And, ta-da, we had.
“I am Mrs. Davies and this is Mrs. Hutchinson,” said Celia. “I must say, your facility is more impressive than I had heard.”
To their right, a parlor, supplied with a healthy quantity of tables and overstuffed chairs, opened off the vestibule. The parlor also possesses a clear view of the entry hall and main staircase. Which made it difficult for Miss Shaw to have climbed those steps without being noticed. Unless the parlor had been empty or she’d found another way to get to her father’s room. Or she’d not needed to sneak upstairs, because someone else had supplied her with his key.
On their left and further along was the door to the dining room, the end of a long table just visible. At the end, the hallway from which Mr. Ross had emerged cut a right angle, the muffled clink of crockery indicating the location of the kitchen. The building’s central staircase rose straight ahead, its brightly patterned carpet worn but clean, the wood banister polished, the air scented by the fading flowers of a large bouquet. A Frederick Butman landscape of a majestic mountain towering above a pristine lake graced the wall.
“Very comfortable,” Celia added.
He was not paying attention. Instead, he’d been eyeing her over the rim of his spectacles. “Haven’t I seen you someplace recently, Mrs. Davies?”
A hasty glance took in Celia’s unconventional attire. Thank goodness she’d exchanged her dark blue dress for her brown skirt and Garibaldi; he’d have been more likely to remember her from the cemetery, standing alongside the police detective investigating Mr. Shaw’s murder, if she’d not. The less Mr. Ross knew about her connection to the case, the better her chances of examining the premises without interference.
“I do not believe we have ever met, Mr. Ross,” she said, feigning bewilderment. “Unless you recently attended a charity function hosted by the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Perhaps you have seen my doppelgänger, then. I have heard so much about your establishment,” she said, moving to a safer topic. “And my friend here is eager to partake of its offerings.”
“I was not intending to open the Institute today.” His pleasant demeanor slipped. “We’ve suffered some dreadful news lately.”
“The crowds outside are distressing,” Celia tutted sympathetically.
“They’re back again?” He shot a look at the closed front door before turning back to her. “Are you here to discover if what the newspapers are saying is true? That my establishment is a danger to the citizens of San Francisco?”
Jane was quick to comment. “No, certainly not, Mr. Ross. We don’t believe what they’re saying at all.”
“You are one of the few, Mrs. Hutchinson,” he said, his affable manner restored. “So, how might I assist you two ladies?”
“Do you have electrothermal baths? I’ve heard about those,” said Jane.
“Yes, we do, in addition to our cold- and hot-water bathing therapies,” he replied. “I am shorthanded, but I could summon my day-nurse, should you desire an invigorating Swedish movement treatment. I assure you that your muscles and body will feel refreshed and reinvigorated afterward. We also offer a course of medical gymnastics, or perhaps a lengthy wrap in cold bandages.”
“On a chilly day like today, a cold-water treatment sounds freezing,” said Jane, appearing startled by the concept of being encased in bandages like an Egyptian mummy. “Just a hot-water bath, I think, Mr. Ross.”
“And what about you, Mrs. Davies?”
“My dear young friend, Miss Campbell, has informed me that the vegetarian diet you offer here is first-class,” she said. “Miss Campbell was here to receive treatment for her paralytic arm, which pains her so. You may recall her.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Miss Campbell . . . I might recollect her. Paralytic pains, you say? No doubt she made use of one of our many treatments designed for attending to such conditions.”
Frustratingly, his reply did not reveal if Libby Campbell had actually ever been a patient there.
“No doubt she did,” said Celia. “Is it too late for a light meal, Mr. Ross? I have heard nothing but praise for your food, and that is what I’ve come for. I do realize it is past the lunch hour, and your cook may not be available, however . . .”
“Mary Ann is here today. She’s been taking advantage of this . . . this slow period to engage in a most thorough cleaning of the kitchen,” said Mr. Ross. “She would be more than happy to provide a light meal, Mrs. Davies.”
“How fortunate, Celia,” said Jane.
