Grace in the City: A Prequel To The Grace Michelle Mysteries Read online

  GRACE IN THE CITY

  A GRACE MICHELLE MYSTERY

  KARI BOVÉE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Also by Kari Bovée

  PROLOGUE

  QUEENS COUNTY, NEW YORK, 1912

  Sophia and I sat motionless, pressed together on Mrs. Collingsworth’s sofa after the memorial, which was actually only a few words said over the framed photo of our mother and father. Some of the neighbors had gathered to pay their respects to my parents, and to my sister and me, who were now orphaned.

  “What will the poor darlings do?” one of the women asked Mrs. Collingsworth in a rather loud whisper.

  Mrs. Collingsworth darted a glance at us. “I’ve alerted the authorities. They are arranging for the girls to be placed in an orphanage. We meet with them tomorrow.”

  “Over my dead body,” Sophia said under her breath. No one heard her but me.

  An orphanage? My throat tightened as if it was going to close. I tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t get any air. I didn’t want to live in an orphanage. I wanted to live here. In our house. With Mother and Dad.

  There had been no funeral, only this gathering of concerned neighbors. Our parents didn’t have much money. I knew they’d kept what they did have under their mattress. Dad said he didn’t trust banks. Mrs. Collingsworth did what she could with the money we’d found. She set some of it aside for us and put it in an envelope. She told us she’d keep track of it and then put it in her purse.

  Our parents had been killed in a train accident. Dad had taken Mother on a weekend getaway to help her deal with her frazzled nerves. He had said he had every confidence that Sophia, at thirteen years old and me at twelve, could “hold down the fort” for a few days while they were gone. He’d still asked Mrs. Collingsworth to check in on us from time to time, though.

  My gaze found the photograph sitting on the side table next to us, and I focused on my mother. My father had often explained to us that she had a fragile constitution, but Sophia and I knew it was much more than that. Mother wasn’t right in her mind. There were days, and sometimes weeks, when she wouldn’t get out of bed at all. On the rare times she was up and about, she’d bustle around the house, helping us with our chores. She would often sing to us as we worked, and her voice was as beautiful as a songbird’s. In those times, she reminded me of a sparrow flitting around with her delicate features and her dark, shining eyes, sometimes staying active late into the night.

  My eyes stung from dryness, having cried out every last tear I had. If only I’d been able to apologize to Mother again. It was just one week ago that she’d flown into a rage at me. Her eyes had flared like they were filled with fire, and she had roared like a lion. Her angel’s face had turned into something scary and unrecognizable. I hadn’t meant to break the tumbler. It had just slipped out of my hands while I’d been doing the dishes. I shuddered at the memory and pushed it away. It hurt too much to think about it.

  I looked over at Sophia, who hadn’t cried at all, save for when we’d first heard the news three days ago. Since then, her eyes had gone hard and her usually pert mouth was set in a permanent frown. When she wasn’t mad or sad, she looked more and more like our mother every day. Only her dark, auburn hair was like our dad’s. But unlike our mother, Sophia was strong. And bossy.

  She took hold of my hand and stood, pulling me up from the sofa.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  “Girls?” Mrs. Collingsworth rushed over. “Would you like something to eat? There is plenty of food.” She pointed at the dining room table that was covered in casserole dishes.

  “We aren’t hungry.” Sophia squeezed my hand in a silent instruction not to contradict her.

  “No,” I agreed. “But thank you.”

  “We want to go to our room,” Sophia added.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Collingsworth pursed her lips. “You must be exhausted. You go rest. I’ll save you each a plate of food for later.”

  “Thank you,” we said in unison.

  Still holding my hand, Sophia led me up the stairs to the room we shared. As we passed by our parents’ room, which was across the hall from ours, my heart sank. Never again would our father open our door to peek in on us before he went to work. Or come in to kiss our foreheads when he was going off on a business trip. I would never again hear Mother singing to herself as she got dressed. I would never again take her some toast and coffee on the days she felt poorly. Never again.

  We entered our room, and Sophia closed the door behind us.

  “We are not going to let them take us to an orphanage.” She went to her bed and pulled out her suitcase from beneath it. She then took mine out from under my bed. “Pack some things. Only stuff you need. Or—” she paused, and her mouth trembled “—things you don’t want to be without.” She reached over to the nightstand between the beds and picked up a small figurine of a ballet dancer our father had brought her from one of his business trips.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “We are running away,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “But where will we go? We don’t have any relatives.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  Thoughts of leaving with no plan and nowhere to go sent a spike of chills over my arms and into my hands. “But where will we stay? What will we do for money?”

  Sophia stood up and pulled the hem of her blouse out from the waistband of her skirt. Out fell the envelope Mrs. Collingsworth had put aside for us. Sophia picked it up and held it out to me.

  “You took that from Mrs. Collingsworth’s purse?” I asked, aghast.

  Sophia’s brows turned down in annoyance. “It’s our money.”

