“He told me to wait, and besides, I don’t go barging in on other people’s appointments.”
“So you knew he had another patient in there?”
“Hornsby wasn’t talking to himself.”
“Who was he talking to?”
“I thought you were some sort of genius investigator? Hollister. He was talking to David Hollister.”
“Are you sure? Did you recognize his voice?”
“Not at the time, no. I heard voices, but I couldn’t hear what was being said and I didn’t try. It was all I could do to sit upright. About a quarter hour later, he came out looking like he just saw—well, what he saw, a man die right before his eyes.”
“Were you surprised David had been getting a treatment?”
“I was surprised he was dead. The revelation that he was getting treatment couldn’t compete with that.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“How the hell do you think it made me feel? God-awful. He was a nice fellow, alive one minute, dead the next. And Hornsby was all tore up, they all were. They’re a close family.”
“Did you think about the possibility that it could have been you?”
“Killed you mean? I did later. I was still a bit shocked when my wife started sobbing that it could have been me. Then the damn sheriff showed up and put us all under house arrest—”
“You’re not under arrest, you’re being detained.”
“What the hell’s the difference? Can I leave? Haven’t you got an answer yet? Didn’t you examine the machine?”
“I examined it.”
“So it was an accident, right? Why are you dragging it out talking with everyone? Tell the sheriff it was an accident and let us go!”
“I’m not convinced it was an accident.”
“I don’t believe it! Are you getting paid by the hour? Whatever Hornsby’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
“No one is paying me.”
“What? You’re in it for the glory? And I thought Loomis had an ego.” He pulled his cigarette case from his trouser pocket and shoved one in his mouth.
“You don’t like Mr. Loomis?”
He jerked the cigarette out. “Oh, my God, don’t go reading into every word I say. Mr. Loomis is a perfectly lovely individual, I do not believe he killed David Hollister or anybody. I don’t believe anyone here killed David Hollister, it was a horrid, god-awful tragedy, and I just want to go home.”
“I’ll try to be as quick about it as I can. It’s not such a bad place to be held captive.”
“I curse the day I ever set eyes on this coast.”
“Have you been here before?”
He hesitated. “Not to Healing Sands, no.”
“But to the coast?”
He took the time to light his cigarette before replying. “Came down a few times, the wife and I.”
“Where did you stay previously?”
“Not many places to stay, are there? Copalis Hotel, Iron Springs.”
“That’s all? Nothing further north?”
“There is nothing further north, no hotels, at any rate, though I hear there soon will be.”
“Have you been further north?”
Freddie swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Took a day trip up a ways. My wife wouldn’t hear of camping.”
“How did you travel? On foot?”
“Hornsby keeps a little donkey cart for the guests.”
Bradshaw recalled the donkey grazing with the cows up in the pasture. “Did you spend any time with David Hollister?”
“Why would I?”
“You tell me?”
“I talked to him a bit.” He looked off into the distance. “Nice fellow.” He cast a glance at the main house. “All of them, nice folks. It’s a shame.”
“What did you talk to him about?”
He shrugged. “This and that.”
“Be specific please.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Marriage, if you must know. They were happy and I’m miserable. Is that what you want to know? It turns out there’s no magic answer, unless it’s in choosing the right wife, and it has nothing to do with your investigation, Professor.”
“Have you ever hit your wife?”
His incredulous face matched his reply. “Of course not.”
“How old is your wife? Near forty?”
“Where did Hornsby find you? An ad in the funny papers?” He closed his eyes and shook his head and mumbled. “I’m a dead man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s twenty-seven. I’m thirty. We have no children. We have no personal grudge against anyone here, and we didn’t kill the handyman. Are we done? Can I go now? I’d like to have a moment of peace before I die.”
Chapter Nineteen
Deputy Mitchell stood at the front desk in the foyer reading a Tacoma newspaper, a small brown paper package tied with string at his elbow.
Bradshaw asked him, “Anything exciting been happening in the world since we’ve been here?”
The deputy shook his head. “Just the usual.”
The package was addressed to Ingrid Thompson c/o Healing Sands Sanitarium, Ocean Springs, Wash. The return address was Frederick & Nelson Department Store, Seattle. On the corner of the box was an order reference name: Z. Moss.
“Deputy, are you holding this package here for some reason?”
“Me? No. It’s for Mrs. Thompson. Doc just sorted the mail.”
“You weren’t going to ask her about it?”
“No. You think I should?”
“One never knows what useful information might arrive in a package delivered to a crime scene.”
The deputy got up, setting the paper aside. “Oh.”
A shuffling sound caught Bradshaw’s ear. He looked down the hall and spied Zebediah Moss lurking outside the Healing Sands room, chewing his lip, as if unsure of entering. When he noticed Bradshaw watching him, he scurried into the library.
“Hold onto this, Deputy.” Bradshaw nodded at Ingrid’s package, then followed Moss and found him arms crossed, staring at the bookshelves. “Good afternoon, Mr. Moss.”
