“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” said Barbara. “You know, you’ve taken an unnatural interest in solving this murder, Cousin.”
“Miss Barbara!” chided Addie.
“And I still want to leave San Francisco. It’s not safe here,” she added and returned to her glum scrutiny of the passing buildings.
Addie lifted her eyebrows and Celia sighed. The rest of the journey passed in frosty silence.
As the carriage horse labored up the steep incline of Vallejo, Addie squinted out the hack window, her attention fixed ahead of them. “Is that Mr. Smith at the house?”
Celia craned her neck to peer around Addie. A man in a bowler hat and tweed overcoat sat on their porch, a cheap cigarillo clamped between his teeth.
He is here today of all days.
“Maybe he’s found your husband, Cousin,” said Barbara, who fixed her gaze on Celia. She is watching my reaction, and I hope she cannot read my feelings on my face. For dread was an improper response, even though Barbara had no tender feelings for the man who’d never been particularly kind to her. Her cousin would likely be content if Patrick Davies never returned.
Addie was frowning. “Ma’am, I ken that Mr. Smith came well recommended by Mr. Walford’s lawyer, but I canna say I like the look of him.”
“He makes his living investigating, Addie,” said Celia. “I would expect all such men look a trifle . . . shabby.”
When the hired carriage halted on the street below, Mr. Smith stubbed out his cigarillo on the stone step and stood.
“Why, there you is, Mrs. Davies,” he called out in his booming voice, which echoed off the walls of the Cascarinos’ house, drawing the attention of a neighbor tossing dirty water onto the street. “That Irish boy of your’n said you’d be back soon from your funeral.” He took in her mourning dress. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Owen was here?” Celia asked, grateful to know he was still all right.
Celia climbed down behind Barbara, who hobbled up the steps. Mr. Smith was gentlemanly enough to doff his hat as she passed. Addie, Li Sha’s carpetbag in her arms, harrumphed and unlocked the front door, hustling Barbara inside. The door shut and moments later the blinds at the parlor window cranked open, her housekeeper peeping through.
“The scamp was here just a second ago,” said Mr. Smith, who made a show of looking around him. His clothes wafted the smell of cigarillo smoke.
“Do you have news?” Celia asked.
“I do, ma’am,” he said, his grin showing tobacco-stained teeth. “But I’m thinkin’ . . .” He scratched his chin, then held out his hand.
She reached into her reticule and dropped coins into the man’s grimy fist. “Your fee.” Another five dollars gone.
The money vanished into an inner pocket of his wool coat, so quickly that the glint of silver in his palm might have been a mirage. “The news?” she asked.
“A steamer from Mexico let in at the Folsom Street wharf this afternoon. Showed around that photograph you give me.” Mr. Smith patted the general vicinity of his coat where the coins had gone. She had given Mr. Smith a locket containing a daguerreotype of Patrick, a gift from her husband marking their engagement.
“One of those Jack Tars said he thought he recognized the fella,” Mr. Smith was saying. “Said he was down in Mazatlán, bummin’ around the docks, lookin’ for work.”
That sounded like her husband. “Then Patrick is alive?”
“Well, here’s the rub. The fella who might be your husband got hisself killed in a knife fight at a saloon.”
Celia released the breath she’d been holding. “I need to be certain, Mr. Smith. I cannot continue to live with the doubt.”
“I could be more certain the fella was Mr. Davies with more money. Because I’m thinkin’ five dollars ain’t enough for all the inquirin’ I’ve been doin’. My time’s valuable—”
“If that is the case, I no longer require your services,” said Celia, making to go around him. “I will speak to my late uncle’s lawyer about finding another man who is willing to make inquiries for the fee we agreed upon.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, ma’am!” Mr. Smith raised his hands in protest. His fingernails were filthy. “No need to tear round like that.”
“Five dollars,” she insisted.
“Ma’am,” he groaned.
“I’m back!” called Owen, drawing Celia’s attention. He strolled up the street, his hands thrust into his pockets, seemingly never in a rush to get anywhere. “You here about my ma and pa, Mr. Smith?”
