No Pity For the Dead (31 page)

Taylor reread the note, though Nick could see from where he stood that Mrs. Davies had written very little. “Nope. But it's gotta be the man she met in Burke's, don't you think, sir . . . Mr. Greaves? 'Cuz who else would shoot at her?”

“I don't know. A disgruntled customer?”

“Oh.”

“No, Taylor, I think it's probably him. The man at Burke's
who we now think is Cuddy Pike.” And possibly John Kelly as well. “And he got scared we were on to him.”

Since Mrs. Davies was shot at last night, Nick had a good idea how the man might've come to suspect that.
Danged woman. Asking questions, drawing attention to both Katie Lehane and herself.

“Let's see what Miss Lehane has to say and find Mr. Kelly.” Nick checked his Colt again. If it was Kelly who'd shot at Celia Davies and Katie Lehane, it meant the man had a gun.

A gun he clearly wasn't reluctant to use.

*   *   *

“P
lease do try to compose yourself, Mrs. Kelly. Please,” coaxed Celia, running a hand over the woman's taut belly. Maryanne Kelly had discharged her fluids already, and the baby
was
coming. Bottom first.

“I can't be calm! He's stuck. I can tell . . . unh.” Maryanne grimaced as another contraction swept over her.

“Breathe deeply. It will help.”

“I can't do that, either,” she panted as sweat trickled down her face and stuck her chemise to her skin wherever it touched. “The baby's going to die!”

“Not if I have anything to say about that.” Celia swiped the cuff of her sleeve over her forehead, even though the room's lone window was cracked open and the evening air was cool against the back of her neck. She should have brought Barbara. This delivery was going to be dangerously difficult.

“Oh, John . . .” Maryanne Kelly sucked in a breath. “John will be so unhappy with me. And after Dan . . .”

For some reason, Mr. Taylor had never delivered the message that Dan had been found dead, but Mr. Kelly had learned
of his brother-in-law's accident from his employees and informed his wife. The woman's intense labor pains had given her little time to grieve her brother, though.

The possibility of losing a child as well would be even more devastating. “Please try to remain calm, Mrs. Kelly. As best you can.”

“But John . . . I need him here.”

Celia wished John Kelly were here, too. Anybody other than the sniffling neighbor girl who'd answered Celia's knock, then crept up the stairs behind her. A bony child with greasy hair, she stood off to one side, her eyes as wide as bottle bottoms. At least she had been able to find clean linens to spread beneath Maryanne and drape across her body.

So I should not complain overmuch.

Celia shifted her position on the stool she'd found in the kitchen and felt for the baby's buttocks, finding them presenting. She'd read that doctors were now recommending wrapping a silk band around the hips and tugging, but the child's head might shift and jam. This infant was tiny, the legs fully extended; her instincts told her forcible pulling was ill-advised. And she always trusted her instincts.

“It is time to push, Mrs. Kelly,” said Celia calmly.

“But—”

“Please.”

Her face scrunching, Maryanne pushed. If all went well, the force of her muscles would tilt the head into the proper position, chin to chest, which would help the baby slide through her pelvis, but only if the infant's shoulders weren't too wide or the head too large.

“Oh God, it hurts!” Maryanne cried out. “He's stuck! I told you! I'm going to lose him, too!”

The girl sniffled and drew a fist across her face beneath her nose. “Is she gonna die?”

Not what's needed at this moment.
“Can you refresh the hot water, sweetheart?” Celia asked her. “The stove is likely still warm enough to heat more.”

“I s'pose.”

“And do check on Clary while you're down there,” Celia added, for she could hear Maryanne's daughter crying.

Suddenly, the front door banged, and the girl jumped. “Who's that?”

“John,” Maryanne squeezed out. “John!”

The girl bolted as if the devil himself had just been announced. She must have passed John Kelly on the stairs, because Celia heard his Irish brogue, followed by rapid footsteps on the treads.

John Kelly strode into the room. “That fool girl left the front door wide-open! And what's she doing up here, anyway? She's supposed to be watching Clary, not mooning about in here.”

“The baby, John.” Maryanne grimaced again. “He's come early.”

