The Cliff House Strangler Read online

  “He got drunk, just like he always does. When he finally stumbled to bed, I waited until I was sure he was asleep; then I dressed and tried to sneak upstairs to my boys’ room. I had made up my mind to take them with me back to Mrs. Fowler’s shelter.”

  “I gather you were unable to accomplish this?”

  She gave a deep sigh. “No, one of my husband’s men was watching their room. I threw a chair at him and managed to run back downstairs and out the front door. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Hardy, heard my screams and allowed me to spend the remainder of the night in her house. I left just before dawn and made my way back to the safe house.”

  “Did Mrs. Hardy see your bruises?” I asked, hoping I had located a possible witness to Luther Sechrest’s abuse.

  Alexandra’s face reflected her embarrassment. “I felt so stupid for believing Luther’s promises. I didn’t want her to see what he’d done to me. But the bruises were visible on my face, and I’m sure she guessed there were more.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Hardy would be willing to testify to seeing these abrasions?”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “When you first told me we’d have to go to court, I thought I could endure anything to be free of my husband. Now I’m not sure I have the strength to face Luther again.”

  “Even for your children, Mrs. Sechrest?” I asked gently.

  She stared at me, her bruises standing out starkly against her pale skin. How terrifying it must be, I thought, to challenge the monster who has brutally misused you for over eleven years. Perhaps even more damaging than the physical blows were the wounds he’d inflicted by attacking her self-respect and value as a person. Now I was asking the poor woman to meet the brute head-on, and in the always-intimidating arena of the courtroom.

  At length, she sucked in a deep breath of air. “Yes, Miss Woolson. For my children’s sake, I will do it.”

  I felt a surge of admiration for Alexandra, followed by a renewal of my anger that our laws made it so difficult for women in her situation to retain custody of their children. That I was forced to explain the details of these biased laws to my client made me wish more than ever that I had the means to change them. Until women were given the vote, however, I feared we would be bound by the laws men created and enforced. Most of these men, like Papa, Charles, and Samuel—yes, and even Robert, for all his bluster—were undoubtedly decent and well-meaning. That a mere one half of the population possessed the power to construct the edicts by which we were all forced to live, however, seemed unjust in the extreme.

  Keeping it as simple as possible, I outlined to Mrs. Sechrest the procedure ahead of us, explaining that our first task would be to prove that Luther Sechrest had habitually beaten her.

  “That’s why Mrs. Hardy’s testimony is so important,” I concluded. “Also, I mentioned during our first meeting that your sister and perhaps your maid might appear in court on your behalf. Have you had an opportunity to speak to them about this possibility?”

  “I haven’t been in contact with my maid since I left Luther’s house. As for my parents, they live in Sacramento, as does my sister and her family. I haven’t seen any of them since last Christmas.”

  “Your husband continues to send monthly payments to your father?”

  “Yes. That’s another reason I haven’t informed them of my circumstances. Papa has depended on that money for so long now, I don’t know what they would do without it.”

  “You cannot allow this to become your concern,” I told her. “I realize that sounds harsh, but you must put your life and that of your sons first. I’m sure your parents would agree if they understood your predicament.”

  “I haven’t heard from my mother or father since I left Luther’s house. If any letters have arrived there addressed to me, he hasn’t seen fit to forward them to the shelter.”

  “In that case, the first thing you must do is write your parents and tell them what has been going on in your marriage, and that you plan to file for a divorce. If your mother has been a witness to the abuse, I think it very likely she’ll agree to testify on your behalf.” I watched as she wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “Why don’t we put that issue aside for now and move on to the matter of child custody.”

  She looked surprised. “Surely there can be no difficulty there. I’m the boys’ mother. And they’re very young, only eight and ten. Any judge must appreciate they need their mother.”

  She was looking at me so full of hope, it wasn’t easy to give her an honest answer. “Unfortunately, many factors are taken into account before child custody is assigned. In the past, the argument has been that just as a woman has no right to file suit or enter into a contract, she also has no separate custody rights of her own. The law has made custody dependent upon support, which few women can provide.”

