No Pity For the Dead (27 page)

He squinted at her. “I don't believe I've seen you before. Do I know you?”

“Mrs. Nash and I are . . . distant acquaintances.”
Lying in the house of God, Cecilia.
Whatever would her aunt think?
Sinful.
That would be her response. “But I held her husband in high regard and wished to show my respects.”

“I'll let Alice know.”

“Thank you so much.” Celia smiled again. A man would not be rude to a woman who was smiling at him, would he? “Your sister must be very distressed that the police have failed to identify her husband's murderer. I had heard it suggested that the person who had killed his brother in Virginia City is also responsible for his death. How dreadful!”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Oh my. I do not precisely recall.” Celia rested her fingertips on his forearm with a bit of coy forwardness. Jane would laugh to see Celia practicing feminine wiles, were she here to observe her actions. However, between Frank's open feud with Virgil Nash and Jane's request that Celia visit today, she knew the Hutchinsons would not be among the mourners. “But do you think it could be so? Did your brother-in-law ever tell you or Mrs. Nash that he had seen that man in town?”

“Virgil was always claiming—” He clapped shut his mouth and scowled at her.

“Claiming what?” she asked. “Claiming that he had seen the man, but you no longer believed him?”

“You know what, ma'am? I think it's time for you to go.” Mrs. Nash's brother grabbed Celia's elbow and tugged her toward the front doors.

“Unhand me! This is outrageous!”

Disregarding her protests, he maneuvered her all the way outside onto the porch, raising a murmur among the folks lingering
on the pavement. “And I suggest you send my sister a note expressing your sympathy.”

His grip pinched her skin, and she shook him off. “I shall do that.”

She looked back at the dark recesses of the narthex and the closed church doors beyond. And had a sudden recollection of the comment Jane had made at Cliff House.

They'd known each other for years. All the way back to Nevada . . .

“May I ask if Mr. Strauss happens to be in attendance along with his flowers?” she asked.

Mrs. Nash's brother—who had not offered his name, as would have been proper—looked astonished by the suggestion. “Him inside an Episcopal church?”

A revealing comment.

And all the answer she required.

*   *   *

“H
er note says that this kid delivered the message to Nash. The one that set up the meeting the night he died,” said Taylor, trailing Nick into the detectives' office. He scouted for a cigar among his pockets, found one along with a match.

“No, Taylor, it says he ‘may have.' Not exactly the same thing.” He tossed the note from Mrs. Davies onto his desk. “Any update on who it was that shot at Mrs. Davies last night?”

“Nobody around Mrs. Davies' place wants to talk. Seems they don't like cops.” His assistant struck the match against the floor and lit the cigar. “A Mexican fella down on the corner claims it isn't uncommon for drunks to fire their guns around there. Not that long ago somebody had a window shot out. Of course, some of the folks I tried to talk to don't speak much
English, so I'm not positive they understood what I was asking.”

Nick rolled his chair back from the desk, the casters squealing, and sat. “I'm not too surprised they don't want to talk.”

“It's also plain as day Mrs. Davies' neighbors aren't too happy with her. Don't like the patients she attracts to her clinic. Fallen women and all that, sir.”

“Although I suspect their unhappiness doesn't stop them from making use of her free services when the need arises.”

“Suppose not,” said Taylor. “What'd you learn at Martin's this morning, sir?”

Nick related Martin's explanation for running through that alleyway. “A tidy little story, Taylor.”

“He's a pretty smart man, sir . . . Mr. Greaves. He's had time to think up an account that we'd swallow.”

“It's always possible, though, that his account is true,” said Nick. He scowled at an ant crawling across his desk and crushed it with his thumb. “You sure about Frank's workers? Could've been one of them who had Eddie take that note to Virgil Nash. Bartlett has a record. And no good explanation for his actions the night Nash was killed.”

“What about Russell, sir? Just because he claims he was at some opium den the night Nash was killed don't mean he was.”

