Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

there was no doubt a great deal of cleaning up before they could open up tomorrow.
    She made a decision and rang the bell.
    â€œEileen,” she said when the maid appeared, “I am going out. Would you bring me my oldest hat, please? It will not matter if it is ruined by the rain. And ask Mr. O’Rourke to bring the carriage to the door.”
    Something in Hilda’s voice stilled the protest that trembled on Eileen’s lips. She made do with a subdued snort, and went to do Hilda’s bidding.
    Mr. O’Rourke’s criticism was also silent. He was in fact aggressively silent, responding to Hilda’s attempts at conversation with grunts. She gave up.
    When she arrived at the Oliver Hotel, the doorman handed her down from the carriage with barely hidden astonishment. Very few ladies in her condition arrived at the hotel, and none, in his experience, unaccompanied.
    â€œGood afternoon,” she said haughtily. “I wish to speak to Andy—” she searched her mind frantically “—to Andy Mueller, if he is available.”
    The doorman’s expression changed. He studied Hilda’s face (his attention having formerly been concentrated on her figure). “You’ve been here before,” he said almost accusingly. “You’re that woman who goes around asking questions.”
    â€œI am Mrs. Patrick Cavanaugh,” she said, her voice icy. “Perhaps you have heard of my uncle, Mr. Daniel Malloy. Show me in, please, and call Andy for me.”
    Well, of course Daniel Malloy was Patrick’s uncle, not hers, but now that Hilda had important relatives, she was not above using them. Especially to put an officious doorman in his place.
    She was shown to a corner behind a potted palm, and in due time Andy came to her.
    He was worried. “Miss, you didn’t ought to have come here. People might see you. And me talking to you.”
    â€œYes, I know, Andy. I came only for a moment. I must talk to you about the fire at Malloy’s. Can you come to see me after work? I will give you your supper, and some food to take home to your family,” she added hastily.
    He stood up straighter. “Dad’s workin’ these days. We don’t need no charity.”
    Another mistake! Hilda bit her lip. It was so hard, finding her way into her new position in life. “I know that, Andy. But Mrs. O’Rourke makes very good chocolate cake, and I thought the children might like some. And it is better, I think, to talk there. Will you come? I can stop at your house on my way home to tell them you will be late.”
    â€œI don’t got nothin’ to tell, miss.”
    Hilda took a deep breath. “Andy. A boy died last night, a boy not much older than you. Oh, I know, he thought himself a man, but he was only eighteen. Eighteen years old and murdered. Will you help me?”
    Andy looked at the floor. “Yes, miss. I’ll come to your house. No need to tell Ma; I’ll have my chum Tom let her know. He lives almost next door.”
    The next obstacle was Patrick. Hilda made it home before he got there, but not by much, and of course Mr. O’Rourke had told him all about Hilda’s little excursion. Patrick was tired and discouraged, and not in the best mood to hear that his very pregnant wife had been “out gallivantin’,” as he put it.
    â€œYou promised,” he grumbled. “You said you wouldn’t leave the house, and here you’ve gone to the hotel, of all places!”
    Hilda was tired, too, tired of making apologies and excuses. “Yes. I went because I must talk to Andy, and I knew he would not come here unless I asked him myself. He will be here for supper, Patrick.” She gulped another breath. “I know I said I would not involve myself in these matters, Patrick, but that was before a boy died. In your store, our store.
    â€œIt is not, now, just a train wreck that happened many miles away. Now it is