Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (18 page)

“No trouble. It was fine.”

“Fine? I’d expect the experience to be more than fine.”

“Yeah, well, I expected I’d brought home more.”

“Your haul wasn’t worth as much as you anticipated?”

“It was pert near. You always hope for the high end of the estimate. Disappointing when it ain’t.” He pinched the crease of his trousers. He had thick, stubby fingers and strong, meaty hands.

“Who makes the estimate?”

“Oh, well, the experts up in Alaska. They tell ya it’ll bring between this and that, and you hope for that.”

“But you got this, the low estimate.”

“Pert near.”

“Near the low? Not even reaching the low? The estimates were off?”

“Close enough. I’m rich, ain’t I? If you’ve got a problem with the estimate or assay office, go talk to them. I’m happy and satisfied with my take.”

“Mr. Moss, I’ve observed you here at Healing Sands. You appear neither happy nor satisfied.”

“Well it ain’t got nothing to do with estimates, Professor.”

“What’s it got to do with?”

“None of your damn business.”

“You’re probably right, but I’d like to know anyway.”

“Don’t mean I got to tell you.”

“Is it to do with a woman?”

Moss looked up at the ceiling, as if hoping it would fall down on him.

“When did you first meet Mrs. Thompson?”

Moss twitched, and his eyes shot to the library door. “I can’t rightly recall.”

“Really? I would have thought meeting Mrs. Thompson an unforgettable event.”

“Why?” Moss pursed his lips and brought his narrowed gaze to Bradshaw.

“She’s hardly an ordinary woman.”

Moss glared at him.

Bradshaw said, “Some women are like that. They demand you take notice.”

Moss looked away, toward the door again.

“At the assay office? In Seattle? On the train?”

“What?”

“Where you met Mrs. Thompson?”

“I can’t rightly recall.”

“You made an order by letter from here last week? To Frederick & Nelson Department Store?”

“Mighta done.”

“You had it delivered to Mrs. Thompson. It’s in the foyer now, on the desk.”

“Don’t mean nothing. No crime in doing a favor for a lady.”

“Are you in the habit of doing her favors?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Or is it that she does you favors?”

“Now see here, Professor. I don’t like your questions. I’m not the smartest man on this earth, but I know when a women’s virtue has been insulted.”

“What did you buy for her?”

“Not my place to say.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Not from me. And if you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t ask her, neither. Truth is, I don’t know. She wrote down what she wanted, asked me to send for it.”

“Do you mean she asked you to pay for it?”

“I got an account at the store, don’t I?”

“You must know her well to be trusted with such a delicate favor.”

Moss’ ruddy complexion deepened.

Bradshaw asked, “Does her husband know about this favor?”

“He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch. Doesn’t like her ordering nothing.”

“Do you know he’s mean through observation? Or is that what you were told?”

“He just is.” Moss set his jaw and turned his eyes back up to the ceiling.

“Did she repay you for the purchase?”

“Money ain’t no concern to me.”

“Where were you from around ten in the morning Monday until the time of David Hollister’s death?”

That got his attention. He looked with fury at Bradshaw. “Me? I had nothing to do with that handyman dying. What are you saying? You saying it wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t yet know. Where were you?”

“I wasn’t in that room upstairs poking around no wires.”

“Why do you mention wires?”

“It’s an electric machine, ain’t it? Got wires, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yes. It has wires. Have you ever been in the electrotherapy room, Mr. Moss?”

He hesitated, his mouth scrunched. He looked as if he were weighing his answer against what Bradshaw might have learned from others. He said finally, “Mighta been.”

“For treatment?”

“No way in hell I’d let anybody put electricity in me.”

“Then why did you enter the room?”

“To have a look around, why else?”

“Was Dr. Hornsby with you?”

“No.”

“Someone else with you?”

“No.”

“When was this? When did you enter to have a look around?”

“I dunno, long time ago, when I first got here.”

“How did you get in?”

“Watcha mean? I walked in, didn’t I? You expect I climbed through a window?”

“I mean it’s kept locked.”

“I don’t know about that, it wasn’t locked when I went in.”

“And how many times did you enter the electrotherapy room?”

“Just the once. Ain’t been near it since.”

“Good, then you have nothing to worry about. How do you spend your days here, Mr. Moss?”

“Same as everyone else. I eat, wash my dishes, walk the beach, eat, wash my dishes, walk the beach. That’s pert much all there is to do here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I hear there was a spectacular natural phenomenon the evening before David Hollister’s death.”

“Huh?”

“The glowing sand on the beach?”

Moss twitched again, and cleared his throat. “The sparky sand. Yeah. I seen better down the coast, near Mexico. But it was something.”

“Mrs. Thompson dunked you in the surf?”

He wiped his hand over his mouth.”So? We was all acting like kids. I, uh, noticed Mr. Loomis forgot to put on his shoes. He wore his slippers out on the beach. Danged stupid rule about slippers.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I dunno, just thought of it. Might be a clue.”

“A clue about what?”

“I dunno! We done here?” Moss got to his feet.

“Just a few more questions, Mr. Moss. Did you have occasion to speak with David Hollister at any time during your stay?”

Moss remained standing, his eyes on the door. “I can’t rightly recall.”

“Take your time.” Bradshaw settled back in his chair.

“Mighta spoke with him up on the cliff a time or two. He showed me that powerhouse and laundry he built.”