  “But—” She started to interrupt, then stopped, as if unable to find a convincing argument with which to dispute this regrettable fact.

  Hating the current custody practice as much as my client, I pressed on. “In practice, custody of a minor child has more often than not gone to the father, especially when the child is a boy. The law assumes that sons need a masculine domestic environment in order to train them for life, particularly when they’re over the age of seven. Which yours are.”

  While I was speaking, Alexandra had flushed a bright red, and apparently she could no longer contain her fury. “But that is outrageous! I cannot think of a more detrimental influence on my sons than their father.”

  “Then that’s what we must demonstrate in court. Despite these precedents, there has finally been some progress made in taking the children’s good into consideration when deciding custody. However, given your children’s ages and the fact that they are boys, we’ll be forced to prove to the court’s satisfaction that your husband is an unfit father.”

  She regarded me with fearful eyes. “But how am I to do that? To the best of my knowledge, Luther has never hit the boys without justification. I’m the only one he’s abused.”

  “And we both know that may change when you’re no longer around to play the scapegoat.” I tried to infuse my words with an optimism I was far from feeling. “We’ll have to prove that your husband’s pattern of violence is escalating, and that you fear he may begin to mistreat your sons.”

  Having truthfully stated the worst we might expect, I decided it was time to insert a bit of encouragement.

  “I agree that it won’t be easy,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done. We’ll have to plan our strategy in such a way that, in the end, there can be no doubt your sons are better off in your care.”

  “Then you really believe we have a chance?”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied, praying I wasn’t giving the poor woman false hope. However, there remained one final question which must be asked—the most difficult question.

  “Mrs. Sechrest, this is very important, and I must insist upon an honest answer. Is there anything in your past that can possibly be construed as improper or immoral behavior?”

  She seemed completely taken aback. “Certainly not! That is a terrible thing to suggest.”

  “Yes, but it’s one your husband is very likely to bring up if he’s determined to fight you for custody.”

  “But that is—it’s appalling!”

  “Yes, it is. That’s why you must give this question serious thought. If there is anything you’ve said or done that your husband could hold against you, I must know.”

  “Really, Miss Woolson, I can think of nothing.”

  “I hope not, Mrs. Sechrest. We cannot afford any surprises once we get to court.”

  As I left my office that evening, I picked up a copy of the Call Bulletin. The headline spread across the front of the paper read increased clamor for new city hall reform! Reading the story as I waited for a cable car, I learned that the latest financial audit had revealed thousands of dollars missing from tax funds set aside for the project. According to the article, there was an angry public outcry—
primarily fueled by Maurice Blake, Mayor Kalloch’s rival in the upcoming election—demanding an investigation into the irregularities.

  Samuel was right, I thought. The new City Hall fiasco was turning into a major political issue.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Instead of heading directly home, I boarded a cable car to Nob Hill. As I’d told Robert, I had made up my mind to discover what lay behind the strange threat Lieutenant Ahern had made about Frederick that morning at the jail. I couldn’t dismiss the fear that my brother might have inadvertently become involved in something illegal, or perhaps even dangerous. While it was true he was frequently pretentious and overbearing, he was still my brother. I didn’t want to see him publicly disgraced because of some silly mistake he might have made. He should have an opportunity to explain himself. At the very least, I felt he should be warned.

  I arrived at Frederick and Henrietta’s house, to find them entertaining dinner guests. Needless to say, they were not well pleased to have me show up unannounced on their doorstep. I was about to offer a suitable apology and depart, when I was surprised to see that their guests were Philippa and Edgar Bramwell, along with their son Nicholas. Considering that Frederick and Henrietta avoided mingling with people in the building trades—individuals they not so subtly regard as below their social station—I was curious at how they had come to be friends. And since I had not yet met Edgar Bramwell, I decided to break with the laws of decorum and extend my impromptu visit, at least for a little while.

