I look forward to meeting you next month,
Sincerely,
Reginald R. Fowler
Reginald R. Fowler.
Bradshaw closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for everlasting peace for Reginald Fowler and the others whose letters revealed a similar pattern and whose bodies, he was almost certain, now lay buried in the cellar.
Had she tired of the game? Of luring men here, taking their money and lives? She must have thought in a big city like Seattle, she’d find wealthier men. Had she been unable to get their attention? Come up with a new plan? Met Freddie Thompson of the Seattle Assay Office and decided he would steal gold for her? Had it been her idea?
She must have realized that getting rid of a husband with a public job in a big city was far more difficult than getting rid of a farm manager no one knew in a remote location. She couldn’t simply bury his body in the cellar and hope no one asked where he’d gone. No, his death had to be as public as his life.
And homely Zebediah Moss? Where did he fit in? As a pack mule for the gold? A way to disguise the stolen dust? But if Ingrid had been hiding the gold somewhere here in jars, then Moss hadn’t been passing it through his accounts for Freddie. Ingrid had wanted Moss for herself, not to help disguise the gold, but to get his gold once she got rid of Freddie. Bradshaw imagined what that moment might have been like when she opened the door of her Lincoln Hotel apartment to Zeb Moss, the millionaire miner who came to accuse her husband of theft. It must have been a dream come true for her. A millionaire—uneducated, illiterate, inexperienced with women—knocking on her door.
He set the letters aside to go in search of the gold. He began in the attic and worked his way down to the kitchen without finding a glint. But he found lucifer matches. Dozens of boxes, some of them empty, some full, piled haphazardly in the bottom of a linen closet.
He recalled what Ingrid Thompson said on the porch of Healing Sands about the phenomenon of the glowing water, or rather, about Freddie being made sick by it. She said he couldn’t have swallowed much because he didn’t glow. She must not have known that by soaking the match tips in the tincture of gentian she would negate the glow of phosphorus. She had simply chosen it because Doctor Hornsby had been dosing her husband with it. What had happened that night of the glowing sand?
He was convinced she’d poisoned Freddie. But had she been the one to kill David Hollister? He now knew her motive, but was she capable of it?
One scenario played in Bradshaw’s mind. While her husband, Loomis, and Moss were occupied changing into dry clothes that evening after she’d playfully dunked them, and Doctor Hornsby and the others were still on the beach, she could have slipped upstairs to the electrotherapy room and placed the cheese foil across the Leyden jars. This she must have been planning for several days. Her intention was to kill David Hollister because he’d recognized her.
She killed him to keep secret what was in the cellar of this house. How had she known about his electrotherapy sessions? It seemed reasonable she feared being unmasked and so had watched David, followed him, eavesdropped on his conversations in case he told others about the Voglers. She could easily have seen him enter Doctor Hornsby’s office each morning before her husband’s treatments. She could have listened at the door and heard a treatment in progress. Would she have cared if her timing was off and Freddie took the fatal current? No. So much the better for her.
How had she known how to make the machine fatal? Loomis. Loomis and his parlor trick. Had Loomis shown her more than that trick? Had he been playing some sort of perverse seductive game with her? Had she asked him questions about the machine, asked for a private viewing of the working components, even hinted at the dangers to her husband? Is that what he meant when he said with his dying breath that he didn’t mean to?
And had the glowing sand that same evening given her another lethal idea? An idea that had pleased her so much, she’d been uncharacteristically giddy and playful on the beach. Had she planned to kill Freddie at Healing Sands before the evening of the glowing sand? With Freddie’s health declining because of nerves, his body perhaps even weakened from lead poisoning as Hornsby diagnosed, and Moss waiting in the wings, she must have been watching for the perfect time to get rid of one in order to snatch the other. And here was an ocean she mistakenly believed was filled with glowing phosphorus. She must have seen that nobody feared touching the glowing water, must have heard Doctor Hornsby and David and Moss mention they’d seen the phenomenon before. So she deduced it was not enough for Freddie to get wet: it had to appear he’d swallowed some glowing sea water. So she’d pushed him, dunked him, to get her alibi.
