No Rest for the Departed, page 10
“And she never explained what had been bothering her?”
“She didn’t talk to me about it,” he replied. “I did try to get her to tell me. It’s been a long time though, ma’am. Hard to recollect exactly.”
“Was there any indication her upset was due to a problem with her beau?” she asked. “A Mr. Eckart, I believe his name was.”
“He was Miss Greaves’s beau? Huh. Funny that he came here recently, too.”
“How very intriguing. When was this?”
“A couple of weeks back. Wanted to speak with Mr. Chase,” he said, blinking blindly at her. “Two folks—and now you—who knew Miss Greaves coming here to ask questions lately. Sorta strange, don’t you think?”
“I do.” Clearly, Mr. Eckart had been keen to speak with Mr. Chase and Mr. Chase appeared to have been equally keen to avoid him. “I wonder what he could have wanted with Mr. Chase.”
“No idea, ma’am.” He restored his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “But I will tell you that he wasn’t as easy to get rid of as that police officer.”
“And now he is dead. Such a tragedy. Murdered.”
“Murdered?” he asked, choking a little.
“Indeed so. Very tragic.” She stared down at the handkerchief crushed in her gloved fist and shook her head. “And for me to have recently heard the most horrid rumor about Mr. Chase. It is unfathomable.”
She peeked at the clerk, judging his reaction. Had his eyes enlarged behind the distortion of his spectacles’ lenses? It was difficult to tell.
“Oh?”
Celia glanced around before leaning in to whisper. “That he is responsible for someone’s death! How frightful to consider!”
“Mr. Chase? Responsible for . . . Certainly not! Never!” he insisted. “He’s a very trustworthy businessman. Very trustworthy.”
Thou doth protest too much, methinks. To twist Mr. Shakespeare’s prose a trifle, but another quote worth bringing to mind.
“I would expect nothing less from a man I have heard so much about,” she said. “Ah, well. I suppose it is for the police to discover who killed her beau. And for me to accept that I shall never learn what was troubling Meg so greatly.”
He tucked away his square of yellow cloth. “I reckon the only person she might’ve talked to about her worries was her friend Judith. Judith Whelan.”
For a man who claimed to have been barely acquainted with Meg Greaves, he knew quite a bit about her.
“Judith Whelan.” A full name for the woman mentioned in one of Meg’s letters, and a crumb that might lead Celia along a trail. With hopefully a less perilous outcome than had befallen Hansel and Gretel.
“That’s the name. She worked someplace nearby and they used to walk home together after they were done for the day,” he said. “Miss Greaves introduced me to her friend one time. She was very polite and a right pretty young thing.”
A reason to have not forgotten her. Even though it had been a long time. “Have you seen Miss Whelan since then?” Perhaps she was still employed nearby.
“A few times, but not for a long while now,” he said. “Which is a shame, because she was right pretty.”
• • •
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Raymond Fuller since Thursday, Detective.” The proprietor of the men’s hotel stood in the center of the hallway, his arms folded across his thick waist.
The day before Loomis reported seeing Fuller with Eckart. The day before Eckart was murdered.
“Thursday,” Nick said.
“Yep. Left without paying his bill,” he replied. “If you see him before I do, remind him he owes me ten bucks, will ya? Or maybe just arrest him, since you’re a cop and all.”
Ten dollars was a considerable bill to run up, when this place only charged—according to the sign affixed to the wall outside the front entrance—twenty five cents a night for a furnished single room. Less per night when paying by the week.
“He delivered a package to me a couple of weeks ago and I’ve been trying to contact him about the contents,” Nick said.
Trying to understand the intent behind the message that had accompanied Meg’s letters. Learn the truth . . . before it’s too late. Mrs. Jewett thought it was a warning meant for Nick, but with Raymond Fuller having seemingly disappeared, he was starting to wonder if they’d both read that wrong. Maybe Fuller had been afraid it was going to be too late for him.
