No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Did the officer mention this fellow’s name?”

  Mrs. Jewett tucked her chin, affronted at Celia’s suggestion she might have been paying attention to a discussion of police matters. “If he did, I wasn’t listening.”

  But you had been listening enough to learn that someone has been attacked.

  “I’ll not tell Mr. Greaves where I learned the information.”

  Mrs. Jewett peered at her until she made up her mind. “I didn’t hear the fellow’s name, Mrs. Davies. Only that it had something to do with a Mr. Smith.”

  • • •

  “I should’ve come to your house instead, Celia, but you had to have noticed the uproar in progress downstairs. I couldn’t leave,” said Jane, fastening the final button on the bodice of her pale green silk gown. She’d been preparing for a late Sunday breakfast she was hosting for several of the wives of her husband’s business associates when Celia had knocked.

  “I was only home long enough for Addie to give me your message,” said Celia. She’d been bound for Miss Kimball’s but had stopped at home first, where Jane’s note was waiting. “What is the matter? Your note sounded so urgent.”

  “You won’t believe the strange request Vivi Adler has made. More than a request—a demand. She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” said Jane, contemplating her reflection in the inlaid satinwood cheval mirror tucked into the corner of her bedchamber.

  “What did she want?”

  “She stopped in yesterday, after I returned from visiting Justina with you, to ask me to attend another séance with her,” Jane replied, twisting a length of hair around her finger to tighten its curl. “She says she doesn’t want to go alone—her father won’t permit her—and she thought I might enjoy meeting Mrs. Loveland. Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Incredible or highly irregular,” said Celia. “Did she give a reason beyond thinking you might enjoy meeting the spiritualist?”

  Jane finished fussing with her hair. “She mentioned the letters Dr. Brown received,” she said. “She’s been thinking about them, and wants to prove Mrs. Loveland is the one who sent them.”

  “She has moved on from casting blame on Miss Kimball, then,” said Celia. “Did she explain how she plans to get proof?”

  “No,” she replied. “And I don’t understand why she wants to involve me in her scheme. I mean, why not ask Justina or Dr. Brown to go with her again?”

  “Because she believes you are sweetly naive and unsuspecting and will not interfere with whatever she actually intends to do,” suggested Celia.

  “I’m not naive, am I?”

  “Oh, Jane, we would not be such great friends if you were,” said Celia. “I wonder if her request has to do with a notebook Mrs. Loveland keeps on her clients. I had my own surprise visit, Jane, by Miss Kimball. She has suffered an injury and came to my clinic last night to be treated.”

  “How lucky you’re so well known, Celia.”

  Lucky? Now even Mr. Griffin knows me. “Miss Kimball mentioned this notebook, and that the Browns and Vivi Adler were unnerved by the spiritualist’s note-taking.”

  “Why would they be bothered by some notebook?”

  “A question worth finding the answer to,” said Celia. “When is the séance scheduled?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Jane. “Here’s the thing that’s really peculiar, though, Celia—Vivi explicitly said to not tell you about the séance. She said you’d think she was being reckless.”

  “If Mrs. Loveland is involved in Mr. Smith’s death, Miss Adler is being reckless.”

  “Why for a second would she imagine I wouldn’t tell you, though?” asked Jane. “Obviously, I became all the more determined to inform you, once she made that demand.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you, Jane?”

  “Yes. Most definitely, yes!”

  “Then I will inform Mrs. Loveland I plan to join tomorrow night’s séance,” she said. “I’ll not tell her, of course, that I know that you and Miss Adler will also be there.”

  “I hate to say this, but I don’t trust Vivi.”

  “Neither do I.” And perhaps they were all being reckless. “I must request that Barbara stay with you for a few more days, Jane. Someone involved with Mr. Smith—I do not know precisely who—has been attacked. Last night or this morning. It is safer for Barbara to remain here, with Frank and your servants around.”

  “Don’t worry about imposing on us, Celia, but what about you?” asked Jane. “If you’re afraid for Barbara, are you and Addie and Owen safe?”

