A Spark of Death

by Bernadette Pajer

  She now gave the blankets a final jab. He was wrapped so tightly he couldn’t wiggle his toes. “I’d never do anything—”

  “I know.”

  “If my keeping quiet will land you in more danger—“

  “Keeping quiet might save me from danger.”

  She looked down at him, brow fierce, jaw slightly trembling.

  “And I need you to be especially vigilant around the house. Let me know if anyone pays a call or if you see anyone come near, no matter how innocent they may seem.”

  She put roughened fingers to her lips, but a choked gasp escaped.

  “I know about Mr. Lowe’s visit this morning. What happened today had nothing to do with him, I don’t think. But from now on, speak to no one until you’ve asked me first.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Mum’s the word, I swear.”

  “I trust you.”

  She cleared her throat and gripped the tea tray. “Dinner’s in an hour, Professor. You sleep until then, mind you.”

  ***

  Bradshaw lifted a limp snow pea with his fork. They’d looked sweet and crisp when Mrs. Prouty brought them home from the farmer’s market at the foot of Pike Street. He’d suggested that she lightly steam them, as did the Chinese in their small restaurant, but Mrs. Prouty did nothing lightly. She seemed to think all vegetables contained lethal toxins that required an hour’s boiling to neutralize. The limp peas were accompanied by leathery roast beef, molasses-thick gravy, and watery mashed potatoes.

  It wasn’t Mrs. Prouty’s heavy-handed cooking, however, that made each bite an effort. His digestion had long ago adjusted to her meals. It was her fierce protectiveness that manifested itself in bursts of rudeness. She now entered the dining room and slammed a basket of rolls onto the table with enough force to bounce the doughy things a good half-foot into the air.

  Missouri caught one before it hit the table, which made Justin laugh. “Thank you, Mrs. Prouty.” She received not so much as a grunt from the housekeeper.

  This was the first time another female had entered Mrs. Prouty’s territory. She’d been cool to Missouri all day, but now, charged with her promise to Bradshaw and troubled by fear, she was behaving like a mother hen with an invading bird in her nest.

  “Pass the potatoes, please,” said Justin with sing-song politeness.

  Bradshaw passed the bowl of congealed starch to his son and his arm muscles sent him the first pangs of soreness. His mind flooded with the roar of Snoqualmie Falls, the icy froth, the weight of the velocipede wheel as he hefted it overhead. He felt not terror but exhilaration. It now took nearly as much strength to keep quiet about his amazing adventure. He did a rapid self-assessment and discovered what he felt was pride. He’d cheated death today. He’d faced a nightmare in that river and survived. He jabbed a hunk of beef and chewed happily.

  Mrs. Prouty entered the dining room, muttering that she supposed her Saturday nights would be disrupted from now on until Miss Fremont moved out.

  Bradshaw made a quick decision. “Missouri won’t be moving out.”

  “She won’t, Professor?”

  “I won’t?”

  “She won’t?” The delight in Justin’s voice was a distinct contrast to the astonishment of the other two.

  “No, she won’t. Of course she won’t. Henry would never forgive me if I let his niece live alone in some apartment.”

  “Mr. Bradshaw, I’m twenty-one.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it.”

  “I couldn’t impose on you like that, Mr. Bradshaw. I’m most grateful for your hospitality, but I never meant for you to keep me for any length of time.”

  For the first time, Mrs. Prouty agreed with Missouri. “Many girls has their own places nowadays, Professor.”

  Bradshaw shot her a glance that not only silenced her but sent her waddling huffily back into the kitchen.

  Missouri spread butter on her roll. “I’m not destitute you know, I have a small savings. Plenty to get by on, if I’m not excessive. Don’t you think it would be best if I found an apartment?”

  “No.” He knew modern girls lived alone, and he knew Missouri in ordinary circumstances was capable of managing, but her uncle’s name had been in today’s paper, in connection with Bradshaw, in connection with murder.

