No Pity For the Dead (15 page)

“I want to tell you that I believe Frank is not guilty, Jane,” said Celia.

“I hope you're right. He's been acting so strangely lately—”

With a grunt, Mr. Martin roused himself and shifted in his seat to look back at them. “I don't mean to eavesdrop, but are you ladies talking about the unfortunate Mr. Nash's death?”

Jane flushed. “My goodness, no. I don't even want to think about that on such a fine day. Don't you agree, Celia?”

“Why, yes, Jane,” Celia replied, calmly holding Jasper Martin's gaze. She did not want him to think she might be spying on him and his guests, hoping to obtain some sort of evidence for the police, but it might already be too late. After yesterday's meeting, Frank would most certainly be on his guard and might have alerted the others to behave likewise.

“And thank you again for allowing me to accompany the party today, Mr. Martin,” she added as the carriage driver steered between a buggy and a yellow omnibus, scenes of Cliff House painted upon its sides, that had stopped to unload passengers. “I so rarely enjoy the opportunity to go on excursions.”

“Then let's not spoil it, shall we? Let's enjoy our little celebration, rather than talk about such matters,” he said firmly, and turned to once again face forward. For having been taken with Celia at Jane's dinner party, he certainly did not appear enamored by her now.

Jane gave her a worried look. All Celia could question,
though, was if he had been the person she'd felt watching her yesterday. Why, though, would Mr. Martin take an interest in her visit? Unless Frank had told him that she had investigated a murder before and Mr. Martin did not care for her presence at his office. But that presumed Mr. Martin was concerned about what she might learn from the workers there, and that it could possibly affect him.

The hostler ran to greet them, and the driver reined in the horses before the front door. Mr. Martin hopped down, more spryly than Celia imagined a man of his age—fifty? sixty?—could do. Frank trotted the Hutchinsons' rockaway over to the railing, and Grace and Barbara clambered down without waiting for help, acting like high-spirited girls instead of young ladies who should be exhibiting more decorum.

Celia accepted the offer of Mr. Martin's hand; he withdrew it as soon as her feet touched the gravel drive. Once he'd finished assisting Jane, he strode over to the front door, where the man at the entrance met him with profuse greetings.

“He is a strange man, isn't he?” asked Jane, her eyes tracking Jasper Martin as he went inside. “I just wish the police would spend some time interrogating him instead of suspecting Frank.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “Who could ever have imagined we'd be tangled up in such a situation?”

Her attention shifted to her husband, who was handing the reins of the rockaway to the hostler. A wrinkle of concern tugged on her brows, then was gone.

“Jane, try not to worry,” said Celia.

“I simply wish I knew—”

“Are you coming, Jane?” Frank was looking over at his wife.

“Go on in,” she called to him. “I need to fetch the girls.”

“Simply wish you knew what?” Celia asked her.

“Nothing, Celia.” Jane waved her off. “Girls!”

Grace and Barbara had headed for the low rock wall that abutted the road leading from Cliff House down to the beach. Celia could see how sharply the rock face beneath the wall dropped to the churning sea, and the wind whipped the girls' skirts and cloaks around them. Grace was leaning over the wall, pointing at one of the seals, Celia supposed. Though the rocks below slanted into the water, the wall seemed high enough to hold back an exuberant girl.

“Grace!” shouted Jane, drawing a frown from an elderly woman accompanying her husband into Cliff House. Jane hurried over to the girls. “Come away from there! It isn't safe!”

Celia followed. Out of the lee of the building, the wind snagged her mantle, the chill cutting to the bone.

Grace trudged over to Jane, Barbara hobbling across the uneven ground alongside her friend.

“I wasn't going to fall over the edge,” Grace said petulantly.

“It's slippery over there from the sea spray. You very well could have,” Jane answered, taking her stepdaughter's hand.

“I wish you wouldn't worry so much.”

Jane glanced at Celia before answering. “I can't seem to help myself anymore.”

*   *   *

M
r. Martin's prominence had secured him a table by the windows overlooking the water. Celia had been surprised that he had not reserved one of the private dining rooms; perhaps he wanted to spare himself the expense, or perhaps he enjoyed the commotion that the presence of wealthy, influential men created among the other diners.