  “We will be fine,” she said. She would not share all her fears and cause Jane to worry more. “Just take care of Barbara for me. It should only be for a few more days, at most.”

  “Of course I will take care of her,” said Jane. “Do you want me to let Barbara know?”

  “I should talk to her. It is past time I visit with her and see how she is doing,” said Celia. “She will also want an update on Owen, I am certain.”

  “I’ll let her know you’re waiting for her in the parlor.”

  “I will find my way, Jane. No need to show me,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Celia, wait,” said Jane, halting her before she reached the hallway. “I think you should know how anxious and concerned Barbara is. She doesn’t want to lose you. She has lost too many people she loves.”

  “Has she told you how she feels, Jane?” An ache burned in Celia’s chest. It hurt to hear words no one should have to say because she should already understand.

  “She has told Grace,” she replied. “Be gentle with her. I realize Barbara can be short-tempered, but she’s simply trying to protect her heart. Just like you.”

  Celia pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek and went downstairs.

  She heard Jane calling for her maid. She did not wait long in the parlor before Barbara came in.

  “Is Owen better?” she asked. “I won’t take too long to tell Grace I’m leaving and pack my things.”

  Celia crossed the room and slid shut the parlor doors. “You need to stay with the Hutchinsons longer, Barbara.”

  “You don’t want me to come home, do you?” Barbara’s expression was as forbidding as Celia had ever seen it. “You want the house to be just yours, when it’s not.”

  “That is not the situation at all, Barbara.”

  “Owen can’t still be ill with the mumps, Cousin Celia. Even I know he should be recovered by now.” She squinted at Celia. “It’s my home, Cousin Celia. Mine. My father left it to me. You’re only there because I’m not of age to claim it yet. But someday I will be,” she said, her voice rising with each word.

  Celia glanced toward the closed parlor doors. “Barbara, not here.” Where Jane might overhear their argument, the proof their relationship was stretching so thin the cords binding it together were readying to snap. Be gentle. “I thought you would enjoy staying with Grace an extra few days.”

  “I heard about Mr. Smith’s death. Grace showed me the papers when her stepmother didn’t know.”

  “Then you understand why I have wanted you to stay,” said Celia. “Not solely because Owen has been ill, but for your safety. I haven’t the time to explain further.”

  “You never have the time.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “When is it going to stop? When will you stop getting involved in deaths and murder and crimes. It’s . . . it’s not normal. It’s not right!”

  The tears spilled onto her cheeks, and Celia gathered her close.

  “I know it is not normal, Barbara. I no more want these terrible things to happen than you do,” she said.

  Barbara jerked away from Celia’s encircling arms. “You say that, but it’s never going to end, is it? Never!”

  She slammed the parlor doors open and bolted from the room, the sound of her footsteps echoing and finally fading away.

  • • •

  A gaggle of nosy onlookers had collected outside Smith’s office like hungry seagulls flocking around a fisherman’s haul. How did peo
ple learn of crimes so quickly? Private messenger? Semaphore? Smoke signals? The police department ought to look into their methods, because the average citizen managed to arrive at the scene of a crime far faster than any street cop.

  “Don’t you all have something better to do?” shouted Nick at the kids and store clerks and delivery boys. Even a couple of bankers in their black frock coats and top hats had paused to gawk. “There’s nothing to see. Go home.”

  Nobody budged. A few moved in closer.

  “Where was Mr. Friedman attacked?” Nick asked the policeman who’d brought the news. Inside Smith’s office, opened cabinets tilted like a bunch of drunks leaning on one another. The desk drawer had been yanked onto the floor, and papers were strewn everywhere.

  “In the back room, Detective Greaves.”

  Taylor had arrived before Nick and was busy cursing—a rarity for him—while he tried to straighten the disarray.

  “Morning, sir. No luck speaking with Mr. Emery, by the way. He was out.” Taylor grabbed up some of the papers on the floor. “What were they after, sir? There isn’t anything left to find.”

