Riot looked at the label. “I am not testing this.”
“Coward,” she grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Gone with my youth.”
“All the more reason to try it,” she quipped.
“How thoughtful of you, Bel.” He set the box on a chair, unopened. “Productive day?”
She nearly preened. “You first.”
“I asked,” he returned, planting himself firmly in front of the table.
“We could play a game of chess for the business, but that could take awhile.”
“Especially considering I don’t know how to play.”
She blinked at the man as if he were a simpleton.
“Poker?”
“I don’t play with chance—or cheaters,” she added, having seen his quick hands.
“Teach me to play chess then.”
“Only if you teach me to pick locks.”
“Now what makes you think I can pick a lock?”
Isobel crossed her arms, mirroring his own stance.
“It wouldn’t be my ‘fair and deft hands’ by any chance?” he asked with swagger.
Color threatened, but Isobel stood her ground.
A knowing light entered Riot’s eyes. “I know I have you when you’re speechless.”
She opened her mouth, but no quick words emerged. Isobel cleared her throat, knocking her brain on track. “Will you teach me to pick locks? And track,” she added.
“All that I know is yours as long as you teach me to play chess.”
“You’re a horrid negotiator, Riot.”
“Depends on what I was aiming for,” he replied cryptically. Before she could prod this new line of conversation, Riot stepped aside and gestured towards the paper he had been working on.
Isobel read it aloud. “Roses are red. Violet is blue. Petals fall and so she will too. The house beckons.” She frowned. “That is horrid prose.”
“Ghosts aren’t known for their poetry.”
“It’s written in the same hand as the letters.”
“As far as I can tell,” Riot said. “There’s a good chance that this is what Henry discovered in his bedroom. A note this small could have been slipped into his coat pocket.”
“Ghosts do that,” she agreed, remembering the busy grocers. “Or—it was put into the room while that fellow Garrett distracted the landlady.”
“Plenty of opportunity.”
“I’m afraid I may have solved your case.”
Riot leaned back on the table, expectant. She told him of her day. At the end, he sighed. “I warned Bert Dunham that he might not like the answer.”
Isobel had not thought of that detail. “But Elma was happy, wasn’t she? Miss Faith said that Elma didn’t want anything to do with her past. At least there’s that.”
Riot smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “Yet in the end, she didn’t love him enough to trust. I think Bert Dunham is the type of man who would forgive most anything. It’s a shame she didn’t try.”
“We still have to track Charles Thorton down. And we don’t know what Violet said to Elma—or if it really was Violet who visited at all.”
Riot cocked his head, but before she could elaborate on her theory, the door opened. Tim appeared, closing it softly again. He whipped off his cap, thrust his hands in his pocket, and stood rocking on his heels, looking like a child bursting with a secret to be told.
“Evening, Mr. Tim,” she greeted.
“Miss Bel.”
“Bonnie today,” Riot reminded.
“So she is.”
“I’ve brought you a present, A.J.”
“So did Bel.” Riot nodded towards the box.
Tim stepped forward, and whistled, eyes twinkling. “I’m afraid my present isn’t as invigorating. I looked into that list of banks. Turns out that Elma was looking for an employee by the name of—”
“Charles Thorton,” Isobel supplied.
Tim blinked, surprised. “Not bad for a girl.”
Isobel snorted at the jab.
“But this old man,” he thrust a thumb at his chest, “tracked the fellow down. He’s not a banker; he’s a swell and con-man who is known to me, and he is waiting outside with a tongue that needs loosening.”
Riot calmly began rolling down his sleeves, but Isobel was overcome. Feeling like a child on Christmas morning, she planted a kiss on his shiny head. Tim turned red, and she shot out the door.
Charles Thorton was not precisely waiting; he was being held prisoner. Matthew Smith, an ex-patrolman, and Johnson, both large intimidating men, stood on either side of a petrified gentleman dressed in the latest fashion. His hair gleamed, his mustache was oiled, and his plaid suit clashed with a garish waistcoat.