“Kid, I’m never findin’ your ma and pa,” Mr. Smith replied gruffly. “Why don’t you just move in with Mrs. Davies here? Seems to me she’s got plenty of room for a scrawny boy like you.”
Owen looked over, waiting for Celia to answer, his need for security and his yearning for a family evident in his gaze. But she couldn’t accommodate an unrelated male beneath the same roof as Barbara and leave her cousin’s reputation intact.
“Owen, you know I cannot offer you a home.”
His green eyes showed a hurt so deep it wounded her. He masked the pain by sticking out his chin.
“That’s okay, ma’am. Ain’t got a need for soft beds and warm meals anyhow. Not when I have my own mates now,” he said, and he ran off before the tears could spill down his cheeks.
CHAPTER 11
“The funeral this morning was lovely, Tom,” Celia said. “We honored Li Sha as best we could.”
Facing the wall, her brother-in-law lay curled up on the cell bunk’s torn mattress, a moth-eaten blanket covering his body. Celia pressed her hands against the cold iron grating. The air was fetid, and the sawdust covering the cell floor looked as though it had not been refreshed in weeks, perhaps months. She was glad she had worn her oldest boots.
“More people attended than I expected,” she added.
She didn’t think Tom was asleep, but he was certainly ignoring her. She looked over at the warden, who shrugged, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes.
She turned back to Tom. “I have heard the grand jury is set to meet tomorrow. Perhaps they will decide the evidence against you is not strong enough.”
Still, he did not move a muscle.
“Tom, I need to talk to you about what happened to Li Sha. Please do not ignore me.”
Suddenly he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and lurched over to the cell door. “Are you expectin’ me to be grateful for the visit, Celia? ’Tis your fault I’m in here!”
He slapped a palm against the grate, and she jumped away.
“Hey, Davies!” yelled the warden. “Calm down or you’ll lose dinner privileges!”
Tom backed off.
“I am sorry. I did not mean for you to be arrested,” Celia said quietly. “And I am doing all I can to free you from this place.”
Tom glared at her. Only in the flash of his blue eyes did she see his resemblance to Patrick. Tom had always been scrawnier, more sullen. But he was a hard worker and could be charming and persuasive when he wished. He had succeeded in persuading Patrick to come to America, after all.
“Why would you be botherin’, Celia?” he asked. “You chased off me brother with your coldheartedness, and now you’ll see me hang. Both Davies men got rid of.”
The accusation stung, and she glided her thumb across her wedding band. “Patrick is tragically dead, Tom. We should leave him out of this conversation.”
“But you don’t believe that, now, do you?” Tom peered at her. “That’s why you keep lookin’ for him. Wantin’ to be sure he’s not comin’ back.”
Celia drew in a long breath and returned his stare. They’d had this conversation before, and there was no favorable conclusion to it. “We have received threatening notes, Tom.”
“And what does that have to do with me? Are the coppers goin’ to accuse me of somehow sendin’ them?” H
e waved toward the barred window set high on the brick cell wall. “Maybe I’ve got magical powers and can fly through these bars like a fairy to leave you notes.”
“But that is the point. You could not have left them on my doorstep. It had to be someone else. Someone who either hates Barbara or murdered Li Sha and knows I was her friend. Perhaps this person is afraid I suspect his identity, as well.”
Tom scrubbed hands over his face and exhaled. “All right. What do you want?”
“Tell me about Connor Ahearn,” she said. “I have heard he is a friend of yours.”
“If Connor wanted to warn a body, he’d be more direct than to leave a note.”
“You have never mentioned me to him.”
“No, I’ve not.”
“What about Tessie Lange?” she asked, much as she hated to link the young woman to the crime. “Might she have told Mr. Ahearn about my friendship with Li Sha? She met him through you, didn’t she?”
“You’d have to ask her what she’s said to Connor.”
Celia’s next question would likely inflame Tom. “Do you think Tessie could have killed Li Sha out of jealousy?”
