“Sometimes we don’t know how deeply hurt someone is,” Sarah said. “Especially boys. We don’t allow them to show their true feelings the way girls do. They just keep it inside until they can’t bear it anymore.”
But Alberta couldn’t believe it. “Family arguments can be painful, but to kill someone . . . that requires a kind of deep hatred I don’t think either of us can understand, Sarah.”
Sarah sighed. How could she make Alberta see? How could she prepare her for the horrible news she would hear when Malloy was finished with Tad? She was still frantically trying to figure it out when Alberta spoke.
“It’s odd, but the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that the only person who hated Allen Snowberger enough to kill him was Father—and the only person who hated Father enough to kill him was Allen Snowberger.”
“ WHAT MADE YOU SO SURE SNOWBERGER KILLED YOUR father?” Frank asked Tad.
“I told you, because of Lilly. They’d been having an affair, and he wanted her for himself.”
“Is that why you killed him? Because of Lilly?”
Tad looked away as the color crawled up his face. “I figured you’d think that, but I told you, I didn’t intend to kill him. I wanted to confront him and tell him I knew he’d killed Father and tried to make it look like Creighton’s anarchists did it. I wanted to see his face because I had to be certain, but then I was going to tell you. I wanted to see him arrested and charged with murder. I wanted him shamed so Lilly would never want to hear his name again.” He looked up at Frank, his eyes bright with certainty. “Then she’d come to me.”
His theory made a certain kind of sense, but Frank knew it didn’t quite fit the facts. First of all and no matter what Tad might think, Frank was fairly certain Snowberger didn’t really want Lilly, not before Van Dyke’s death or after. He might’ve been willing to sample Lilly’s favors again, but according to Sarah’s description, when she’d informed him they were getting married yesterday, he’d literally fled the house. This was not the reaction of a man who had killed to possess her.
And then there was the brandy bottle.
“What’s this, Tad?” Frank asked casually, picking up the elaborately decorated bottle from the table where he’d set it earlier.
Tad grinned blearily. “The best brandy in the world, I’d guess.”
“Where did it come from?”
“France, I think,” he replied. “Look at the label.”
Frank smiled. “No, I mean where did you get it?”
“From my father’s room,” he said without hesitation. “He didn’t like to drink that much himself, you know. He just begrudged anybody else the really good stuff. He’d buy cheap liquor for his guests and keep the best for himself.”
“Is this the kind of brandy your father bought to give Mr. Snowberger?”
Tad frowned. “Why would he give Snowberger a bottle of brandy? Especially one so expensive? He hated him.”
Frank looked at the bottle again. Now it all made sense.
SARAH HAD BEEN LISTENING FOR FOOTSTEPS ON THE stairs, and when she heard some, she slipped out of the back parlor, leaving Alberta rereading Reed’s letter. Malloy was coming down, his expression grim, and for some reason he was carrying a very fancy liquor bottle. He hesitated a moment when he saw her, but only to make sure she was alone. When he saw she was, he came down the rest of the stairs. He looked very tired.
“Did he confess?” she asked him in a whisper when he was close enough.
He indicated they should go into the front parlor, and she led the way. He closed the door behind them.
Sarah waited, clutching her hands together tightly.
“He confessed to killing Snowberger,” he said.
Sarah flinched. Even though she’d already been certain, hearing the bald truth of it brought the pain of how this would affect the rest of his family. “Does Creighton know yet?”
“I sent him in to let Tad tell him,” he said.
Sarah couldn’t blame him for that. She should probably send Alberta up as well so she wouldn’t have to break the news. Then she realized what Malloy hadn’t said. “Did he confess to killing his father as well?”
“No,” Malloy said, “and I don’t think he did.”
“But I thought . . .” She gestured helplessly.
“That he killed them both over Lilly?” he guessed with a sad smile. “No, that would’ve been too simple. He didn’t even intend to kill Snowberger. That was an accident.”
