“What do you want?” Tobin asked, ducking from beneath the hull. He drew himself up to his full height.
Keeping to the shadows, Isobel reached into her coat pocket, and withdrew Duncan August’s card. “I’m with the coroner’s office.”
Tobin narrowed his eyes. And for a moment, Isobel feared recognition, but it was only wariness. “You here about the woman who was found this morning?”
“I’m here to get your statement.”
“I gave my statement.”
“A version of it,” she corrected.
“I have work to do.” Tobin ducked under the hull, and she moved with him, keeping to the mouth of the boathouse in case he decided to bolt.
“I’d talk if I were you, Gower. As it stands right now, you’re looking more and more like a murderer.”
The whites of Tobin’s eyes shone in the dim light. He was pale as moonlight. “You’re not the police.” Tobin tightened his grip around his oil can, tensing as if to throw it at his accuser.
“You’re right, I’m not,” she said. “I’m one of the Deputy Coroner’s investigators, and I’m going to give you the chance to come clean. The police won’t be so lenient.” She spoke quickly. Men backed into corners were dangerous men. “I interviewed the streetcar conductor. He handed you a letter. Why didn’t you inform the police?”
Tobin’s broad shoulders sagged. “It’ll cost me my job. I bungled things badly.”
“Now’s the time to fix it,” Isobel urged. “Not when the police get wind of the conductor’s story. What happened?”
“It seems as if you already know.” It was the words of a defeated man, not one who was preparing to run.
“I’ll keep what I know to myself, and see if your version matches with mine. So don’t lie to me, Gower.”
“I wasn’t about to,” he frowned. “After the conductor caught me on my patrol and gave me the letter, I found the woman and followed her from a safe distance. I just watched her to see what’d she do, to keep her out of danger. When she sat on the beach, I stayed back, hiding in the sand dunes. All she did was sit there for two hours with her knees tucked up to her chin—that’s it.”
“Why didn’t you approach her?”
A heavy sigh swept past his lips, he looked down, scuffing the floor with his boot. “It was a lonely spot—I was afraid she’d think I meant to assault her, and it’d give her a fright. You know how hysterical women are. I didn’t want a fainting woman on my hands, or a screaming one. What would I have done, then?”
“So you lurked, instead.”
“The woman never saw me,” Tobin defended.
Isobel bit back a retort, but she recalled how the man could barely meet her eye this morning. Was it guilt, shyness, or a bit of both? She sincerely doubted that most women would have more than a moment’s unease in the chiseled swimmer’s presence. He looked like a giant puppy.
“How did she get from the beach to the water?”
“It got cold, so I went back to the station for my coat,” Tobin faltered. He must have sensed her disapproval because he hastened to say, “Just real quick. I went back straight away, and then she was gone.”
“Did you see anyone else on the beach, or nearby, at any time?”
Tobin shook his head. “Like I said, it was cold.”
“It was also a full moon and a clear night. Did you see the message in the sand?”
“Not that I noticed. I thought she decided to leave.”
“What time did you return from retrieving your coat?”
Tobin shrugged. “Half past three—four o’clock maybe.”
“Think,” she urged.
“Probably more towards four. When I returned to the station it was about a quarter past.”
“Did you keep the note?”
Tobin nodded, and walked towards the back of the garage. Isobel followed cautiously, keeping both eyes on the surfman and the shadows. There was a shelf of large pigeon holes, and he reached into one, all the way to the back. When he returned, he surrendered a tattered letter over to the waiting investigator.
The letter said just what Humphrey had recited: I am innocent. Think well of me. Unlike the handwriting on the beach, this was done in the same loopy, if hasty, hand as the notations in the nursing handbook.
A thought struck Isobel, and she voiced her suspicion. “Who did you report this to?”
“Jasper.”
The Walrus, as she had dubbed him. She could hardly forget the breadth of his shoulders.
