Author Name: A.B. Michaels
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.
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.
“A Broken Man”
The Palace Hotel had given Lord Burnham’s forwarding address as an
estate in the Oakland Hills known as Vista Bellissima. It was the West Coast
retreat of the British Ambassador James Bryce, accessed by a series of electric
streetcars bookending a ferry ride from the center of San Francisco.
Jonathan arrived at the residence in the early afternoon. Several
minutes after he knocked, a staid-looking butler answered the oversized double
doors. Before Jonathan could speak, the man said, “I’m afraid the ambassador is
not in residence and will not be returning for several weeks.” He began to shut
the door, but Jonathan smoothly stopped his attempt.
“I’m actually here to see Lord Burnham,” he said. “I understand he’s
a guest of the ambassador.” He handed the butler his card. “I’m sure he will
see me. We’re old friends.”
With pursed lips the butler glanced at the card and then (rather
reluctantly, it seemed) opened the door wider to allow Jonathan to enter. Once
inside, the servant gestured to where a bank of large windows offered a
spectacular view of the Golden City across the bay. “Lord Burnham is rather
under the weather today and is recuperating out on the terrace. If you’ll
excuse me, I will check to see if he is receiving visitors.”
While he waited, Jonathan took in the trappings of Ambassador Bryce,
the well-heeled British diplomat. Why stay in hot, muggy Washington D.C. when
one could rusticate in luxury on America’s scenic west coast? No doubt Lord
Burnham had helped pave the way for the man’s appointment, which granted him
access to an opulent retreat when necessary. If you’re going to hide out after committing murder, you may as well do it in style.
In a few moments the butler returned and ushered Jonathan out to the
back terrace, which spanned the length of the prairie-style home. The architect
had cleverly cantilevered the upper floor over the outdoor space so that the
view of the cityscape from within would not be marred by patio furniture. Yet
outside, an equally enthralling atmosphere existed; protected by the overhang
of the upper floor, the terrace was a veritable fern garden. One felt embraced
by lush greenery, with the promise of hidden delights made by a path leading
down the hill.
Unfortunately, the beauty of the surroundings seemed to be lost on
Burnham, who looked as if he had come down with consumption. He sat with a
blanket draped across his knees even though the slight breeze was neither too
cool nor overly warm. When he looked up at Jonathan, his eyes were red-rimmed
yet hostile. He did not look like a man who had exacted revenge or solved a
problem.
“Come here to gloat, have you?” he snarled.
The man’s demeanor was unexpected. “What do you mean?” Jonathan
asked.
“You know damn well what I mean. You think you’re no longer
vulnerable. That the matter we discussed will now go away. But you are dead
wrong. I will personally make sure your nightmare is just beginning.”
The baron was not making sense. “I’m not sure what you’re referring
to,” Jonathan began quietly, “but I can assure you, removing Sybil West from
the picture was no way to solve anyone’s problems—not yours, nor those you
perceive to be mine.”
“Then why—” Burnham’s tone was fierce, but he stopped himself as he
looked up to see the butler standing at the terrace edge in watchful silence.
“My friend and I have no need of your
services at the moment, Corning. I will call out if I need you.”
“Very good, my lord,” the butler said, and disappeared into the
house.
The anger inside of Jonathan once again started to churn. How dare this man sound affronted after
setting Jonathan up! “I told you I would contact you after Sybil and I talked.
Was the blackmail simply a ruse to set me up? Did you think I would take the
fall while you solved whatever little embarrassment you thought Sybil
represented for you? What—did she tell you she wasn’t interested in seeking
revenge on my brother after all? Or worse yet, did she tell you she was no
longer going to share your bed?”
Burnham surged out of his chair and lunged for Jonathan, his
strength nearly overwhelming as he clasped his hands around Jonathan’s throat.
“How dare you speak of her like that!” he raged. “You are not worthy of the
ground she walked upon!”
Caught off guard, Jonathan reached up to pry Burnham’s hands away.
He pushed the older man as hard as he could, causing Burnham to stagger back
and almost fall. At the last minute the man righted himself and reached for the
walking stick he’d propped next to his chair. He raised it high, ready to
strike. Lunging forward, his aim was off, and Jonathan easily sidestepped him.
Once again Burnham went tumbling, this time falling into a heap, sobbing with
frustration.
“You think I killed her,” Jonathan said incredulously.
“Well, didn’t you? You found out she was deceiving you—and I, I was
the one who told you! My God, if I had known…” Burnham was now lost in a filthy
bog of self-recrimination and didn’t even respond when Jonathan reached down to
help him up.
“Lord Burnham, I swear to you I did not kill Sybil West. In fact, I
came here to confront you, assuming you
killed her.”
At that, Burnham looked at Jonathan, equally befuddled. “Why on
earth would I kill her?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps because she was about to thwart
your plan to compromise me. Or perhaps in your own way, you loved her. She was
your mistress, she spurned you, and—”
Burnham shook his head. “No, no. no.
You have it all wrong. I loved her, yes, but not the way you think.”