The hotel owner peered at Nick. “A package? Fuller delivered a package to you?” he asked. “Doesn’t sound like something he’d do. Unless he’s lost his job at the sawmill and has taken to being a delivery boy now. Amazed they kept him on there, after he chopped off half his hand. More amazed he wanted to stay. The job did pay well, though. Although the money never managed to regularly pass from him to me.”
“He isn’t at the mill any longer,” Nick said. “Heard he quit a few weeks back. Just stopped showing up.”
“Guess I won’t be seeing any of the money he owes me, then.” He added a curse word under his breath.
“Do you know an acquaintance of his, a man named Sylvanus Eckart?”
“Sy? Sure do.” He tutted. “I heard he was found dead in the water off a dock yesterday. Such a shame. Shot, wasn’t he?”
Were the details in the newspapers already? Nick had been too busy hunting down Raymond Fuller to grab one off a newsboy and read what had been reported. “What can you tell me about Mr. Eckart?”
“He used to live here. A few years back,” he said. “Which is how he got to know Fuller.”
“What about him as a man? A bad sort?”
“Sy?” The landlord shook his head. “Not my experience of him.”
Then why had Asa been worried about him courting Meg?
“He came by looking for a place about, oh, three weeks ago? Or maybe four,” the landlord was saying. “Looked like he might be staying for a while this time, but I didn’t have any rooms available.”
“‘This time’?”
“He’s been in San Francisco off and on for the past several years, Officer. Never more than a couple of days,” the man replied. “Claimed he couldn’t stand to stick around, with all the bad memories. His sweetheart dying, you know.”
Nick’s stomach tensed and his old wound burned. “Yes, I do know,” he said. “Did Eckart explain what had brought him back to the city this time?”
“Somebody had given him a reason to think he could fix an old problem. That’s what he told me. Fix an old problem,” he said. “He didn’t want to tell me more. Thought it wouldn’t be wise for me to know.”
Interesting.
“I didn’t have any rooms available, though, so he said he’d go find a place with Loomis,” the landlord continued. “Wish I could’ve helped him out. Maybe he’d still be alive, if I had.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because then he wouldn’t have gotten mixed up with Loomis again. Always asking Sy for money, I heard.” He shook his head. “From what I understand of him, Detective, he’s nothing but trouble.”
• • •
“What are you doing at the dining room table at this hour, Cousin? It’s after seven and dark outside,” Barbara said from the doorway at Celia’s back.
Nicholas hated to sit with his back to doorways or open spaces where people might sneak up on him and take him unawares. Perhaps she should copy his habit and utilize one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table. Then she would have noticed Barbara’s approach through the parlor.
“I am reviewing my patient notes,” Celia replied.
“Don’t you usually write notes at your desk in your clinic?”
Exhaling, Celia set down her pencil and shifted to look at her. Barbara, her arms folded atop the floral-printed plum wrapper she wore over her nightclothes, frowned back.
“Come and sit, Barbara, and tell me what is on your mind.”
Barbara flounced into the room and dropped onto the chair at the far end of the table. She hid in the shadows beyond the reach of the light emitted by the overhead gas chandelier. However, Celia had no need for more illumination to read her cousin’s unhappiness. The sentiment radiated off of her like heat from a stove.
“Mrs. Reynolds wants to host an exhibition of her students’ skills, like all the schools do at the end of the term, even if it’s not the end of the term yet,” she said. “More like a halfway point exhibition of our talents. Minus all the singing and piano playing that goes on at ladies’ colleges exercises. Thankfully. But still . . .”
“An exhibition sounds like an excellent idea.” The woman must be feeling the need to prove she was worth the money families were spending for her services.
“I suppose, except she suggested I compose an essay on the value of women and their right to suffrage,” she said. “I told her I didn’t want to write on that topic because it would be pointless.”
“I see.” Women might one day gain the right to vote, but would a half-Chinese female like her cousin ever enjoy the privilege as well? “I suspect she was not pleased by your response.”
