It was obviously a speech she made often, but she spoke with sincerity.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your son-in-law.”
“Oh, Professor. We miss him so. It’s been awful. Simply awful. I wish to God that Mr. Loomis had never come here, bringing that awful machine. Oh—I didn’t mean—you had us all so shocked when you said you’d built it. Did you really build it?”
“I did, years ago. I was shocked to find it here. How did it come to be?”
“I think it started with a letter from Mr. Loomis to my husband. They corresponded a bit, and my husband became interested in the machine. He invited Loomis here a few weeks ago, and the sale was made. Mr. Loomis has been here ever since. Not a paying guest either, mind you.” She shook her head. “I’m not quite sure how that happened. He wasn’t expected to pay while he was training my husband on the machine, of course, but that took no more than a day. When he stayed on, we kept trying to bring up the subject of payment, but he would say how thankful he was for our generous hospitality and that he’d be sure to spread the word about Healing Sands when he left. But he never left. I used to think out here we’d never be bothered with men like him. But those types find you, don’t they? And with the railroad coming, people will be able to get here much more easily.”
“You’re not happy about the train coming?”
“No, I’m not. We moved here because it was isolated. We came for the peace and seclusion and nature’s beauty. It won’t be the same, once the railroad comes.”
“How close will the nearest station be?”
“Just up the beach, at Joe’s Creek. They’ve renamed the area Pacific Beach and have already begun to plat a town. And I hear Moclips is getting a great big grand hotel, with hundreds of rooms! It’ll be another year or two yet until the road is done. They’ve reached Copalis Crossing, that’s a few miles inland, but it’s slow going because of the terrain, and the lumbermen have so much timber to clear.”
“You might be far enough away from a depot to stay isolated.”
“Not the way Mr. Loomis tells it. He says we must expand or risk losing business to someone else.”
“And has he proposed a way of helping you expand?”
“Every chance he gets. I wanted him to leave, but my husband—well, my husband can be too kind. It sounds mean to say so, I know, but there are those who would try to take advantage, and Mr. Loomis is certainly one. If you’ll forgive me, Professor, I don’t completely understand what was said this morning. Did Mr. Loomis steal the Luminator from you?”
“I’m not sure, at least not in the legal sense. I was not fully informed of how and where the machine I built was to be used.”
She frowned at him. “You made it sound as if he stole from you, Professor.”
“I won’t know if a law has been broken until I speak to my patent attorney, Mrs. Hornsby. There are legal crimes, and moral crimes. They don’t always coincide.”
She worried the hem of her apron, picking at a loose thread, then gave a little huff. “He’s a confidence man, isn’t he?” She looked at him for confirmation.
“Possibly so. I am still gathering information. I can state only my experience with Mr. Arnold Loomis. He certainly gained my confidence, then took advantage of my faith in him.”
“If you’ll forgive my asking, what did happen? How did he take your machine from you? And why did it kill our David?”
He was prepared for these questions and had decided in advance how much to reveal when asked them. “Mr. Loomis approached me as a medical salesman with an idea for an electric outfit. I had the knowledge to build it, he the knowledge to market it. Since nothing on it would be newly patentable, it wasn’t something I would have undertaken on my own. I don’t enjoy marketing. It’s much easier to simply collect royalties on patent contracts. When I’d done my work and the outfit was completed, Loomis claimed another similar cabinet had beat us to the market. It’s a common enough outcome these days, so I didn’t question it. Loomis told me he sold the prototype to a Seattle doctor and paid me for my time and materials. That was in ‘99.”
“What? Mr. Loomis told us the machine was the latest and greatest. We’re used to being behind the times out here on the coast, but four years is old even to us.”
“Where the machine has been since the time it left my basement and appeared here at Healing Sands is a question I can’t yet answer. And how it caused David’s death, I don’t yet know.”
“Was the machine damaged on the way here? Did some internal part break? Mr. Loomis swore to us it was perfectly safe.”
“It is perfectly safe, and your husband used it properly. That’s all I know for certain.”
Her mouth opened and she stared at him. “Are you saying my husband is not responsible?”
“I’m saying your husband followed proper procedures and could not have predicted David’s death.”
Mrs. Hornsby released her breath. “Oh, Professor, you don’t know how grateful I am to hear you say that. Have you told my husband this, he is so distraught.”
“He knows this, yes.”
She attempted a brave smile and looked at him with motherly concern. “This can’t be easy for you, Professor. I do hope you’re at least finding our accommodations to your liking. I’ve noticed that you’ve barely touched our milk and cultured dishes.”
“Milk has never agreed with me,” he said, for the first time in his life glad that milk tended to make his belly rumble warnings.
“Oh, that’s true of most of our guests when they first arrive. Only young children can readily digest milk, and then it’s only the milk of our own species that makes us thrive. We are not cows, are we, Professor?”
“Ah, no.”