After rigging the electrotherapy machine, she’d spied the colorful jars of ethereal oils and tinctures in Hornsby’s office. She’d likely seen them before. She grabbed the bottle of gentian, knowing Freddie had been given doses of it. And then what? She searched for matches, finding a box in the library. She broke off the tips, slipped them in her pocket or handkerchief, and tossed the sticks into the hearth.
What had she done next? Convinced her husband to take a dose of gentian? It would have been so very easy. What had she done with the evidence? The tincture and soaked match tips? Freddie had been sick in the night, but as she said, he hadn’t glowed. She must have thought he hadn’t swallowed enough poison to glow or die. Did she think she hadn’t soaked the match tips long enough? If she’d prepared the tainted gentian that evening, she couldn’t have let the tips soak long.
But her electric trick had worked. In the chaos of David’s death, had she removed the cheese foil, balled it up, and shoved it under Loomis’ mattress to frame him? Bradshaw’s thoughts stalled. Something felt wrong about that part of his scenario. If she’d wanted to frame Loomis, she only had to leave the cheese wrapper in the machine. So why place it under Loomis’ mattress?
Had she removed it from the machine after David’s death so that his death would appear to be an accident? And then when she learned there was to be an investigation, did she fear someone would figure out the machine had been tampered with and hide the foil in Loomis’ room in case a scapegoat was needed?
Or was he forcing David’s death onto Ingrid Thompson?
Had it been Loomis after all who killed David? But why would Loomis put the wrapper under his own mattress? Bell hadn’t thought it hard to believe, and considering the stupid things he’d witnessed criminals doing over the years, it was no wonder. But Bradshaw found it hard to believe Loomis had either intentionally or unintentionally killed David and then kept the foil in his possession. There was an entire ocean in which to lose it.
With David Hollister, Freddie Thompson, and Arnold Loomis dead, would the full truth ever be known?
Bradshaw found himself standing before the cellar door but couldn’t make himself go down. He turned away and attempted a deep breath, but the oppressive air of the house was claustrophobic. He went outside, pried a few boards off the windows in the parlor and kitchen to let in sunlight, then returned indoors to open a few windows to let in the fresh air. In the brighter kitchen, he studied the water pump at the sink. The water he’d brought wouldn’t last long. He lifted the pump handle, but pumping produced only the hiss of air. He headed outside and found running beside the field a small, swiftly flowing creek. He could well imagine what Henry would say about the creek. Ha! Water for horses, Ben. Told you so. He scooped up a bucketful of water and carried it back to the house, pouring it carefully into the pump to prime it. When he pumped, he now felt resistance and heard gurgling. He kept pumping until the water flowed cold and clear, then held his palm under the stream to drink.
A movement outside the window caught his attention. It was far too soon for Henry to be back. He opened the kitchen door expecting it was perhaps the deer wandering into the yard, but it was a man stumbling out of the tangled garden.
The man was covered in briars and twigs and scratches, wearing a backpack and cursing up a storm. A bee buzzed around his face, and he swatted at it with a
crumpled piece of paper. When he saw Bradshaw, he stopped in his tracks and gave a final cuss.
Bradshaw said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Moss.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Moss stared at him. “You gonna tell me where the hell I am and what in tarnation you’re doing here?”
“This is Mrs. Thompson’s house.”
Moss’ scowl deepened as he ran his eye over the decrepit house and then down at the crumpled paper in his hand.
He gave a snort of acceptance. “Any water in the place?”
“Inside.”
Moss marched in and accepted a glass of cool water, drinking it down in one breath. He presented the glass for a refill, then refused a third.
“You look confused, Mr. Moss.”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
“If you tell me how you came to be here, I might be able to sort it out.”