A look of alarm crossed his face. “Help her,” he begged Celia. “You've got to help her!”

“That is my goal,” she said. She was unused to the presence of a husband at childbirth, and his fear and helplessness unsettled her. “I will do all I can.”

Celia turned back to Maryanne, encouraging her as a fresh thin wash of bloody fluid emerged, followed by hips, then legs and torso. “You have a son, Mrs. Kelly, just as you expected.”

“John, do you hear?” Maryanne tried to smile through the pain, but her lips twisted with agony. “Daniel. We'll call him Daniel.”

“Yes, Maryanne,” he said soothingly. “After your recently departed brother. God rest his soul.”

Celia pulled gently on the baby's hips, helping him turn. Most of the torso was free. If she could just deliver the shoulders . . . They were so close. But then . . .

No! Do not get stuck!

“Oh dear God!” Maryanne cried out.

Her husband sank to his knees alongside the cot and reached for his wife's hand, squeezing. “Please, Mrs. Davies, help her! Why is she in so much pain?”

“It is natural, Mr. Kelly, I assure you,” Celia said, concentrating on trying to ease the infant through the final stage.

“They have to live!” John shouted. “My boy has to live!”

At his outburst, Celia turned to glance at him and was startled to see his cheeks flushed a darker red than she had ever seen on anyone's face. The color of ripest cherries.

His cheeks flamed a funny red when he got agitated 
. . . She recalled Katie describing the saloon customer who had been so afraid of Virgil Nash that he'd run from Burke's.

Oh dear Lord. Let me be wrong
 . . .

“You just hold on, Maryanne,” he said. “Don't leave me.”

His voice. There was also something about his voice, something different.

He has lost his Irish accent.
The one that had never sounded much at all like Patrick's or the other Irishmen Celia had known. Perhaps he was not who he had always claimed to be, as false a creation as Emperor Norton.

She could not think about what it all meant now. Not when the baby was so close to entering this world—or departing it.

Sweat dripped into Celia's eyes as she worked her fingers
around the baby's shoulders and neck. There were but precious moments before the umbilical cord, crushed by the head, would stop providing life-giving blood.

“Soon. Soon,” she said. “Do not give up now, Mrs. Kelly.”

The infant's extremities tinged blue.
No. No! He must come free.

Celia renewed her efforts, and Maryanne bore down. Suddenly, the baby slipped, and his head, topped with a smattering of hair, broke clear. He let out a wail, and Celia rocked back on her heels, relieved. Aside from bruising on the boy's hips and bottom, he was pink and shuddering with rage. Healthy.

“Ah!” cried Maryanne, relief and pleasure washing over her face. “Our boy, John. Our boy! And such a shout!”

Celia gathered him into a clean towel, wiping him off with tepid water from the waiting basin, the neighbor girl not having returned with fresh. Once the cord had stopped pulsing blood, Celia tied it off and cut it.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Kelly. “We shall call him Daniel William. After your brother and me father.”

He's recovered his accent again,
Celia noted, a chill sweeping over her.

Beaming, he bent over his newborn son. But then what father would not be proud of the birth of his first son? Even a killer.

Oh dearest Lord, I
must
be wrong.

Celia dressed the child's navel, bandaging the cord to his stomach, and handed him to Maryanne, who cooed, all of her pains forgotten. Celia stood, her legs cramped from sitting on the short stool she had placed at the foot of the bed.

“Since the neighbor girl is busy tending to Clary, can you fetch clean water for me to wash your son?” Celia asked Mr.
Kelly, feigning calm. Did he see through the pretense, though? Notice how her knees knocked? Was he the man who had shot Katie? The man who had shot at her?

Her hands trembled as she slid the soiled sheet from beneath Maryanne's hips.

“That I will,” he answered, giving Celia a sideways glance before heading for the kitchen.

Maryanne began to nurse the child, gently smoothing his hair with her fingertips. Once the afterbirth had cleared—and it appeared Maryanne would not hemorrhage—Celia bundled the dirty linens.

“Isn't he beautiful? Daniel William,” Maryanne murmured. “Daniel William.”

“He is very beautiful. He looks so much like your husband,” said Celia, listening for the sound of Mr. Kelly's return. She hadn't much time to ask questions.

