No Rest for the Departed, page 20
The doors were open. Inside the room, all was hush and darkness, the curtains pulled tight to block out all but the narrowest sliver of sunlight. Jane, seated on the sofa with a floral-patterned wool lap robe tossed over her legs, was waiting for Celia with a smile.
“I thought I heard you,” she said. “You returned the tilbury.”
“I did.” Celia sat next to her. “I was on my way to Mr. Chase’s auction house to attempt to learn more about those brooches and thought I would stop in to see how you are feeling.”
“Better. Still a bit dizzy and queasy at times, but my headache has lessened.” She reached for Celia’s gloved hand and squeezed. “Frank was furious with you last night. All that kept him from endlessly shouting at me was my headache. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him it’s better.”
“Perhaps not, Jane,” Celia replied, smiling.
“I’ve been sitting here, Celia, racking my brains all morning, trying to figure out who my assailant might’ve been,” she said. “I keep returning to it being one of those ‘unsavory folks’ Eileen mentioned Archibald Chase consorting with. Whoever they are.”
“Officer Mullahey is over at the Chases’ house right now,” she said. “Confirming Mr. Chase’s alibis for the night of Mr. Eckart’s murder, along with the murder of a Mr. Fuller, shot outside Nicholas’s house last night.”
“Oh, my!” Jane exclaimed.
“Indeed.”
Celia quickly relayed what she’d learned from Nicholas that morning, including that Meg Greaves may not have died by her own hand.
“You are thinking that her death is linked to the death of her sweetheart, Mr. Eckart, and the killing—possibly unintentional—of Mr. Fuller. Aren’t you, Celia?”
“I am.”
“Does Mr. Greaves have any suspects?” she asked.
“He has a man in custody, a fellow who owed Mr. Eckart money, but he obviously was not the person who shot Mr. Fuller.”
“And we can eliminate anybody in attendance at Marian’s party last night.”
“Can we conclude that?” Celia asked. “I return to Archibald Chase, scarce most of the evening and absent when we finally departed.”
“Maybe so, but it certainly wasn’t any of the guests or Marian herself. I can’t imagine a one of them hurriedly leaving the benefit in order to rush over to Mrs. Jewett’s house, revolver in hand, to commit a murder, Celia.” Jane sat up to fluff the cushion at her back, then reclined again. “Maybe it was somebody else entirely. Somebody we’re unaware of.”
“Mr. Chase’s ‘unsavory’ friends?”
“Well, why not?”
Whoever they were.
The melodic chime of the Hutchinsons’ doorbell sounded in the hallway, followed shortly by Hetty sliding open the parlor doors. “It’s a Mrs. Hunter, ma’am. Should I tell her you’re resting?” she asked in a low voice.
Jane looked over at Celia. “I wonder what she wants.”
“Shall we find out?”
Hetty made a strangled noise in her throat; there would be trouble for her, indeed, if Frank learned that she’d allowed a parade of visitors to troop into their hushed parlor to disturb his wife.
“Show her in, Hetty,” Jane said.
Deborah Hunter, dressed in an ice-blue gown that complemented her eyes, a straw hat decorated with silk flowers perched atop her curls, swept into the parlor with a broad smile.
“Mrs. Davies. I’m surprised to find you here,” she said. “But you are a nurse, aren’t you? So it makes perfect sense you’d want to attend to your friend.”
“Mrs. Hunter.”
Her unfaltering smile turned on Jane. “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Hutchinson, but I was in the area and thought I’d see how you are doing.”
Deborah Hunter had gone to the bother of discovering where Jane lived?
“Please have a seat, Mrs. Hunter,” Jane replied. “Hetty, bring us all some tea.”
Hetty reluctantly went off to fetch tea.
“How are you doing, Mrs. Hutchinson?” Of the two armchairs situated across from the settee, Deborah Hunter chose the one farthest from Celia. Despite the distance, the aroma of jasmine eau de toilette—likely French—that surrounded her like an expensive and fragrant cloud drifted over. “You sustained quite an injury last night.”
