No Pity For the Dead (10 page)

Taylor hastily stowed his pencil and notebook, but Nick took his time getting to his feet. “Sure, ma'am. But I might come back to ask more questions. If you don't mind,” he threw in.

“If they are more questions like that, you can be certain I mind. Good day to you both.” With a huff, she spun on the heels of her expensive shoes and marched out of the room.

*   *   *

“L
ook what I found on the front porch, Addie,” said Owen, strolling into the kitchen later that day. He held out a bouquet of daisies, a paper tag hanging from the twine tied around the stems. He squinted at the tag. “Says they're for you.”

Celia, who had been reviewing the household accounts in the warmth of the room, glanced at Addie. The housekeeper blushed furiously over the vegetables she was chopping.

“Och, what nonsense are you blathering now, Owen Cassidy?” She snatched the flowers from him and read the tag herself. “No name again.”

“Again?” asked Celia. “Have you received flowers before?”

Addie, who developed a sudden case of deafness, fetched a glass vase for the daisies and ignored Celia's question.

Owen chuckled. He plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs arranged around the oak table where Addie prepared meals. “I presume your being here means you have been released from employment,” said Celia.

He grabbed the last pieces of shortbread sitting on a plate. “Wasn't at work five minutes before Mr. Kelly marched me out the front door.”

“I will speak to Mr. Hutchinson,” said Celia. “Hopefully I can convince him to give you another chance and tell Mr. Kelly to take you back.”

“Thanks, ma'am,” Owen mumbled, his mouth full of biscuits. Addie, the flowers properly arranged and finding a home on the windowsill, took the empty plate over to the wet sink. Owen mournfully watched its departure.

He swallowed. “Got any more of those, Addie?”

“You've eaten the lot of them, Owen Cassidy. Do you think we're made of sweets here?” Addie asked.

“Nope, but a body can dream, can't he?”

“Whisht. Get on with you.”

Celia stacked the notices and bills into a neat pile and considered the boy. “Since you were forced to leave so quickly, I gather you did not have an opportunity to overhear what the other workers are saying about the murder.”

“Nothing more than nobody seemed to be staggered that Dan got in trouble,” said Owen. “This ain't . . . isn't gonna be good for Dan, though. He needs money to pay off some fella. That's why we were digging in the cellar to begin with. Said he was gonna finally pay off his debt to some mean old cuss when we found that treasure. Only there weren't any treasure, was there?”

“No, Owen,” said Celia. “Who told Dan about Mr. Martin having gold buried in the cellar? Do you know?”

“Rob Bartlett, I think, ma'am,” said Owen.

“Rob Bartlett.” The person Maryanne had mentioned as being “trouble.”

“Och, ma'am,” said Addie, wiping her hands on the edge of her apron. “I canna say I like where this is going. You investigating and all again.”

“Please do not worry, Addie.”

“‘Do not worry'? I canna help but worry when it seems you've forgotten what happened last time,” Addie responded, grabbing the sack of potatoes waiting nearby along with an empty tin bowl. “If you need me, I'll be on the back porch peeling potatoes and thinking about what I did wrong to merit such a quantity of worries. Maybe I'll see my astrologer about this unchancy event. She'll ken what troubles lie ahead for you, ma'am. And as they say, a man forewarned is forearmed.”

With that, Addie stormed outside, the back door slamming behind her.

“Sorry, ma'am,” said Owen.

“Addie is concerned, but it is nothing for you to fret over,” said Celia. “I have heard of Mr. Bartlett from Mr. Matthews' sister. What can you tell me about him?”

“He's a plasterer. He and Dan are friends, and go to the billiard hall and bowling alley together all the time,” he said. “Known each other for a while, I hear. Do other things than just go to the billiard hall and bowling alley, if you catch my meaning.”

“I do catch your meaning, Owen.” Drinking and possibly also gambling. And other disreputable pursuits. “Do you happen to know whom Dan owed money to? And was it possibly a gambling debt?”

