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.”
*****
Laura 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.
All morning, Laura had searched for an opportunity to ask her more questions about Florence Sullivan and Joshua Rashers. She’d been setting the type for a book of poetry, which took a good deal of concentration to keep the lines centered. However, because poetry was known as fat copy because there weren’t that many actual letters in each line—just lots of slugs and quadrants for spacing––the work went fast and would pay well. It also meant she could afford to take frequent breaks. But every time she finished a page of type and tied the form to get it ready to pull a proof, the forewoman was busy in the next room with the pressmen or instructing one of the apprentices. Then, when Iris was free to proof Laura’s work, she would be right in the middle of setting a line of type and couldn’t break off.
This afternoon it would be harder to find time because she was supposed to work on a small academic book, with lots of foreign words in italics––lean copy––that was going to be really difficult and wouldn’t leave time for stopping to chat. She would have to figure out a way during their luncheon break to pull Iris aside. Meanwhile, she went over to where a shiny brass tea kettle hung over its spirit burner and poured the dark steaming liquid into one of the chipped mugs. She added a generous dollop of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar, both necessary to cut the acidic taste of tea that had been brewing for hours.
Yesterday, when she got home from the restaurant, Annie and Barbara Hewitt had been sitting on the porch waiting for her. If Annie had been alone, Laura would have told her about her meeting with Seth. As it was, the three of them got right into talking about the wedding. Annie said she was teasing about making Laura do all the work getting a church and planning the reception, but she could tell her future sister-in-law felt overwhelmed by it all. Laura didn’t know why they just didn’t elope. Although her mother would probably be disappointed in not getting a chance to come to San Francisco.
And if her parents didn’t come up for a wedding, there would be more pressure on Laura to go down to the ranch this summer. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her family. But it was going to be easier to avoid her mother’s questions during the day or two of wedding festivities. She also didn’t relish a week on the ranch spent with Violet, her brother Billy’s wife, who would say out loud what her own mother was thinking: “Why was Laura wasting her life going to the university?”
If she got in. Rumor was that the oral exams for entrance were brutal. Which was why having the study group was such a good idea. Kitty, Ned, and she took turns asking questions from each of their areas of expertise. It would help if Seth joined them, even if for a few sessions. None of them had his background in geography and geology, and he could quiz her on European history, since it was United States history that was her strong subject. If he showed up.
Going back over to her type case, she took a last sip of tea and put the cup down. She couldn’t believe Seth actually mentioned the war last night. She was only five when it ended. She didn’t even remember her two older brothers, Charlie and Frank, who both died on battlefields. They were simply two impossibly young men in blue uniforms in the formal portraits her mother kept on her bureau. Her parents
never spoke of them or the war. But she saw the sadness in their eyes when someone else touched on the subject.
Was that what she saw in Seth’s eyes? His voice sounded angry, but his eyes looked hurt. He must have been no more than sixteen or seventeen. He’d seemed relieved when she changed the subject...but should she have? Maybe he needed to let the hurt out. She’d learned that this winter...from Annie...that talking about how she felt about her friend Hattie was the best way of learning to live with what happened. Had Seth ever had anyone to talk to? Anyone who cared enough to listen?
*****
At the end of the day, as the last of the apprentices went up to the apartment on the next floor, Laura finally got the forewoman to herself. Without preface, she said, “Iris, do you remember me telling you how surprised I was to find out that Seth Timmons, the man who attended San Jose Normal School with me last year, turned out to work at Rashers and was the one who discovered Mrs. Sullivan with Mr. Rashers’ body?”
“Yes, and if I remember, you also blushed when I asked you what he was like.” Iris’s blue eyes twinkled as she took up the feather duster she used to rid the main worktables of the bits of flotsam and jetsam that accumulated during the day.
“I saw him yesterday. He was quite adamant that he didn’t think your friend Florence is guilty.”
“If you are going to hang around and talk to me about Florence Sullivan, be of use and sweep up behind me, won’t you?” Iris said, vigorously sweeping the duster over the table in front of her.
“Of course.” Laura went over and got the broom and dustpan from the corner by the door. She’d already tidied her own workspace, as had Nan before leaving, but the apprentices tended to be sloppy—often leaving the ends of the lead slugs they’d cut to fill in the spaces on their composing sticks lying around. Babs, always hungry at age thirteen, also left behind bits of apple core, taffy wrappers, and half-filled mugs of tea.
“Anyway,” she continued, “obviously my brother also believes her to be innocent, but he’s worried that she seems so unwilling to help him develop a defense. And he is puzzled by her unwillingness to let her husband visit her. He could understand not wanting her mother to see her while she was in jail, but why not her husband? She has let you visit again, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, I’ve been there three times. I certainly hope your brother has a plan to get her released quickly. I am very concerned for her health.” Iris stretched to reach the top of her own compositing case with the duster.
Laura paused in her sweeping and replied, “He hopes that tomorrow at the arraignment that the bail will be set at a reasonable level, so she can be free until the trial is over. But you didn’t answer my question. What about her husband? Did she say anything about him to you?”
“No. Mostly I tried to cheer her up by telling her funny stories about the four bees. I am afraid all that did was prompt her to begin worrying about what was going to happen to her own apprentices...if they would lose their positions if the firm were sold.”
“The reason I ask about her husband is Nate talked to him at some length. From Nate’s description of what he said, it sounded to me like Florence fell in love with Rashers when she first started working there. Then something happened between them and she married Mr. Sullivan sort of on the rebound.”
Laura looked carefully to see what affect her blunt words would have and saw a dark red stain bloom on the forewoman’s cheeks, a sure sign Iris was angry.