  I watched in silent, if guilty, amusement as Henrietta fumbled for words to explain my impromptu appearance. At best, my sister-in-law was an anxious and exacting hostess. To have the least-favorite, and most unpredictable, member of her husband’s family descend upon her without warning must have taxed her already tenuous nerves to their limit. Certainly it reinforced her poor opinion of my social skills.

  “Sarah, my dear, what a surprise,” she managed to say, darting Frederick a look of barely concealed panic. “Yes, a surprise. You, er, will join us for dinner, won’t you?” Henrietta’s wide eyes pleaded with me to politely decline her invitation and leave.

  Instead of responding to this unspoken appeal, I smiled and gracefully accepted the offer. “If it will not inconvenience you, Henrietta. I had no idea you had guests.”

  My sister-in-law had little choice but to introduce me to the group gathered in the parlor for predinner aperitifs. Pangs of conscience, however, prompted me to accept without protest the glass of sherry my brother proffered.

  “Mrs. Bramwell and I have met,” I said, smiling at the stout, fashionably gowned society matron. Tonight, she wore a hunter green silk gown with a deeply cuirass bodice and a skirt with horizontal pleating, causing me to wonder if she had any idea how many inches this unfortunate cut added to her already-ample girth. “I’ve also had the pleasure of meeting Nicholas, but, regretfully, not his father.”

  “Then allow me to introduce you to Mr. Edgar Bramwell,” Henrietta went on. “He and Mrs. Bramwell were very generous contributors to Frederick’s senatorial campaign.”

  Ah, I thought, so that’s why the Bramwells had been permitted to circumvent Frederick and Henrietta’s social standards and are being wined and dined here tonight. I smiled up at the tall, straight figure standing before me. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Bramwell.”

  “How do you do, Miss Woolson?” Edgar Bramwell said a bit self-consciously. Indeed, the man appeared distinctly uncomfortable in Frederick and Henrietta’s overcrowded parlor. Somewhere in his early fifties, Bramwell was solidly built, with broad shoulders, a thick, muscled neck, and large, calloused hands. He had a full head of dark hair, slowly turning to gray, and a mustache that displayed more white than brown. His face was burned to a dark tan, and a good many lines fanned out from his eyes. Although he looked respectable, even handsome in his well-tailored tuxedo, he seemed the sort of man who would be far more at ease out-of-doors, working with his hands. Studying both of the Bramwells in turn, I had to wonder how two people so utterly mismatched had ever managed to get together.

  I was sipping my sherry and listening with feigned interest to the predictable conversation between Frederick and his guests when a young lady I had never met swept into the room. She could not be described as conventionally pretty—her nose was a shade too large and her mouth too narrow to qualify for that accolade—but she knew how to dress in order to display her slender figure to best advantage. Her silk gown, a delicate sky blue color, perfectly matched her eyes and set off her blond hair, which had been swept up onto her head and fastened with diamond combs and pins. The intricate diamond necklace and bracelet set she wore must have been worth a small fortune, and I was nearly blinded by the large six-prong Tiffany diamond ring that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand.

  She swept majestically into the room and made directly for Nicholas. Taking him by the arm, she gazed lovingly up at him through eyelashes that were suspiciously dark for someone with such fair hair. “Nicky, darling, get me a sherry, will you?”

  “I see you found your comb, my dear,” Henrietta said, fairly fawning over the girl. “I am so relieved.”

  “Yes, silly me, I must have dropped it in the foyer when I took off my wrap.” She smiled at the room in general, displaying straight but slightly protruding teeth.

  “And who is this?” she asked, staring at me with almost rude curiosity. Her eyes traveled with obvious distaste over my gray business suit and practical black hat. “I don’t believe we have met.”

  Returning with her sherry, Nicholas stepped into the breach before my brother or Henrietta could decide on an approach that would result in the least loss of face. The fact that his little sister had become an attorney was one of the banes of Frederick’s existence, and he and Henrietta did everything possible to keep it a secret from their friends.

