with the odor of manure that came from the streets. Office clerks and shopgirls dressed in cheap coats and hats with tawdry bits of feathers and artificial flowers clinging to them scurried out of buildings that were tall for Denver but not so impressive when compared to the skyscrapers in New York. A man jostled her and apologized, but Beret ignored him, not caring whether his touch had been an accident or he was approaching her. Behind her, she heard “What’s your hurry, hon,” a prostitute’s come-on to a john, maybe the very man who had bumped against her. All of that washed over her in a kind of daze.
Beret drew her coat around her. She had planned to walk to her aunt’s house, a distance of a little over a mile. But the air was chill, and she was distraught, anxious to return to the comfort of the Stanton house. Sorry that she had let Jonas go, she hurried on down Larimer to the streetcar stop and boarded a car crammed with people, leaving behind a man who had been following in her wake. She hadn’t noticed him. He paused a moment, as if to board the car himself, but changed his mind and jogged off.
A gentleman offered Beret his seat, but before she could take it, a large woman with an umbrella and a basket containing potatoes and cabbages plopped herself down and gave Beret a smug smile as she set the basket on her lap and wrapped her arms around it. Beret wanted to protest but saw the woman was dressed in black and white, her ankles swollen, and knew she was a domestic who needed the
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