No Darkness as like Death Page 20

  Nick dragged his hat off his head. “Depends on how quickly I get my questions answered, ma’am.”

  “What are your questions, Detective?”

  “We’ve recovered your husband’s watch and fob chain,” he replied.

  “Not a question, but I am happy to hear you have,” she said. “I want to give the watch to Leonard, to pass on to his children when the time comes.”

  “If Mr. Shaw’s will doesn’t direct otherwise,” he observed.

  “Obviously I would never go against my husband’s wishes. Dearest Ambrose.”

  Her gaze swept the room, packed with flowers, white lilies and roses mostly, their aroma dense and overpowering. Vases, crosses, wreaths, and crescents festooned with ribbons covered tabletops, perched atop stands, filled corners. Outpourings of fondness and respect, he supposed. Or the necessary show from folks eager to stay on the good side of the man who would inherit the business from his father. Who, despite the hour, was still at his office. Mourning for Ambrose Shaw was not speeding his youngest son home from the bank. Maybe he didn’t want to face all the flowers.

  “I’ll send one of the officers over with the watch and chain when we no longer need it as evidence, ma’am,” said Nick.

  “I presume the person who stole them is also responsible for my husband’s death.”

  “We haven’t worked out the details yet,” he said. “Unfortunately, we won’t get any assistance from the person whose body we found them on.”

  “Body?”

  “The person who’d taken Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain was found dead early this morning, ma’am.”

  “I see,” she said, her tone flat, not bothering to feel sympathy for a criminal. Not many folks did. Even if they had been a widow woman. “Do I know this person, by any chance?”

  “You might. Mrs. Althea Wynn.”

  “My goodness,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “We’d heard that she and your husband were friends.”

  “I wouldn’t ever refer to them as friends, Detective,” she replied, sounding appalled at the suggestion that a woman of Mrs. Wynn’s station might be friends with a man of Shaw’s. “They were acquaintances. He’d met her at a fundraising event. In fact, it was Mrs. Wynn who’d initially recommended the Hygienic Institute to Ambrose. He always had been swayed by females he found . . .”

  “Attractive?” Mrs. Wynn had been a good-looking woman.

  Her mouth puckered, Nick’s observation as sour to her as sucking on a lemon. “Did she murder my husband, Detective? Or was she in collusion with Mr. Blanchard?”

  Between Delphia Shaw and Celia Davies, he didn’t know which of them was more certain of the man’s guilt. “As I’ve said, ma’am, our investigation is ongoing.”

  “Elliot Blanchard was stalking Ambrose, assaulting him in public, openly adversarial . . . has he an alibi?” she asked. “He had reasons to wish my husband out of the way. What else do you need?”

  “Speaking of reasons, Mrs. Shaw, why didn’t you inform me that Mr. Blanchard and your stepdaughter had once been engaged to marry?”

  “An episode Ambrose and I . . . the entire family wished to forget, Detective Greaves,” she replied, disdain clear on her face. “I suppose he still resents us. Even though he married that woman.”

  That woman. “You disapproved of Miss Shaw’s relationship with him.”

  “The man’s actions verify that we were right to disapprove,” she said. “I always suspected Mr. Blanchard had pursued Rebecca solely to irritate Ambrose, and I was proven correct.”

  From behind one of the floral arrangements came the muted chime of a mantel clock, the sound drawing her attention. She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a hastily retrieved handkerchief. There hadn’t been many flowers at Nick’s father’s funeral, just a handful of small bouquets from family. Maybe Abraham Greaves hadn’t been as admired as Ambrose Shaw. Maybe nobody had reason to curry favor with Nick or his sister Ellie.

  The chiming stopped, and she turned back to Nick. “I trust you’ve concluded your questions, Mr. Greaves. I am quite drained of energy from my husband’s unexpected passing and would like to rest before my evening meal.”

  “Just a few more items, ma’am,” he said. “Your son was in the police station this morning. Do you know why?”

  “Leonard doesn’t have to inform me of every single one of his activities, Detective Greaves. I trust him. I must trust him, now that he will take over my husband’s share of responsibility for the bank,” she said. “Undoubtedly he was complaining to another of the officers about the lack of progress in obtaining justice for my husband.”

