No Rest for the Departed, page 27
“Tell me you’re not lying, Miss Whelan,” he demanded.
“I swear I’m not lying, Mr. Greaves.”
Maybe Nick finally understood why his mother had disliked Asa so much. Why she’d always tried to warn Nick away from following in the worthless—her words, not Nick’s—Asa Greaves’s footsteps. He’d been as bad as she’d claimed. Maybe worse.
Damn, Asa. I believed every word you ever spoke. Followed every bit of advice like it was some sort of police commandment engraved on stone tablets.
And Nick had left Meg in Asa’s care while he was away fighting. Exposing her to dangerous men she should’ve been able to trust. Possibly his worst mistake in a long list of mistakes.
“O’Neal is investigating a smuggling case right now, Miss Whelan,” Nick said. You’re next. Maybe he’d tried to warn Nick off with that note. He might’ve had the stomach to kill an innocent young woman and her sweetheart, a man who knew he’d killed Meg, but not to kill a fellow cop without giving him a chance to save himself. But Nick hadn’t listened, and Raymond Fuller was dead. He’d kill O’Neal. Damn, but he would. “What about the names of the revenue men being paid to overlook what was going on?”
“Meg never mentioned any other names to me,” the other woman said. “She probably told Sy, though.”
And now Sylvanus Eckart was dead, too.
“Why all these years later, Miss Whelan?” Celia asked.
“Sy wanted to expose O’Neal straight away, make him pay for what he’d done, but O’Neal fled San Francisco right after Meg died,” she said. “Sy gave up after that. He couldn’t stand staying here any longer, either. He saw your sister’s face everywhere, Mr. Greaves. He thought heading north to Oregon would help him forget.”
Sy Eckart had died wearing a locket holding Meg’s picture and a strand of her soft hair. He hadn’t tried to forget her. Not really. Hadn’t tried to forget a woman whose laughter could warm a person’s soul on a cold day.
“But Mr. Eckart came back,” Celia pointed out.
“He got news that Detective O’Neal had returned and that proof, solid proof, had finally been found that he was responsible for Meg’s murder.”
“His return luring Mr. Eckart back in hopes of exacting revenge at last,” Celia said. “Forcing you into hiding, Miss Whelan.”
“I was frightened that Sy might not succeed in carrying out his plan. I would be the next target.”
“But O’Neal got to him first.” Shooting Eckart with a .31 instead of his police revolver might’ve been a clever attempt to divert attention. But he got careless with Fuller and used his .44.
“Why did Mr. Eckart think that Archibald Chase might have been able to help him?” Celia asked her. “Was he the individual who’d offered to provide proof, no longer wanting to take part in illegal activities, perhaps?”
Miss Whelan shifted on her feet, probably regretting that she’d decided to remain standing. She looked more tired now than she had when she’d been shoving a gun into his head. He doubted she’d had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. After today, he wouldn’t be sleeping for months. Maybe years.
“He must’ve believed Chase knew something useful about O’Neal and the smuggling,” Miss Whelan said. “Sy might not have been content to deal with O’Neal alone and be done with it. He wanted to expose all of them, if there were more guilty individuals to drag into the light.”
“Mrs. Chase does own an appreciable collection of Chinese porcelains and silks and French perfumes,” Celia said. “Perhaps Mr. Chase only recently discovered the provenance of the goods passing through his business. Many of which have been provided by the Hunters, I believe.”
He couldn’t sit here any longer and discuss Chinese porcelains and Archibald Chase. He had to get to O’Neal. He had to finish what Sy Eckart had never managed to do.
Nick got to his feet, startling Miss Whelan, who grabbed her gun. “Miss Whelan, I think we’ve established that I’m not interested in killing you, so you can put your revolver down.”
She lowered the gun to her side but didn’t set it down.
“I promise you, Detective O’Neal is going to pay for my sister’s death and the deaths of your friends,” he said. It was too late to confront Asa. Too late to understand his exact role in it all.
“I can’t help you any more than I have, Detective,” she said. “I expect they’re going to come for me soon, anyway.”
