Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (19 page)

He glanced at the beds again. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Couldn’t your husband cover you?”

“I mean really! What sort of people disrobe in front of strangers?” She seemed to belatedly hear his suggestion. “Freddie? My husband has never seen me in my altogether and trust me, he never will.”

The fierce look in her eyes as she continued to clutch the fabric of her dress was in such sharp contrast to her usual provocative flirting. He was momentarily thrust into the past, to a conversation with his wife on their wedding night, when her provocative flirting came to an abrupt halt at the bedroom door and only reappeared when in public, when the possibility of following-through was impossible.

Poor Freddie. Poor Zeb Moss. Poor Arnold—no, he could not bring himself to pity Arnold Loomis. But Moss? He was chasing something he’d never get. Freddie wasn’t apparently getting much either. Like Old Cedar said, she was trouble. She enjoyed looking her best, fine clothes, perfume, and being admired and flirted with. But she didn’t want what she promised. She used a man’s desire to tease from him those things she truly wanted. Had she brought one of her suitors to the edge of reason with her teasing? Had Moss or Loomis so wanted what she promised he’d attempted to kill to get it? Had Freddie been the intended victim and David Hollister killed by mistake? Or was Freddie Thompson so miserable in his marriage he’d rigged the device to kill himself and failed?

“Mr. Moss is in love with you.” He’d hoped to startle her, but she didn’t blink an eye.

“Nothing wrong with having an admirer. Many society women have them. They’re useful, but don’t think it goes beyond that.”

“Useful?”

“Mrs. Mills has one. You know Mrs. Mills, surely. Her husband is manager of Puget Sound National Savings. Her admirer is a good deal younger than her and forever bringing her flowers, and he takes her to the theater. Her husband doesn’t mind because he hates the theater.”

“Does Mr. Moss bring you to the theater when you’re home in Seattle?”

“Good heavens, no. He’s not that sort of admirer. Can you see him at the opera?”

“What sort is he?”

“He mopes about, looks at me like I’m something to see, does me favors if I ask. Buys me things. I don’t see the harm in it.”

No harm? At best, a man was wasting his time, his heart, and his money. At worst, he may have killed an innocent man while trying to kill her husband.

“And what does he get from you?”

She puffed up a bit, saying, “I give him my opinion as to dress and art. He has no taste or culture.” She spoke as if she represented Seattle’s upper class, yet she was the wife of a Federal Assay Officer, a public employee. Hardly among the upper echelons of Seattle society. The magazines she pored over, as well as her attention to fashion in her dress and hairstyle, told him she aspired to more. With Moss, she must have found someone she considered beneath her, yet his wealth gave him prestige and gave her gifts.

“What does your husband think about your relationship with Mr. Moss?”

“I don’t know that he has an opinion.”

“It doesn’t make him more violent toward you?”

“That’s ridiculous. Freddie does what I tell him.”

Yesterday, she’d claimed he beat her and forced her to submit to him. He didn’t challenge her change of tune. She’d shown herself to be a liar, a manipulator, a user of men. It was now his job to learn if she’d also played a part in murder.

Chapter Twenty-one

He found Henry on the beach, assisting Colin with knots. “Henry, come with me.”

Henry handed his knotted string to Colin. “Under, over, tighten, slide.”

Colin nodded. “Got it.”

Bradshaw led Henry up the beach along the transitional sand just below the wrack line, where clumps of seaweed and shells and debris were daily deposited at high tide. When safely beyond observation by anyone from Healing Sands, he hunkered down and scooped up a handful of damp sand, spreading it over his palm. The grains were mostly black, mixed with bits of white, brown, and speckles of rusty red.

He said, “Mrs. Thompson told me that Mr. Thompson said the sand here is perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“You tell me.”

Henry grabbed his own scoop. “Placer sand? They think there’s gold here?”

“The Thompsons have been on this coast several times since they first took a holiday on the North Beach a year ago. We can have it verified, of course, which is why Freddie admitted they did a tour. They stopped for a night or two at the few hotels along the beach, at Copalis and Iron Springs. That’s when they discovered Healing Sands.”

