A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  For a long moment, Riot considered the question. “I would not dream of such a thing,” he finally replied, removing his hat and replacing it on the hook.

  A swell of relief filled her heart. “Good, because I’m tired of talking with Watson.” And truth be told, if she were to admit it to herself, Riot’s words were like honey, deep and reverberating, and she found that she had missed the sound of his voice.

  “Watson?” he asked, looking around the saloon.

  Isobel jutted her chin towards the cat who was sitting on the top of the companionway. “He doesn’t add much to a conversation, but he’s a wonderful listener.”

  Amusement danced in Riot’s eyes. “I’m sure his human counterpart would be honored.”

  “If only he could manage a revolver,” she sighed.

  “I’ll stay on one condition.”

  Isobel arched a brow. “Are all your invitations to dinner conditional?”

  “Bel, you look dead on your feet.”

  “I am dead, remember?”

  “I’ll cook; you sit.”

  “I think I’m too tired to eat,” Isobel admitted.

  “I’ll give your meal to Watson if that’s the case,” Riot said, shrugging off his coat. She noted the shoulder holster and gun under his right arm. Not many would be expecting a man to pull a gun with his left hand. He unbuckled his holster, and hung that up, too. It had that worn look, the kind of leather that molded and moved with a body like an old friend.

  “How did you make good with Watson?” The last intruder who had boarded her boat was greeted by a hissing and spitting flurry of fang and claw.

  “I have my methods.”

  She snorted, and it knocked loose a thought. Nearly kicking herself, she darted up the companionway. Cold air slapped against her bare feet. She had nearly forgotten about her boots and umbrella. Both were where she had placed them. She snatched her belongings from the pier, and scanned the night. The fog roiled past her eyes, and somewhere off in the distance, a bell rang. All was peaceful.

  Isobel climbed back to her floating island. Riot was moving confidently around the small galley. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a paper package of shrimp sat on the counter. She looked down at Watson, who twined around the detective’s legs.

  “Traitor,” she said.

  Riot glanced over his shoulder in surprise.

  “Not you; the cat.”

  “To be fair, I cheated.”

  “I won’t hold it against him.” The shrimp was making her own mouth water.

  As Riot struck a match and lit the burner, she noted a twining dragon, much faded from time, on his forearm. Isobel filed the detail away for another time. She had other things on her mind. Leaving him to poke around the galley for food stores, she deposited her belongings, rummaged through a drawer, and took a fresh set of clothes to the forward cabin.

  While she washed her skin with frigid water, a tune drifted into the compartment. Riot was humming. Vivaldi, she recognized, and his voice was far from disagreeable.

  Freshly scrubbed, Isobel emerged to the smell of sautéing shrimp and cooking rice. She pulled a warm sweater over her head and sat on the settee, reaching for her treasure trove of evidence: a spiritualist’s book, a mysterious note, and more importantly, the contents of Violet’s handbag.

  A steaming cup of tea distracted her. Isobel accepted Riot’s offering, and leaned back on the cushion. It felt so good that she propped her wool-stockinged feet on the berth. “I finally have a murder, Riot,” she said to his back. “At least I think I do.”

  The man in her galley checked on the rice, and added more seasoning to the shrimp. She knew he was listening from the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his ear, so she went on.

  “The woman looks to have killed herself. No marks, no signs of struggle, but there’s this message…” And she told him all that she had discovered.

  The recitation cleared her thoughts and the food that he placed in front of her gave her a second wind. While she ate, Riot sat across, picking at his own bowl of rice, looking through the evidence.

  When her belly was full and silence settled on the cozy cabin, Isobel sat back with a sigh. “Even if Violet killed herself, and I don’t think she did; suicide is a murder of a sort. There’s always the why of it, and that starts somewhere, doesn’t it?”

  Riot did not reply. He set down his bowl and his gaze grew distant. Isobel wagered he was looking at time, memory, and regret. She wondered what sadness he saw in the glass.

  “I wager,” he murmured at last. Riot shook himself out of the thought, and reached for the letter she had discovered in Violet’s stolen handbag. He crossed his legs, and began to read aloud.

  “We often write for you to right your wrong. How many times your lives are burdened by an unwillingness to acknowledge mistakes on your part and ask forgiveness.

  “As long as life lasts on earth in your weak, erring human nature will make mistakes and give offense. Faith and dependance on the good spirits will lessen the number of these mistakes and offenses, but this is not all that is necessary.

  “There should go hand with this willingness to acknowledge mistakes and ask forgiveness. Perhaps there is no other duty to your lives that come so hard to the majority of you as to say, I was in the wrong, you were in the right. Please forgive me, and yet many heartaches would be spared, how many friendships would stand the test of time. How many family quarrels and home separators would never occur if you would acknowledge mistakes and show your sorrow for them.

  “So many times you believe you are not in the least to blame when others think you are, and consequently do not feel called upon to ask forgiveness, inasmuch as you think there is nothing prejudiced in favor of yourselves and your actions, and cannot clearly judge in such matters, but if you take the matter to your spirit guides and ask our guidance as to what you should do and abide by our answer we will guide you in the right way and you will many times be surprised at the different outlook that comes to you after you ask our help.

