Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Riot nodded to the newcomer. “You’ll have to excuse my agent. Some cases require rough edges.”

  The newcomer took in Riot’s easy charm, scholarly spectacles, trim beard, and tailored suit. The muscles of his jaw unclenched, and the young man relaxed. “I can imagine. Is this the Ravenwood Agency?”

  The letters on the windows apparently weren’t convincing enough.

  “It is. I’m Atticus Riot. Won’t you come inside, Mr…?”

  “Lewis J. Fletcher.”

  “These are…” Riot paused. Matthew and Mack had scattered. “My colleagues, Miss Amsel and Mr. Tim.” Tim continued to lean against the bar and Isobel didn’t glance up. “Forgive the mess. We’ve recently moved our offices and haven’t had time to renovate.”

  “I don’t need a wood worker. I need a detective,” Lewis said.

  Riot smoothly nudged the grimy spittoon under a nearby table with his boot, and took a seat, gesturing for Lewis to do the same. “How can I help you?”

  Lewis’s green eyes flicked to the woman behind the bar. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Miss Amsel. To both of you.”

  Riot glanced over his shoulder, not surprised, but amused. Feeling eyes on her, Isobel stopped and glanced his way. She cocked her head in question, and he tilted his towards Mr. Fletcher.

  “It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Mr. Fletcher said.

  Isobel ran a cool, appraising gaze over the man. “Riot is far more delicate than I, but please go on.”

  “It’s only that I read about you in the newspapers, Miss Amsel. That you found those missing boys in Napa. And I thought…” Lewis cut off. He cleared his throat gruffly.

  “What has happened, Mr. Fletcher?” Riot asked.

  “My younger sister. Ella. She’s gone missing.”

  6

  Darkness

  Missing. There was a darkness in that single word. Atticus Riot was familiar with that darkness. He had found what lay at the end of it too many times.

  “How old is Ella?” It was a hard question. A beginning to a difficult path—the first step of responsibility.

  “Fifteen.”

  Sensing Riot’s shift in mood, Isobel abandoned her newspapers and pulled a chair over to the pair. Tim took out his notebook.

  “My mother recently divorced our stepfather.” There was distaste in Lewis’s tone. “Times have been hard. Ella occasionally finds work minding children, but mother has been pressing her to find something more permanent.”

  Lewis reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded bit of newspaper, along with a letter. “This advertisement was in the morning paper on Friday.”

  Isobel leaned closer to Riot, and he held the slip at an angle so they could both read it.

  WANTED—A young white girl to take charge of a child and do light housekeeping. Apply at Box 1520.

  “Mother urged Ella to answer it, so she wrote a response,” Lewis continued. “On Saturday, she received a reply.” Lewis handed over the letter.

  Isobel took the envelope and studied the front with an intensity that Riot could feel as a physical thing.

  Elouise Spencer, 1747 Fulton Street. The return address was to John Bennett, Box 1520. San Francisco postmark. Isobel put the envelope to her nose, and inhaled.

  Lewis’s dark brows shot up in alarm.

  “Cologne,” Isobel said under her breath. She took out the slip of paper, noting how it was folded, and passed the envelope to Riot, who waved it under his own nose. He couldn’t place the cologne.

  The message was written in the same hand as the address:

  If this letter does not reach you in time to call at the Popular Restaurant, 55 Geary Street, at 1 o’clock, call at 6 p.m. Ask at the restaurant for Mr. Bennett.

  —JOHN BENNETT

  Good spelling. Educated. Common paper. The kind bought at any general store. From the smooth ink lines, he’d wager it was written at a writing desk. But the lines were thick, and the slant severely to the right. Confident. Eager. Excited.

  Riot nodded for Lewis to continue. “The letter was delivered too late for her to make the one o’clock appointment, so according to my mother, Ella set off shortly after five o’clock. I came home from work after six o’clock. I was in a hurry, and set to attend a meeting. Mother was ill, and the telephone rang. It was Ella. She told me about the advertisement, and that she had met Mr. Bennett and was at his house. His family, she said, were nice people, and they wanted her work straight away. She’d be paid twenty dollars a month. I asked her where the house was and she said 1500 Geary Street.