Henry rubbed the tip of his finger across the grains in his palm. “You’re thinking Freddie noticed a similarity between this sand and what he’s cleaning from the gold deposits from Nome?”

“Or he came in search of such sand, and found it.”

“And so he and the little woman came back to—what? Drive Hornsby out of business so they can buy the property?”

He shook his head. “The gold’s in Seattle, at the assay office.”

Henry’s eyes widened and he whistled. “He’s shorting the miners. He adds a bit of this to the ore, I’ll wager, and pockets a bit of gold dust. When it’s all weighed out, the ore plus gold equals the original weight, and so it all looks hunky-dory to the auditors.”

“It could be part of what’s ailing him. Hornsby thinks Freddie’s got a touch of lead poisoning, but if he’s been stealing from the Federal Assay Office, he’s got to be living in a constant state of fear. He doesn’t appear to have the constitution for thievery. If a boat from Nome arrives in Seattle before he’s back on the job, there will be a discrepancy from previous hauls and the auditors will take notice.”

Henry whistled again. “And it was Mrs. Thompson who pointed out Freddie’s fondness for the sand? First she tells you he’s mean and crazy, and now she tells you he’s a sand man. Helluva woman. Looks like I’m heading back to town. Who am I tattling to?”

“Wire Captain Bell of the Secret Service in Seattle. And update Sheriff Graham. He might want to send more men.”

“Deputy Mitchell not up to dealing with a gold thief?”

“Deputy Mitchell hasn’t found his true calling in life.”

“Ha! Should I take Colin again?”

His instinct was to say yes, but he thought of Missouri accusing him of intentionally sending Colin away yesterday. “Take Knut. He’s familiar with the vehicle, too, if it acts up or you get stuck.” He glanced out at the tide. “It’ll be an hour or two yet before you can head out. While you’re in town, see if you can find me a pair of suitable boots.”

Henry looked down at Bradshaw’s shoes, discolored from yesterday’s saltwater licking.

“Caught you unawares?”

“If only you knew.”

Henry lifted his brow but asked nothing. They wiped the sand from their hands and turned back toward the sanitarium.

“If Freddie Thompson didn’t kill David Hollister to put Hornsby out of business,” Henry asked, “do you suppose he’s suicidal and rigged that machine to end it all? Only David got it by mistake?”

“Freddie knew someone was in the electrotherapy room with Hornsby, both he and Hornsby told me so. Would he sit quietly waiting his turn if he’d rigged the machine?”

“Maybe he didn’t sit. Maybe he paced the room, not sure what to do, working up his nerve to interrupt Hornsby and confess, but he let it go too late.”

“He doesn’t strike me as a man now suffering from the guilt of having killed an innocent man. I’m not convinced he had anything to do with David’s death. He’s worried, yes, and sick, but there’s more anger than anguish in him. Being detained may have cost him his permanent freedom. If he’s destined for jail, he has good reason to fret. But if I were him, I’d be glad for the time away from my wife.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Bradshaw informed Deputy Mitchell, who sat rocking on the porch swing, of Henry and Knut’s imminent departure, giving him no explanation, receiving no complaint or even curiosity.

“Have you seen Mr. Loomis?”

The deputy shook his head. “Not for an hour or so. Do you need him?”

“Only to interrogate. When you find him, would you ask him to meet me after dinner at my cabin?”

“Certainly. Be glad to help in any way I can.”

“Good to know.” Bradshaw failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Once in his cabin, he closed the door, opened the windows, and stretched out on the bed above the covers, his hands behind his head. The steady rhythm of the ocean drifted in, with the intermittent call of sea birds. He didn’t force his thoughts, just gave them time to settle and shift. He didn’t sleep, but he drifted in and out of a restful state. When his stomach growled, he checked his pocket watch to see dinner had begun. That made him smile. He got up and stoked the stove coals and set water boiling. With Postum and shortbread, he reexamined his suspect chart, adding gold theft to Freddie Thompson’s motive column. Then he added it to Ingrid’s. If her husband was guilty, she likely knew about it. And Zeb Moss? How did he fit in with this new knowledge? As one of the miners cheated, had he confronted Freddie? Discovered the truth? Had Freddie pulled him into the scheme somehow? Was Moss being used to disguise the stolen gold? What bank would be suspicious of a known millionaire depositing a few ounces of dust?

