No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  A barrel-chested man, a white apron tied over his thick waist, looked over from where he stood behind the long bar. “Ja? Can I help?” he asked, his accent heavily German, his smile warm and broad.

  “Yes, you may be able to help me,” she replied. “I am seeking information on a young woman who works here. A Miss Mina Cascarino.”

  “Well, Mrs. Davies, finally here,” said a very familiar voice from a shadowed corner. “Now how about you hand over that key?”

  Chapter 9

  “What were you planning on accomplishing at Bauman’s, Mrs. Davies?” asked Nicholas Greaves, his long strides forcing her to scurry alongside him in order to keep up.

  “Mr. Greaves, is it absolutely necessary for you to dash along the road at this pace?” she asked, cursing the tangle of her petticoats around her ankles. “Consider that, if I fall behind, I am more likely to turn around and go back to the lagerbier saloon.”

  He pulled up short. “You didn’t have to come with me because I asked you to.”

  “Because you told me to,” she rebutted. “And I would not mind hearing the reason you were there, Mr. Greaves.”

  “Do I have to remind you that I am the investigator in a case of murder and that Mina Cascarino is a suspect?” he asked. “And I demand you tell me what you were doing at Bauman’s. I don’t think you were stopping in for a beer.”

  “As if I’ve not been inside establishments like Herr Bauman’s before, Mr. Greaves.” And worse places than his clean and tidy tavern. “I went to inquire about Mina’s possible relationship with Mr. Shaw, though she has denied one. Unfortunately, I got no farther than five feet inside the saloon before I was stopped from my task.”

  “Bauman claims she ignored the fellow, so make of that what you want. However, he also informed me that Mina was distracted and unhappy when she left the saloon yesterday,” he replied. “Upset because of what she intended to do, maybe. She and her accomplice, the one who gave her that concussion.”

  What was it Mina had said last evening? It’s terrible. What has she . . . She slid Mr. Greaves a glance. She should tell him, but he would only believe those words were more evidence that Mina was guilty.

  Maybe, Celia, she is.

  “Despite her distracted state of mind, I truly cannot comprehend why Mina would wish to kill Ambrose Shaw, Mr. Greaves,” said Celia. “Even if she had a motive, I expect she could not have readily subdued the fellow. She is rather petite in stature.”

  “There’s evidence of a struggle, but Shaw was drunk. Maybe he wouldn’t have required much subduing.” They’d attracted the attention of a street sweeper, who’d been creeping closer with his broom the last few seconds. Mr. Greaves scowled at the kid. “We’d better keep walking, ma’am. And while we’re walking you can tell me about the key you found in the pocket of Mina Cascarino’s dress.”

  He held out his hand.

  “You may hold out your hand for hours, Mr. Greaves, but I cannot conjure what I do not possess,” she replied. “A fellow with red hair, who may work at the Hygienic Institute, snatched it away.”

  “Platt. Ross’s evening assistant,” he said, his strides lengthening once more. “Well? Did the key fit the lock? Because I’m sure that’s what you were up to when you ran into Mr. Platt.”

  “It may have done,” she admitted. “Did you find Mina’s shawl at Bauman’s?”

  “No, I didn’t find her shawl at Bauman’s, so the one from the alley is most likely hers,” he said. “Between that and the key, we have to conclude she was there.”

  Gad. Until Mina’s amnesia lifted and she could explain her actions, she appeared to be very guilty.

  “You didn’t happen to also find a watch in her skirt pocket, did you?” he asked.

  “No. A watch, you say?” asked Celia, pausing at the edge of the road. She caught sight of a pair of young girls running across an empty lot, leveled and readied for yet more new construction. They called out to one another, carefree. Seemingly untroubled by the sorts of concerns weighing on Celia’s mind. How fortunate for them.

  “Mrs. Shaw insists that her husband brought his valuable gold watch and fob chain with him to the Institute, but now it’s gone,” he answered, taking hold of Celia’s elbow to hurry her across the cobbled street, his grip tighter than required.

  “I am safely across now, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “You may release my arm.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and charged on at the same pace as earlier. “There have been other thefts at the place, though.”