“I’ll send one of my men, Officer Mullahey, here to guard you until this is all over.”
“Can you trust Mr. Mullahey, Mr. Greaves?” She clearly didn’t think he should.
“If I have to start doubting all of the men I work with, Miss Whelan, then there’s no point in my ever doing police work.”
“In that case, you may want to begin considering another occupation, Mr. Greaves.”
Celia stood. “Nicholas, let her come with me. To my house. Send Officer Mullahey there.”
Was she out of her mind to suggest that? “It’s not safe enough there, Celia.”
“It is safer than leaving Miss Whelan here alone until he arrives,” she said. “I would stay with her, but I fear that, since you and I were able to locate Miss Whelan, others will be able to as well.”
She didn’t say O’Neal’s name, but she meant him.
He considered them both, one with her shoulders set and her chin up, her pale eyes confident in what needed to happen. The other stern, mistrusting, watching him like a bristling cat on alert, questioning if she needed to run or pounce. “Don’t make me regret this, Celia.”
“I do not intend that to be the outcome.”
No. She never did. “I’ll get you a cab.”
• • •
Celia looked over at the woman seated alongside her, quiet since they’d left the room Judith Whelan had been hiding in. The elderly woman who’d provided her sanctuary had watched them depart, her shoulders sagging with worry. I had attempted to convince Nicholas that I could keep Judith safe. Am I wrong, though?
“I’m not going to jump out of this carriage and run off, Mrs. Davies, if that’s why you keep staring at me,” she said.
“I keep staring at you because I am concerned that I’ll not succeed in ensuring that you stay safe, Miss Whelan.” That all of us stay safe. She was risking Barbara and Addie, too. Along with Owen, if he was still snuggled away in the spare room’s bed. “I also have a niggling question I would like resolved, if you can help me.”
The young woman lifted her eyebrows. “What is your niggling question?”
“I have learned that it was Mrs. Hunter who brought Meg to the attention of Mrs. Chase, who then saw that Meg was given a job at her husband’s business.”
Judith had been rubbing her thumb over her opposite hand in a soothing manner. The movement stilled at Celia’s mention of Mrs. Hunter. “Yes.”
“Further, I learned that she also helped you receive support from the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid,” Celia continued softly. “What precisely did she do for you?”
“She also found me a job.”
“The one at the sewing machine shop?” Celia asked. “How very kind of her.”
“I suppose.” She didn’t sound grateful.
“It seems to me, though, that you did not want her nor anyone else from the Society to know exactly where you were living,” Celia said. “Are you afraid of the women?”
“Are you one of them?” she asked, reaching for support as the cab turned the corner, rocking heavily. They would be at Vallejo shortly and have to disembark to climb the remainder of the way to Celia’s house.
“No. They mistreated my half-Chinese cousin,” she stated. “But I would still like to know the answer, Miss Whelan. Are you afraid of the women?”
“Why would I be?” she asked.
The cab stopped and the driver called out that they had arrived at the corner. His small horse could not manage the steep road from here. They climbed down, Celia paying the fare and Miss Whelan collecting the carpetbag holding her few possessions.
“I have met Mrs. Hunter,” Celia said, striding up the road, Miss Whelan keeping pace alongside. “I found her to be a very intriguing woman with a strong character.”
“Are you asking if I’m afraid of her specifically?”
I do not know, am I? Perhaps she was.
“She is not someone I would wish to cross, Miss Whelan,” Celia replied. “That is my assessment of Deborah Hunter.”
“No, she’s not.” She let out a heavy sigh. “She tried to recruit me.”
Celia glanced over at her. “Recruit you to do what?”
“To sew concealed pockets in petticoats, Mrs. Davies.”
“Petticoats she then purchased, I presume?” Celia asked, her brain spitting out thoughts faster than she could collect them.
“Yes.”
“For the purposes of concealing small items, perhaps,” she said. “Such as, oh, French perfume bottles?”