  “I left her on hold to relay the message to our mother. Mother wanted her to come home immediately, and I agreed. I told Ella and she said she’d come home. Then she hung up.” Lewis smoothed his black mustache and closed his eyes briefly. “It was the last I heard from her. She never came home.”

  The last was a whisper. That creeping darkness had a hold of Lewis, and Riot well knew that it would never let him go. Two nights missing. Where was Ella? The imagination could be a cruel tormentor, but the rub, the true horror, was that generally imagination failed to live up to the truth. Truth was far more brutal.

  “Why did Ella leave so early?” Isobel asked suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your mother said Ella left at five o’clock. It can’t take more than twenty minutes by cable car to get to the Popular. She could have started later and still had plenty of time to make the appointment. What was she doing for forty minutes?”

  “I don’t know.” Lewis hesitated. “Maybe she didn’t want to be late?”

  “You said you came home from work after six. Do you remember the precise time of the telephone call?” Isobel asked.

  Lewis thought a moment. “Six-fifteen. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you sure it was her?” Isobel asked.

  “I…” Lewis glanced at Riot, his brows knitting together with puzzlement. It was a slight expression, a mere twitch in an otherwise stoic face. “Yes, I’m sure it was my sister. Though…”

  “Yes?” Isobel pressed.

  “She sounded afraid. Or nervous. I’m not sure.”

  Isobel sat back, satisfied for now.

  “What time did the call end?” Riot asked.

  “It lasted maybe ten minutes at most. I was running late, you see. So without further thought on the matter, I ran out the door.”

  “To the the Board of Relief meeting at the Masonic Temple,” Isobel stated.

  Lewis started in surprise. “How did you know?”

  Riot glanced at Isobel, who looked supremely pleased with herself. She caught Riot’s eye and sobered. To the unobservant, Isobel’s deduction was mystical, but Riot could follow the path of logic she had taken. Lewis sported a small Masonic square and compass pin on his left lapel. And it would only take someone who regularly read the newspapers to know that the Masonic Temple had a Board of Relief meeting on Saturday night at seven o’clock.

  As impressive as it was, voicing her deduction interfered with Riot’s observation of the young man—the telltale signs of a lie: nervousness, unease, fear. Surprise erased all of those. This would take some getting used to, Riot realized. He and Isobel had not worked as partners on an official case before. They had been more akin to rivals. And that was nearly a year ago.

  Riot took a mental step back, giving Isobel the reins.

  Isobel gestured to Lewis’s lapel pin. “It was obvious.”

  Lewis glanced down at the pin, and nodded. “I see. Yes, I was set to attend the meeting.”

  “Had Ella answered other advertisements your mother showed her?” Riot asked.

  “Yes, I think so. But they never panned out.”

  “What happened when you returned?” she asked.

  “I arrived home at eleven o’clock and discovered my mother in a state of panic, which isn’t uncommon. But Ella being out so late was. While she could be absentminded about time, she was never overly late. I immediately set out to 1500 Geary Street only to
discover it was an empty lot.”

  Riot adjusted his spectacles.

  “I began knocking on doors. No one knew of a family by the name of Bennett on the street. Frantic, I went to the Popular Restaurant, but it was already closed. I hoped she’d be home, so I returned, but she wasn’t.” Lewis paled. “I thought she had perhaps disobeyed orders to come home and taken the job on the spot. But when we didn’t hear from her on Sunday morning, I went to the restaurant. The staff said there was a man by the name of Bennett, who had come at both one o’clock and five o’clock, but he ate alone and no one saw Ella. Mother said she was wearing her golf cap and red capelet. It’s hard to miss.”

  Riot rubbed a hand over his beard, glancing at the letter. “Have you reported this to the police?”

  Lewis leaned forward. “Surely you see how this looks?” he asked in earnest.

