Murder on Nob Hill by Shirley Tallman

his unruly hair—and dress in what was obviously a new morning coat and gray trousers—the volatile young attorney still looked as out of place in the courtroom as an elephant at a tea party. He’d given me a brief greeting, then steadfastly refrained from looking in my direction. Benjamin Wylde completed our defense team; he sat directly behind us in the area reserved for spectators.
    As Annjenett's case was called, a guard ushered her to our table. After a brief, painful look at her father, she came to stand between Mr. Paulson and myself. Her icy fingers sought mine and held on for dear life as the judge read aloud the charge of murder in the first degree. When he asked for her plea, she was forced to repeat “Not guilty” twice before the court could hear her reply.
    The entire affair was over almost before it began. The prosecution presented a strong case against granting bail and, despite Paulson's impassioned arguments, the judge concurred, banging his gavel to indicate the hearing was at an end. I barely had time to embrace Annjenett's thin shoulders and pledge my continued support before, head bowed and looking even more miserable than when she’d entered the courtroom, the young widow was given a brief moment to embrace her father, then led back into the wretched bowels of the city jail.
    There was little time to talk with Paulson, either, as he was due to meet with other clients. His smiling assurance that all had gone as expected did little to hearten me. Nor did his opinion that, because of our planned insanity defense, the stolen articles found in Fowler's room would have little impact on our case. The day before, Annjenett had broken down and confessed it had been her idea for Peter to take the items so the crime might look like burglary, a strategy, I thought, that hardly sounded like the ravings of a mad woman.
    It was just after ten o’clock when I caught a horsecar to Clay and Kearny Streets. Because of my preoccupation with Annjenett's case, this would be my first full day at the law firm, and there was much to be done before I could settle into my new office. Furthermore, I was anxious to carry out the mission I’d conceived after my late-night talk with Samuel.
    I hadn’t expected an enthusiastic greeting from my new colleagues, nor was I disappointed. Hubert Perkins, the nervous clerk who, as usual, lay in wait by the door, tried to intercept me, but I resolutely swept past him and down the hallway to the room that was to be my office.
    I was delighted to find Joseph Shepard away for the morning. I was also relieved to note that Mr. Campbell had not yet returned from Annjenett's hearing.
    Upon reaching my assigned storage closet—it would be pretentious to call it more than that—I examined the grubby interior with dismay. But not one to procrastinate, I rolled up my sleeves, pried open the room's two small windows with a broom handle, and began to scrub.
    Two hours later, with the less than eager help of several clerks I had conscripted into service, the room was finally clean, though well short of hospitable. Taking stock, I decided that window curtains, some pictures on the barren walls, and perhaps a vase or two of flowers would at least make the place tolerable. I’ve long held the belief that tasteful, uncluttered surroundings are essential to foster a productive mind. In this case, I’d have to be satisfied with uncluttered. Good taste and this room were mutually exclusive.
    As it turned out, my timing was perfect. Joseph Shepard had not yet returned to the office, and I was relieved to see that Campbell's cubicle was still unoccupied. Now that my corps of helpers had scurried off before I could find more work for them to do, no one
    exhibited the least interest in the newest and sole female employee of the firm.
    Leaving my office, I made my way as unobtrusively as possible down the hall, stopping at each door until I found the one I was seeking. In a room hardly larger than my own