“No, she wasn’t. After she lectured me for a good fifteen minutes on the need for an unrelenting fight in order to ever gain justice and fair treatment for women, she relented,” she said. “I told her I’d much rather demonstrate my ability to solve algebra problems, like the boys do when they’re subjected to public examination at term ends. You know, Cousin, I think my proposal alarmed her. Apparently the value of women doesn’t actually extend to showing off their mathematical intelligence.”
“I trust you two came to a compromise.”
“Mrs. Reynolds agreed to let me translate passages of French, instead.”
“You’ve been studying French?” How was she not aware?
“Yes,” she replied tersely.
Gad, Celia. You will blink and one day find Barbara a full-grown woman if you do not pay her more attention.
“I apologize for not staying abreast of what Mrs. Reynolds has been having you study, Barbara. I do care about what you’re learning,” she said. “And I am very pleased that she is teaching you French. I look forward to the exhibition. I honestly do.”
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
Smiling, Celia picked up her pencil and collected her notebook, ready to resume her work, but Barbara did not get up from the table.
She laid down her pencil again. “You did not come in here simply to lament your tutor’s plans for an exhibition, did you?”
Barbara set her jaw. “Mr. Greaves came by earlier today, which means you’ve gotten caught up in one of his cases again, haven’t you?”
“He does not want me ‘caught up’ in any of his cases any more than you do,” she replied. “He was looking for Mina and wondered if Addie had seen her lately.”
“That’s what I thought. Addie can be awfully loud.”
Apparently no room in this house was far enough away to keep Barbara from overhearing conversations Celia would prefer she not be privy to.
“What’s Mina done now?” her cousin asked. “Is she a suspect in another murder?”
“No, she is not, Barbara, and that comment was unkind,” Celia replied. “I thought you liked her.”
“I do.” She dropped her chin and began to pick at the narrow band of purple ribbon cuffing her sleeves. “Why was he looking for her?”
To renew their relationship? That had been Celia’s first thought, immediately followed by a sharp pang of jealousy.
“Miss Cascarino is acquainted with a man who used to frequent Bauman’s. A man who delivered a packet of letters to Mr. Greaves that had been written by his sister shortly before she died,” she answered. “He is trying to find him.”
“Letters from his sister? That’s awful,” she said, looking up from her cuffs. “I mean, he probably doesn’t want to be reminded that she died so terribly.”
Celia couldn’t remember ever mentioning to her cousin that Meg had taken her own life. Addie had likely been the source of the information. “The letters have indeed upset him. I wonder if the sender realized how deeply they would distress him.”
“Hasn’t it been a long time since she died, though? Why deliver them now?”
“We have all been wondering that, Barbara.”
“So you are helping him,” her cousin said, accusingly. “That’s why you went off with Owen this morning and why you were gone this afternoon. Investigating again.”
“I know you worry for me, but Mr. Greaves’s landlady asked me to help,” she said. “A warning note accompanied the letters, Barbara. Mrs. Jewett and I are both very concerned that Nicholas could be in danger.”
“Which means you’ll be in danger, too.”
“I could never live with myself, Barbara, if something terrible happened to Mr. Greaves and I may have been able to prevent it.”
Barbara studied Celia’s face. “You really care about him, don’t you?”
The question surprised Celia; her cousin had never directly and sincerely asked about Celia’s feelings for Nicholas before. “Yes, I do. It has taken me a while to realize just how much,” she answered softly. “But so much stands in the way.”
“Your husband is dead, Cousin.”
“I was not thinking of Patrick, Barbara. But rather Mr. Greaves’s memories of the war, of the pain of losing people he loved, the pain of losing his sister . . . Those memories are not dead for him,” she said. “And now these letters have resurrected feelings, ghosts, that he had imagined he’d put to rest. All of these hurts stand in the way.”