“Hanging him was an accident?” she asked incredulously.
“He thought Snowberger was already dead, and he didn’t want to be charged with murder, so he tried to make it look like suicide. You were right, he underestimated the police.”
“If he didn’t intend to kill Snowberger, why did he go to see him?”
“He was convinced Snowberger had killed his father so he could have Lilly. He wanted to confront him and get him to confess. Then he was going to turn him over to me, or at least that’s what he claims. It’s a good story, at least.”
“Do you believe it?” she asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then who killed Van Dyke?” she asked with a new sense of dread. “Please don’t tell me you still think Lewis Reed did it!”
He sighed. “I did until I found this in Tad’s room.” He held up the liquor bottle.
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
“Remember Van Dyke was supposed to be taking a bottle of expensive brandy to work to give to Snowberger on the day he died?”
“Yes, you thought he was putting it in the liquor cabinet when he found the bomb and accidentally set it off.”
“I think this is the bottle and that he never took it out of this house, but I need to talk to Van Dyke’s valet first.”
“Why? What does he—?”
“I won’t know until I talk to him.”
Sarah didn’t understand, but she said, “I’ll ring for the maid. She can fetch him.”
She pulled the bell cord, and almost immediately, a maid appeared. The servants would surely know something awful was happening and would be lurking close by in hopes of overhearing something.
“I need to see Quentin,” Malloy told the girl.
She nodded nervously and disappeared again.
“If Van Dyke told everyone he had a gift for Snowberger that day, why didn’t he actually take it with him?” Sarah asked when the girl was gone.
Malloy shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. It’s just an idea I have,” he said, which explained nothing.
“Will it mean Lewis Reed is innocent?” she asked.
“If I’m right,” he replied, but he didn’t seem too certain.
They waited in silence for a few more minutes before someone knocked on the parlor door, and Quentin came in.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked uneasily, closing the door behind him, but keeping his back to it, as if he wanted to be able to escape quickly.
“Have you ever seen this before?” he asked, holding up the bottle.
The valet’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s the brandy Mr. Van Dyke bought for Mr. Snowberger.”
“Did he only buy one bottle?” Malloy asked.
“Yes, sir, just the one. He wasn’t fond of brandy himself, and he’d gotten it to please Mr. Snowberger especially.” He was still puzzled.
“I thought you said he took it to work with him the day he died,” Malloy said.
“He did . . . That is, I thought he did. He made a point of telling me he was going to, at least.”
“Did you see him take it with him?”
“Yes, I . . .” Quentin considered for a moment. “I saw him with the box that it had come in. I thought . . . Well, I assumed the bottle was inside.”
Sarah still didn’t understand what all this meant. She watched Malloy set the bottle down on the nearest table, as if it were no longer important.
“Quentin, you said Mr. Van Dyke owned a lot of guns, and t
hat he filled his own cartridges.” This seemed like an odd change of subject, and Quentin apparently thought so, too. He blinked in surprise, but he didn’t falter.
“Yes, he . . . he enjoyed working with his hands. He liked to stay busy.”
“What kinds of things did he do?”
Quentin shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing in particular. He just tinkered down in his workshop.”
“Workshop? Where is it?”
“In the basement.”
Malloy stiffened slightly, and Sarah could see this was important information. “Mrs. Van Dyke said he was making her a gift for their anniversary,” Malloy said.
“Yes, he was,” Quentin confirmed now that he’d reminded him. “He’d never attempted anything like that before, and he was very excited about it. He’d been working down there for weeks. He called it his special surprise.”
“Oh, no!” Sarah cried out as the truth suddenly became crystal clear.
Malloy and Quentin both looked at her. Quentin had no idea what he’d just told them, but Malloy did. She could see it in his eyes.
He turned back to the valet. “Quentin, can you take me down to Mr. Van Dyke’s workshop?”
If the request surprised him, he was too well trained to show it. “It’s locked, I’m afraid.”
