Jonathan Perris Can’t Save His Clients
…Until He Saves Himself
1907
Rising from the devastation of a massive earthquake and fire, San Francisco is once again on the move. But a strike by streetcar drivers threatens to halt the Golden City in its tracks. Protests turn to violence and violence leads to death. Soon a young guard is convicted of willfully killing a protester and the public is out for blood.
Jonathan Perris, an immigrant attorney from England, has opened a law firm with an eye toward righting wrongs, and the guard’s conviction may fall into that category. But the talented barrister soon finds his newfound career shaken by a tragic event: the gruesome murder of the beautiful and mysterious Lena Mendelssohn—a woman he’s been squiring around town. It’s difficult to run a law firm when you’ve been arrested for murder.
Excerpt
Chapter Seventeen
“The Incomparable Miss de Bretteville”
“Jonathan, you young buck, come here and give us a bloomin’ hug!” Alma de Bretteville, ravishing as always, took Jonathan’s face between her hands and noisily gave him what the Scots might call a smoorich. He knew her to be intelligent and insightful, despite the fact that she’d left school at the age of fourteen and her manner was delightfully shameless. He grinned at her.
“Careful, old girl; I’d hate to get on Adolph’s bad side so early in our acquaintance.”
Alma guffawed and blew a kiss to A.B., whom she referred to as her “sugar daddy.” Spreckles held his wine glass up to toast her and resumed his conversation with Fremont Older.
She wasted no time putting Jonathan on the spot regarding the Emmett Barnes appeal. “Pretty gutsy of you to take up that guard’s case. A.B. thinks you’re crazy, but crazy like a fox. He thinks you put your new gal on it, so if it goes south, you can blame her. Me, I think you’re smart to let her show you what she can do.” She winked at him. “Mark my words. She’s a woman, which means she’s gonna do more than just fine. I know Judge Fisher to be a fair man, so we’ll see. Me and A.B. got a bet going; I get a new fur coat if you win.” She poked Jonathan in the chest. “So, you better win.”
Spreckles’ insinuation regarding Jonathan’s motive for putting Cordelia on the case rankled, but he couldn’t help chuckling at the woman who had the mogul by the short hairs. “Your wager is well placed. I wouldn’t bet against Cordelia Hammersmith, either.”
After a few more minutes of artful chatter, he broached the topic he’d wanted to talk to Alma about. “No doubt you heard about … Miss Mendelssohn’s death. I understand you and she were art students together.”
Alma’s exquisite eyebrows rose. “Did she tell you that? I knew you two were burning up the sheets, but...”
Jonathan winced. Is nothing private in this town? “Ah, no. Your art instructor—”
“Ah yes. Miz Plotner. The miniatures class. Of course, she’d flap her jaw.” Alma took Jonathan’s arm and commenced the obligatory stroll around the grounds. “Lena and I did chew the fat quite a bit. She was smart as a whip and talented as all get out, poor thing. It didn’t take long to figure out she was playin’ some kind of game, but I sure didn’t expect it to end the way it did.” She patted Jonathan’s arm. “I’m damn sorry you got caught up in it.”
Jonathan knew to tread lightly; he wanted to find out what Alma knew without revealing Lena’s true identity. “It was shocking, to say the least,” he said. “Ironically, we had agreed to part company the very night she was attacked—in a brothel, no less.”
“I heard. But there’s no way she was a workin’ girl. I’m not one to judge, so she could easily have confessed that little peccadillo. We talked mainly about art, and of course she often mentioned ‘the handsome young attorney’ she was seeing. It was obvious she liked you.”
“And I liked her. But I had my own concerns. What game do you imagine she was playing?”
Alma lifted her shoulder. “Who can say? But I could tell from the get-go that she didn’t have the deep pockets she wanted others—like you, maybe—to believe she had. She rented some rooms on Fulton and that street’s not known for its fancy lodging. In fact, I think she mentioned once that she had a roommate, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
A roommate? On a street that’s lower on the social rung than Jonathan’s own? How did poor Lena/Sybil manage to lead two so completely different lives? “Do you know her address, by any chance?”
“Sorry. I only know it was Fulton because she talked about crossing the street to the park every day for her ‘morning perambulation.’ I mentioned I knew someone who lived on Fulton near Stanyan and she said she was staying a few blocks farther west. Didn’t the police find out where she lived?”
The police are stymied because they’re looking for a Lena Mendelssohn who never existed. He shook his head. “What about her school chums besides you? Did anyone stand out?”
“She spent a lot of time with some students who think they’re gonna change the world through their art. I call ’em the ‘Bolshevik Bullshitters’ but they call themselves the ‘Incendiaries.’ A few skinny young men with scraggly beards, living off some pitiful allowance or dead-end job. A few queers—you find a lot of them in the art world—and a smattering of female hangers-on. Lena found them amusing. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and a free glass of wine,’ she said once.”
“How can I find out more about them?”
Alma looked at him curiously. “Why? Why not let the police do their jobs and stay the hell out of it? Didn’t your stint in the hoosegow teach you anything?”
Jonathan stopped walking to emphasize his point. “Because I came very close to being put on trial for her murder … and because she didn’t deserve to die like that. The police don’t seem to be making headway, and by God, someone should pay the price for what they did to her.”
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A.B. Michaels
A native of California, A.B. Michaels holds masters’ degrees in history (UCLA) and broadcasting (San Francisco State University).
After working for many years as a promotional writer and editor, she turned to writing the kind of page-turning fiction she loves to read. She writes historical fiction (“The Golden City” series), historical mystery (the “Barrister Perris” series) and contemporary romantic suspense (“Sinner’s Grove Suspense.”). All three series are character-linked and all are stand-alone reads.
Michaels lives in Boise, Idaho with her husband and elderly wiener dog, Teddy, who cannot see or hear, but sniffs his way from one comfortable spot to another.
In addition to writing and dog-snuggling, Michaels is an avid reader, traveller, quilter and bocce player, as well as a mediocre but enthusiastic golfer.
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