Abram Russell liked to gamble, according to Jane. Was there a connection between the two men? And if so, what did Mr. Russell's or Mr. Matthews' gambling debts have to do with Virgil Nash, if he was indeed the corpse in the cellar?

Mr. Greaves is much better at this than I am.

While she was pursuing those thoughts, Owen had answered her question and was staring at her.

“My apologies, Owen. What did you say?”

“I said I think Dan owed money to some fella named Virgil.”

*   *   *

“I
 hope Mr. Greaves shall not mind if I wait for him,” said Celia, already regretting the impulse that had brought her to Nicholas Greaves' rooms after her failure to find him at the station. But once she had learned Owen's—and Maryanne's—information, she'd discovered an urgent need to talk to him about the next steps she intended to take.

Mr. Greaves' landlady, a Mrs. Jewett, looked Celia up and down. “I don't think he'll mind at all, ma'am. However, I insist you leave the door open.”

“I—I promise you, my visit is not at all what you think, Mrs. Jewett,” Celia insisted, her cheeks warming. She recalled another time and place, another man and an illicit visit to find comfort in his arms. This time, however, she was pursuing justice in a murder case, not the distraction to be found in a moment of passion. And Nicholas Greaves was not Patrick Davies. “This is a business matter, not a social call.”

“At least you're not pretending to be his sister, like that other woman does,” said the landlady.

That
other
woman?
An emotion too similar to jealousy swept her blushing embarrassment aside.
What other woman?

Mrs. Jewett was not about to enlighten her; she was already headed up the flight of steps that hugged the wall on the way to the first floor.

“We'll have to mind that dog of his,” she said, unlocking the door. A fierce round of barking ensued. “The bark's worse than the bite, ma'am.”

Easing the door open, the landlady pressed a knee against
the floppy-eared speckled dog that stuck its nose through. “Now, Riley, get back.”

Riley quieted and obeyed, his tail wagging as he retreated from the door. Celia entered behind Mrs. Jewett and looked around. The door led into a parlor of sorts with a tiny kitchen off to one side and a bedchamber at the back. The space was tidy and comfortable, with deeply cushioned chairs and a recently dusted table, which was topped by a coal-oil lantern already lit to chase away the shadows. A photograph rested atop a short cabinet, and the walls were bare, save for a framed sketch of a farm scene that appeared to have been done by a child.
Homey,
thought Celia with surprise. She expected Mr. Greaves to have no time or concern for such comforts.

Mrs. Jewett grabbed Riley's collar and led the dog to the bedchamber. “I'm putting you in here, you beast, so you don't slobber all over Mrs. Davies' skirt.”

She closed the door and turned to face Celia. “Don't be tempted to let him out. Riley might lick you to death before Mr. Greaves gets here to save you,” she said. “Can I fetch you some tea while you wait?”

“Thank you, but no. Business, remember.”

“I'm leaving the door open, ma'am,” Mrs. Jewett said, and departed, her footsteps fading as she reached the ground floor.

Celia wandered over to the cabinet. Mr. Greaves' dog heard the movement and pressed his nose to the gap beneath the bedchamber door, snuffling loudly. The daguerreotype was of a young man and two girls, one about the man's age, posed in a photographer's studio. There was no doubt who the young man was, and she supposed the two girls were his sisters. Celia tilted the image to catch the light from the lantern. His eyes weren't haunted like
they were now. In fact, he appeared happy. Content. It was the demeanor of a man who had not yet lost the younger of those sisters nor seen the ravages of war.

“Mrs. Davies!” Mr. Greaves exclaimed, entering the room, his gun drawn. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

Celia hastily returned the daguerreotype to its spot, its frame clattering against the cabinet's top. She'd been so preoccupied with the photograph, she hadn't heard his footsteps on the landing outside the set of rooms.

“Did not Mrs. Jewett tell you I was up here?” she asked, her heart knocking in her chest. “And you may put down your revolver, Mr. Greaves.”