“Jewelry, too. Patek Philippe watches. Diamond rings and scarf pins. Expensive things like that,” she said. “I refused.”
They stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the house. Next door, Angelo was leaning over the porch railing, his eyes tracking them. Inside the house, Cascarino children shouted noisily. Otherwise, it was a quiet Friday afternoon.
“Is she a smuggler, Miss Whelan?” A question that was hazardous for her to answer. She’d not handed Deborah Hunter over to the police, which might make her an accomplice. Unless she had insufficient evidence aside from a request to sew concealed pockets in petticoats. No more proof than Celia presently had. “Along with her husband, perhaps? And Mr. Chase’s involvement is that of selling their goods at his auction house for a tidy profit. A profit undercut by the money paid to Mr. O’Neal and Mr. Brodie to look the other way, I suspect.”
“You have all the answers, don’t you, Mrs. Davies?”
The way she asked set Celia’s teeth on edge. “Not by a long chalk, Miss Whelan.”
She climbed the rest of the way, crossed the porch, and opened the door. “Addie, I am back. Along with Miss Whelan.”
Eileen stood in the entrance to Celia’s clinic room. “Mrs. Davies, I hope you don’t mind my waiting—” She gasped, her gaze fixed on the woman who’d entered the house behind Celia. “Why have you brought her here? She’s . . . she’s a killer!”
Chapter 21
“Where is O’Neal?” Nick shouted, pounding down the steps into the station. An officer, seated at one of the desks, jumped up from his chair in alarm. “Where is he?”
He’d been composed when he’d left the house where Miss Whelan was staying, thinking that he had a plan and he would execute it and everything would work out. But the closer he got to the station house, the more furious he became. O’Neal. Friends with all the other officers. Joining in on their jokes. Acting like he respected Nick. Pleased to have taken the job that should have been given to Taylor. In cahoots with Chase. Maybe Captain Eagan was in on the racket, as well. Both of them, crooked.
The booking sergeant stepped out from behind his desk and into Nick’s path. “What is wrong with you, Greaves?”
Nick stormed across the room. “Stay out of my way, Sergeant. I’m going to kill him.”
O’Neal had heard him shouting and was on his feet in the center of the detectives’ office. “Now, what have I done to upset you, Mr. Greaves?”
Nick slammed the door, rattling the glass inset. He strode over to O’Neal. Got so close he could see a faint scar next to O’Neal’s left eye. Get a whiff of the shaving soap he liked to use. Bazin’s, by the smell of it. “You killed my sister. Admit it.”
His left eyelid twitched, causing the scar to become more obvious. “Who told you that?”
Nick grabbed his coat lapels and shook him. “Admit it!”
O’Neal’s gaze flicked over Nick’s fisted hands, his knuckles turning white. “Let go of me, Nick.”
“I ought to kill you. She was innocent and you are filth.”
“Nick. Let. Go.”
The door opened behind them. “You okay, O’Neal?”
He shot the man a look over Nick’s shoulder. It wasn’t easy; Nick was taller than him by several inches. “Shut the door, Sergeant.” It closed again.
How nice. The officers took orders from O’Neal. How nice.
“I did not kill your sister, Greaves,” he said calmly. “Let go of me and we can discuss this like two civilized men.”
His eyes were the same color as Owen’s. Maybe that was why Nick decided to make an attempt to be a civilized man. He couldn’t fathom any other reason.
Nick released the lapels of O’Neal’s coat, shoving him backward as he let go. To the man’s credit, he didn’t stumble. Barely moved, in fact. “I’m civilized. I don’t know about you.”
O’Neal straightened his coat lapels. “Who told you I killed your sister?”
“Eckart thought that you had. Raymond Fuller and Judith Whelan did as well.” He might’ve been swayed by the color of O’Neal’s eyes to stop choking him with his coat collar, but Nick’s trust didn’t extend to revealing that he’d met Miss Whelan, knew where she was hiding. “Is that why you shot Eckart and Fuller? Because they knew you’d killed Meg? She’d discovered that you and my uncle were accepting bribes to overlook the work of smugglers and counterfeiters, jeopardizing your careers, and she had to be silenced.”
