“I guess so,” he said, looking as though he did not care for this mystery, either. Hope yet, Addie. “I’ll be going, then. Oh, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Greaves would like you to stay in your house until this fellow’s caught.”
Which she might do, if not for the small problem of the meeting she had arranged with Katie Lehane tomorrow. She felt a trifle guilty over keeping her plans from Mr. Greaves, but not enough to let him know, even after what had just occurred. If she was honest with herself, she was looking forward to besting his efforts to find the killer.
“If a patient of mine sends for me,” she said, “I will have to go.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He gave his good-byes, tucked away his notebook, and bolted for the door.
As Celia shut it behind him, she heard a rustling at the top of the stairs. Barbara, her long black braid hanging down over her robe, stood on the landing.
“Are they coming here next? To take another shot at you, and maybe me?” she asked. “I’d hoped you’d be finished with this, since Mr. Hutchinson has been cleared. Jane Hutchinson hasn’t asked you to do more.”
“I must not be finished, since someone elected to fire a gun at me, Barbara.”
Her cousin clattered down the stairs, her robe and nightgown held high above her feet. “I want this to stop, Cousin. I’m tired of being afraid. I want to be safe.”
Her voice broke, and Celia gathered her cousin in her arms, letting her cry upon her shoulder. Where, though, was safe for a half-Chinese girl and her husbandless guardian?
“This will all be over soon, sweetheart.” She stroked a hand down her cousin’s thick, soft hair to where the braid twined at the nape of her neck. “I promise.”
“But you can’t promise.” Barbara pulled out of Celia’s grasp. The severe set of her expression should have been the first warning of the salvo that was immediately to follow. “Maybe you should move.”
I am not hearing this . . . “Excuse me, Barbara?”
“I said, you should move.”
“I cannot. I am your guardian. Your father left you in my care until you come of age.”
“I’m going to talk to my father’s lawyer. He’ll straighten this out and you’ll see.”
“Barbara . . .” Celia reached for her, but she jerked away and stormed up the stairs. The slam of her bedchamber door reverberated through the house.
“Weel,” said Addie from the parlor doorway, the lacquered tea tray in her hands. “Where will we go now?”
“She will be fine in the morning and full of apologies, mark my words.”
Addie’s only reply was an expressive roll of her eyes.
* * *
“How close did the bullet come to striking her?” Nick asked Taylor as they walked along Dupont Street the next morning.
Nick was always amazed by his assistant’s ability to find him, especially considering how vague he’d been about his destination when Mrs. Jewett had tried to pry it out of him a half hour earlier. Given the news Taylor had brought, Nick might’ve preferred he’d been less successful.
“Five or six feet, if I had to guess,” Taylor answered, dodging the broom of a storekeeper out sweeping the sidewalk before his business opened. “She’s lucky she tripped and fell. But I let her believe he didn’t mean to hit her.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
Taylor looked over at him as they waited at the intersection. “D’you think so, sir?”
“No, Taylor. I don’t think so. That woman . . . I told Mrs. Davies she’d get in trouble,” Nick said, dashing across the street. He didn’t like being right.
Danger finds her like a bloodhound tracks a scent.
“Maybe it was a random shot, sir . . . Mr. Greaves,” said Taylor, looking hopeful he’d agree.
“And maybe Norton really is the emperor of the United States,” Nick replied. “Did you tell her not to leave the house?”
“Um . . .” Taylor gave him a sideways glance. “I tried.”
“And let me guess, she gave some reason why she wouldn’t comply.”
“She’s mighty stubborn, sir.”
Wasn’t that the truth. “Go talk to the folks in her neighborhood and find out if anybody saw anything. We need to find who it was who shot at her.” Before there was a next time and the person didn’t miss.
“I’m headed there to do that,” said Taylor. “Hey, what’s this business I hear about some fella sending love notes to that housekeeper of hers?”
Nick lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t interested in Addie Ferguson, Taylor. Something about the fact she likes to visit astrologers?”
Taylor cleared his throat and changed the subject. “By the way, sir, the captain’s heard about Nash’s watch being found on Matthews’ body. Says he’s glad we’re near to wrapping up the case.”
“Glad he thinks we are.” At least Eagan was no longer interested in seeing Cassidy accused of the crime. “I’ll see you later at the station, Taylor. I’m off to talk to the owner of that dapple gray horse.”
One of the beat cops had told Taylor about a horse fitting the description Mrs. Davies had provided. It belonged to a driver who usually waited at the hack stands around Union Square. Not far at all from where Martin—and Russell—lived.
Nick set out for Union Square. It was a short walk and a pleasant one on a morning like this. The day had dawned sunny, last night’s fog lifting earlier than usual, and a crisp breeze blew down off the western hills. A seagull swirled above the buildings, enjoying the view below as the city sprung to life. Somewhere distant, a manufactory whistle sounded the day’s work shift, and the Central Railroad horsecar clattered along the rails, laborers clinging to the railings. Across the way, a jeweler unrolled the awning above his store windows and tipped his hat to a woman who’d paused to admire his goods. All the trappings of civility and prosperity. But Nick was always aware that outer appearances could hide any number of vices. Just like a bespoke suit and a gold watch could conceal a criminal beneath.
