A Mrs. Kelly Mystery, Book Three
All Rights Reserved, Copyright 2025 Tule Publishing
Elegant bone china held heat for a surprisingly long time. I counted on it.
Navigating stairwells, dodging oncoming staff, crossing a dimly lit basement, ducking between incoming horses and carriages, unlocking the back door and making it all the way into the shop without spilling a single drop of hot coffee deserved a medal of some sort, but setting the cup and saucer onto the counter with a soft clink of victory garnered a full round of applause.
“Nicely done, Mrs. Kelly,” the young woman said, reaching for the gilt-edged white cup. “You are my hero.”
“I don’t imagine your Mr. Darcy has ever accomplished it,” I said with a curtsy.
Not from a bustling hotel kitchen, down through a labyrinth basement, and into a glove shop, he hadn’t.
Miss Rebecca Smith plopped an elbow onto her closed book and took a long sip. “No,” she agreed. “But he would have thought of it, eventually. He would have brought tea.” The rich brown velvet jacket she wore made the freckles on her nose visible and gave a hint of color to her otherwise washed-out Irish face.
Other than the single nod to fashion, her plain beige skirt and her plain beige chignon were the picture of appropriate for a shopgirl’s ensemble. My apron, over a crisp white shirtwaist, wilted from hours in the kitchen, and black skirt felt even plainer.
I prepared myself for a full defense of her literary and beverage favorites, but she smiled gratefully and sipped again, giving me a moment to work the stiffness from my back and shoulders.
Becky’s glove shop was a little oasis of warm luxury on the ruffled hem of the opulent Palace Hotel. Other San Francisco shops sold ladies’ frippery, but Becky had elevated it to an experience found nowhere else. Plush carpeting and cream-striped wallpaper lent a rich background to the merchandise while tiny overhead chandeliers cast dancing light over customer’s beribboned hats and swirling satins as they shopped.
The narrow glass-case displays flanking the doors held ladies’ lined winter gloves and fur muffs. Men’s cravats in deep, rich silks and brightly colored children’s mittens. Two curving white iron chairs with velvet cushions were placed before the long curtains that hid floor to ceiling boxes of inventory against the back wall.
Thanks to an anonymous and generous donor, Becky owned the shop outright, and together, she and I rented the tiny apartment above it.
A moan came from the front glass doors as the wind whipped past. Two ladies quickly followed, skirts swirling and coats snapping, clutching feathered hats that threatened to fly off without them. Thick purple clouds held the city in ominous, drifting tendrils.
Utterly dismal for going on noon.
“Storm’s coming,” Becky said. “I’m that glad to be safe out of it, Sunday or no.”
“You braved it last Sunday,” I pointed out.
“Christmas Eve is different.” She set her empty cup down with a satisfied sigh. “I still wish you had come with me. The choir brought me to tears.”
For a wisp of a woman, Becky could wield her opinions with force. She knew how much I loved music.
“I’ll hear plenty tonight. My shift is done, but I’m due back at ten for the party.” I reached for her cup. “Seems the world might end if they run out of krumkake[HP1] .”
“It’s your own fault for being fabulous.” Becky slid her book aside and gave me her full attention. “Besides, it’s New Year’s Eve. 1883, Mrs. Kelly. You deserve to celebrate your new life. A cozy home with a good friend—that’s me.” She wrinkled her nose at me as she ticked the list off her fingers. “An incredible job upstairs in the Palace Hotel kitchen creating heavenly desserts. A glorious new hat waiting for you in the apartment.” She paused. “Which makes your blue eyes dance, by the way. When are you going to wear it?”
“Not tonight. I’m working.”
“Piffle. When the bells start ringing, I expect you to throw caution to the wind and kiss somebody. Anyone will do.”
I ignored her tease. “I’m earning two days off in a row for this shift. I won’t be kissing anything but my pillow the minute it’s over.” At thirty respectable years of age and quite beyond the impulsive youth that animated Becky, parties meant color and music and flavors to be savored slowly and from a distance that allowed for digestion.
I turned a speculative eye on Miss Smith.
“Spoon and I have a standing date tonight,” she said.
Our orphaned kitten was growing fast, and we’d named him Spoon because he was always stirring up trouble.
