Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “Right. Meet me at your place.”

  Henry pulled the Stanley over to Camp Franklin Cabin and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, Bradshaw found his friend in stockinged feet at the small table with a sturdy cardboard box and two fat manila envelopes, being annoyingly perky as he gave Bradshaw an assessing sweep.

  “Why the hang-dog look?”

  “I didn’t sleep.”

  “Well, I did. Colin and I shacked up at the Grand Hoquiam, that big place at the station? We had a big old steak dinner, and a salmon fillet, a cooked salmon, the size of my left arm, lots of sweet butter and potatoes, not a bit of fiber or green vegetable or yellow milk to be seen. Topped it off with a few whiskeys. Poor boy said I snored something awful, heard me clean in the next room. Had to push his bed to the other side to get any peace. Ha! Brought us back some contraband, if you’re feeling peckish.”

  “Coffee?”

  “And a pot and mugs.”

  “Henry, I love you.”

  “Ha!”

  They built a fire in the small wood stove and got the coffee percolating. The smell made Bradshaw happily woozy.

  Henry said, “I can’t make this in my room, I’ll come visit you mornings before breakfast. I’ll stash the rest of the essentials here, too. Don’t hog’em.” He’d brought whiskey, chocolate, tinned cookies, cigars, beef jerky, and Bradshaw’s favored evening drink, Postum, which reflected their friendship. Henry never touched the stuff.

  “Ben, is that—?” Henry was looking at the urn in the corner. For nearly two years now, Bradshaw had kept it at home as he searched for the proper final resting place, shifting it from one inconspicuous spot to another. One didn’t put the ashes of a convicted murderer on display. He’d tried his own bedroom, but its presence haunted his sleep. He’d tried his closet, but that had felt cruel, so hidden away. He’d settled on a shelf in his basement workshop, visible to him and Henry, unnoticed by others, knowing it still wasn’t right.

  “He wrote of the ocean in his journal,” Bradshaw said.

  “You’re a better man than me.”

  “No, Henry. It’s simply that I knew him, perhaps better than anyone.”

  “He tried to kill you.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Over a meal of coffee, shortbread, and jerky, they began to examine the contents of the manila envelopes that had arrived on the night train in Hoquiam. Professor Hill had exceeded Bradshaw’s expectations. In the envelope, he found his diagrams and notes, and a 1901 issue of American Electrician, bookmarked at a paragraph in the Anecdote section about a Mr. Arnold Loomis of Seattle, Washington, who had demonstrated a superior electrotheraputic outfit to physicians in Spokane the previous year, taken deposits, and failed to deliver the promised apparatus. The editor had found Mr. Loomis in Portland, Oregon, and was assured production delays would soon be solved.

  Henry said, “You subscribe to this magazine, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t always read it cover-to-cover.” He thought of Well’s time machine again, and wished he could go back and see this.

  Squirrel also impressed him at the speed of his work. He couldn’t have had more than two hours to search, yet he’d sent clippings of the announcement of the opening of Healing Sands, the engagement of Martha Hornsby to David Hollister, the arrival of the gold ship bearing Zebediah Moss, and the wedding of Ingrid Colby to Frederick Thompson of Seattle. He’d also found an article that mentioned Arnold Loomis had taken part in a business meeting on developing Washington’s resources and that he’d “had keen insight into the potential of the coast with the expansion of the railroad.”

  “Ben, I can’t believe you handed over your outfit to that man.”

  “I trusted him at the time, and it was his idea to build it. It never occurred to me I was being used. I spent a few pleasant weeks designing and learning something about medical electricity. I wasn’t horribly disappointed to find we’d been beaten to market. It happens. Besides, there was nothing new, revolutionary, or patented—other than my coil—it’s all been done before and considered public domain.”

  “It’s not like you to be so trusting.”

  “That’s why men like him are called confidence men. He’s very good at making others believe what he says.”

  “Huh. I would’ve seen through him.”

  “You would have given him your last dollar.”

  “I’m shrewder than you realize.”

  “You’re gullible when opportunity is dangled before your eyes.”

