Josiah's Treasure

by Nancy Herriman

  “I might not mind if he fell in love with me, however. He might part with enough money to pay some of my bills.” Sarah laughed softly, at both her recent compulsion to frequently talk to herself and at the thought Daniel Cady might have actually meant his tossed-off comment to invest in the studio. She may as well believe in fairy tales.

  Sarah stowed the photograph in the desk and fitted the ledger into its spot next to Josiah’s long, flat mahogany box. It would be wonderful if it contained a stockpile of money and resolved her problems—although, she thought cynically, its contents would probably belong to Daniel Cady too. It didn’t matter; Josiah always said the box merely contained old papers he hadn’t bothered to keep in his safe. Its key was missing, and she’d never had the heart to break it open. She’d leave that to Daniel too.

  Downstairs, Mrs. McGinnis was flicking a feather duster across the parlor room furniture.

  “Miss Sarah, I didna ken you were up already!” the housekeeper declared when she spotted her descending the stairs. “The sun’s barely over the horizon.”

  “You didn’t put enough laudanum in my tea to get me to sleep that late,” Sarah said, smiling. “I wanted to go through the accounts. The money Mr. Winston promised me at Josiah’s funeral has yet to put in an appearance. Hopefully Mr. Grant has sold my painting. I could use the cash and soon.”

  Mrs. McGinnis tutted and glanced over Sarah’s shoulder at the front door. “Come into the kitchen and have a bite to eat, then. I’ll have some hot coffee for you in a twinkling.”

  “You can serve it in the dining room. I haven’t opened yesterday’s mail or finished reading the newspaper. I’m more comfortable at the table.”

  The housekeeper huffed what sounded like an exasperated sigh. “If you wish.”

  Sarah watched her rush off. “She’s in a strange mood this morning, Rufus.”

  The tabby, fixated on something beyond the front door, acknowledged Sarah’s comment with the merest flick of an ear.

  “Do you see Ah Mong out there?” Sarah peered through the cut-glass pane, spotting a patch of blue that had to be the boy’s tunic. Shooing Rufus aside, Sarah opened the door. “Did you have a good night, Ah Mong? You should come in and have some breakfast.”

  “The house is safe, Miss Sarah.”

  “I see that. Thank you.”

  He nodded and handed her one of their quilts, the lemon-and-cardinal star-patterned one from the spare bedroom, and a coffee cup.

  “I didn’t know you’d taken to drinking coffee, Ah Mong.”

  “I do not drink coffee. Mr. Cady left the quilt and the cup. I need to return them to you.”

  The cup was still warm, and she could smell the lingering aroma of fresh coffee rising off the china bowl. Sarah stared down at it stupidly, before lifting her head to blink at Ah Mong. “Mr. Cady? What are you talking about?”

  The boy buried his arms within the sleeves of his tunic. He looked as though he wished the rest of him could hide there too. “I should not have told you.”

  “You must tell me, Ah Mong. I insist.”

  “He stayed here last night. With me. More eyes.”

  “He did, did he?” After she’d told Daniel not to. The nerve of the man. “Apparently my feelings on this weren’t to be consulted.” Which would also explain Mrs. McGinnis’s earlier peculiar behavior; the cup of coffee hadn’t miraculously appeared on its own.

  Sarah flounced out onto the porch and scanned the street. There, almost at the corner, trudged a familiar figure barely visible in the morning mist. Daniel, waving a jaunty hello to the milkman trundling down the road in his wagon. If he’d spotted Daniel lolling on the front porch, he would have delivered to Mrs. Brentwood, along with her morning milk, the best gossip yet.

  “Why doesn’t he listen?” Sarah asked, though Ah Mong had escaped into the house and couldn’t hear her question.

  She leaned against the porch railing, the cup and blanket held close, and watched the swirl of the fog enclose Daniel, curlicues of white marking his passage.

  “You make me worry for you, Miss Whittier.”

  “For me? Or for the contents of the house?”

  “You.”

  Sarah lifted the quilt to her face, imagining she could breathe in the remnants of Daniel’s lime shaving lotion on its soft cotton, and felt a warm thrill move through her. He was the most confusing, most obstinate man she’d ever met. Only slightly more so than his father.