“Did he ask you to finance him? And don’t say ‘he might have done,’ did he?”

“He’s got a right money maker in that wash system. Yeah, he asked me could I back him if he wanted to make a business of it, you know, selling the plans and whatnot.”

“Did you agree?”

“Mighta—I didn’t say no. Hadn’t made up my mind, truth be told. Yeah, I got money, fat lot a good it does me. Mighta done him some good if he hadn’t gotten himself fried by that machine.”

“Did Mr. Loomis know you were thinking of backing Mr. Hollister?”

“He didn’t hear it from me. Hollister wanted to keep it quiet. Loomis did those fancy drawings, and Hollister was afraid he was gonna make off with them.”

“So Hollister was trying to establish rights to his washhouse design before Loomis had the chance.”

“Well, Loomis owns the drawings. Hollister had to act fast.”

“Loomis might own the drawings, but not the design. Nothing was agreed legally. What does Loomis plan to do now that David Hollister is dead?”

“I dunno, ask him.”

“You’ve spoken with him, what did he tell you?”

“Says he’ll be sure the widow gets looked after.”

“And you trust him?”

Moss grunted. “Hell, I don’t trust no one.” He stomped out of the room, his felt slippers slapping the polished floors.

Chapter Twenty

Professor Bradshaw and Deputy Mitchell located Mrs. Thompson in the sunny sand room, fully clothed in a fashionable gown, not a grain of sand on her. She lounged with her feet up in the shady breeze of an open patio door, browsing through a French fashion magazine.

She looked up as they approached, and her expression shifted from bland boredom to coquettishness. She gave them a pouty smile, and her appreciative gaze lingered so long on Deputy Mitchell, he blushed. He pushed back his hat and squared his shoulders, and Bradshaw thought seriously of taking the man’s gun for safekeeping.

She turned her full attention to Bradshaw, her eye dropping to the package in his hand. “Is that for me?”

He said, “Would you open it, please?”

She gaped at him. “What, now? In front of you?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The deputy dipped his head with apology. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to do what the Professor wants.”

“I don’t see why. This is simply rude. Being nosy parkers for the sake of it. You’ve got no right to see what’s in my private mail.”

“We know Mr. Moss placed the order for you.”

Her pout was genuine this time, and angry, and this drew attention to her square jaw and showed little wrinkles around her lips. In the bright light of the lamp, every flaw was revealed, every small sag at the jaw. In their mid-thirties, many women’s facial features sharpened, the softness and plumpness of youth receding to a more mature profile. Could she be just four years older than Missouri? If so, what had aged her so prematurely? Previous illness? Unhappy marriage? Disappointment? A hard life? He did not presume that growing up wealthy, as Mrs. Hornsby said Ingrid Thompson had, sheltered one from all of life’s cruelties.

She wiggled, resumed her playful pout and said childishly, “I haven’t got a knife.”

“I have.” The deputy flipped open a wicked-looking knife that Mrs. Thompson took without grace. She slit the string and cut the paper with a few strong flips of her wrist, then tossed the knife aside. It fell from her lounge chair with a clatter to the floor, and the deputy retrieved it. She withdrew from the straw packing a blue glass bottle, elegantly curved, with a corked top and thrust it at Bradshaw, then turned her face to glare out the open door.

He held the cool glass gingerly and read:
Fountain of Youth Lotion, Restore Youthful Fullness to the Hands and Face. Satisfaction Guaranteed. Imported.

The deputy cleared his throat and said he’d be off now to check on the others.

Bradshaw returned the blue bottle to Mrs. Thompson.

“Are you happy? Why, I’ve never been so humiliated. A woman is entitled to her beauty secrets.”

“How old are you, Mrs. Thompson?”

“What possible reason could you have for asking?”

“Are you refusing to answer?”

“I just don’t see the point? Are you almost done with your little investigation here? When are you going to set us free?”

“I’m not holding you here, the Chehalis County Sheriff is. It’s not a bad place to be detained.”

“Oh please, it’s a nightmare. To think we paid to come here and eat sour food and endure dangerous treatments.”

“How did you learn about Healing Sands?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Freddie found it.” She ran a finger down the curve of the bottle. “He says the sand here is perfect.”

“How old are you?”

“That again? Why is it so important to you?”

He waited silently for an answer.

“You are persistent, aren’t you? I like that in a man.”

He waited.

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was fairly young at the time of my birth, but that’s my understanding.”

“And you’ve lived in Seattle all your life?”

“Are you trying to tell me you know me from somewhere?”

“No, we’ve never met.”

“How can you be sure?”

He wasn’t about to tell her she reminded him of his late wife and could never forget meeting her. “What is your maiden name?”

“Colby.”

“No protest at the question?”

“I’d like to be done with this conversation. You’re spoiling the relaxing mood of the room.”

“Have you been making use of the sand beds?”

“I most certainly have not. Have you seen them? Go have a look!”

He’d seen them, but he looked again at the beds placed discreetly behind screens of white cloth and placed to take greatest advantage of the southern exposure.

He turned to Mrs. Thompson. “Too restricting?”

She stiffened and clutched the fabric above her breast. “You must completely disrobe, and I mean completely, before you’re buried in sand, and you are not alone. Mrs. Hornsby buries the women. Doctor Hornsby buries the men.”