No Pity For the Dead (33 page)

“We'll have to wait and see,” he said.

“Thank you anyway.” This time, there were tears in Mrs. Nash's eyes. “I shall speak approvingly of you to Police Chief Crowley.”

Well, that'd be a first from a victim's family member.

“We'll be taking our leave now, ma'am,” said Nick, reseating his hat on his head and heading for the door, where the Nashes' domestic showed him and Taylor out.

On the sidewalk, Taylor rooted in his pockets for a cigar and
his friction matches. “Wonder if she'll sell this place,” he said, gazing around and out at the beautiful view toward the bay and the distant hills, the damage caused by leveling Second Street still in the future.

“Doubt she could without taking a huge loss. Nobody's going to want to buy up here, with the cut coming.” Even if Martin and Company didn't win the contract for the work, somebody would eventually. Progress, if that was what it was rightly called, was inevitable.

Cigar located, Taylor lit it and took a puff, the smoke streaming from his lips in a satisfied exhalation into the wind that flapped the bottom of his knee-length coat. “Suppose not.”

They headed toward Market where they could catch the Omnibus Railroad.

“The only question I have left, sir, is who pushed Mrs. Davies over the wall at Cliff House?” asked Taylor. “And where was Frank Hutchinson the night Martin was digging up Nash's body? Out until ten that evening, right? Did he ever explain?”

“I think he was numbing his woes in a saloon someplace other than Burke's, finally feeling guilty about his dalliance with Miss Lehane,” answered Nick. “And as for your first question, Martin won't admit to pushing Mrs. Davies, but I think he did. Just to teach her a lesson.”

“If she'd tumbled all the way to the shore, she might've broken her neck,” said Taylor. “That's a danged harsh lesson, sir.”

“There wasn't much chance of her falling that far, but I wonder if Martin would've even cared.”

“You would've cared, sir.”

Nick looked over at his assistant. “I would've, and more than I like to admit.”

Taylor winked. “She's a fine woman, Mr. Greaves.”

“I know, and that's what has me worried.” Celia Davies was refined, beautiful, and intelligent, too fine for a man whose only liaisons were with actresses and saloon girls, and who'd fallen in love with a friend's wife.

He stuck his hand into his coat pocket, and his fingers touched the piece of paper inside—a telegram from Ellie saying that, since he'd decided not to reply to her last letter, she was making plans to get on a paddle wheeler bound for San Francisco as soon as she could manage. Another woman to deal with.

But maybe it was time to talk to this one. Dang but he missed his sister. She might be able to make sense of his life for him.

“Mrs. Davies is fond of you, sir,” said Taylor after another deep puff on his cigar. “I wouldn't worry about her being too good for a rough old policeman like you or me.”

Nick released his grip on the telegram and looked over at his assistant. “Are you saying I'm rough and old, Taylor?”

Taylor laughed loudly. “Not at all, sir. Not at all.”

*   *   *

“Y
ou're telling me you two girls were the ones who left those notes for me?” Addie's outrage grew with each fresh giggle that came from Grace and Barbara, seated together on the piano bench. “And the flowers? And the sweets?
You're
my admirer?”

Celia, seated by the parlor window, lifted her teacup to her lips and hid a smile behind it. Another mystery solved.

“We wanted to cheer you up, Miss Ferguson,” said Grace. “Honest, that was all. You deserve an admirer. We didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

Addie blushed, and she turned toward Celia. “I'll nae be teased so. I'll be leaving your employ, ma'am, if this is what I'm to endure. I would appreciate a character, if you'll be so kind.”

“Now, Addie, surely you do not mean you would leave us,” said Celia.
Heavens, I dearly
hope
she does not mean that!
“Barbara, apologize at once to Addie for engaging in such a prank.”

Barbara hesitated, and Grace reached over to pinch the top of her friend's hand.

“Ouch!” she said, but she was smiling. After all that had happened, Celia was grateful that their friendship had survived. Her own relationship with Barbara, strained by her involvement in another murder investigation, was proving slightly more difficult to patch. At least her cousin had not repeated her threat that she wanted Celia to move out of the house.