  Sighing, she hurried to catch him up. “So was Mr. Shaw the victim of a robbery gone horribly wrong?” Committed by whomever had been responsible for the prior thefts. The red-haired fellow, perhaps? Mr. Ross? Someone else?

  “Working on that possibility, ma’am.”

  “In addition, Mina Cascarino is not a thief,” she stated. “Perhaps the theft of the watch and his death are not intimately connected.”

  “Taylor and I are also considering that idea.”

  At least they were agreeing on something. “The witness who observed that intruder outside Mr. Shaw’s room . . . at what time did she observe them?”

  They arrived at Portsmouth Square, the location of City Hall and the central police station, and Mr. Greaves halted on the corner across from the building.

  “Not long after seven thirty,” he said.

  “If Mina left Bauman’s at six thirty, what took her so long to reach the Institute? Presuming she is the interloper your witness noticed,” said Celia. “The distance between the tavern and the Hygienic Institute is a fifteen-minute walk, no more. I cannot imagine Mina arriving there any later than six forty-five.”

  “Simple. She spent an hour someplace else first,” he said. “Meeting her accomplice to review their plot.”

  “You are impossible, Mr. Greaves,” she said, impatience flaring. “I am going to make a proposal and you are going to not scoff. Agreed?”

  “I’d have to first hear your proposal before I agreed, ma’am.”

  She offered a smile that was more of a grimace. “Here is my proposal. Namely, that the same person who gave Mina her concussion also left that key in her pocket,” she said. “Our murderer—who may or may not additionally be a thief—wishing to discard a critical piece of evidence.”

  He stared off into the distance, reflecting on her comment. He had a profile that could break hearts, if hearts were susceptible to a handsome man’s face.

  “What do you want me to say, Mrs. Davies?” he finally asked, gazing at her.

  “That you will consider my proposal a good one.”

  “Deal,” he said, inclining his head.

  “Good. Well, then. Back to our other suspects. What have the Shaws had to say about Ambrose Shaw’s sudden death?” she asked. “Miss Shaw has implied that her stepmother and stepbrother may not be distraught. Further, I might add, she denies ever having heard of Mina Cascarino.”

  “Rebecca Shaw has an alibi, you’ll be pleased to hear. A neighbor spotted her outside her rooms above her gallery around seven thirty,” he said. “As for Leonard and Delphia Shaw, they’ve accused a fellow named Elliot Blanchard. He and Shaw are political enemies with a recent history of brawling at the Bank Exchange saloon. No alibi for where he was last night, either.”

  “How intriguing. Jane shared an interesting tidbit with me concerning Mr. Blanchard and Miss Shaw,” she said. “At one time he intended to marry Rebecca Shaw, but her father managed to sever the engagement.”

  “Blanchard is married now, though,” he said. “He can’t still be holding a grudge about the broken engagement.”

  “Who understands the hearts of men?”

  “Shakespeare, Mrs. Davies?”

  “The Bible, Mr. Greaves,” she replied. “More precisely—‘for what man knoweth the things of a man.’”

  “Or of a woman, Mrs. Davies.”

  Indeed.

  The girls had chased each other along the road and ended up at Portsmouth Square, where th
eir mother waited at the far edge of the park. She bent to tidy their curls. Such gentle affection, and utterly dissimilar from the bitter animosity and pettiness that had surrounded Ambrose Shaw.

  “Did you question Herr Bauman about that box of candy you noticed, Mr. Greaves?” she asked. “If it was a gift to Mina from Mr. Shaw? She says she never received candy from him.”

  “That box from Roesler’s is gone, but Bauman doesn’t think Shaw ever sent her presents,” he replied. “However, he might not be aware.”

  “Roesler’s?” she asked. “What a coincidence. Owen works there.”

  He frowned at her. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Mrs. Davies.”

  “I am merely remarking upon the coincidence that Owen works at the same confectioner’s that Mr. Shaw likes to frequent.” If she could prove Mr. Shaw had never gifted Mina with chocolates from Roesler’s, it would be one less piece of evidence to use against her. She smiled with all the innocence she could muster, which made Mr. Greaves scowl more fiercely. “That is all.”

