Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery (21 page)

“It’s not Nate...it’s the wedding plans. When we set the date for next month, I wasn’t really thinking about the details. But on Friday, Nate and I finally found time to sit down and make a list of who we wanted to invite. I counted up everyone living here—and their relatives––since I really can’t ignore Kathleen’s brothers or Beatrice’s relatives who have been so helpful with keeping the house in good repair. Then there is Miss Pinehurst, she came up to us at the restaurant on Friday and congratulated us, so of course I told her to expect an invitation. Then when you add some of my favorite clients, like Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. Hazelton, who have become more like good friends...well... the numbers just added up.”

“What about Mr. Dawson? Does he have much family living nearby?”

“No. His parents and his brother and sister-in-law, with their ten-month-old son, will be coming up from their ranch outside of San Jose. And of course his Uncle Frank. But Mrs. Stein seems to think that Nate should invite some of his more important clients as well—like the Vosses––and of course the other partner, Mr. Cranston, and his wife. And he has a number of friends he would like to attend. ”

“How many people did you both come up with?”

“Fifty-five!” Annie shook her head, still stunned by the total. When she arrived in San Francisco a little less than three years ago, she knew no one in the city and didn’t have a friend in the world.

“Oh dear. If everyone you invite shows up—they wouldn’t all fit in the parlor. If that was where you were planning on having the wedding ceremony.”

“Exactly! And I just spent all morning––to no avail––looking for a church or chapel that would be available for an early evening wedding on either Tuesday, August 10 or Wednesday, August 11. The earliest that his parents can get here is that Monday, and I don’t want them to have to get right off the train and rush to the wedding. And they need to head back home on Thursday, something about Violet’s mother’s birthday being the next day. Violet is Nate’s sister-in-law.”

“I understand that Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the best days for weddings,” Barbara said. “One of my students wrote a whole essay on this. I think the traditional wisdom is that if you marry on a Tuesday that means wealth or is it health? I can never remember—but I do know the saying goes that marrying on a Wednesday ‘is the best day of all.’”

“Well, that probably explains why all the churches I checked are booked up.”

“Were any of them available earlier in the day? When I was growing up, the ceremonies were always in the morning, followed by the wedding breakfast.”

“I thought about that, but most of the people we invited work and therefore wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“But then you could fit everyone into the parlor and not need a church,” Barbara said, with a distinctly uncharacteristic giggle.

“Oh Barbara––you are right––but that would be so rude. Then the only people who could afford to show up at the wedding itself would be some of the old rich codgers among Nate’s clients.”

“Look, can’t you limit the people you invite to the ceremony, but then invite as many people as you want for a nice reception afterwards at the house? Surely over fifty people showed up for the Halloween party last October, and everyone fit in just fine between the backyard and the kitchen.”

“That would be lovely, but I don’t want his parents to think badly of me for not having a church ceremony. Or Nate to be disappointed since this is a chance for him to show off to his law clients, some who are bound to be sticklers for propriety. I did think about renting one of the rooms at a local hotel for the reception afterwards––but I am sure they need greater lead time. Besides, they are probably pretty expensive.”

“And Beatrice would be very disappointed if she couldn’t be the one to cook for the reception.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose if you use a hotel, they want you to use their kitchen and staff.”

Annie shook her head, feeling the panic that kept erupting each time she thought about the wedding. For the first––probably the last––time, she had some sympathy for her late husband’s mother, who’d done all the arrangements for her and John’s wedding. She just didn’t have time for any of this. Not if she were to keep up with her clients and take on an accounting job with Joshua Rashers’ widow.

And to top everything off, on Friday, Nate revealed that he wants to take a two-week wedding trip. But he wouldn’t tell her where. Not that two weeks away with him wouldn’t be heaven...wherever he took her. But could either of them afford the time or the money? The last thing she wanted to do was lose those clients she had just gotten comfortable with forgoing Madam Sibyl. Or lose any of her new clients, which could happen if she suddenly announced she would be unavailable for two whole weeks.

“I am sure everything will turn out...Dandy, don’t be a pest,” Barbara said.