I will give us time. And perhaps Barbara shall come to understand.

“I'm sorry, Addie,” said Barbara. “Truly. We meant well. You were so blue about Mr. Taylor ignoring you—”

“I dinna ken what you're saying, Miss Barbara!” Addie blushed again. “I dinna care if the man takes note of me.” She lifted her chin. “'Tis his loss.”

“We should've realized, though, you might think the notes were coming from that Mr. Knowles,” said Grace. “We didn't want you to think that, because we don't much like him, do we, Bee?”

“Weel, I dinna care for his grinning, either,” said Addie. “And I've sent him a note saying I'll nae be going to the pyrotechnics with him for the Fourth of July.”

“Wait. When did these plans happen?” asked Celia, setting down her cup of tea.

“I didna tell you?”

“No, you did not,” said Celia. “And there is no need to change your plans with Mr. Knowles.”

“Aye, weel, 'tis too late. I've gone and told him I'm verra busy.”

“Then come with us,” said Celia. She had made plans to accompany the Hutchinsons, presuming the contusions Mr. Greaves had given Frank would be thoroughly healed and permit him to appear in public without causing gossip. “You would not wish to miss the Fourth of July celebrations, and Jane will not mind. You can help us chaperone the girls; I am certain they would enjoy having you along.”

Addie cast a skeptical glance at Grace and Barbara.

“Please do come, Miss Ferguson,” said Grace. “I'll tell Stepmama that you'll be joining us, okay?”

“If you insist, I'll nae disagree. Let me warm your tea, ma'am,” she said to Celia, and departed for the kitchen, her shoulders straighter and a bounce in her step.

“Thank you, Grace,” said Celia. “That was most kind.”

“After the excitement of the last few days, we all could use some kindness, I guess,” the girl responded. “At least Papa's forgiven me for talking to that detective about what I'd seen. I wasn't sure he would.”

“Your father is a good man, Grace. Of course he would understand that you wished to do the right thing.”

“In fact, he's so pleased that you helped clear his name, he's told Stepmama to talk to you about how we can help you expand your clinic,” said Grace. “Maybe find a dedicated building for it.”

“My goodness,” said Celia, overwhelmed. She heard the front door open, and Owen strode into the hallway.

“Guess I shoulda knocked, ma'am,” he said, noticing the
girls in the parlor and sweeping his cap from his head, leaving his hair sticking up in its wake.

“Good morning, Owen,” said Barbara.

“Owen, I do not believe you and Grace were properly introduced the last time you met,” said Celia. Had it only been this past Thursday when he'd burst into the house with news of a dead body? “Grace, this is Owen Cassidy. Owen, Miss Grace Hutchinson.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he stammered as Grace offered him a teasingly winsome smile.
She is well out of your grasp, Owen. Do not dream of reaching so high.

Barbara, noticing the looks exchanged by the two, frowned and tapped her friend on the shoulder. “Let's go see if Addie has anything good to eat and go outside. The sun's finally out.”

The girls trooped out, and Owen's shoulders sagged as he watched them go.

“Mr. Hutchinson, by the way, had his daughter bring me a note today. He has agreed to take you back on,” said Celia, “once he finds a supervisor to replace Mr. Kelly.”

“Can't believe Mr. Kelly was the killer, ma'am. Plum awful.”

“Very awful. How did you find his wife when you went to her house?” Celia asked him. When he'd popped in before Grace had arrived, Celia had sent him with a small hamper of food to check on Maryanne and the baby.

He went back into the entryway and returned with the wicker hamper. “She weren't there, ma'am,” he said, holding it out as proof. “That loony girl next door with the bandage on her arm was hopping around and saying they was . . . were gone. Left this morning. Early. She looked as happy as a tick about to burst to tell me, too!”

“Oh dear.” Maryanne, likely eager to get away from the gossiping and unkind neighbors, must have found somewhere to take her children after all. Hopefully not anywhere too far, though; she would want to be close by when her husband was put on trial. “You can keep the food,” she said, nodding at the hamper.

“I can?” Owen peeked beneath the checked cloth covering the food. “But the widow I room with is gonna think I stole it!”