“Do you think so?” asked the other woman, considering the child.

“I do,” said Celia. “Tell me again, because I have forgotten and I love to know about my patients' lives—how did you and Mr. Kelly meet?”

“It was in Los Angeles.” The baby whimpered, and Maryanne moved her fingertips to stroke his back. “At a fair. Such a lovely day.” Her expression turned dreamy. “We had a very short courtship. My father wasn't pleased by that, but my mother could see how happy I was. We were married not long after meeting at that fair. Just over three years ago. Then we moved here.”

Three years. When had Silas Nash been murdered in Virginia City? Earlier than that. She wished she could remember precisely.

“Was your husband from Los Angeles?” Celia asked, washing off her scissors and returning them to her medical bag.

“Oh no. He'd only been in Los Angeles a short time. Which was why my father wasn't pleased. He didn't like me running off . . .” She giggled, then winced as a delayed contraction squeezed. “That's what my pa called it. Running off! He didn't like me marrying a fellow whose family he didn't know.”

“Parents and guardians can be quite protective, can they not? My uncle felt much the same about my husband.” But for all of Patrick's sins, at least he had not been a murderer. What would she do if it became apparent that John Kelly had killed Silas Nash and possibly his brother as well?

Do not panic, Celia. Stay calm, get out of the house, and inform Mr. Greaves.

“Why had he come to Los Angeles?” she asked Maryanne. “Do you know?”

“He was looking for work, like so many who'd had trouble in the silver mines.”

Celia's pulse fluttered, gained speed. “How could I have forgotten? Now I recall your telling me he had worked the Comstock Lode.”

Maryanne's forehead creased. “Did I?”

“Yeah, did she?” asked Mr. Kelly from the doorway.

Celia spun to face him. “Mr. Kelly! You gave me a fright!”

“What's wrong, Mrs. Davies?” he asked, setting down the kettle of hot water he'd brought with him. “You look unwell.”

“Oh!” Celia raised her hands to her cheeks. “I've been most concerned for your wife and child. It has taken its toll on my appearance, I fear.” She retrieved her bonnet, mantle, and bag. “But I see that she and the baby are healthy, and I should leave.”

John Kelly shifted to block her departure. “Why are you asking my wife so many questions?”

She held his gaze.
I must convince him I am harmless.
Although if he was the person who'd attempted to shoot her last night, he already believed otherwise. “I enjoy getting to know my patients; that is all.”

“John, what's the matter with you?” asked Maryanne. Downstairs, their young daughter let out a howl, which was hastily stifled.

“I don't care for Mrs. Davies' prying.” His eyes bored into Celia's, and she tightened her grip on her medical bag. The portmanteau made a meager weapon, but it was all she had.

“She's not prying.” Maryanne must have taken her attention off her newborn, for the baby whimpered.

Sweat trickled along Celia's neck beneath her collar. “No, of course, I—”

“You are!” He grabbed her left elbow and dragged her close. “Did that girl tell ya I knew Nash? Did she?”

Behind Celia, there was a rustling of bedclothes. “John, let her go at once! What's wrong with you, treating Mrs. Davies like this? And what girl are you talking about?”

“Stay in bed, Maryanne.” He shook Celia. “Did she?”

“What are you speaking of, Mr. Kelly?” Celia asked.

“Don't play coy with me. I saw you coming out of her boardinghouse. That redheaded saloon girl.”

Celia returned his stare, so cold, so alarming. “She never connected you to Virgil Nash. So you did not need to shoot her or try to shoot me, Mr. Kelly. Or should I call you Mr. Pike?”

He flinched, and Celia no longer doubted she was facing a murderer. But with two witnesses in the house, surely he would
not attempt to hurt her. Although the girl would make a poor witness and Maryanne might lie to protect her husband.

“Mrs. Davies, what do you mean?” asked Maryanne. “John, what is she talking about?”

“The Nash brothers mined on your claim, did they not?” Celia asked him, recalling what Mr. Strauss had told her. “The claim you and a partner had staked. I cannot blame you for being angry about what they had done. I would have been angry as well.”