“I ran into Jasper when I got my coat, and then spoke again when I returned. When the fellow with the dog found the woman, Jasper told me to keep it under my hat. That it’d look bad, and I’d be made a fool.”
“It was foolish,” she confirmed. “But then so was his advice. As one man to another, you had best tell the police, or you could be facing the noose.”
The large Adam’s apple on Tobin’s neck dipped, and he nodded, sketching a hasty cross over his chest.
Isobel reached into her coat pocket and brought out a notepad and pencil. “Write your name, and the same words that were on the beach this morning.”
“Why?”
“Do it,” she ordered.
The tall man rolled his eyes, and put lead to paper. As he was writing, Isobel thought about the large rower. “Did Jasper leave after you told him the woman had left?”
“Yes, he was headed out for his patrol.”
Tobin handed her the notepad. She glanced at it, satisfied.“Where is Jasper now?”
“It’s his night off.”
Isobel repeated the question.
“Raleigh’s Tavern.”
✥
Noise pushed at the walls of the tavern, not the posh Cliff House or the amusement park tents, but a sprawling wooden building with a haphazard plan. With umbrella in hand and her Colt Shopkeeper nestled against the small of her back, Isobel walked into the stifling smoke.
A piano man tapped at the keys to the hum of conversation. Top hats and bowlers bent over a Faro table, and two serving girls with drinks wove their way through tables occupied by gentlemen and a few ladies. Thankfully, this was no Barbary Coast dive.
Isobel relaxed with the atmosphere and scanned the crowd for the Walrus. She exchanged a nickel for a beer, and took a long drink. Belatedly, she realized that she had not eaten since early this morning. The thick brew went straight to her head and her stomach demanded more.
Cheers erupted from a back room. She followed the raucous sound to a knot of men who crowded around a table. Unfortunately, her five feet of altitude was not conducive to peering over hats. She slipped through the crowd to the center.
The Walrus sat in a chair facing another burly man. The combatants’ faces were a picture of strain; elbows planted on the table, hands locked in a game of strength. A number of tumblers, some upright, others overturned, sat on the edge.
It was not yet nine o’clock and the Walrus looked near to soused.
With a surge of strength, the Walrus slammed his opponent’s hand on the table. The crowd held its breath as he reached for a tumbler, brought it to his lips, and jerked his head back, downing the whiskey. The crowd cheered, money exchanged hands, and the Walrus scooped up two quarters from the table.
Isobel was not known for her patience. At this rate, she’d be shivering in the cold all night, waiting for a drunk to sober up. She took a breath, and then she took a risk. As soon as the defeated opponent stood, she stepped forward and slid into the vacated chair.
The Walrus narrowed his eyes at his small challenger. She answered with a cheeky grin, slapping a quarter on the table. The crowd bellowed. No bets were placed. A pity, Isobel thought.
“Scared?” she asked.
The Walrus snorted. “It’s your money, boy.”
Isobel planted her right elbow on the table top and leant forward. The Walrus gripped her hand. It felt like being held by a rock, and the fleeting sound of crushing bones filled her ears. She shook the imagined fear away a
nd focused on her opponent, on the fact that there had been no marks on Violet’s body, no sign of abuse.
Isobel leant forward, and whispered, “I’d like to talk with you about a handbag.”
The Walrus’ finger’s twitched, betraying him as sure as a shout.
“I don’t know what you’re going on about, boy.” The arm flexed, and the back of her hand slammed on the coarse wood. It stung.
The Walrus tossed back another whiskey, and reached for his quarters. Isobel put a hand over his, stopping the movement. She placed another coin on the table, and gripped his hand.
“You told Gower to keep his mouth shut. I want to know what you did with her things.”
The hand over her own tightened. His eyes smoldered. Isobel did not flinch. Wood smacked the back of her hand for a second time.
“You best go, boy.” His grip was like iron.