“Then let me put a note inside that will reassure her.”

“Don't think she can read, ma'am.”

Addie returned with a fresh pot of tea, setting it on the table in the center of the parlor. “Have you come now for a meal, Owen Cassidy? Always eating, you are.”

He held up the hamper for Addie to see. “Mrs. Davies said I could keep this.”

“Then you'll nae need me to feed you, will you?” said Addie, turning on her heel and marching off.

“Never sure she likes me, ma'am.”

“Addie adores you, Owen. I think you remind her of one of her brothers.” She shooed a hand at him. “Take the hamper into the kitchen and have a bite to eat. And do not be too rambunctious around the young woman you will find there.” Katie had risen that morning to take a meal in the kitchen rather than have a tray sent up to her room, which she claimed she found to be too “high heeled” for a mere saloon girl. “Miss Lehane is still recovering from a bullet wound.”

“Whoa! Ain't never boring around here, ma'am!” Grinning, he dashed off, the hamper swinging from his hand.

Celia rose, her hips and back aching in protest, sore from yesterday's tumble down the stairs. She was fortunate that a few aches and bruises were all she suffered from, she supposed.
Taking two tumbles in the span of a few days was not a practice she wished to continue.

Wrapping her mother's cashmere shawl around her shoulders, she poured herself a fresh cup of tea and went outside to the front porch.

She leaned against the railing as the bells of Saint Francis tolled the hour. At Vallejo's intersection with Stockton, the Omnibus Railroad horsecar clopped by on its way north to Meiggs' Wharf. The wagon from Winkle's Bakery had come from the shop on Battery to make a delivery to the nicest house on the street, the stately brick one a few doors up from them. The grocers on the corner must have received a fresh shipment of vegetables, because a crowd was clustered around the señora in her bright skirts who was monitoring the crates of goods. The neighborhood boys, including Angelo, played a boisterous game of tag in the street, and across the way, Joaquin's mother was once again sweeping her porch and frowning at Celia.
Ah well,
thought Celia as she sipped from her cup,
what can I expect when trouble seems to find me on a regular basis?

But how ordinary it all was that day. How satisfyingly ordinary.

“Mrs. Davies,” called out Nicholas Greaves, striding down the road.

“Good morning, Mr. Greaves. You have come too soon for me to remove those stitches, I'm afraid.”

“This isn't a medical visit, ma'am,” he said, climbing the stairs.

“Would you care for some tea, then?” she asked.

“No need to bother. I won't stay long.” He joined her at the railing and stared out at the street. “I like it up here. Above the city.”

“It no longer feels so much above the city. Every day, there are more houses, springing up like weeds,” she said. “Soon there will be nothing but buildings between us and the shoreline of North Beach.” Even then, the city would no doubt continue to grow wildly; there were even plans to extend that shoreline farther into the bay.

“I've heard that Martin and Company won't be getting the contract for the Second Street cut. The Board of Supervisors decided this morning that nobody will, for a while at least,” he said. “Looks like Nash's protests have won out, in the end.”

“Small consolation to him or his widow. And oh how Frank shall be disappointed.” The house he hoped to build on California Street to impress Jane's father might have to wait. “You were mistaken about him, though, Mr. Greaves. His relationship with Katie was ill-advised, but in other regards . . .”

“I was wrong about his complicity in murder, ma'am, but I'm not wrong about him.”

“What did he do to you?”

His hat turned through his hands. “If you want to remain friends with him, I'd rather not say.”

“I shall coax the story out of you one day, you know.”

“I don't doubt that you will.”

She watched the wagon from the bakery pull away from the curb and turn the corner, the driver tipping his hat to a young woman crossing the road. She heard the laughter of the boys as they chased one another. She breathed in the aroma of Mr. Greaves' shaving soap, carried on the breeze, and felt her will to protect her heart weaken.
I should tell him. I should tell him about Patrick.

“Mr. Greaves, there is something you should know.”

“What's that?”

“I . . .” The urge faded.
Don't be impulsive again, Celia. He ignored you for more than three months. Do not forget that.
“Never mind,” she said. “It is nothing.”