Tom’s gaze turned menacing. He leaned in, close enough that Celia could touch his arm if she extended her fingers. His lips were chapped and he reeked of sweat. “She was with me that evenin’.”
“Perhaps Connor Ahearn killed Li Sha as a favor to Tessie,” Celia continued. Her pulse was racing, which was foolish, because Tom could not hurt her.
“A favor, Celia? Like helpin’ with chores?” he scoffed.
“He is known to despise the Chinese and is organizing a group to possibly burn down their lodgings and businesses, hoping to get the Chinese to leave San Francisco.”
“I won’t be accusin’ either of them, Celia. The coppers have tried to get me to blame Ahearn, but I won’t. I’d merely be swappin’ one hangin’ for another.”
“Tom, at least point the police in the proper direction. If you think Tessie or Mr. Ahearn is responsible, tell me.”
He pushed back from the grate. “I don’t know one way or the other.”
“All right, then,” she said, changing tack. “If not one of them, who else could it be? You must have some suspicion.”
“I think it was one of her customers,” he said. “The ones who used to give her all those gifts she got. She kept a few, you know. Her mementos.”
But would any of Li Sha’s clients have reason to leave threatening notes at Celia’s house? “Did she ever tell you the names of these men?”
His expression clouded. “I don’t know the names. I don’t know anything about them, and I never asked.”
She retreated to the center of the aisle and contemplated him. There were secrets everywhere around her, tantalizingly close yet utterly out of reach.
“I will get you out, Tom,” she vowed.
He grunted another laugh. “Tessie said the same. And I’m not believin’ either of you.”
• • •
“Mrs. Davies was here dropping off that second note they got. She also decided to visit her brother-in-law, sir,” announced Taylor, striding into the detectives’ office, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He handed the note to Nick and glanced over at Briggs, who was munching a doughnut at his desk.
The detective caught Taylor staring. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nothing,” said Taylor, rolling his eyes. He dropped into the chair opposite Nick’s desk. “Guess you missed her.”
“I saw her at the funeral this morning,” answered Nick, shoving a file Eagan had left on his desk—reports on confiscated liquor that had been smuggled in from Canada—into a more distant corner.
“Oh, that’s right,” Taylor repeated, grinning.
“You can stop smirking right now, Taylor,” said Nick. Briggs chuckled at that, and Taylor shot him a glare.
“Did you see this today, sir?” Taylor opened the newspaper and pointed to an article. “A report about the female witness—a close personal friend of the defendant—who has provided an alibi for Tom Davies.”
Nick glanced at the paper. “They’re late. The story was in some of the Sunday editions.” Maybe he should interview the reporters; they seemed to know an awful lot. “Who’s been talking to the newspapers, I wonder?”
He turned to Briggs.
The detective frowned. “You blaming me?”
“You come to spy on me at funerals. Why not?”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” said Briggs. Standing, he brushed crumbs from his fingers and stormed out of the office.
Taylor relaxed into the chair and removed a cigar and matches from an inner coat pocket. The tip flared orange as he lit the cigar. “Does Briggs annoy you like he annoys me?”
There was no need to answer that question.
“Has Tessie Lange been in to the station?” asked Nick.
Taylor tilted his head back and blew out a stream of smoke. “Nope.”
Damn. “I’ll go to Lange’s and get her. I wish she wouldn’t make this so difficult.”
“By the way,” said Taylor, “I checked on Palmer’s whereabouts Monday. He was in Santa Clara County like he said, sir. And he left for San Francisco that Monday morning, like he also said, but didn’t arrive back in town until Tuesday. The man who guards his office door is positive his boss wasn’t in the city before then.”
Mullahey came through the doorway, pushing Connor Ahearn before him.
“Look who I’ve brought in, Mr. Greaves,” said the policeman. “And he let me borrow his nice bowie knife for a bit.”
“A fine afternoon to you, Detective.” Ahearn stopped next to Taylor’s chair. He towered over Nick’s assistant as well as Mullahey, who was shorter by a good head.