“In order to make the milk of other animals digestible, it must be cultured, fermented, or soured, and then all those nutrients can be taken up by our systems. Our cow and goat milk come from our own animals. The grazing soil is fertilized with salmon scraps and seaweed. That’s why it’s that lovely yellow color. Absolutely the most nourishing milk available. You see how my daughters’ skin glows.”
“I’ve always been fine with butter,” he amended. The butter served had been sweet and nearly white, and if he didn’t mention his ability to digest it now, he’d be committing himself to dry bread for the duration. “You’ve managed to get my son to enjoy washing dishes. I may try to use some of your methods at home. Do you get any resistance?”
“Very little, really. Some of our wealthiest clients have said they found great satisfaction in helping with their own meals and tidying their own rooms.”
“Do you ever make exceptions?”
“To the housekeeping rules? Only when someone is physically impaired and unable. We had a lame gentleman here last spring, but even he managed most of the chores from his chair. At the risk of sounding like a gossip, we do now have one guest who resents our rules. Mrs. Thompson. Ever since she arrived, she’s been finding ways out of the simple tasks we ask of all our guests.”
“She refused to do them?”
“Not exactly. The first day, she complied. She looked stunned when we told her what was expected.” A touch of amusement lightened Mrs. Hornsby’s expression. “But she must have been up half the night concocting excuses to avoid any work. She’d say she’d left something in her room so her husband would dish up her meal and have it on the table when she returned. She’d say she couldn’t manage the knot on her shoe to get her husband to kneel at her feet and put on her slippers. Now she doesn’t even make excuses. Although, he’s been feeling so poorly of late, she’s been forced to do a few things for herself.”
“Has she been troublesome in other ways?”
“Oh, no. And I really shouldn’t blame her. Her father was a wealthy businessman and she grew up with servants waiting on her all the time. Not a healthy way to raise a child.”
“What can you tell me about Mr. Thompson, and the other guests, Mr. Loomis and Mr. Moss?”
“I’ve had no troub
le with them in regards to our household rules. Mr. Moss is in Hippocrates Hut, and he keeps it tidy. I’ve found bachelors of limited means make excellent guests since they’re used to caring for themselves. Oh, I know Mr. Moss is rich now, but he still has his old habits that serve him well.”
“What do the patients do while here, other than receive medical care?”
“Oh, they explore the beach, of course. Some venture up to the forest, but they never go far. The Thompsons went on a day excursion up toward Moclips. Up with the morning low tide, and back on the evening.”
“Do the guests socialize much?”
“A few times in the evenings they have gathered in the library or conservatory.”
“What do they discuss?”
“Mr. Loomis lectures on various topics. He’s a very knowledgeable man. Or, I thought he was. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Did you see any of them with your son-in-law?”
“Mr. Loomis spent a lot of time with David. He seemed impressed with all he’d done around here. That made Martha quite proud, that a successful businessman was impressed with her David.” Mrs. Hornsby began worrying her apron again, as if she were applying her newly formed doubts of Loomis to past experience with him, something Bradshaw hoped to minimize.
“Can you recall anything specific about what Mr. Loomis and David discussed?”
“Mr. Loomis said David had real potential.”
“Potential for what?”
“I never was clear on that. Martha knows more. It had something to do with the washhouse. Have you seen it yet? Oh, you must see it. David designed it himself, and built the water motor, too.”
“Did he very much want children?”
“I believe he did, but what he wanted more than anything was to give Martha a child. I didn’t realize until after—when my husband told me about the sessions and David’s secret hope. Martha knew when she married David that they’d likely never have children, but she loved him and made the sacrifice. She never once complained, but I’d see her face when friends announced they were in the family way. David was a good, attentive husband. He must have known.”
“Tell me, please, all you recall about the day of the tragedy. Where were you when it happened?”
“I was in the kitchen with Martha when my husband came in. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He said something had gone terribly wrong with the electrotherapy machine. We were as confused as we were stunned because he said it was David he was talking about, not Mr. Thompson. Martha and I both ran upstairs.” She put a hand over her face for a moment, fighting off tears. At last she swallowed hard. “Later, my husband went to Hoquiam to report the death to the coroner.”
“Was that necessary?”
“It’s what must be done when there’s an accidental death in an establishment like this. We’ve never had it happen before, but we knew proper procedure. Even though David is family, he died under my husband’s care. We followed procedure and he brought the sheriff and coroner here. I wish now he hadn’t, but I suppose that wouldn’t have given us any peace either. My husband would drive himself mad with not knowing what had gone wrong. As it is, he may never recover. No, we must have answers.”
Chapter Ten
The zigzagged path up the cliff, although well-carved and laid with sand and stepping stones, had no railing. Bradshaw kept his eyes cast down, his fingertips skimming the tips of dried grass rooted in the cliff wall as he climbed. Recitation always made a fair distraction, but the poem by Shelley that sprang to mind, recalled by the setting no doubt, and learned long ago, was perhaps too distracting.
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle—
Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
He arrived at the top having avoided vertigo, yet plunged deep in something far more disturbing. The sun’s warmth was keener up here. He loosened his collar and removed his jacket, scanning the shore until he saw Missouri in the distance, a slender figure, skirt billowing in the wind. He knew he had no right to wallow in self-pity when his loneliness was his own doing, but it was tiresome always owning up to the responsibility of his life.
