Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (17 page)

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to show it to you under the circumstances.”

They asked why it never went into production, and he explained that competition was fierce, and it seemed other similar machines had beat his outfit to the market.

Colin said, “You must have been disappointed.”

“Disappointment is part of the inventor’s world. For every patent I’ve been granted, I have another dozen creations stored in my basement that never made it to the patent office. I like to think of all I learned in the process, rather than patents not attained.” He could have added that his few patents brought him a healthy income, which he mostly saved and invested for his son. But he didn’t like to give the young men under his tutelage the idea that invention was an easy road to wealth. Invention need be a labor of passion, indeed obsession, but not a path chosen for fame and fortune.

Oren Springer said, “Gosh, Professor, how many patents do you have?”

“A dozen or so,” he said. The number was actually twenty-nine, which satisfied him personally but was nothing compared to the hundreds held by men like Edison and Tesla. He’d chosen years ago to forego the mad race to the patent office in favor of being a sane and devoted father, teacher, and more recently, investigator. Occasionally, an idea did drive him to his basement, but he was careful to monitor his obsession lest he bring on the wrath of Mrs. Prouty.

Oren asked, “What’s your favorite one?”

“I’d say it’s a toss up between the coil and the microphone.”

“What? The Bradshaw Coil is yours?”

Knut Peterson rubbed his knuckles on the top of Oren’s blond head. “Kid’s a genius. Three guesses what the microphone’s called, first two don’t count.”

“The Bradshaw detective microphone!” Oren said. “It was in the last issue of the
Electrician
. And quit razzing me, Nut. It’s a common enough name. How was I supposed to know? I thought all the famous inventors lived on the East Coast.”

Bradshaw knew he was far from famous, but he supposed to this young man, newly introduced to the world of electrical engineering, having a mention in a magazine qualified.

“Time now for dishes and for you to return to your work.”

“Can you spare Uncle Henry for a bit this afternoon?” asked Colin. “To help with the kite? He told me about a few specialty knots that would speed things up.”

Knut elbowed Colin and said, “Uncle Henry, is it?” And the other boys laughed.

“I realize circumstances are unusual and we’ve adopted a less formal tone with this summer course, Colin, but Mr. Pratt is my colleague and your elder.”

“Yes, sir. I meant no offense.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Bradshaw picked up his dishes and carried them into the kitchen, resisting the urge to hurl them against the wall.

Chapter Eighteen

With his hat mashed down tight against the expected breeze, Bradshaw climbed over the drift logs, tromped through the soft low dunes, and crossed to the band of hard-packed wet sand, narrowed by high tide, until he reached Freddie Thompson.

Thompson was barefoot, with his trousers rolled to his knees and his white shirt rolled to the elbows. His head was bare. The wind lifted his thin hair like a small sail and whipped the smoke away from his face with each drag of his cigarette.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Thompson?”

Thompson finished a long draw on his cigarette, then exhaled with a slight cough. “Now there’s a loaded question.”

“I’ll try a simpler one. When did you arrive at Healing Sands?”

He took another draw before answering. “On the fourth. We were supposed to leave three days ago.”

“You work at the Seattle Assay Office?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Has it made things difficult for you, having to stay? Does it put your job in jeopardy?”

Mr. Thompson threw down his cigarette and ground it into the sand with his bare foot. “Could very well be.”

The sun was nearly directly overhead, beating down and giving the breeze stiff competition. Bradshaw loosened his collar a bit and decided removing his jacket was more dignified than dripping sweat.

“Why?”

“What do you mean,
why
?”

“Why wouldn’t your boss understand the circumstances?”

“They’re rigid, OK? It’s the federal government. I thought you were going to ask me about that infernal machine.”

“Tell me about your experience with electrotherapy, then. About the last session with Dr. Hornsby before David died. Did anything unusual happen?”

“No. It went fine. He zapped me with those electrodes, told me to bury myself and calm down.”

“Bury yourself?”

“On the hot beds. You lay down in the cot and the doctor covers you with sand. It’s very soothing.” He said the words through gritted teeth.

“Do you know anything about electricity, Mr. Thompson?”

“About as much as most. I know how to screw in a bulb.”

“Do you know how to short a circuit?” He looked into Mr. Thompson’s literally jaundiced eyes and was met with a narrowed glare, but no evasion.

“I don’t know how to short a circuit or long a circuit. I do know the damn things are deadly and I sure as hell am never going near one ever again.”

“Did you notice anyone going into Dr. Hornsby’s office or the electrotherapy room, other than the doctor?”

“No.”

“The morning of the incident, when did you arrive at Dr. Hornsby’s office?”

“Just before my appointment. He came and got me.”

“Is that usual?”

“No. I felt like hell. Death would have been a welcome relief. My wife fetched him to my room, and he said my usual treatment might help.”

“Why didn’t you go directly into the electrotherapy room?”

“He told me to wait, and besides, I don’t go barging in on other people’s appointments.”

“So you knew he had another patient in there?”

“Hornsby wasn’t talking to himself.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“I thought you were some sort of genius investigator? Hollister. He was talking to David Hollister.”

“Are you sure? Did you recognize his voice?”

“Not at the time, no. I heard voices, but I couldn’t hear what was being said and I didn’t try. It was all I could do to sit upright. About a quarter hour later, he came out looking like he just saw—well, what he saw, a man die right before his eyes.”

