Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery (11 page)

He didn’t have answers to any of their questions, except the last, and he didn’t want to reveal his plans for a trip down to Los Angeles until he knew if he would have the time or the money. The three women seemed to think Annie wanted a ceremony with a fair degree of pomp and circumstance, which surprised him. The whole discussion left him feeling inadequate, like he’d already failed his first task as a husband—knowing what his prospective bride wanted on her wedding day.

He’d fled the boarding house as soon as he could, making the excuse that he had work waiting for him back at the office––which was true enough. Nate, as the junior partner in his uncle’s firm, still got the bulk of the more tedious legal tasks to do. Consequently, he’d spent the rest of the afternoon drafting new codicils to wills for aging men who hoped to manage the behavior of their wastrel sons from beyond the grave and going over complex business contracts looking for the hidden clauses that had been inserted by rival lawyers with the intention of defrauding his clients.

Now, at nearly five in the afternoon, Nate was hurrying to make his meeting with Mrs. Catherine Rashers. As he came up to the corner of Clay and Sansome, he looked up at the large sign advertising Rashers’ printing company and sincerely hoped that he would learn something of value so this whole day wouldn’t be a total loss.

*****

A
few minutes later, Nate stood at the door to Rashers’ printing company, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of the busy workshop that took up a good quarter of the second floor of the Niantic. All along the right-hand wall were odd pieces of furniture made of two wooden cabinets hinged together, one half slanting slightly downward, the other slanting upward to the wall, both surfaces constructed of rows and rows of different-sized compartments. At each, a man or young woman stood snatching type from the compartments and snapping them on to a stick held in their other hand. Although he’d never seen his sister at work, he knew from Laura’s description that these were the typesetters.

Along the left side of the room was a row of small tables, each with a set of shallow drawers under them. At one table, a man was tapping with a small hammer on type in a wooden frame, while at another a second man was holding a piece of paper up to the light from the bank of windows along that wall and reading from it.

In the center of the room were printing machines of different sizes where women sat, steadily feeding blank pieces of paper into a tray, pushing down on a foot pedal or pulling down on a lever, and then taking the finished printed page out and placing it in a stack. With each push of the pedal or lever, there was a distinct thump, and the iron gears whirled one way and then another with a whoosh.

Thin clothes lines hung horizontally from one side of the room to the other, clamps pinning sheets of different-sized paper onto the lines. Since the inverted metal T’s of gas lines hung down in rows in the opposite direction, in a few places less than a foot above the fluttering paper, Nate couldn’t help but wonder if fire was a hazard. Not an irrelevant thought in a room where the smell of hot oil mingled with that of ink, and every surface, including the floor, seemed adrift in combustibles.

Taking off his hat and stepping into the room, Nate saw that the major source of noise came from a monster printing press directly to his right. A man stood with his back to him on a platform about three feet high, feeding paper into the top of the machine. A round cylinder grabbed the paper, swirling it downward and out of sight. As Nate walked forward, he saw the paper whirl back up over another cylinder, then shoot out, covered with print, where it was caught and flipped down in front of young man who was sitting and making sure each page was stacked straight. The gears were run by several pulleys that went all the way up to the ceiling where they disappeared. The steam engines driving this machine must be up on that floor.

He was about to ask the man about those engines when a pretty young woman bustled up to him, saying, “Mr. Dawson? Mrs. Rashers is waiting for you; follow me.”

Not looking to see if he was going to obey, she rapidly sashayed her way through the narrow aisles between the typesetters and the smaller printing presses, zig-zagging when she hit an obstacle in the form of a stack of boxes, a stool out of place, or another worker who plainly wasn’t interested in budging. When they got to the far side of the room, the woman ushered him into a good-sized office and introduced him to Mrs. Rashers, who was standing behind a large desk. Mrs. Rashers, in turn, introduced the man going over papers with her as her lawyer, Mr. Glasser. Nate noted the lessening of the din when the young woman left, shutting the door behind her.