Or was Moss being used unwittingly? Is that where Ingrid was involved? Was she using Moss’ infatuation with her to keep him from going to the authorities? Or to get him to deposit gold dust for her?

If he were right about the sand, if Freddie Thompson had come here to collect more in order to mask his gold theft at the assay office, was that theft connected to David Hollister’s death? Or was there more going on here, another get-rich scheme connected with David’s laundry? Or something more personal between those here, between Freddie Thompson and Moss and Loomis, perhaps motivated by Ingrid Thompson’s merciless teasing? And what role did Loomis play, if anything? It was hard to imagine Loomis was simply a not-so-innocent bystander and David’s death merely a coincidence.

Footsteps alerted him to Loomis’ arrival before his knock. Bradshaw folded his graph and joined Loomis on the porch with Henry’s tin cups and whiskey. Loomis’ eyes opened wide with appreciation, and he accepted a generous splash.

They sat, the bottle on the porch between them. About an hour remained until sunset, and for the first time since they’d arrived, clouds gathered in the distance, meeting the lowering sun. A band of pale gold began to deepen toward red on the horizon.

He must tread carefully. Gaining the confidence and extracting truth from a con man was no easy feat. Loomis could read phoniness and was immune to flattery—both subjects he excelled in himself. Bradshaw would have to feel his way carefully.

“I’d begun to think you’d decided not to question me. I’m sure you know I had nothing to do with poor Mr. Hollister’s unfortunate demise.”

“Mr. Hollister would be alive today if you’d never arrived, Mr. Loomis. You are inextricably involved.”

“I can’t be blamed for the misuse of a product I represent, Professor. Doctor Hornsby was well instructed, and he signed a legal document assuming all responsibility for its use.”

“Are such documents valid if you had no legal authority to sell the machine?”

Loomis laughed. “My authority is well-established. You gave it to me.”

“You know very well I understood my machine was to reside in a medical office in Seattle.”

“That was my understanding as well, Professor, but circumstances change rapidly in the medical fields, and a salesman must be prepared to shift with the times.”

With a hiss of steam and a honk of its ridiculous horn, the Stanley Steamer shot by, Knut at the tiller. Besides him, Henry lifted his hat in salute as they swooped by and made for the shallowest portion of the creek.

“Your associate is going again to Hoquiam?” Loomis’ face reflected a questioning interest, which Bradshaw had no intention of satisfying.

“Mr. Loomis, tell me the truth about my outfit bearing your name. What happened after you supposedly delivered it to the doctor in Seattle and we parted ways. If I believe you, we might discuss what happens next.”

Loomis opened his mouth, his shoulders raised, his palms up, and Bradshaw sensed the whitewashing to come.

“I will be learning the full truth, so you might as well save yourself the effort.”

“I am wounded, Professor. We had such a good rapport when we worked together, a solid team!”

“Yesterday, you hardly knew me.”

“Nonsense. I merely strived to minimize your involvement. You should have followed my lead. The sheriff was none too pleased by your revelation. I saw him drag you into the hall. If I’m responsible, then so are you, and he’s well aware of it.”

“You were trying to protect me?”

“Why, of course. I thought we’d be better off sorting through this predicament together.”

“Without the sheriff’s knowledge.”

“I’ve got nothing against Sheriff Graham, a decent man by the looks of him, but that deputy? Where’d they find him, the Sears & Roebuck?”

“He has hidden depths,” Bradshaw said, not because he believed it, but because he wanted to cast Loomis in doubt about the incompetent lawman.