No Pity For the Dead Page 11

  “The right sort of men have a taste for that place, Detective. Men Virgil thought he could persuade to join his side against the cut.”

  “Through debts to him.”

  Miss Templeton tilted her head and looked at him. She had a fine neck, and the pose showed it to advantage. “Whatever it took, but Virgil wasn’t naïve. He knew resisting the Second Street cut was like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll down again. Progress here is inevitable, especially when you are somebody like Jasper Martin, who has friends on the planning commission.”

  Sisyphus? “So who do you think is responsible for Virgil’s death, Miss Templeton?”

  The music began again, and the vocalist in the theater picked up the song. It went better this time. “Who else but the partners at Martin and Company, Detective Greaves? They’d sent him threatening notes, and they finally followed through.”

  “Threats?” Martin had been overheard wishing Mr. Nash were dead.

  “They’ve had it out for Virgil all along, Detective Greaves, and now they’ve won.”

  * * *

  “Would you like lunch now or later?” asked Addie from the doorway that connected the kitchen at the rear of the house to Celia’s clinic examination room.

  Celia looked up from the piece of paper she’d set atop her corner desk. The paper was blank except for a drip of ink. She hadn’t been certain where to start on her efforts to be a detective.

  “Lunch can wait until after I return from downtown,” Celia answered. “Hopefully I shall have more of an appetite once I have convinced Mr. Hutchinson to take Owen back.”

  “Weel, I wish you luck with that, then.” Addie scowled. “And I ken what you’re up to there.” She pointed at the paper.

  “I am merely making a list in order to collect my thoughts on this affair before I leave.”

  “This affair is nae your concern, ma’am.”

  “I have made it my concern.”

  “Aye, that you have again.” The housekeeper harrumphed and returned to the kitchen, banging the connecting door closed.

  Celia resumed her contemplation of the piece of paper, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and proceeded to write down her thoughts.

  Frank Hutchinson . . .

  Celia stared at his name. It felt traitorous to list him first, as though she considered him her primary suspect, just as Mr. Greaves did. You must be unprejudiced, though.

  Frank Hutchinson. Motive: eliminate the man attempting to keep Martin and Company from pursuing the Second Street cut, a source of future revenue. Most concerning, Jane was upset, which led Celia to fear her friend thought her husband guilty.

  Celia wondered if Frank had an alibi for the night of Mr. Nash’s death. Mr. Greaves had not mentioned it, if so. His propensity to stay out late with Mr. Russell, and Jane’s inclination to take soporifics to mute her unhappiness, might make it challenging for him to provide one.

  She moved on.

  Abram Russell. Motive: avoid paying off a gambling debt owed to Mr. Nash? Also stood to profit from the Second Street cut, although possibly less so than Frank. However, if he had gambling losses to cover, any money to be obtained by the cut might seem precious. Furthermore, Jane did not like him.

  Jasper Martin. Motive: again, profits from the Second Street cut. As the owner of Martin and Company, he would gain the most. Overheard by Dan Matthews (who might not be telling the truth) that he wished Virgil Nash were dead. A ruthless and strong-willed man, which suggested he would not tolerate obstacles like Virgil Nash. Was with the mayor the evening of the murder. Denied setting up meeting with Mr. Nash.

  Dan Matthews. Motive: avoid paying off a gambling debt owed to Virgil Nash. Maryanne was not surprised to learn that her brother had become entangled in a crime, suggesting a propensity for running into trouble. But why would Dan dig up the body?

  Celia tapped the end of her pen against her teeth. Who else was there?

  Rob Bartlett. Motive: unknown. Gambling debts, also? Might have wished to steal from Mr. Nash, a wealthy man, then killed him. Encouraged Dan to dig up the cellar in search of Jasper Martin’s supposed buried gold.

  She lifted the paper and scrutinized Rob Bartlett’s name. What if he had murdered Virgil Nash in the cellar of the building where he worked, buried the man there, but then wanted the body discovered in order to implicate someone else at Martin and Company? Someone like Frank, whom Mr. Bartlett resented for not promoting him. But then why bother to bury the man in the first place? Why not simply leave him lying in his own blood for one of the partners or Mr. Kelly to discover in the morning when he came to work with his crew?

