No Pity For the Dead Read online

  Namely Frank Hutchinson and Abram Russell. Burke’s was one of the drinking establishments Jane had mentioned to Mr. Greaves as a favorite haunt.

  “Burke doesn’t like us talkin’ about the customers, ma’am,” said Katie, looking uncomfortable. “We had one of the police captains in the other night, all liquored up. Burke made all the girls swear we wouldn’t breathe a word about it.”

  “I would not ask if it were not important.” Celia tapped Katie’s right leg, and she held it aloft again. “My question is about a Mr. Frank Hutchinson and a Mr. Abram Russell. Do you know them?”

  “Not sure I know Mr. Russell, but I do know Mr. Hutchinson,” she said, her cheeks pinking.

  “And?” Celia asked, holding the end of a flannel strip against the sole of Katie’s foot and proceeding to wrap the bandage up and around her ankle.

  “He likes to drink. Play cards. That’s about it.”

  Drinking. Jane had to know. Perhaps Frank’s carousing was why she had taken to using soporifics; if she was asleep when he returned home, she would not have to witness his inebriation. Celia hoped at least that he’d hidden his habit from Grace; no girl needed to realize that the father she adored had faults.

  “By any chance, was he in the saloon last evening?” Celia asked.

  “I didn’t work last night. Because of my injury,” said Katie, watching Celia’s hands as she worked on her ankle. “So I can’t say for sure. But he stops in some Tuesdays and sometimes Thursdays, too.”

  Her response did not leave Celia any nearer to knowing for certain where either Frank or Mr. Russell was last night.

  “What about a man named Virgil Nash—does he frequent Burke’s as well?” Celia asked, tearing the end of the flannel strip in half lengthwise in order to form a tie around the bandage.

  “He does, but I haven’t seen him in a while,” said Katie, reaching for her stocking. Her fingers worked it into folds so she could slip it back over her leg. Stocking in place, she retied her embroidered garter and smoothed her skirt flat. “He’s a good customer, he is. Likes to flash his money around, though. Not that any of us girls minds that, since some of that money lands in our pockets.”

  “Does he come in alone or with friends?” asked Celia, considering who else might be an associate of Mr. Nash’s and worth adding to the list of suspects.

  “The only friend he ever brings with him to Burke’s is a woman. And I don’t think she’s Mrs. Nash, if you know what I mean,” she said, winking.

  “No friends, then?”

  “None that I’ve noticed, besides the ones who flatter him in order to get a free whiskey out of him,” said Katie, climbing down from the bench and gingerly stepping on her right foot, testing her ankle. “He sure didn’t care for Mr. Hutchinson. Nearly came to blows one evening.”

  Gad. Not another fight. “Did you overhear what they were arguing about?”

  “Some business deal gone bad. Mr. Nash was cursing like the dickens at Mr. Hutchinson. Burke had to kick the both of ’em out that night before somebody sent for the cops.”

  “When was this?”

  “It’s been a while. A month or more,” Katie answered. “Surprised I haven’t seen him since. Maybe he doesn’t want to run into Mr. Hutchinson again.”

  “Mr. Nash hasn’t been scared off, Katie,” said Celia quietly. “It appears very possible that he has been murdered.”

  “Mercy sakes alive!” Katie exclaimed, her mouth dropping open.

  * * *

  “Whooee,” said Taylor, whistling over the Nashes’ house—a mansion by most folks’ standards—that dominated the neighborhood of Second Street and Harrison.

  “Pretty fine, isn’t it?” said Nick.

  The building was three stories high, with tall columns propping up the roof of the porch that wrapped around the street-facing sides, and surrounded by gardens crowded with those roses, thick blooms of crimson and peach and yellow, that Mrs. Davies so admired. Who filled up all the house’s rooms, Nick wondered, when as far as he knew the Nashes didn’t have children? It would feel empty and lonely to him, all that echoing space.