When Thorton saw a woman enter, he put on charm and a smile that would supposedly melt any female’s heart. The smile was lost on Isobel. She stopped and considered her opponent.
Smith looked to his senior in question, then back to the woman in their office. His gaze traveled over her shoulder, and she felt Riot stop at her side.
“It’s your investigation,” he murmured in her ear.
“Your man caught him.”
“I believe Tim is besotted after your kiss. He’d likely follow you anywhere now.”
“Turn about is fair play.”
“I always have Watson,” he agreed.
Her eyes danced with mirth, but when she turned them back on Thorton, they mirrored his charm.
Isobel had the size of the man and she wanted him all to herself. “This gentleman looks like a civilized sort. Surely there’s no need for a guard.”
Smith and Johnson looked at Riot, who nodded. The men left and Isobel moved forward, offering her hand. Thorton stood, and took it, planting a smooth kiss on her knuckles.
“Such a gentleman. Shall we converse in private?”
She gestured towards Riot’s office.
“Ladies first,” Thorton tipped an imaginary hat, and followed on her heels. Riot was close behind.
“Sit down, Mr. Thorton.” Isobel sat on the edge of the desk, and nudged a chair out with her foot. Any name he’d give would likely be as false as the one he had used with Elma, so she didn’t bother asking after another.
Riot stood silent by the back wall. It made Thorton uneasy. He glanced back at the quiet man. “This is unlawful. I have a lawyer.”
“Questions aren’t unlawful,” she soothed. “Sit.” And she crossed her legs, showing off a shapely ankle. Mr. Thorton sat, eyes appreciating the view.
“I didn’t get your name, Miss.”
“Bonnie.”
“That’s for sure.”
Isobel smiled pleasantly. “I hear you’re a banker,” she said, mimicking her twin’s sultry tones.
“Formerly employed,” he replied.
Thorton started to twist in his chair, to eye Riot, but Isobel gripped his tie, pulling him gently back. She ran her fingers down the ghastly waistcoat and toyed with a diamond stick pin. “It looks as though it paid well.”
“I do all right.” He relaxed beneath her stroking touch.
“Were you acquainted with an Elma Erving?”
“Can’t say the name is familiar.”
“No?” She looked him square in the eye. “You should think harder.”
“I know a lot of women, and they know me.”
“Wrong answer.” She pressed on his stick pin, hard. The repositioned tip dug into his skin. Thorton yelped, and hopped out of his chair, but she planted her boot on his thigh, and kicked. He fell back into the chair. “Oh, dear, the back of your tie pin came off. Let me help you with that.” She plucked the pin from the silk. “Are you sure you don’t remember Elma Erving?” she asked, straightening his tie and making to reinsert the pin.
“I might recall,” he hastened. “A woman I met at Ocean Beach. Things didn’t work out between us, but we left on amiable terms.”
“You abandoned her with child.”
“It’s none o
f my concern. We weren’t engaged. I didn’t take her for a soiled dove.”
“You seduced her.” She jabbed the pin back into the silk. Thorton flinched, hands gripping the armrest. “And then you ran.”
“With her loose morals, any man might have got her with child. There’s no proof.”
“You’re right, there isn’t.” Isobel straightened, picking up an ink pot from the desk. “So there’s no harm in answering my questions. Why did you target Elma? You strike me as a man who has a more—profitable taste.” Slowly, she unscrewed the lid.
“Does a man need a reason to seduce a lovely face?”
“Lovely faces are notoriously clumsy.” Isobel leant forward. “That’s a nice suit.”
Thorton looked down, eyes darting to the pot in her hand.
“I once dropped an ink pot on a man. By accident of course. It ruined his suit and stained his skin black for months. I laughed every time he—disrobed. Now that’s a soiled dove.”
Thorton tried to squirm away, but she jabbed her finger on his pin. He stilled.
“You’re a lunatic.”
