“Is that all right with you, Mr. Corbett?” I said, expecting to hear him tell me that I was overstepping my bounds and that I was interfering with his investigation.
“Of course, Miss Davish,” he said, “as long as you share with me any evidence or insights you may find.”
“Thank you, Officer Corbett,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “I have learned that the gun cabinet and kitchen door had both been left unlocked during last night’s entertainment. Anyone could’ve taken Sir Arthur’s gun.”
“Okay, I’ll take that into consideration,” the policeman said. “Anything else?”
“Yes, I’m able to tell you now that Mr. Killian denies any involvement in Henry Starrett’s murder.” I turned to Oscar Killian. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Killian?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I had no reason to kill him.”
“No, not unless you are a man who holds a grudge,” I said. The grocer’s head swung around and he stared at me in horror. He started to shake his head violently.
“No, no, I don’t know what she’s talking about.” His hands flew toward the policeman in supplication. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. I have an alibi.”
The two girls, at the bonbon display, did look up at that.
“First things first, Mr. Killian,” Corbett said, holding his palm up toward the grocer and trying to sound calm. He walked over to the girls, placed a hand under the elbow of each, and escorted them, astonished and frightened, out the door. He flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED as he shut it behind them. The two girls clasped hands and ran as fast as they could down the street out of view. “Now what are you referring to, Miss Davish?”
I’d been waiting to ask Mr. Killian about his involvement in the Copperhead Movement and his friendship with Enoch Jamison and this seemed as good a time as any. But I was beginning to regret my actions, having no idea they would solicit such a strong reaction from the grocer. He wouldn’t turn violent with a policeman here, would he?
“I learned yesterday that Mr. Killian and Enoch Jamison, the man whose house Henry attacked, are as close as brothers and have been since before the war. They were even both part of the political movement known as the Peace Democrats, or copperheads.”
“Is that true?” Corbett asked the grocer. “I thought you fought in the war?”
“Yes, it’s all true,” Killian said. “I joined the movement at Enoch’s urging after I was discharged.” He pointed to the letters tattooed on his hand. “My initials in case I was killed in battle,” he said. Without warning, he untied his apron, unbuttoned his vest, and draped them over the counter. Then he yanked his shirttails free and lifted them up to expose his naked stomach. A jagged scar of purplish puckered skin ran from his navel several inches toward his left hip. I immediately averted my eyes. He tucked his shirt back in. “I was sick of war. I wanted peace. We both wanted peace. So why would I kill anyone, even for a friend?”
“But you would poison him, intending to make him sick,” I said, remembering Mrs. Monday’s story of the cook who inadvertently killed her master with a poisoned cake. Oscar Killian dropped his head in his hands and sobbed.
“How did you know?” Corbett asked.
“I didn’t,” I said. “It was a reasonable guess.”
“Yes, well,” Corbett said, “we know for sure that it was the oysters that were tainted. We’ve discovered several other people throughout town that had fallen ill around the same time as your dinner party. And they all confirm they bought them from Killian’s grocery.” He turned to the distraught grocer. “You said you had an alibi, Mr. Killian, for early yesterday morning?”
“Yeah, I was in Chicago visiting my sister and her family. You can check. I have my ticket receipts and you can ask my sister.” If he was telling the truth I had to check another suspect off my list.
“I’ll do that,” the policeman said. “Did you deliberately sell bad oysters to the Reynards’ cook, knowing Henry Starrett would be poisoned?” The grocer nodded.
“I heard from several families that they had gotten sick from the oysters. It was bad for business, especially this time of year, so I pulled them from my shelves and refunded everyone’s money. I was going to dispose of them but—”
“But then Mrs. Cassidy came here looking specifically for the oysters, saying they were the captain’s favorite,” I said.
“I had a whole case in the back and had already taken a loss. This would be a good payback for Enoch, I thought.”
“But what about the other innocent people who were poisoned?” I asked. “Did you think about them? Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook likely died because of you.”