  “And the view ain’t half-bad, either, sir.” Taylor squinted in the sunlight, looking across the rooftops below the hill, down to the masts of ships at dock in the bay, Goat Island in the distance, church towers and smokestacks poking above the houses rolling over the hills to the north and west. The giant brick tower of Selby’s lead pipe and shot works down on First and Howard was a bit of an eyesore, disturbing the view across the city.

  An eyesore that would be nothing compared to the Second Street cut when it happened, though.

  “Let’s go see what Mrs. Nash has to say,” said Nick.

  He pushed open the gate and strolled up to the front steps. A Mexican laborer, trimming bushes, looked over at him and Taylor without much interest.

  The knocker was wrapped in black cloth, so Nick pounded on the door with his fist instead, which prompted someone inside to run across the entry hall and fling open the door.

  “The missus isn’t seeing anybody,” said the maid sternly.

  Taylor showed his badge. “This here’s Detective Greaves. Come to talk to Mrs. Nash about her husband’s death.”

  The maid’s hand remained firmly on the door handle. Nick had to admire her for adhering to her employer’s orders.

  “I think she’ll want to see us,” he said, and pressed a hand to the door, which she released.

  “Come into the front parlor,” the maid said, pointing to a room off to their right before rushing off to find Mrs. Nash.

  The room was flooded with light from the massive windows. It reflected off the burnished wood floor and marble-topped tables, and it sparkled in the cut-glass lamp shades. Cut roses scented the air. A portrait hanging above the fireplace was covered by a length of black fabric. If Nick lifted a corner, he might find Virgil Nash staring back.

  Taylor eyed the amber-colored velvet upholstering of the settee and armchairs arranged around the room. “Don’t think I can sit on anything this nice.”

  “Then keep standing, Taylor,” said Nick.

  They didn’t have long to wait before Mrs. Nash swept into the room, her full ebony skirts swaying. She was younger than he’d been expecting—in her mid-thirties, if he had to make an estimate—and handsome.

  “Mrs. Nash,” he said, removing his hat. “I am Detective Greaves, and this is my assistant, Mr. Taylor. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

  Her gaze was clear, her eyes dry. Nick supposed that meant she hadn’t been too shocked by the discovery of her husband’s body. Like Briggs had said, she must never have believed the story that her husband had run off with an actress from the Metropolitan.

  She settled onto a chair with a rustle of bombazine, the fabric releasing the scent of magnolia water. “I want Virgil’s killer found,” she said, her voice modulated by a good education. “You can be certain I’d want to see you.”

  Nick took a chair opposite while Taylor picked a spot out of her line of sight between a pair of potted ferns and another armchair. He dug out his notebook and pencil from the pocket he kept them in and waited.

  “First of all, you have my condolences, ma’am,” Nick offered, as he’d done too many times to count to too many other family members.

  “Poor Virgil. Dumped in a cellar, treated with no more respect than a dog.” She drew a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve where she’d tucked it and held it to her mouth. “Where is the pity, I ask you? Where?”

  “In my experience, ma’am, pity’s a rather scarce commodity.”

  Alice Nash squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. “Virgil deserved better.”

  Most folks deserved better. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about the day your husband disappeared.”

  She inclined her head, letting him know he could proce
ed.

  “Detective Briggs told me that your husband received a message that morning that had supposedly come from Jasper Martin,” said Nick. “Who brought it, and why did you think it had come from Martin? Did Mr. Nash share the contents of the message with you?”

  “A boy—I don’t know his name—brought it. Virgil didn’t share the contents, other than to tell me that he’d been summoned by Mr. Martin to his office downtown.” She emphasized “summoned” in a tone of disdain.

  “Mr. Martin denies sending that note.”

  Mrs. Nash returned Nick’s stare. “I’m not one to trust his word.”

  “Why did your husband agree to the meeting?” asked Nick. Taylor’s pencil scratched noisily.

  “Virgil thought Jasper had finally changed his mind about his plans for the Second Street cut.”

  “I gather your husband had been attempting to stop those plans before they started.”