“Assuming he hasn’t destroyed the curtains again, we’re going to cuddle and finish this book.” She thumped the cover. “For the third time.”
“How very bourgeoise of you.”
“You did it for Christmas.”
“I did.” It felt like a windup and, again, I tensed.
“At least I have an excuse,” she said, her voice prying. “I’ve got absolutely no one to care how I fritter away my time, but you have a teeming family in Minnesota. Don’t you miss them?” She caught my look and added, “Miss church? Holidays?”
“I have a home here if my ears did not deceive me a minute ago. And I have family in you and Pearl and Spoon. I don’t miss rising in the dark to milk cows, and I don’t miss driving miles of road making deliveries, and I certainly don’t miss cooking for eight brothers, their families, or the crowds at barn-raisings.”
After a beat, she asked, “You didn’t write them, did you?”
Becky grew wistful every time she thought about the family I’d left behind. But I’d come out to marry a stranger who’d promptly gone toes-up on me. I grew wistful thinking about the family I’d expected.
“There’s not much to say,” I countered.
“Tell them you created a pastry so decadent that people come for miles to taste it. You’ll bring some back with you after tonight’s over, won’t you?”
“Of course.” The Italian chocolate I’d scoured the city for had turned my old family recipe into gold, and I was justifiably proud of it. Mr. Ghirardelli himself had visited the hotel dining rooms and proclaimed it a triumph. My wide, rough farmer’s hands were now smooth, polished, and building pastries lighter than air.
My stout Norwegian frame, however much prinked and fashioned into a lady, remained a bit heavier.
“Do you think she’ll try some?” She stepped around from behind the counter. “The opera singer?”
“Madame Fabbri? Perhaps.”
The exclusive parties being thrown in the Palace Hotel tonight would rival anything I’d seen yet. Swags of holly draped along seven stories of interior balconies had been replaced with white and gold bunting. Christmas reds and greens in the dining rooms swapped out for cream linens, crystal, silver vases, and gold stars. A glittering canopy billowed above the central courtyard, suspended from the third-floor pillars, and had been filled with silk flower petals to be released onto the dancing crowd at midnight.
The guest list and the menu would add layers of personalities, sparkling jewels, and culinary art to create one magnificent event.
“It’s a shame you can’t make it down to the California Theater for the performance,” Becky said. “But the after-party should be equally entertaining. You can see them eat like regular people.”
“Actors and singers are not regular people. They’re artists and I admire their craft.”
Her nod was eager. “Exactly. And they will admire yours before the night is over.”
It was the opening I was waiting for.
“Speaking of admiration.” My calculated words had the desired effect.
She took a stack of boxes from the counter and stepped behind the curtain to put them away.
“Have you heard from Mr. Merrill of late?” The question was innocent enough. “Perhaps you could fritter away some time with him on your day off tomorrow.”
She took a moment before she replied. I traced the cup’s golden rim with a fingertip.
“The district attorney has his hands full with fighting crime,” she said pertly from behind her refuge. “I certainly wouldn’t expect him to fritter anything, time in particular.”
She shook the curtain back into place on her way out.
“Sam pushes paper,” I said. “He could fritter if he wanted to.”
If she’d blushed on my account, it faded immediately when she looked over my shoulder. Her eyes grew wide as she walked to the door. “Mrs. Kelly. Look.”
I turned to follow her and gazed out onto Market Street. The busiest thoroughfare in San Francisco, it ran from the Ferry House straight up into the hills. Wide enough for several lanes of traffic, from cable cars to carriages, it normally buzzed with people coming home from church and lately had been teeming with holiday shoppers. But now it stretched empty in both directions.
Small white bits of fluff drifted in the wind.
“Snow.” Becky’s mouth hung open.
There was no doubt about it.
My stomach contracted from the blow. It wasn’t supposed to snow in San Francisco. Everyone knew that. How? How had I not seen it coming? Had I been outside, I would have smelled it in the wind. But I’d remained smugly in the hotel’s interior for the past week, ignoring the weather.
Safe.
The pit in my stomach threatened to rise into my throat and I clutched at my shirtwaist, pushing hard against it through my corset. Becky didn’t know. She didn’t understand. Snow built up in thirty-foot drifts and made roads impassable. It could trick you and trap you and play with you until it decided to kill you.