  She looked at him. “Do you really want me to stay?”

  In the chandelier light, her brown eyes glowed like amber, and Bradshaw was struck anew at how her plain features were transformed by the radiance of her coloring. He could not send her out into the world alone. Not with her uncle a suspect, not with men like Artimus Lowe drawn to her “compelling” features like flies to honey. Not with a murderer still at large.

  He now had two precious souls under his roof to protect. Three, if he counted Mrs. Prouty’s ornery old soul. Four if he counted his own, which someone might again attempt to set free from his mortal being.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, and Justin shouted, “Hurrah!”

  The bang of a pot hitting the floor echoed from the kitchen telling Bradshaw he had no need to pass on the decision.

  ***

  Later that evening, after discreetly going through the house and locking every door and window, Bradshaw lit a comfortable fire in the parlor. The front page of the newspaper gave flame to the kindling. His household would hear soon enough the city’s speculation about Henry, he didn’t need them to read of it tonight.

  He sat in his favorite easy chair to at last grade those student papers. This afternoon’s near-drowning drifted into a long-ago nightmare, yet he knew it was because of it he felt so alive, so keenly aware of the warmth and comfort of his home and small family.

  Justin lay sprawled before the warm hearth with the children’s page of the newspaper and a pair of scissors to cut out the “Puss’n Boots” puppet.

  Missouri remained at the dining table, feet tucked beneath her, much as a child would sit, studying the help-wanted ads. She’d been in the city less than twenty-four hours, and already she showed more responsibility than her uncle. Thank heavens for that.

  Bradshaw concentrated on the exams, losing himself in the logic of mathematical equations. He worked steadily for an hour. Oscar Daulton, he was glad to see, had done very well. He’d overcome his anxiety and his answers reflected how very hard he’d been studying. At the bottom of the test he’d written, as had all the students, I have neither given nor received aid during the taking of this exam. The words stood out boldly for he’d used Bradshaw’s dark lead pencil to write them.

  He thought of that oath. It represented honesty and fairness. Those were the virtues the university supported. Oglethorpe’s death represented the very opposite. His death had been a sneak attack, his body moved. McKinley’s bulb had been broken, the evidence all but erased. And today. Bradshaw had been pushed by an unseen hand. Someone had lain in wait for him. Someone wanted his death to look like an accident or suicide. Someone with a devious, murderous mind was still out there, still plotting.

  “I could be a cook.”

  Bradshaw looked up. He blinked. It took considerable effort to return his mind to the young woman looking at him expectantly from his dining room.

  “A cook?” His mouth watered at the thought of her biscuits and gravy, but he didn’t like the idea of her in some seedy little kitchen in the back of one of Seattle’s many restaurants.

  “There are several listings for cooks.” She leaned even further over the table, draped like some boneless creature, one long leg dangling to the floor. “But I do love cooking, and I’m so afraid that if it became my job, I’d hate it. Some things are like that, you know. You love to do them, say for your family, but it’s tedious to do for pay. Still, it’s something—”

  “For crimeny sake, Missouri, you don’t want to be a cook, g
o on to the other listings.”

  She looked at him, startled.

  “I mean a cook would be a menial job, unsuited for a girl like, well, there must be something else.”

  “There must.” She continued to look at him.

  “You must reach up for your highest expectations.” It sounded stuffy, even to his own ears, but it was the most profound thing he knew to say, and it was what he said to each new crop of students in the fall.

  “That’s my trouble, Mr. Bradshaw. I don’t know what my highest expectations are. Everything has changed so immensely of late. I’m like, well, like a tadpole just changed into a frog and I don’t know yet how I’m supposed to breathe.”

  Tadpole to frog? Good grief. She was dangerously close to talking about cycles again, and he surely didn’t want to get onto the subject of life and death. Especially not death.

  She continued gazing at him, her face expectant as if awaiting some great words of guidance. He set the exams aside and joined her at the dining table.

