Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “What does the chief window dresser, Mr. Troy Ruzauskas, have to say about the scorched cloth?”

  “That it wasn’t his fault, and neither was the last near conflagration.”

  “Who does he blame?”

  “He doesn’t, not specifically. He’s angry and flummoxed by the accusations.”

  A bevy of women swept by, smelling of perfume from the Fragrance Department mingled with the damp wool of their outerwear, and chattering of an upcoming engagement for which they all required new gowns. Bradshaw’s eye was drawn once again to the simple, elegant gown in the back of the department, and he imagined Missouri wearing it, standing in the parlor in the soft glow of the—

  “It’s called a chemise, Ben.”

  Bradshaw’s glance snapped back to O’Brien.

  “It’s not a dress, it’s an undergarment. That’s why it’s on a headless mannequin. You know, to make it less vulgar on public display. You give that to Missouri for Christmas, and Mrs. Prouty will clout you with her frying pan.”

  Bradshaw cleared his throat, and gave a final, resigned glance at the forbidden garment. “Wh—”

  “It’s gone on too long, Ben. You’re just torturing yourself.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “I wasn’t around when you went to pieces over your wife’s death, but I saw the aftermath, and it wasn’t pretty.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “Yes, it is. It’s exactly the same because she’s not right for you. She’s too young, too modern, too free-thinking. The longer you drag out this purgatory, the worse hell it will be when it ends. And you’ll go back to being the dour, plodding, miserable man I met a couple years ago. Yes, Missouri Fremont helped you get better, but you can’t seriously think you’ll ever find a way to marry her.”

  Bradshaw sat stunned at O’Brien’s directness. “This really isn’t the appropriate time to be having this discussion.”

  “I didn’t bring it up, you did. Your mind isn’t on the case, it’s on that undergarment you think is a dress, it’s on the conversation you haven’t yet had with Father McGuinness because you know how it will end.”

  A sharp pain radiated along Bradshaw’s jaw and down to his shoulder, and he realized that the buzz in his head was the grinding of his teeth. Not willing to face his own anger nor the truth he would see reflected, he could no longer meet O’Brien’s eyes. As they sat, not speaking, not looking at each other, a saleswoman approached and asked if they needed assistance. Detective O’Brien flashed his badge, and the woman left them alone.

  Bradshaw said curtly, “What did the window dresser have to say about Doyle’s death?”

  O’Brien paused a moment, as if weighing his options. His heavy sigh signaled a truce. He said, “Ruzauskas and Doyle conferred on the placement and timing of the holiday lights at midnight, at which time Ruzauskas went home—alone—with the intention of returning the next morning to see the lights, but he overslept and didn’t awaken until his landlady pounded on the door to say he was wanted by the police.”

  Bradshaw said, “Billy was here that night until midnight, too. Do we have a time of death?”

  “Coroner says he’s near certain Doyle died between two and four. Rigor wasn’t far established and the stomach contents not much digested. Doyle was seen in the men’s lunch room at half past midnight, having a bite.”

  “Did anyone see Mr. Ruzauskas leave the store?”

  “He left through the employee entrance, signed the book. So did Billy Creasle.”

  “Ruzauskas is a diver. Did he tell you? He hired Galloway Diving several times to take him searching for Daulton’s box.”

  O’Brien’s eyebrows flashed up. “Now that’s interesting.”

  “I agree. There were fifty or more employees here in various capacities, mostly in stocking and shipping, the night Vernon Doyle died. I’m not ready to disregard them all, but I believe we’re safe in eliminating anyone from suspicion who had no close relationship with Doyle. The location of the switch and the time at which it was thrown indicate an action of intent triggered by strong emotion, not casual irritation.”

  “But must it have been an intent to kill? Could it have merely been an intent to turn on the tree lights?”

  “Doyle was in the process of twisting together bare wire. The lights were in his hands, not on the tree. Most people these days understand the dangers of electricity, wouldn’t you say?”