“I didn't see my landlady to have her tell me I had company.” Easing the hammer closed, he laid the gun on the table. “And that's me and my sisters,” he said, nodding at the photograph.

“They are very lovely.”

“Yes,” he said brusquely. He flipped back his coat and removed his holster, setting it on the table as well. Next, he reached around to remove a bowie knife from a scabbard strapped around his waist.

He noticed her watching. “A policeman has to be prepared for any situation.” He set the knife next to the gun, making an orderly row. “Now that I'm disarmed, perhaps you'll explain why you're here at this hour.”

“The sun has not yet set.” She wasn't certain why she pointed that out.

“So I don't have to worry about my virtue?” he asked. “No wonder the door was open. Mrs. Jewett wants to protect your reputation. Or hear what we're talking about.”

“I explained to her that this was a business call.”

“Are we engaged in business, Mrs. Davies?”

She frowned at him. “You may cease teasing me, Mr. Greaves. Honestly.”

He pulled out one of the chairs arranged around the table. “Have a seat, ma'am. It makes me uncomfortable to leave a lady standing when I have every intention of putting my feet up. It's been a long day.”

She perched on the edge of the chair while he took a seat. True to his word, he leaned back, tipping his chair onto its rear two legs, and propped his booted feet on the edge of the table. “Well?”

“I have been thinking over some recent information I have received, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “And I wish to tell you of my
plans.”

He didn't laugh at her plans. And he didn't yell at her for suggesting she had a role in his investigation. Which, as far as Nick was concerned, meant he was more tired than he'd thought.

“I appreciate that you want to help, Mrs. Davies,” he said, “but asking questions at some party Martin's holding at Cliff House only seems like a good way to get yourself in trouble.”

If he mentioned to her the bit about Nash's visiting Levi Strauss the day he died, she'd next be offering to haul herself over to the man's house to interrogate him, too.

“What do you expect the luncheon conversation to be, Mr. Greaves?” Mrs. Davies asked.

“Um, let me see. They'll talk about how rich they're going to get when the Second Street cut is approved and they've won the contract to make it happen?”

He had told her all that he'd learned so far and she had done likewise, even revealing that Frank had argued with Nash at Burke's. It was a peace offering, that bit of news, to smooth matters over between them. But as soon as she mentioned that fight, she reminded him that many men argued and didn't proceed to kill the other fellow. She then rushed to tell him about Rob Bartlett, that he'd been behind getting Matthews to dig around and that he resented Frank for not promoting him. She also mentioned that Dan Matthews owed money to a man named Virgil, according to Owen, and what other Virgil was that likely to be besides Virgil Nash? Learning that meant Nick would have to explain to Matthews how bad it looked when a person lied to the police about not personally knowing the dead man he'd dug up.

“They will not likely brag about their imminent wealth, Mr. Greaves, but they will undoubtedly speak about the cut,” she said. Despite a stiff corset, she managed to lean down to scratch Riley's ears. The second Nick had let him out of the bedroom, the blasted fickle dog had run up to the woman as if she were his long-lost best friend. He was lying against her skirt, leaving hairs behind as his tail thumped in pleasure. “Furthermore, they will also likely gossip about Virgil Nash. Or I can ensure that they gossip about Virgil Nash.”

“Even though you're not a police officer, ma'am, I don't think they're going to be confessing a secret plot to get rid of the fellow.”

She gave Riley a final scratch and straightened.

“When men relax among their friends, they are capable of revealing all sorts of intimacies, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “I am a
friend and a woman. Surely they will not think to guard their tongues in front of me, a mere female.”

“The perpetrator could still be somebody other than the men planning to attend that party, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “His brother, Silas, was killed in Nevada. According to Dan Matthews, the Nashes had a reputation for jumping claims, and maybe that was what led to Silas Nash's death. Apparently, his killer managed to leave the country. Maybe the fellow has returned, though, and has finally come to San Francisco to murder Virgil, too.”