Moss nodded, not meeting his eye.
“Have a seat. It’s time we talked.”
Moss sat stiffly at the nearest table, arms still crossed, eyes on the shelves, jaw tight. Bradshaw sat across from him.
“Did you know the Thompsons before coming to Healing Sands?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Yes or no.”
“He works at the assay office in Seattle, don’t he?”
“Is that where you met him?”
“Mighta been.”
“He was working the day you brought in your gold?”
“That’s right.”
“How did that go?”
Moss shifted his eyes to Bradshaw’s face quickly, then looked away again. “What do you mean?”
“It’s something I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing. You arrived by ship with other miners; there were crowds to greet you and cheer your success, and you hauled your bags up to the federal office. I’ve seen miners come in, it’s quite a production.”
Moss said, “I hired a hack to haul it up the hill.”
“A memorable day. Any trouble?”
“With what?”
“The process? Paperwork?”
“No trouble. It was fine.”
“Fine? I’d expect the experience to be more than fine.”
“Yeah, well, I expected I’d brought home more.”
“Your haul wasn’t worth as much as you anticipated?”
“It was pert near. You always hope for the high end of the estimate. Disappointing when it ain’t.” He pinched the crease of his trousers. He had thick, stubby fingers and strong, meaty hands.
“Who makes the estimate?”
“Oh, well, the experts up in Alaska. They tell ya it’ll bring between this and that, and you hope for that.”
“But you got this, the low est
imate.”
“Pert near.”
“Near the low? Not even reaching the low? The estimates were off?”
“Close enough. I’m rich, ain’t I? If you’ve got a problem with the estimate or assay office, go talk to them. I’m happy and satisfied with my take.”
“Mr. Moss, I’ve observed you here at Healing Sands. You appear neither happy nor satisfied.”
“Well it ain’t got nothing to do with estimates, Professor.”
“What’s it got to do with?”
“None of your damn business.”
“You’re probably right, but I’d like to know anyway.”
“Don’t mean I got to tell you.”
“Is it to do with a woman?”
Moss looked up at the ceiling, as if hoping it would fall down on him.
“When did you first meet Mrs. Thompson?”
Moss twitched, and his eyes shot to the library door. “I can’t rightly recall.”
“Really? I would have thought meeting Mrs. Thompson an unforgettable event.”
“Why?” Moss pursed his lips and brought his narrowed gaze to Bradshaw.
“She’s hardly an ordinary woman.”
Moss glared at him.
Bradshaw said, “Some women are like that. They demand you take notice.”
Moss looked away, toward the door again.
“At the assay office? In Seattle? On the train?”
“What?”
“Where you met Mrs. Thompson?”
“I can’t rightly recall.”
“You made an order by letter from here last week? To Frederick & Nelson Department Store?”
“Mighta done.”
“You had it delivered to Mrs. Thompson. It’s in the foyer now, on the desk.”
“Don’t mean nothing. No crime in doing a favor for a lady.”
“Are you in the habit of doing her favors?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Or is it that she does you favors?”
“Now see here, Professor. I don’t like your questions. I’m not the smartest man on this earth, but I know when a women’s virtue has been insulted.”
“What did you buy for her?”
“Not my place to say.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Not from me. And if you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t ask her, neither. Truth is, I don’t know. She wrote down what she wanted, asked me to send for it.”
“Do you mean she asked you to pay for it?”
“I got an account at the store, don’t I?”
“You must know her well to be trusted with such a delicate favor.”
Moss’ ruddy complexion deepened.
Bradshaw asked, “Does her husband know about this favor?”
“He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch. Doesn’t like her ordering nothing.”
“Do you know he’s mean through observation? Or is that what you were told?”
“He just is.” Moss set his jaw and turned his eyes back up to the ceiling.
“Did she repay you for the purchase?”
“Money ain’t no concern to me.”
“Where were you from around ten in the morning Monday until the time of David Hollister’s death?”
That got his attention. He looked with fury at Bradshaw. “Me? I had nothing to do with that handyman dying. What are you saying? You saying it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t yet know. Where were you?”
“I wasn’t in that room upstairs poking around no wires.”
“Why do you mention wires?”
“It’s an electric machine, ain’t it? Got wires, ain’t it?”
“Oh, yes. It has wires. Have you ever been in the electrotherapy room, Mr. Moss?”
He hesitated, his mouth scrunched. He looked as if he were weighing his answer against what Bradshaw might have learned from others. He said finally, “Mighta been.”
“For treatment?”
“No way in hell I’d let anybody put electricity in me.”
“Then why did you enter the room?”
“To have a look around, why else?”
“Was Dr. Hornsby with you?”
“No.”
“Someone else with you?”
“No.”
“When was this? When did you enter to have a look around?”
“I dunno, long time ago, when I first got here.”
“How did you get in?”
“Watcha mean? I walked in, didn’t I? You expect I climbed through a window?”
“I mean it’s kept locked.”
“I don’t know about that, it wasn’t locked when I went in.”