Annie, who’d been caught up with her thoughts, felt a series of rapid wet touches to her nose and she looked down at Dandy, who was now staring up at her with clear concern in his big brown eyes. She laughed. “Dandy, you scamp. You know you aren’t supposed to kiss a lady on the nose. What will Mr. Dawson think?”

Feeling suddenly less anxious, she smiled over at Barbara and said, “I am being very foolish, aren’t I? What is it about weddings that turn perfectly reasonable people into a bundle of nerves?”

Looking down the street again, she recognized a familiar silhouette under the lamp on the corner and said, “Oh, here comes Laura. I know what to do...I shall dump the whole problem in her lap. Isn’t that what your maid of honor is supposed to do—make sure everything comes off without a hitch?”

And maybe that will keep her busy and out of trouble.

Tuesday, morning, July 13, 1880

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“Three or four compositors...bring up their various contribution of type to the long ‘galley’ in which the article is put together.”
Daily Telegraph
, June 28, 1864

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A
nnie looked up at the large
Rashers and Company, Printers
sign on the corner of the Italianate-style Niantic Building. The fact that Joshua Rashers was the only occupant of a grand four-story commercial building who had designed and paid for such a flamboyant piece of advertising suggested he’d been a man of enormous self-confidence.

A man who had married the boss’s daughter and then promptly left his father-in-law’s firm to work his way up in a rival company. A man who then used that father-in-law’s money, when he died, to start his own printing firm, reportedly taking with him a number of clients from his former employer. A man who made his fortune by paying low wages so he could ruin his rivals by cut-throat competition on prices. A man who died violently.

And a man whose widow didn’t seem bothered by the knowledge that the accountant she was hiring was engaged to be married to the lawyer who was defending the woman she believed killed her husband.

Annie was really curious to meet that widow.

Ten minutes later, she sat in an office that looked considerably cleaner than Nate led her to expect. Someone certainly had been busy in the ten days since the former occupant died. The clutter of books, newspapers, and other detritus of the printing business he’d described was gone. The wood of the file cabinets, chairs, and desk gleamed with polish, and the walls looked and smelled freshly painted. The makeshift bar had disappeared, as had the chaise lounge that Nate told her about. And, in the open space between the desk and the door, where Annie believed Rashers’ body had lain, there was a lovely dark blue Brussels carpet with a medallion motif. There were also several vases of fresh-cut flowers scattered about, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they were there to hide the taint of blood Nate swore he’d smelled on Wednesday.

All in all, the room felt very much like a well-appointed parlor, not a business office. Nevertheless, Mrs. Catherine Rashers was all business as she took Annie rapidly through her resume, jotting down the names of those firms and organizations Annie had worked for over the past six months.

Then, putting her pen down, she said, “So, Mrs. Fuller, it was your father who taught you about financial affairs? How extraordinary.”

“Yes, although I also took a course in accounting as part of the curriculum at the New York Ladies Academy. The board of the institution, on which my father sat, agreed that this would be of use to any woman, no matter what her life’s circumstances.”

Annie smiled when she remembered how hard her father had fought for that course. It certainly came in handy now that she was moving away from making money as the clairvoyant Madam Sibyl.

“Both my father and my husband were great believers in the adage that a ‘woman’s place is in the home.’ But then, neither of them ever contemplated the eventuality that they would pre-decease me.”

Annie nodded sympathetically but refrained from repeating the standard condolences she’d made earlier. Like Nate, she was finding Catherine Rashers a puzzling bundle of contradictions.

When Annie first entered the office, Mrs. Rashers leapt up from her desk to welcome her, the beautiful black silk she wore showing off her figure to perfection. She flitted around the office, moving the chair Annie was to sit on a half-inch, adjusting a spray of flowers, tucking a curl behind her ear, batting her eyes at the foreman Griggs and profusely thanking him for accompanying Annie from the shop door to the office, while he beamed at her like a proud papa.