The office was incredibly crowded with furniture. Besides the desk, there were three chairs, two scarred wooden file cabinets, a coat rack sprouting enough hats, coats, and scarves to outfit a whole family, an elaborate sideboard being used as a well-stocked bar, and an upholstered chaise lounge covered by a plaid blanket and several pillows. Every surface and bit of floor space around the edges of the office were covered by the company’s products––stacks of books, handbills, business cards, letterhead stationery, and old newspapers. Interior windows looked out over the shop floor. However, between the file cabinets, stacked paper, and various curling posters tacked to their frames, these windows were almost completely obscured. He doubted if someone on the shop floor would have been able to see what was taking place inside the office, and he wondered if that was the point.

Nate assumed this was the office Rashers had died in, and he noted that, unlike the rest of the dusty room, the floor had been scrubbed down to the raw wood. Nevertheless, he detected the taint of blood in the air, along with stale cigar smoke. The bank of exterior windows directly across from him was closed shut, which didn’t help matters much.

Catherine Rashers, a small but very well-endowed woman, stood behind a desk covered with stacks of folders, curling newspaper clippings, and the various accoutrements of a businessman––humidor, small cigar scissors, ashtray, a tin of safety matches, inkwell, a jumble of pens, ruler––and a number of other implements he didn’t recognize and thought were probably unique to the printing business.

Nate couldn’t get a fix on the age of Joshua Rashers’ widow. His first impression was that she was a middle-aged woman––something about the artificial brightness of the blonde curls under her tall be-feathered straw hat and the sallowness of her skin. Yet her high soprano voice, fluttering eyelashes, and the bows and other fripperies on the black silk dress she wore suggested a much younger woman. He thought the police report said that her two boys were under the age of five, so perhaps she was only in her twenties. Nate wished Annie was here with him. She’d be better able to judge the widow’s true age, and he’d really like her ideas about what the widow hoped to gain by agreeing to meet with him.

The lawyer, Mr. Glasser, in contrast to his client, was extraordinarily tall, topping Nate’s six feet two by several inches, and he looked as old as Methuselah. Only a few wisps of hair crowned his head, and a straggly beard and mustache barely hid the wrinkles and liver spots that covered his face. He was staring fondly at Mrs. Rashers with his watery pale blue eyes.

Mrs. Rashers took her seat at the desk chair, which practically swallowed her up, and said, “Please be seated, Mr. Dawson. I trust you don’t mind me having Mr. Glasser join us. He and I were meeting to go over some pressing matters when I mentioned my appointment with you. He seemed to feel that I ought not to see you alone.” She then laughed, as if she had said something amusing.

Nate said, “Of course I don’t mind, Mrs. Rashers. You are being more than gracious...agreeing to meet with me...given that...”

“You are representing the woman who killed my husband,” she snapped. Then she batted her eyelashes again, as if to take away the sting of her words.

Glasser made a soft tsking sound, and Mrs. Rashers ducked her head, bit her underlip, and said, “Oh Fergus, don’t scold. I am sure that this nice Mr. Dawson understands that I am just expressing my opinion. He and anyone else are welcome to try and find some other explanation for why Florence Sullivan was found standing over my husband, her hands covered in his blood.”

Before Nate could respond, she continued, saying, “I know as a good Christian I should forgive her. For the sake of my poor fatherless sons, I just can’t.”

Trying to get control of the interview, Nate replied, “I am terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Rashers. And I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I am just trying to get a feel for your husband’s business and his relationship with all his employees, including my client.”

“I am afraid I can’t tell you much about the business. That was my husband’s sphere.” She gave a wan smile and said, “Mr. Glasser will testify to how ignorant I am of all such things. Although, I shall have to learn if I want to salvage anything for my poor boys.” When she looked over at her lawyer, he nodded gravely.

“And his business associates? He got along with them?” Nate asked.

“I am sure he did,” she said, then frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Well...Joshua did get impatient with some of the other printers when they complained about losing an account to him.”

“Any particular...”

Mrs. Rashers rushed on, saying, “But I am confident that everyone admired him, didn’t they Fergus? Just everyone. He was so clever. And absolutely dedicated to the company.”