“Indeed,” said Celia. “I will be happy to wait in the parlor. I see there are books and magazines available.”
“Only the most improving of reading materials.” He extended his arm toward the staircase descending behind him. “Mrs. Hutchinson, if you would follow me to our treatment rooms on the lower floor. I’ll have Mary Ann come and assist, so you’ve no need to worry. Everything is done with the greatest decorum and privacy.”
A multitalented cook, apparently.
Jane handed off her reticule, bonnet, and shawl to Celia and accompanied him. In case he looked back, Celia strolled into the parlor as though she meant to read his “improving materials.” He called for Mary Ann, his voice echoing off the hard stone floor, and another set of footsteps scurried to join those of Mr. Ross and Jane.
Celia deposited Jane’s belongings, along with her own items, onto the nearest chair. Returning to the entry hall, she searched for a visitors’ logbook. But the gate-legged table it probably had occupied stood empty against the wall. Had Mr. Greaves or Mr. Taylor taken it? Blast. Without the book and its entries, she still lacked proof that Miss Campbell had been a patient.
“Now what, then?”
Time to research alternative ways to arrive at Mr. Shaw’s first-floor suite. She did not have to worry about Mr. Platt interrupting her investigation this time. She tiptoed up the staircase, alert to a telltale creak of the treads that might bring the cook or Mr. Ross running. The treads remained silent, though, and she arrived at the first floor without drawing attention to herself. A small private dining parlor, its table and chairs covered by a holland dustcloth, was located to the left of the stairwell. The closed doors of guest rooms stretched ahead, the air in the hallway stuffy. At the far end was a door—the private entrance, no doubt—where Mrs. Wynn had detected an intruder.
The room assigned to Mr. Shaw was marked with a small plaque labeled Blue Suite. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked, as were the others. It was dreadfully dark in the hallway, the only light the meager amount the stairwell windows provided. Without guests, Mr. Ross had no need to set alight the gas fixtures suspended high upon the walls. The knob of the door leading onto the private staircase turned easily in her hand, however. The stairwell windows, opening onto the alleyway Celia had snuck down to test that key, were far smaller and gave even less light than the main stairwell’s.
She descended the steps. At the bottom was the door that probably led onto the alley. Opposite it, another door stood partly open. She peered around the edge. Beyond was a hallway leading to the kitchen, passing other service rooms on its way. The exterior door was private, so long as one had a key to open it with. Otherwise, there appeared no other ready means to gain access to the side stairwell.
Celia retreated upstairs again, back into the first-floor hallway. She stared at Mr. Shaw’s secured room. The only way an outsider could arrive at this spot was by climbing the main staircase or by utilizing the private entrance, which required that bloody key. The one the killer had planted on Mina, unconscious in the alley, after they’d finished incapacitating Mr. Shaw with chloroform. Killing him, a man with a weak heart . . .
“Who’d had difficulty sleeping,” Celia murmured aloud.
Rebecca Shaw had told her as much, that first day at the studio. A comment she would not have made if she’d planned to murder her father that same night. What better remedy for poor sleep than an application of anesthetic, t
hough? Despite Mr. Ross’s assertion to the police that he did not use the substance, perhaps he’d purchased some for the needs of his wealthy client, who’d also been allowed to indulge his fondness for alcohol. Perhaps he’d dosed Mr. Shaw with a chemical that had not proved helpful but deadly.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
The voice startled her. It belonged to a pleasant-looking young woman, an apron tied over her checked drab dress. “Ma’am?”
Celia’s cheeks heated. “I do apologize for being overly inquisitive, but I have heard so much about the Institute’s accommodations that I simply had to see them for myself.”
“None of the rooms are open,” she said. “You must be the lady hoping to have a meal.”
“I am.”
“I’m the cook. My name’s Mary Ann,” she said. “Do you want to eat in the dining room or the small parlor?”
“The dining room would be fine,” said Celia, joining her at the head of the stairs. “This is indeed a very fine establishment.”
