Josiah's Treasure (25 page)

“Why doesn’t he listen?” Sarah asked, though Ah Mong had escaped into the house and couldn’t hear her question.

She leaned against the porch railing, the cup and blanket held close, and watched the swirl of the fog enclose Daniel, curlicues of white marking his passage.

“You make me worry for you, Miss Whittier.”

“For me? Or for the contents of the house?”

“You.”

Sarah lifted the quilt to her face, imagining she could breathe in the remnants of Daniel’s lime shaving lotion on its soft cotton, and felt a warm thrill move through her. He was the most confusing, most obstinate man she’d ever met. Only slightly more so than his father.

She sighed. Maybe she was falling in love with him.

Maybe she was destined to understand all there was to know about the look in Grace Cady’s eyes.

The sign painted on the stone lintel above the Kearny Street shop door simply declared the owner’s name—A. H. Grant’s. It took a bit of searching to locate all the smaller signs along the doorframe advertising furniture, clocks, and other decorative arts for sale to the “discerning.” It wasn’t a store Daniel would normally notice, except for what was on display in one of its two windows.

That morning, he’d chosen a different way to his hotel from Sarah’s house. There was a restaurant he’d been wanting to try and had stopped in for a lengthy breakfast before strolling back to the Occidental, enjoying the city, feeling rather cheerful. He was whistling what he could recall of Cora’s drinking song and almost walked right past Mr. A. H. Grant’s establishment without a second glance. Its narrow frontage was tucked among the numerous stores with their unfurled awnings that lined the sidewalk, just about lost beneath the massive bow window-fronted buildings. Daniel hadn’t missed the shop, though.

Nor the painting of Seal Rocks.

It was propped on a wood stand between a red table lamp dripping with beaded glass fringe and a gaudy pair of green-and-gold vases painted with scenes of shepherds. Not the sort of place he’d expect her to be offering one of her best works for sale, and a good indication that she
was
in need of money. Those backers must not be coming through for her, after all.

Daniel entered the shop. The proprietor bolted from behind a waist-high counter and waded through a sea of overstuffed furniture and teetering side tables to greet him.

“May I help you?” His narrow shoulders tilted forward as though he wanted to pounce but had to restrain himself.

“I’m interested in that painting on display in the window,” Daniel said.

Mr. Grant’s gaze darted toward the object in question. “A very fine piece. Done by one of San Francisco’s finest artists.”

“How much are you asking for it?” He could keep the water-color
for himself or give it back to Sarah, it didn’t much matter. Maybe his sisters would like it, a memento of a visit to a place they would possibly never see and certainly never understand what it had come to mean to him. He just didn’t want anyone else to own it. Not that painting.

The man peered at Daniel through his glasses, making a quick assessment of the wear in his coat and the possibility Daniel had any ready cash.

“Thirty-five,” Mr. Grant said, his voice tight with the anticipation that Daniel would promptly leave without the painting.

It was probably worth more, but as it was, thirty-five dollars would consume most of the money Daniel had set aside for a train ticket back to Chicago. “I’ll trade you my pocket watch for the painting.”

Mr. Grant recoiled. “This is not a pawnshop, sir.”

“Then tell me where there is one.” He could pay off the pawnshop loan once Josiah’s estate was settled. Buy any number of watches. And paintings. “I have a personal interest in that painting, and I don’t want to wait for money to be wired from my bank back home in order to get it.”

“There’s a pawnshop five doors down.” The shopkeeper pointed to his right. “Reputable fellow. He’ll give you a fair deal.”

Daniel remembered a comment Minnie had made. “What about a good place to buy dolls?” He might have money to spare, if the pawnshop dealer was as fair as Mr. Grant claimed.

The proprietor’s brows lifted. “You have very eclectic taste, sir.”

“They’re for my sisters back in Chicago.”

“There’s a store on Market Street that has a nice selection.”

“Thank you.” Daniel headed for the door. “Don’t sell that painting before I’m back.”

“And here I was expecting Leland Stanford any minute to snatch it up,” Mr. Grant replied, snickering over what sounded like a private joke.

“W
e’ve caught the culprit, Miss Whittier.” Officer Hanson hulked by the front door, his domed police hat tucked under one arm, a self-congratulatory grin on his broad face. “I told you we would.”

Sarah glanced over at Mrs. McGinnis, whose forehead crinkled with disbelief. “That was very quick, Officer.” It was not even ten in the morning yet, barely twenty-four hours since she had made her report to the policeman.

His chest swelled. “Our men are the best in the city, miss.”

“You’re certain you have the right fellow?” Sarah asked.

“Fits your description to a T.” With his empty hand, he located his wad of note papers in his coat pocket and consulted them. “‘Hairy brute, tall, disheveled appearance.’”

“It’s not a very specific description.”

“This man’s worked Nob Hill for the past several months, off and on, Miss Whittier.” The notes were reinstalled in its pocket. “His
modus operandi
is the same each time—check a residence’s locks at odd times of the day, when busy folk might be at work downtown or enjoying an evening’s entertainment, return the next night or so with a weapon, and rummage through the first room he comes to. Threaten anyone who discovers him and run off with what he can.”

