“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Brentwood.” Sarah offered a tight smile. She had opened the door to the woman’s persistent knocking before looking through the glass to check who it was, expecting that it might be Ah Mong himself asking after her or perhaps the police come back to check on them. She would be more careful next time. “But really, it isn’t necessary—”
“‘Be smart and keep your wits about you,’ I said,” Mrs. Brentwood interrupted. “But he has the oddest way of looking at a body that I can never tell if he’s understood me or not.” She leaned close to whisper, as if her Chinese servant had the ability to hear through the walls of Sarah’s house. “That brother of his is even more peculiar.”
“I don’t know why you keep Ah Mong on if you’re bothered by him, Mrs. Brentwood,” Sarah said, her voice edged with irritation.
“Because he’s so much cheaper than an Irish girl, of course!” Mrs. Brentwood’s close-set eyes peered down the expanse of her lengthy nose. “Mr. Cady did teach you about household finances and such affairs, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“He always was practical and most careful about expenditures.” Her neighbor’s gaze swept the room much as Daniel Cady’s had, resting on the finest pieces of furniture, the rug on the floor, and the gilded mantel clock in particular. “Never profligate with his money. Procured items of taste, but never extravagant. In fact, rather a miser, if the stories about his treasure are—” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry, my dear. I spoke out of turn.”
“‘Treasure,’ Mrs. Brentwood?”
Mrs. Brentwood waved her hands as though Sarah was an annoying insect she was attempting to sweep away. “Silliness. It’s nothing, Miss Whittier. Truly. I told Robert I’d never breathe a word.”
A sick feeling burrowed into Sarah’s stomach. “You’ll have to apologize to your husband, then, because you have.”
“You won’t tell him I told you, will you?” Her brow pinched, deepening the wrinkles across her forehead. “He would be upset. I wouldn’t have even thought of that silly rumor if not for your unfortunate intruder earlier today. Please don’t tell Robert.”
“What treasure did Josiah supposedly possess that Mr. Brentwood doesn’t want spoken of?” And why had Josiah never mentioned such dreadful rumors?
She dropped her voice again. “Gold, Miss Whittier. From the Black Hills.”
Relieved, Sarah shook her head and smiled. “I know about that gold. It was his share from his mining operation, but Josiah always said he spent most of it on this house, and I know what was in his bank accounts. Believe me, the money he left behind is a nice sum but no treasure. And if he had hidden any cash or gold nuggets on this property, he would’ve told me.”
“Ah, yes. He would have.” Mrs. Brentwood nodded. “That’s good to hear, because it’s these sorts of rumors that encourage the criminal element.”
The sick feeling returned. “You believe the story of a treasure is why someone was sneaking around my backyard and came onto the kitchen stairs?”
“Sadly, I do.”
“But why today? This house has been here for years and no one has attempted to break in before. Undoubtedly the man was simply looking for a handout.”
“A beggar? You can’t be as naive as that, Miss Whittier.” Mrs. Brentwood sniffed indignantly. “And as for why this creature might have chosen today to lurk about . . . well, I certainly don’t claim to understand the workings of the criminal mind.”
Sarah pressed her lips together. She had managed to convince herself that their intruder had been harmless, but Mrs. Brentwood had succeeded in resurrecting her worry.
“I am tired from all the excitement, Mrs. Brentwood. Thank you for telling Ah Mong to watch out for me, though; his vigilance is comforting.”
Mrs. Brentwood appeared mollified and let Sarah show her to the door. “He has always watched out for you, my dear. Mr. Cady asked him to years ago, right about the time Josiah’s health went into serious decline.”
Sarah’s heart contracted. Heavens, Josiah, how can you still be caring for me from beyond the grave? And what had she ever done to warrant such fatherly affection? Especially from a man who must have suspected how far from perfect, how far from deserving she’d been.
“My thanks, anyway.”
Mrs. Brentwood dropped a dry kiss on Sarah’s cheek. “If you require further peace of mind, you could always borrow my Remington vest pocket pistol.”
“I’ll keep one of the kitchen knives close at hand,” she replied, only partly joking.