“But not caused by a blow from an intruder, according to Mr. Chase,” Celia said.
“Archibald doesn’t want to imagine his sanctuary could possibly be breached, Mrs. Davies,” she responded. “I had to remind him that they’re not living out on the fringe of town any longer and that, sadly, there are criminals in the city. Marian was very upset by the whole incident, as you might expect.”
“I wonder, did you happen to notice a stranger on the grounds last evening? I did not see you in the conservatory after Jane was attacked,” Celia said. “Perhaps you were in a different part of the house, one that may have afforded a better view of an intruder out in the yard, for instance.”
The parlor doors slid open again, and Deborah Hunter waited until Hetty had set down the tea service and departed before answering.
“I was in the kitchen, relaying instructions to the cook from Marian, who was so busy,” she said and accepted a cup of tea from Jane.
“During the attack upon Jane?” Celia asked.
“How can I say? I didn’t hear any of the uproar. The kitchen is very secluded.”
“Celia and I both noticed that. Didn’t we, Celia? Marian’s cook kindly brewed me a cup of tea after I was knocked unconscious,” Jane said. “But Celia and I didn’t see you in there.”
Bravo, Jane.
“You must have missed me by mere seconds,” Mrs. Hunter replied smoothly. “Then I was in the library consoling Marian, after we’d shooed off the musicians.”
“Ah.” Celia would have to confirm her tale.
“I may have noticed someone in the conservatory, however,” she continued, calmly stirring milk into her tea. She was cool-headed, thought Celia, and not easily flustered. Admirable qualities. “When I arrived earlier in the evening. Before any of the other guests had shown up.”
“The gardener, perhaps,” Celia suggested.
“Him? Couldn’t have been him,” she said. “He broke his arm last week. Fell off a ladder while he was trimming the ivy Marian had him plant last year. Hasn’t been at the house since.”
His absence providing a perfect opportunity for someone to leave the doors unlocked, at any time during the day, since he’d not be conducting his regular task of ensuring they were secured.
“The intruder was already in the conservatory?” Jane asked, somewhat alarmed.
Lurking, perhaps, behind the stand of compact date palms in the corner. If Deborah Hunter’s story was to be believed. “Did you inform the Chases that you’d seen this person, Mrs. Hunter?”
“I didn’t connect the indistinct movement I’d noticed to a report of an intruder until this morning,” she said. “Did you see the person’s face, Mrs. Hutchinson? Could you describe them?”
“No, I didn’t,” Jane said. “I didn’t see him at all.”
“Not even a reflection in the glass?”
Jane’s gaze lost focus for the briefest moment. “Not even that,” she said. “Silly of me to be so blind, but I was completely absorbed in admiring Marian’s azaleas. That’ll teach me to be more cautious, won’t it?”
“What a pity.” Mrs. Hunter clucked her tongue against her teeth. “I suppose we’ll never learn who the individual was.”
“Do you have any ideas, Mrs. Hunter?”
“As to why anybody would break into the Chases’ conservatory?” She shrugged. “Not because there’s anything valuable stored out there. It’s awfully damp and warm. The atmosphere would rot or tarnish most items.”
“What the individual was after might not be stored in the conservatory but elsewhere in the house, Mrs. Hunter,” Celia said, their conversation giving her the idea. “The conservatory does link to the dining room, by which someone might access the upstairs if they were cautious enough to not be observed.”
The woman considered Celia. “Were you trained to be a detective, Mrs. Davies, or did you come by your vocation naturally?” she asked without a hint of derision. Which did not mean that she did not feel disdainful, merely that she was capable of concealing her intentions.
“My vocation is to be a nurse, Mrs. Hunter. I did not seek to get involved in police investigations.”
“But you are such a natural at it.”
“What do you make of the intruder last night, Mrs. Hunter?” Celia asked, refusing to be drawn into a discussion of her detecting skills.
“I believe you have already supplied a reason, Mrs. Davies. A local criminal attempting to access the house and thieve valuables,” she said. “Or maybe the fellow meant to burst into the library where we’d all be gathered and rob us. But he got no farther than encountering Mrs. Hutchinson.”