  “Aldora, I’d like you to meet Miss Sarah Woolson, Mr. Woolson’s sister,” Nicholas said. “Miss Woolson, I’m delighted to introduce my fiancée, Miss Aldora Radburn.”

  To say that I was surprised by this pronouncement would be an understatement, given that the last time I’d seen the young man he’d been escorting Yelena Karpova to the theater. “How do you do, Miss Radburn?” I politely replied. I started to reach out my hand, then thought better of it. Aldora Radburn did not seem the type of person to shake hands with a woman she very probably mistook for a common shop girl.

  “Nicholas and Miss Radburn are to be married next summer,” Mrs. Bramwell informed me proudly, unaware of her husband’s involuntary flinch as she made this announcement. Clearly, Mr. Bramwell was not as enamored of the match as was his wife.

  “Aldora is the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Milford Rad-burn, who have recently taken up residence here in San Francisco,” Mrs. Bramwell continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Radburns, Miss Woolson. They are a very old and distinguished Boston family. Actually, the Radburns are distant relatives of Queen Victoria.”

  “How nice to be related to a queen,” I said. “Have you ever met Her Majesty, Miss Radburn? I understand she is still in mourning for her late husband, Prince Albert.”

  “I have not yet been honored to meet Her Majesty,” Aldora replied, displaying all the arrogance I might have expected from the old girl herself. “Nicholas and I plan to commence our honeymoon by sailing to England. My mother has arranged for us to be presented to the queen at that time. Mama is Her Majesty’s third cousin.”

  “How nice,” I repeated, finding it impossible to think of anything more original to say. Actually, I found myself feeling rather sorry for Nicholas, and I wondered how he felt about this marriage. He’d seemed so happy in Yelena Karpova’s company the previous evening. I had a hard time imagining the handsome young man spending the rest of his life with this pretentiously vain younger version of my sister-in-law Henrietta!

  I was well into my second glass of sherry, and wondering how I could unobtrusively draw my brother aside to ask him about Lieutenant Ahern’s peculiar
comment, when the mountain came to Muhammad, figuratively speaking, of course. Under the pretext of showing me a new painting he had recently acquired, Frederick led me into his library and demanded to know the real reason I had suddenly appeared at his door.

  “And don’t tell me it was because you just happened to be passing by, Sarah. I know well enough that Mama and Papa practically have to drag you over here. Now, what’s going on?”

  “All right, Freddie,” I responded, addressing him by the nickname I knew he abhorred. “I’ll come directly to the point. I happened to meet Lieutenant Ahern at city jail this morning, and he said something decidedly odd about you.”

  Frederick opened his mouth and stared at me. “Ahern? You mean that blustering little Irishman who couldn’t put two ideas back-to-back to save his life? And what in heaven’s name were you doing at city jail?”

  “I was there to interview a prospective client,” I replied coolly, ignoring his censoring look. “And yes, that is the Lieutenant Ahern I’m referring to, although I think you underestimate him.”

  “Never mind that, Sarah,” he said brusquely. “What did that idiot say that was so important you had to barge over here and disrupt our dinner party?”

  “That’s interesting, Freddie. Lieutenant Ahern used the same word only this morning to describe you.”

  My brother’s face puckered until it resembled a dried prune. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Damn it all, Sarah, spit it out or leave. You seem to go out of your way to cause trouble. And stop calling me Freddie!”

  I’m ashamed to admit that I was beginning to enjoy this little discussion. Please believe me when I say that for years I’d tried to grow closer to my eldest brother. Sadly, it was becoming increasingly apparent that those particular twains were never destined to meet. In fact, as time passed, I found the unfortunate chasm between us growing into a substantial abyss.

  “He said, and I quote, ‘I’m warning you that if that brother of yours isn’t more careful in his political dealings, he just may find himself a resident of city jail.’ Now, why would Lieutenant Ahern say such a thing?”