  “I know, but—”

  Sophia stuffed it back up her blouse and then tucked the hem into her skirt again. “We can use it to rent a room somewhere. We can find jobs. Maybe you can get a job in a dress shop. Your sewing is A1. And I’ll— Well, I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll . . . sing for our supper.” She smiled at me, trying to brighten my mood and ease my fears.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I protested.

  Sophia took me by the arms. “Gracie, we can’t go to the orphanage. What if someone adopts you, or adopts me, and we’re separated? What if they send us to two different places? Do you want that?”

  I shook my head, my long-dried-up tears threatening to return. Separated from Sophia. No parents. Truly alone in the world. I could think of nothing more terrifying. But running away to who-knew-where was a close second.

  Sophia’s expression softened, and she raised a hand to my cheek. “It’s going to be okay, Gracie. I’ll take care of you. I will always take care of you.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK CITY, 1914

  If anyone had ever told me I’d be living in a bordello at fourteen years of age, I would have thought they were daft. But life had a funny way of taking twists and turns you never imagined. And, yes, I worked at a house of ill repute but not like you’d expect. The madam who ran the place, Mrs. Devoe, one of the fanciest women I’d ever met, considered me too young.

  “I run a respectable house,” she’d said. “Girls need to be s
ixteen before they start working proper. Any younger and it is just downright irresponsible. A girl needs to make her own decision. The money is good, but the life isn’t for everyone.”

  My sister, Sophia, was fifteen and rapidly approaching the “responsible” age. I had pleaded with her that we leave Mrs. Devoe and her working girls before her birthday, but Sophia insisted we stay. She was willing to enter that life if it meant we’d have a roof over our heads and three meals a day. New York City was cold in the winter, and to her, it wasn’t worth the risk of living on the streets. Not again.

  “We don’t have to stay,” I pleaded with Sophia. “We can find some other kind of work. I can ask Mrs. Taylor for a job at her dress shop.”

  “Come on, Gracie,” she’d said. “Mrs. Devoe takes good care of her girls. She’s not like Miss Maggie over at the White Dove.”

  Everyone knew Miss Maggie mistreated her girls. She didn’t provide for them like Mrs. Devoe, and the girls were often stuffed, five or six of them, in a room together. Miss Maggie also had a temper.

  “And this house is lovely,” she continued. “It won’t be that bad. We just need to get on our feet. We’ll leave as soon as we have enough money. I promise.”

  She’d said those words with an assuring smile on her face, but I had my doubts. Sophia liked her creature comforts, and Mrs. Devoe did provide us with everything we needed here at the Dollhouse. The girls who worked for her thought of her as family and rarely left.

  In the meantime, Sophia worked at Barney’s Tavern next door. Mrs. Devoe had an arrangement with the tavern owner. She often sent the younger girls over there to work to get used to long hours and learn how to behave toward customers. Any money they made went to Mrs. Devoe to pay for room and board.

  With her wavy auburn hair, violet eyes, and charm, Sophia was a favorite at the tavern, and Mrs. Devoe had dollar signs in her eyes whenever she looked at my sister. Even though the woman was kind to us, the way she looked at Sophia made my stomach churn.

  Mrs. Devoe had other plans for me until I turned sixteen. When she learned about my interest in sewing and my skill with a needle and thread, she decided I would make dresses for her girls—eventually.

  I wasn’t quite ready for such detailed and elaborate garments yet, so for practice I made doll clothes. Mrs. Devoe had quite a collection of beautiful dolls and sold them in the front room of her house. Many a devoted mother was willing to turn a blind eye to the real business in the rest of the house to buy one of the prized figurines for their daughters. She also had me sell the doll clothes on the streets and kept me busy with housework and other chores.

  Mrs. Devoe provided a roof over our heads and kept us fed, and Sophia and I were grateful. Neither one of us wanted the life of a working girl, but it seemed we’d had little choice.

  When we had run away, our plan had been to rent a room and find jobs, which we did for a short time. We both worked at a factory, but when it closed we were unemployed again. I’d found a job sweeping the floor at a flower shop, and Sophia had worked as a messenger for a while, but we hadn’t been able to make enough money to afford a suitable place to live.

  After one long, hard winter, Sophia had vowed we wouldn’t be homeless again. One of Mrs. Devoe’s girls, who had been sent out to look for potential employees, had found us living down by the train tracks and invited us back to the Dollhouse. Once we’d experienced the warmth, the comfort, and full bellies again, Sophia would’ve done anything to stay. To her, the life was worth the price. And I would never leave her.

  So we lived at the Dollhouse—for the time being.

  On one particular Tuesday November morning, I bundled myself up and headed to the dress shop. The weather was brisk, with gathering clouds that hung heavy with moisture. Tiny flakes of snow drifted on the air and swirled around my face.

  Mrs. Devoe often sent me to the Dress Emporium to pick up materials for doll clothes. She also liked for me to scout out any of the new fabrics Mrs. Taylor, the owner, might have acquired that week. Mrs. Devoe liked to buy dresses for her girls, and she was quite the fashion model herself. While she bought Mrs. Taylor’s ready-made dresses for her girls, she preferred to have her own dresses custom-made. After all, she had a reputation to uphold. Mrs. Devoe was known not only for her successful business but also her fashion sense.

