The Alchemy of Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

judge.
    In the streetcar on my way home, I drew my plans.
    I would check into a boarding house for working women. If I could convince a houseful of women I was crazy, they’d stop at nothing to get me out of their reach and into the hands of the authorities.
    Once home, I explained to my dear mother what I was about to do. She said I wouldn’t have any trouble convincing them I was mad, because I was crazy to even try such a scheme.
    In need for a boarding house to enter, I selected from a directory the Temporary Home for Females, No. 84, Second Avenue. As I made my way to the address, I practiced “dreamy” and “faraway” expressions.
    Mrs. Stanard, the assistant matron who greeted me at the door, reminded me of an aunt I had—disgusted with life and not wanting anyone else to be happy. She curtly told me the only room available was one shared with another woman and the rate was thirty cents a day. This worked to my benefit. I only had seventy cents. The sooner I was broke, the sooner I would be put out.
    That night, I had a less than enticing supper—boiled beef and potatoes, definitely lacking in salt or any spices, accompanied with coffee so thick it smelled like tar and bread with no butter.
    The dining room floor was bare; two long rough wooden tables lacked varnish, polish, and table covers, it’s unnecessary to talk about the cheapness of the linen. Long wooden benches were on each side of the tables, with no cushions. Mrs. Stanard obviously wanted no dallying, which was understandable—you’d realize how horrible the food tasted.
    This place was a mockery of a home for deserving women who earned their own bread. And to add insult to injury, she charged thirty cents for what she called a dinner. One good thing about her ridiculous price, I was now almost broke.
    After dinner everyone adjourned to the parlor. Just entering this room made me depressed. The only light fell from a solitary gas jet in the middle of the ceiling that enveloped everyone in a dusky hue. It was no wonder everyone’s spirits were down. The chairs were worn and dull in color, no flower prints or spring colors—just dark blue and grey. Above the mantelpiece was a picture of a sea captain. He sat straight as a board in a black leather chair with one hand holding a pipe. His dense black eyebrows shadowed his steel, grey eyes. He had the scowl of a sea captain not pleased with his crew. There were no logs in the fireplace, just ashes from long ago.
    I sat in a corner in a very stiff wicker chair that was made with no thought of comfort and watched the women. They made lace and knitted incessantly. No effort came from anyone to share in conversation. No laughter. No smiles. Everyone just sat in their chairs, heads hanging down, as their fingers incessantly knitted. The only sound was the tapping of the needles.
    I hated this establishment.
    With little cost, the management could easily supply this room with a game of checkers or a deck of cards—simple things that would bring enjoyment to these women who spent their days working like slaves. Even a cheap vase of daisies on the mantel and a log burning would bring some cheer. And remove that sea captain and replace it with a picture of a beautiful meadow—something colorful and bright. And have a cat or two who’d earn their room and board catching mice, which I’m sure lurked about.
    I couldn’t have picked a more ideal place to become crazy. One thing for certain, once I was done with my story on Blackwell’s Island, my next article was going to expose the fraud of these “Homes for Females.” But right now I needed to concentrate on being a mad woman.
    I began by telling Mrs. Stanard that all of the women in the room “looked loony and I was afraid of them.”

    NELLIE IN THE HANDS OF POLICE WITH MRS. CAINE
    Throughout the night I kept up the pretense that I believed everyone in the house was “nuts” and I was going to be murdered by them. Feigning amnesia, I frightened the