  O’Brien shrugged. “Many know it’s dangerous, and nothing else. And everyone working in this store has become comfortable, even nonchalant, about flipping switches and pressing buzzers. Someone could have come by and…” O’Brien tilted his head, and Bradshaw could see he was trying to imagine a scenario in which some employee might stop by to say hello at two in the morning and throw the switch with no ill intent. He shook his head. “So we know it was homicide or murder.”

  “It’s possible someone could have managed to enter the store after hours, or hidden themselves away until after closing. We may investigate those scenarios if premeditation arises as a possibility. But so far, it looks both intentional and unpremeditated. No one could have predicted Doyle would be in a vulnerable situation, and exposure to electric current isn’t always fatal. The pulling of that switch was the equivalent of shoving somebody down the stairs. There’s a certainty of harm but no guarantee of death.”

  “So who do we have then? Olafson to silence Doyle? The seamstress in a lover’s spat or to end an affair? We’ve only got hearsay about both of those possibilities. Neither one of them were here, or so they say. You’ve talked to Billy, who found the body. The only other person in the store that we know might be connected to Doyle was Ruzauskas, and he left at midnight and didn’t return, at least not officially, until after the body was found. He’s here now, if you want to talk to him.”

  “I do.” He got to his feet, and O’Brien followed suit.

  “Do you want to look over my notes?”

  “No, I trust you’ve told me what I need to know, Detective.” Their eyes met briefly, and Bradshaw was first to look away.

  “I’m sorry, Ben, but it had to be said. It’s Christmas and I want to close this case. I can’t do it without you.”

  Bradshaw couldn’t think of a polite response, so he said nothing.

  O’Brien said, “If our killer wasn’t someone on the store’s night crew, then who? The doors are locked and no one gets in at night except through the employee entrance.”

  “Do we know if the lockup procedure was performed in full at closing on Tuesday night?”

  “According to Mr. Olafson, yes.”

  Bradshaw pondered a moment, thinking of locks and doors and ways they were opened.

  “Do all the entry doors require a key to open them from inside the store?”

  “No. Two main entrances and all the windows can be unbolted from within. Has to do with fire insurance, I believe. But they’re alarmed, and the alarm switches are locked.”

  Bradshaw said, “The alarm switches are locked in the electrical cabinets near the doors. The same cabinets that control the show windows. And Vernon Doyle possessed a key, and he had the cabinet open all night.”

  This time, when their eyes met, they were thinking only of Vernon Doyle. Bradshaw said aloud what they were both thinking. “He let in his killer.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bradshaw rapped on the partially open door of the third floor office and called, “Mr. Ruzauskas?”

  “Yes, Professor Bradshaw. Please, come in.”

  He stepped in carefully, turning sideways to slide between easels to reach the open bit of floor space. Colorful sketches of artfully arranged window displays covered every inch of the wall, and Bradshaw allowed himself a moment of admiration.

  “Did you do all these?”

  “I did.”

  The designs set appealing
scenes of hearth and home, celebrations, relaxation, and adventure, and they revealed an artistic talent as impressive as any he’d ever seen in a museum.

  He turned to the window dresser, perched on a stool before an easel bearing draft paper with a scant few pencil lines. Younger than Bradshaw expected, the designer was in his mid-twenties, perhaps, and stage actor handsome, with a shock of blond hair, a clean-shaven angular face, and blue eyes filled with an open, honest expression. Yet he seemed unaware of his looks, and he’d dressed as if he’d reached for his clothes in the dark, finding them in a crumpled pile on the floor.

  Bradshaw said, “I won’t keep you long from your work.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m not getting a thing done.”

  “Detective O’Brien gave me the details of your earlier interview, and I just wanted to clarify a few things.”

  “All right. I’d offer you a chair, but there isn’t one, only my stool here.”

  “It’s quite all right. You left the store at midnight, after discussing with Mr. Doyle the arrangement of the holiday lighting?”