“He's still on the list of suspects, Taylor. But back to Bartlett . . . The guard at the Golden Hare recognized his name. Which means he's a customer, if not a regular enough one for the guard to know I wasn't him,” said Nick. “And if he's a customer, he very likely knew Nash.”

“But how could the killer be Bartlett?” asked Taylor,
gesticulating with his cigar and causing ash to fall onto the floor. “Matthews knew who killed Nash. If it was Bartlett, Matthews wouldn't have gone drinking with him and told him he was afraid he was next!”

“And who told us that story that Matthews knew the killer?”

“Bart—shoot. I see what you're getting at.”

“Bartlett could've invented the whole tale to deflect suspicion,” said Nick. “Maybe Martin hired Bartlett to kill Nash, but Bartlett got scared once he learned the cellar was scheduled to be worked on. So he decided to convince Matthews to search the cellar for gold. Murderers don't usually arrange for someone to dig up their victims.”

Taylor tilted his head and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “That does make sense, sir.”

Nick sat forward in his chair. “Get that Eddie kid to tell you who gave him the note for Nash. It could be the break we need. And have Mullahey bring Bartlett in here.”

“Yes, sir.” Taylor tucked the cigar in his mouth and rushed from the office.

Nick sucked in air and wrapped a hand around the ache in his arm. He frowned at the paperwork scattered across his desk from other cases he'd let languish. He'd get to work on them once he concluded another bit of unfinished business. Frank Hutchinson business.

*   *   *

L
evi Strauss' office was located on the top floor of his new building on Battery Street, the front a colonnade of arches, their contours echoed in the tall windows above. Wagons and crates and men in aprons clogged the roadway and pavement out front, forcing Celia to step around the jumble in order to
enter the building. A young man with the accent of the East Coast—New York, perhaps—stopped her from proceeding much beyond the door. She must not be the sort of person, usually male, who wished to review the contents of their showroom. Nonetheless, he agreed to take her to see Mr. Strauss, proving to Celia that a soft voice and mourning attire could produce the most unexpected reactions in people.

The man tapped gently on the office door but opened it before receiving an invitation to do so.

“A Mrs. Davies to see you,” he said, showing her inside. The young man noiselessly retreated to the far corner of the room, safeguarding the propriety of the situation.

Levi Strauss' office was sparingly decorated. It contained little more than a mahogany desk, two chairs, a shelf of books in English and Hebrew, and a narrow table piled with paperwork placed in orderly stacks.

The man himself, his hands folded behind his back, turned away from his contemplation of the view beyond his office window. Mr. Strauss was a robust man in his late thirties or perhaps forty years of age, dressed in a well-tailored black suit, with thick dark whiskers that went from ear to ear around his chin.

He executed a small, stiff-kneed bow. “Mrs. Davies,” he said, the accent of his German homeland less pronounced than she had anticipated. With a sweep of his right hand, he indicated she should take the chair waiting in front of his desk.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Strauss,” Celia said, taking a seat. “I realize you are a busy man.”

“Five minutes, Mrs. Davies. I have a meeting.” He took a seat in his leather chair and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall to his left. “Tell me what it is your husband wants to sell me.”

She had fabricated this small mistruth to increase the chance she would be allowed to speak with Levi Strauss. Not all of the young man's willingness to bring her here had been because of a soft voice and mourning attire.

“In truth, Mr. Strauss, I do not have a husband who wishes to sell you anything,” she said, and the young man in the corner muttered beneath his breath. “As it is, I do not have a husband at all. I have come here to ask you about Virgil Nash. I have been told you knew him in Virginia City.”

Mr. Strauss drummed his fingers against his desk. “I do not talk to people who lie to me.”

“I regret the mistruth, but I needed to urgently speak with you, and I suspected you would not see me unless I pretended to have a husband with a business proposition.” She leaned forward as much as her corset permitted. “I shall take up as little of your time as possible, so permit me to get to the point. I am attempting to discover whether Mr. Nash was murdered by the same man who killed his brother in Virginia City. I am wondering what you might know about this person.”

“Am I to suppose you are a member of the police force, Mrs. Davies?”