  Stay calm, Nick. Don’t react. “What time did he leave the house this morning?”

  She paused, not much longer than required to inhale and exhale. Perhaps connecting his question to the news that Mrs. Wynn had been found dead earlier that day.

  “Before I arose. However, I don’t know the precise hour,” she replied.

  “I thought you kept your watch next to your bed.”

  “I was too weary to check the time.”

  A predictable response. He’d have to ask the maid on his way out. “And you weren’t away from home this morning, I suppose, Mrs. Shaw?”

  A tick of annoyance tightened the skin around her eyes. “I am grieving my husband, Detective. Not out socializing.”

  “Certainly.” He returned his hat to his head. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. I’ll make sure you get your husband’s watch as soon as possible.”

  She slowly rose to her feet. “One of the servants will be waiting to show you out.”

  Not to help him find the front door, but because Delphia Shaw wanted to make sure he used it.

  The parlor doors slid open the instant he reached them. Proving that the female servant, who wore what looked to be a newly purchased black-print dress—even the staff was expected to be in mourning—had been lingering on the other side.

  She led him to the front entrance. Nick paused on the threshold, the air outside downright fresh after the choking heaviness of a roomful of flowers.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” he said to the maid. “Do you know when Mr. Shaw left the house this morning?”

  She pinched her lips tight and shot a glance over her shoulder, back in the direction of the parlor.

  “It’s okay,” said Nick. “Mrs. Shaw won’t mind you speaking with me.”

  “If you’re sure.” She had an accent that reminded him of a lieutenant he’d known during the war, who’d been from someplace back East; he regretted thinking of the man right then. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he assured her, even if he doubted it would be fine. “Do you know when he left?”

  “Before sunrise. Early for Mr. Leonard, but things haven’t been the same around the house since Mr. Shaw died.”

  “How so?”

  “Just . . . different. Unsettled. Especially with Mr. Leonard,” she answered. “I guess that’s normal after one of the family has died, although I’ve never been in a situation exactly like this before.”

  Wasn’t every day a servant’s employer got murdered. “Did Mr. Shaw return to the house this morning?” Looking, let’s say, dirty from having smashed Mrs. Wynn’s skull then dragging her dead body behind a shed?

  “No, sir. He must’ve gone straight to the bank after having breakfast.”

  Before sunrise? What restaurant in town was open then? The same one that Elliot Blanchard had dashed off to? And why hadn’t Leonard Shaw stopped at the house afterward like he had yesterday?

  “Likely so,” said Nick. “One final question for you. Have you ever heard any of the Shaws mention a young woman named Mina Cascarino? Not that you’d be eavesdropping on their conversations, of course.”

  She glanced toward the parlor again and leaned in close so she could whisper and be heard. “There’s been arguments at supper about some young lady that Mr. Leonard’s been associating with, but I haven’
t heard her name,” she said. “Don’t tell them I said so. They’d dismiss me for certain.”

  His stomach tightened around the information. Not Mina and Ambrose Shaw, but Mina and Leonard Shaw. “I won’t tell them where I heard. I promise you.”

  “Is that all, sir?” she asked hopefully. “I need to polish the silver.”

  “Yes, that’s all. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Very helpful.

  • • •

  Leave us alone.

  Seated on the porch rocking chair, the wind spilling over the summit of Russian Hill cool if dust-laden, Celia reread the note she’d been left. The three words were no more revelatory this afternoon, though, than they had been last night. What group of people am I to be avoiding? Leaving alone?

  With a sigh, Celia returned the note to her pocket just as the planks of the Cascarinos’ porch creaked under someone’s weight. Barbara, after completing her lessons with Miss Campbell, had gone to visit Mina and was descending the steps. Out in the road, a pair of girls were playing graces before they were called in to eat dinner, tossing the narrow hoop to each other and trying to catch it with their sticks. Barbara glanced in their direction, girls who’d never invite her to play even if she were nearer their age, and set her jaw. One slanted looks at Barbara as she walked, her gait stiffening as she fought her limp. It was rare for anyone on this street to speak aloud what they must think when they noticed Celia’s cousin. The weight of their opinions, though, was always palpable.