“And how many times did you enter the electrotherapy room?”
“Just the once. Ain’t been near it since.”
“Good, then you have nothing to worry about. How do you spend your days here, Mr. Moss?”
“Same as everyone else. I eat, wash my dishes, walk the beach, eat, wash my dishes, walk the beach. That’s pert much all there is to do here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I hear there was a spectacular natural phenomenon the evening before David Hollister’s death.”
“Huh?”
“The glowing sand on the beach?”
Moss twitched again, and cleared his throat. “The sparky sand. Yeah. I seen better down the coast, near Mexico. But it was something.”
“Mrs. Thompson dunked you in the surf?”
He wiped his hand over his mouth.”So? We was all acting like kids. I, uh, noticed Mr. Loomis forgot to put on his shoes. He wore his slippers out on the beach. Danged stupid rule about slippers.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I dunno, just thought of it. Might be a clue.”
“A clue about what?”
“I dunno! We done here?” Moss got to his feet.
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Moss. Did you have occasion to speak with David Hollister at any time during your stay?”
Moss remained standing, his eyes on the door. “I can’t rightly recall.”
“Take your time.” Bradshaw settled back in his chair.
“Mighta spoke with him up on the cliff a time or two. He showed me that powerhouse and laundry he built.”
“Did he ask you to finance him? And don’t say ‘he might have done,’ did he?”
“He’s got a right money maker in that wash system. Yeah, he asked me could I back him if he wanted to make a business of it, you know, selling the plans and whatnot.”
“Did you agree?”
“Mighta—I didn’t say no. Hadn’t made up my mind, truth be told. Yeah, I got money, fat lot a good it does me. Mighta done him some good if he hadn’t gotten himself fried by that machine.”
“Did Mr. Loomis know you were thinking of backing Mr. Hollister?”
“He didn’t hear it from me. Hollister wanted to keep it quiet. Loomis did those fancy drawings, and Hollister was afraid he was gonna make off with them.”
“So Hollister was trying to establish rights to his washhouse design before Loomis had the chance.”
“Well, Loomis owns the drawings. Hollister had to act fast.”
“Loomis might own the drawings, but not the design. Nothing was agreed legally. What does Loomis plan to do now that David Hollister is dead?”
“I dunno, ask him.”
“You’ve spoken with him, what did he tell you?”
“Says he’ll be sure the widow gets looked after.”
“And you trust him?”
Moss grunted. “Hell, I don’t trust no one.” He stomped out of the room, his felt slippers slapping the polished floors.
Chapter Twenty
Professor Bradshaw and Deputy Mitchell located Mrs. Thompson in the sunny sand room, fully clothed in a fashionable gown, not a grain of sand on her. She lounged with her feet up in the shady breeze of an open patio door, browsing through a French fashion magazine.
She looked up as they approached, and her e
xpression shifted from bland boredom to coquettishness. She gave them a pouty smile, and her appreciative gaze lingered so long on Deputy Mitchell, he blushed. He pushed back his hat and squared his shoulders, and Bradshaw thought seriously of taking the man’s gun for safekeeping.
She turned her full attention to Bradshaw, her eye dropping to the package in his hand. “Is that for me?”
He said, “Would you open it, please?”
She gaped at him. “What, now? In front of you?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The deputy dipped his head with apology. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to do what the Professor wants.”
“I don’t see why. This is simply rude. Being nosy parkers for the sake of it. You’ve got no right to see what’s in my private mail.”
“We know Mr. Moss placed the order for you.”
Her pout was genuine this time, and angry, and this drew attention to her square jaw and showed little wrinkles around her lips. In the bright light of the lamp, every flaw was revealed, every small sag at the jaw. In their mid-thirties, many women’s facial features sharpened, the softness and plumpness of youth receding to a more mature profile. Could she be just four years older than Missouri? If so, what had aged her so prematurely? Previous illness? Unhappy marriage? Disappointment? A hard life? He did not presume that growing up wealthy, as Mrs. Hornsby said Ingrid Thompson had, sheltered one from all of life’s cruelties.
She wiggled, resumed her playful pout and said childishly, “I haven’t got a knife.”
“I have.” The deputy flipped open a wicked-looking knife that Mrs. Thompson took without grace. She slit the string and cut the paper with a few strong flips of her wrist, then tossed the knife aside. It fell from her lounge chair with a clatter to the floor, and the deputy retrieved it. She withdrew from the straw packing a blue glass bottle, elegantly curved, with a corked top and thrust it at Bradshaw, then turned her face to glare out the open door.
He held the cool glass gingerly and read: Fountain of Youth Lotion, Restore Youthful Fullness to the Hands and Face. Satisfaction Guaranteed. Imported.
The deputy cleared his throat and said he’d be off now to check on the others.
Bradshaw returned the blue bottle to Mrs. Thompson.
“Are you happy? Why, I’ve never been so humiliated. A woman is entitled to her beauty secrets.”
“How old are you, Mrs. Thompson?”
Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) Page 13