Her cousin leaned forward, into the glow of the gaslight. “If you care for him, truly care for him, don’t let those barriers stop you, Cousin,” she said, her voice deeply serious and thick with emotion. “Or you might regret it. For always.”
Celia stretched her hand across the table, and Barbara reached out, intertwining her fingers with Celia’s.
“I know I would, Barbara,” she said and gripped her cousin’s hand, drawing on her unanticipated strength and compassion. “I know.”
• • •
Nick tugged his coat collar up, guarding his neck against the evening chill creeping along the streets. The smell of approaching rain hung in the air. He’d stopped at the station hoping that Taylor or Mullahey had left a message about what they may have found in Eckart’s apartment, but there weren’t any messages. The fruitless side trip had meant he’d taken longer to get home and now might get rained on. At least he had a suspect to pursue in earnest, starting tomorrow. A man he’d had in his office and had let go. Loomis. Nothing but trouble.
His upturned collar only marginally helped keep out the cold. He sped along the road. The butcher where Mrs. Jewett purchased her meat was closing up for the evening and nodded at Nick through the store’s window, a brisk acknowledgment before resuming lowering the blinds. Lamps in the rented rooms above the place flared to life, pinpricks of yellow light showing the holes in the curtain drawn against the night. Along the road ahead of Nick, a man in a calf-length duster hurried along, his body briefly illuminated by the streetlamp pooling light on the sidewalk. He moved on, plunging into the darkness again. Aside from him, the street was quiet. Not unusual, but for some reason the silence made Nick’s skin prickle. He used to savor quiet, but lately it too often signaled that a fresh disaster was just around the corner.
Mrs. Jewett had left the dining room curtains open, the gasolier’s glow brightening the path to the porch steps. Riley heard his approach and began barking, his nose pressed against the window of Nick’s street-facing upstairs room, probably leaving a smudge.
“Hold on there, boy. I’ll be right up,” Nick called just as his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since . . . he couldn’t remember if he’d had lunch. He probably hadn’t.
He took the front steps two at a time, slowing to check if his boots were muddy and he needed to make use of the iron scraper on the porch. It wasn’t until he reached for the front door handle that he noticed the note, folded in half and tacked to the doorframe.
He ripped it free and opened it. Only three words were written in a sloppy hand on the paper, but they adequately conveyed the author’s message.
You’re next, Greaves.
Chapter 9
“Did you or Mullahey find anything interesting in Eckart’s room yesterday?” Nick asked Taylor, who was collecting his notebook from his desk.
His assistant squinted at him. “You all right, sir? You look tired.”
Nick rasped his knuckles against his jaw. “Need a shave, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
Sometimes Taylor was too damned observant. And persistent. “Received a message last night. Somebody’s not happy that I’m investigating Eckart’s murder, it seems,” he replied. How else could he interpret that note? “Don’t worry, Taylor. I’ll have the men who work my neighborhood beat keep an eye out. What about Eckart’s place?”
“We didn’t finish. It was a mess, sir,” he said, collecting a fresh pencil, too
“Eckart’s apartment?”
“Yep. Somebody had turned it over. Looks like the door lock didn’t work well,” he answered. “It took a while to sort through it all, and then Mr. Mullahey got pulled away by Captain Eagan.”
Blast. “I’d like to know who got there before we did.”
“Nobody noticed anybody, Mr. Greaves. I asked,” he said. “Mr. Mullahey is back there this morning. Oh, and I got this from Miss Cascarino this morning. Found it on my desk.”
Mina had always been an early riser. Nick read the note quickly then stashed it in a coat pocket. “Thank you, Taylor.”
“And Mr. Loomis is in your office.”
“Did you look into the alibi he gave us for Friday evening?”
“Haven’t been able to confirm that he played cards with anybody that night, sir.”
“No surprise.” Nick pushed open the door, Taylor following him inside. “Thank you for coming into the station again, Mr. Loomis.”