“I was told to come. Told not tell anyone and not be followed. She didn’t say you’d be here.”
“She? Mrs. Thompson sent you?”
Moss scrunched up his face, aware he’d given away too much by his choice of pronoun.
“You didn’t come by the main road.”
“Followed the new rail line, didn’t I? Just like she said. Just like the map shows.” He waved the crumpled paper.
Bradshaw held out his hand. “May I?” Moss handed it over. It was a map of the coast torn from a newspaper showing the future railroad line from Hoquiam to Moclips. It had been marked with a bold black pen showing a route that followed the railroad for a few miles before heading west into an area depicted as forest.
“Easy trek, she said. Like hell. Pert near killed myself.” He pulled a chair out from the table and sat heavily. “Not a solid, level piece of ground between here and the railroad. Trees growing outa trees like a crazy jumble. Worse than Alaska.”
“What are you to do now that you’re here?”
“Wait for her. She’ll be along soon.”
“How soon?”
“No idea.”
“And then what? When she gets here, what do you expect to happen?”
“I dunno! She just wants to get away from all the commotion.”
“Why didn’t you travel together?”
“Her place is surrounded, ain’t it? She’s got to sneak out. I still don’t know why you’re here. She send you here, too? By gum, you better not have any ideas about her.”
“No, she didn’t send me, and my ideas about her are not what you imagine. Come with me.”
He led Moss to the parlor and showed him the old photos of Ingrid. She was much younger in them, but they were unmistakably her with that square jaw and sultry eyes. He would have shown Moss the Bible, but Moss couldn’t read.
“So her pictures are here, so she lived here as a girl, so what?”
“Have you ever heard the name Vogler?”
Moss narrowed his eyes.
“Marion Vogler?”
“Yeah, so?”
“This is the Vogler farm. Mrs. Thompson grew up here. She lived here as Marion Vogler, but her legal name was Marion Ingrid Colby.”
Moss said again, “Yeah, so?”
“Did you know she was orphaned? Then sent here to live with her aunt, uncle, and cousin?”
“She don’t talk about her childhood.”
“I don’t blame her. It wasn’t very pleasant. Come on, I have more to show you.”
As they walked through the house and upstairs, Bradshaw told Moss all he’d learned about Marion Ingrid’s life. He need tell no lies or add embellishments. The simple truth painted the portrait of an unwanted and unloved child, raised by undemonstrative relatives, brutalized at a young age, who had turned to wealth in search of happiness, and who had learned from her experience with her cousin that she could attract a man, and that she could kill one.
In Ingrid’s chaotic bedroom, with its memorabilia that displayed her worship of wealth and possessions, Bradshaw read aloud from the letters from the men she’d lured to the farm.
Moss flushed, showing he recognized elements of his own relationship with Mrs. Thompson. He said, “Men give women stuff all the time. It’s what we do, ain’t it? Don’t mean nothing.”
“Doesn’t it? Don’t men give in hopes of winning a woman’s heart?”
“Ain’t no guarantee. You takes your chances.”
“How much have you given Ingrid?”
Moss locked his jaw.
“Wealth won’t make her happy. You know that. Better than anybody. She’ll never be happy. She’s chasing an empty dream.”
“Maybe she can learn from me.”
“How to be happy?”
Moss looked away and mumbled, “How to love.”
“Mr. Moss, I wish that were possible.”
“How you know it ain’t?”
“I’m no expert on the human mind or soul, but I do know that the ability to love and care for others is nurtured in childhood, as is the ability to know right from wrong, good from evil. Marion Colby was either born without a conscience or something went wrong within her as a child that turned her into the monster she is today. She is incapable of loving.”
“You ain’t got no right to call her a monster!”
“I wish that were true. Come with me.”
“What, again?”
“One last time.” Bradshaw brought him down to the cellar, but he wouldn’t budge near the open door to the handmade morgue.
“I can smell it, can’t I! There’s dead in there, now get me outa here!”