  “You just wait and see, Ben, my old friend. I’ll be a success yet. I won’t always be living in your spare room.”

  “You are a success now, if we don’t use money as the yardstick. The room isn’t spare, it’s yours, as long as you please. As for Loomis, just let him talk and try to remember the details. He may have tried a swindle on David Hollister, and he’s trying something on Dr. Hornsby.” He explained what he learned from Mrs. Hornsby about Loomis’ pressure to expand Healings Sands and Martha’s regret about Loomis drawing up plans for the washhouse.

  “When I was in Nome, there was just one steam laundry and the dirty dogs charged fifty cents a shirt. If you dared complain, they added a two dollar fee to your tab. Some fellers sent their laundry home to be washed. Twenty-seven hundred miles to Seattle and back, it’d take a month, and it was still cheaper than getting it washed local.”

  “I don’t remember you sending your laundry home.”

  “Nah, I just stayed filthy. Beat my clothes on a rock once in a while to get off the big hunks. David Hollister’s fancy laundry—could that be a motive for Loomis?”

  “Possibly. But he’d already wrangled the washhouse design from Hollister, so I don’t see the point.”

  “Maybe Hollister got wise and told Loomis he wasn’t going to be robbed. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. It will depend on what else we learn.”

  “What’s Loomis got to say?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

  “Letting him sweat? Good plan. I’d like a chance at him. I’ve got a claim worth eighty dollars a shovel I’d like to sell him.”

  “Con the con man? I’d like to see that. In fact….” In fact, interviewing Loomis successfully would require an approach verging on a con. It would require Bradshaw to practice the art of manipulative conversation, which he loathed.

  Henry said, “Uh-oh, I know that look. Loomis is in for it. Hey, look at this.” Henry handed Bradshaw a clipping from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer detailing Zebediah’s new life as a millionaire.

  “In his mansion on First Hill, Mr. Moss leads a modest life. Wealth has not changed him. He lives there by himself, with no servants, not even a cook. He eats at Seattle’s many restaurants, preferring of late the dining room of the Lincoln Hotel, and sends his laundry out. When asked if he ever hires a daily maid, he said, ‘What fer? I don’t make a mess, do I?’” Henry grunted with disgust. “Waste of good fortune.”

  “He eats at the Lincoln? Don’t the Thompsons live at the Lincoln?” Bradshaw looked again at the clipping on the Thompsons’ marriage. “The newlyweds plan to move into rooms at the Lincoln-Hotel Apartments.”

  “Huh.”

  “Indeed. I spoke with Ingrid Thompson last night.” He told Henry about their conversation, her flirtation, how Old Cedar had observed her with both Loomis and Moss, and how he had seen her with Loomis as well. “She claims her husband beats her and that he’s dying of some mysterious illness and behaving erratically.”

  Henry shivered. “I know the type. Kiss your face while stealing your wallet. Any truth to her accusations? Is Freddie a mean son-of-a-bitch on his last breath?”

  “I don’t yet know.”

  “Why’d she tell you? She knows you’re looking into a man’s death, that you’re looking at everyone suspiciously. Why does she go and point to her husband as being unbalanced and violent?”

  “Loyal, isn’t she?”

  “Exa
ctly why I don’t marry. Never trust a female. But why would Freddie want to kill David? What’s his motive? Or did Freddie short the machine to kill himself, not knowing David would get it first? What would be the point? Why not just go in there and zap himself and get it over with?”

  “Being a coward about it? Maybe he couldn’t work up the nerve, so he set it up for the doctor to inflict the lethal current.”

  “To hell with what he’d put the poor doctor through, eh? I don’t know, Ben. He doesn’t strike me as that sort of man.”

  “You never know what people are capable of.” Rachel had taught him that. Rachel had taught him insane people could appear rational, that otherwise intelligent people could make stupid decisions. Rachel, through her final ill-thought act, had taught him that insanity could reach up from the grave and hurt the most innocent of victims.

  He cussed, a single expletive that hit the cabin walls and made Henry jump.

  “What the hell, Ben? What’s got into you? Take a nap.”

  “Justin knows. About his mother.”