  “And failing,” said Mrs. Nash, occupied with folding her handkerchief into sequentially smaller squares. “Jasper Martin and his partners have been working to convince the city planner to go ahead with the improvement, as they like to call it. A contract they would quickly pursue, since Mr. Martin owns land down near the Pacific Mail Company wharf at the foot of Second Street.”

  Exactly what Mrs. Hutchinson had told him. “And the easier access given by a flat road meant that land would become more valuable,” said Nick.

  “Absolutely, Detective,” she concurred. “However, Virgil knew he had little chance of stopping the grading of the road. Jasper Martin has friends on the city planning commission.”

  No kidding. He took meals with the mayor, too.

  “So you believe your husband nonetheless wanted to meet with Martin, hoping he’d changed his mind about the plans,” said Nick. “Seems rather optimistic, given what you’ve just said.”

  “I said as much at the time.” Mrs. Nash shifted slightly in the chair, and the sunlight coming through the window at Nick’s back reflected in her eyes. He noticed they were pale, but not the clear gray-blue of Celia Davies’ eyes. He preferred Mrs. Davies’; their light color made her gaze and the thoughts behind them more transparent. “I told him not to go, but Virgil thought it was worth a try.”

  “On the day he disappeared, what did Mr. Nash do between the time he received that note in the morning and when he left to meet with its author?”

  Mrs. Nash proceeded to unfold her handkerchief. “We had lunch together in the garden. Then Virgil left for an afternoon appointment with Mr. Strauss.”

  “Mr. Levi Strauss?” asked Taylor. “He’s got that big new dry goods place on Battery, right?”

  “Yes, that’s who I mean,” she replied.

  “Did your husband head straight to Martin’s office after his visit with Mr. Strauss?” Nick asked.

  “I do not believe so. He sent me a note saying he intended to stay downtown to attend to some business, so I was not to wait supper and he would return after his eight o’clock meeting with Mr. Martin. Although I suppose he’d actually gone to see that woman,” she added under her breath.

  Everything so far agreed with Briggs’ account, including the bit about Nash’s meeting his mistress.

  “He’d still be alive if he hadn’t gone to Mr. Martin’s office, wouldn’t he?” She lifted the handkerchief to her mouth again, and Nick was surprised to see tears in her eyes. He’d begun to think her as cold as a wagon tire. “One of these men killed my husband in order to get him out of the way, didn’t they? You must bring them to justice, Detective Greaves. You must. They’re murderers.”

  Nick wasn’t going to argue her point. Matthews had claimed Martin wanted Nash dead. Frank and Russell might want that, too. “Would anybody else profit from your husband’s death, Mrs. Nash?”

  “Who else would possibly want to kill Virgil?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nick. “That’s why I’m asking.”

  Mrs. Nash glanced over at Taylor, who was keeping a poker face, then back at Nick. “Are you afraid of the men of Martin and Company? Afraid to accuse them? Is that why you’re asking a question like that?”

  “I’m trying to pursue all the possibilities, ma’am,” he said. Which was what Uncle Asa would’ve advised. Always keep an open mind. “So if you’d kindly answer my question, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No one,” she answered, staring him in the eyes to make certain he believed her. He wasn’t sure he did. “The only men who stand to gain from Virgil’s death,” she continued, “are Jasper Martin, Frank Hutchinson, and Abram Russell.”

  If she suspected anybody else, he wasn’t prying it out of her. She had an ax to grind with the partners, and so did he.

  “Your husband was a very wealthy man,” said Nick. “He didn’t make all that money from his import business. Maybe there’s somebody in his past who’s caught up to him. I’ve been told about disputes during the time he was in Nevada. Maybe he upset some miners there who might have been looking for revenge.”

  “He and his brother, Silas, had a lucky strike in the Comstock Lode. Any allegations he’d cheated other miners is an absolute lie,” Alice Nash said fiercely. “So there’s nobody from his past ‘looking for revenge,’ Detective. He is an honorable man.” She caught the error in her statement, and her chin wobbled. “Or rather, he was an honorable man.”

