Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I sat in the chair that Gus had pulled out for me and accepted the still warm roll from her basket.

“And what were you doing up and about so bright and early this morning?” Gus asked.

“I didn’t sleep so well last night.” I was willing to confess to that much. “I just needed to get out of the house and breathe good fresh air.”

“You’re missing those O’Connors, that what’s the matter with you,” Gus said.

“I most certainly am not,” I replied indignantly. “I’ve spent most of my life looking after someone else’s children. I’m glad to be taking a break from them.”

The knowing look that passed between Sid and Gus didn’t escape me.

“And anyway, they’ll be back soon enough when Bridie is quite recovered and healthy again,” I went on. “She’s making splendid progress, you know. And in the meantime, I’m doing some serious thinking about my future.”

They looked at each other again, this time with amusement.

“Did you hear that, Gus? Serious thinking about her future. Will she be reconsidering the earnest Mr. Singer’s proposal, do you think?”

I picked up The New York Times that had been lying on the table. “Would you be quiet, you two? Why should you of all people think that any young woman’s future would automatically have to be linked to a marriage proposal? I have no intention of accepting any proposals, decent or indecent.”

Then I opened the paper and buried myself in the advertisements page, ignoring their chuckles.

“How about Nebraska?” I looked up expectantly from the The Times and saw two bewildered faces staring at me.

“Nebraska?” Gus asked.

“Yes, listen to this. ‘Schoolteacher needed for one-room schoolhouse. Start August. Must be unmarried, unencumbered, Christian, and of impeccable character. References required. Accommodation provided. Apply to the school board, Spalding, Nebraska.’” I paused and looked up again. My friends were still smiling.

“Dearest Molly, are you suggesting that you should become a schoolmarm in Nebraska?” Sid asked, pushing her bobbed hair back from her face.

“Why not?” I demanded. “Do you not think I’m up to life on the frontier? And where is Nebraska anyway?”

At this they both broke into merry laughter. Gus reached across to me and patted my hand. “You are priceless, my sweet,” she said. “Who would make us laugh if we let you escape from our clutches?”

“And why this sudden desire for the frontier, anyway?” Sid looked up from spreading more apricot jam on a croissant.

“Because I’ve had enough of New York City. Life has become too complicated.”

“And you think it would be less complicated having to kill grizzly bears with your Bible on the way to school each morning or having to fight off amorous pioneers in need of a wife?” Sid asked.

I put down the newspaper and sighed. “I don’t know. I just want to make a new start somewhere faraway. Never have to see Daniel Sullivan’s odious face again. Never have to convince myself that I don’t want to marry Jacob Singer, however well behaved and earnest he is.”

“One can accomplish both these things without going to Nebraska, I should have thought,” Gus said. “If you’ve finally decided to give up this crazy notion of being a lady investigator, I’m sure we could help you make a new start in the city here. But if you insist on escaping, I’m sure I can come up with some connections in Boston for you, even if my own people don’t want to know me anymore.”

I looked at Gus’s sweet, elfish face, framed in its pile of soft, light brown curls, and finally smiled. “You’re really too good to me by half. I don’t deserve your friendship. I do nothing but interrupt your breakfast with my whining and complaining.”

“Nonsense,” Sid said. “Just think how dull and ordinary our lives would be without you.”

Since Sid and Gus lead the least ordinary lives I had ever encountered, I had to smile at this. I suppose I should mention that their real names are Elena Goldfarb and Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts. Both families had cut them off without a penny, but thanks to a generous inheritance from Gus’s suffragist great-aunt, they lived a blissfully unconventional existence in Greenwich Village. Gus was attempting to make her mark as a painter, while Sid wrote the occasional left-wing article. Mostly they just had fun, hosting the literary and bohemian set to wild and extravagant parties. They had taken me under their wing when I had been new to the city and treated me as a spoiled younger sister ever since. As I looked at them I realized how I would hate to move away from their company.

“All right,” I conceded grouchily, “maybe not Nebraska.”

Sid went over to the stove and picked up the coffeepot. “Have another cup of coffee. You’ll feel better,” she said.

“I haven’t finished this one yet,” I said hastily.

“So let’s see.” Gus put down her own cup and stared across at Sid. “What sort of job should we find for her? Bookshop, do you think?”