From This Moment (6 page)

He paused to squint at the overturned cart. “I wonder why that cart was carrying turnips?” he asked in an abrupt change of topic. “No one likes turnips. They aren’t fit for anything but
cattle feed, and even that seems like cruelty to animals. I know a physician named Dr. Lentz who swears that root vegetables are the most nutritious things to eat, but I’m convinced the joy from a single ounce of chocolate does the body and spirit more good than a whole cartload of turnips.”

He continued to ramble, but she stopped listening the moment she heard the name Dr. Lentz.

“Dr. Lentz?” she asked. “Dr. Rupert Lentz, the medical examiner?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

Stella had never been able to get past the ring of clerks, security officers, and red tape surrounding the medical examiner. All she knew of Dr. Lentz was that he performed Gwendolyn’s autopsy and was chiefly responsible for insisting that it was an accidental drowning. She’d been trying for weeks to pierce through the blockades and speak directly to Dr. Lentz, but she’d been routinely brushed aside. The last time she’d tried to force her way into his office, the police had been summoned. She fled before they arrived, but she was still determined to confront him in person.

“No, I don’t personally know Dr. Lentz,” she said. But this was an interesting development. If Romulus White had a connection to the medical examiner’s office, he could be useful to her.

The cart had been set upright, the driver scrambled to toss the turnips back into the wagon’s bed, and pedestrians were finally allowed to cross the street.

“You never did tell me your name,” Romulus said as he set out across the street alongside her.

“Stella,” she admitted. “Just Stella.”

“Well, just Stella,” he said with an amused tone, “did you know that I’ve been corresponding for years with a young lady named Stella West and that her landlord just informed me she
works at City Hall? Imagine my surprise when I learned that one of the city’s stenographers shares an identical name with a talented lithographer who, until recently, has lived in London. I can’t help wondering if the lithographer and the modest stenographer walking alongside me might be one and the same. What do you say, just Stella?”

The more she denied who she was, the more curious he would become, and that could be problematic. The best she could do was appeal for his silence. When she reached the other side of the street, she turned to face him. “If I am this woman you are referring to—” she began, scrambling for the best way to frame this delicate conversation.

“Stella West,” he supplied. “A lithographer of some note.”

“A lithographer of
spectacular
note.”

“Let’s not get carried away, just Stella,” Romulus said, but the gleam in his eyes brightened.

“If I am this woman, and if I have been bombarded by slavishly admiring letters for the past three years, might that be enough for me to get a bit carried away?”

He pretended a wounded tone. “Did my letters come off as slavish?”

“I’m afraid they did,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. His letters had been delightful, glittering with wit and lighting up her day, but she had the perfect life in London and never seriously considered his offer. Now more than ever, she needed to focus on her mission without any distractions. She had an appointment to keep and had no business indulging in a flirtation on a public street.

“So if I am this lithographer who walked away from a celebrated career in London to work as an ordinary stenographer in a city office, don’t you think I would have a very good reason for that decision?”

“Certainly,” Romulus said. “And I wait with bated breath to hear about it.”

As much as she was tempted to stand here and flirt with him, a wave of exhaustion settled on her. She missed her parents. She missed the life she used to have, but none of that mattered. She dropped all the playfulness from her tone and looked Romulus directly in the eyes. “I came to Boston because I believe that my sister was murdered,” she said bluntly. All humor vanished from Romulus’s face, but aside from a single raised brow, he made no move to comment, so she continued. “Everyone from the police department, the medical examiner, and the court system insists it was an accident, but I don’t believe them. I’ve tracked down the man who found my sister’s body, and I am due to meet him within the hour. He’s going to show me the spot where she was found.”

He looked appalled. “To what end?”

“To figure out what really happened.”

“Isn’t that best left to the police?”

She fought the temptation to roll her eyes. She and the police department were not on the best of terms. They’d been respectful the first few meetings, but as her refusal to accept their conclusion solidified, they dug in their heels and stopped answering her questions.

“I have lost confidence in the police. Also, they quit speaking to me after I threatened to sue the entire department for incompetence. Besides, if you want something done right, it’s best not to trust outsiders.”

“Some would say it is best to trust the experts. This doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a woman should do.”

How little he knew her. Some people collapsed when they were hurt. They floundered while waiting for someone to rush to their rescue and solve their problems—but that wasn’t her.

She raised her chin and stared at him. “Let me be clear,” she said. “When I wake up in the morning, I live, breathe, and function only in the interest of solving Gwendolyn’s death. I intend to hunt down exactly who is responsible and drag him, her, or them before a court of law. So, please, I don’t have time to talk about art or pretty pictures or working at your magazine. I’m pleading with you not to pester me at City Hall. I need that job, and I don’t want to worry about you showing up to try to lure me to your magazine. That sort of thing raises questions. Right now all I need is to find the streetcar so I can meet the waterman on time.”

“Where do you need to go?” Romulus asked.

“South Boston, down by Cooperman’s Bridge. I’ve never been there before.”

His brows lowered in concern. “That’s a rough part of town. I’ll take you.”

“Would you?” She didn’t mean to sound so stunned, but this was the first time someone in this city had offered to do something nice for her. Perhaps she’d gotten so used to hostile officials and slammed doors that this bit of kindness seemed extraordinarily chivalrous.

“Let’s go,” he said confidently.

Stella’s nose wrinkled at the marshy, decaying scent as she and Romulus stepped off the streetcar near Cooperman’s Bridge. Tenements and warehouses were built close to the cracked and rutted street, with no trees or greenery anywhere to be seen. They headed toward the river, where the ground sloped downward. The wet, peaty smell grew stronger, and she covered her nose with the corner of her shawl. Sometimes even the scent of water was enough to set her teeth on edge.

