Indigo Christmas

  Praise for

  Crimson Snow by Jeanne M. Dams

  Agatha Award Winner

  “Dams develops the plot with her usual attention to detail.… Regular series readers who enjoy the author’s subtle observations on life at the turn of the twentieth century—religion, sexual mores, class structure—will not be disappointed. A typically good entry in the series.”

  —Booklist

  “Dams creates the atmosphere of that transitional time with newly flickering electric street lights and a factory switching from the manufacture of carriages to that of motor cars.… Casting an immigrant maid as heroine allows for much social observation across classes, and adds interest to this portrait of American society in a small city over a hundred years ago.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “Dams brings the period alive as the captivating Hilda solves a murder and her own problems too.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Mystery and romance all wrapped up in one delicious story.… Cozy mystery fans will love this book, with characters that go right to your heart. It will have you clamoring for more!”

  —Cozy Library

  “Beautifully researched and impeccably crafted. Highly recommended.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Based on a real, unsolved case from 1904, the novel seamlessly integrates historical details with a suspenseful plot.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  INDIGO CHRISTMAS

  A l s o b y J e a n n e M . D a m s :

  HILDA JOHANSSON MYSTERIES

  Death in Lacquer Red

  Red, White, and Blue Murder

  Green Grow the Victims

  Silence Is Golden

  Crimson Snow

  DOROTHY MARTIN MYSTERIES

  The Body in the Transept

  Trouble in the Town Hall

  Holy Terror in the Hebrides

  Malice in Miniature

  The Victim in Victoria Station

  Killing Cassidy

  To Perish in Penzance

  Sins Out of School

  Winter of Discontent

  Indigo Christmas

  A Hilda Johansson Mystery

  Jeanne M. Dams

  P E R S E V E R A N C E P R E S S / J O H N D A N I E L & C O M P A N Y

  PALO ALTO / MC KINLEYVILLE, CALIFORNIA / MMVIII

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Jeanne M. Dams

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  A PERSEVERANCE PRESS BOOK

  Published by John Daniel & Company

  A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc. Post office Box 2790

  Mckinleyville, California 95519

  www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

  Book design by Eric Larson, Studio E Books, Santa Barbara www.studio-e-books.com

  Cover painting: Linda Weatherly S.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Dams, Jeanne M.

  Indigo Christmas : a Hilda Johansson mystery / by Jeanne M. Dams. p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-880284-95-7 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-880284-95-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Johansson, Hilda (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Fiction. 3. South Bend (Ind.)—Fiction. 4. Swedish Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.A498I63 2008

  813’.54-—dc22

  2008012296

  To the immigrants over the centuries

  who have made this country what it is

  INDIGO CHRISTMAS

  The Louisiana Purchase Exposition, by general verdict

  the greatest of all world’s fairs, will close

  with fitting ceremonials at midnight.

  —South Bend Tribune

  December 1, 1904

  1

  HILDA PUSHED ASIDE her breakfast plate and put down the South Bend Tribune. There was nothing very interesting in its pages. Back in her servant days in the Studebaker mansion, the butler had not allowed her to read the papers. of course she had done so any-way, behind his back, and the thrill of the illicit had lent glamour to even the most ordinary of stories. now that she was married and a lady, and there was no one to stop her reading anything she chose, she found the prose boring.

  The fair in St. Louis was closing today. That wasn’t news. The Tribune was still exultant about the overwhelming Republican victory, nationally and statewide, some three weeks before. That wasn’t news, either, nor did Hilda consider it cause for celebration, staunch Democrat that she was. A death in a barn fire a few weeks ago was probably a murder, according to the Tribune, though the coroner had ruled it death by misadventure. Hilda had never heard of the dead man and found the details of the story uninteresting.

  She sighed again and reached for her coffee cup. It was empty, and the pot—she felt its silver side—was cold. She pushed back her chair, picked up the pot, and headed for the kitchen.

  Mrs. O’Rourke, the cook, looked up from her breadboard with a frown. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. O’Rourke. I need more coffee.”

  The cook glanced at the signal box on the wall. “I didn’t hear ye ring, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Oh! Yes—well—this time I preferred to come to the kitchen. To remind you that there will be visitors for tea.”

  The cook’s face showed what she thought of that excuse. “Yes, ma’am. Four o’clock, tea and cakes for three. The coffee’s all gone, ma’am. I’ll make more and bring it in to ye.”

  “Yes,” said Hilda firmly. “And don’t forget the egg shells.”

  The reminder, like that about the tea, was unnecessary, and the cook bridled. Mrs. O’Rourke never forgot the egg shells. She made superb coffee, once Hilda had taught her the Swedish way of doing it. She was a fine cook. Hilda could never complain about any meal that came out of Mrs. O’Rourke’s kitchen. not that she would have dared complain, anyway. The cook kept Hilda firmly in her place—which was out of the kitchen. Her husband, the coachman/gardener/handyman, was nearly as tyrannical in his various realms as his wife in hers.

  Hilda retreated to the dining room. It was a pleasant room, paneled in dark wood with a built-in sideboard. not as big as even the family dining room at the Studebakers’ Tippecanoe Place, it was magnificent compared with Hilda’s home back in Sweden. Hilda was still trying to get used to such opulence.