“They just might have him, Miss Sarah,” said Mrs. McGinnis. Officer Hanson peered down the length of his bulbous nose.
“We most certainly do.” He nodded, rubbed a hand across his crop of short-trimmed hair and restored his hat to his head. “If you need any further police assistance, you know where to contact us.”

With a final crisp wave, he clomped down the steps.

“Thank the good Lord.” Mrs. McGinnis smiled after she shut the door behind him. “We can rest soundly now, and you can return that pistol to Mrs. Brentwood.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah caught sight of the quilt folded on a chair in the parlor and lifted a knowing eyebrow. “And Mr. Cady will no longer have to secretly sleep on our porch and be served coffee in the morning.”

For the first time Sarah could recall, Mrs. McGinnis blushed. “I believe I’ve soup on the boil in the kitchen.”

“They’ve arrested old Bill Cobb.” Frank flopped into the chair and jutted out his legs. The heels of his filthy boots scraped across the rag rug, leaving behind a trail of mud and street muck. He didn’t care; she’d be the one to have to clean it up later.

He chuckled and scratched at the bandage patching the wound in his arm. “As if Cobb has the nerve to break into a house with folks inside it. He’s too white-livered. If he’d caught sight of that woman with her shiny pistol, he’d have wet his pants and gone running.” He twisted in the parlor chair, the horsehair stuffing springing out of its seams, to stare at her. “Ain’t that right, Annie? Eh? He’s a white-livered coward.”

“That’s right, Frank,” she replied, mustering a smile and a nod.

She was tired—tired, tired, tired—of the strain to pretend she agreed with him. Supported him. Once, she had loved Frank. He had been so strong. Her protector.
Never gonna let anyone touch a hair on your head, Annie girl.
His Annie girl. The only sweet nickname she’d ever been given.

She had been uncharacteristically naive to confuse a tossed-off endearment for real love.

Exhaling, he settled deeper into the chair, the wood frame creaking beneath him. “Not like me. I’m no coward. If she hadn’t winged me, I’da demanded she cough up the treasure. I got that cudgel and I’m not afraid to use it.”

The hairs stood on Anne’s arms, and she folded her shawl close. Thank heavens Miss Whittier had obtained a gun and proved to be a better shot than Anne would have guessed. Not that she wanted Frank hurt, but when presented with a choice between Miss Whittier’s safety and a gouge in his tough hide . . .
I would choose Miss Whittier every time.
She hadn’t thought she would come to esteem Miss Whittier as much as she did, when Frank had first concocted his plans.

“What are you frowning about? Scared I would’ve hurt your precious Miss Whittier?” His eyes narrowed to treacherous slits. “Whose side you on, Annie girl, eh?”

Anne swallowed. “Yours, Frank.”

“You’d better say that.”

She danced on a precipice. Every day. One careless move, and she’d fall into the abyss. “You want lunch? Something to drink? There’s fresh ale from the saloon.”

He grunted an affirmative. His gaze followed her as she skirted the chair and bent to yank off his boots. He reeked of manure and sweat; the stink no longer made her cringe.

“I’m not done with her, Annie girl,” he said, twining around his finger a lock of hair escaped from her bun. He pulled, forcing her to look up at him. “I aim to get Cady’s treasure before someone else does, and that’s where you come in.”

Her neck craning awkwardly, she peered at him. She should never have told Frank about Josiah Cady, Miss Whittier’s benefactor, and his Black Hills gold. “Haven’t I helped enough already, Frank?”

“Enough?” he mocked, his grip on her hair tightening. “You’re in her house all the time, but you still haven’t found out where old Cady’s hidey-hole is. Time that changes. And when you do
find out, you’re gonna tell me and we’re both gonna break in and take the gold from her.”

“I can’t do that.” She twisted her head, hair ripping from her scalp. “I can’t steal from Miss Whittier. Not after everything she’s done for me. I was wrong ever to think I could.”

“She hasn’t done anything for you.
I’m
the one who’s done everything for you. Given you shelter. Protected you from your old man. You don’t want to go back to him, do you?”

“No.” Never. She had nowhere to go. Which was why she had stayed with a man who no longer remembered how to be kind. But she could not hurt Miss Whittier. There were lines even she would not cross. “I don’t want to go back to my father, Frank. You’re right.”

“About time you realized that.” Frank flicked the broken strands of her hair off his fingers. “So, you’ll help me.”

She grabbed his muddy boots and pretended not to hear. “I’ll get you lunch, Frank.” Clenching her jaw, Anne strode into the kitchen, leaving him to sputter his anger.

Jesus, if You truly exist, show me the way out.

Because she was finished with helping Frank Burke.

It was time to help herself.

“After another incident with this intruder, Sarah, there is only one thing to be done.” Lottie paced across the parlor floor, the swish of her bustle threatening to dislodge a potted fern and crystal ashtray from the armchair side table. “You must move to our house for your safety.”

Sarah plucked from her mouth the pencil she’d been using to jot notes. “Your mother did not agree to that, I’m sure.” Though Mrs. Samuelson supported her art studio, she had always been reserved when it came to Sarah. A woman with a sketchy past might make a nice charity case, but she was not to be boarded in one’s guest bedroom.