Josiah's Treasure (37 page)

Sinclair noticed where his attention was directed. “If she had tended to me on my deathbed, I’d probably give her my entire fortune too.” The lawyer chuckled. “Well, her wiles have left her with not much more than a pile of bills and a tarnished reputation. If she were smart, she would hop the first train out of town.”

“She would never desert her girls.” Not Cora, who liked to sing barroom Irish tunes. Not Minnie, with her friendly manner, or Emma, serious and stern. Or Phoebe, petite and pretty. “She’ll stay and stick it out.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Daniel leaned forward, straining for one last glimpse of Sarah, her straight back, her chestnut hair curling around the edge of her hat, her open and honest face, and wondered at how much he hurt when the hired carriage rounded the corner and she was lost to sight.

“She’ll stay,” he repeated, certain it was true.

“Humph.” Sinclair pointed his hat at Daniel. “You really could use some lunch, Cady. You’re white as a sheet. Come have a drink and some decent food. Nothing like a good meal to cure what ails you.”

Daniel blinked. Outside, the buildings outside passed in a blur, and the clop of the horse’s hooves on cobblestone pounded in his brain. No amount of food or drink was going to cure what ailed him. But it might dull the pain.

He couldn’t believe his luck. She was alone in the house tonight. He’d been watching for a while and had seen neither hide nor hair of the woman who worked for her, no smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, no lights at all in the rear of the house. Just her alone.

Frank, my boy, this is going to be as easy as rolling off a log.

He stubbed out his cigar—his final one, come to think of it, but there’d be cigars by the crate once he found that stash of nuggets—took a look around and, satisfied everything was quiet, hoisted himself over the rear fence. Wiping his hands, he grinned up at the upstairs bedroom light shining through cracks in the blinds. Downstairs, all was in darkness. Easy pickings.

From his pants pocket, Frank fished out a brand-new lock pick. He’d lost his old pick in his rush to exit the house last time. He could lose this one and it wouldn’t matter, because he wasn’t planning on coming back. With his empty hand, he patted the gun tucked into his pants. He’d sold his pocket watch to buy himself a new revolver, in case she came armed again. Frank chuckled. Her little pistol was no match for his Smith & Wesson.

A smirk firmly planted on his face and a rapping amount of confidence puffing his chest, he started across the darkening and empty garden.

T
he house was quiet; Rufus ensconced at the foot of the bed; the case clock chiming eleven. Sarah tucked her feet beneath her on her bedroom chair, a book on her lap, as the silence descended like a thick blanket of damp wool. She was worn out, wrung dry of the tears she’d shed today, but couldn’t sleep. With few days left to enjoy the house, she didn’t want to miss a minute spent beneath its roof.

“What a morose creature I’ve become,” she said to Rufus, who flicked an ear but didn’t lift an eyelid.

When she’d come home from the courthouse, she had decided to take leave of all the small treasures that would no longer be hers to enjoy, the tabby following her around until he’d grown bored. She’d listened to the sweet chime of the delicate china mantel clock that was so out of character with Josiah’s often gruff demeanor. Examined the painting of the bay that hung in the study. Weighed in her palm his glass paperweight with the tiny fleck of gold at its center, a minute sparkle that Josiah had claimed was the first bit of gold he’d panned. Thumbed through his books. Inhaled the scent of his Spanish cedar cigar box.

She had saved the garden for last, waiting until after her dinner of sliced ham sandwiches to say good-bye to the marble cherub, to the
Rêve d’Or
roses. She’d been tempted to take the garden
shears to every one of the lilies and lop off their heads. Daniel Cady probably wouldn’t even discover Sarah’s trivial act of revenge; once Sarah had moved out of the house, she suspected Daniel would be too busy totting up the value of the items Josiah had left behind to stroll around the garden and take notice. Sarah just hoped there would be space in her future lodgings for her oil portrait of Josiah. She wouldn’t leave him behind to a son who had no love for his father.

The candle on the bedside table flickered in a sudden draft. It was growing late. She should go to sleep and get some rest.

Setting down her book, she threw back the soft cotton sheet on her bed, disturbing Rufus, who jumped down with a protesting mewl. Sarah pondered if Daniel would miss a set of bed linens. Or two.

She had just removed her robe and stepped out of her slippers when a noise alerted her. “Ah Mong?”

But Ah Mong wouldn’t be creeping around, stealthily creaking floorboards in the dining room. Her heart pounded. Through the bedroom doorway, she could see a faint glow of light reflected up the staircase. Whoever was inside had the audacity to light one of the lanterns.

What could she do? If she poked her head out the bedroom window and screamed, who would hear her? No one lived behind her, because the house in back wasn’t finished yet, and Mrs. Brentwood, for all her nosiness, wasn’t the sort to come to the aid of a shrieking woman. By the time Mr. Malagisi responded, it would be too late.

She wished she hadn’t given back Mrs. Brentwood’s pistol. Wished that Ah Mong and his brother—and Daniel—were standing guard tonight. But they weren’t. And she was alone.