  She glided back into a semi-seated position in her chair, her chin resting thoughtfully in a slim porcelain hand, her eyes focused steadily on him.

  He cleared his throat. “What do you most enjoy doing?”

  “Well, I love growing things, seeing a seed poke from the earth and grow toward the sun. I love swimming, you know, late on a hot summer afternoon. Slipping into the cool water when my skin is hot and dusty. I— “

  “Missouri,” he interrupted, still struggling with the image of her slim graceful figure slipping through the cool waters of a pond. “Do you have any skills that could translate into gainful employment here in the city? Can you use a typewriter, keep books? You’ll have to stop in at the offices. Present yourself for hire, and see what you find.”

  For a few minutes, she was uncomfortably quiet. Bradshaw realized his casual proposition would not be so easy for her to undertake. She had no experience in navigating a city as large as Seattle. No experience in the business world. He wished he had not made the suggestion.

  She bit her lip. “Would you come with me? Downtown?”

  He looked away. He had classes tomorrow morning, and plans to investigate Artimus Lowe in the afternoon. He needed to sort out this horrid mess before anyone else was killed, himself included, or before the police came knocking again. He didn’t have time to escort a country girl around the city.

  “Please.” Her husky voice pulled him back. Her eyes pleaded softly. Enticingly. Unexpected anger gripped him. How dare she show up here, now, needing him, confusing him, when his life was upside down?

  “I’ll be home at one.” His words were hard and clipped, but she thanked him anyway and he felt like a beast. She was Henry’s niece, he should be helping her, not fighting with himself because he found her inconvenient and—attractive. He was stunned by the thought. She’s as young as your students, Bradshaw! Give her advice not unwanted, inappropriate attention. She’s too bright to spend her youth in some dingy office. Tell her that. “You should find yourself a job for the summer. In the fall, you should attend the university.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “But I’ve never been to school. My mother taught me at home.”

  “According to your letters, your education was thorough. We have many home-schooled children attending. You can take an equivalency test.”

  “Do you think I could pass it? The test isn’t too difficult?”

  “I don’t think so. With a little study, you could pass.”

  “Is it terribly expensive?”

  “It’s free, state funded. You need only buy your books.”

  “Oh!”

  She threw her arms in the air as the idea coursed through her veins like a heady wine. Then she sank back into her chair, stretching her long legs beneath the table and her arms overhead, a song of laughter spilling from her.

  The sight of her, as her eyes turned dark and dreamy with the possibility of a college degree, momentarily took Bradshaw’s breath. His anger melted. He forgot everything. He had the feeling of time coming to a complete halt, of all existence hushing and slowing to gaze at the sight of this happy girl.

  And then a giggle came from the other end of the table. Tearing his eyes from Missouri, he found the sound’s origin in his son. Justin had approached silently, and he now too was mesmerized by Missouri. His eyes danced, his mouth hung open in awe as if observing some wonder of nature for the very first time. How long had it been since he’d seen his boy smile so?

  Had he ever?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Black bunting drooped over the main entry of the Administration Building, and black armbands adorned many sleeves. It was a charade. The proper etiquette was being followed, but only on the surface. Beneath, a tense excitement vibrated. The students, even the staff, were unable to keep from gossiping, from wondering what had happened to Professor Oglethorpe. It was death without the usual sorrow, and for that Bradshaw felt an uncomfortable and quite unexpected pang of sympathy for Oglethorpe. No man’s death should cause so many people so much entertainment. The poor dead bastard.

  Outside Oglethorpe’s office door, Bradshaw raised his hand to knock, then his palm fell silently to the glass knob. He entered hesitantly. The office was larger than Bradshaw’s, with a window overlooking the oval. On a clear day, Mount Rainier would be framed in the glass, floating above the line of firs. Today, the view was blocked by a manmade haze of smoke and soot and dust rising from the never-ending construction. In another decade, Bradshaw wondered, would there be a native blade of grass or tree in the Northwest left standing?