  Perhaps Mr. Bartlett had wanted time to work on his alibi. Perhaps, panicked, he had acted in haste and over time had developed an idea of how to lay the blame on someone else. As far as she knew, though, he hadn’t presented any accusations to the police.

  “Also, if the murderer is Rob Bartlett, I stand little chance of learning much about him at Mr. Martin’s party tomorrow.”

  She laid the notepaper flat again and wrote another name. John Kelly. Motive: steal from Mr. Nash to support growing family.

  “I most sincerely hope he can be eliminated, Maryanne,” she murmured.

  Then, of course, there were all the other workers to consider. The improvements being done on Mr. Martin’s business would require several laborers. Did they work on Saturdays? They might, given that the work had fallen behind because of the discovery of Mr. Nash’s body. Celia glanced at her watch. It was not yet noon. She might have an opportunity to speak with one or two of them while she was at the offices, pleading Owen’s case to Frank. If he was there.

  To the bottom of the list she added Stranger who killed Silas Nash. Motive: Further revenge for a jumped claim in Nevada. If Dan Matthews’ account was to be believed, and if the man had returned from wherever he had fled.

  Wiping the pen nib clean, Celia laid it down and closed the inkwell lid. Sadly, making the list had tangled her thoughts more than clarified them.

  CHAPTER 6

  “My wife was right that the cops would be coming here, after that article in the newspaper.” Horatio Enright straddled a shaving horse, scraping his two-handled drawknife along the edge of an oak stave. Nick noticed that he was missing half of his left forefinger. The damage to his finger didn’t interfere with his expert use of the drawknife, though. “More trouble from Nash, even after he’s dead.”

  Enright was difficult to hear over the sound of one of his workers sizing staves with a hand saw and another worker banging iron hoops into place on a keg. Out on the street, a wagon pulled up with a fresh load of cut lumber. A man hopped down to start hauling it into the shop.

  “There,” Enright said, directing the man. “Put it all there.”

  The sound of boards plunking into a pile added to the noise.

  Nick moved aside as the pile of lumber began to encroach upon the one open spot he’d found among the mounds of buckets and barrels. “I’ve heard some about your dispute with Nash, but what are the details, Mr. Enright?”

  “Nash claimed he hadn’t agreed that this lot was to be used for a cooperage.” Enright set down the drawknife and released the foot pedal that held the clamp around the piece of wood. “A convenient memory lapse, but I knew what he wanted. He wanted this lot back so he could expand his warehouse next door, but my rental agreement hasn’t expired yet.”

  Enright wiped his thick hands down the leather apron he wore and examined the stave. Satisfied, he picked up another and began shaping it.

  “Virgil Nash owned the building next door?” Nick asked. The lumber deliveryman departed, which left only the rasp of sawing and the hammering to contend with.

  “Him and his partner,” said Enright. “Pretty funny that Nash was the one complaining to the planning commission about the grading proposed for Second Street. Seems he always m
ade sure to rail at me whenever I protested the latest so-called upgrades he supported. All that street work comes at a cost to me, doesn’t it, Mr. Greaves? Me and all the rest of the small businesses on this road are going to be levied to death, that’s what’ll happen. Laying down those wood blocks to pave the alleyway and calling it progress, when everybody knows Nicolson pavement ain’t worth a hill of beans. Bah.”

  “Does this partner of Nash’s intend to pursue the suit and get you off this land?” he asked, noticing that the fellow hammering the iron hoops seemed to be enjoying making a lot of noise, since he’d been working the same spot on the keg for the past few minutes and had to have accomplished what he needed to already.

  “They had a falling-out a while back,” said Enright. “When Nash tried to demolish my shop, he pissed off Hutchinson all right. Had enough of Nash’s nonsense. Stopped being partners after that.”

  That was a name sure to focus Nick’s attention. “Did you say Hutchinson?”