  She sighed. Maybe she was falling in love with him.

  Maybe she was destined to understand all there was to know about the look in Grace Cady’s eyes.

  The sign painted on the stone lintel above the Kearny Street shop door simply declared the owner’s name—A. H. Grant’s. It took a bit of searching to locate all the smaller signs along the doorframe advertising furniture, clocks, and other decorative arts for sale to the “discerning.” It wasn’t a store Daniel would normally notice, except for what was on display in one of its two windows.

  That morning, he’d chosen a different way to his hotel from Sarah’s house. There was a restaurant he’d been wanting to try and had stopped in for a lengthy breakfast before strolling back to the Occidental, enjoying the city, feeling rather cheerful. He was whistling what he could recall of Cora’s drinking song and almost walked right past Mr. A. H. Grant’s establishment without a second glance. Its narrow frontage was tucked among the numerous stores with their unfurled awnings that lined the sidewalk, just about lost beneath the massive bow window-fronted buildings. Daniel hadn’t missed the shop, though.

  Nor the painting of Seal Rocks.

  It was propped on a wood stand between a red table lamp dripping with beaded glass fringe and a gaudy pair of green-and-gold vases painted with scenes of shepherds. Not the sort of place he’d expect her to be offering one of her best works for sale, and a good indication that she was in need of money. Those backers must not be coming through for her, after all.

  Daniel entered the shop. The proprietor bolted from behind a waist-high counter and waded through a sea of overstuffed furniture and teetering side tables to greet him.

  “May I help you?” His narrow shoulders tilted forward as though he wanted to pounce but had to restrain himself.

  “I’m interested in that painting on display in the window,” Daniel said.

  Mr. Grant’s gaze darted toward the object in question. “A very fine piece. Done by one of San Francisco’s finest artists.”

  “How much are you asking for it?” He could keep the water-color for himself or give it back to Sarah, it didn’t much matter. Maybe his sisters would like it, a memento of a visit to a place they would possibly never see and certainly never understand what it had come to mean to him. He just didn’t want anyone else to own it. Not that painting.

  The man peered at Daniel through his glasses, making a quick assessment of the wear in his coat and the possibility Daniel had any ready cash.

  “Thirty-five,” Mr. Grant said, his voice tight with the anticipation that Daniel would promptly leave without the painting.

  It was probably worth more, but as it was, thirty-five dollars would consume most of the money Daniel had set aside for a train ticket back to Chicago. “I’ll trade you my pocket watch for the painting.”

  Mr. Grant recoiled. “This is not a pawnshop, sir.”

  “Then tell me where there is one.” He could pay off the pawnshop loan once Josiah’s estate was settled. Buy any number of watches. And paintings. “I have a personal interest in that painting, and I don’t want to wait for money to be wired from my bank back home in order to get it.”

  “There’s a pawnshop five doors down.” The shopkeeper pointed to his right. “Reputable fellow. He’ll give you a fair deal.”

  Daniel remembered a comment Minnie had made. “What about a good place to buy dolls?” He might have money to spare, if the pawnshop dealer was as fair as Mr. Grant claimed.

  The proprietor’s brows lifted. “You have very eclectic taste, sir.” />
  “They’re for my sisters back in Chicago.”

  “There’s a store on Market Street that has a nice selection.”

  “Thank you.” Daniel headed for the door. “Don’t sell that painting before I’m back.”

  “And here I was expecting Leland Stanford any minute to snatch it up,” Mr. Grant replied, snickering over what sounded like a private joke.

  Eighteen

  “We’ve caught the culprit, Miss Whittier.” Officer Hanson hulked by the front door, his domed police hat tucked under one arm, a self-congratulatory grin on his broad face. “I told you we would.”

  Sarah glanced over at Mrs. McGinnis, whose forehead crinkled with disbelief. “That was very quick, Officer.” It was not even ten in the morning yet, barely twenty-four hours since she had made her report to the policeman.

  His chest swelled. “Our men are the best in the city, miss.”

  “You’re certain you have the right fellow?” Sarah asked.

