No Darkness as like Death Page 19

  Her gaze darted around the room as if searching for a response. “Somebody planted it on her.”

  Or the woman had found the time to steal the watch later, between noticing a trespasser and alerting Platt.

  Nick rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingers, contemplating the cook over their tips. “Let’s say it was Mr. Platt who killed Mrs. Wynn,” he said. “How could he have learned she intended to leave town this morning? Would she have told him?”

  “I doubt it, Detective.” She scrunched up her face. “I wonder, though, if he overheard us talking in the kitchen yesterday. About her plans to go to Crescent City.”

  A distinct possibility. “Did she have any other confidants, anybody else she might’ve revealed her plans to?”

  “She had friends, lots of friends,” she replied. “She could’ve told any one of them. And I suppose other folks knew about her family in Crescent City. She enjoyed talking about them. Called them true pioneers.”

  “You don’t have a name of a particular friend, though.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more.” Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her lower lip, trying to stop them from falling. “She must’ve been trying to protect me, by saying so little. Because of the person who ended up killing her.”

  Nick lowered his hands and leaned forward. “I have to ask where you were today around sunrise, Miss Newcomb. Before you came into the station,” he said. “Procedure, you understand.”

  “Do you mean . . . you mean . . .” she stuttered. “I was getting ready to come here, Detective. You can ask my landlady. When I was done talking with you, I went straight to the Institute. To give the kitchen a good scrub. It needs it. And now’s as good a time as any,” she replied. “Do you think we’ll ever have patients again, Detective? I sure do need my job with Mr. Ross.”

  “Folks will eventually forget, Miss Newcomb.” Another scandal, another shocking crime always came along to distract people from the last scandal, the last crime.

  Her tears spilled over to trail down her freckled cheeks. “It’s so awful, Mr. Greaves. Did she suffer, do you think?”

  He’d been asked that question before. He’d never come up with a ready answer that would satisfy the grieving friends, the grieving family left behind after some wretch had stolen the life of their loved one. An answer that would satisfy him.

  “Her death was probably quick, Miss Newcomb,” he replied, just as he had all those other times. Even if the response hadn’t always been the truth.

  “To think she’d been so happy the night before, coming down into the kitchen to make her apology about the fuss she’d caused arguing with the others, to chat with me while I washed the pots and the dishes,” she said, swiping her tears off her face. “If only I’d known what was going to happen. If only she’d been upstairs the whole time, instead of in the kitchen with me. Maybe she’d have scared off that trespasser and Mr. Shaw wouldn’t be dead. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead, either.”

  • • •

  “You’re not planning on wandering off to the police station this afternoon, are you, Mr. Cassidy?” asked Mr. Roesler, removing his white apron, the material as pristine as a fresh dusting of snow. He hadn’t seen snow since he was a little kid, thought Owen with a dash of black melancholy.

  “No, sir,” he replied, rousing himself. “I’m not going anywhere this afternoon.”

  “Good. Watch the store while I’m out.” Mr. Roesler looked around the interior of the store, the glass cases sparkling, the candies glimmering like edible jewels in their jars, his eyes full of affection like a father for his child. His expression shifted. “Or maybe I should close up and send you home—”

  “I’ll be able to manage, sir,” interrupted Owen. This was gonna be his chance to look through the customer account ledgers for Mrs. Davies. He couldn’t miss it. “Besides, it’s not that busy around this hour. You’ll be back, won’t you, before the fellows heading home from work stop in to buy confections for their sweethearts?”

  His boss eyed him. “You sure, Mr. Cassidy?”

  Owen puffed out his chest. “Yes, sir, I can take care of things here. And if anybody has a complicated order, I’ll tell them that you mean to return . . . when exactly do you mean to return?”

  “An hour.”

  Would that be enough time for what he had to do? It should be, as long as customers didn’t actually come into the store. “Not a problem at all, sir.”

  Mr. Roesler scanned him, pursed his lips skeptically, and grabbed his hat from the hook by the front door. “Don’t take a single piece of candy, Mr. Cassidy. I count them all first thing in the morning and last thing at night and reconcile the numbers against sales.”