  Henry gasped. “How?”

  “Apparently, I have a voice.”

  “You gonna tell me what that means?”

  He explained his morning conversation with Justin. “I’ve destroyed my son’s childhood. His mother’s suicide is part of his life now. He’ll think about it. He’ll question it. He’ll want particulars. He’ll wonder why.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben. But he had to learn sometime. It’s best it came from you.”

  “There is no best here, Henry. There is only the awful truth.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The belt drive was engaged, humming smoothly along the line of washing equipment, sending the machines steaming, agitating, spinning, and tumbling. Fans whisked much of the moisture out of the building, but a damp clean fragrance remained—a blend of soap, bluing, starch, and chlorine bleach. Bradshaw took a moment to admire the laundry in full operation. Well-oiled gears and careful design kept noise at a minimum as the machines toiled.

  He hadn’t seen Hornsby’s daughters, Abigail and Dolley, since he met them yesterday in the library. They’d gone about their work in the main house invisibly, sweeping and polishing, and performing all the daily tasks necessary to keep such an establishment in good order.

  He found them now at the far end of the laundry near the drying closet, performing what looked like an elegant square dance. Each held the corners of a pristine white sheet, and after giving it a snapping shake, they moved toward each other, arms held high, touching hands when they met before stepping back to separate, waltzing a quarter circle, then meeting again. After several passes, unfolding and refolding, they met for a final time holding a small flat square, and they bowed to each other. Bradshaw applauded, and the girls bowed to him, then blushed a bit as they laughed.

  Bradshaw was glad to see that their youthful, joyful innocence had not been completely obliterated by recent events.

  Dolley, a bosomy young woman like her mother and older sister, said, “We used to hate folding sheets, but now it’s our favorite part of the laundry. That was our square dance, because we end up with a square. We also have a triangle dance, and a star dance, but we can only do that with the big sheets from our parents’ bed. Is it time for you to question us, Professor?”

  “If it’s convenient for you to take a break.”

  “You don’t have to ask us twice.” Dolley led him and Abigail, who was smaller and quieter, out a side door to a cluster of sun-bleached chairs. The girls sat with audible sighs. Dolley told him they’d begun work at five that morning, and without prompting, continued talking about life at Healing Sands and her opinion of the four detained guests.

  “We don’t visit with guests much, mind you, it’s not professional. And Momma says there’s a fine line between friendly service and familiar service. When guests get too familiar with you, it’s just harder to get them to follow the rules. Mr. Thompson is a decent sort, as far as I can tell. He always says thank you and please, and obeys all the rules, but that Mrs. Thompson is trouble.”

  Bradshaw smiled at Dolley’s choice of description, and she was quick to notice.

  “You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Professor? Lazy, is what she is. Isn’t that right, Abbie?”

  Abigail nodded and added, “She’s awful stuck-up with no reason to be. How do the unattractive ones get the good-looking men?”

  “She’s got a way with her,” Dolley countered. “It’s in the eyes. She’s not pretty, I grant you, but she knows how to use what she’s got to get her husband fetching for her. You think Mr. Thompson is good-looking? He’s too thin and nervous to be handsome.”

  “He looks like a driven artist to me,” Abigail said. “He should be French.”

  Dolley wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never seen him do anything the slightest bit artistic. All he does is dote on his wife.”

  Bradshaw asked, “Have you noticed any odd behavior by any of the guests?”

  “Like what? All our guests are odd, I’d say,” said Dolley.

  “Did you see anyone where they shouldn’t have been?”

  Abigail said, “Well, I didn’t see which of them took it, but Dolley, do you remember when the fancy cheese disappeared from the larder?”

  “You have cheese? Real cheese?” Bradshaw tasted a flicker of hope for future meals.

  “Not usually,” Dolley said. “Papa says it’s too binding for everyday consumption. But a former patient sent it as a gift to Papa. Fancy imported cheese, mind you. Looked like little round Christmas gifts, wrapped in shiny green and gold. We’d served some of it to the guests one evening last week because Papa said the cabbage had been a bit too potent—”

  Abigail said, “Dolley!”