  Upstairs she could hear water running, as little Eileen O’Hara cleaned the master bathroom. There was no real need to clean the other one, since Hilda and Patrick had had no guests in the eight months they had lived in the house, but doubtless Eileen, who was conscientious, would dust the fixtures and the window sill, shake out the curtains, mop the floor.

  Hilda would have liked to go up and help Eileen, and have a good chat while she did it, but it wasn’t the done thing for the lady of the house to gossip with the servants. And Eileen might be shy and tongue-tied, and might think Hilda was there to criticize her work.

  Mrs. O’Rourke brought the fresh coffee. Hilda sipped it while she stared out the window. It was snowing again. It had started last week, just after Thanksgiving, and had kept it up in snatches ever since. Today it looked likely to continue at least through the day. Huge, wet flakes floated down to cover every twig, every branch with white icing. The oak trees still had most of their leaves; Hilda hoped the weight of the snow wouldn’t bring branches down.

  She briefly considered going out for a walk. The snow was pretty, and she
liked it. As a child in Sweden, she had loved sledding and building snow castles with her brothers and sisters.

  But she wasn’t a child anymore, and her brothers and sisters had their work to do. They could not, in the middle of a weekday, frivol about in the snow.

  Hilda had no work to do. She had nothing whatever to do except read (but there were no new books or magazines in the house), or go shopping (for what?), or do needlework (which she detested), or call on the neighbors. But the neighbors weren’t especially friendly, and morning wasn’t the time for calls. She could, she supposed, go to the library to see if there were any new stories about Sherlock Holmes, her favorite, but it was a long walk on snow-covered sidewalks, and she didn’t want to get the horses out on slippery streets.

  She wandered to the parlor, picked up last month’s Ladies’ Home Journal, and began to leaf through the advertisements for scouring powder and corsets.

  By four o’clock she was in such a frenzy of boredom that she nearly answered the doorbell herself, but remembered in time that greeting callers was the maid’s job. When Eileen had taken their cloaks and shown them into the parlor, though, she gave one of them an ardent welcome.

  “Aunt Molly! It is so good to see you!” Hilda threw her arms around Patrick’s diminutive aunt, who smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s only been a week, my dear.”

  “I know, but—oh, I am sorry. This is your friend?”

  “Hilda, let me present Mrs. Elbel. You know, of course, about her husband’s family, so important in South Bend musical circles. Dorothea, this is Mrs. Cavanaugh, my nephew’s wife. I’ve wanted the two of you to meet for some time.”

  Hilda took the woman’s gloved hand. “I am very happy to meet you, but I am sorry it is such a cold day for a visit. Will the horses be all right?”

  “The coachman’s taking them back home,” said Aunt Molly. “It’s just down the street, and they do like their own stable in this sort of weather. That’s a lovely fire you have there.”

  Hilda was reminded of her manners. “Yes, do please sit down and warm yourselves.” She pulled the bell cord, feeling very self-conscious about it, and sat down primly on the fashionably hard settee. Looking at the clothes worn by her callers, she was unpleasantly reminded that she had not changed into the elaborate “tea gown” suitable for such entertaining. Ill at ease, she was suddenly unable to think of a word to say.

  Aunt Molly took the lead. Characteristically, she didn’t waste time on small talk. “Now, Hilda, my dear, it has seemed to me that you need something to occupy your time. Mrs. Elbel, as I’ve told you, has organized a number of charitable efforts in town. Her latest endeavor has to do with the welfare of some of the boys in South Bend.”

  Mrs. Elbel took up the narrative. “Mrs. Malloy has told me you have a young brother—thirteen, is he?”

  “Fourteen in February, ma’am—Mrs. Elbel.”

  “And you’re said to like boys and get along well with them.”

  Hilda thought the woman sounded as though boys were a species of insect. “Yes, I do. Erik was always my favorite when we were growing up.”

  “You have an advantage, then, that I have not. I have only daughters, and I love them dearly, but they do not help one to understand boys. At any rate, you probably know that there are many boys in this city, especially the foreigners, who get into far too much trouble. We are trying to start a club for them to give them good, wholesome activities after school. Ball games, er— marbles and that sort of thing.”

  Hilda frowned. “Many of the children of immigrants do not go to school. They work all day and have no time for games.”

  “They seem to have plenty of time for hooliganism! They are a very undesirable element in this community, and something must be done to civilize them!”

  Molly Malloy intervened. “Hilda, you’d be very good at working with these children. I’ve seen you with Erik and his friends. Will you consider helping to form the club?”

  The arrival of tea allowed Hilda to consider her answer. She didn’t want to be rude to Aunt Molly, but she didn’t care at all for Mrs. Elbel’s attitude. Undesirable element, indeed!

  She poured out the tea and handed round the platters of tiny sandwiches and dainty little cakes, and when her duties as hostess were completed, she sat back. “I do like boys, as Aunt Molly says. And they like me. I might be able to help them in some way, but it will not be easy. I also know about the problems of immigrants, you see.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Elbel studied her teacup for a moment. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, I hope you don’t think I was—er—condescending about the boys.”