  And he did; Owen had seen him.

  “No, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Was he never going to leave?

  “All right, then. An hour.” He put on his hat and strode out the door, the bell tinkling.

  Owen counted to ten before scuttling outside to make sure Mr. Roesler was actually gone. He didn’t see him anywhere and ducked back inside.

  “Now, where does he keep his books?” he mused aloud, scooting behind the long counter where Mr. Roesler tallied the customers’ purchases and settled their accounts.

  The current account book sat at the edge of the counter, and Owen pulled it over. He rifled through it, but the entries only went back the past couple of days. Not even to Wednesday, the day Mr. Shaw died. Owen shoved it aside and squatted onto his haunches. Two rows of shelves filled the space underneath the counter, and Mr. Roesler had stacked several paperbound ledgers on the sagging wood. Along with tins of Jenkins’ Hair Restorative—he did have a bald spot, come to think of it—and peppermint lozenges for his throat, and a stoppered glass container of Dr. Spencer’s Fragrant Sapoine for the teeth and breath.

  “Huh.” Had to be presentable for the customers, he supposed.

  A shadow passed the store window, and Owen straightened, his heart thumping like the rear leg of a dog scratching at fleas. But it was only an elderly fellow strolling past, admiring the beribboned candy boxes on display before moving on. Pulse returning to normal, Owen grabbed the ledgers. As quickly as possible, he thumbed through the book. How far back should he look? Maybe just to the first of September. A couple of weeks, Mrs. Davies had said. Holding the pages open, he hunted around for a writing utensil and some paper.

  “You shoulda planned better, Cassidy,” he muttered to himself.

  He found a short stack of notepaper and a pencil on the shelf and began to search through the records for Mr. Shaw’s purchases. It didn’t take long. The man seemed to buy candies from Mr. Roesler almost every day. He scribbled the names, scowling at his handwriting—Mrs. Davies was going to be disappointed when she saw how childish it was. At least he didn’t find Miss Mina’s name. He didn’t recognize any of the names, but maybe Mrs. Davies would. He wrote as fast as he could, chewing his bottom lip as he concentrated, hoping she’d find his efforts useful.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Cassidy?” Mr. Roesler’s voice boomed through the store.

  Owen jolted upright, the pencil he’d been holding dropping to the floor. He’d been focusing so hard he hadn’t heard the bell. “You’re back already, sir.”

  “Lucky for me, it appears, that I’d forgotten some paperwork I needed.” His boss stomped across the room. “Are you looking through my ledgers? What are you up to? I knew I never should’ve hired an Irish kid.” His eyes narrowed down into slits. “Are you attempting to steal customer names? Has somebody paid you to poach my customers?” He snatched the logbooks out of Owen’s reach. “Well?”

  The Irish comment had stung. “No, sir. I’d never do that. I was just . . . uh . . .”

  Mr. Roesler pointed at the door with his free hand. “I’m not going to listen to your excuses. You are released from my employ. Leave now.”

  Shoot. Shoot! “Yes, Mr. Roesler. I’m sorry, Mr. Roesler.”

  Head hanging lo
w, he shuffled past him.

  The fellow trailed him to the front of the store. “And don’t be expecting to receive a recommendation from me, Mr. Cassidy.”

  “No, sir.”

  Owen slunk out onto the sidewalk, Mr. Roesler slamming the door behind him. Well, durn it. Another job lost. But not everything had been a bust.

  He looked down at his fist, clenched around the notes he’d made for Mrs. Davies, and let himself grin. He’d succeeded at one thing. He stuffed the papers into his pocket and hurried up the road.

  • • •

  “Althea Wynn was upset yesterday, all right, but she didn’t say much more to Mary Ann Newcomb than she meant to head to Crescent City and never return,” said Nick, leaning against his assistant’s desk. Across the station, the booking officer was idly flipping through his ledger, looking up on occasion to eye them or to react to shouts echoing from the holding cells off to his left.

  “Had to have been frightened about Mr. Shaw’s killer, sir,” said Taylor. “She must have recognized the person, after all.”