  “And whenever there is the slightest chance that you may be in the wrong—right it by asking forgiveness,” Riot finished.

  The other letter was much the same. Despite the cheerful Shipmate stove, she shivered, drawing up her legs and crossing them Indian style.

  “It’s written in the same hand as the message on the beach. And in the third person.”

  “Apparently from the spirit world,” he noted. “In twenty years, I’ve never had a suspect from the otherworld. You lucky soul.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want a dull murder. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  The edge of Riot’s lip twisted in a rueful smile. “I have plenty of my own, but they don’t generally write me letters.”

  “There’s a theme in both letters: forgiveness and error.”

  Riot rubbed a hand over his trim beard. The gesture drew her eyes, and she began to count the strands of grey interspersed in the black.

  The sound of his voice brought her back. “Do you think this ‘spirit guide’ persuaded Violet to jump into the water?”

  “That’s my working theory,” Isobel said. “Violet strikes me as a woman who was on the run, but it could very well be my suspicious mind putting a mirror to my own circumstance.”

  “All a detective has is his, or her, instincts. Most San Franciscans lead a fairly transient life, but this strikes me as odd, too. Violet’s accidents coincided with her moves and her sickness along with a sudden aversion to dining with the others at the Y.M.C.A.”

  Isobel took a thoughtful sip of tea. “The falling stage light is suspicious, but accidents do happen—especially in poorly managed theaters. But why not just brain her over the head in a dark alley?”

  “Indeed,” Riot agreed. “Mundane murders are near to impossible to solve.”

  “I’d wager they’re usually spur of the moment impulses.”

  “Or a hired gun.” This wasn’t a man who was speaking of the hypothetical, but from expe
rience.

  Isobel took another sip of tea, studying the man across the table. A hundred questions churned inside her head, all wanting to come out in a snap-fire rush. A distraction, indeed.

  Isobel roped in her thoughts. “I think we can rule out hired killer in Violet’s case,” she said wryly. “If one was involved, then I’d suggest he find another line of work.”

  “Hired guns aren’t noted for their intelligence, but I agree. It could very well have been her own mind,” he observed. “As Miss Wheeler said, Violet’s accident changed her, and the landlady wasn’t sure if the same woman who left was the same who came home. People who kill themselves aren’t in their right mind.”

  “Aren’t they?” she countered. “Perhaps some, but I think most are perfectly sound in mind. They’re backed into a corner with no escape. It’s a final spit in the face of society.”

  Riot did not reply. His eyes searched her own. There was sadness and understanding and a whole world of hurt. She looked away, focusing on the evidence. “If she wasn’t right in the head after her first suicide and subsequent accident, maybe she was hearing voices. Could her head injury have caused her to develop an entirely different way of writing?”

  “I wouldn’t discount the possibility. Stranger things have occurred.”

  “Then maybe she was running from herself—her own madness.”

  “In that case, you may have a short investigation on your hands.”

  “Either way, I’ll follow the trail to its end.”

  “If you should require anything, Ravenwood Agency is at your disposal—and me for that matter,” Riot added, quietly.

  Isobel looked at the remains of her dinner, recalling her last words to Riot before she sailed south, standing on a pier, right after he handed over the proof of ownership to the Pagan Lady.

  ‘I’ve been cooped up too long. I need to feel the wind for a bit and get my bearings.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ he had asked.

  ‘Wherever the winds take me.’

  And that had been that. Except she had only been gone a month. Strange, freedom beckoned, and yet she had returned. Isobel still had misgivings about returning, but there was unfinished business, and she had never liked leaving a game half-played.

  And here they were again; sitting in the saloon as if no time at all had passed. The man made her soft.

  “Thank you for your offer, but I can handle this myself,” she said, firmly, standing up to clear away the tin plates.

  “The offer stands, regardless,” he said easily.

  Isobel didn’t trust herself to speak; instead, she occupied herself with filling the washbasin.

  “I called on your family.”

  This brought her up short. And she reckoned that was the intent.

  “Oh? How are they?”

  “As well as can be expected. I suppose you’d like to hear that life goes on.”

  “I like to hear the truth.”

  “Your parents are grieving,” he said. “Kingston, at least, seems to be leaving your family’s affairs alone.”

  “And my mother?”

  “She still has a sharp tongue.”

  Isobel snorted. “Then she’ll live.” She rolled up her sleeves to scrub the pots and tins. “You likely think me cold-hearted, but my parents shipped me off to Europe when I was fifteen. When I returned, four years later, they were like strangers to me.”

  “Not cold-hearted, but human, yes.”

  She glanced sideways at him. “Don’t you mean resentful?”

  “I don’t know about that. You seemed to have occupied yourself well enough in Europe.” There was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that made her smile.

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  “May I ask where the winds took you?”

  Isobel clucked her tongue. “Not as patient as you like to think.”

  “It is late,” he said.

  “Tired, Mr. Riot?”

  “Not especially. I’ve been keeping to a nocturnal schedule of late.”

  She arched a brow. “A case?”