  “Fits your description to a T.” With his empty hand, he located his wad of note papers in his coat pocket and consulted them. “‘Hairy brute, tall, disheveled appearance.’”

  “It’s not a very specific description.”

  “This man’s worked Nob Hill for the past several months, off and on, Miss Whittier.” The notes were reinstalled in its pocket. “His modus operandi is the same each time—check a residence’s locks at odd times of the day, when busy folk might be at work downtown or enjoying an evening’s entertainment, return the next night or so with a weapon, and rummage through the first room he comes to. Threaten anyone who discovers him and run off with what he can.”

  “They just might have him, Miss Sarah,” said Mrs. McGinnis. Officer Hanson peered down the length of his bulbous nose. “We most certainly do.” He nodded, rubbed a hand across his crop of short-trimmed hair and restored his hat to his head. “If you need any further police assistance, you know where to contact us.”

  With a final crisp wave, he clomped down the steps.

  “Thank the good Lord.” Mrs. McGinnis smiled after she shut the door behind him. “We can rest soundly now, and you can return that pistol to Mrs. Brentwood.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah caught sight of the quilt folded on a chair in the parlor and lifted a knowing eyebrow. “And Mr. Cady will no longer have to secretly sleep on our porch and be served coffee in the morning.”

  For the first time Sarah could recall, Mrs. McGinnis blushed. “I believe I’ve soup on the boil in the kitchen.”

  “They’ve arrested old Bill Cobb.” Frank flopped into the chair and jutted out his legs. The heels of his filthy boots scraped across the rag rug, leaving behind a trail of mud and street muck. He didn’t care; she’d be the one to have to clean it up later.

  He chuckled and scratched at the bandage patching the wound in his arm. “As if Cobb has the nerve to break into a house with folks inside it. He’s too white-livered. If he’d caught sight of that woman with her shiny pistol, he’d have wet his pants and gone running.” He twisted in the parlor chair, the horsehair stuffing springing out of its seams, to stare at her. “Ain’t that right, Annie? Eh? He’s a white-livered coward.”

  “That’s right, Frank,” she replied, mustering a smile and a nod.

  She was tired—tired, tired, tired—of the strain to pretend she agreed with him. Supported him. Once, she had loved Frank. He had been so strong. Her protector. Never gonna let anyone touch a hair on your head, Annie girl. His Annie girl. The only sweet nickname she’d ever been given.

  She had been uncharacteristically naive to confuse a tossed-off endearment for real love.

  Exhaling, he settled deeper into the chair, the wood frame creaking beneath him. “Not like me. I’m no coward. If she hadn’t winged me, I’da demanded she cough up the treasure. I got that cudgel and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  The hairs stood on Anne’s arms, and she folded her shawl close. Thank heavens Miss Whittier had obtained a gun and proved to be a better shot than Anne would have guessed. Not that she wanted Frank hurt, but when presented with a choice between Miss Whittier’s safety and a gouge in his tough hide . . . I would choose Miss Whittier every time. She hadn’t thought she would come to esteem Miss Whittier as much as she did, when Frank had first concocted his plans.

  “What are you frowning about? Scared I would’ve hurt your precious Miss Whittier?” His eyes narrowed to treacherous slits. “Whose side you on, Annie girl, eh?”

  Anne swallowed. “Yours, Frank.”

  “You’d better say that.”

  She danced on a precipice. Every day. One careless move, and she’d fall into the abyss. “You want lunch? Something to drink? There’s fresh ale from the saloon.”

  He grunted an affirmative. His gaze followed her as she skirted the chair and bent to yank off his boots. He reeked of manure and sweat; the stink no longer made her cringe.

  “I’m not done with her, Annie girl,” he said, twining around his finger a lock of hair escaped from her bun. He pulled, forcing her to look up at him. “I aim to get Cady’s treasure before someone else does, and that’s where you come in.”

  Her neck craning awkwardly, she peered at him. She should never have told Frank about Josiah Cady, Miss Whittier’s benefactor, and his Black Hills gold. “Haven’t I helped enough already, Frank?”