  Since that was exactly what Hilda did think, she kept silent.

  “I know that they have problems I may not always understand,” her guest pursued. “That is exactly why I need your help. You—your background—” She paused. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, may I be frank?”

  Hilda nodded, her lips set.

  “I hope I won’t offend you, but you come from much the same background as some of these boys. You have risen above it. You now have the time, and the resources, to help us address some of the evils of modern society. Will you do it?”

  Hilda gritted her teeth. Risen above it! There was nothing in her background to be ashamed of, nothing to “rise above.”

  However, the woman had come to ask her help. That showed some sense, even if Aunt Molly had been the guiding spirit. She ought to say yes—although—

  The doorbell rang. voices were raised in the hall, Eileen expostulating with someone whose voice Hilda knew well. She rose just as a woman burst into the parlor.

  Dripping wet, her boots leaving muddy tracks on the carpet, Norah O’Neill ran across the room holding out her hands to Hilda. “Oh, Hilda, oh, ye’ve got to help me! Sean’s been arrested for murder!”

  THINKS IT MURDER

  Talks of Brother’s Death

  —South Bend Tribune

  December 1, 1904

  2

  NORAH! TELL ME! no—take off your wet things and sit down. You should not be running now, and you must not get a chill.” Hilda was pulling off Norah’s shawl as she spoke, and leading her to a chair by the fire. Heavily pregnant, Norah sank into the chair and dashed tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  “I’m sorry—ye’ve got company—but somebody’s got to do something!” The distraught woman began to sob.

  Dorothea Elbel looked somewhat helplessly at Molly Malloy. “I should go, unless there’s something…”

  Aunt Molly pulled the bell cord. “Hilda and Patrick are on the telephone. We can fetch my carriage to take you home. I must stay to help. I’m sure you understand. Oh, Eileen, would you be good enough to ring my house and ask Donald to bring the carriage round? And please get some fresh tea for Hilda’s friend, there’s a good girl.”

  “Has something happened, ma’am?” Eileen ventured.

  “This young woman is in trouble, and she needs our help. Quickly, Eileen!”

  Eileen vanished. Hilda, meanwhile, had taken off Norah’s wet boots and set them on the hearth, and was chafing her hands. “Norah, stop crying and tell me everything.”

  Norah continued to sob.

  “My child,” said Aunt Molly, putting her hand on Norah’s shoulder, “you must stop crying. This is doing your baby no good, you know.”

  Mrs. Elbel stifled a gasp. Norah’s condition was perfectly obvious to anyone with eyes in her head, but it was considered improper to notice babies until they had actually made their appearance in the world.

  “If your husband is in difficulties,” Aunt Molly went on, “the last thing he needs is for you and the baby to be in difficulties, too. Now take this handkerchief, dry your eyes and blow your nose, and tell us.”

  Molly Malloy might be a tiny woman, but she had a way of imposing her will. Norah pulled herself together, mopped up with the proffered handkerchief, and sat back to tell her story, the occasional hiccup interrupting.

  “It happened just now
. I was at home when I heard, and I ran all the way.”

  “That was a very foolish thing to do in your condition, my dear,” said Aunt Molly. “You must promise me you will never do such a thing again. Now go on. You were at home.”

  “Well, ye know I’m not workin’ now, bein’ so near my time.”

  Hilda nodded. The Hibberd family, who employed Norah as maid, were unusually considerate. Many servants worked right up until the labor pains started. Norah and Sean could ill afford to lose her wages, but a first pregnancy can be tricky, and they were taking no chances.

  “So I was home, sewin’ things for the baby, when me brother Flynn came poundin’ on the door. He works with Sean, ye know. And I wondered what he was doin’, leavin’ work in the middle of the day, and in such a storm, too. And he told me—” Here Norah threatened to break down again, but Aunt Molly gave her a cup of fresh, hot tea and a stern look. Norah sipped, sniffed, and went on.

  “He said there’s been a man killed, on a farm just out of town. It was a while ago, in November, and everyone thought it was an accident. Burned up in a fire, he did. But somebody started askin’ questions, and now the police think it was maybe murder, and they’ve taken Sean away!”

  “now, you’re not to cry again,” said Aunt Molly briskly.

  “Dorothea, I believe the carriage is here. So sorry you have to leave. I’ll talk to you again soon. Hilda, we need to get this child into some dry clothes. Have you anything that will fit her?”

  “There is the kimono you gave me, but it is silk and not very warm.”

  “It’ll be warmer than these wet things. Let’s get her to your bedroom. Is there a fire there?”

  “Yes, a small one.”

  “It can be built up. now, norah.”

  norah allowed a few tears to track down her cheeks as she obediently went upstairs, but she didn’t sob. She didn’t dare to. Molly Malloy was the dead spit of norah’s great-granny back in Ireland, who had terrorized the whole family even in her nineties. When they had attained the bedroom, norah obediently suffered herself to be undressed, dried off, wrapped in Hilda’s silk kimono and a warm shawl, and settled in a cozy armchair before the fire.