“Very worth considering,” she agreed. “But I cannot discover anything about that possibility at this party. I must stick to my primary goal of understanding who all might have lost money to the man, like Dan Matthews, thereby providing a motive for murder. Perhaps Jane was right to suggest Mr. Russell as a possible suspect because he owed Mr. Nash money as well.”

“And maybe Frank, Russell's good friend, owed Nash money, too?” Nick couldn't resist adding.

“Must you insist on pursuing him?”

“Seems a good suspect at the moment,” he said. “What with all the arguments between them.”

“Jane has not invited me to attend in order to prove her husband guilty.”

“Can't help it if he is, ma'am,” said Nick. “And if one of those men is the killer, your questions are going to put you in danger.”

She might be bosom friends with Frank Hutchinson, but that wouldn't stop the man from removing her if she was a threat. The man had no scruples when it came right down to it.

Celia Davies returned his stare without blinking. Or without comment. Which meant she understood the risk she was taking.

Nick sat forward, dropping the chair onto all four of its legs. He might as well agree to her proposition. She'd go ahead and ask questions whether he was happy about it or not.

“Just be careful, Mrs. Davies. And warn Cassidy to lie low, too. My boss wouldn't mind seeing him accused and this case wrapped up in a tidy bundle.”

“But Owen would never—”

“I know, ma'am,” he assured her. “I just want the pair of you to be careful. That's all.”

“I shall do whatever is required for our investigation, Mr. Greaves.”

“‘Our' investigation?”

“Why pretend otherwise?” she asked. Sensibly.

“Heck if I know.”

*   *   *

A
short downhill walk from Nicholas Greaves' rooms, Celia caught the horsecar at the corner of Montgomery and Bush, where the awnings of Russ House stretched over the pavement to shield the hotel's large windows from the sun. The North Beach and Mission Railroad would have been more convenient, but she wished to travel along Montgomery, past Martin and Company, and the Omnibus line was the one that accomplished that.

She climbed aboard and paid her fare. The car was filled with workers bound for home after work, but she squeezed between the standing passengers and found a seat on one of the two benches that ran the length of the car.

The horsecar started up with a jolt and rolled along the rails set down in the middle of the road. Celia stared out the window opposite her, watching the grand buildings pass by. They would
come across Martin and Company soon, and she leaned as far forward as her corset would permit in order to catch a glimpse. A man seated on the bench across from her gave her a curious glance before returning to his newspaper.

The door she and Owen had rushed through last night came into view. A workman, employed to paint the trim in blinding white, was gathering his supplies, finished for the day. She strained for a better view, not knowing what she searched for. Someone skulking about, looking guilty perhaps?
I am being silly.

“Gad,” she muttered, causing the man with the newspaper to peep at her over its top edge.

Just then, John Kelly came through the front door to speak with the painter, and then, presumably satisfied, he went back inside. How strange it was that Celia knew so many people at Martin and Company—Owen, Frank Hutchinson, John Kelly, and Dan Matthews by virtue of his relationship to Maryanne. She was tied to this murder by more than one thread.

The horsecar clopped along Montgomery, and the offices moved out of sight. But had any of those threads killed Virgil Nash? Obviously, Owen had not, even if Mr. Greaves' supervisor sought to have the boy accused. That was all she could be certain of. That and her conviction that Frank was not a killer.

The car came to a halt and loaded more passengers. There was a fuss occurring at the corner restaurant, and a number of people were gathered around a man wearing a tattered uniform and a tall hat overtopped with feathers, and carrying a knobby walking stick.
The infamous Emperor Norton,
thought Celia. Another eccentric in a city filled to capacity with them. The crowd's cheers roused the man with the newspaper, and he turned to look out the window.

“Dad-blamed fool,” the man grumbled. He shook out his paper and resumed reading.

The horsecar resumed its trudge along Montgomery.