  “How is Mina?” she asked when Barbara reached the porch.

  “Better, but not much.”

  She gestured at Barbara to take the seat adjacent to the rocking chair, but her cousin declined. “Her amnesia has not improved?”

  “I didn’t probe, Cousin Celia,” she replied. “I don’t want to be an investigator. That’s your interest, not mine.”

  “I apologize for asking, Barbara,” she said. “I should not be involving you in these matters.”

  Her cousin shrugged. “It’s okay. Sorry I snapped at you.”

  Barbara glanced at the girls, who’d collected the hoop, which one had flung too far down the road, and were whispering together. Celia wished she had the words to ease her cousin’s heartache. But her words more often magnified Barbara’s unhappiness than lessened it.

  Barbara pulled her attention off the girls. “Actually, Mina now remembers going to the Hygienic Institute on Wednesday night.”

  Celia sat up, tipping the rocking chair forward on its runners. “She does? Did she explain why she went?”

  “She thinks she’d gone there because she was worried about someone or something,” said Barbara. “That’s all.”

  “Worried . . . not angry or vengeful.”

  “No. The word she used was ‘worried.’”

  Worried about Mr. Shaw . . . or what she herself intended to do? “Thank you, Barbara,” said Celia. “Now that you’ve returned home, please let Addie know that she can set out dinner.”

  “Has Owen been invited?” She leaned over for a better view of the corner where Vallejo intersected with Kearny. “Because that looks like him coming up the street.”

  Celia stood. “He is invited now.”

  Barbara returned Owen’s wave and went inside the house.

  “Hullo, Mrs. Davies,” he said, bounding up the stairs.

  “You have the list of names from Roesler’s.”

  He grinned and pulled a very crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket. “Yep!”

  “Come inside. Let us peruse this at the dinner table.”

  He happily followed her into the house, pausing first to scrape muck from his boots before continuing on to the dining room. “Miss Mina’s name isn’t on it. Mr. Shaw did send some to ‘all the ladies at Bauman’s,’” he quoted, “but not to Miss Mina in particular.”

  The box of candy Mr. Greaves noticed had to have been that one. “Thank goodness she’d never received any.”

  She took a chair and Owen chose another. He plucked his ragged wool cap from his head, his tawny hair crushed from its snug fit, and hooked it on the chair back.

  “Addie, set a place for Owen,” she called. “He is joining us for dinner.”

  Celia spread Owen’s notes on the tablecloth, flattening out the creases. “I hope you did not get into trouble collecting these names for me,” she said as she scanned the paper. She looked up when he did not reply. His head sagged and his freckles had disappeared into the wash of color spreading over his cheeks. “Owen?”

  “I, um, got dismissed. Mr. Roesler caught me,” he said. “But it’s okay, ma’am, honest it is! I’ll find another job.”

  “Oh, Owen. I was afraid that might happen.”

  “’Tis glad I am to see you, laddie.” Addie collected a set of dishes from the sideboard and placed them in front of Owen. “Though you look like you need a good meal.”

  “Nobody cooks like you do, Addie.”

  Addie winked at him and bustled off, the sound of utensils against pans soon echoing from the kitchen.

  “What shall we do about your predicament, Owen?” asked Celia.

  “Like I said, I’ll find another job.”

  “How about I inform Mr. Roesler you were only reading through his customer logbooks as a favor to me and the police,” she said. “I shall even ask Mr. Greaves to speak with him and explain that the information you obtained may bring a killer to justice.”

  Although Mr. Roesler might rightly ask why the police department had not come directly to him to get the list of names, rather than employ a shop boy to dig around in his books.

  “Will it?” asked Owen. “Will it bring a killer to justice, ma’am?”

  He looked so eager and innocent. She reached out to straighten the tuft of hair that always stood up above his forelock. But he shied from her touch; he was not a child any longer.