“No, I’m a very clumsy woman who would like a straight answer.” She swirled the liquid in the pot. “Elma wasn’t wealthy, it wasn’t love, so what drew you to her?”
“Someone paid me to seduce her. That’s all. There’s no crime in entertaining a willing woman.”
“Who paid you?”
“A woman named Violet.”
“Where did you meet?”
“At one of the cafes along Ocean Beach. I don’t know how she got wind of me.”
“Because you’re not near as clever as you imagine. When did she contact you?”
“I don’t know. Some time last summer.”
“What did she look like?”
“Taller than that fellow,” Thorton thrust his chin towards Riot. “Reddish hair, pale green eyes—a handsome woman all around.”
Isobel fired more questions, but Thorton had no more answers. When she had her fill of the swindler, she let him go, and he bolted.
Riot sat in the vacated chair, crossed his legs, and met her gaze.
“A neat circle of death, isn’t it?”
“A little too neat,” he noted.
“And well planned.” She replaced the lid and set the ink pot on the desk. “The nurse said that Violet had her eye on Virgil. Maybe Violet blamed Elma and Henry for his death. Then paid Thorton to seduce Elma, to ruin her, and then lured Henry into a relationship and tricked him into the bath. Men aren’t exactly known for their intellect when a naked woman is involved.”
“We are simple creatures.”
“Surely not you, Mr. Riot?”
“I’m only a man.”
“A pity,” she sighed.
Riot arched an amused brow, but whatever was on his lips, she never discovered. The door opened, and Tim poked in his head. “I’ve a telegram for a Miss Bonnie.”
Isobel opened the missive and read. She met Riot’s gaze, eyes gleaming with excitement. “I sent a query to Victoria Foster’s solicitor in New York. As it turns out, she was not without money. Her estate is valued at just over a million dollars. Mansfield Randall, Victoria’s brother, was lost at sea seven years ago. Randall is set to be declared dead in a month’s time. Violet was going to inherit every last penny.”
Riot interlaced his fingers. “Henry’s money issues and sudden interest in Violet takes on a whole new light.”
“To say nothing of the concentrated arsenic wafers and the grandmother’s death.”
25
Ladies and Lock Picks
Sunday, February 18th, 1900
SUNDAYS WERE TEDIOUS. PREACHERS preached; families picnicked, and women wore white, while the whores and johns of the Barbary Coast feasted on sin.
Isobel fit nowhere. She wanted answers. The gears in her mind were a ceaseless, hungry machine reaching for resolution. Waiting on a judge’s order did not suit her, but there was little to be done, especially on Sunday.
A veil of silver hung over quiet streets. The lanes and alleys were empty—too early for hoodlums and cutthroats. Isobel walked down a back alley strewn with refuse and lively with rats, opened a rickety storm door, and disappeared into darkness. A brick wall greeted her. She ran her fingers along its rough edge, dipped her finger into a jagged hole, and pressed the latch. It clicked. The brick swung open. A false door. She entered the maw and closed the secret door. It was pitch dark, and she shuffled forward in silence, until she came to an identical door. The brick swung inward, and she stepped into a curtained room and plush carpet.
She wiped her shoes on a mat, reached for a feathered mask on a stand, and climbed a short stairwell, moving into a maze of Grecian statues, gold gilt, and obscene paintings. Isobel navigated the quiet hallways with ease. She stopped at a door and knocked softly. When no one immediately answered, she tried the handle. It was locked. So she knocked, harder.
The door cracked open. A sleepy-eyed Lotario looked out. He frowned at the mask. “Hades suits you so well, sister dear.”
She tried to enter, but he kept the door firmly open at a crack. “I’m entertaining,” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“Still?” Isobel removed the owl mask. “Are you entertaining a client or a friend?”
Lotario stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind him. He wore a sheet and she tried to turn off her olfactory sense.
“All my clients become friends,” he boasted.
“Did you find out anything more?”
Lotario rolled his eyes, and leaned against his door. “It’s Sunday,” he drawled.
“And you had all day yesterday to question people.”