Like the Emp, Jasper Martin enjoyed his own form of eccentricity. When she'd met him at Jane's dinner party, he had worn the plainest of clothes and looked a trifle dirty around the edges, even though he'd built a mansion in the hills at the edge of the city. Celia had been eager to hear about his exploits in the gold fields and curious whether he'd known Barbara's father, a fellow forty-niner. However, Mr. Martin had very effectively steered their conversation away from his past, seeking instead to talk trivialities. Though he'd been reasonably polite, she had taken a dislike to him, detecting a ruthlessness in his manner.

But was he ruthless enough to kill?

Celia leaned back, despite the years she had spent listening to her aunt's admonitions about a lady's proper posture, and thought of all the reasons people wished Virgil Nash dead: unpaid gambling debts; disputes with miners when he and his brother worked the Comstock Lode; his stubborn resistance to lowering Second Street, which lay not far from his lovely home, by a gouge through Rincon Hill—a possible explanation for the fight Katie Lehane had witnessed.

The scenery beyond the horsecar windows became the sights and sounds of the Chinese quarter. Next would come the area near Celia's home, where construction pushed the city ever westward and north toward the inlet to the bay. Even in the few years she had lived there, San Francisco had changed so much, and leveling the roads was merely one way to accomplish that change. Celia and Patrick had only recently moved to the city when Broadway had been leveled, and she clearly recalled the ugliness
of the exposed rock face, the makeshift staircases—more like ladders—that the property owners had constructed to reach their buildings marooned high above the roadbed. Every time it rained, torrents of mud and rubble broke free to churn along the street. In the years since, the cliffs had been smoothed, but if a cut was planned for the road passing through Rincon Hill, the loveliness of the area would be forever changed. She could not blame Virgil Nash for vehemently resisting.

She could only marvel that
he
was the one who was dead and not one of the partners at Martin and Company.

*   *   *

“G
race sent me a note asking me to go to Cliff House tomorrow. She thinks it won't be fun otherwise,” said Barbara the next morning. She handed Celia a curved needle, a length of silk suturing thread dangling from its eye. “Apparently, her stepmother has barely spoken to anybody since yesterday—she's too upset. And her father is furious with Mr. Greaves.”

They were seated by the window in their neighbor's front room, Celia preparing to stitch up a gash in the forehead of Angelo Cascarino, who squirmed in his mother's arms. Mrs. Cascarino, robust, loud, and passionate, was pinning him against her chest.

“First the catarrh and now this! You will sit still for Signora Davies!”

Blood dripped from Angelo's forehead onto the red shawl his mother always wore over her white blouse, the ends tucked neatly into the waist of her skirt. “Mama!” he yowled.

“If you listen to me, you do not get hurt. But you do not listen, Angelo!” she responded. “Be quiet now for the
signora
.”

Angelo howled louder.

Two of the other Cascarino children—there were five in total—watched from the doorway. Dark eyed, dark haired, and handsome, they were usually cheerful. Angelo's crying had made them less cheerful, however, and one, the youngest girl, was expending her anxiety by scuffing a toe across the worn floorboards.

“This is not the proper time, Barbara,” said Celia, concerned by what Barbara was saying as well as displeased she'd brought it up at this moment.

Celia dipped a cloth into a tin bowl containing a solution of alum and resumed attending to Angelo. She daubed the cloth across his forehead to slow the bleeding. He'd been climbing a stack of crates piled against the back fence in order to tease the dog on the other side of it. The crates had not withstood his scramble up them, however. He was lucky he hadn't broken a bone.

“But is it true the police think Mr. Hutchinson might have killed that man?” Barbara asked.

Celia glanced up at Mrs. Cascarino's face, bent very near hers. The woman looked back with open curiosity, but she was far too polite to ask questions.

“That is quite enough, Barbara,” said Celia. “You will need to hold his head very still, Mrs. Cascarino. This shall hurt.”

Angelo paused his complaints to goggle at her in fear. Mrs. Cascarino grimly clamped his head between her two strong hands. Celia pinched closed the wound and plunged the needle through the skin, weaving the ligature through the wound as quickly as possible. By the time Angelo registered the pain and cried more loudly than before, she was finished.