“A concussion is a small price to pay, if that’s the case, Mrs. Hunter,” replied Jane, looking pale and tired. They’d overstayed their welcome. But Celia was not yet finished.
“No disagreeable individual with whom Mr. Chase has had the misfortune to become acquainted, perhaps?” Celia asked.
“No one who knows Archibald would even think to make such a suggestion, Mrs. Davies.”
“Perhaps the person was a disgruntled employee seeking to disrupt the evening and upset the Chases,” she said.
Deborah Hunter rolled her eyes. “Why would Mr. Chase have a disgruntled employee? He treats everybody at the auction house fairly.”
“I find it perplexing, then, that I have been warned to never confront him with questions,” Celia said. “I gather he has a quick temper.”
“What man doesn’t?”
Celia could think of quite a number. “I cannot stop thinking about the story connecting him to the death of a woman who used to work for him, Mrs. Hunter.”
“Well, you should, Mrs. Davies,” she said, steadily swallowing the tea she’d been sipping then lowering her cup to its saucer, her hand not revealing any tremor. “You should know better than to believe rumors about wealthy men, Mrs. Davies. The usual targets of such nonsense.”
“I have found gossip often contains a kernel of truth.”
“Not this gossip, Mrs. Davies. As I told you last evening when you brought it up.”
“Were you and your husband friends of the Chases’ at the time her death occurred?” Celia asked. “Four years ago, I believe it was.”
“We were, which is how I know that you should not trust this particular tittle-tattle, Mrs. Davies, and cease hunting for a kernel of truth that doesn’t exist.”
“The story must have caused Mrs. Chase a great deal of grief,” Celia said in a sympathetic tone.
“It did. She came to stay with us in Santa Clara to calm her nerves.”
“I thought you lived in San Francisco at the time.”
“We rented a home for a brief period,” she said. “Our main residence was in Santa Clara. Although we have sold it now and rent the Chases’ house out by the Mission.”
So they were the residents there. And where might Marian Chase escape to now to calm her nerves? The Mission house might not be far enough. “I see.”
Mrs. Hunter got to her feet. “I’m sorry my visit has to be so brief, Mrs. Hutchinson, but I must go. I’m glad to find you looking well. Mrs. Davies. Good day to you both.”
She swept from the parlor, leaving behind the aroma of jasmine. And an uneasy feeling in Celia’s chest.
“What was that all about, Celia?” Jane asked. “Because I got the impression her visit didn’t have much to do with an interest in my health.”
“My guess, Jane, is that Deborah Hunter needed to know if you could identify the intruder last night,” she replied. But why? “You hesitated when she asked if you’d seen the fellow’s reflection in the conservatory’s glass windows. Did you?”
“I may have,” she said. “Some movement, nothing more. However, when Mrs. Hunter questioned me, I remembered hitting the person when I fell. I struck them on their arm. Sharply.”
“If only I could say whose arms were worth examining for bruises, I would proceed immediately,” Celia said. “How frustrating this all is, Jane. I wish I knew more about Mrs. Hunter and the reason behind her interest in the identity of an intruder.”
“There is somebody who might be able to tell you more about her, Celia,” she said. “But you won’t be happy to speak with her.”
“Why not? Who is she?”
Jane drew in a breath, released it again. “Lena Douglass.”
Gad. A woman Celia had hoped to never have to interact with again.
Chapter 16
The showroom of Mr. Chase’s auction house bustled with activity. The trunks and crates that had lined the walls on Celia’s last visit had been cleared away and replaced by tables displaying the articles on offer that day—small goods, fabric, clothing in tidy stacks. Workers were busy arranging the items while a handful of customers, women like herself, mostly, strolled among the tables, making notes in the catalogs they carried. Likely of the articles they were most interested in.
Among the workers stood a man she remembered from the prior time she’d been here.
She walked over to him with a broad smile. “Mr. Hunter. How wonderful to see you again.”