Iris, shaking her duster at Laura, said fiercely, “I don’t see why you would repeat gossip like that, Miss Dawson. I thought better of you.”
Laura’s heart pounded. She absolutely hated when someone treated her like a naughty child, but she knew she’d risked this reaction when she asked the question. Taking a deep breath, she said as calmly as she could, “Miss Bailor, this is not a question of idle gossip. You, yourself, told Annie that he’d ‘worn her down.’”
“Her reasons for marrying Alan are neither here nor there. But the suggestion that...”
“That she fell in love with Rashers? Tell me that this isn’t true, then. Because the only way my brother can save Mrs. Sullivan from a life in prison is if he knows the whole truth. She just won’t tell him anything, and he said she is within a hair’s breadth of pleading guilty to the charge of murder.”
“But she didn’t do it!”
“I told you, Nate doesn’t believe she is guilty. But if there was some sort of illicit relationship between Mrs. Sullivan and Rashers, even it if were years ago, and this comes out in court, it would substantiate Mrs. Rashers’ claim that Mrs. Sullivan, as the woman scorned, killed him. Don’t you see Nate has to have all the facts if he is to prepare an adequate defense?”
Iris continued to glare at her, then abruptly turned her eyes away. She began picking up the bits of twine left over from tying up the lines of type, saying in a low voice, “She started working for Rashers five years ago this fall, and the change in her was almost immediate. Before that time, she was––she is––always serious, responsible. She was only fifteen when she first started working here at the Women’s Co-operative, but she was soon our most valued worker. She was so adult, certainly more mature than I was at that age. She once told me that her father had her swear on his deathbed that she would always take care of her mother. But it wasn’t just her mother she felt responsible for—it was as if she was in charge of making sure the whole world turned correctly on its axis.”
“And that changed when she started working for Rashers?”
“Yes, she began to act like a giddy school girl. All she could do was sing Rashers’ praises. He was so clever, so kind, so hard-working. And so misunderstood by his wife.”
“Ah...and did she feel this justified having an affair with a married man?” Laura, hearing the bite to her words, stopped. She shouldn’t judge. She’d judged her friend Hattie and had regretted it ever since. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
“I know exactly what you meant. Rashers told her that he and his wife hadn’t lived as man and wife for years. That now that he’d met her, he was getting a divorce. That his wife wouldn’t contest it—that she would be happy to be free of him. Florence believed him. It makes me so angry. Why should Florence, a young inexperienced girl, be blamed in those circumstances? If he committed adultery—and I really don’t know if it came to that––it was his fault, not hers. But try to tell Florence that—she took on all the blame herself afterwards...”
“What happened?”
“She found out his wife was pregnant with their first child.”
“Oh,” Laura said. Mrs. Richmond had told Annie about Catherine Rashers’ years of childlessness. Then the unexpected pregnancy. “So then he broke things off with her?”
“Oh, no. She was the one who insisted they stop. She came crying to me...berating herself. Not for believing him, but for going against her own moral scruples. He was the good one, sacrificing his happiness for the sake of his wife and unborn child. Florence asked me if she could come back to work here. Of course I said yes.”
“But she didn’t leave?”
Iris shook her head, her cheeks again in high color. “I could have wrung her neck. She continued to be so besotted that when he asked her to stay on with the firm, she did. He told her that he still intended on getting a divorce. That he was just going to wait until the pregnancy was over...until his wife fully recovered. Florence was to wait for him, help him expand the business so he could leave his wife well-provided for.”
“And she believed him?”
Iris stood and stared out the window. Then she said, “Yes, she believed him, until she found out, just five months after the birth of the first child, that his wife was again pregnant.”
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, evening, July 14, 1880
“The case just tried at Oakland has every feature that belongs to a case of murder, but there was a woman in it and in all such cases men will vary in their opinions.” San Francisco Chronicle, Dec
ember 23, 1880
“Mr. Dawson, how nice to see you this evening,” said Kathleen, giving him a brisk curtsy, her black curls bobbing under her cap. “I will tell Mrs. Fuller you’ve come. She’s just finished with her last client and is upstairs changing. We’re making ice cream in the kitchen if you would like to wait for her down there.”
Nate smiled at the young maid. Hanging his hat on the coatrack, he replied, “Oh my, that does sound tempting. But I’ve a lot to discuss with your mistress, so I best wait for her in the small parlor.”
As he went into the room, he noticed that the dark green velvet curtains were pulled back and the windows opened. After yesterday’s rain, the temperature today had soared, along with uncomfortable humidity, so the slight breeze that wandered in from the street was welcome. This was a pleasant room, with dark paneled cabinets along the walls and a thick carpet underfoot. In addition to the small table where Annie, as Madam Sibyl, and now as Mrs. Fuller, plied her trade, there were several comfortable arm chairs. And a settee. A piece of furniture Nate had discovered was the perfect size since it ensured that a certain woman, when she sat down next to him, was near enough for a swift kiss.
There was also the tantalizing smell of a good cigar—Annie’s last client must have been male. He’d given up smoking last fall. He told everyone it was to economize, but the real reason was the way Annie would wrinkle her nose when they came together after he’d finished one. She never said anything, but he did notice her enthusiasm for those kisses had increased significantly since he’d stopped smoking.
Nate opened one of the cabinets and took out the bottle of whiskey, pouring himself just a splash. It had been a very long day, and a difficult one, but an hour or two with Annie was really all the restorative he needed. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that it was just shy of twelve months since he first met her, on that embarrassing evening when he mistook her for a brothel owner. Lord, what a fool he’d made of himself.
Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 17