  Whenever I happened to be on the street with her, I noticed other women turning up their nose at her, but their eyes would drink in her silks, satins, laces, and velveteen.

  Mrs. Taylor said that Mrs. Devoe was the best thing that had ever happened to her business because everyone knew where Mrs. Devoe had her dresses designed.

  I loved my visits to the Dress Emporium. It was one of my favorite activities, and I was excited as the streets of Chelsea bustled with their usual activity. The city had come alive with the purring sounds of motorcars, the distant hum and buzz of the cable cars, and the bells and clip-clopping of horse-drawn carriages. People on foot scurried to their destinations, and young children darted in and around the crowds, making their way to school.

  When I reached the Dress Emporium, I stood outside the shop, admiring the new window display, which was beautifully adorned with a casual daywear ensemble. I knew immediately that it had been inspired by designer Paul Poiret’s jupe-culotte—a high-waisted, tunic-style dress and harem pants. But this outfit was much more streamlined and included some military details that had come into fashion with the start of the war.

  Next to it hung another war inspired dress featuring a bell-shaped skirt and wide overskirt. The bodice of the dress had sloped shoulders and a wide collar. Mrs. Taylor did her best to keep up with the latest trends, and she never minded sharing her knowledge with me.

  I entered the shop, sending the bells on the door jingling. Mrs. Taylor, busy at work fitting a garment onto a dress form, didn’t seem to notice me. She’d attired her ample frame in a modest white blouse and dark, ankle-length skirt. Her thick, graying hair was piled on top of her head in her usual bun.

  “Hello, Mrs. Taylor,” I greeted her as I closed the door.

  She glanced at me and gave me a tightlipped smile through the pins in her mouth. She reached up and removed them. “Grace, how are you this morning, dear? There is a pile of fabric remnants over near the cash register.”

  “Thank you.” I went to the pile and started to sort through it, my eyes delighting and my fingers dancing over the wool jersey, crepe de chine, silk velvets, organdy, and muslin.

  The counter where the cash register resided was always littered with various items—receipts, fabric swatches, tape measures, scissors. Though an excellent seamstress, Mrs. Taylor’s organizational skills left much to be desired. She worked in a haphazard and erratic way, but she always seemed to get the job done efficiently.

  “Are all these for me?” I asked.

  “They are. I have an ulterior motive in mind, though. I want Mrs. Devoe to see what I have in stock. You take all of them.” She winked at me. She knew Mrs. Devoe’s weakness for fine fabrics and undoubtedly hoped the madam would come in with a request for a new dress—or three.

  I pulled the coins from my coat pocket. “I’m not sure I have enough money for all this.”

  “Whatever you have is fine, dear.” She waved a hand in the air, dismissing my concerns. “There is a crate over by the window you can use to carry them.”

  The jolly tinkling of the bells on the door rang out as David Jameson, the newspaper boy, blew into the shop.

  “Oh, hey, Grace.” Patches of red bloomed on his cheeks as he swiped his hat off his head. He gazed at me with wide brown eyes and that open-mouthed expression he always seemed to have in my presence. I found his gawking annoying. Mrs. Taylor said she thought it was cute.

  “You can hardly blame the boy, Grace,” she’d say. “You have the look of angel with that hair of spun gold and those bright-green eyes of yours. I’m sure he’s not the only boy your age who looks at you that way.”

  I always refrained from roll
ing my “bright-green eyes,” but it was always difficult. I had no time for boys, and certainly not one as silly as David. But I did feel some empathy for him. He alone supported his mother and his infant brother. Mrs. Taylor had told me his mother was sick, and they lived in a rat-infested tenement building. I knew all too well the harsh life of poverty, and my heart went out to him. Just not in the way he wanted it to.

  “Want some candy?” He held out a roll of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

  “Oh.” Looking dejected, he gave a shrug of his shoulder and placed the roll of candy back into this pocket. “You hear the news?” he asked, holding up one of the papers. “Mr. Strong was murdered.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What?” Mr. Strong, the owner of the most popular neighborhood grocery stores in New York City, located right here in Chelsea, was a prominent figure in the community. Mrs. Devoe was a loyal customer and sent me there often with a list.

  I took the paper from him and read. “It says here his store was robbed and looted, and he was found in the Hudson. He was tied up with chains. This is horrible! Who would do such a thing?” I asked. My belly tightened into a knot thinking about the man sinking to the bottom of the river.

  Mrs. Taylor gasped, putting a hand to her throat. “Oh my goodness. That poor man. What is this city coming to? We aren’t safe. None of us are. The criminals are just running rampant.”

  I knew what worried her. David had told me her husband ran a high-stakes card game in the back of his men’s haberdashery next door, the Men’s Taylor. I was inclined to believe him because Mrs. Taylor had once said, There are always unsavory types coming and going. It makes me as jumpy as a cat in a room full of dogs.