  “Whoever did this might have nothing to do with the Brown case, Taylor,” said Nick, picking his way around the mess.

  “You think so, sir?”

  “Smith had collected a lot of incriminating evidence, Taylor,” he said. “If information on me was in one of those drawers, I might take advantage of his death to go looking for it, too.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the person who took Mr. Smith’s keys, that’s for sure, Mr. Greaves . . . sir. One of the alley-side doors was forced open.”

  “Interesting.”

  Nick went through a doorway at the rear of the main office. It let onto a short, narrow hallway. Two other doors led off it, one shut, one ajar. Light showed through a gap in the doorframe of the one at his left. Right where the strike plate used to be before the force of a hard kick or shove had sheared it off, taking along a chunk of wood. The rectangular piece of iron lay on the floor several feet distant.

  “This is where he got in, Detective,” said the policeman accompanying Nick. “The door goes to a narrow alley between this building and the one next door.”

  “None of the officers noticed the door had been kicked in before an hour ago?” he asked.

  “You’d be thinkin’ we’re spendin’ all our blessed time patroling this alley, Detective Greaves?” he answered. He had a pug nose and dark eyes that didn’t often blink. He wasn’t about to cower, and Nick appreciated his grit. The policeman needed it in order to work the streets in this part of town. “The blinds have been shut these past days, even when your assistant and that woman came pokin’ around in here yesterday. From the road, all looked fit and proper. Wasn’t until one of the men took a stroll along the alley that we saw the side door had been forced open.”

  Nick jabbed a thumb in the direction of the folks pressing their faces against the office window and jostling for a spot at the door. “And none of these good citizens overheard Mr. Friedman getting assaulted?”

  “No, Detective.”

  Right.

  “Find somebody to nail the door shut,” said Nick. Admittedly about as useful as closing the stable door after the horse had been stolen.

  The officer strode off. Nick pushed open the door at the end of the short hallway.

  The room didn’t have much in it. Just a table with a broken leg and a few crates stacked against one wall. A spot of rusty red on the floor caught his eye. Nick squatted to examine it more closely. Blood.

  The policeman was waiting for him in the hallway, where he’d mustered two of the outside onlookers to start nailing the side door.

  “Have there been any problems with burglaries in this neighborhood, Officer?” Nick asked him.

  “You mean more than what would be usual, Detective?” he replied.

  Ask a stupid question, get a less-than-useful answer.

  Nick returned to the main room. Taylor had righted the cabinets and shut all the drawers. Except for one, protruding paper keeping it from shutting all the way.

  “Find anything back there, sir?” he asked.

  “Just a speck of blood. Friedman’s, I’d guess. He must’ve been hit pretty hard.” Nick bent down to retrieve a ceramic inkwell that had rolled off Smith’s desk. One edge had chipped.

  “You think Mr. Griffin is responsible?”

  Nick shrugged. “Does it look like anything new is missing from Smith’s files?”

  “Can’t tell.” Taylor frowned. “I know you said we can’t assume this attack on Mr. Friedman is connected to Dr. Brown and the others, but doesn’t it seem awful coincidental, Mr. Greaves? Coming so soon after he’s died and now that we’ve been investigating, too?”

  And Nick hated coincidences.

  He sat on Smith’s chair and set the chipped inkwell atop the desk. “I just don’t want to rule out any possibility, Taylor.”

  “The person who broke in here mustn’t have known we’ve been through the files with a fine-tooth comb, though, Mr. Greaves, sir.” Taylor managed to slam the stubborn drawer shut. “What if they were after that photograph? What if they thought they’d dropped it here, not realizing they’d lost it outside Smith’s hotel?”

  “Which they didn’t find,” said Nick. “Warn that kid who found the photograph, Taylor. If the person who busted down that door and assaulted Friedman is after that carte de visite, the next logical place to search is the area around Smith’s lodgings. And I don’t want that kid getting an unwelcome visit.”