Sarah saw the woman out. Closing the door behind her, Sarah leaned against the wood and stared up the turn of the staircase. Rufus mewled from his post on the landing, returned to his spot after concluding the ruckus had settled down.
“Do you believe such silliness as a treasure, Rufus?”
He flicked his crooked tail—not much of an answer. Sarah released a breath. Where would Josiah have hidden valuables? She knew the combination to his wall safe, and there were only legal documents and some letters inside it. She could search his bedroom. It had been months since she’d last gone into it. Months since she’d looked through any of his personal possessions, and at the time, it had only been a cursory examination. She simply hadn’t had the emotional strength to do more.
Sarah pushed away from the door with only a passing thought for the meal gone cold in the parlor. Because the time had come to do more than a superficial perusal.
After two hours of rummaging through Josiah’s belongings, Sarah sighed and sat back on her heels. She had searched his wardrobe and discovered nothing but clothes. She’d hunted beneath the bed and only found boxes holding shoes. Now the contents of numerous drawers lay scattered on the bedroom rug, and not a single piece had anything to do with treasure. There were a couple of IOUs, a few folded bank notes, underclothes and socks and handkerchiefs, a nice pair of jet-and-gold cuff links and another set in silver, a tortoiseshell comb and brush. Several good cotton sleeping shirts. A quick ink sketch Sarah had done of Mrs. McGinnis dozing by the stove. That item had made Sarah stop her search and cry.
But nothing unusual. In fact, all the typical property of a man. Sarah refolded everything and returned Josiah’s things to the drawers.
“I should not have listened to Mrs. Brentwood, Josiah.” Gently, she placed the shirts in the bottom drawer, smoothing them flat with her palm, the yellowing cotton soft under her skin. “All that woman does is collect gossip for redistribution later. I should know better than to listen to her silliness and let her worry me.”
She held on to the sketch—Daniel Cady might eventually succeed in claiming the contents of Josiah’s house, but her drawings were hers to keep—and slipped out of the room, quietly closing the door. It was time for Mrs. McGinnis to pack the contents; Sarah had held on to the memories long enough.
Nine
“He’s got a treasure hidden up there, Mr. Cady, sir.” The reception lounge server’s eyes shone at the prospect. That and the fact Daniel now owed him two more dollars for his information. “Just like you thought.”
“A treasure?” Daniel glanced about the dining room. Restless, he’d gotten up early for breakfast, never really having gone to sleep. As a result, the room was mostly empty, the nearest other diners a good thirty feet distant. Out of earshot.
“Yep! Exactly!” The boy—Red was his name, if Daniel recalled correctly—flashed a grin. “Cook says you were right and there’s stories on the street about your Mr. Josiah Cady and his treasure.”
“You didn’t promise Cook I’d give him money for telling you this, did you?” The man might be making up a story just to get some cash out of Daniel.
The server looked hurt. “Didn’t have to. Cook was more’n happy to talk all about it.”
Daniel tapped his fork, the tines clinking against the china plate. His suspicions—he’d been ready to dismiss them, frankly—might be true, after all. If these stories were right, Josiah had hidden valuables, whic
h would explain where the rest of his money had gone. It would also make Miss Whittier a confirmed liar.
Disappointment weighed heavily. After yesterday’s visit to the shop, he had begun to want to believe the best of her. He didn’t want to be shown she was as bad as Josiah, full of dreams, willing to sacrifice others—and the truth—in order to attain them.
When will I learn?
“What sort of treasure?” Daniel asked, and popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. Too bad he couldn’t really taste the meat anymore, because it had been good.
The lad looked left and right, bent down, and whispered, “Gold nuggets.”
Nuggets. What else would it be? Daniel waved his empty fork at the boy, urging him to tell more.
“Might be better if I sat, Mr. Cady.”
“Then sit.”
After a grand smile at the other waiters in the room, Red scraped back the chair and sat. “A few days back—sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, Mr. Cady, but I didn’t have to work again ’til today—I went and talked to Cook like I said I would. He told me his cousin knows some fellow who worked on the Cady house last year. It seems Josiah Cady asked him to install a secret compartment.”