He clambered up the stairs, out the kitchen door, and into the yard, just as Bradshaw and Henry had done. He paced the yard, face between his hands.
“Was that the men? The ones she sent for?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“What I know for sure is that there are four bodies buried in the cellar and this house belongs to Ingrid Thompson, who was raised as Marion Vogler, moved to Seattle as Ingrid Colby, and married Freddie Thompson, who is now dead. She was recognized by David Hollister, who is now dead. She flirted with Arnold Loomis, who is now dead.
“She didn’t shoot Loomis, that deputy did that.”
“That’s true, but I’m fairly certain he was running because of his relationship with Mrs. Thompson.”
Moss continued pacing, his fingers dug into his hair, mumbling, occasionally gagging. He spit a few times, then sat down in the dry grass.
Bradshaw brought him more water.
“She gave you no clue about what you were to do here?”
“Women are fickle. I don’t ask questions.”
“Mr. Moss, the Secret Service knows you were one of the miners Freddie Thompson cheated at the assay office. You are being investigated in connection with the theft.”
“Me? What fer?”
“You didn’t file a complaint. Instead, you befriended the Thompsons, or at least Mrs. Thompson. It appears now that you were either Mr. Thompson’s accomplice, or you are acting in that capacity for Mrs. Thompson.”
“I don’t know what in tarnation you mean by ca-pass-a-tea, Professor, but I wasn’t helping either one of them with stealing gold. I wasn’t hiding it for them either, if that’s your next question.”
“I know that now, Mr. Moss, and that’s what frightens me.”
“Why should it?”
“Because you’re her next victim.”
“Like hell, you say!”
“Mr. Moss, Ingrid Thompson does not keep men in her life for long. You were never to be a part of her future. You were to provide her with more wealth than she’s ever known before, once she got rid of Freddie. Then you would be cast aside. Or buried in the cellar.”
“Never!”
“It’s no accident she chose you. Who better to disguise her illicit wealth? Who would question a deposit of gold dust from the wife or widow of a known gold-millionaire?”
Zeb Moss cupped his hand over his mouth. His
ruddy complexion had drained to paste.
Bradshaw asked, “You have something to tell me?”
Moss paced for a few minutes, tugging his hair. He finally sat on a stump, his hands on his knees, shaking his head.
Bradshaw waited.
“On the way home,” Moss began. He coughed and cleared his throat. “On the way home from the sanitarium, she said she couldn’t live in Seattle no more, not with everyone knowing her husband had been a thief. She asked would I take her away. I said it wouldn’t be proper, us not being wed, so she said for me to get a license quick as I could.”
“A marriage license? Did you?”
Moss was quiet so long, Bradshaw had to ask again.
“The train had a layover in Tacoma. I got off and went to the courthouse.”
“Weren’t you being escorted by one of Bell’s men?”
Moss looked smug. “Not me, just her. He didn’t look none too happy when I got up, but what could he do? He had orders to stick with her.”
“How did you acquire a license for Mrs. Thompson to marry? You couldn’t have had Mr. Thompson’s death certificate.”
Moss shifted his eyes away. “Didn’t need it. She told me to use her maiden name, Vogler, said it was legal and that nobody would ask questions.”
“She said to use the name Ingrid Vogler?”
He shook his head. “Marion. Like you said.”
“And did you get the license?”
“I got it. And got back on the train.”
“And now you’re meeting her here to run off together to get married?”
“Too late for that. We got married on the train.”
“You didn’t.”
“Thought that’d surprise you.”
“How did you manage it?”
“You won’t believe what money can buy, Professor. A special license and a J.P. willing to play along. Bought him a ticket and he boarded with me.”
J.P. Justice of the Peace.
“With Bell’s man as witness?”
“Nah, we waited until he was using the facilities three cars down. Got another passenger to witness. By the time Bell’s man got back, it was done, and we weren’t even sitting together. He was none the wiser.”
Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) Page 21