The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“Not all employment agencies are in bad neighborhoods,” I said. “I went to a snooty one myself when I was newly arrived here and needed work.”


He frowned. “I’m not sure we could pay the rates of a snooty agency. And I’m concerned that lesser agencies don’t always vet their girls well enough. I don’t like the idea of hiring a girl newly off the boat. How do we know she’ll be trustworthy?” He put a hand on my shoulder. “My mother knows the right sort of people, Molly. She’ll be able to ask around and get recommendations. New York is a big place and full of crooks and swindlers, as I know only too well. We have to be extra cautious about who we allow into our house. One of the gangs would just love to place an informant in my home and have my comings and goings monitored.”

“But surely, if I go through a reputable agency…” I began, but he cut me off. “Let’s try my mother first and see who she can come up with, shall we? Then you can go out to her to interview likely girls and choose the one you like.”

I wasn’t at all happy with this. If the gangs wanted to place a spy in our home to monitor Daniel’s movements then it was just as likely that Daniel’s mother would like to place her own spy to monitor mine. But I could hardly express that sentiment to Daniel. Men are funny about their mothers, seeing them as one step away from sainthood. So I told myself silently that I didn’t have to choose any girl I didn’t like and in the meantime I’d do my own asking around.

“I’ll write the letter now,” Daniel said, “if you’d be good enough to make me a quick bite to eat before I go back to work.”

With that he went through to his desk in the front parlor that had now become his study, and I went to my rightful place in the kitchen, trying to put aside thoughts that a woman’s lot in life was not a fair one. I made him a cold beef sandwich and some pickled cabbage, and was pouring him a glass of lemonade when he returned with the letter.

“This can go out with the three o’clock mail if you’ll take it to the post office for me.” He sat and worked his way quickly through the sandwich. “I may not be home until late tonight,” he said.

I pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “Difficult case?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Several at once, that’s the problem. I like to devote all my energy to one thing at a time, not to be running hither and yon. But the powers that be have saddled me with something I’d rather avoid.”

“Maybe I can help,” I suggested. “If you’d care to discuss them with me.”

He shook his head. “Nothing to discuss. No clever murderers to be outwitted. Just various types of petty crooks making life unpleasant for the populace.” He pushed his plate away. “Very nice. Thank you, my dear. And you will make sure that letter gets to the post office, won’t you?” He kissed my forehead and was gone.

I cleared away the remains of the meal and looked at that letter lying on the table. I didn’t have to mail it, did I? But then I realized that I did. There has to be trust between husband and wife, however abhorrent it was to me that the task of finding my servant was being left to his mother. I glanced at the fruit bowl and saw that we were down to a single plum. Fruit was one of the things I’d been craving recently so I decided to treat myself to some peaches if I had to go out. I pinned my straw hat to my flyaway hair, put on my cotton gloves, and out I went.

The heat came up from the cobbles to hit me, almost as if someone had opened an oven door. I hugged the side of the alleyway that was in shade and made my way slowly to Sixth Avenue. I went into the post office and dropped the letter into the outgoing mail slot. I was about to leave when a large florid man leaned across the counter toward me.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “but weren’t you the young lady that used to collect the mail for P. Riley Associates?”

“That’s right,” I said, P. Riley Associates being the name of the small detective agency I had inherited after the murder of Paddy Riley. “But that agency is no more and the post office box has been closed.”

“I know that,” he said. “It’s just that a letter came in addressed to that establishment only a week or so ago, and I didn’t quite know what to do with it, no forwarding address having been left with us. So it’s still sitting there and I thought that maybe you’d know where to deliver it. Hold on a minute and I’ll fetch it for you.”

He disappeared into a back room and then returned, panting and red-faced, but triumphantly waving an envelope. “Here you are. So maybe you’ll see that the right party gets his mail then.”