“Drink your whiskey, Mr. Jasper,” she urged amid the crowd’s laughter. Never taking his eyes off her, he let go of her hand, and reached for another tumbler, tossing back the burning liquid. Isobel placed another quarter on the table. The Walrus hesitated, clearly struggling through the haze of alcohol, considering his options. But leaving the table while facing a smoothed-faced young man was hardly becoming of a local champion.
This time, when the Walrus gripped her hand, she whispered, “It will likely be your last.” Muscles flexed. And Isobel brought her left hand up beneath the table—the hand that gripped her umbrella. Amid the cheery hum of conversation, Isobel jammed the handle between her opponent’s legs.
The Walrus coughed in pain, his hand went all wobbly, and she slammed it on the table top. Clumsy with drink, he tipped back, trying to get away from the source of pain. She hooked the handle around his ankle and yanked. With a bellow, he crashed to the floor, scattering the crowd.
Isobel grabbed a tumbler and tipped back her head. Whiskey burned down her throat, and the crowd cheered when she set the glass down. She scooped up her winnings, and hurried over to the flailing Walrus. As he struggled to rise, she bent over him making to help, and smacked her elbow against his forehead. The back of his head hit the floor like a fish. To her pleasant surprise, he did not move.
“Had one too many, I’d wager,” she announced. “Could someone help me drag Mr. Jasper out back to the pump? Some cool air will help set him right.”
✥
The second bucket of water roused the Walrus from the grips of whiskey and a fierce elbow. Isobel set the bucket beside the hand pump, and stood over the man like a hunter over a trophy kill.
Jasper squinted up at her. His attacker was a slip of shadow in the cool fog, but the voice that reached his muddled ears was pure threat.
“You best tell me what happened when you went back to search for the woman on the beach.”
The Walrus started to roll over. Isobel speared his jacket to the ground with the tip of her umbrella. “I prefer you stay there, Mr. Jasper.”
“Who are you?” he coughed.
“Coroner’s investigator,” she supplied, liking the sound of it more and more. “As it stands right now, you’re my prime suspect.”
“The girl wasn’t anywhere about when I went back!” he protested.
“What about her things?”
Jasper’s head clonked on the mud with a squelch. He took two deep breaths, body tensing, but Isobel wasn’t one to wait. She goaded his thigh with her umbrella. “If you think the handle hurt, wait until you feel the tip.”
The threat loosened his tongue. “There was a handbag and shoes on the shore, right by the pipeline gate, but I didn’t see her there in the water. I swear it. I figured the tide had already took her, like it does with most.”
“No wonder you wanted Gower to keep quiet,” she glared down at her captive. “Where is the handbag and shoes?”
“I gave the handbag to a tart I fancy.”
“After you took all the valuables,” Isobel concluded.
“There was a few dollars, that’s all.”
“I’m not concerned with the money. What was in there?”
“Feminine type things. I don’t know. Some papers, coins, a few dollars. I needed the money.” He shrugged, as best as a man could laying on his back in the mud.
“What did the papers say?”
“I don’t know.” The big man turned red. “I can’t read.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes. She produced her notepad, and ordered him to write his name. Jasper sat up. His brow furrowed with concentration, and his hand shook like a sailor’s without rum. When he had produced his mark, she glanced at the paper. The J was barely legible, let alone the rest.
Isobel studied the man carefully, searching for deception, for ill intent, but the facts coincided with his story so far. “You best hope this tart of yours still has the handbag and its contents. If you turn in Violet’s things, I might just put in my report that you found it near the dunes this evening. Do we have an agreement?”
“We do,” he sighed.
“Good.”
11
The Pagan Lady
COOL, SILVER AIR SWIRLED around Isobel’s ears as she walked towards the Folsom Street Pier. This time of night, the docks had settled, leaving mist and shadows and creaking hulls. There were lights burning on a few small craft, casting pools of dark rather than light; other water gypsies like herself, roving from port to harbor, sailing wherever the winds took her. Not all were as law-abiding as she.