  • • •

  “The blasted Mrs. Davies found the key to the Institute’s private door in Mina Cascarino’s skirt pocket.” Nick yanked back the chair next to Taylor’s desk and sat. “And I doubt she meant to ever tell us.”

  “Miss Mina is the killer, sir?” He glanced over at the booking officer, standing at his desk. The fellow was cleaning his fingernails with the point of his pocketknife and acting like he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. “She was the person Mrs. Wynn saw.”

  “Mrs. Davies has proposed that the killer stashed it in Mina’s pocket after he—or she—knocked her out.”

  “Oh!” Taylor’s entire face perked. “That could be what happened, don’t you think, sir?”

  “Mina might not have killed Shaw, but we still need to figure out what she was doing outside the Institute around the same time the man was being chloroformed to death.” The door to the detectives’ office was closed. Nick would prefer to have this discussion in there, but the shut door meant Briggs was occupying the room. “Her shawl wasn’t in the back room at Bauman’s, but at least she didn’t have Shaw’s watch on her. If I can trust Mrs. Davies about that.”

  “While you were with Mrs. Davies, sir, I had a chance to talk to the fellow who oversees the rooms at the Parker House. The ones that the San Francisco Club uses.” Taylor fished around in his coat pockets and pulled out his notebook to consult. “He recollects Leonard Shaw attending last night’s meeting, but says he left a lot earlier than the rest of the club members. Right after dinner, in fact, which had finished around seven.”

  “Maybe Ambrose enjoyed a surprise after-hours visit from his not-so-loving son.” Had Mina conspired with Leonard Shaw? The idea was unsettling.

  The alley-side door swung open, and Owen Cassidy hurtled down the steps. “Mr. Greaves! Glad you’re in.” He tipped his cap at Taylor. “I mighta overheard something important just now. About that politician who died. The one all the afternoon newspaper boys are squawking about.”

  Nick sat up straight. “How do you manage, Cassidy?” The kid was just as adept at being in the right place at the right time as Mrs. Davies.

  “I didn’t hear all that much, Mr. Greaves, but I was . . . uh, enjoying a late lunch near the water cure place when I came across this lady talking with a fellow—Mr. Platt, I think his name was—about a watch—”

  “A watch?” interrupted Taylor.

  “Why were you busy listening in on a couple of strangers having a private conversation?” asked Nick. “Wasn’t by chance, I’d bet.”

  “Umm.” The kid stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek and scuffed a toe across the dirty station floor. “Umm . . . uh . . .”

  “Cassidy, spit it out.”

  “Caleb paid me.”

  Well, well, Mr. Griffin. It’s you again. Back to cause more trouble.

  “Dang it, Owen!” shouted Taylor, causing the booking officer to look up from his fingernails.

  “Sorry, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Greaves.”

  “He paid you to do what?” Nick asked the boy.

  “To give Mr. Platt a message that Caleb wants his money.”

  Figures. Absolutely figures. “Go on about the woman and Platt, if you will.”

  “Well, Mr. Platt was asking the lady—her name was Mrs. Wynn—where the watch was, and she said she didn’t have it. Made it sound like he was accusing her of stealing it or somethin’.”

  Nick looked over at Taylor, who cocked an eyebrow but didn’t take his attention off his notebook. “Mrs. Wynn. You’re positive?”

  “I am. That’s what the whiskered gentleman from the water cure place had called her,” said the boy. “She’d come out of the building just a few minutes before I heard her talking with Mr. Platt.”

  “Did you overhear anything else?”

  “She said—which is why I came straight here to tell you before I headed back to work at the confectionary store—that she couldn’t understand why he was accusing her of stealing Mr. Shaw’s watch. That’s the dead fellow, isn’t it?” he asked. “She also demanded that Mr. Platt leave her alone, which made him mad as thunder. Mad as thunder, Mr. Greaves.”

  • • •

  “You were at the police station house?” Mr. Roesler’s eyes goggled at Owen. Just like a beetle’s might, dark and dancing about.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “One of the . . . uh, detectives there is a relative. A cousin. I had a note for him from his . . . aunt. Thought I’d stop in quick. Sorry it took so long, sir.”