A blush heated her cheeks. “No. But a dear friend's husband was accused of the crime, and though he has since been cleared, I remain eager to see proper justice done,” she explained. “In addition, I was shot at last evening, and it is possible this person is now after me.”

“Which shows that it is dangerous to become involved in the investigation of a crime.”

“I am not afraid of pursuing the truth. I suspect you would feel the same in my situation.”

The comment brought a faint smile to his mouth. “You do this because you do not have a husband to stop you.”

Patrick would most definitely have never permitted her to become involved.

“My husband was lost at sea.” Or killed in a brawl in a Mazatlán saloon. She was not here to dwell upon whichever version of the story was the truth, however.

The man seated across from her bowed his head. “My sympathy.”

“There is no need,” she answered, evoking a look of surprise from him. She continued with her questions. “Can you tell me anything about the man who murdered Silas Nash? You did know the Nash brothers at that time, did you not?”

Mr. Strauss relaxed in his chair and contemplated Celia. The smile returned to hang on his lips.

I amuse him.

“I had dealings with Mr. Virgil Nash,” he said. “He pursued many ways to become wealthy, and at one time wanted to supply clothing to the silver miners as my Virginia City partner. He was ambitious and knew many people in the territory. But I already had dealings with a store there and did not need to work with him,” he explained. “He did, however, convince me to buy shares in his mine. Our interactions have been few since then. We were reacquainted recently when he became a fellow stockholder in the Merchants' Exchange Company. A difficult man, but certainly ambitious.”

This was a description far more generous than others Celia had heard. “What can you tell me about Silas Nash's killer?” she asked. “A Mr. Cuddy Pike.”

There was a brisk rap of knuckles upon the doorframe, and
another young man—this one with whiskers that bristled more fiercely than Mr. Strauss'—entered. He glanced at Celia with ill-concealed impatience.

“Di sokhrim zenen do, Levi,”
the man said.

“Eyn minut.”
Mr. Strauss shooed him away.

“The merchants are here for my meeting, Mrs. Davies,” he said by way of explanation. “The police must know all there is to know about Mr. Pike, yes?”

“However, they do not know if he is in San Francisco,” said Celia. “But I believe it possible that Mr. Nash spotted him not long before he was killed. Did he ever mention this to you, as a longtime friend?”

“Friend?” Mr. Strauss chuckled. “We were business associates, Mrs. Davies, nothing more. However, I did see Silas Nash's killer.”

“Here or in Virginia City?”

“Virginia City. I was dining with Silas and Virgil when he came into the restaurant. He saw the Nashes and became very angry. He accused Silas Nash of illegally mining his claim, and said his partner was dead because of Silas. He threatened to kill him.” Mr. Strauss shook his head. “And so he did, right then and there. Stabbed him. But, in the disorder that followed, the man got away.”

“Can you recall any detail about his appearance?”

Mr. Strauss formed a bridge with his fingertips and tapped them together. “He was a stout man, dark hair, with a big beard. And his face. It turned red as an apple when he shouted.”

Just like the man Katie had described, the man in Burke's who'd been afraid of Virgil Nash. Silas Nash's killer and that man had to be one and the same. She had no proof the red-faced
man—Cuddy Pike—had murdered Virgil Nash as well, but it felt right.

You could be pursuing a false lead, Celia. Do not presume you have the answer.

Mr. Greaves would know what to make of the information.

“But you have not happened to have seen this man in San Francisco,” said Celia.

“I do not think so, no. But it is possible he no longer looks the same,” he observed. “Weight can be shed, and a beard is easy to remove.” He mimed shaving.

“However, the fellow would not be able to hide the unusual redness of his face when agitated, would he, Mr. Strauss?”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her observation. “No, Mrs. Davies. He would not.”

*   *   *

“M
r. Greaves. You are back.” Mrs. Hutchinson's smile looked strained, as though somebody were standing behind her and tugging on her cheeks in order to get her lips to curve up. She turned to the domestic waiting near the front door. “Thank you, Hetty. You may return to your duties.”