  “Enough?” he mocked, his grip on her hair tightening. “You’re in her house all the time, but you still haven’t found out where old Cady’s hidey-hole is. Time that changes. And when you do find out, you’re gonna tell me and we’re both gonna break in and take the gold from her.”

  “I can’t do that.” She twisted her head, hair ripping from her scalp. “I can’t steal from Miss Whittier. Not after everything she’s done for me. I was wrong ever to think I could.”

  “She hasn’t done anything for you. I’m the one who’s done everything for you. Given you shelter. Protected you from your old man. You don’t want to go back to him, do you?”

  “No.” Never. She had nowhere to go. Which was why she had stayed with a man who no longer remembered how to be kind. But she could not hurt Miss Whittier. There were lines even she would not cross. “I don’t want to go back to my father, Frank. You’re right.”

  “About time you realized that.” Frank flicked the broken strands of her hair off his fingers. “So, you’ll help me.”

  She grabbed his muddy boots and pretended not to hear. “I’ll get you lunch, Frank.” Clenching her jaw, Anne strode into the kitchen, leaving him to sputter his anger.

  Jesus, if You truly exist, show me the way out.

  Because she was finished with helping Frank Burke.

  It was time to help herself.

  “After another incident with this intruder, Sarah, there is only one thing to be done.” Lottie paced across the parlor floor, the swish of her bustle threatening to dislodge a potted fern and crystal ashtray from the armchair side table. “You must move to our house for your safety.”

  Sarah plucked from her mouth the pencil she’d been using to jot notes. “Your mother did not agree to that, I’m sure.” Though Mrs. Samuelson supported her art studio, she had always been reserved when it came to Sarah. A woman with a sketchy past might make a nice charity case, but she was not to be boarded in one’s guest bedroom.

  “Well . . .” Lottie’s brows puckered, a momentary concession that the “one thing to be done” was not universally accepted in the Samuelson household. “Papa agreed.”

  “I can’t leave this house unguarded, an open invitation to this burglar and anyone else with a mind to pilfer the contents.” Sarah returned to the inventory she’d been conducting before Lottie interrupted. The list of pictures available to sell wasn’t long enough. The empty spaces on the parlor wall where the paintings she’d sold to Mr. Grant once hung were as glaring as coffee stains on a white tablecloth. There’d be more spaces soon if Mr. Winston continued to evade his commitment. “Besides, Officer Hanson was very confident th
is morning that they have caught the culprit. You don’t need to worry.”

  “I have lived in San Francisco most of my life, Sarah. When it comes to the police and their assurances, I need to worry. But I see you insist on being stubborn, so I will relent. For now.”

  Sarah smiled at her. “You are a dear and I love you.”

  “I have more news,” Lottie said as she peered over Sarah’s shoulder, clucking about the itemized tally in Sarah’s hands: one watercolor of the conservatory at Golden Gate Park; a charcoal sketch of a schooner in the docks; two small oils of the rose garden. Seagulls at the wharf. A rainy day along Market Street. All of them painted when Sarah had enjoyed more time to pursue her art and, in retrospect, a great deal fewer concerns. “At least you have not included your portrait of Mr. Cady.”

  “Josiah goes with me wherever I may end up.” Sarah glanced at the painting in the corner, overdraped by its black crape. She would never leave him behind. “Back to your news. What is it?”

  Lottie’s gaze was steady and very serious; there would be no liking the direction this conversation was headed. “We had Mr. Winston for company yesterday. He and his wife came for tea and managed to stay all the way through supper. He wanted to talk to Papa about the studio.”

  “He hasn’t deposited his funds into my account as we’d ar-ranged.” Sarah folded shut her notebook. “I take it I won’t be happy to find out why.”

  “Mr. Winston has heard that, in two weeks, a real estate agent intends to put this house up for auction.”

  “He doesn’t even own it yet!” She laughed, but not because she felt an ounce of humor. “He slept on my porch like some guardian angel and all the while intends to sell the house the minute he has possession of it. And it’s clear he presumes he’s going to get possession of it. Leaving me on the curb.”

  Lottie screwed up her face. “Are we talking about Daniel Cady sleeping on your porch?”