The Oxygen Murder by Camille Minichino

G-rated finger signal. If you were going only a short distance and not taking a homebound driver out of his way, you used your thumb and index finger to indicate “little.” This tactic would not work for the ride from midtown to Battery Park, however, and it took twenty minutes to capture a taxi.
    Reluctantly, I gave the driver an address that took me away from the investigation that had captured my attention.
     
    Rose was excited to meet me. She’d already bought our tickets and memorized an Ellis Island pamphlet.
    “Twelve million people landed here,” she told me. “Today their descendants—that’s us, Gloria—account for almost forty percent of the United States population. Imagine.”
    “I must say, that is interesting,” I admitted to Rose. “Maybe there’s something to this sightseeing thing after all.”
    Rose showed me her palms, indicating she’d always known as much. Buoyed by my comment, she went on. “The rich passengers were processed on the ship and sent straight to wherever they were going, but the ones in the lower classes or in steerage were detained on the island for medical checkups and paperwork. They were kept in the main hall, which is on the tour.”
    We knew that detention must have been the fate of our grandparents, all of whom started life in America with little more than one battered steamer trunk and a dream.
    I wondered if Amber Keenan had been among the descendants of immigrants (Irish? Welsh? I was no good with names that ended in consonants) to Ellis Island. I had no idea how many of them made their way to the Midwest. Something to ask Rose the next time I needed to keep her busy.
    The ferry ride from Lower Manhattan to Ellis Island, on the waters of New York Harbor, was truly a vacation moment as Rose and I talked about the old days. She was always happy to reminisce, and I was grateful not to be responsible for thinking up topics other than her daughter-in-law’sletterhead, which was at the front of my mind. I had to struggle to keep from feeling I’d betrayed her, also, by taking Karla’s letter.
    Thankfully, Rose hadn’t been inquisitive about why Matt foisted me on her for the afternoon.
    Once on the island, we spent a while cruising the exhibits and the cases of artifacts from the turn of the twentieth century.
    “These might have come from my own house,” Rose said, pointing out collections of crocheted doilies, wedding dresses, christening outfits, and embroidered hankies. “Isn’t this fun, Gloria? See what being a tourist can be like?”
    “It’s fun, but let’s not make a habit of it,” I said.
    Rose laughed, clearly taking my comment as more of a joke than I meant.
    The Ellis Island Immigration Hall put us both in a contemplative mood. We made our way to the dormitories that our grandparents may have slept in. Bunk beds—thin, lumpy, mattresses, more exactly—were stacked three high, two such units to a room, in a space that was barely ten by ten.
    “And we think our hotel rooms are small,” Rose said.
    “I feel extremely petty complaining about the size of our closet when I see this,” I said.
    By unspoken agreement we stood there in silence. I knew Rose was praying, and I thought I was, too.
    But my mind had been wandering away from Ellis Island, to a precinct in Manhattan, where Matt was pleading my case to Buzz, if that’s what he was doing. I wondered what favors he’d owe as a result of my indiscretion. More indicative of my lack of willpower was that I was dying to know what Matt had learned. He’d mentioned some “skinny” he could share on Amber Keenan’s case. I didn’t dare ask him while he still held my freedom in his hands.
    Anyway, I was off the case.
    “Gloria, did you hear me?” Rose asked. “I’m suggesting we get in line for the next ferry back, since it will take a while to catch a cab uptown once we’re in Manhattan.”
    “Good idea. Oh, by the way, Rose, do you know if Karla does any business in New York?” Off