Nick arrived to find Union Square quiet and empty, except for an elderly man feeding pigeons. A quick search of the encircling roads located the horse he was looking for. Luck was with him today, it appeared.
He strolled over to the waiting carriage, the black-maned dapple gray nosing its feed bag and the driver slouched on his seat, reading a newspaper.
The man perked when he heard Nick approach, and he dropped the newspaper to the floorboard. “Where you need to go?”
Nick showed his badge, which caused the fellow to scan the other nearby drivers. There weren’t many—Union Square never had the same number of hacks as the streets surrounding the Plaza—and the few there were had their noses in their newspapers, too, not even noticing Nick.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he protested. “He’s lying if he says I did!”
Well, that’s an interesting comment, thought Nick, eyeing the fellow. “I just want to ask you some questions. First off, do you own this carriage?”
“I rent it.”
“What about a wagon?”
The other man cursed. “I told you he’s lying! I had every right to borrow that wagon, and I even returned it earlier than I said I was goin’ to, so he ain’t got no complaints.”
“This was last Thursday night, correct? The night you made use of the wagon?”
The driver narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You’re not here because the runt at the livery complained about me?”
“Not today,” answered Nick. “I want to know about a man you picked up last week at an alleyway off Pine. With that wagon you borrowed. Who was he?”
A tremor started on one eyelid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer.”
“I think you do. I know somebody who saw you.” Nick reached out to scratch the horse between its ears, straightening the gray’s forelock over th
e harness browband. “Listen, if you tell me the truth, I won’t think up what I might have to charge you with, okay? So . . . Thursday night. The time would have been between nine and ten in the evening.”
The driver licked his lips. “Let’s see . . .” As if tempted to grab them and drive off, he glanced toward the reins, which were tied around the rail. Nick seized the harness cheekpiece to ward off the idea. “Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you. The stable boy got a note from a customer looking for a wagon and driver for the evening. Urgentlike. And there would be five dollars in it for the man who got to the corner of Montgomery and Pine the soonest. I knew where to find a wagon, and I put the licks on and got there first. Didn’t know who I was looking for, but I figured he’d find me. And he did.”
“Then what?”
“I was to wait for him along Pine. He said until nine thirty. If I didn’t see him by then, I was to leave. I argued with him about the five dollars he’d promised, and he gave me two to keep me quiet until later,” the driver said. “I wasn’t waiting there long, though, when he come down the alleyway, makin’ tracks.”
“Did you get his name?” Nick asked.
“I don’t usually have such polite conversation with my fares as to get around to learnin’ their names.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Sutter and Powell,” the driver said. “He told me to leave him there. He gave me the rest of the money, so what did I care where he wanted to be left off? For five dollars, I woulda taken him to the Mission and back if he’d asked.”
Sutter and Powell was near enough to Martin’s house. “And yesterday you dropped off a woman near that same location?” Celia Davies had told him she’d seen the dapple gray and this hack pulling away after bringing Martin’s housekeeper.
The driver considered the sky. “Think so.”
“Can you describe the man for me?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t get much of a look. It was awful foggy that night, and he kept covered up. Like he didn’t want to be recognized.”
“Anything. General impression.”
“Bony. Educated voice. Used to giving orders.”
Which sounded precisely like Jasper Martin.
* * *
Celia leaned against the balustrade surrounding the porch, the chill of the morning’s crisp breeze seeping through her shawl. The half-remembered perfume her mother used to wear lifted from its threads, and Celia longed for a woman she could barely recall. A shadow. A scent.
She had no family left, save for Barbara and Addie. Plus Owen, she mentally added with a weary smile. And now Barbara, who had remained barricaded behind her bedchamber door since last night, wanted to have Celia removed as her guardian. Celia doubted her cousin would succeed, but their relationship had been rocky from the start. She would forgive me if I would not insist upon inserting myself in Mr. Greaves’ investigations. But Celia could not stop now; she would see this inquiry through to its end.
Celia noticed Joaquin’s mother out on her porch darning, a scowl on her face. And at the house a few doors down, the owner shot Celia a black look as he patched the bullet hole in his stair railing. If she had not screamed last night and drawn his attention—as well as the attention of nearly the entire street—he might not have known she’d been the cause of the damage.
Soon it would be more than merely Barbara who wished she would remove herself from this house.
The bells of Saint Francis rang out the top of the hour, and Celia had started to turn to go back into the house, when she spotted a boy trotting up the road.
“There you are, ma’am!” Owen called out. He scrambled up the front steps with a grin.
“Owen, my goodness. How have you been?” she asked.
She’d never had a chance to warn him about Captain Eagan’s threat to have Owen accused of killing Mr. Nash. However, it seemed he’d kept out of trouble.
“Bored. Ain’t got much to do,” he said, plopping onto one of the cane-seated porch chairs.
“I do wish I had better news about your employment with Mr. Hutchinson’s crew. He will not consider reinstating you until this fuss has subsided.”