  “Wish she’d told us, rather than decide to go on the run. And here, by the way, is the likely answer to how her attacker knew what time she’d be making her escape.” He unfolded the newspaper he’d brought into the main station room and dropped it on Taylor’s desk. He tapped the column labeled Ocean Steamships. “Boats don’t leave San Francisco very often for Crescent City. Only twice a month, according to the ship tables. But there was a steamer heading out this morning.”

  “All they had to know was that she had family there and she meant to leave town,” said Taylor. “Would the Shaws be aware of that?”

  “Platt told me that she and Ambrose Shaw were awfully friendly. Maybe they were acquainted outside of their shared time at the Institute. If Platt’s telling the truth,” said Nick. “I have several questions for the Shaws, aside from whether Mrs. Wynn was an acquaintance. Such as why Leonard Shaw was here this morning and talking to Briggs. Out and about early rather than over at the bank.”

  “Have you asked Mr. Briggs?”

  Nick had to laugh. “He wouldn’t tell me if I threatened violence,” he said. “I also want to hear Shaw’s reason for why he left the Parker House long before the meeting of the San Francisco Club had concluded Wednesday night.”

  “Miss Mina couldn’t have killed Mrs. Wynn this morning. We’re sure about that, at least,” said Taylor. “So who did? Mighty frustrating that Miss DiPaolo is the only one who’s claimed to have heard Mrs. Wynn getting attacked. All the rest are tight-lipped as clams.”

  “They either didn’t witness the woman getting attacked or aren’t willing to admit they did, Taylor,” said Nick. He massaged his old wound, which ached. Hell, it always ached these days. “Anything else for me?”

  “Mullahey got an alibi for Mr. Ross,” said his assistant. “His wife says he didn’t leave for the Hygienic Institute this morning until around eight.”

  “Quick work. Both of you. Good job, Taylor,” said Nick, his assistant beaming over the compliment. “Mrs. Davies favors Blanchard as the perpetrator. A man with a motive to kill Shaw and no alibi for the time of his murder or that of Mrs. Wynn’s this morning. Mrs. Davies stopped in at his house, early, and learned he’d been away.”

  “Maybe he is our killer, sir.”

  Nick shrugged. “Why does it seem our list isn’t narrowing, though, Taylor? Why aren’t we making any progress?” How many more people would have to die before he figured out who was behind the deaths?

  “This doesn’t tell us who the killer is, sir, but Dr. Harris sent a message around saying there was no evidence that . . . um . . .” Taylor cleared his throat. “That Mrs. Wynn was assaulted. If you know what I mean.”

  Taylor’s only weakness was a too-soft heart and stomach. But was sentimentality such a failing? “I do know what you mean.”

  “Also, he wanted us to know that he’s released Mr. Shaw’s body to his family,” he said. “Already been announced there’ll be a funeral tomorrow.”

  “Wonder who’s all going to be in attendance.” Nick straightened and reached into his coat pocket, retrieving Shaw’s watch from where he’d stored it. Carved with intricately intertwined vines that surrounded Shaw’s monogram, it was cold and heavy in his hand. “I’ve been carrying this around all day. Put it someplace safe. When I’m at the Shaws’, I’ll inform them it’s been recovered, but we need it as evidence for a while longer.”

  Taylor examined the watch, depressing the latch holding the lid shut, springing it open. “I don’t get why Mrs. Wynn’s killer didn’t take it, sir.”

  “They either weren’t interested in that watch or were interrupted before they could locate it,” he said. “She’d hidden it inside a deep pocket sewn into her petticoat. Would’ve taken some searching.”

  Taylor closed the watch lid with a click. “Doesn’t seem right, does it, sir? That a widow lady had become a criminal.”

  “No, it doesn’t seem right, Taylor. But life isn’t always fair or pleasant or easy,” said Nick, gloominess stealing over him. He shook it off before the feeling took hold. “While I’m at the Shaws’, I need you to question Platt about where he was this morning. He wasn’t at the Institute like usual, because Ross didn’t need him to come in. He’d accused Mrs. Wynn of stealing Shaw’s watch, so I have to ask if he’d decided to go get it from her.”