  “I asked first,” he replied, reaching for the medicinal brandy. He poured two cups; one for himself and one for her.

  “When Tim let slip that you were aiming to retire, I didn’t believe it for a moment. I was right, I see.”

  “Just biding my time, more like.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “Why do you think?”

  His eyes seemed to smolder in the swaying light, and she returned her gaze on the pot. “I think you’ve drunk a fair amount of brandy.”

  Riot chuckled, a near soundless laugh. “Maybe so.”

  When the dishes were done, Isobel hung up the towel, and sat on the opposite settee, reaching for her brandy. The amber liquid soothed her senses, and Watson settled himself on her lap. As she sipped and thought, she idly ran her fingers through his soft fur.

  Riot spoke first. “That day in the cemetery, you helped me realize that I have unfinished business here. I don’t much care for men, or women, who get away with murder and blackmail. I’ve always been one to poke the rattle-snake’s hole.”

  A laugh escaped her throat. “You? I don’t believe it. You’re as cautious as they come, Riot.”

  “Am I?” He tilted his head.

  “I don’t really know,” she admitted. “I haven’t yet investigated you.”

  He smirked. “One day, I’m sure to trip up, and you’ll know.”

  “I hope not.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’ll have your back, then,” she said softly.

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” he raised his glass, and they both drank.

  When she emptied her cup, she said, “I traveled to Los Angeles, to see what I could discover about Kingston’s activities. When I was—courting and married,” Isobel cleared the sudden dryness from her throat, leaning forward to pour another glass. When she had taken a long swallow, she continued with strength. “Kingston took two trips to Los Angeles. Fairly short ones. I hoped to discover what business he had down there.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “Not a whisper of him.”

  Riot frowned. “Do you think he misled you about traveling south?”

  “I don’t know what he did, or where he went,” she sighed. “At the very least, it must have been something secretive. He hid his tracks well. Unfortunately, it could have been something as mindless as an affair with another man’s wife. Regardless, the dates might lead me down another trail.” She frowned in consideration. “I was hoping to discover what Curtis had hinted at—these men in the shadows.” Her trip had been a blow. Her one hope, her one lead in trying to find solid proof of her ex-husband’s criminal activities—all blown to the winds. It was a defeat that did not set well with her, and admitting it left a sour taste in the back of her throat.

  Riot removed his spectacles to clean the glass. His dark lashes brushed the skin beneath his eyes when he blinked, and she wondered if they brushed the glass of his spectacles, too.

  “There is a number of powerful men lurking in shadows,” he said, rubbing the lens with a pristine handkerchief. “And they’re good at staying there, but eventually, one of them will make a mistake.”

  “I suppose it’s just a matter of hoping I’m not the first.”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “Never been my strong point,” she admitted. “That’s why I intend to occupy myself with murder and madness.”

  “Not needlework?”

  She glared, and a smile lit his eyes; not the quirk of rueful lips, but a rare curve that showed his white teeth. Two of his teeth were chipped, one upper canine and one lower incisor. “You’re a rare soul, Bel,” he said with warmth.

  The words surprised her, but only for a moment. She recovered and smiled like a cat over the table at her guest. “You might not think so well of me in the morning.”

  12

  A Detective's Lot

  Friday, February 16th, 190
0

  “DO YOU RECOGNIZE ANYONE in this photograph, Miss Taylor?” Isobel asked for the eighth time in the hour. She slid Violet’s photo across the table, stopping under the cheery woman’s nose.

  Miss Taylor smiled at the three people stuck in time. “Why yes, she lives here, doesn’t she?” She poked a finger at Violet—or Elizabeth as she was known before. Five of the eight tenants had pegged Violet with their fingers; unfortunately, lodging house life was not the most sociable. Everyone was too busy trying to make his wages.

  “I was hoping you could tell me for a certain.”

  Miss Taylor considered the face again. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, “but she does look familiar.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the woman admitted. “Mornings are so chaotic, what with everyone coming and going. Although I always make a point to share a smile with my neighbors.”

  “Were you at the house on Wednesday?”

  Miss Taylor shook her head. “I work at the phone company as a switchboard operator, from six to six. My off days are Thursdays and Fridays, and I usually spend them reading.”

  Isobel frowned at the lodger. “Thank you, that will be all.”

  But Miss Taylor was not about to be dismissed. The woman leant forward, her eyes bright. “Are you a real investigator?”

  “Yes.” Isobel bit out the word. At the moment she was closer to a criminal on the verge of battering a list of lodgers who knew absolutely nothing.

  “The things I hear on the lines. It has always given me a taste for putting my nose where I shouldn’t,” Miss Taylor confided. Her cheeks were flushed, but Isobel suspected excitement rather than embarrassment. “I’ve never met a lady detective, or a gentleman, for that matter.” Miss Taylor continued to rattle on, apparently listening to conversations all day left her parched for her own.

  Isobel mentally crossed this woman’s name off her list of interviews, and then stopped. She studied the woman for a moment, came to a decision, and interrupted the current narrative about a lovestruck contortionist. “You know, Miss Taylor, all good detectives require ears in the right places.”