Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “You had me right earlier. I work for myself. I work for the truth.”

  “Blasted philosopher.” The sheriff spun on his booted heel, marring the pristine floor, and marched out.

  Chapter Eight

  After an hour of close inspection and repetitive testing of the “Loomis Luminator” Bradshaw verified his original diagnosis. A conductive material had been placed across the Leyden jars prior to David Hollister’s death and removed afterward. Who, what, and why remained impossible yet to answer. A foolish mistake or intentional alteration? Involuntary manslaughter or murder? Who here understood electricity enough to have done it? Who knew what materials were conductive and which weren’t?

  None of the questions made Bradshaw feel any better about the fact that his son and nine other innocent people were here at his invitation. Logic told him they weren’t in danger. Emotion said, beware. The battle between them waged in his gut.

  He found his entire troupe on the beach, gathered around a quietly hissing bright red two-seater Stanley Steamer with dandelion yellow wooden wheels. Justin and Paul sat proudly on the bench seat, pretending to steer with the tiller.

  Colin crawled out from under the carriage, where he no doubt had been inspecting the construction. “Professor, ain’t she a beauty!”

  “Yes. Why is she here?”

  “To drive!” he said, brushing sand from his backside. “A fellow who lives down the beach a ways rents it by the week. We passed him on our way up, so Knut and I hiked down this morning.”

  On their journey here, they had passed a small cluster of buildings at Copalis, a modest clapboard hotel and post office, and a few shacks. Bradshaw hadn’t noticed an automobile for rent, but then, his eyes had mostly been on the ocean and the look of wonder on his son’s face.

  Colin continued, “We’re going to explore, after our studies are completed for the day, of course. Today, we thought we’d head up to Moclips, maybe further up to the Indian reservation.”

  “There’s not room for you all. Which of you is going?”

  “We’ll take turns. Today, it’ll be Knut and me, and Miss Fremont.” Colin smiled at Missouri, and she smiled back. The battle in Bradshaw’s gut intensified. She then lifted an eyebrow at Bradshaw, as if challenging him to argue with her inclusion in the adventure.

  He said to Colin. “You do realize there are no roads to drive, only the beach.”

  “The beach is an officially designated highway, the man said, and the sand’s flat and safe all the way up, as long as we watch the tides.”

  Bradshaw glanced at Henry, hoping he would protest his niece’s taking part in this extracurricular automobile adventure, but Henry had jumped into the auto, squashing the boys aside on the seat so that he could grip the tiller.

  “I see room for two,” Bradshaw said, “where is the third to sit? Or is Knut to run alongside?”

  “Never!” Knut perched himself onto the back, doing his best to imitate a piece of luggage.

  Bradshaw cut short their excitement. “Your free time is your own, but I have news that might limit your explorations.” He put a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “The accident I was summoned to investigate proved fatal.”

  He had their full attention. He told them about David Hollister, about the Loomis Luminator being his own invention, and how he would be busy over the next few days trying to find an answer as to why the tragedy occurred. His students looked sick. He could see in their eyes that the thought had never occurred to them that as engineers, the things they designed and built might one day be instruments in someone’s death.

  He gave them no reason to believe David Hollister’s death had been anything more than an accident, even though this left them to conclude he, as the machine’s inventor, might be responsible. He could think of no way yet to say he wasn’t responsible without telling them more than he wanted them to know. He cautioned them to stay away from the main house as much as possible out of respect for the family.

  “They have assured me your presence here is a comfort, and adding a much needed purpose to their daily tasks. But we’ll not burden them unnecessarily. Understood?” He looked directly at Justin and Paul as he asked this, and they both nodded solemnly. It occurred to him that ten was one of the best ages for a boy. Old enough to have a measure of independence, young enough to still delight in make believe. He pulled Justin aside and bent down to look him in the eye. Justin was more sensitive than most children his age. Not in a way that made him weak, but in a way that allowed him to put himself in others’ shoes, to understand their suffering even if it didn’t personally touch his own life.