The luncheon itself had been delicious—oysters, crab, chicken in a wine sauce, potatoes and French beans, a dessert of berries—but the conversation had been meager. They had been avoiding the topic Celia was certain everyone wished to discuss. Every time she had attempted to ask the most oblique question related to Mr. Nash's murder, she had been effectively silenced. Instead, the assembled guests had commented repeatedly on the loveliness of the view, the interesting sight of the sea lions and seals lolling on the pyramid-shaped rocks, the majesty of the sea spray as the waves crashed against them.

I do not know why I thought I could get them to gossip at all.

“This is dreadful. I can't bear the tension,” said Jane, who had contrived to sit next to Celia, though it unbalanced the seating arrangement. Anything to put space between her and the decidedly unfriendly Dorothea Russell, who was at that moment shooting scowls at her husband. After three glasses of claret, Abram Russell was swaying drunkenly, rather like a willow in a stiff breeze.

Celia scanned the others assembled around the table. Mr. Martin had decided to stop noticing his partner's inebriation and was busy speaking to a silver-haired acquaintance at a neighboring table. Frank was giving an order to their waiter, who bowed over his apron and scuttled off.

“The girls are enjoying themselves, at least,” said Celia. Just then they walked past on the terrace beyond the windows, Barbara clutching her hat while the ribbons of Grace's bonnet fluttered like streamers. “And they are staying away from the railing.”

“Thankfully. Grace can be reckless. I think she forgets Barbara's infirmity at times.”

“Actually, I appreciate that she does.” The girls strolled out of
their view, though Celia noted the couple walking in the other direction, who turned to stare after them, the man frowning. There had been no recent attacks on the Chinese of the city, but anti-coolie sentiment had caused Barbara to become a target before. The man's wife tugged on his arm, and they continued without incident.

“Do you think Barbara noticed his attention?” Jane whispered to Celia.

“I hope not.” Barbara's appearance confounded people, many of whom could not reconcile the quality of her dress and the refinement of her speech with her features. She'd been asked if she hailed from the Sandwich Islands or South America or some other exotic locale. Celia's cousin had learned to simply say no, because to be marked as Chinese caused more trouble than being honest justified.

“He's moved on, so I don't think there's anything to worry about,” said Jane. She was in the middle of lifting her final bite of ice cream when she paused, the spoon halfway to her mouth. She set it down. “What's he doing here?”

“Who?” Celia asked, trying to discern whom Jane was looking at. Several men and women clustered along the railing at the edge of the terrace, while others walked by.

“I . . . No, it's not him,” said Jane. “I thought I saw one of Frank's workers, but I'm mistaken. It's not him. Of course it wouldn't be.”

“Which one did you think you saw?”

“I don't know any of their names. And I don't know why I remarked on it. Especially since I was wrong.”

Jane shrugged over her error and finished her ice cream. But she didn't stop staring outside. Celia did not recognize any
of the men on the terrace, although she'd never met Maryanne's brother and had only skimmed over the workers at Martin and Company.

The waiter returned with a bottle of Charles Farre champagne, which he proudly showed around to the diners at the table.

“Compliments of Mr. Levi Strauss,” he announced, nodding in the direction of a dark-suited man seated across the room.

“That's so generous,” Mrs. Russell said tightly. Did she disapprove of gifts from Jewish men, even ones as successful as Mr. Strauss?

“How ironic,” whispered Jane. “I'd heard that Mr. Strauss and Mr. Nash were close acquaintances. In fact, Frank once told me they'd known each other for years. All the way back to Nevada, where Mr. Nash began to accrue his wealth at the silver mines.”

“Do you think, by sending us champagne, Mr. Strauss is making a comment about Mr. Martin's involvement in Mr. Nash's death?” asked Celia.

“Oh my goodness.”

Frank clinked a fork against a glass and stood. The waiter removed the cork, which came free with a loud pop. In a profusion of bubbles, the man poured the wine into Frank's glass, then filled everyone else's save for Jasper Martin's.

“I propose a toast. To ten more years,” announced Frank, standing with the glass in his hand. “Or twenty. Or thirty.”