  “Oh, the Professor is a man of science, he’s not embarrassed about such things. Anyway, someone swiped it. Waltzed right in the kitchen and took the last of it. I hope who ever took it doesn’t have a movement for a month.”

  “Dolley! Professor, please forgive her. She’s so used to Papa’s ease with talking about such matters. And whoever took it must have had a change of heart, or appetite, because I found the cheese the next day on the sideboard in the dining room, unwrapped but the wax not even broken.”

  “Do all your guests help themselves to the larder?”

  “No,” Dolley said, “most have better manners. But some get the notion that because they dish out their own meals and wash their own dishes they have rights to all the stores. But really, it’s just rude to take without asking. We ought to post a sign on the door.”

  Abigail tossed up her hands. “Not another sign, the whole place is lousy with them.”

  “Can you recall the guests being elsewhere they shouldn’t have been?”

  “You mean like upstairs in the electrotherapy room? No, we talked about that, but we never saw anyone go in when father wasn’t there. Of course, we’re not upstairs all that much.”

  “Did you ever notice anyone wearing shoes in the house?” he asked.

  Dolley gasped. “Father would have a fit! No, they’ve all been good about that. Even Mrs. Thompson, in her little heeled slippers. Only the sheriff has dared tromping around in his boots.”

  “What about the night of the glowing sand?” The question sent them chattering about the strange phenomenon.

  “We saw it once before, when we were little. Abigail was afraid of it.”

  “You told me the sand was haunted and that ghosts were trying to escape.”

  “Did I? Oh, I am sorry. But it wasn’t scary this time, only a bit spooky. What causes the sand to glow like that, Professor?”

  He hesitated, trying to decide what information wasn’t likely to alter their memories or skew their attitudes toward past events. He settled on saying, “It’s called bioluminescence.”

  “David would have liked that word,” said Abigail. “He was so clever. He told us all about the glowing sand being some sort of phosphor. He’d have liked to know the official word for it. He kept
scooping seawater on Martha, trying to make her glow like the sand. I remember thinking that I hoped I’d someday meet a man like David.” She shook her head, and her face trembled, and she fumbled for a handkerchief.

  Dolley patted her sister’s arm, and in answer to Bradshaw’s question about who else was on the beach that night, said, “Oh, everyone was there. Mr. Loomis, Mr. Moss, but he didn’t seem too impressed. Said he’d seen better. Such a sour puss. The Thompsons enjoyed it, splashing about. Mrs. Thompson knocked Mr. Thompson clean over and he went for a swim!”

  “She knocked him over?”

  Abigail sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “Just horseplay. I was surprised, really. I didn’t think she had it in her to be playful.”

  “She was putting on a show, Abbie. Honestly, you are so gullible. She had an audience.” Dolley looked at Bradshaw. “Men. Mrs. Thompson ignores women and plays up to men. Flirts with them shamelessly and they all fall for it. Well, not my father, and she doesn’t even try with him. Plays the helpless, concerned wife around him.”

  “She was playing up to Mr. Moss and Mr. Loomis?”

  “And her husband. She splashed them all and they took it, laughing. Well, Mr. Moss didn’t laugh, but he looked more pleased than I’ve ever seen him. None of them attempted to splash her, of course. Can you imagine what her reaction would have been? Oh, she has them trained. And who had to launder their soaked clothing?”

  “Did anyone collect any of the glowing sand?”

  They shrugged, and Dolley said, “I can’t say as I recall. People collect all sorts of things to take home. Sand, shells, driftwood. Goodness knows what they do with it. Make little displays, I suppose, to show their city friends. I wish I’d thought to keep some glowing sand to remember David by.”

  Bradshaw said, “It stops glowing after a day or so.”

  “Does it? Oh, well, then it’s no matter. What else would you like to know, Professor? Are we being of any help?”

  “Yes, you are. Can you tell me more about Mr. Moss?”

  “He’s forever lurking about. Never doing anything mind you, it’s just he’s suddenly there, with his sad eyes. He’s not been so bad since our tragedy. At least, he doesn’t come to the house as much.”