  He said quietly, “The Hornsbys are grieving but they have each other to lean on.”

  “And you’ll help them get everything sorted out?”

  “I’ll do my best. What would help heal their hearts would be to see children at play. So don’t feel bad about enjoying yourself.”

  Justin nodded his understanding.

  Bradshaw stood and called Paul over. He ruffled both their heads to assure them all was well, and they both relaxed, trusting him. He told them to get back to their sand castle, and they ran off. After giving him an unprecedented affectionate pat on the arm, Mrs. Prouty followed the boys. Henry tipped his straw hat and tromped off to investigate. Bradshaw was left facing his students, and Missouri, who all looked as if they were aching to ask him questions.

  “Sand,” he said, “has properties of both a liquid and a solid. Who can demonstrate those properties for me?”

  ***

  At half-past noon, Bradshaw was the last to file through the kitchen with his plate, his hopes for a hearty meal fading with each faded entrée. Depleted greens. Reds so weary they bled gray. He never thought he’d long for Mrs. Prouty’s limp peas or mushy broad beans, but he wished for them now. When he emerged with a plate bearing only bread and berries, he found Henry had saved a place for him at his table with Missouri and Colin.

  Bradshaw’s small appetite shriveled to a painful knot. Missouri had joined his students for the sand lesson, and he’d spent the past hour impressed with her grasp of physics and unimpressed with Colin’s admiration of her. The last thing he wanted to do was attempt to share a meal with them, but all the other chairs were taken, and it appeared Henry enjoyed the fact.

  As he sat, he leaned toward Henry and repeated the words his friend had shot at him this morning, “Poke a stick in my eye, it would be less painful.”

  Henry said, “Touché, my friend. But it might also prove informative.”

  “For who?”

  “Me. I want to keep track of developments.”

  Colin and Missouri, absorbed in a friendly debate about the future of medicine, allopathic versus homeopathic, paid them no attention.

  Mrs. Prouty sat with the boys. They were refusing to eat the slimy green piles on their plates, but willing to swallow the mud reds and seedy bread and mounds of berries. Zeb Moss sat with Loomis, neither speaking, both eating dutifully as the only alternative to starvation.

  Ingrid Thompson was seated near the window, and Freddie, looking only slightly more alive than he had this morning, brought two plates to their table. She didn’t say thank you to her husband but began to eat heartily. Freddie sat, picked up his fork, and stared forlornly at his plate. Without taking a bite, he set his fork down again. Ingrid made no comment. She glanced at the window, which, because of the angle of the sun was behaving like a transparent mirror. She turned her head, smoothing her neck as if self-conscious of a few premature lines.

  Bradshaw was struck again at her resemblance to his late wife. A more careful inspection of her features revealed it was only the heavy-lidded eyes they had in common. Yet the resemblance was striking. It was in the way she held her head, her aloofness, her self-preoccupation. Dr. Hornsby had said she’d voiced concern over her husband’s health and state-of-mind, but she was showing no concern now.

  “What, Ben?”

  He looked at Henry. Had he said something aloud? Missou
ri and Colin watched him. He’d gotten himself into trouble more than once for unknowingly voicing his thoughts. It was a habit formed from too many hours in his basement, alone, talking himself through invention and crime. He was becoming a cliché, an absent-minded professor.

  Colin whispered, “Professor, do you suspect the Thompsons? You think they killed the handyman?”

  He shook his head. “You musn’t mind me when I’m lost in thought. I won’t deny I am investigating something more complicated than an accident, Colin, but I have no evidence yet of intentional harm. I don’t want to involve you boys in my work. I hope I can trust you not to alarm the others.”

  “Sir, you have my word, but honestly, you boys? The others are boys, yes, but I’m the old man of the group. Were you a boy at twenty-six?”

  Henry said, “He was never a boy. Born a creaking grandpa and still waiting for time to make him look the part.”

  “No offense intended,” Bradshaw said to Colin, giving Henry a none-too-gentle kick under the table. Colin nodded, and he and Missouri took their dishes into the kitchen.