A break in the warehouses revealed the river, wide and still. She kept her gaze averted from the shoreline as they headed toward the boardinghouse where Freddie McNeill lived.

Romulus sent her a worried glance. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me handle this? I can ask him whatever questions you want and will report back fully.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said smoothly. She’d rather have a tooth pulled than confess her fear of water. She needed to shove those inconvenient feelings aside and get the task done.

A man smoking a pipe on the covered porch of a boardinghouse noticed her. He dropped the chair back onto all four legs and rose. “Are you Stella Westergaard?” he called out.

“I am.” She used her real name every time she interacted with anyone related to Gwendolyn’s case, for it tended to buy her a degree of cooperation. She glanced up at Romulus, who looked at her curiously. “West is merely my professional name,” she said. “It’s easier to spell.”

Romulus nodded, and she turned her attention back to Freddie. He plunged his thumb into the bowl of his pipe, snuffing it out and then tucking it into his shirt pocket. He loped down the wooden steps and crossed the graveled yard, his hand extended.

“I’m Freddie McNeill,” he said.

Stella didn’t mind a few tobacco stains and returned his hearty handshake. This man worked a long and grueling day on the river and was taking his personal time to meet with her. His skin was creased and dark like old leather, his grubby pants were held up by suspenders, and he had the strong build of a man who made his living from the strength of his back.

“I appreciate your willingness to meet with us.” She made introductions, but Mr. McNeill’s heavily lined face peered at her curiously.

“You look like her,” he said simply.

She swallowed hard. “So you can tell that?”

“Oh yes. The sun was barely up, but I saw her face. I doubt she was dead more than an hour or two when I found her, so she was in good shape. Not like some of the ones I’ve seen who float ashore after a few days. Those bodies are so swollen up and bloated they’re hard to recognize.”

Stella nodded. This wasn’t a pleasant conversation, but it was exactly the sort of thing she needed to know. “Can you describe where in the river she was? One of the early reports said she was directly under the bridge, but another said she was closer to shore.”

“I found her bumped up against the pilings in the middle of the bridge,” Freddie said. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

He pointed to an old skiff tied up to the pier. Her heart squeezed, and a fine sheen of perspiration broke out across her skin. It looked like he wanted to take her there in the boat. There wasn’t much that frightened Stella, but anything to do with getting close to water did the trick.

“Can we see it from the shore?” she asked.

“Nope, it’s around the bend. And it would make more sense in the boat.”

This was what she’d come out here to see, and she’d only have to do it once. She nodded. “Let’s go.”

She refused to let her gaze stray from the skiff. It would be nice if the flat-bottomed boat didn’t seem so ramshackle. Freddie sprang into the boat and began moving rakes, buckets, and oars to make room for her. She drew a steadying breath and gathered up her skirts. In a little bit, this would all be over. Any ten-year-old child could get into a boat and be rowed about. She would do it, too.

Romulus held her elbow as she lowered a foot into the boat. It listed wildly as Freddie helped her board. Soon she and Romulus
sat on the front bench, with Mr. McNeill on the seat behind them. The oars thudded as he positioned them in the rowlocks, but after a few sloshing drags, the skiff pulled away from the pier. Every list and bob was unsettling. Water surrounded her on all sides. She couldn’t even close her eyes to escape it, for she could smell the water and feel it jostling her from side to side.

“Tell me about your job,” Stella prompted, scrambling for anything to get her mind off what was happening. “It must be so interesting seeing different parts of the city.”

“Oh yah,” he said in his broad Boston accent. “I row a different part of the river each day to muck out the drainage pipes. All kinds of stuff gets up in them if you don’t watch it. Mostly plants and river sludge, but I’ve pulled up lots of stuff in my day. Old shoes, broken tools, stuff like that. Mostly fishing tackle, though, which is a shame. People don’t realize that when they throw that gear overboard it goes right on catching stuff. Fish are swimming around down there, minding their own business, then they get caught up in an old net or crab trap and they’re stuck down there forever until they die. Did you know a salamander can drown? Frogs, too. Can’t keep ’em under forever or they suffocate.”

It was getting harder for Stella to breathe. She clung so tightly to the dry wood that a few splinters started working lose.

“What can you tell us about the body you found?” Romulus said.

Freddie let go of the oars to point over her shoulder. “That’s Cooperman’s Bridge. There’s an outflow pipe that runs out from the shore. I first saw her as I was pulling up to clean out that pipe.”

Stella twisted her body to look. Compared with some of the other stretches of this river, it looked rather pretty. It shouldn’t matter what sort of spot Gwendolyn died at, but a tiny piece
of her was glad the bridge was lovely, made of old stone and lifting in a gentle arch over the river. The shoreline was lush, with wild grass and cattails swaying gently in the breeze.

Freddie jerked the oars back into place. “I’ll get you closer,” he said, and she was grateful he’d quit rambling about the drowned salamanders.

“You said she was floating,” Stella said. “Don’t people who drown sink?”

“They sink at first, but eventually they float back up,” Freddie said. “They get all bloated, and after a few days they bob back up to the surface and . . .” His voice tapered off, and he looked at the spot where Gwendolyn’s body had been found. “But she wasn’t swollen. Looked like she’d only been in the water a few hours. So yah . . . that’s weird. She should have sank if her lungs were full of water. It takes a few days for them to gas up enough to float again.”

“Did she have any injuries?” Romulus asked. “Something that might have knocked her out so she fell over the bridge?”