“Doesn’t someone have a key?”
“No, Mr. Van Dyke was the only one who . . . Oh, wait, I think it was among his effects. I picked them up at the morgue the other day. I’ll get it.”
Malloy and Sarah waited until he was gone, and then Sarah said, “You think he was building a bomb, and that he was going to kill Snowberger with it.”
“It’s the only thing that really makes sense,” he said. “He was used to working with gunpowder and clever enough to find out how to make a bomb. He and Snowberger had been trying to best each other for years, and Snowberger had finally succeeded in humiliating him in the only way he couldn’t avenge.”
“Except by killing him,” Sarah said.
“But he’d have to do it in a way that wouldn’t bring suspicion on himself,” Malloy pointed out.
“Was he trying to implicate Creighton by making it look like anarchists were responsible?” she asked in horror.
“We’ll never know for sure, but he did leave everything to Creighton in his will, so he must’ve expected his son to be around to manage his business. Maybe he figured Creighton couldn’t possibly be blamed since he was completely innocent. Maybe he thought if Creighton believed anarchists had tried to murder his father, he’d give up his revolutionary ideas and come back home.”
“But why did he make up that story about buying the brandy as a gift for Snowberger?” she asked.
Malloy frowned, still working out the details in his mind. “I’m guessing he planned to use it somehow to get Snowberger to open the cabinet. Since he’d rigged the bomb to go off when he pulled the wire outside in the alley, he must’ve intended to tell Snowberger about the brandy and leave him alone with a temptation he couldn’t resist.”
Sarah nodded in understanding. “And when the bomb exploded in Van Dyke’s office, everyone would assume it was intended for Van Dyke, so no one would ever suspect him of planting it.”
“And he’d be far enough away that he wouldn’t have to worry about being injured in the explosion. A pretty clever plan,” Malloy judged.
“Why didn’t he actually take the brandy with him, though?”
Malloy smiled wryly. “From what I know about Van Dyke, he probably didn’t want to waste good liquor, but the real reason is that he used the box the brandy came in to carry the bomb.”
“Oh!” Sarah could see it clearly now. “Everyone knew he was bringing in a bottle of brandy for Snowberger, so no one would suspect he’d carried the bomb in himself. He must’ve been setting it when . . .”
“When it exploded accidentally,” Malloy finished for her.
Sarah shook her head in wonder. “Just a few minutes ago, Alberta said the only person who hated Allen Snowberger enough to kill him was her father.”
“Your father said the same thing,” Malloy said.
“My father?” Sarah echoed in surprise. “When did you speak with my father?”
Malloy looked like he wanted to bite his tongue off. “The other day,” he admitted reluctantly. He’d obviously had no intention of telling her.
“Did you question him about the case?” she asked in confusion.
“Of course not,” he snapped. “He sent for me. He . . . had some information.”
Now she understood. “Mother said he would speak to you if he knew something,” she remembered with a smile. How amazing. Sarah would have to find out exactly how her mother managed to have so much control over her husband. Someday Sarah might need to know that secret, she thought, with a sly glance at Malloy.
She wanted to ask Malloy how he and her father had gotten along, but she couldn’t possibly do it. He’d wonder why she cared. She couldn’t exactly ask her father, either, but if she waited, sooner or later they’d both let her know their feelings for the other. So she’d wait.
“Did my father’s information help?” she asked.
“Not much, and of course he didn’t know Tad was going to kill Snowberger.”
Sarah sighed. “Poor Tad.”
“Creighton will hire a good lawyer. He’ll probably get off. After all, he was defending his father’s honor. They’ll probably say he was defending Lilly’s, too.”
“Lilly’s?” she echoed in surprise.
“That’s what they’ll say,” Malloy assured her. “Snowberger had seduced his stepmother to spite his father. She’s just a silly female, but he was evil and deserved to die.”
A discreet knock told them Quentin had returned with the key. Malloy followed him out and down the stairs, leaving Sarah to consider Lilly’s fate.