O’Neal exhaled. “Not me, Greaves. Asa.”
“Asa didn’t shoot Eckart in the back, O’Neal. Didn’t murder Fuller outside my lodgings.”
“No, but he was accepting bribes,” he said. “It hurt to learn that, Nick. I admired your uncle. I believe you did, too.” All stated as if he was talking about a stranger and not a man he professed to have admired.
“Why should I trust that you weren’t a part of the scheme? You didn’t report him,” Nick pointed out. “Instead, you skipped town as fast as you could. Like you were guilty.”
“I didn’t report him because I needed more proof.”
Proof. He was beginning to hate that word.
“Did Asa kill Meg, O’Neal?” Nick was shaking so hard he was afraid he might bite his tongue. “Did he?”
“Asa?” he scoffed. “Meg had found out about the bribes, but he didn’t kill her as a result. He wasn’t that much of an animal. He didn’t kill her and neither did I.”
Nick took a few steps back, needing space. Maybe O’Neal was telling the truth. If he’d killed Meg, it would be easy to deflect the blame by accusing Asa. But he wasn’t doing that. Unless O’Neal was playing him for a complete fool. Which was always possible.
“Say for a minute that I believe your story,” he said. “Who do you suspect killed my sister?”
O’Neal’s shoulders, which had been hunched in preparation for a fight, relaxed.
“Possibly the individual in charge of the smuggling gang,” he said. “But I’m not finished with my investigation.”
“Tell me his name and that of the others involved,” Nick said, keeping an eye on O’Neal’s hands. He wanted to be ready in case he reached for his gun. Although shooting Nick in the detectives’ office might force O’Neal to have to answer some difficult questions. Even Eagan, who didn’t particularly care for Nick, wouldn’t like one of his men shot inside the station by another of his men. “And the names better be names of people I already suspect.”
“Bill Hunter. Archibald Chase,” he said, names Nick had been expecting. “Francis Brodie.”
So was Francis O’Neal not the Francis Mrs. Chase was worried about? Brodie made more sense, though. Given his job. Damn.
“Go on,” Nick said.
“I suspect that Brodie killed Eckart,” O’Neal said. “I don’t have enough evidence, though. That’s what I’ve been looking for. I almost had it when that Irish kid stumbled upon Brodie with one of the Chases’ servants and caused a ruckus.”
Nick eyed him. “You were the cop chasing that kid? But you don’t wear a gray uniform coat.”
O’Neal waved off his observation. “I also think Brodie killed Fuller.”
“Different weapons were used.”
“I heard, but it’s not impossible, right?” he asked. “He has got to be searching for Miss Whelan now. The last one to put under the sod.”
“She’s in a safe place.”
“You’ve seen her? Because if you found her, Greaves, he’s going to find her, too.” He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “We better get to her before Brodie does.”
Nick didn’t move. He was being stupid, probably, but he didn’t move an inch.
O’Neal hurried toward the office door, threw it open, stopping only to look over his shoulder at Nick. “Are you coming, Greaves?”
“Why in hell should I trust you, O’Neal?”
“Do you have any choice?”
• • •
“You’re accusing me, Eileen?” Judith Whelan charged across the entry hall and grabbed Eileen’s left arm. She cringed in pain. Was Miss Whelan that strong? “It was you! You shot Sy in the back. I saw you.”
“Why does your arm hurt so badly, Eileen?” Celia asked. She walked over and peeled back Eileen’s sleeve. Enough to reveal an ugly purple bruise discoloring her skin.
“There was no intruder,” Celia said angrily. “You struck Jane. Why?”
“I didn’t, ma’am,” she protested, twisting her arm to get Judith to release it. “That wasn’t how it was at all.”
“She’s lying, Mrs. Davies. That’s what she does,” Judith said. “Admit it, Eileen O’Neal. Admit that you were part of the plot to pass off counterfeit jewels as real. To help smuggle goods into the city. You and your brother.”
