Josiah's Treasure (29 page)

Daniel took a seat across from Sinclair, prompting one of the many waiters to dash forward with a silver pot of coffee.

Sinclair resumed sitting and snapped open his napkin. “I have news about Josiah Cady’s assets you’ll want to hear too.”

“In that case, Sinclair, I don’t mind the intrusion,” said Daniel. Sign papers, discuss assets. So simple, like they were finalizing a minor business transaction. And so bitter tasting.

“I thought not.” He paused while the waiter—for once, not the red-haired one—poured a stream of black coffee into Daniel’s cup and set a menu in front of him. Sinclair didn’t wait for Daniel to order, asking for a veal cutlet with a side of toast and some scrambled eggs, enough to satisfy a healthy appetite. Daniel settled on oatmeal; his grandfather’s telegram had left him
without much interest in food.

Once the waiter had trotted off, Sinclair leaned against the chair back, tenting his fingers over his stomach and the loop of his gleaming gold watch chain.

“I learned that your father’s property in Placerville, which Miss Whittier recently put up for sale, has a potentially interested buyer. It should fetch a few thousand dollars. Not bad. No one wants that mining claim in Grass Valley, though.” He eyed a stack of papers resting atop the white lace tablecloth. “I also uncovered a small bank account with only a few dollars left in it. My assistants never did find any other accounts or assets.”

No gold nuggets either. Wouldn’t Jackson be disappointed. “What else do you have?” Daniel asked, impatient to be done.

“I have the copy of your baptismal record, the affidavit of your identity right there with the papers. I just need you to sign it, if one of the waiters”—he looked around—“could bring us a pen.”

Pen and ink were requested and arrived with Sinclair’s toast. Slathering butter across the perfect brown surface, he indicated with a pointed elbow where Daniel should sign the affidavit.

“Everything is set, Mr. Cady,” said Sinclair, pointing out another spot requiring a signature. “We have all we need for next Monday’s hearing. I trust you are ready to get this business completed.”

Daniel nodded wordlessly and indicated to the hovering waiter that he was finished with the pen and inkstand.

Sinclair peered at Daniel, a worried crease marring his face. He drew a hand down his thick mustache. “Mr. Cady, you look a bit glum. Have you changed your mind about contesting the will?”

“No, Sinclair, I haven’t.”

Relief smoothed away the crease, pleased that he’d still be receiving his remuneration for presenting Daniel’s case. “Good.”

The waiter returned with the rest of their food, and Sinclair set to slicing his cutlet. “The real estate agent has contacted me.
He expects the house to fetch close to fifteen thousand. More if the house remains fully furnished. Better than I anticipated, but then real estate in Nob Hill is highly desirable.”

“How . . .” Should he say “wonderful”? Grandfather Hunt would. “Sounds fine, Sinclair. This all sounds fine.”

“Only ‘fine’?” Sinclair stuffed the piece of meat in his mouth and spoke around it. “I hope you weren’t expecting more.”

“Like you said, I just want to be finished with this business. My sisters are begging me to return home soon, and I’m looking forward to being with them again.”

“A noble cause, Cady.” Sinclair pointed at him with his fork. “You should be proud that you’ve gone to this effort to secure their futures. Why, it’s only what any decent man should do for his young, orphaned sisters.”

Daniel stared at the creamy surface of his oatmeal, speckled with brown sugar. Proud. He should feel proud.

Instead of queasy.

“Miss Lane tells me they were but a block from the House when Miss Cavendish took an unexpected turn.” Mrs. Hill was too skilled at concealing her true emotions to twist her hands together in her lap. Sarah swallowed and felt nervous enough for the both of them. “Hester slipped and fell and couldn’t keep up with her and lost Miss Cavendish to view. She scrambled to her feet and ran all the way back, fearing an encounter with the man chasing them.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Miss Whittier. I certainly never expected that he would find her. We might have to relocate the House, if it’s become common knowledge where we are.”

“Is Hester all right?” Sarah asked.

“Very upset but otherwise unharmed.” Mrs. Hill shifted on the parlor settee to better face Sarah. “I trust you don’t have any idea where Miss Cavendish might be.”

If she managed to elude Frank, that was. Words too fearful to say aloud.

“She hasn’t come here and she wouldn’t go to the shop again, I think. If she didn’t find her way back to the Benevolent House . . .” Sarah left the thought unsaid. Anne could be anywhere and in any condition. And Sarah had failed her, one of her girls, though Anne would not care for the label. Had failed her as surely as Minnie’s father failed her, and Cora’s family let her down. Like Edouard had failed Sarah.

Rosamund Hill’s gaze was keen. “You are not to blame for what has happened.”

I want to believe that.
“I’ll go to the police and report this. She was my employee and, as far as I can tell, I’m the only person remotely responsible for her. Anne never spoke of family. For all I know, they’re all gone or had washed their hands of her.”

In a flash, Sarah was standing in a dusty Los Angeles street, the hot pinks of dead bougainvillea flowers swirling around her feet, the thick front door of her aunt and uncle’s house closed tight against her humiliation. After Edouard, after her horrible mistake, she had tried to reconcile with them. They would not have her.

Unaware of Sarah’s painful recollection, Mrs. Hill patted Sarah’s hand and stood. “Do you want me to go to the police with you?”

Sarah wanted to smile to let Rosamund know how much she appreciated the offer. It wouldn’t form on her mouth. “You should probably return to the House, in case Anne shows up.”

“Stella and some of the women staying there could tend to her.”

Sarah stood as well. “If Anne’s anything like me, she’ll only want to have you.”