“Were you surprised David had been getting a treatment?”

“I was surprised he was dead. The revelation that he was getting treatment couldn’t compete with that.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“How the hell do you think it made me feel? God-awful. He was a nice fellow, alive one minute, dead the next. And Hornsby was all tore up, they all were. They’re a close family.”

“Did you think about the possibility that it could have been you?”

“Killed you mean? I did later. I was still a bit shocked when my wife started sobbing that it could have been me. Then the damn sheriff showed up and put us all under house arrest—”

“You’re not under arrest, you’re being detained.”

“What the hell’s the difference? Can I leave? Haven’t you got an answer yet? Didn’t you examine the machine?”

“I examined it.”

“So it was an accident, right? Why are you dragging it out talking with everyone? Tell the sheriff it was an accident and let us go!”

“I’m not convinced it was an accident.”

“I don’t believe it! Are you getting paid by the hour? Whatever Hornsby’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

“No one is paying me.”

“What? You’re in it for the glory? And I thought Loomis had an ego.” He pulled his cigarette case from his trouser pocket and shoved one in his mouth.

“You don’t like Mr. Loomis?”

He jerked the cigarette out. “Oh, my God, don’t go reading into every word I say. Mr. Loomis is a perfectly lovely individual, I do not believe he killed David Hollister or anybody. I don’t believe anyone here killed David Hollister, it was a horrid, god-awful tragedy, and I just want to go home.”

“I’ll try to be as quick about it as I can. It’s not such a bad place to be held captive.”

“I curse the day I ever set eyes on this coast.”

“Have you been here before?”

He hesitated. “Not to Healing Sands, no.”

“But to the coast?”

He took the time to light his cigarette before replying. “Came down a few times, the wife and I.”

“Where did you stay previously?”

“Not many places to stay, are there? Copalis Hotel, Iron Springs.”

“That’s all? Nothing further north?”

“There is nothing further north, no hotels, at any rate, though I hear there soon will be.”

“Have you been further north?”

Freddie swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Took a day trip up a ways. My wife wouldn’t hear of camping.”

“How did you travel? On foot?”

“Hornsby keeps a little donkey cart for the guests.”

Bradshaw recalled the donkey grazing with the cows up in the pasture. “Did you spend any time with David Hollister?”

“Why would I?”

“You tell me?”

“I talked to him a bit.” He looked off into the distance. “Nice fellow.” He cast a glance at the main house. “All of them, nice folks. It’s a shame.”

“What did you talk to him about?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

“Be specific please.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Marriage, if you must know. They were happy and I’m miserable. Is that what you want to know? It turns out there’s no magic answer, unless it’s in choosing the right wife, and it has nothing to do with your investigation, Professor.”

“Have you ever hit your wife?”

His incredulous face matched his reply. “Of course not.”

“How old is your wife? Near forty?”

“Where did Hornsby find you? An ad in the funny papers?” He closed his eyes and shook his head and mumbled. “I’m a dead man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She’s twenty-seven. I’m thirty. We have no children. We have no personal grudge against anyone here, and we didn’t kill the handyman. Are we done? Can I go now? I’d like to have a moment of peace before I die.”

Chapter Nineteen

Deputy Mitchell stood at the front desk in the foyer reading a Tacoma newspaper, a small brown paper package tied with string at his elbow.

Bradshaw asked him, “Anything exciting been happening in the world since we’ve been here?”

The deputy shook his head. “Just the usual.”

The package was addressed to Ingrid Thompson c/o Healing Sands Sanitarium, Ocean Springs, Wash. The return address was Frederick & Nelson Department Store, Seattle. On the corner of the box was an order reference name: Z. Moss.

“Deputy, are you holding this package here for some reason?”

“Me? No. It’s for Mrs. Thompson. Doc just sorted the mail.”

“You weren’t going to ask her about it?”

“No. You think I should?”

“One never knows what useful information might arrive in a package delivered to a crime scene.”

The deputy got up, setting the paper aside. “Oh.”

A shuffling sound caught Bradshaw’s ear. He looked down the hall and spied Zebediah Moss lurking outside the Healing Sands room, chewing his lip, as if unsure of entering. When he noticed Bradshaw watching him, he scurried into the library.

“Hold onto this, Deputy.” Bradshaw nodded at Ingrid’s package, then followed Moss and found him arms crossed, staring at the bookshelves. “Good afternoon, Mr. Moss.”

Moss nodded, not meeting his eye.

“Have a seat. It’s time we talked.”

Moss sat stiffly at the nearest table, arms still crossed, eyes on the shelves, jaw tight. Bradshaw sat across from him.

“Did you know the Thompsons before coming to Healing Sands?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Yes or no.”

“He works at the assay office in Seattle, don’t he?”

“Is that where you met him?”

“Mighta been.”

“He was working the day you brought in your gold?”

“That’s right.”

“How did that go?”

Moss shifted his eyes to Bradshaw’s face quickly, then looked away again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s something I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing. You arrived by ship with other miners; there were crowds to greet you and cheer your success, and you hauled your bags up to the federal office. I’ve seen miners come in, it’s quite a production.”

Moss said, “I hired a hack to haul it up the hill.”

“A memorable day. Any trouble?”

“With what?”

“The process? Paperwork?”