And what if she refused him? What if he were to take that terrifyingly bold step and he discovered it was all him? That what he saw in her eyes was only the reflection of his own feelings for her. He’d put the question to Ann, his former lover. She’d said that in her experience, it was worth the risk, even if the answer wasn’t the one wanted. She’d confronted the man she loved and learned he felt the same. And that he would never leave his wife.
The path dipped to a garden sheltered from the ocean wind. A full half acre in size, it was enclosed by a deer fence of woven branches and ripe with summer vegetables and sweet corn. His empty, acid-laden stomach growled at the sight of firm summer squash nestled under enormous leaves, red ripe tomatoes and fat cucumbers clinging to frames. There were even apple trees heavy with fruit. Everywhere he looked, fresh fruit and vegetables glowed in the afternoon sun, and not a speck of it had been fermented or pickled. Not since Adam had a man been so tempted.
He pushed onward, following a meandering trail to an enclosed yard of scratching, clucking chickens, and beyond them, a small pasture of cows and a large donkey, happily feasting on the fish-fed greens. After cresting a small rise, he found within a neat picket fence several carved headstones and a white painted cross at the head of a recently mounded grave. He bowed his head and whispered a prayer.
The sound of trickling water caught his attention. He followed it and discovered a pipe heading south and soon found himself peering hesitantly over a precipice, at the penstock plunging into the Healing Sands’ famed laundry.
A pulsing and continuous crash, like a wave cresting without end, rose up the cliff, blending with the more distant roar of the ocean. The machinery was hidden beneath the angled roof. As he listened, he began to hear a pattern under the roar that came from the water hitting the paddles of the spinning wheel. He moved on, heading back toward the cliff path, and came upon the old native Henry had mentioned, seated on a boulder, staring out to sea.
Bradshaw approached the old man slowly, keeping a respectful distance. He wore white men’s clothing, shoes, trousers, shirt, vest, and jacket, but so worn and filthy they looked as if they’d grown on him. The top of his filthy felt fedora had been eaten away, the brim nibbled at. Yet the old man’s ramrod posture and serenity gave him a dignity as ancient as the boulder he sat upon. His skin, like his clothes, was worn and aged, reminding Bradshaw of an ancient cedar tree. A tuft of white beard lined his jaw from ear to ear like moss.
“Good afternoon.”
The old man nodded once.
“I’m Professor Bradshaw, staying down below at Healing Sands.”
“I am Yoyot.” The old man’s voice was deep and clear. “It means ‘strong’ in your language. I was once. Now, I sit.” He spoke with the rhythm of a native. “I am known as Old Cedar.”
They both looked out at the sea.
Old Cedar said, “You are here because of David.”
“You knew him?”
“For many years. I respected him. He respected me. Not many of the young do anymore. Not even of my own people. He often came up here. We talked.”
“You heard how he died?”
“I invited him to the sweat lodge, but he believed in your modern science. Now it has killed him.”
Old Cedar narrowed his eyes. “In my day, we did not seek to punish those who are already suffering from regret.”
“I’m not referring to Dr. Hornsby.”
The old eyes flashed wide. “But he was there, he told me so himself.”
“Oh, yes, he was there. But he’s not responsible. I’m not at liberty to explain.” He’d already said as much to Mrs. Hornsby.
Old Cedar turned his face to the ocean again and closed his eyes.
After a quiet moment, Bradshaw asked, “Do you sit here every day?”
“In my youth, I fished,” said Old Cedar, opening his eyes. “I made longboats of cedar. I walked the forest. Now I sit. It is surprising how much I enjoy it.”
“I believe my housekeeper is surprised by her enjoyment of leisure as well. At home, she never stops moving.”
Old Cedar squinted at the beach. “Is she the one under the umbrella who watches the small boys?”
He paid attention to the goings-on below. What else had he noticed? “Yes, that’s Mrs. Prouty. I don’t know how I’d manage without her.”
“She’s young yet, and beginning to find work.”
Mrs. Prouty would be pleased to know someone considered her young. Today, she’d brought a basket with her embroidery.
“It’s the way of a good soul, until nature says it’s time to stop. I worked until my eightieth year. Now my hands enjoy stillness. I sit in peace.” He turned his head to look toward another section of beach. There, under the shade of an umbrella, lounged Mrs. Thompson in a reclining beach chair. Perched on the edge of the chair near her feet was Arnold Loomis, leaning forward, palms up. His words were lost to them, but his tone appeared beseeching.
Old Cedar said, “That is not her husband, I believe.”
“No, you’re right.”
Mrs. Thompson sat up, reached out to Loomis, touched his face, ran a finger around his ear, then trailed the tip over his lips. Loomis, encouraged, pressed forward toward her, and she pushed him away, sitting back again.
“She spends considerable time with him. And the other one who is not her husband.”
Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) Page 7