“If it survives,” said Mary Ann, descending the steps.
“Oh, I do hope it shall,” said Celia. “My friend Miss Campbell has nothing but praise about the time she spent here. Do you recall her? She has a paralytic arm that causes her much pain, but such a winning manner.”
“I do remember her, but it’s been months since she was a patient of ours. Sweet young thing. I did feel sorry for her.”
So Libby had been a resident, which she’d denied. But who was Celia’s main suspect now?
“Miss Campbell feels terrible about forgetting to return the key she had been provided,” she said.
“Oh? She can just bring it back whenever.” Mary Ann rounded the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and indicated the dining room. “You can wait in there, ma’am, but it’ll be another twenty minutes or so before I have your food ready, since I have to help Mr. Ross downstairs with your friend.”
“Not a problem in the least.”
“A nice leek soup and simple dressed salad is what I’ll be preparing.”
“Sounds delicious. Thank you,” said Celia, turning into the dining room. It was surprisingly large and outfitted with a sizable walnut table and shield-back chairs. A marble-top sideboard held silver-plated serving dishes, which gleamed in the midday sunshine. Mr. Ross had spared no expense. “I hope Miss Campbell has the opportunity to return. Her good friend, Miss DiPaolo—do you know her, also?—is gathering the funds necessary to pay for another treatment.”
“Don’t think we’ve had a Miss DiPaolo here, ma’am. That’s kind of her, though.”
Ah.
“I was surprised to hear from Mr. Ross that this establishment once made use of chloroform liniments to treat the sort of condition Miss Campbell suffers from,” she said, slanting the cook a sideways glance to observe her reaction to Celia’s lie. “I am pleased, though, that he has now converted to the truth of the purity of the water treatment.”
Mary Ann looked shocked. No, more than shocked. Horrified. “He admitted to having used chloroform?”
Look how many of them have killed their patients . . . A prescient comment by Celia’s patient, the one with the nettle rash. A comment I should have more closely heeded.
“Should he not have done, Miss Newcomb?” she asked.
“I’m just . . . I need to get to the kitchen, ma’am, and get your meal prepared. So if you’ll excuse me,” she said, rushing from the room.
• • •
“I’m sorry about Mina, Detective.” Head down, Giulia DiPaolo perched on the chair in front of Nick’s desk. She stared at the floor, maybe noticing how filthy it was. Maybe spotting an ant or two. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
Nick shut the door to the detectives’ office and went to sit across from her. “Well, you did.”
She clutched a plain cotton handkerchief in her lap, squeezed it nervously. “I was scared and not thinking straight.”
He settled onto his chair. Taylor hadn’t returned to the station with Miss Campbell; hopefully he would soon, because Nick needed him to take notes.
“Scared because you’d just killed a man,” he said.
“But I didn’t kill anyone!” She leaned forward, stretching her hand toward him. “You’ve got to believe me, Detective. Mr. Shaw was already dead.”
He retrieved the advertisement for the Hygienic Institute and spread it flat on his desk. “I found this in your room, Miss DiPaolo, along with a paper used to wrap candies. A gift from Leonard Shaw?”
“Yes,” she replied, sitting back again.
“What about the box that was delivered to Bauman’s this week?”
She frowned. “Those were from Ambrose. A bit of a bad joke to get under my skin.”
And just how much did they irritate you? “Did you and Leonard work together to get rid of his father, Miss DiPaolo? Ambrose had to have opposed your relationship. Stood in the way of getting married.”
“We did not work together to kill Mr. Shaw,” she said. “I went to the Institute to find a document Ambrose had shown to Leo.”
“A document,” said Nick, resting his elbows on the chair arms and tenting his fingers.
“It supposedly proved I couldn’t marry Leo because I’d been in a common-law marriage,” she explained. “With a man down in Los Angeles. I’d told Leo about the fellow, but—”
“But not that you and this man had been married.”
“It was a lie!” she insisted. “I’d lived with him—I was desperately poor, then—but we’d never pretended to be a married couple. It wasn’t like that at all.”