It could cover you with a sparkling white blanket and you’d sleep until the spring thaw.
Betrayal thickened my voice. “I thought it never snowed in San Francisco,” I stammered. “I was informed you never even had proper thunderstorms. Gray and drizzly unless bright and sunny. Those are the two options for weather here.”
A smile of childlike wonder grew on her face as she watched the snow fall. “It never does. It never has. I’ve never seen snow.” Oblivious to my complaint, she pulled the door open. The temperature in the shop dropped immediately as she stepped onto the walkway and held a hand to the heavens.
“Come back inside! You’ll catch your death without a coat.” My voice rose an octave. “You don’t even have a hat on!” I pushed the door half-closed, putting it between me and the street to keep myself from pulling her in forcibly.
I gulped air in an attempt to slow my breathing. Where had my hasty words come from? We were not in Minnesota. This was California. The ocean protected us.
Becky squealed and wrapped her arms around herself as she opened her mouth to catch a snowflake.
My eyes darted around the empty shop. The brightly lit, fashionable, and full-of-color shop. Warm. Safe.
“Mrs. Kelly! Come out here!”
I closed my eyes, and a hand went involuntarily to one of my dangling earrings.
“It’s so beautiful!”
Forcing myself to observe Becky’s joy did not stop the rising bile. I blinked hard. The ground grew whiter by the minute. It was sticking. Was I the only one who understood the implications?
“Becky.” Keeping a firm hand on the door, I reached for her arm and tugged her inside.
She resisted enough to point. “They’re running in it,” she said with excitement. “Everyone is coming out to play!”
“Not without proper coats and galoshes, they aren’t.” I shut the door firmly and led her toward the counter.
Gently reclaiming her arm, she stared into my eyes, and her smile faltered. Before she could speak, the door popped back open behind me.
“Miss Smith,” cried a woman, shaking out her shawl with a rueful laugh, “I must purchase five pairs of children’s mittens. Immediately.” Her eager smile made up for the damp she dripped on the carpet.
“And you shall have them.” Becky blinked, instantly distracted. She reached for a drawer. “Help me with sizes and colors.” Festive mood reclaimed, the two women bent over the open drawer.
I left them to it. I’d been at work since four in the morning and my feet were aching. Letting myself out through the back door, I climbed the circular stairway up to our apartment and dropped into my chair by the window.
The snow came thicker, and I could make out grown men in the street gathering enough to make snowballs. A street car came their way, providing a perfect, if bewildered, target.
My hands twisted together in my lap.
I’d been warned about earthquakes in this city of steeply rolling hills. Fires, it seemed, were a regular and devastating occurrence in neighborhoods packed cheek-to-jowl with connected three-story wooden buildings. Dense communities had bouts of diphtheria or cholera run like a scourge through them.
But snow? What did they know of three-foot long icicles or digging out of your own house after a blizzard or losing your way in an impenetrable white swirl?
A ragged group of boys ran along the walkway across the street, arms waving, pushing each other into the gutter, scooping up wet, white missiles in bare, blue hands.
“No trees,” I reminded myself aloud. “They can’t get lost.”
“Don’t think about it,” Aunt Mary said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
Aunt Mary was safely buried in the little family plot in Waterford Township, Minnesota. I kept her memory close. Closer than was comfortable. When I heard her voice, it filtered through a lifetime of loving memories of a woman who’d been mother, sister, and friend to me. It was the only thing I’d kept when I’d decided to make a life for myself here.
As far away from snow as it was possible to get.
“You could never hurt me,” I said.
The good God would have to forgive the lie. Grief washed through me, and I touched the earrings she’d left wrapped beneath last year’s Christmas tree. She’d known about my secret letters to San Francisco with a stranger who’d advertised for a mail-order bride and, hard as she’d argued against it, had, in the end, given me a wedding gift. No one else would have known the sparkling blue drops as such, but I did.
She’d loved me fierce.
Before she died.
Before she’d been murdered.
“There is a time for everything under the sun,” Aunt Mary whispered.
“It was not your time to die,” I reminded her.
A small bundle of fur launched itself into my lap, and I turned my startle into a stern shake. The kitten rubbed his face against my palm and purred.
It was time to rest.