  Riot waited, watching the young man. He could feel Isobel vibrating with questions next to him. He discreetly touched her elbow. Wait, he silently urged, but it was too much for her.

  “You think your sister ran away,” she stated.

  Lewis sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Could she have gotten the address wrong? You said she was absentminded.”

  “She wouldn’t get an entire street wrong. And besides that, she had money for groceries. This man Bennett—the staff said she never even met him at the restaurant. I think she made up a phony address and took off with a friend of hers.”

  “A friend?” Riot asked.

  “Madge Ryan,” Lewis said with a twist of lips. “She’s a troubled girl. Wild and spirited. She ran from home some months ago.”

  Riot leaned back and crossed his legs. Suddenly the darkness wasn’t so ominous. Then why was he still worried?

  “My mother is frantic. She wants me to report it to the police, but if I involve the police, then the papers will find out about it. I worry about Ella’s reputation. I came to your agency so you could find Ella. Discreetly. And bring her back.”

  “Why would Ella run away?” Isobel asked.

  Lewis straightened his cuffs. “To escape her responsibilities and younger half brothers? I really don’t have the faintest idea. But she’s always been prone to wild imaginings. A few months ago she was set on becoming an actress, of all things.”

  “Did she pack a bag?” Isobel pressed.

  “No, not that mother and I know of, but as I said she had the money for groceries.”

  Riot glanced at Isobel. She met his eyes. The gray in hers glistened like steel. She didn’t like what she heard any more than he did.

  Riot turned back to the young man. “Mr. Fletcher, before we accept your case we have one condition.”

  “I’ll find a way to pay whatever fees you require,” Lewis said. It was clear by his suit that he was not a wealthy man, but he tried to be presentable.

  Riot gave a slight shake of his head. “Payment is a secondary concern. I’m worried for your sister. You need to report this to the police. At once.”

  “But she’s only run off,” Lewis insisted.

  “And if you’re wrong?” Riot’s question hung there, bloated with suggestion and creeping danger. Isobel did not break that silence—it was near to a tangible thing.

  Finally, Lewis slumped in his chair. “Yes. I’ll go straightaway.”

  When Lewis Fletcher finished giving them a description of his sister, he left for the police station. Riot nodded to Tim. Words didn’t need to be spoken. The pair had been down this road before.

  “I’ll get my people on it,” Tim said, and left with the usual spring in his step. He had an impressive network of informants that spanned the west coast.

  “Every time I ran away, I packed a bag,” Isobel said as she studied Lewis’s business card. Lewis J. Fletcher, Junior Clerk. Ford and Co., Real Estate

  “It’s certainly suggestive,” Riot said.

  Isobel slipped the card in a pocket, and reached for her hat. “I’m surprised you asked for police involvement at all. Won’t they muddy the waters?”

  Before Riot could answer, a woman came prowling down the stairs into the main room. He would not have recognized her but for the wild look in her eyes and the rat sitting on her shoulder. Miss Lucky Off was halfway presentable. Aside from an obvious bath, her gray hair was free and wild, but it was straight, and she wore an array of colorful scarves over blouse and skirt. Riot thought she wasn’t much older than himself—maybe by ten years—but an unforgiving life had etched deep lines in her face.

  The woman flew at the bar with intent. She began muttering to herself as she snatched up Isobel’s newspapers.

  “Don’t touch those,” Isobel snapped.

  Miss Off did not listen.

  Isobel abandoned her hat, and darted across the room to snatch the papers from the woman’s arms.

  “You’ve made a mess,” Miss Off snarled. “I work my fingers to the bone to keep this dump presentable and you and your lot go and make a mess of it.”

  “I need those papers left exactly as they are,” Isobel said through clenched teeth. “Who are you?”

  Riot cleared his throat. “This is Miss Lucky Off. Miss Off, this is Miss Isobel Amsel.”

  “Oh, so you’re the shaney’s fancy mistress?” Miss Off snickered.

  “She’s my wife,” he corrected.

  Isobel looked to Riot. “Why is she here?”