  “I did.”

  “Frank Hutchinson?”

  “That’s who I mean.” Enright finished with that stave and grabbed another from the stack alongside the shaving horse. “He was in with Nash when I first started renting this place. But like I said, he didn’t care for Nash’s treatment of our contract, and that was the end of their partnership.”

  The fine Frank. Might be the only noble thing he’d ever done. “Did you witness their argument? How violent was it?”

  “Didn’t see it. Didn’t have to. Heard all about it, though.” He dragged the drawknife toward him, flakes of wood falling to join the others at the man’s feet.

  “What about threatening notes that Nash had received?”

  Enright sat up and considered Nick’s question. “Can’t say I recollect hearing about those. But I remember some fellow named Martin coming by not too long ago, and Nash cursing at him to leave. Martin didn’t look rattled at all.”

  Nick regretted that every time he heard Martin mentioned in connection to Nash, he was forced to recall that Martin had an alibi. “You’re probably not all that sad that Virgil Nash is dead, are you, Mr. Enright?” And the man was good with a knife. “Do you have somebody who can vouch for where you were the night Nash was murdered, May twenty-eight?”

  “I’ve been in Seattle the past few weeks, Detective. Business matters associated with my lumber supplier. Got back yesterday.” He nodded toward the depths of the shop. “And look how far behind we are on orders. Can’t leave for one minute.”

  The young man sawing staves registered that he was being criticized and scowled.

  “And there are people who can verify where you were,” said Nick.

  “Of course there are. And listen, Detective. I wouldn’t bother to kill Nash, then bury him in the cellar of some building,” said the cooper, setting down his drawknife again. “I’d lay him flat out in the middle of Market Street where everybody driving past could see the bastard’s body and have a chance to spit on it.”

  * * *

  Celia stepped down from the horsecar a block early and hastened along the pavement of Montgomery Street, deftly avoiding a collision with a woman carrying parcels out of a milliner’s. She experienced a momentary pang of envy as she watched the woman climb into the carriage waiting at the curb for her; it would be wonderful to purchase a new hat for tomorrow’s fete at Cliff House, a notion Celia rarely allowed herself to indulge.

  Passing a ladies’ fancy goods shop she sometimes visited, she slowed to examine the colorful ribbons on display. Perhaps she could buy a length of embroidered gauze to trim her old bonnet. A small expense.

  “Hello, ma’am,” said the girl cleaning the front window.

  Ginny Simmons was one of Celia’s patients. She lived rent free in a room above the shop in exchange for her labors, which the woman who owned the business took full advantage of. “How are you today, Ginny? Better?”

  “Well enough. My rash is all cleared up, thanks to you.”

  “Good,” Celia replied, casting a final glance at the ribbon. “I shall return in a short while to buy a length of your cream gauze ribbon there.”

  “I’ll tell the missus,” Ginny responded, bobbing a curtsy that seemed utterly out of place on an American street, and resumed polishing the glass.

  A few steps farther on, Celia arrived at Martin and Company. The man who had been painting the trim yesterday was outside continuing his efforts, which meant the other workers were possibly there as well. Her first priority, however, was to get Owen rehired.

  From his perch on his ladder, the painter tipped his cap, and Celia swept through the front doors that had been propped open to allow the breeze to waft through. The din of saws and hammers greeted her, quite a change from the thorough silence of Thursday night. The room was a beehive of activity, carpenters fabricating a partition nearby, gas-fixture installers hanging elaborate chandeliers, ladders propped against walls so that the plasterers could finish the ceiling work. One of them might be Rob Bartlett, she supposed.

  “Mrs. Davies,” called out John Kelly, noticing her arrival and striding over to intercept her before she progressed more than a few feet beyond the doorway. “What would be bringing you here?”

  He was handsome, but not with Patrick’s shimmering brightness, her husband’s charm as much a feature as his blue eyes and broad shoulders. Mr. Kelly’s accent was also fainter than Patrick’s, which Celia had attributed to many years lived in America, the lilt washed out like dyes exposed too long to sunshine.