“Your newspaper article loosened Lola’s tongue. I met her for tea. It was tedious. You owe me.”
“What did she say?”
Lotario held up a finger. “First, a promise.”
“I’m trying to solve a trio of murders, Ari. What did you discover?”
“Promise me that you will take today off and spend it with Riot.”
“I’m on my way to his house.”
“I’ll send you a telegram then.”
“What did Violet’s friend tell you?” she growled, and grabbed his sheet.
“I’ll shout for Bruno.”
She let him go. Bruno was a small giant, and the stalwart bouncer of the Narcissus.
“Promise.” He held up his pinky.
Isobel glared, but relented, hooking her pinky around his and feeling utterly childish.
“That’s better,” he smiled. “I can’t stand it when you are serious. I’ll even let you borrow a delicious tea gown.”
“No.”
Lotario crossed his arms. “I found out what Violet was up to for a year.”
“Fine, tell me.”
“Violet wasn’t working as an actress. She was staying at a sanitarium: Bright Waters in Calistoga. Violet was supposedly near to cracking before she left. The health resort restored her. Now, wait here while I get that dress.”
✥
The skull of a raven protruded from the door, a big iron visage with a deadly beak that knocked into a metal plate. This was precisely the kind of house that Isobel would have loved as a child. Its turrets and windows and sprawling hillside location brought to mind Poe. The smiling woman who answered the door was far from the Red Death, however.
“Charlotte Bonnie for Mr. Riot.” Isobel felt odd entering through a formal door. The day before she had visited as Mr. Morgan, and the month before that, a mysterious guest. “You must be Miss White. I met your sons yesterday. Tobias is a talker.” Miss White was taken aback by her friendliness. Isobel had donned Lotario’s dress, and for once looked a proper lady.
“He is at that, I hope he didn’t bother you?”
“Never,” Isobel said, walking into the foyer. “Saved me time and was good company to boot.”
“Happy to hear, Miss Bonnie. If you’ll just wait in the parlor, I’ll let Mr. Riot know you’ve a
rrived.”
The woman left, and Isobel made a slow circuit around the polished room. She stopped at the wide doors that led to the second parlor, and the formal dining room beyond.
There was a large table and a heavy chandelier. She imagined Ravenwood’s head on the platter, staring down that long row of rooms. Partner for twenty years, friend, a father figure perhaps. What would seeing such a thing do to a man?
Her thoughts went to Watson, not the cat, but her favorite fictional detective. Sherlock Holmes had plummeted into a watery abyss. Watson had not witnessed his friend’s death, but his grief seeped from the pages. Finding a note was one thing; discovering your friend’s head on a dinner platter in your own home was quite another.
Isobel’s heart lurched. This wasn’t fiction. The head had been a message, and considering that Riot was the living partner, it had likely been left for him to find. She shivered, and turned from the room, finding the man in the flesh.
His eyes were quiet and appreciative and he smiled warmly. “Good morning, Bel. You look well rested, and—”
“Womanly?” She stepped towards him, so he wouldn’t see that long passage to the waiting room.
“Lovely.”
“I think Lotario was hoping for seductive. It’s my twin’s dress,” she confided.
“It suits you. How is Lotario?”
“Exhausted, but useful. He’s found out where Violet disappeared to for a year.” Isobel held her breath, letting anticipation build, but Riot only waited. “Bright Waters in Napa,” she blurted out. “It’s a sanitarium, and they aren’t on the telephone. Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
“I do not.”
“Good, we’ll sail at first light.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” he saluted. “I’m breakfasting on the terrace with Miss Dupree. Would you care to join us?”
“I’d love to.”
“Circle around back.” There was mischief in his eyes, and she very nearly rubbed her hands together.
Isobel showed herself out, took her time admiring the hedges, and then ventured down the long driveway. She heard laughter, a soft feminine sound that trickled like water.
The terrace sat in sunlight and the woman in the white tea gown was radiant.
A Bitter Draught Page 21