Once the door closed behind him, however, she instantly shed the gushing school girl act. No longer a blur of perpetual motion, Mrs. Rashers’ true age, which was probably about forty, became obvious. Not that she hadn’t made every effort to obscure that age, from the tight lacing and clever tailoring that smoothed out the effects of two pregnancies, the blonde curls pinned artfully to hide any gray, and the darkened lashes that emphasized her eyes. But even the most expert of cosmetics couldn’t hide the tale-tell lines around the eyes and mouth and the slight softening of the skin along the cheekbones or completely eliminate the impression that this was a woman who hadn’t been sleeping well––if the circles under those eyes were any indication.

But what was most startling about the change was the sheer intelligence and competence revealed by her questions to Annie. It suddenly made sense that the very sharp Mrs. Richmond, the WCPU owner, would count her as a friend. And Annie supposed it made sense that she would try to hide her true nature around men if her husband had insisted on a pretty but empty-headed wife at home. 

But at what cost? When Annie’s own husband had treated her in a similar fashion, she’d found the experience damaged her sense of who she was while creating a corroding level of rage. She hated to think the effect this would have had on her if she had stayed married to John for nearly twenty-five years, as Catherine Rashers had done with her husband.

“So, Mrs. Fuller, what will you need in order to do a full audit of the company so that I can include this information in my petition for probate?”

“Besides the account books for the last three years, it would be helpful if I could look at bills for supplies and equipment, records of any outstanding debts that the company is owed, or owes, and correspondence, at least for the past six months. This should give me a good idea if there are any hidden costs or assets that aren’t obvious in the accounting records and help me set a value on the company.”

“That is excellent. You can work in here—where I believe everything you ask for is probably in those file cabinets. I won’t be into the office over the next few days. The funeral is tomorrow, and I do feel I need to be with my children as much as possible the rest of this week.”

Annie, who’d been maintaining a skeptical emotional distance from Mrs. Rashers, felt a brief spurt of real sadness when the widow mentioned her children. No matter who killed Joshua Rashers, no matter why their mother seemed determined to blame Mrs. Sullivan for that death, these children just lost their father. It was with sincere sympathy that she said, “I quite understand. I should be able to arrange my appointments so that I can devote most of Thursday, as well as Friday and Monday, to the task and not be in your way. By that time, I should be able to give you an estimate of when I will be finished.”

“Perfect. I would also appreciate it if at that time you could give me a brief over-view of the financial health of the company and tell me what obligations need to be addressed immediately. Since I already own the majority shares in the business, Mr. Glasser, the executor, assured me I don’t have to wait until probate is completed, or get approval from him, to act.”

This information affirmed what Mrs. Richmond told her about Mrs. Rashers’ legal position in the company and reinforced Annie’s impression that Catherine Rashers was a force to be reckoned with.

Hoping to find some clue to the widow’s plans for the future of the printing company, Annie said, “I commend you for taking an active interest in the firm. I am afraid I was far too passive in the first months after my own husband’s death, permitting my father-in-law to make all the decisions—much to my own financial detriment.”

Mrs. Rashers nodded, as if Annie’s words had confirmed something, and she briskly entered into a discussion of what Annie’s fees for the audit would be. She’d clearly been advised of what the going rate was, because she didn’t blink an eye when Annie quoted what she charged by the hour. They went over the formal contract that Annie had brought with her—which Nate had drafted for her when she started obtaining accounting jobs. After asking a few penetrating questions, Mrs. Rashers quickly signed it.

She then stood up and offered her hand to Annie, saying, “You may have found it odd that I was willing to hire you, given your relationship to Mr. Dawson. But all I ask is that if you do find anything of importance in your audit––or anything that looks odd or questionable––that you speak to me first.”

*****

L
aura stretched her arms above her head, easing the tightness in her shoulders. She then shook out her hands, smiling over at the other typesetter, Nan, who stood working on a tricky bit of magazine copy. After a week of lovely warm days, this morning a heavy fog transformed into a cold drizzle, and Laura wanted to warm up her joints before starting setting type again. She looked around the room and was disappointed that Iris, her forewoman, wasn’t visible.