Sarah grabbed her robe off the end of the bed and shrugged it on. The light in the stairwell had disappeared, suggesting the intruder had ventured into the parlor. She tiptoed down the hallway into her work studio, which lay directly above the room.
Crouching down, she pressed an ear to the iron register covering the vent between the floors. She could hear the scraping of furniture across the floor near the front bay window. If he moved closer, she might be able to see him. But who was it? The burglar couldn’t be back; Officer Hanson had thrown him in jail.

She straightened. She couldn’t continue to hide upstairs. The man would come looking eventually. It was better to go and meet him on her terms.

Dear Lord.

In the parlor, a piece of furniture crashed to the floor, startling her into action. As Sarah retied her robe, she made certain the red silk hem was high off the ground and out from under her feet, in case she needed to run. Rushing back to her room, she snatched up the heaviest thing she could find—a silver-plated candlestick—and headed down the steps, her slippers slapping against the carpet runner, the sound barely audible above the thump of blood in her ears.

Archibald Jackson might not have been able to induce him to drink, but guilt was doing a mighty fine job.

Daniel, slouched in the most secluded chair in the deepest corner of the Occidental Hotel’s main public parlor, listened sourly to the happy chatter of guests descending the marble staircase to the ground floor on their way to the theater and other pleasures, and swirled the amber alcohol in his glass. He wished every one of them an amusing evening. His own festivities had extended well past the lunch he’d shared with Sinclair, landed him in the Occidental’s parlor where the drinks appeared to be endless and he had decided to partake. Freely. Tomorrow, he would pay the price.

Sober up, Daniel, and go and talk to her. Ask her what she felt for that man. That French fellow. Do what you’ve wanted to do since she turned you away at her shop. Ask her if she cared for him.

Cared for you.

“Want another, Mr. Cady?” From out of seemingly nowhere, Red had appeared.

Daniel glanced down at his glass, one-quarter full. He didn’t want another drop.

“I want to send a telegram,” he said, handing Red the glass. He was overdue in informing his sisters of the outcome of the hearing. He’d delayed that as much as he’d delayed talking to Sarah.

“The office is closed for the evening, sir. But I can bring you a form and see that it’s sent first thing in the morning.”

“Then that’s what I want you to do.”

Red scurried off, passing Archibald Jackson strolling through the lounge.

“Well, lookie here.” Jackson dropped into a chair at Daniel’s left. “Having a few drinks to celebrate your success? You should buy me one. Doran would’ve given her more if my little story hadn’t come out.”

“Why are you here? You can’t be looking for money from me, now that you’ve published that rot.” Daniel’s head started to throb. “So go away.”

“I’m dismayed you didn’t like it, Mr. Cady. ‘A Cautionary Tale of Greed and Immorality.’ My editor was impressed.” He grinned. “Miss Whittier didn’t try to defend herself this morning, which makes her guilty as charged in my book. You should be thanking me that I saved you and your inheritance from her thieving clutches.”

“Jackson.” Daniel sat up straight. “If you don’t leave right now I’m going to turn your head into pulp.”

Jackson snorted. “That’s a good one, Mr. Cady. You’re so drunk, you couldn’t see a hole in a ladder. You’re not about to turn anyone’s head into pulp.”

“Want to test me?”

“You are feeling sorry for her, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “If you think she’s been treated unfairly, why not go over there and ask her again about those nuggets? Bet she didn’t beg the
judge for a larger share of Josiah Cady’s estate because she’s got them to fall back on. Her little stash of gold.”

Daniel stood, the room seesawing for a moment then righting itself. “I’ll do that, Jackson, and prove you wrong.”

The secretary lay knocked to the ground, its entire contents scattered at the man’s feet. He spun around to face her, stepping on the leather-cased calendar Sarah kept in the top drawer and had yet to pack away, bending the cover. The lantern, which he’d set on the center table, lit his face, his expression as wild as his disheveled muddy-blond hair.

Sarah gasped, confused. He spun about at the sound. “You’re in jail,” she insisted. But he wasn’t in jail. He was back.

“Where is it?”

In his search, he’d overturned Josiah’s armchair, the horsehair stuffing leaking through a tear in the underside. The settee was pulled away from the wall, its cushions tumbled onto the floor, and sections of wallpaper had been peeled off to look for hidden compartments, she presumed.

“You already know there’s nothing in here—you searched the room last time.” Sarah didn’t move from the doorway where she could see him and both doors out of the house. The possibility of fleeing gave her a measure of comfort all out of proportion to the reality of the situation. She didn’t miss how he rubbed his hand against his side where a gun-sized bump bulged his overcoat. Any second now he’d pull it out. She hugged the candlestick against her chest. “So get out of here.”

He eyed the candlestick and chuckled. What a feeble weapon it made against a man of his size. “Thinking to scare me off with that?”

“There are no gold nuggets, no cash anywhere in the house.”

“And what if I said I don’t believe you?” He kicked the books and papers aside and lumbered across the room. He drew close,
almost treading on her toes. He stank as though he’d slept in a gutter after dropping a full bottle of liquor on his coat. “Annie always claimed you were decent and I’m disappointed yer lyin’ to me.”