  “Yes, and he was alive and well when I left. And there was no cloth anywhere near the footlights in that show window. All those handkerchiefs were in the pockets of the mannequins, where they belong. I know for certain because after the last incident, which also was not my fault, I always triple check my work to be sure nothing is near the lights.”

  “What happened the previous time?”

  “A mannequin was moved too near the front of the window and the hem of a skirt draped over a light.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few weeks ago, during the Thanksgiving sales. The store was packed with customers.”

  “Was it determined who moved the mannequin?”

  “No, but I got the blame when the dress caught fire. Thank goodness Mrs. Adkins smelled the smoke that time or I would have been given more than a warning. I’ve been told that my job is now in jeopardy, so if you could shed some light onto how that handkerchief was scorched, I’d be grateful.”

  “Mrs. Adkins? The seamstress?”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  Was it a coincidence that the alleged mistress of Vernon Doyle was present at the time of that near conflagration? Bradshaw asked, “Do you know of anyone who would like to see you lose your position?”

  “What? You think someone deliberately put that cloth near the lamp?”

  “It’s an option I must consider,” he said vaguely. The cloth had been placed with deliberation, not carelessness, but had the intent been to harm Vernon Doyle or Troy Ruzauskas? “Is there anyone here at the store who would like your job?”

  “Oh, come now, Professor. Who would risk burning down a department store to get a job? A bit self-defeating, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Neither time did a full fire develop. You say Mrs. Adkins smelled smoke during that first incident?”

  “That’s right. She does all the adjustments to make the clothes look good on the mannequins. A customer wanted to buy a skirt from off the display. It was the only one left in the store. Mrs. Adkins was called to unstitch it.”

  “And she was doing so when she smelled smoke?”

  “The customer smelled it, too, and goodness knows who all had been mucking about in that window. Customers have no respect for store property when they see an item they want.”

  “Did the smoke set off the sprinkler system?”

  “No, thank goodness. Can you imagine the sodden mess? Mrs. Adkins pulled the dress away, and it burst into flames, and she screamed, and the customer screamed, or so I’m told. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even at the store. Luckily, Billy heard the shouts of fire and came running with a water bucket.”

  “Billy Creasle? That was a quick response.”

  “We’re all trained in fire safety. Mrs. Adkins should have grabbed the bucket, but she panicked. The sprinkler system doesn’t go into the windows, so water and sand buckets are kept nearby.”

  “On Wednesday night, you’re sure there was no handkerchief on or near the footlights when you left at midnight?”

  “No, they were where they belonged, in the pocket of the smoking jackets of the male mannequins. Maybe Mr. Doyle removed one, but I don’t know why he would have, and of course he can’t tell us whether he did or didn’t.”

  “Were the window lights on when you left?”

  “I left soon after Mr. Doyle shut them off from the main box. They’d been on for some time. The window was quite warm. The lights are turned on at seven in the morning. You’ve probably been told that. When the weather is sunny, Mr. Andrews may turn the lights off during the day for a few hours, but they are turned on again before dark and remain on until midnight. After I left, Mr. Doyle was going to wire the new Edison electric holiday lights onto a clever timing device that was supposed to cycle on and off all day. Those holiday lights were going to be attached to the tree, and they get hot. Doyle and I are very aware of the potential for fire. We always take care.”

  “You’re an amateur diver?”

  Ruzauskas blinked, looking slightly startled by the question. “Yes, how’d you know?”

  “I was at Galloway Diving today and saw his client list.”

  “Are you a diver?” Ruzauskas’ face lit with hope.

  “No.”

  “Oh,” he said with disappointment, then shrugged. “Well, I’m an amateur, but I may have to turn professional if I lose my job here. What store would hire me if they thought I was a fire starter?”

  “What is your interest in diving?”