  “Ah, Mr. Kelly. Good day to you,” she said, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard over the racket. “I wish to speak with Mr. Hutchinson. Concerning the matter of Owen Cassidy’s dismissal.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Hutchinson won’t be wanting to hear your pleas for a fellow who was trying to rob Mr. Martin,” he said, shaking his head in sympathy. “Cassidy’s lucky Mr. Martin didn’t ask the police to arrest him.”

  “Likewise your brother-in-law,” she said, interested in his reaction. “The police have spoken to him about why he was digging in the cellar, but they did release him.”

  “I’ve always said to Maryanne that her brother’s trouble.” Mr. Kelly’s expression darkened. “I wonder what excuse he gave the police to explain why he’d be doing such a thing.”

  “I can hardly answer that question, Mr. Kelly. I am not a member of the police force and was not privy to the conversation,” she replied, even though Mr. Greaves had informed her that Dan Matthews had denied knowing the victim, despite owing the fellow money.

  “I should never have taken him on, but Maryanne insisted,” he said. “And then he was never appreciative.”

  Celia regretted her comment; she did not want him to argue with Maryanne. “Your wife’s health is fragile, Mr. Kelly. Please do not upset her more than she already is over her brother.”

  “You can be sure I’ll be careful with her, Mrs. Davies,” he replied. “I’ve no more time to talk. We’ve work to do, as you can see. And I’ll not be wantin’ either Mr. Martin or Mr. Hutchinson coming down from their offices to wonder why I’ve let a woman on the premises to distract the men.”

  “So Mr. Hutchinson is here today. We are friends, and I will only require a moment of his time,” she said, hurrying off before he could stop her.

  A man holding a trowel and a square of wood topped with mortar moved out of her way as she turned the corner into the vestibule. Unsurprisingly, the door to the cellar was closed, but the door to the steps leading to the first floor was open, and she went through.

  It was quieter up here, and she slowed to a more leisurely pace. Frank’s office was one of two located on the street-facing side of the building—the other belonging to Jasper Martin, whose wavy form she could make out through the frosted glass.

  After drawing in a deep breath, she rapped on Frank’s door.

  “Come,” he called out, and sh
e entered.

  When Frank noticed it was Celia, he stood from where he’d been seated behind his large walnut desk. He was very tall, and Celia had always thought him handsome, if somewhat restrained.

  “Mrs. Davies, what brings you downtown?” He smiled and looked past her. “Is my wife with you?”

  “No, I’ve come on my own.”

  “You’re not here to tell me you don’t want to go with us to Cliff House tomorrow, are you?” he asked. “Jane’s counting on your joining our party.”

  “I have no plans to disappoint her, Mr. Hutchinson,” Celia answered, certainly speaking the truth. “I am here to beg a favor. I need you to tell Mr. Kelly to take Owen Cassidy back.”

  The smile slipped from Frank’s face, and he gestured for her to take a chair, which she did.

  “We need this situation to be resolved before we consider doing that, Mrs. Davies.” The light streaming through the large windows at his back cast his face in shadows and made his expression difficult to read.

  “Dan Matthews coerced Owen to cooperate. He is innocent of any criminal intent.”

  Frank spread his hands flat atop his desk. She had interrupted his reviewing maps of the city. A heavy red line was drawn across several of them; if she peered closely at the one beneath his left hand, she expected she would see it was a map of the Rincon Hill area.

  “Mr. Hutchinson,” she said when he didn’t respond, “I realize you took Owen on only because of my friendship with your wife, but I maintain that he is a good lad. He deserves a second chance.”

  “After this situation is resolved, Mrs. Davies, and the dust has settled.”

  “Thank you.” She twisted the straps of her reticule around her fingers. “It is a dreadful business. What is your opinion on who might have murdered Virgil Nash?”

  His gaze narrowed. “I don’t have an opinion, Mrs. Davies.”

  Ah, but most certainly you do. “Have you overheard any of the men talking about him? I suspect your workers are very observant.”