  “You have relatives in San Francisco?” he asked. “I thought you were an orphan.”

  Owen hated that word. Plum hated that word.

  “Yes, sir, I do have relatives,” he said. “Don’t care to mention my cousin, though, because of his police duties.”

  Mr. Roesler’s beetle eyes scanned him. “Hmph,” he declared. “Get to work. And don’t expect to be leaving on time today.”

  He stormed into the back room, the heavy blue velvet curtains that separated it from the main room swishing shut behind him.

  Owen exhaled. That was close. He unhooked his apron from its peg on the wall, tied it around his waist, and grabbed one of the cleaning rags. He took to polishing the display case along the wall and let the smells and colors of the confections on display calm him.

  He loved being inside Mr. Roesler’s store. He’d gotten lucky, landing a job here, and a day didn’t go by that he didn’t pause and just stare at it all. When he could get away with pausing and staring, which only was when Mr. Roesler was in back. Owen would gaze at the candies lined up in their glass jars, colorful as snippets of a rainbow captured and put on display for folks to ooh and ahh over. Inhale the aroma of sugar and chocolates—sorta faint, but he could smell it, he was sure—licorice and cinnamon and caramel. Glistening gumdrops and sugar flowers, stuff too pretty to eat, he thought. Displays of fancy nuts and dried fruits, some he’d never before seen and couldn’t name to save his soul. ’Course, he wasn’t supposed to be sellin’ to customers, so it was okay he didn’t know what everything was; he’d been hired to keep the store tidy, the counters clean, the paint on the display benches touched up wherever it got chipped or scuffed, the blue-and-red carpet runner swept, the pans of the brass weighing scale spotless, the window glass sparkling, every jar polished clean of fingerprints. Dazzle them, Cassidy. Dazzle them. That’s what Mr. Roesler said to him every time he arrived for work. His notions got results, because the ladies couldn’t go by the front door of his sliver of a store without stopping and coming inside.

  Yep, it sure was better than when he’d worked at Mr. Hutchinson’s company. Which had been nice enough in the office, all polished wood and comfortable chairs. Except Owen’s job had been to install a brick floor in the cellar, where he’d gone and found a buried dead body . . .

  Best not to think about that.

  Owen started whistling as he rubbed at a spot on the case covering the rows of fancy candies, dreaming of the day h
e could save up enough money to buy himself a pound of chocolate creams. Caleb’s silver dollar would come in handy. Or maybe a pound of the cordial candies. The chime of the bell above the door startled him out of his reverie.

  “Mrs. Davies. What are you doing here?” He gulped. Had she already heard about him working for Caleb?

  “Good afternoon, Owen.” She closed the door and glided into the store. A lot of the time, she did sorta glide. Not when she was hurrying to visit a patient, though, because then she charged ahead faster than any other female he knew.

  Mr. Roesler had heard the bell and parted the closed curtains. “Ma’am, how can I help you?”

  “I have come to speak with Owen. For just a moment,” she said, smiling sweetly. “If you do not mind.”

  Mr. Roesler gaped. “Are you a relative, too, ma’am?”

  “Owen and I are close acquaintances, Mr. Roesler,” she said. “I have some important news that he has been waiting to hear, and, as I was in the vicinity, I thought I would stop in and share it with him. Just a moment. If you do not mind. And I will be happy to make a small purchase of marzipan when we are finished,” she added, which succeeded in pacifying him.

  “Of course,” he said.

  She placed a hand on Owen’s back and propelled him toward the door. “Outside, Owen.”

  “You’ve got news about my parents, ma’am?” His voice squeaked because he was so excited. “This ain’t . . . isn’t about Caleb?”

  He scoured the street for any sign of Caleb. Just in case he was hiding someplace nearby, like behind that stack of crates over there, or in the doorway of the liquor store down that way. Knowing Caleb, he could be.

  “Caleb? You mean Mr. Griffin?” she asked, moving to stand with her back to the store window. “Why would you presume I was here to talk about him?”