  Troy’s expression changed, softening, cheering. “It’s exciting. You should try it. It’s like traveling to another world. The creatures down below are spectacular. I’ve been doing some sketches and painting underwater scenes—” he got up from his stool and reached behind a pile of canvases, pulling out one from the back “—but it’s hard to capture.”

  The canvas depicted a blue-green world of sparkling light, jagged rocks softened by plants and inhabited by creatures Bradshaw didn’t know the proper names of.

  Ruzauskas said, “The light is faint in Puget Sound, but the quality and texture is exquisite, especially in shallower depths. I’ve read about places in the world where the water is a crystal clear blue, and the fish and fauna bursting with color. I’d love to dive in such a place someday.”

  “Did you ever discuss diving with Mr. Doyle?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. He wouldn’t hear of diving himself. Said the idea of being underwater so deep frightened him. Many people feel that way, I know, at least until they try it. He did say he was interested in sunken treasure, though, and wanted to know if I’d ever seen any. I take that back, not just any treasure, one in particular. That lost invention of your student, Professor, the one they hanged for trying to kill McKinley.”

  Oscar Daulton had plotted to kill President McKinley, it was true, but he hadn’t been successful. Another anarchist had done the deed a few months later. But Daulton had succeeded in killing three men, and it was those murders for which he had been sentenced to death.

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, gosh, end of summer? That’s when he began talking about it.”

  “Did you ever search for that lost invention?”

  “A few times. I got caught up in the excitement of it. Mr. Doyle said if I found it, we’d go into a partnership and get rich. He knew Oscar Daulton, you know, and he felt sure he could figure out the invention if he could get his hands on it.”

  “Did he say Daulton told him how the invention worked?”

  “Not until recently. I remember a few times over the past year or so when he complained he wished he’d asked Daulton more questions, but I take it the boy was secretive. Then when Edison came to town, suddenly Mr. Doyle had been Daulton’s best friend and confidant.”

  “Wh
y do you suppose he changed his story?”

  “Made him feel important. And I think he didn’t like the idea of some outsider coming in and finding the treasure. Stealing it out from under our noses, was how he put it. He said they’d never find it, and so far he’s been right. But then, he didn’t find it either.”

  “Do you still dive?”

  “For Daulton’s invention? No, that search is in deep waters. I’m qualified to go down, but it’s more expensive because it takes more men at the pump, so I only went a few times. I’m saving up to buy a house.” Troy dropped his head. His hair fell over his eyes but didn’t cover the smile that infused his features.

  Bradshaw knew what that smile indicated. He asked, “What’s her name?”

  “Beatrice.” He pronounced the name as if it were poetry.

  “And does she have a last name?”

  “Warren. Miss Beatrice Warren.”

  Bradshaw knew of the Warrens. They were one of Seattle’s wealthiest families, with ties to shipping and the railroads. Their new home on Queen Anne Hill had been featured in a national magazine.

  “Have you set a date?”

  “It’s not that simple. I have to prove myself worthy, able to care for her, provide a home, at least one servant. Two would be better. A cook and a maid. She says she doesn’t need them, but she’s never done for herself. She thinks it would be fun to live simply, but it wouldn’t be fun long, and I don’t want her to feel her life with me would become nothing but work and drudgery. And when our children come along, we’d need a nurse, but I don’t see how I’d ever afford a nurse, not as a window dresser, and one can’t depend on one’s art to sell, so I wonder if I’m just fooling myself believing I can ever really support her in the way she deserves.”

  “Are you trying to prove this to Miss Warren or to yourself or to her father?”

  “Mr. Warren has been remarkably accommodating. He’s one of those wealthy chaps that doesn’t believe in coddling his children, thinks giving them too much spoils them. Of course, that also means he doesn’t plan to give Beatrice much of a dowry, not that I want it for me, but for her. Mrs. Warren is different. I doubt I’ll ever live up to her standards, and I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t know why I’m baring my soul to you. This whole thing—Mr. Doyle’s death, and Mr. Olafson threatening to fire me over the scorched kerchief—it has me in a fuddle.”