Tad’s trial would be a sensation. Sarah knew from experience how the newspapers loved a good scandal, and this would have everything they needed to sell thousands of papers—unfaithful wife, feuding partners, vengeance, and murder.
After Tad’s trial, Lilly’s reputation would be ruined. She’d never get another rich husband now, and she’d have to scrape by for the rest of her life on the stingy allowance her husband had left her. She’d be miserable.
Van Dyke had obviously intended to strip her of everything she’d considered important, but even still, it hardly seemed a harsh enough punishment for what she’d done. He’d intended to kill the man responsible for his humiliation by blowing him to bits. Lilly might be miserable and poor, but at least she’d be alive and well.
But Van Dyke hadn’t intended to die himself, Sarah suddenly realized. He may have changed his will as a precaution—building a bomb was dangerous work—but he’d expected Snowberger would die, and he’d live on for many years. Had he planned to continue living with the woman who’d betrayed him? She’d be a constant reminder of his humiliation, even if he sent her to live in the country or even divorced her.
Could he possibly have loved her in spite of what she’d done? Did he love her too much to give her up? Van Dyke had told Lilly that he’d been making her a special gift for their anniversary. Lilly must not have realized Quentin had the key, or she would have certainly gone down to get it by now.
Except, Sarah remembered in horror, he hadn’t been making anything for her at all. He’d been building a bomb to kill the person who had humiliated him. Or to kill the people who had humiliated him.
“No!” she screamed and ran out of the parlor, across the hall and to the stairs that led to the first floor. “Malloy! Wait! Don’t go down there!” she cried at the top of her voice as she flew down the stairs.
A maid was waiting at the bottom, her eyes as wide as saucers at Sarah’s unseemly behavior. “The basement workshop, where is it?” she demanded breathlessly.
The girl pointed wordlessly, and Sarah ran on, screaming Malloy’s name.
They’d left the door standing open to the steep stairs that led
downward. “Malloy, stop! There’s a bomb!” she cried, jerking up her skirts and plunging down the steps.
She was halfway down when she saw Malloy at the bottom, looking up at her with the oddest expression on his face, and then the whole world exploded.
Epilogue
SARAH WALKED QUICKLY DOWN MULBERRY STREET, clutching her cape tightly against the cold. She’d spent the morning at the mission, and now she was trying to decide which was worse, not going to see Aggie at all or having to leave her after a visit. Both held their own special kind of pain. Lost in thought, she absently glanced at Police Headquarters as she passed, and was startled to see a familiar figure emerging from the front door.
Malloy hadn’t seen her. He was too busy holding on to the railing with his uninjured hand as he descended the steep front steps. His other arm was in a sling, and he moved slowly and carefully, like a man who’d almost been blown to kingdom come. Sarah could only imagine how sore he must be from being thrown by the force of the explosion.
Without bothering to consider whether she was being too bold, Sarah crossed the street, dodging the piles of horse manure.
Malloy was still concentrating on the steps, but Tom, the doorman, recognized her from previous visits. “Good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he called cheerfully.
Malloy’s head jerked up, and for a second she thought he might lose his balance, but he caught himself just in time.
“Good morning, Tom,” she called back, stopping at the foot of the steps and looking up at Malloy. “And good morning to you, Detective Sergeant.”
He didn’t smile, but she could tell he was glad to see her just the same. “Stopping by to report a crime, Mrs. Brandt?” he deadpanned.
“I haven’t seen one yet today,” she teased right back. “But it’s still early.”
“Are you on your way to the mission?” he asked.
“No, just coming back. How’s the arm doing?” she asked before he could inquire about Aggie. She didn’t want to discuss Aggie on a public street.
He carefully took the remaining two steps before answering. “The doc said I was lucky it wasn’t broke, but it hurts like a . . . it hurts a lot,” he corrected himself.
Murder on Marble Row Page 27