“Have a seat, Mr. Ahearn,” ordered Nick. “Thank you, Mullahey. Leave the knife on Taylor’s desk. Mr. Ahearn can collect it on his way out. If he’s leaving today, that is.”
Mullahey nodded and shut the door behind him.
Ahearn kicked the empty chair next to Taylor, moving it away from Nick’s desk, and sat. “What are you wantin’, Detective? I thought we’d talked through everythin’ yesterday.”
Taylor eyed Ahearn’s feet, assessing the size of his boots. “Do you smoke cigars, Mr. Ahearn?”
“Will you be offerin’ me one, Officer?” the man asked, smirking.
“No, just asking.”
“’Tis a pity. I would be enjoyin’ a smoke right now.”
Which meant he did smoke cigars, thought Nick. “Where did you go after I spoke with you at the restaurant, Mr. Ahearn?”
Ahearn’s gaze scanned the room, stopping on Taylor before alighting on Nick. “Home.”
“Not to Celia Davies’ house to leave her a threatening note?”
“Would that be Tom Davies’ sister-in-law?” asked Ahearn. “Why would I be leavin’ her threats, I ask you?”
Nick tucked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve threatened Hubert Lange because he hired Li Sha instead of your sister. Is that what made you and your friends decide to kill the girl? The last straw, eh?”
“Just sad you are, Detective.” Ahearn snorted derisively. “And a pity it is you can’t see there are a plentiful crop of men in this town hidin’ behind their good deeds when their mothers should be prayin’ for their black souls. Maybe you should be lookin’ at them, and not at an honest workin’man like me.”
The door banged open and Eagan strode through, a stack of papers in his hands. “Connor Ahearn?” He threw the stack of papers onto Nick’s desk, generating a breeze. Taylor attempted to disappear into his chair. “What are you doing here?”
Oh, damn, thought Nick, sitting up straight in his chair.
“Havin’ a fine chat with two of your men.”
“Sorry about your fa
ther’s passing,” said Eagan, resting a hand on Ahearn’s shoulder. “Wish I could’ve made the funeral. He was a good man.”
Friends. Eagan and Ahearn were friends. Damn.
“Faith and isn’t that the truth.” Ahearn turned his eyes on Nick and smiled. “So, can I be goin’ now, Detective?”
“Greaves, do you have an explanation for why Mr. Ahearn is in your office?” asked Eagan.
“I’m asking him some questions about a pair of warnings recently left at Mrs. Davies’ house,” said Nick.
“I’ve known Connor since he was in short pants, Detective,” replied Eagan, a muscle twitching on his jaw. “He wouldn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Then he won’t mind answering my questions, Captain,” said Nick. Taylor slid even farther down in his chair.
Eagan rested a hand on Ahearn’s shoulder. “You can leave now, Connor. Give my best to your sister and mother.”
“I shall indeed, Mr. Eagan.” Ahearn rose and tugged the brim of his cap. “And a fine day to you, Detective. Hope it’s better, but I’m doubtin’ it will be.”
Ahearn strolled out.
Eagan stabbed a thumb onto the papers spilling over Nick’s desk. “I want to see you working on these cases I’ve left you and nothing else.”
“You gave me until Wednesday,” Nick reminded him. “And you just let my best lead walk out the door.”
“Connor Ahearn is not your man, Greaves. And no more attending Chinese prostitutes’ funerals or talking to Joseph Palmer or interrogating the sons of my old friends.”
“Why did you need to send Briggs to spy on me?”
“I’ve never needed to order Briggs to spy on you. He’s happy to tell me what you’re doing all of his own accord.” The captain cocked his head to one side and scratched the fingertips of his right hand through his whiskers, a slow, deliberate motion. “The man doesn’t much like you, to be blunt.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” Nick gathered both warning notes. “These are the notes Mrs. Davies has received.”
Eagan plucked the papers from Nick’s fingers and read them.
“Doesn’t mean anything, Greaves. A piece of mischief after reading her name in the papers.” Eagan tossed the notes at Nick. “And make sure you leave Palmer alone.”
No Comfort for the Lost Page 18