It was difficult to discern, based on the others' expressions, if those seated around the table shared his sentiment. They ought, considering how wealthy Martin and Company had made them all. Working with Jasper Martin, however, would not be easy; he was more than strange. He was dour and watchful, assessing everyone's response, everyone's attitude.

Mr. Martin raised his glass of lemonade. “To Martin and Company.”

“Hear! Hear!” said Mr. Russell, downing his champagne in one gulp. His wife consumed hers more slowly, but with no less enthusiasm.

Celia had never cared for champagne, which tended to give her a headache, but she took a sip out of politeness. It fizzed against the roof of her mouth.

“I owe the success of our establishment to the diligent work of my partners,” said Mr. Martin. To Celia's ears, his praise sounded oddly insincere, though what he said was no doubt the truth.

“And we owe you, Jasper,” said Frank. “Without your shrewdness, we would not have achieved what we have.”

“You mean without my money financing our investments, don't you?” He smiled affably to take the edge off the words, but a muscle in Frank's cheek twitched anyway.

“Oh dear,” Jane muttered.

“I'd never forget that Martin and Company is founded upon your hard work, Mr. Martin,” Frank responded, his tone clipped. He must be displeased to be criticized, no matter how blandly, in front of his wife and the Russells. “And the good fortune you have enjoyed in all your endeavors. My father wouldn't have partnered with you ten years ago if he had not thought you a man of wisdom and great foresight.”

“That's true. He wouldn't have. And I also know to strike while the iron is hot, Mr. Hutchinson,” Mr. Martin replied, “as well as when to leave well enough alone.”

Frank set down his glass of champagne so abruptly that the wine sloshed over the edge of the glass and onto the pristine white tablecloth. “What are you suggesting?”

“I think you know. And I don't approve.”

Even Abram Russell, in an advanced state of inebriation, noticed the undercurrent of anger. He wobbled to his feet. “Now, now, gentlemen, don't fight.”

“It's that awful policeman.” Dorothea Russell pouted, an expression that did not sit well on her small mouth. “Nosing around. Putting everybody on edge.”

And there it was, thought Celia, grateful that someone other than herself had finally raised the topic.

The girls, windblown and rosy cheeked from the brisk air, chose that moment to return and take the seats they had vacated. Jane signaled to the waiter to pour them each a small amount of champagne. Celia didn't protest. In fact, she believed she could use more herself. She would address the headache later.

“We saw Ben Butler, Cousin. He's out there right now, in fact,” said Barbara, her eyes bright with happiness for a change. She gestured toward the seal-covered rocks. “Do you see him? The big fat sea lion on the highest pinnacle. He's quite the lord of the manor!”

“Not now, Barbara,” Celia murmured, observing Grace's gaze, fixed on her father's face. Had she heard Mrs. Russell's comment? She had to have done, because the people at a nearby table had heard, if their hasty whisperings to one another were any indication.

“Frank was with me that night, Jasper,” said Mr. Russell, leaning across the table and knocking over his glass.

“You don't need to defend me, Abram,” said Frank, who had calmly retaken his seat. He returned his daughter's gaze and winked at her.

Now, that is most odd.

The champagne had spilled in a golden rivulet across the tablecloth, and the waiter was sopping it up with his apron.

“Go away,” Mr. Martin barked at the man, his voice bouncing off the window glass. Mr. Russell, who must have believed Mr. Martin was speaking to him, started to rise. His wife was following suit. “Not you, Russell. Sit down.”

The waiter scurried off, bound for a robust man dressed in a vaguely naval uniform over near the door leading to the kitchens. The man with the silver hair at the adjacent table looked discomfited by Mr. Martin's outburst. He grumbled to his wife, and they both stood to leave. Not another soul in the dining room made to depart. Why miss the entertainment? It was nearly as engaging at the sea lions barking on the rocks outside.

“You are a weak link, Mr. Russell, and I don't like weak links,” said Mr. Martin. He withdrew his gold watch from his coat pocket and began snapping the watch lid open and shut. “And I don't like it when I can't trust one of my partners to keep his mouth closed.”