“To hold the nuggets.”
“Well, what else? ’Course!” He leaned over his elbows propped on the table. “Cook said any of the folks who got rich in the gold fields have ’em. For hiding their diggings or their money. Guess they don’t trust banks or somethin’.”
“Why wait until last year to have this compartment built? I would think, if he wanted to hide his diggings, he would’ve had it installed right away.” He was thinking aloud and didn’t expect the server to have an answer to his questions.
“Mebbe he was scared of being robbed all of a sudden. Been some trouble around Nob Hill these past coupla years. Or mebbe he knew he was gonna pass on and decided . . .” Spots of red blushed the waiter’s neck. “Sorry to mention his passing, Mr. Cady. No disrespect meant.”
“None taken.” Daniel’s head started to throb in rhythm to the beating of his heart. Hidden treasure. Josiah had to have told her about it. “How many folks know about Josiah Cady’s stash of nuggets, do you think?”
“The fellow who did the work. Cook. His cousin.” The man scrunched up his face. “And me. ’Course, you too.”
And possibly the rest of San Francisco, once Daniel had begun to make inquiries. A story this good wouldn’t take long to spread. “Did you learn anything about Sarah Whittier?”
“Not much asides from her showing up a few years back like a bolt outta the blue. But if you want me to keep askin’ . . .” He waggled his brows suggestively.
“Thanks, but no.” Daniel reached into his coat pocket for his coin purse. He tossed two Morgan silver dollars—the balance of the money he had promised the server—onto the table. The boy snatched up the coins as quickly as a toad lapping up a fly. “I’ll figure out that mystery on my own.”
“So you’re Daniel Cady.”
The housekeeper’s gaze flicked over Daniel, leaping from head to toe and all points in between, then slowed to an unyielding halt upon his face. Does she think I resemble Josiah? Would it bother me if she did?
“Miss Whittier’s out back painting with one of the lasses until they’re set to go on their excursion.”
Sarah was busy and Daniel nearly apologized for the interruption until he remembered the reason he was there. Any notion to be polite snuffed out. “I need to talk to her.”
His tone didn’t leave much doubt that he was not going to leave without doing so. Mrs. McGinnis harrumphed. “I suppose you can come through the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
The kitchen was tidy, if cramped, certainly much smaller than the massive whitewashed kitchen at the Hunts' mansion. Efficient and clean, the space smelled of freshly baked cookies. The Hunt kitchen had never smelled of something as simple and unpretentious as cookies. Mrs. McGinnis pushed open the rear door and Daniel stepped through, into the green of a garden and the hush of a world set apart from the grime and dust of the street.
He paused on the porch. Her back to him, Sarah hadn’t heard him arrive. She sat with the red-haired young woman from the shop—the one who enjoyed singing—their chairs facing the corner of the garden so the sun would be at their backs. An easel was propped before them, and just beyond, a fountain gurgled, as civilized a scene as any in the finest neighborhoods of Chicago. Roses and jasmine tumbled off the wall, scenting the air, and heavy-headed lilies crowded the wood fence. They had lilies at Hunt House, planted alongside a bed of marguerite daisies. His grandmother’s gardener had planted them in honor of his sisters’ births. Back when Hunts still tolerated Cadys. Before the scandal. Before the heartache.
Blast you, Josiah, for growing them here, as if you had spared a thought for the two little girls you’d left behind before they could talk well enough to call you back. As if you had cared.
Sarah shifted in her wicker chair to clean off her paintbrush and spotted him. “Mr. Cady?”
Cora peeked over her shoulder and grinned. “Good morning, Mr. Cady! Are you coming with us today?”
“He’s not here for that, Cora,” Sarah said, frowning at him. Daniel wondered if she’d figured out why he was there. She didn’t let on, though. “Did you have more questions about the studio?”
“I need to talk to you.” He twisted the brim of his hat in his hands and descended onto the gravel path that wound between beds of kitchen herbs and marigolds. He shot a glance at Cora. “In private.”