  “Are you his sole beneficiary? Or would his brother inherit?”

  Alice Nash turned an unattractive color. “Silas Nash was murdered years ago in Virginia City by a lunatic who fled the country,” she said. “Silas was denied justice, Detective, but there had better be justice for Virgil. There simply must be.”

  “Any other beneficiaries, ma’am?” Nick asked, steering her back to what he wanted to know.

  “I am the sole beneficiary. There are no children. But if you think I’d kill my husband—”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  She stood as quickly as heavy bombazine and a stiff corset permitted. “Are we finished, Detective Greaves?”

  Taylor hastily stowed his pencil and notebook, but Nick took his time getting to his feet. “Sure, ma’am. But I might come back to ask more questions. If you don’t mind,” he threw in.

  “If they are more questions like that, you can be certain I mind. Good day to you both.” With a huff, she spun on the heels of her expensive shoes and marched out of the room.

  * * *

  “Look what I found on the front porch, Addie,” said Owen, strolling into the kitchen later that day. He held out a bouquet of daisies, a paper tag hanging from the twine tied around the stems. He squinted at the tag. “Says they’re for you.”

  Celia, who had been reviewing the household accounts in the warmth of the room, glanced at Addie. The housekeeper blushed furiously over the vegetables she was chopping.

  “Och, what nonsense are you blathering now, Owen Cassidy?” She snatched the flowers from him and read the tag herself. “No name again.”

  “Again?” asked Celia. “Have you received flowers before?”

  Addie, who developed a sudden case of deafness, fetched a glass vase for the daisies and ignored Celia’s question.

  Owen chuckled. He plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs arranged around the oak table where Addie prepared meals. “I presume your being here means you have been released from employment,” said Celia.

  He grabbed the last pieces of shortbread sitting on a plate. “Wasn’t at work five minutes before Mr. Kelly marched me out the front door.”

  “I will speak to Mr. Hutchinson,” said Celia. “Hopefully I can convince him to give you another chance and tell Mr. Kelly to take you back.”

  “Thanks, ma’am,” Owen mumbled, his mouth full of biscuits. Addie, the flowers properly arranged and finding a home on the windowsill, took the empty plate over to the wet sink. Owen mournfully watched its departure.


  He swallowed. “Got any more of those, Addie?”

  “You’ve eaten the lot of them, Owen Cassidy. Do you think we’re made of sweets here?” Addie asked.

  “Nope, but a body can dream, can’t he?”

  “Whisht. Get on with you.”

  Celia stacked the notices and bills into a neat pile and considered the boy. “Since you were forced to leave so quickly, I gather you did not have an opportunity to overhear what the other workers are saying about the murder.”

  “Nothing more than nobody seemed to be staggered that Dan got in trouble,” said Owen. “This ain’t . . . isn’t gonna be good for Dan, though. He needs money to pay off some fella. That’s why we were digging in the cellar to begin with. Said he was gonna finally pay off his debt to some mean old cuss when we found that treasure. Only there weren’t any treasure, was there?”

  “No, Owen,” said Celia. “Who told Dan about Mr. Martin having gold buried in the cellar? Do you know?”

  “Rob Bartlett, I think, ma’am,” said Owen.

  “Rob Bartlett.” The person Maryanne had mentioned as being “trouble.”

  “Och, ma’am,” said Addie, wiping her hands on the edge of her apron. “I canna say I like where this is going. You investigating and all again.”

  “Please do not worry, Addie.”

  “‘Do not worry’? I canna help but worry when it seems you’ve forgotten what happened last time,” Addie responded, grabbing the sack of potatoes waiting nearby along with an empty tin bowl. “If you need me, I’ll be on the back porch peeling potatoes and thinking about what I did wrong to merit such a quantity of worries. Maybe I’ll see my astrologer about this unchancy event. She’ll ken what troubles lie ahead for you, ma’am. And as they say, a man forewarned is forearmed.”

  With that, Addie stormed outside, the back door slamming behind her.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Owen.