Millie disliked Dobbs and his Solidarity Party on principle, being a suffrage supporter herself, but knew nothing about him or any of the other opponents to the movement that wasn’t public knowledge. Neither did Ephraim. According to him, bachelor Dobbs was a “backward-leaning blowhard” and his minions “a pack of blustering rabble-rousers,” and Dobbs’ entire public life had been little more than a sham. His “devotion to public service” as water commissioner was the result of nepotism — his brother had been a member of the board of supervisors at the time of his appointment — and the Solidarity Party a humbug designed to provide him with unwarranted attention and a living from donations and dubious speaking engagements instead of from honest work. No public scandal had ever been attached to him, either.
It was well past the hour for luncheon when Sabina left the Morning Call building, and her empty stomach was demanding attention. She walked to Union Square, where she bought sausage and sauerkraut in a soft roll and a bottle of soda pop from one of the food sellers. She sat on a bench, like Little Miss Muffet on her tuffet, to eat every morsel and drink every drop. A poor and not very healthy meal, one that cousin Callie would have heartily disapproved of, but Sabina had no time for leisurely dining today.
Ross Cleghorne’s Floral Delights shop, on Geary Street a short distance from Union Square, was her next stop. Mr. Cleghorne was more than just a “florist to the wealthy and influential.” In many respects San Francisco was a small town as well as a growing city; many secrets were not long or easily kept, particularly those involving immoral and/or quasi-legal behavior among those in the upper strata of society. Gossip was rife, and gossip was Mr. Cleghorne’s passion — to an even greater degree than it was to Callie. He collected a vast storehouse of what he called tidbits and large juicy bites, and was not above discreetly sharing it with professionals such as Sabina if he deemed doing so harmless to his business and his reputation. But he demanded a price for it, firmly if delicately: it was necessary whenever she called upon him to place an order for an expensive corsage or nosegay or one of his unique floral arrangements.
He greeted her with his usual effusive charm. No more than five feet tall and rather pear-shaped, he made up for his lack of stature by dressing in finely tailored clothing, wearing patent-leather shoes with large lifts, and combing his full head of white hair in an upswept pompadour. It was impossible, at least for Sabina, not to like the man despite his gossipmongering and his quid pro quo method of doing business.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Carpenter,” he said. “As always you brighten my day with your comely presence. It has been much too long since your last visit.”
The flattery, typically overdone, was nonetheless sincere and therefore appealing. “And how have you been, Mr. Cleghorne?”
“Splendid. Business, if you’ll excuse the vulgar phrase, is booming. How may I serve you? A bouquet of red and yellow roses, perhaps?”
“A small corsage would be more appropriate.”
He pretended to pout, then brightened. “Ah! I have just the thing — a pair of lovely lavender-and-white cattleya orchids.”
“How much are they?”
“For you, dear lady, half price. A mere ten dollars.”
Sabina managed not to wince. “I’d like the answers to a few questions before I decide.” This was another part of their little ritual. If he had no answers or did and refused to divulge them, she would make this known and not be held to the orchid purchase. In his own mildly corrupt way, Ross Cleghorne was an honorable man.
A bell over the door tinkled as a well-dressed woman came in. Mr. Cleghorne signaled to a clerk to attend to the customer, then said to Sabina, “Naturally. Shall we step into my office?”
His office was small, neat, and filled with potted ferns and flowering plants. Once inside with the door closed, Sabina said, “To begin with, do you know of anyone who bears a serious grudge against any of the leaders of the woman suffrage movement?”
“By ‘serious,’ you mean—?”
“Serious enough to attempt to inflict harm.”
“Ah. Which leader did you have in mind?”
“I would rather not say. Do you know of any such grudge holder?”
“The suffrage movement engenders strong emotions in its opponents, as I’m sure you know. Enemies abound on both sides. I myself must remain neutral on this and other political issues, of course, so as not to offend any of my customers.” A self-serving statement if Sabina had ever heard one.
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Cleghorne.”
“Allow me to think for a moment.” He tugged at his pendulous lower lip, his eyelids fluttering as he cudgeled his memory. At length he said, rather wistfully, “No, I’m sorry to say that I have no knowledge of anyone who might wish to harm a suffragist leader.”
He was dying to know who that leader was, but he didn’t press her. That was another of their ground rules: she told him only so much as she felt was necessary and he wasn’t to ask for more. Nor was he to include what information she gave him in his spread of gossip to others. So far as she knew, he had never broken that covenant.
“May I be of any other assistance?” he asked.
“Possibly. What can you tell me about the man who founded the Solidarity Party, Nathaniel Dobbs?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. I know who he is, of course, but he is not a customer of mine and I have never met him.”
“There’s no unsavory behavior attached to him, then, so far as you know.”
“So far as I know. A conservative political animal, I should say.” He added sagely, “Of course, there are secrets in everyone’s life, some of which are quite jealously guarded.”
Not in mine. Though every now and then I wish there were.
“Would that be the case with Fenton Egan, of Egan and Bradford, Tea and Spice Importers, and his wife, Prudence?”
Mr. Cleghorne brightened. “Not at all. They are also not customers of mine, I regret to say, but it is whispered that neither is a pillar of moral rectitude. What exactly is it you’d like to know about the Egans? Tidbits or large juicy bites?”
“Does that mean there are large juicy bites?”
“Indeed. Mr. Egan is said to possess a roving eye, a very roving eye.”
“Numerous conquests?”
“Not as numerous as some of our lustier citizens’, but yes, I should say he has stepped outside the bounds of marital fidelity on a number of occasions.”
“With married women?”
“Married, widowed, divorced. Primarily, though not solely, those of the better class. His tastes appear to be catholic.” Mr. Cleghorne chuckled. “One might say that he is a social-climbing philanderer.”
“Do you know the names of his recent conquests?”
“One, perhaps, though I wouldn’t care to provide it. The lady happens to be the wife of a prominent political figure.”
Which meant, to Sabina’s relief, that Mr. Cleghorne wasn’t aware of Egan’s affair with Amity. And what he didn’t know he wouldn’t be tempted to gossip about. “Would you say that Prudence Egan is aware of her husband’s infidelities?”
“Undoubtedly she is.”
“I understand she’s quite a jealous woman.”
“Most women in her position are, to one extent or another.”