“Can it wait a few minutes? I was just finishing my lesson with Cora. She’s missed so many recently and the weather is so fine, I thought I’d take advantage of the opportunity.”
She turned back to the easel and the half-finished painting without waiting for an answer.
“Cora is our best watercolorist. I expect her work to sell very well. We already have interested clients.” Sarah swished the paintbrush in the cup of water, turning it an even murkier shade of gray. Drying the bristles on a cloth, she dipped into the dark orange paint and began applying shading. Her brush flowed across the paper with practiced ease, graceful as a dance. “See, Cora, this is the best way to accomplish shadows on leaves.”
“It really can’t wait, Miss Whittier,” said Daniel.
Sarah tucked in her chin and lowered her brush. “Please go into the house, Cora. The others should be arriving soon, anyway. If you hurry, you might catch Mrs. McGinnis pulling fresh cookies from the oven.”
Cora rose and strolled down the garden pathway, pausing at Daniel’s side. “You should come to our picnic today, Mr. Cady. You’d have lots of fun.”
“I was not invited to a picnic, Miss Gallagher.”
“‘Miss Gallagher’!” The girl giggled. “How high and mighty! You should call me Cora.”
“Cora, please leave us,” said Sarah.
Pouting, Cora dragged herself up the steps and into the house.
“She really is a very talented artist, even if her manners need polishing.” Sarah dropped the brushes into the cup and covered the paint receptacles. She stripped off her coarse cotton apron and laid it on Cora’s empty chair. Uncharacteristically uncomfortable looking, she picked at a fleck of blue paint on one of her knuckles. “I suppose you’ve come to let me know your identification has arrived, and the court date has been set.”
“Not even the fastest express train could get my documents here already, Miss Whittier.”
“That’s true.” Slowly, she stood and faced him. “Why are you here then? A casual stroll didn’t bring you all the way to Nob Hill.”
He ran the brim of his hat through his fingers. He’d wear down the nap if he continued the habit. “I’m here because I want you to tell me about Josiah’s treasure.”
She paled. “Not you too.”
“So there is one.” He suddenly felt sick. “I’ll tell my lawyer you’re willing to admit to hiding valuables. He’ll inform Judge Doran—”
“There is n
o treasure, Mr. Cady,” she said firmly.
“I have been told by a reputable source”—a bit of a stretch—“that a hidden compartment was installed in this house for the purpose of hiding gold nuggets.”
“Do I look as though I’ve been enjoying a secret hoard of gold, Mr. Cady?” Sarah gestured at her dress, a bland green check that looked rehemmed and in worse shape than his travel-worn coat. “I own four outfits, not a one of which is remotely new. Mrs. McGinnis and I eat simply and entertain never. Every spare penny I have has gone into my girls and my business.”
“Then explain the story I’ve heard.”
“I can’t.” She lifted her chin. A strand of hair had come loose from the knot at her neck, and it trembled alongside her throat. “But it is just a rumor. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and tell your lawyer to have someone tear this house apart from cellar to attic. He won’t find a treasure because there isn’t one. Furthermore, you may tell your ‘reputable source’ that Josiah installed a wall safe last fall to hold legal papers and some money after a spate of robberies in the neighborhood. Hardly a secret compartment or a hoard of gold.”
Sarah Whittier was either a crack bluffer or telling the truth. “Before, you said, ‘Not you too.’ What did you mean by that?”
Sarah pinched her lips between her teeth. “A man attempted to break in to the house while I was at the shop yesterday. Fortunately, Mrs. McGinnis scared him off. My neighbor, who knew about this rumor, seems to think this fellow must have heard it also. I’m apparently the last person in San Francisco to know.”
“Josiah might have decided not to tell you—”
“Josiah would have told me,” she snapped.
“Did he tell you about me?”
She couldn’t answer that and not condemn the man as a liar.
Sarah swallowed and regrouped. “I do find it rather strange that within a day of some man poking around my property, you’ve come looking for these rumored hidden nuggets too.”
Josiah's Treasure Page 9
