Page 44 of Fire and Bones
“Would you like coffee here or in the study, ma’am?”
We chose the study. Lan dipped her head ever so slightly and disappeared.
Minutes later we were settled in two Herman Miller Eames lounge chairs, our feet on the plush white leather ottomans. The Montblanc journal lay on Doyle’s upraised knees.
“The property has had surprisingly few owners over the years.” Splaying the pages open with the press of one palm.
“Unusual for such an old building.”
Lan tiptoed in and placed a steaming mug beside each of us. We took a moment to sip.
“Would you like something stronger?” Doyle asked.
You bet your ass, I thought.
“No thanks,” I said.
“We know that the house that burned down was designed by Hiram L. Pepper,” Doyle continued. “I confirmed that it was built in 1911.”
“The date on the plans.”
“The first title holder was a man named Ansel Dankworth. Dankworth owned a paper box factory on the northern edge of Georgetown.”
“Paper boxes must have been profitable.”
Doyle’s eyes rolled to meet mine. “Until the factory went up in flames in 1924. Six women died because the fire doors were locked to prevent employees from sneaking in late or slipping out to smoke. The media made a circus of Dankworth’s unsafe working conditions. He sold his Foggy Bottom home the following year.”
I’d seen photos of turn-of-the-century workshops and sweathouses. Felt sadness imagining the terror experienced by those trapped workers.
Doyle’s gaze dropped back to her notes.
It was almost ten. I’d slept poorly the previous night, awakened at dawn. Put in a long and difficult day at the morgue. Ingested at least ten pounds of Thai food. Despite the coffee, my brain was signaling its intent to clock out. Still, I tried to pay attention.
“The next owner was Caleb Sheridan. Sheridan owned three hardware stores. Lost them all when the market crashed in’29. Declared bankruptcy and sold the Foggy Bottom property in 1930.”
Focused on her notes, Doyle didn’t notice that I was fading.
“The third owner was a woman named Unique Swallow. Documents described Swallow as a spinster, her occupation as ‘business owner.’?”
Doyle looked up and flashed an apologetic look. “I could find nothing in the archives specifying the nature of Unique’s enterprise.”
I nodded, thinking of the more colorful possibilities. Had Miss Swallow supplied services of a personal nature?
“Not sure what happened to Unique, but in 1942 the house sold to an entity called W-C Commerce. W-C still owns the property today.”
“Is it a partnership or a sole proprietorship?”
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
“How?” Stifling a yawn.
“I have my sources.” Coy.
Though I was fighting the good fight, the exhaustion must have shown on my face.
Doyle closed the Montblanc with a definitive snap.
“Off with you now.” She stood. “I’ll have more tomorrow.”