The Harbormaster’s watchtower was tangled in the masts, but then, he was deep in his cups and near-sighted to boot (precisely why she had chosen this dock). Safety was secondary to obscurity. The revolver resting against her back and the umbrella in hand possessed a reassuring weight that made up for the Harbormaster’s work ethic. It helped, too, that he was a forgetful sort. Not the type to notice a woman leaving and a young man arriving, or for that matter, a stranger on her cutter.
Isobel stopped beside a piling, frowning at the light seeping through a shuttered porthole on the Pagan Lady. A lantern was burning in the saloon—her saloon. The thought prompted her to reach for her Colt, but she stopped. She’d be exposed if she climbed down the companionway. Instead, she reached down and untied her laces, leaving her umbrella and boots on the dock.
Isobel slipped off the pier. Her bare toes touched the fore rail, and she crouched, bobbing with the tide while she listened. The lap of water and shift of rigging greeted her ears.
Moving quietly, she touched her foot on deck and lowered herself, keeping to the cover of the brief bulwark. A shadow leapt over the coaming and landed silently on deck. It trotted towards her, and she cursed silently.
A large orange and white Tom greeted her with an inquiring meow.
“Quiet,” she hissed, softly in his ear. He smelt like fish, and she decided he was a dreadful guard cat. Ignoring the purring feline threading himself through her legs, she withdrew her key, slipping it into the forward hatch lock. It clicked. Using the shifting rigging to conceal her movements, she carefully opened the padlock and cracked the hatch.
Light seeped into the forward cabin from the saloon, showing two berth bunks and a neat tangle of ropes, block and tackle, and spare sails. In one silent move, Isobel opened the hatch, gripped the sides and lowered herself down, closing it as her foot found the ladder rung. She stepped down onto a coil of rope, and reached for her revolver.
With a breath, she steeled herself, cocked the hammer, stepped into the cabin door, and aimed.
A bespectacled man sat in her saloon, reading. His raven hair, streaked with a wing of white, gleamed in the lantern light. Calm brown eyes looked up from the page, ignored her armament, and found her eyes.
“Ahoy there.”
“Damn you, Riot.” Isobel scowled. Heart in her throat, she uncocked her revolver and slid it into its holster. “I might have shot you.”
“You might have,” he agreed, shifting his left hand. His own No. 3, hidden by the book, was cocked and ready in his hand. He released the ham
mer, and slid it beneath his coat, uncrossing his legs and standing. “You’re late.”
She was tired and hungry and the long day had slowed her mind. His words made no sense. Riot pushed his spectacles higher on his nose, and reached into his coat pocket, producing a telegram slip.
The message was brief: Folsom Street Pier -B
Isobel decided right there and then that she was going to murder her meddling twin. “I had to see a whore about a handbag,” she said instead, not giving Riot the satisfaction of answers.
“You’re excused,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “You have a half-starved look about you, Bel.”
“And you look as though that’s your third glass of brandy.”
“I was waiting a bit,” he admitted.
“Not worried, I hope?”
“Now why would I be worried about you?”
“You have that look about you.”
“Puzzled, more like.”
She surrendered. “Lotario’s doing.”
Realization lit his eyes. “I see.” The two words held disappointment, and he cleared it from his throat. “You came clean with your twin.”
“I did.”
“Your brother was stricken by your death. Although I think Lotario had his doubts when I bought the Pagan Lady off his hands. A well-played revenge.”
Isobel wagered that there was a lot Riot was not saying. Her twin was a theatre diva, and Lotario had likely been dreadful to the detective.
Riot turned to gather his hat and silver-knobbed walking stick. “It’s twice now that I’ve boarded your cutter uninvited. I apologize, Miss Bel. I’ll take my leave.” He slipped on his hat and touched fingers to brim.
“Stay—” she blurted out, immediately grimacing at her own demand.
Riot paused. Those eyes of his swept over her, and the intelligence behind the glass made her shiver. “Perhaps another time. It’s late.”
His insistence on departing nettled her, and she dug in her heels. “Are you taking back your invitation for dinner?”
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