  Henry tossed his napkin on the table. “OK, spill. What’d you find this morning?”

  Keeping his voice low under the chatter of his students, he gave Henry a synopsis of his morning, and Henry whispered, “It doesn’t look good for Hornsby.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But he’s innocent.” Hornsby’s tormented eyes flashed before him. For the rest of his life, Hornsby would be aware of having killed his daughter’s husband. Killed a man he loved and respected. He wasn’t a man seeking to avoid punishment, but praying for a reason to forgive himself.

  “Oh? It’s not like you to make a judgment without all the facts.”

  “Sometimes you just know. Find anything of interest this morning?”

  “That washhouse is something, wait’ll you see. I tromped around the beach and up on the cliff. You hit wilderness pretty quick. Saw an old Indian up there, but he vamoosed into the woods before I could catch him up.”

  As he listened to Henry, Bradshaw had been watching Ingrid Thompson finish her tea, then send Freddie Thompson for more. “What’s your impression of Mrs. Thompson?”

  Henry snorted. “I’ve been watching her. Reminds me of your late witch, the way she preens. There’s something else about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “The eyes.”

  “By gum, that’s it. They’re, oh what’s the word—”

  “Sultry.”

  Henry snorted again. “Too bad for that square chin. She’s no beauty. Not like Rachel.”

  “Rachel wasn’t beautiful.”

  “Ah, come on, Ben. She was demented, but you got to agree she was beautiful.”

  “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. Inner ugliness overshadows physical appearance.”

  “Inner beauty, too, and hell, ain’t I glad of that? If I weren’t such a damn sweetheart, no woman could stand to look at my ugly mug.”

  Bradshaw had thought Rachel beautiful, once. Justin had inherited her coloring, fair hair, blue eyes, skin that freckled. Luckily, he had inherited none of her selfishness or craving for attention. She’d been born willful, her parents had explained after her death. They’d found it easier to give her what she demanded, rather than deal with her rages. Bradshaw wished they’d been as forthcoming before his marriage. But they’d given him no warning. They’d chosen not to tell him of the extreme measures she took to frighten them into getting her way. And yet he could never bring himself to wish he’d never married her because that would wish his son out of existence. He’d as soon wish all air to vanish.

  As he sat not eating, his heart made heavy by such thoughts, Missouri came out of the kitchen, alone. She crossed to Justin’s table, and the boy’s face lit up when she asked about his sand castle. Bradshaw tried to see her objectively. Short mahogany hair plainly cut, large nose, wide mouth, skinny figure. Nope, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be objective. She was the most attractive girl he’d ever seen. Feminine, ethereal, strong. There was something regal about her, although she wasn’t the least bit proud.

  Henry kicked him under the table. “I don’t get you, Ben. I thought that was all over with, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “A man can admire, can’t he?”

  “Missouri’s the image of her mother, and she was no queen of the May.”

  “You told me your sister was beautiful.”

  “Because I loved her, that’s how I saw her. Eye of the beholder.”

  “Can we get back to the case, please?”

  “In a minute. Who is it you were seeing on the sly?”

  Bradshaw shoved his plate away.

  Henry persisted. “Every other week, you were giving those classes up in Everett. You could have caught the last steamer home, but you didn’t.”

  He should have guessed Henry had suspected something. Bradshaw was a man of strict routine, a man of economy, a man who avoided society and relationships. He’d surprised himself in accepting Ann Darlyrope’s advances. Their private affair had been brief, lasting a few months and ending pleasantly. They’d remained friends. But the classes he’d used as an excuse to meet her had proved popular, so he’d continued them. And Ann? She’d recently landed the starring role with a major company and was going on tour to the Midwest. It was to Ann he’d sent flowers the day Hornsby’s summons had arrived, to say bon voyage.

  Henry said, “You got a right to your privacy, and teaching at the college, I know you got to be discreet. But when that started up, I figured you’d got over your feelings for Missouri. Am I wrong?”