  And would there be any hills? He’d taken a long detour on his way to the university this morning, negotiating traffic and mud, construction and ditches, until he came at last to Henry’s former place of employment, an enormous pile of dirt north of Pike Street. Denny Hill was being leveled in the name of progress, to make it easier for builders and horses and streetcars. Soon, other hills in the city would be taken down, one shovel-full at a time, until Seattle was as flat as Kansas. It was almost enough to tempt Bradshaw, who hated politics, into running for mayor to put a stop to the foolishness.

  Henry hadn’t reported to work last Thursday morning. The foreman said Henry had finally appeared on the job site at two-thirty only to say he’d quit and was heading north. Bradshaw had talked with the laborers, and they’d asked the same questions he’d intended to ask them. Since Henry was perpetually broke, where did he get the bankroll for the expedition kit? Why had he decided to go now, all-of-a-sudden? Why were the police asking questions about Henry? He saw in their eyes questions they withheld, questions about himself and the late Professor Oglethorpe.

  Bradshaw kept telling himself that since Henry was on a boat, miserably and deservedly seasick, and had been since Thursday afternoon, he couldn’t have had anything to do with yesterday’s near fatal dunking. But the thought didn’t provide the comfort it should. Henry had friends of questionable reputation. Friends with scars and a hundred violent stories who might have taken it upon themselves to push the blame to Bradshaw by pushing him over the falls.

  “Professor?”

  Bradshaw turned from the window to find a huddle of students in the open doorway. Among them were Oscar Daulton, Glen Reeves, and Sara Trout. They stared at him open-mouthed and aghast. He presumed they hadn’t expected to see him at school, in Oglethorpe’s office, after the newspaper’s heavy hints of his guilt.

  “The police took away some of his papers,” said Mr. Reeves, glancing about the room.

  The room did look as if it had been searched. The books on the shelf were askew, the cabinet drawers not fully closed. The desktop begged to be tidied, but Bradshaw fought his natural instinct to instill order.

  Under the silent watchful eyes of the students, he continued with the task that had brought him here. He found in a cabinet drawer the syllabus,
class notes, text book, and grade book for the class he was to assume for the final weeks of the term.

  Under the students’ still silent gaze, he began a slow and methodical search of Oglethorpe’s things. It was such a violation, to poke about in a man’s private desk, especially since that man couldn’t possibly put a stop to it. In the back of the top desk drawer he found a small cardboard packet labeled “Dr. Thompson’s Kola Tablets for Improved Manhood.” He hastily shoved the packet back where he’d found it. Death, it occurred to him, was the end of a man’s privacy, and he made a mental note to be watchful of leaving humiliating clues of his own private life. At the moment, he could think of nothing more embarrassing than castor oil in his medicine cabinet, but who knew what remedies he might someday need?

  He continued his search, not knowing what he was looking for. He hoped something significant or meaningful would present itself. Of course, if there was some threatening letter from an anarchist, or from Henry, the police would have already confiscated it.

  Though he tried to hide it, Bradshaw’s entire body ached. His movements had no strength behind them. He felt bruised in places he didn’t know he possessed. Even his hair hurt. The pain pressed an odd steadiness over Bradshaw’s movements and, surprisingly, echoed pleasant memories of youth. He hadn’t had sore muscles since his college days, and he wondered if he should start making use of the university’s gymnasium.

  “The police wanted to know if we’d ever heard you threaten Professor Oglethorpe,” Reeves said at last. “We said you’d called him a pompous so-and-so under your breath, but you never mumbled anything about harming him.” The students laughed nervously, but congenially.

  “I must learn to mumble more quietly.”

  Reeves smiled, and Miss Trout said in surprise, “I think he’s teasing us.”

  “Not Prof Bradshaw, he’s always serious.” This from Daulton, whose flushed face indicated he was pleased to be included in the small group.