  Riot tapped a finger on his walking stick. Faced with Isobel’s sharp eyes, Riot considered blaming the hire on Tim for a moment. But it was a long, tempting moment. “I hired her as housekeeper for the agency.”

  “That he did. And I’m doing a fine job.” Miss Off again made a lunge for the newspapers, but Isobel slid the entire stack down the bar and out of arm’s reach.

  Isobel drew herself up to her full five feet of height. “Leave my newspapers alone.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” Miss Off shot back.

  Isobel arched a brow. “I can’t vouch for the safety of your rat.”

  Miss Off shrank back, holding a hand up over her pet, trying to shield his pink little ears from threat.

  The telephone rang. Miss Off flicked it an irritated glance. She gave Isobel a crude gesture, then stalked over to the device.

  “Ahoy!” she screamed down the line.

  Riot winced.

  Isobel picked up a brick from behind the bar and set it on her stack of newspapers.

  “You could always bring them along if you’re that worried,” he offered, as he returned her hat and opened the door for her.

  Isobel stopped, and tapped her lips twice. “Now that you mention it, isn’t a husband supposed to carry things for his wife?”

  Riot firmly shut the door behind them. “What’s caught your interest in the articles?”

  Isobel turned serious. “I’m not sure yet.”

  He cocked his head.

  “I mean, I do know… I just…” Color rose to her cheeks. “It may be nothing,” she admitted.

  “When something catches your eye it’s generally something.” He gave the brim of his hat a smart tweak.

  “Your ego hardly needs bolstering, Riot.”

  “Monty would agree with you. By the way, I am sorry about him.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Don’t be. I’m used to his type. Besides, he’s a good agent.”

  “Maybe so,” Riot admitted. “But I wonder if he’s worth it.”

  “Did you hire him, or Tim?”

  “Ravenwood did.”

  She raised her brows. “Interesting choice.”

  “Some might say that about me. Believe it or not, Monty worked well with Ravenwood. He respected him.”

  “And brothers rarely get along,” Isobel mused.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Ravenwood was like a father to you, Riot. Perhaps he was to Monty as well—but you were the favorite. Small wonder Monty doesn’t listen to you.”

  Riot frowned in thought. She had a point.

  “Speaking of
hiring. Well chosen with Miss Off.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips.

  “I admit Miss Off needs some work. But don’t we all? She has improved.”

  “Lucky Off?”

  “The name she gave me was far too crude.”

  The edge of Isobel’s lip twitched upwards.

  “Shall we find this wayward girl?” he asked.

  “I sincerely hope we do. Where to first?”

  Riot stared down at her, bemused. “Aren’t you going to take the lead?”

  “I’m captain on the Pagan Lady. While this…” she gestured at the street. “…is your domain. And your agency. I don’t mind being your first mate on land.”

  “Love hath made thee a tame snake,” Riot quoted the poet.

  Isobel’s eyes narrowed. “A tame snake can still bite,” she warned. “Anyhow, I’m sure we’re of like mind on this.”

  “Are we?” he wondered.

  “I know precisely where I want to start. Do you?”

  “I do.”

  “Right, then. We’ll set off on three.”

  Riot gave a slight nod, and Isobel began the brief count. On three, they walked their separate ways.

  7

  The Popular

  The Popular Restaurant lived up to its name. A harried waitress was navigating the crowd with a grace that Isobel admired. With her brown hair in a neat bun, a starched apron, and a pencil tucked behind her ear, she balanced an overloaded tray in one hand and easily lifted it over the heads of diners.

  “I’ll be right with you,” she said. “Grab a table if you see one.”

  Their prospects didn’t look promising.

  Riot leaned close to speak in Isobel’s ear. “I hadn’t accounted for the lunch crowd,” he said loudly over the din. They were just blocks away from the financial district and on a main street; the place was packed with suits and newspapers.

  “You’re just thinking with your stomach, Watson.” But she well knew that wasn’t the case. Riot was a tracker. He preferred to start at the beginning of a trail and widen his search, while Isobel preferred to anticipate, and jump ahead.