  “I’ve gotten over the belief that anything could, or should, come of my feelings for her.” He’d never said it aloud. His battered stomach gave a clutch of protest, and he thought he now knew what an ulcer felt like. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care.

  “Only because you decided that’s how it’s gonna be.”

  “I need you to go Hoquiam. Wire Squirrel and tell him it’s urgent.”

  “Ben—”

  “Not now, Henry.”

  “You see what’s happening, don’t you? You’d better be sure that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is for you to wire Squirrel.”

  “All right, I give. You don’t want to talk about it. As per usual. Wire Squirrel.”

  Squirrel was the nickname of Pete Carter, a professional fact-finder, coveted by Seattle attorneys for his skill at digging up deeply buried facts in government records, newspaper archives, trade journals, every bit of printed matter. Squirrel was so popular, he had the luxury of choice and would refuse a job if he didn’t like the particulars. A year ago, an attorney turned down by Squirrel exacted his revenge by framing him for the murder his client had committed. Fortunately for Squirrel, the death had been by electrocution—a rigged light bulb in the victim’s house—so Bradshaw had been called to investigate. Bradshaw had been Squirrel’s favorite client ever since.

  “I want everything he can find on everyone here, the Hornsbys, Hollister, Moss, Loomis, and the Thompsons. I especially need to know if any of them have ever had anything to do with electrical matters.” He pressed his pocket notebook and pencil at Henry. “Tell him time is of the essence, I’ll pay for his speed. Send a wire to Tom—Professor Hill. Tell him to send everything he can find on Arnold Loomis and the Loomis Long Life Luminator, and have him go to the house and find my file on my electrotherapy outfit. Tell him he’ll find it in my files in the basement.”

  Henry nodded, scribbling away.

  “And I want information on the coming railroad, news on speculators. Who’s buying land? Bringing in businesses? And what about those gas rigs we saw offshore near Copalis? What resources are there here to exploit, and where has the name Arnold Loomis cropped up in connection?”

  Henry looked up. “More than one con?”

  “He’s not here for his health. It’ll be a few hours before the tide’s low again. Head out soon as it’s safe
. Be sure to tell Deputy Mitchell you’re leaving, but he doesn’t need any details. Have Colin drive you in the steamer. I’ll repay his rental costs. And you’ll have to hire a boat to Hoquiam, the regular steamer only runs three times a week.”

  Henry shook his head. “Killing two birds, eh?”

  “Fastest way to get what I need.”

  “Like I said, killing two birds. It’s not fair to her, Ben. Can’t set her free and lock her up, both.”

  Bradshaw had no answer to that. He carried his plate into the kitchen, feeling guilty for dumping his uneaten bread and berries into the compost bucket and wondering if he should ask Dr. Hornsby for some sort of digestive.

  Chapter Nine

  Mrs. Hornsby was best described as bosomy. The sort of woman small children loved to be embraced by and that made men miss their mothers. As requested, she was waiting for him in the library. The day had grown warm, and all the windows were open for cross-ventilation. The white sheers danced in the confines of their tiebacks. Bradshaw unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, and found Mrs. Hornsby shaking her head at his dark suit.

  “You don’t need to be so formal with us, Professor.”

  “It’s my uniform while I’m working.” Like Sheriff Graham, he knew a man’s attire inspired respect.

  “Well, as long as you know we wouldn’t think less of you if you dressed more comfortably. Most of our male guests wear linen this time of year. Did you bring beach clothes?”

  “I did, thank you.” He’d not brought swimming attire, but he did have a lighter weight suit with him. “You’ve created a unique place, Mrs. Hornsby.”

  “We hear that all the time. My husband is a very wise man. He just doesn’t live life. He analyzes it. He thinks deeply about what makes people happy and healthy. Most people believe that they’d be happy if only they had enough money to be idle all the time, or they’d be healthy if only they could find a miracle cure. When really, health and happiness are lost when we fight our natures and gained when we honor them.”