Mrs. Hill nodded. “Take care, Miss Whittier, and let me know as soon as there’s news. I will keep safe the few possessions she brought with her to the House until she’s back among us again.”

Mrs. McGinnis showed her out. When she turned back to Sarah, her face was heavy with worry. “
Och
, Miss Sarah, what now?”

“I go to the police. Though I doubt they’ll care about an unmarried woman with a dubious background, missing in the warren of San Francisco streets. I just wish Anne had accepted my offer of money when she’d had the chance and fled to somewhere far away.”

“
Nae
point in wishing back what canna be undone.” The housekeeper’s tone brooked no argument. “Besides, Anne would never take what you canna well afford to give.”

Money. She was sick to death of brooding over it. “My few pennies mean nothing to me, if they could have bought her safety.”

Mrs. McGinnis touched Sarah’s arm. “The Lord will protect her.”

Like Mother and Jess and Caleb? Sarah’s heart ached for all the losses she’d endured, all the unanswered prayers. Would she lose Anne too, who had counted on Sarah?
I tried. I tried to help.

Sarah’s breath was shaky when she drew it in. Brushing past Mrs. McGinnis, she strode into the entry hall and collected her black mantelet from the stand. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Perhaps while you’re praying for Anne, you can pray that Officer Hanson is willing to help search for her, though I expect there’s not much he can do.”

Not much any of us can do.

O
fficer Hanson yawned into his thick-knuckled fist and reached for a second gulp of coffee. He must have had a long day yesterday, and the look he gave Sarah suggested to her he wasn’t keen to have another one.

“You must help me find her,” she said, leaning forward on the hard-backed chair set at an angle to the officer’s desk, her stays jabbing into her ribs. “Anne Cavendish is in danger for her life.”

Conversation droned in the airless central office of the North End Police Station like the tired hum of an old steam generator. The room, which smelled of cigarettes and sweaty wool uniforms, stole her breath. Down a hallway, an office door banged and boots stomped across a floor. An alarm bell clanged on the wall opposite where she sat. Officer Hanson glanced at it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shouted for someone to see to the emergency.

“So you say this woman is in danger for her life,” he said, once the commotion died down, and drained his cup.

“She definitely is, and you must help me find her.” He looked as disinterested, however, as she had anticipated. What was another woman, a girl from the streets and filthy back alleyways, to him?

“We’re pretty busy here, Miss Whittier.” He waved one of his
fists to encompass the office. “Not a lot of men available to go on a wild-goose chase when there are serious crimes to solve.”

“This could be a serious crime if it’s not prevented, Officer Hanson.”

“Suppose so.” He sat back and sucked in a long breath that stretched his blue coat across his barrel chest. “Does she know Bill Cobb, by any chance?”

“What?” Sarah knitted her brow. “Who?”

“The man we arrested for attempting to rob you.” He looked at her as though she must be dull-witted to have forgotten.

“What would Anne have to do with him?”

“Well, now, that’s what I’m asking you.” He peered at her until Sarah started to squirm, sympathizing with the others who’d sat in that hard chair before she had. Officer Hanson made a good interrogator. “Has she run off because she was the one who heard about the treasure rumor and told him? Clued him in about your comings and goings? Maybe she’s feeling guilty. What do you say to that?”

She understood why Officer Hanson had asked the question. Somehow, this Cobb fellow had picked the evening Mrs. McGinnis was out and Sarah was supposed to be at the Linforths’ for supper.

“She isn’t involved with Bill Cobb. Anne has never mentioned his name to any of the girls or to me. She doesn’t know him at all. The man she lives with is called Frank. He’s the one we believe is responsible for her disappearance. He was spotted stalking her near the Benevolent House where she had been staying.” Sarah tightened her fingers around the straps of her reticule resting in her lap. “He’s violent and has beaten her before. I’ve seen the bruises myself.” The plum shading to yellow on her pale skin. Sarah was the one who felt guilty. For not doing more, sooner.

“Violent, is he? In that case, she’s probably . . . ah, yes, well.” He cleared his throat, looked away from Sarah, and fussed with
searching for a pencil and pad of paper in the top drawer of his desk. “Tell me more about this Frank fellow.”

Sarah did, told him all she knew, which wasn’t much. A spare description gleaned from Minnie, who had met him. Where he and Anne lived in Tar Flat.

As she spoke, Officer Hanson nodded. More out of politeness, Sarah thought, than from enthusiasm. “I’ll ask my chief to request that one of the men working that district go and question him. Don’t think he’ll have much to say, if he’s even there. Tight-lipped, these sort are.”

“And what about searching for Anne?” she pressed.

The policeman scratched a raw patch on his chin where he’d done a bad job shaving. “I can have a notice of a missing woman placed in the papers. Can you supply a description?”

Sarah told him that too. Anne was distinctively tall and lean. She would be easier to spot than most women. “I’m concerned that Frank will see the notice and realize we’re searching for her. That might put her in greater danger.”

“You think a fellow like him reads the paper, Miss Whittier?”

“I have no idea! I just don’t want her hurt.”

Officer Hanson snorted, ripped off the piece of paper with his notes, and pocketed it. “If he’s gotten hold of Miss Cavendish and is set on hurting her, miss, the harm’s already been done.”

Sarah clenched her hands. “Is there anything I can do?”

Two thick eyebrows lifted. “Pray?”

“I’m not very good at that.”

He looked pityingly at her. A different alarm bell rang and he stood. “Busy day. If you’ll excuse me.”

He didn’t wait for Sarah’s answer before he strode off, leaving her to stare after him, the clamor of the office drowning out the sound of his footfalls.