The grocer looked at me and his shoulders drooped. All color left his face. I pitied the man. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know it was for a dinner party. You must believe I thought it was only to be Henry who would eat them.”
“Basically, you weren’t thinking at all, Oscar,” the policeman said. “Now you’re facing hefty fines and criminal charges. You will make amends one way or another. You can start by giving Miss Davish here an apology.”
“You were at that dinner party, miss?” he said, barely above a whisper. I nodded. “I’m truly sorry for the suffering I’ve caused you.”
“Apology accepted, Mr. Killian,” I said sincerely. It was true I’d spent a night miserable on account of him, but the happy consequence was that Walter had rushed to my aid. I personally couldn’t begrudge Killian much. But an apology wasn’t going to bring Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook back.
“So that is why you are so adamant to find the truth?” he said.
“No, it’s because my employer and mentor has been accused of the heinous crime of killing Henry Starrett,” I said, simultaneously being overwhelmed by a competing sense of loyalty, gratitude, and potential loss. I wouldn’t be who I was or have gotten as far in life without Sir Arthur’s support and belief in me. How could I have ever doubted him? “And because I know he’s innocent.”
Officer Corbett grinned at me again. Was that a look of condescension or was he truly glad I believed in Sir Arthur’s innocence? I couldn’t tell.
“By the way, Mr. Killian, do you know where Enoch Jamison is?” I asked.
“In Chicago.”
“Do you know when he left Galena?” I said.
“Wednesday morning. Why? He had nothing to do with this. He didn’t know anything.”
“No, that isn’t why I asked,” I said. The grocer looked from me to the policeman and back again.
“Then why?”
“He’s a suspect in Henry Starrett’s murder,” I said.
“No!” Oscar Killian exclaimed. “Enoch would never do such a thing, no matter how much he hated a man, even Henry Starrett. I told you, we wanted to stop the killing.”
“Would he purposely run me off a bridge?” I asked.
“What? No. What are you talking about?” the grocer said.
Could it have been an accident? I wondered. In his haste to leave town and any hint of his involvement in Holbrook’s death, could Jamison have simply lost control of his horses on the icy bridge? Maybe. I’d certainly like to think so.
“Well, if he can confirm he wasn’t anywhere near Galena at the time of the murder, I’ll believe you. Okay, Oscar,” the policeman said, waving his hand. “Out from around that counter. You need to come with me.”
“Can’t you wait until closing time? It’s Christmas. I have no one to work the store for me. That’s why I had to come back.”
“No, you have to close up now,” the officer said as he held the door open for me. He tipped his hat. “Good-bye, Miss Davish, for now.” I nodded.
“But I can’t lose my business,” Killian said, waving his arms around indicating all the goods on the shelf. “It’s my life.”
“Be grateful you’ll get to keep it,” I heard the policeman say as I stepped into the street and was hit by cool, refreshing brisk air. I started shivering despite my wool coat. I was
glad to leave the grocer in the hands of the police. Would I ever understand the drastic measures people took to get revenge? I hoped not. Although he seemed like a decent man, Oscar Killian had endangered an entire dinner party of people, some of them quite old and frail, all for the sake of getting revenge for the act of one man toward another. And it had turned deadly. But neither Killian nor Jamison could’ve killed Henry Starrett.
Then who did?
I walked almost a block in my reverie. When I stopped to look about me, I recognized the figure I’d been walking only a few steps behind, Frederick Reynard. If I’d been walking at my usual pace, I probably would have bumped right into the back of him. I stepped into the shadow of a store front entrance and, leaning around, watched from relative safety as Mr. Reynard crossed the street. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat with silk purple violets and matching velvet bow exiting the store eyed me warily and pulled her young son close as they passed. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, smiled as I slipped by the boy and his mother, and from a distance followed Frederick down Main Street. I kept close to the buildings, prepared to step out of sight at the slightest indication that he might see me. But it was for naught. Frederick stared straight ahead and never once looked behind him. He seemed comfortable with the route, never hesitating and barely even turning his head to watch for wagons and sleighs when he crossed the street. I followed at a safe distance for several blocks and was almost surprised when he turned and disappeared from sight. He must have entered a building, so I picked up my skirt and ran after him. I stopped in front of the squat three-story nondescript redbrick building I thought he disappeared into.