  “What do I do if I find Mr. Platt hasn’t got a good explanation for his whereabouts, sir?” asked Taylor, locking the watch and chain in his desk.

  Nick rubbed the ache in his arm. “Arrest him on suspicion of murder, Taylor.”

  • • •

  “Thank you, Mrs. Davies. For everything.” The young woman drew her shawl about her shoulders, wrapping it over her chest and tying the ends at her low back. “I did mean to go to the fellow who offers the electromagnetic cure, but after seeing what happened at the Hygienic Institute with that politician, I’ve decided not to trust any of those types of places.”

  Celia returned the calomel powder to her glass-fronted cabinet of medicines and supplies. “The water cure is generally harmless and may have even helped, in your case.”

  “That’s what doctors want you to believe about what they prescribe, too. But look how many of them have killed their patients,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “Accidentally, of course,” said Celia, defending a group of men she rarely felt inclined to vindicate.

  “Blundering and cocky, is more like it.”

  Yes. Celia escorted the woman to the front door. “Please return tomorrow morning so I might assess if the calomel is effective.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  Celia bid her farewell and returned to her examination room.

  Addie strode in from the kitchen, an enameled-tin basin in her hand, sloshing with sudsy water. “Were you able to help that poor creature?”

  Were they not all poor creatures? The women who came here, most of them impoverished and unable to afford a physician’s fees. Perhaps her patient had been correct about some doctors, their medical degrees conferring arrogance rather than a sincere desire to help each and every patient who came to them. Regrettably, Celia had met physicians whose education had failed to teach them that females were equally worthy of the quality of care provided the typical male.

  “She has nettle rash from eating something that disagreed with her. I advised her to be careful with her diet and gave her a few grains of calomel to take later today, if the rash does not subside on its own. I hope she has the patience to wait it out.” She pushed away from the door. “The woman has six children, Addie. How will she ever find the time to tend to herself properly?”

  Addie clucked her tongue against her teeth and set the basin next to Celia’s examination table. “’Twas ever the same for me mother. Tending to all the wee bairns. Wore her down to skin and bones.”

  Homesickness darkened her housekeeper’s voice. I wish I had the spare money to send her on a journey home to Scotland to see
her family. But she did not. She barely had enough spare money to provide treatments for her patients.

  Celia patted Addie’s forearm; a hug would be more appropriate, but Addie would not allow such an intimate gesture from her.

  “I shall be having an outing with Jane tomorrow, Addie,” she said. “Once I have returned from Mr. Shaw’s burial service. Hopefully I’ve no patient appointments that will require canceling.”

  “I presume you mean to attend the burial to nose about.”

  “I have questions, Addie.”

  “As ever,” she said, fetching a cloth from the glass-fronted cabinet. “Weel, your outing with Mrs. Hutchinson does sound pleasant. I’m glad you’ve decided to tend to yourself for a change.”

  Celia made no response and sat at her desk to jot notes on her patient.

  “You’re not having an outing with Mrs. Hutchinson as a treat, are you, ma’am?” Addie asked, a displeased edge to her voice. “This has to do with Mr. Shaw’s death.”

  Celia shifted to face her housekeeper. “There’s been another murder, Addie.”

  “Am I to feel better now?” she asked. “And might I ask where you and Mrs. Hutchinson are going tomorrow?”

  “To the Hygienic Institute, to make some enquiries,” she replied, feeling rather sheepish. “We shall only be visiting Mr. Ross’s establishment for an hour or so, and I sincerely doubt we shall come to harm.”

  Addie lifted one eyebrow into a perfect brown arc. “And was that not what Mr. Shaw must have thought, too?”

  Chapter 15

  “Please tell me you do not require much of my time, Detective Greaves,” said Delphia Shaw, her eyes remarkably clear, her head high, her skirts billowing across the settee in great ebony waves. All in all, a regal effect. “It is nearly dinner.”

  He’d never before met a widow who had an appetite so soon after their husband’s death. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on the woman. Maybe I should learn to be less cynical.