  • • •

  Celia turned down the dusty road where Miss Kimball’s lodging house stood. Owen had described it as a wood structure four doors from the corner bakery and behind the church, the bells of which were ringing out the hour. Noon. Only noon, and already she’d had a quarrel with her cousin, learned that Vivi Adler had cajoled Jane into joining her at Mrs. Loveland’s tomorrow evening, and that someone connected to Mr. Smith had been attacked.

  An eventful morning.

  Celia located the lodging house readily enough, the boards of its porch warped and uneven, paint faded and peeling in the California sunshine. Forlorn.

  Several windows were thrown wide open to catch the breeze. A woman’s shouting voice rose and fell from one of the rooms. Many of the boardinghouse’s residents could be away, taking advantage of their Sunday off. Miss Kimball was unlikely to be one of them. Her injury had been too serious.

  The woman who answered her knock held a broom and pan; Celia had interrupted her cleaning.

  “I am here to visit Miss Kimball,” said Celia, peering past her shoulder into the entry hall beyond. A staircase with tattered carpeting upon its treads rose to the upper floors. “Last night, I tended to the wound on her leg and would like to see how she is doing.”

  “She ain’t here,” said the woman. “She took her things. Left early. Don’t know where she is.”

  “She took her belongings?”

  The woman eyed her. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Davies!” called a young woman descending the stairs.

  “You know her, Molly?”

  “I’ll talk to Mrs. Davies. Sorry for causing any trouble,” said Molly. The woman walked off with her broom and pan.

  Molly came out onto the porch, its wood creaking as she stepped on it. “Nell is gone. I don’t understand at all why.”

  “She did not leave an explanation?”

  “Not a word. I knocked on her door this morning to check on her, but she didn’t answer,” she said. “Then I thought she might be feeling so much better that she’d decided to go to church. She usually walks with me, but she wasn’t in the parlor waiting when I came downstairs. I figured she’d gone on ahead, but she wasn’t at church when I got there, either. So I came home as soon as the service was over to see if Nell had slept heavily and hadn’t heard me knocking.” She twined her hands together. “Her door wasn’t locked. I went it and everything was cleared out, her bed made,
not a stitch of clothing to be seen anyplace.”

  “Does she have anywhere else to go?” asked Celia. “Family or friends who might take her in?”

  “No. As far as I ever heard, Nell was on her own,” said the girl. “Just like me.”

  “There was a man loitering near here last night. Possibly waiting for Miss Kimball. I wanted to warn her.” Perhaps she was too late. “Did she see him?”

  “A man was lurking about?” Molly’s eyes widened. “Who is he?”

  “It might be a man she recently met at a séance,” she said. “A man who may have murdered someone.”

  Molly gasped. “Is that why she’s run off?” she asked. “But why would he be after Nell? She’s a good person. She wouldn’t hurt a flea. I just know it.”

  “We must try to find Miss Kimball as quickly as possible, Molly.”

  But how?

  Chapter 15

  The Friedmans lived above their store in a pair of rooms. The entrance door to the apartment led onto a parlor overlooking the road. Aside from its array of worn, possibly secondhand furniture in mismatching velvets and an oil stove unequal to the task of heating anything bigger than a kettle or a soup pot, every spare space was filled with photographs and portraits. A large mirror above the fireplace struggled to make the room look larger. At Nick’s right, a gold-fringed brocade curtain blocked the entrance to a back room, probably the bedroom and maybe someplace to wash up. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke. Maybe Friedman was in the habit of sampling his wares.

  Mrs. Friedman paced in front of the window, her skirts swishing. Paced then sat down then paced again.

  “Excuse me, Detective, if I’m having trouble following your questions.” She glanced at the curtained doorway. “I’m just worried about Josiah.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” said Nick. “What does the doc say?”

  “He says Josiah should recover fully, but it’s too early to tell.” Her voice was soft and unsteady. “I can’t believe what’s happened. Or maybe I can. This city! We should never have moved to San Francisco. We should’ve stayed in Iowa. But Josiah said we’d do better out here. Our business was struggling back home, and he’s been right; we have done better. Even though the Chinese sell their cigars for less.”