Do I go in? I wondered, staring up at the sign etched into the building, STAR CIGAR FACTORY. Frederick Reynard worked here. Although I didn’t know his motive yet, I considered him an excellent alternative to Sir Arthur as Henry Starrett’s murderer. Frederick had acted so strangely: demanding I not tell anyone that I’d seen him in the street, swearing me to secrecy for a secret I didn’t know, and lying to General Starrett about his whereabouts at the time of the murder. And I couldn’t overlook the fact that the olive tree leaves discovered near the dead man almost certainly came from Frederick’s greenhouse. But what if he was a murderer? Should I be confronting him alone? I knew what Walter would say, but Walter wasn’t here and this was an opportunity I’d been waiting for. Before I lost my courage, I opened the door, the pungent smell of drying tobacco hitting me the moment I went in. How did Frederick stand smelling this all day? Maybe that was why he relished his greenhouse and flowers, I thought.
“May I help you?”
I’d walked down a corridor toward the familiar rhythmic tapping of typewriter keys striking paper. The trepidation I’d felt upon entering this strange place dissipated with every keystroke. I heard the voice as I approached a glass-front office. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk, her hands poised above a Hammond.
“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman repeated, looking up at me above her spectacles. I stepped into the office.
“Yes, I would like to speak to Mr. Frederick Reynard.”
“And you are?”
“Miss Hattie Davish, secretary to Sir Arthur Windom-Greene.”
“Is Mr. Reynard expecting you?” she said, her hands still hovering above the keys.
“No, but if you would announce me,” I said, handing the woman my card, “I believe he will see me.” The woman took my card and scrutinized every letter. She looked at me again and handed back my card.
“I’m afraid Mr. Reynard does not wish to be interrupted at the moment. If you would care to make an appointment, I’m sure you can be accommodated at a more convenient time.” I refused to take my card back and we stood for an awkward moment while her hand extended my card toward me above the desk. Finally she dropped it.
“If you would be so kind to announce me now, Miss . . . ?” I said. Instead of a camaraderie that should exist between fellow workingwomen, a sense of competition often arose. I hadn’t had to spar with a fellow professional for a long time, but I was oddly enjoying the challenge.
“Miss Haversham,” the woman offered.
“Miss Haversham, what I need to discuss with Mr. Reynard requires discretion and delicacy. Thus if he knew, he would not deny me a few minutes out of his busy schedule. In fact, he would be displeased if I were not to speak to him immediately. Hence we are wasting both my time and yours, which I believe is as invaluable as Mr. Reynard’s, if not more. I understand that you may lack the time to announce me, so I will find my own way to Mr. Reynard’s office.” Success! The woman pushed back from her desk, scraping her chair along the wooden floor, and stood up.
“If you will follow me,” she said gruffly.
“Thank you,” I said. My satisfaction at besting the factory secretary at the stubborn game was short-lived. The moment I saw Frederick Reynard, grim and bent over a table full of cigar boxes in conference with another man, I realized I’d made a serious mistake in not bringing Walter with me.
“Miss Davish?” Mr. Reynard said, standing up quickly, a look of panic on his face. “What on earth are you doing here?” The whirling, scraping sound of a band saw nearby made me jump.
“I . . . ah . . . I . . .” He took a step toward me and I almost bolted for the door.
“Has something else happened? Are Adella and the children all right?”
“Oh, no,” I said, relieved. I thought he was going to accost me for revealing the secret that I didn’t even know. Instead he imagined I was again playing the bearer of bad tidings. “No, your family is fine, sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
“May we speak privately, sir?” I said. Frederick looked at the man next to him.