Thinking about the chaise in the corner, Nate said, “I gather he worked long hours. I suppose sometimes he even spent the night when there was a deadline.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Dawson. I begged him to let the foreman handle more of the day-to-day management of the business. Joshua was never home; he barely saw the boys. Working himself to death.”

For the first time in this conversation, Nate felt he was getting a hint of Mrs. Rashers’ real feelings as her voice had dropped into a more natural level for a grown woman.

“And his employees, Mrs. Rashers? Did they admire him as well?”

She said sharply, “Of course they did. You just ask any of them. He gave them jobs. And on holidays, it was always free beer for the men and a nice fruit cake for the girls’ tea. They will all tell you how much they loved him.”

“Even Mrs. Sullivan?” asked Nate, curious to see what her response would be to this question.

*****

H
is question about Mrs. Sullivan was the last Nate got to ask Mrs. Rashers because she abruptly stood up and said, “Come in,” to a knock on the office door, and a tall man in a black wrinkled suit entered the office.

“Mr. Dawson, how fortunate, here is my husband’s foreman, Franklin Griggs,” she said. “He is just the man you need to see. He has been with the firm since the beginning, and he can tell you all you need to know about the employees. Franklin, Mr. Dawson is Mrs. Sullivan’s lawyer. Why don’t you take him next door? Mr. Glasser and I have a few more items to discuss.”

Nate wondered if she had a way of signaling for Griggs to come rescue her––like a wire pulley system similar to the way you could summon a servant. He wouldn’t put it past Rashers to have set just this sort of thing up to get rid of those pesky competitors who came in to complain about his business practices.

By no means handsome, Franklin Griggs had a pleasant and engaging smile, and his deep-set brown eyes gave his face a certain gravity, despite a red-veined nose that hinted at a more convivial nature. As seemed true for many men whose hairlines had receded, his full mustache and bushy beard seemed calculated to make up for the lack of hair up top. Nate estimated that he must be in his late fifties or early sixties, given the degree of silver threaded among the brown in his beard and the way his broad shoulders sloped, as if their weight had become too much to bear over the years.

Griggs stuck out a large calloused hand that was liberally marked with ink and gave Nate a quick handshake, saying, “I will be glad to help you in any way I can. If you will just follow me.”

Mrs. Rashers, now all smiles, nodded graciously as Nate thanked her for her time. Griggs led him out onto the shop floor and then turned into a door right next to Rashers’ office. They entered what appeared to be a supply room, crammed with shelves holding different-sized paper, replacement ink, and machine parts. On the floor were piles of rags, a mop and pail (with what Nate hoped was rust not blood in the bottom), and numerous boxes.

Griggs closed the door behind them and led him around one of the stack of boxes that created an alcove holding a small battered desk and two decrepit wooden chairs. The desk faced a set of interior windows similar to those in Rashers’ office, but these were clear of obstructions. Nate looked out and noticed the woman who had escorted him to Rashers’ office pinning up a piece of paper on one of the lines strung across the room. She glanced up and saw him looking at her and gave him a saucy wave.

Griggs pulled the desk chair around and, sitting down heavily on it, he said, “So, you’re poor Florence’s lawyer. Take a seat. Not much that goes on in this company I don’t know about.”

Nate dragged the other chair back a bit and sat down, placing his hat carefully on his lap, and noticing that they would now be invisible to people on the shop floor unless someone came right up to the window.

He said, “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I’m trying to get a handle on just what kind of relationship Mr. Rashers had with his employees, particularly Florence Sullivan. For instance, why do you think Mrs. Rashers is so sure my client was responsible for her husband’s death?”

“Now, that’s a puzzle,” Griggs said, pulling out a whiskey bottle and tumbler from the lower drawer of the file cabinet to his right. He nodded to the bottle and said, “Want a finger-full? Been a long day for me, and it’s about quitting time.”

Nate shook his head in the negative.

“No? Suit yourself,” Griggs said, pouring out considerably more than a finger full of the whiskey. “As to what has gotten Mrs. Rashers all fired up...wish I could help you there. To my mind, Florence’d be the last person to kill Joshua.”