  “Your information has, at least, aided Mina’s cause,” she answered. “Now to the others on this list.”

  There were over a dozen names, some male, mostly female, addressed to the recipients at restaurants and boardinghouses and saloons, many saloons in addition to Bauman’s. In the beginning of September, Mr. Shaw had sent a small box of candied fruits to Mrs. Wynn. How intriguing to see her listed. The remainder of the names were unfamiliar. Except for one.

  “Oh, my.”

  “What is it, ma’am?” asked Owen, craning his neck to see. “Is it somebody you know?”

  “Yes.” What would her cousin make of the name Owen had recorded? What do I make of it? “The familiar name belongs to Barbara’s new tutor. Miss Olivia Campbell.”

  • • •

  “I can explain,” said Libby Campbell.

  Full of bravado, she stared back at Celia, only the feathers trimming her bonnet trembling revealingly. Before they had even touched dinner, Celia had sent Owen to fetch the young woman here. She’d been prompt in arriving.

  “Please do explain, Miss Campbell,” said Celia, taking the chair opposite the parlor settee occupied by the young woman. “You may begin by telling us how you know Mr. Shaw.”

  “You’re going to tell my cousin that it’s all a ridiculous mistake, aren’t you, Libby?” asked Barbara, seated in the chair near the parlor piano. “That box of candy sent to you. You never received it, right?”

  Miss Campbell’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t respond to Barbara’s question.

  “Go on, Miss Campbell,” prodded Celia.

  “I met Mr. Shaw when I was out walking with Mrs. Blanchard one day. At the City Gardens,” she said softly. “He was extremely friendly, even though I could tell Mrs. Blanchard didn’t like him. She was curt, tried to walk on, but he wouldn’t let her. Let us. I think she mistrusted his overtures.”

  “Given the political rivalry between her husband and Mr. Shaw, she had every reason to mistrust his actions,” said Celia.

  “He asked my name—I don’t know why—and I told him. I couldn’t be impolite and refuse. The request seemed harmless,
at the time.” She cradled her weak arm, hugging it to her waist. A protective response. But what was it she was protecting herself against? “Maybe he thought sending me that box of candies would be amusing. Maybe he thought I’d tell Mr. or Mrs. Blanchard about receiving them and they’d be angry. Upsetting them would’ve pleased Mr. Shaw, I suspect. According to Mr. Blanchard, he was a cruel man. Petty and vindictive.”

  “Did you ever tell your employer about the gift?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. “And I never responded to Mr. Shaw. But I did eat the chocolates. They were really good.”

  “You shouldn’t have, Libby,” stated Barbara, anger flaring. “You should’ve sent him a note demanding he leave you alone and thrown them away.”

  Libby shrank into the settee cushions, taken aback by Barbara’s criticism.

  “Barbara, I believe Miss Campbell handled the situation appropriately, given the circumstances,” said Celia.

  Her cousin frowned. “Would you have calmly accepted a gift from some pushy man? A man getting enjoyment out of pestering women who didn’t want his attention?”

  “No, I would not have done. But in my position, I risk little by rejecting their advances,” she responded. “Pushy men tend to punish those who openly rebuke them, Barbara. Miss Campbell cannot afford to have her life destroyed by a man who may have happily done so. The world is not always fair to women. As well you know.”

  Barbara opened her mouth to continue her argument, but subsided. “I’m sorry, Libby. I shouldn’t have criticized you.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “I should have told you, Mrs. Davies, that I’d met Mr. Shaw. But I was embarrassed about it and didn’t think my knowing him mattered. Does it? I mean, have you changed your mind about having me tutor your cousin?”

  “Not at all,” Celia assured her. “I am satisfied with your account.”

  She relaxed. “Thank you, because I enjoy teaching her.”

  Earlier that day, Barbara would have smiled at Miss Campbell’s remark. Instead, she sulked, disappointed that someone she’d quickly become attached to, someone she had come to admire, had proven to possess flaws. Celia let her gaze drift to her uncle’s ever-smiling portrait. You left your daughter at too young an age, Uncle. She needs more love and attention than I’ve been able to provide.