“Oh, of course. You’re excused, Haversham,” he said to the secretary. “If you would excuse us for a moment, Verner.” The man and the secretary retreated in opposite directions. “Now, what is this all about?” Frederick said, slightly impatient.
“Sir Arthur has been arrested for your father-in-law’s murder, Mr. Reynard,” I said. “And he has charged me with the task of finding the real killer.” Frederick stared at me for a moment without blinking. Then he shook his head as if to clear his vision.
“What are you talking about?”
“The police arrested Sir Arthur yesterday afternoon. They believe that it was his gun that killed Captain Starrett. But I believe he’s innocent and I’m determined to prove it.”
“So what does that have to do with me?” His voice rose in pitch with each word. “I didn’t kill anybody!”
“Didn’t you?” I demanded, setting all caution aside. “Then why have you been entreating me for days not to reveal that I saw you that day in front of the photography studio? Why have you been acting so strangely if you have nothing to hide?” He knotted his brow and stared at me in confusion. “If you didn’t kill Henry Starrett, what is your secret, Mr. Reynard? I’ve been keeping a secret I don’t even know.”
Suddenly the man laughed. I took a step back. Did he genuinely find what I said funny or was he unstable and dangerous? I wondered.
“Oh, Miss Davish, I have taken unfair advantage of you, haven’t I?”
“Sir?”
“You’ve done nothing but show kindness, bravery, and discretion toward me and my family and how do we repay you? With behavior that I believe tests even your patience, I’m ashamed to say.” I still had no idea what he was talking about. If he only knew how patience was not one of my virtues and I’ve only developed a professional veneer of it.
“I’m sorry to say, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Reynard.” He pointed to the table with the cigar boxes on them.
“Come over here, Miss Davish. I’d like to show you something.” I took a few tentative steps toward the table and saw that every one of the boxes was open, revealing the underside of the lid. Each bore a different variation of a portrait of General Cornelius Starrett. “This, my fair secretary, is my secret.”
“
Cigar boxes?”
“Not boxes, Miss Davish, but what’s in them, cigars, a new commemorative cigar,” he said. “It’s for Christmas. With everything that’s happened, I’ve had to work almost every waking hour for the past few days to be able to present them to General Starrett on Sunday.”
“So all this secrecy and furtiveness was to be able to surprise the general with a cigar made in his honor?” Frederick nodded.
“Pathetic, I know, but you have no idea how difficult secrets are to keep.” Ah, how wrong he was, I thought. “I’ve had to lie to my wife, the general, everyone. I’ve been working on this for months. I was almost done, the charade was almost over, when you saw me on Main Street that day. I panicked. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, mentally crossing another viable suspect off my list. Although I was genuinely relieved that this man was as I had originally thought him, kind and sincere, it was difficult not to feel the weight of another defeat. Sir Arthur wasn’t any closer to getting out of jail than when I started.
“But General Starrett said you retrieved something from the library yesterday morning, around six thirty?”
“I woke him up? Too bad. But no, Miss Davish, it wasn’t six thirty, it was five thirty. The general’s eyesight isn’t strong.”
“You have workers here who saw you yesterday morning?”
“I can see why you’d be suspicious of me, Miss Davish,” he said sadly, “but I assure you several people will be able to verify that I was here at the time of Henry’s death. Miss Haversham for one.” He pointed in the direction that his colleague Verner had left. “Verner for another. Everyone’s been commendable, working early and late to make this happen.”
“But then where did the olive tree leaves come from?” Frederick shook his head. “Probably from one of my boutonnieres or corsages. It’s Christmastime. I’ve tucked the leaves into almost every one I’ve made.”
“Olive branch means peace,” I said, remembering the language of flowers.
“Yes, appropriate, don’t you think?” I had to agree, though I wasn’t blind to the irony that some of the leaves had lain next to a murdered man.
Anything But Civil Page 23