“That’s what I heard, ma’am,” he said. “Just got back from there. All kinds of excitement over Mr. Martin’s angy. . . . anga . . .”
“Angina,” she supplied. “Many folks refer to it as ‘disease of the heart.’”
“Yep. That,” said Owen. “You sure do know a bunch, don’t you, ma’am?”
“I have been fortunate to enjoy an excellent education, Owen.” She slid him a glance. “Speaking of an education, how are you coming with that book I lent you?”
“That Mr. Dickens is sorta hard to understand.”
“Good effort is eventually rewarded, Owen.”
“I s’pose.”
Celia smiled and let her gaze wander along the street again. Joaquin’s mother finished darning the socks, frowned at Celia, and stomped back into her house.
“What’s that about, ma’am?” Owen asked. “Don’t she like you now?”
“I caused a bit of a fuss last evening, Owen. Someone shot at me.”
He let out a long whistle. “One of your neighbors? That woman over there looks mad enough!”
“I do not believe so.” She had spent the early morning hours considering each of her neighbors in turn, selecting and then discarding every one as the person who had shot at her last evening. The gunman had to be someone involved in Mr. Nash’s murder. It was all that made sense.
“Ma’am?” Owen asked, squinting at her.
“I am merely contemplating how excessively exciting my life can be, Owen. I would not mind being bored myself for a change of pace,” she said. “Since you are here, would you like a quick bite to eat?”
“I’ve always got time for Addie’s cooking,” he said, grinning. “But I gotta tell you why I came by. It’s about something that happened this morning. At work.”
“And what is that?”
He glanced around, searching for eavesdroppers. For once, Angelo was not playing on the Cascarinos’ porch. The fact that Celia could hear Mrs. Cascarino shouting inside the house suggested her youngest son’s location. “Something that happened with Eddie.”
“Eddie?”
“He’s the kid who works at the stationer’s next door,” he explained. “He came ’round the office this morning, slinking near the back door. Asking where the bosses were ’cuz he needed to talk to one of them about ‘the note he delivered.’”
“‘The note he delivered’?”
Owen eyed her as though wondering how she could have forgotten such an important item. “That one that Nash got,” he said. “The one telling him to meet his killer. Remember?”
“I do remember quite well, Owen, but how do you know about that note?” She thought Mr. Greaves had attempted to suppress that piece of information.
“Heard about it from one of the fellas,” Owen explained. “After Dan and I found the body, somebody claiming to be from a newspaper came asking questions about the note the killer sent to his victim, of course.”
Of course. “And this Eddie specifically told you that he had delivered that particular note to Mr. Nash.”
“Not exactly.” Owen crinkled his nose and scuffed the toe of one dirty boot across the planks of the porch, his surety deflating like a soufflé too long out of the oven. “I did ask him this morning what he meant. I said, ‘What note?’ but he wouldn’t tell me. All he said was ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ like a smart aleck. He does that all the time.”
For a moment, Owen seemed prepared to spit to show his disgust, but he glanced at Celia and stopped himself. “But it’s got to be the note Mr. Nash was sent the day he was killed. Don’t you think, ma’am?”
“I am not certain what I think, Owen.” Except that if someone at Martin and Company had asked Eddie to d
eliver that particular note, Celia’s request that Katie observe the men working there seemed all the more justified. “Although I do think you would make a good detective.”
Owen perked up, looking pleased. “You do?” he asked. “Mr. Greaves says it’s a rotten job, though.”
“Mr. Greaves likely only thinks that when events are going badly,” said Celia. “But you do not know who gave Eddie that note to deliver?”
“Sorry, ma’am. He wouldn’t tell me that, either.”
“Then what happened?” she asked.
“I told Eddie that Mr. Martin was poorly and hadn’t come to the office and that Mr. Russell wasn’t in yet and Mr. Hutchinson was away, too,” he said. “Eddie got hopping mad about that, and he stomped off. But he didn’t get far before Rob spotted him and came running out into the yard, wanting to pick a fight over something. Them two are always fighting, so it wasn’t the first time. Mr. Kelly had to break it up.”
“Does Eddie or Rob get extremely red faced when they’re angry, Owen?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed.”
Neither of them was likely to be the fellow at Burke’s, then. “Anything else?”
Owen cast around another glance and leaned over his knees to whisper conspiratorially. “Anyways, it was when Mr. Kelly dragged Eddie away that I overheard Eddie mentioning Mr. Nash to him. Clear as could be. And Mr. Kelly told Eddie to keep his nose out of other fellas’ business. Not that Eddie’ll ever stop doing that,” said Owen. “So I’ll bet you anything Eddie took that note to Mr. Nash! Don’t you think, Mrs. Davies?”
“I do think so, Owen,” she said. “You have done very well, and I shall inform Mr. Greaves. I presume he or Mr. Taylor can find Eddie at his place of employment today?”
“He sure can,” said Owen. His gaze slid toward the front door, and he licked his lips.
“Tell Addie to make you some breakfast.”
He hopped up from the chair. “Thanks again, ma’am,” he said, and ran inside without any further prodding.
Celia followed him inside and went into her office to hastily compose a message for Mr. Greaves.
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