“Have we met before?” he asked, his handsome features shifting with displeasure. He did not appreciate a strange woman accosting him, it seemed. Or perhaps she was not as much a stranger as Celia imagined, and his reason for frowning at her had an entirely different cause.
“I encountered you just the other day, outside this very establishment,” she said. “I am Mrs. Celia Davies.”
His features shifted yet again, ultimately arriving at carefully blank as the proper outward emotion to display. “Oh, yes.”
“I met your wife last night at Mrs. Chase’s charity benefit,” she said. “I am sorry that you were not in attendance as well, so that I could have had a chance to meet you then.”
“I was otherwise engaged last evening, Mrs. Davies. Regrettably.”
And where had you been? At Mrs. Jewett’s house, shooting Mr. Fuller? “Ah, well, you are a very busy man, of course.”
“Yes, I am. And because I am, I must bid you a good day, Mrs. Davies.” He tipped his hat and strode away, brushing off the clerk he’d been speaking with, who pursued him as far as the pavement outside.
How curious.
One of the other clerks noticed Celia and hurried over.
“The auction does not begin until two this afternoon, ma’am,” he informed her politely. He shot a glance in the direction of the front door and the now departed Mr. Hunter, briefly frowning, before continuing. “However, you are free to examine the items of interest until that time.”
“Thank you,” she said, thankful that the clerk she’d spoken with the other day was nowhere to be seen. “I am specifically interested in jewelry. Do you have any available today?”
“Why, yes. We have a nice collection of necklaces, brooches, and earrings on offer.”
Her ears perked at the mention of brooches. She scanned the contents of the tables. “That sounds perfect. Where might I find them?”
“Over here, ma’am.”
He led her to a table nearer the window, where the light would better show off the sheen of gold, the glimmer of gemstones. Another clerk, diligently guarding the boxes containing the jewelry, stood behind the table, his sharp eyes observing her approach.
Celia leaned over the various cases. “This is quite a fine selection,” she said to him. “Mrs. Chase was correct when she suggested that I come here today.”
“Yes,” was all he replied.
“I suppose, though, that she herself never has to attend an auction. She must obtain her lovely jewels directly through her husband.”
“She attends sometimes.”
“Then maybe I shall see her here today. And possibly Mrs. Hunter as well,” Celia added.
“Mrs. Hunter is often here,” he said, growing more loquacious. “She or her husband frequently consigns items to be auctioned. Mr. Hunter only just left, in fact.”
“I met Mrs. Hunter last evening for the first time, you know. But she did not share with me the association that she and her husband have with this establishment.”
“A long-standing association,” he said. “Goes beyond consigning goods. She’s even occasionally brought young women here to work. Young women she helps.”
“Was Meg Greaves one of those young ladies?” And would that not be quite curious if she had been?
His expression went as carefully blank as Mr. Hunter’s. “Don’t know her.”
“Nonetheless, the women must be very grateful to Mrs. Hunter for the assistance she provides in finding employment.”
He set his jaw and did not answer.
Celia made a cursory examination of the remaining jewelry boxes, finishing her ruse of interested customer, when an item in the final box caught her eye.
She bent low over it, the stays of her corset jabbing. “I have seen another brooch very much like this one,” she said to the clerk, who was doing his best to avoid speaking to her. “Mrs. Chase has a nearly identical brooch, except with garnets instead of topazes.”
He grunted to indicate he’d heard her but made no comment one way or the other. He did not need to confirm what her eyes told her, though. If only she could comprehend the meaning.
“I do hate to ask, but these stones are real, are they not?”
He turned very red in the face. “We never deal in paste or other fakery, ma’am.”
“Never?”
He went even redder, which made her worry for his heart. “If you seek to question the quality of the items available in Mr. Chase’s auction house, ma’am, then I suggest you leave and take your business elsewhere.”
Which she did, but not for the reason the clerk assumed. Her conversation with Lena Douglass about Deborah Hunter was overdue. A woman who may have an unanticipated connection to Meg Greaves.
• • •