Funny how folks might believe otherwise, when a man and a woman shared a home.
Knuckles rapped on the door and it opened, Taylor slipping inside the room. He shook his head. “Couldn’t locate her, sir. Want me to . . .” He tapped his coat pocket where he usually stored his notebook.
“Yes, Taylor.” Nick waited for his assistant to get prepared before continuing with the woman across from him. “Did Leonard believe you, Miss DiPaolo? About the common-law marriage never happening.”
She chewed her bottom lip. Nope, he hadn’t believed her.
“Leo said he couldn’t marry me, not with that sort of report out there,” she said, her voice not as forceful as it had been. “So I thought I’d take care of matters myself.”
“By killing Ambrose Shaw and stealing the incriminating document,” said Nick. “It wasn’t in his room at the Institute, Miss DiPaolo. One of my men would’ve found it, if it had been.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” she repeated. “And I don’t know why you didn’t find that paper. It should have been in that room, because I didn’t take it.”
Nick tapped his fingertips together. “How did you get inside the Institute?”
“Libby gave me a key.”
“Olivia Campbell, you mean,” he said. “You met her through Rebecca Shaw.”
“I did. At her studio during one of her portrait sessions. Rebecca is an amazing woman.” Her eyes gleamed with respect. “I find her so inspiring.”
“And how did Miss Campbell come by that key?”
“From Rebecca,” she said. “She got ahold of it somehow.”
You were right, Mrs. Davies, about these women.
“They are both so awfully clever, and desperately wanted to help me, once I told them about that document.” Miss DiPaolo flashed a smile. Brief and out of place, given the gravity of her situation. “Libby had once been a patient at the Institute and knew its routine, when dinner was served and Mr. Shaw wouldn’t be in his room. Told me how to find the private door and get to his suite without anybody noticing. Our plan was going to work beautifully. I’d grab that piece of paper, and Leo and I would be free to wed.”
“You’d grab that document when dinner was being served . . . seven thirty?” he asked.
“No, I was at Bauman’s before then,” she said. “I arrived at the Institute around quarter ’til seven.”
“That’s a pretty preci
se recollection, Miss DiPaolo,” he said.
“I’m sure of the time because there’s a bank on the corner with a big clock,” she replied. “It was chiming forty-five minutes after the hour when I hurried past it.”
Bauman had told him she’d shown up for work by seven. “However, you brought chloroform along to knock out Mr. Shaw in case things didn’t go as smoothly as Libby Campbell claimed it should,” said Nick. “Were you surprised when the substance caused his heart to fail?”
“I didn’t bring any chloroform with me. Why would I? Mr. Shaw was supposed to be out of his suite, having dinner.” She shuddered. “God, it was awful. The room smelled of coal gas, and he was so unnaturally white . . .”
Nick studied her. Out in the main room, the booking officer clanged his keys against the holding cells door, the harsh sound making Giulia DiPaolo wince. “What happened after you—supposedly—found Mr. Shaw deceased and fled his room?”
“I was sobbing, so frightened I could hardly see, stumbled back down the steps and out the side door,” she said, gathering her strength. “I ran into Mina in the alley. She’d followed me, I think. She must have overheard me telling Leo I meant to get ahold of that document. He tried to stop me, Detective. He said Libby’s and my plan wouldn’t work.”
Nick questioned if there ever had been a document reporting her common-law marriage. Maybe Leonard Shaw had made up the story about his father showing it to him, looking for an excuse to break off his relationship with a tavern girl after an argument with his parents.
“You went ahead anyway,” he said. “And Mina Cascarino came to the wrong conclusion about your intentions.”
“She misunderstood what I meant to do,” she said. “She was worried about me. That was stupid. Mina shouldn’t bother to worry about someone like me.”
Taylor scribbled furiously, snapping the tip of his pencil. Nick tossed him a replacement so he could continue.
“Mina Cascarino tends to care about the wrong people.” People like Giulia DiPaolo. People like him. “So you ran out and saw her . . .”
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