“Mr. Riot, I forgot to ask—” Isobel paused. “Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”
Miss Dupree sized her up with a quick sweep. Her eyes said quaint, and she offered a hand. Isobel shook it. “Charlotte Bonnie with the Call.”
Riot cleared his throat, and stood, gesturing towards a chair. “Won’t you join us?”
“Since you asked.” She sat in the empty chair and surveyed the breakfast tray, helping herself to coffee and scone.
“You’re a reporter, Miss Bonnie?”
“I am. And I have my eye on a certain detective.”
Miss Dupree lent forward with a spark in her eye. “So he was the mysterious savior?”
“I’m trying to pull the whole story from the man. He’s a hard shell to crack.”
“Are you?” It was said in that warm, playful way that invited more.
Riot returned with a charming smile, and Isobel wondered how many women had fallen for his easy confidence. “In my line of work, strict client confidentiality is key.”
“An assurance for your clients, no doubt,” Miss Dupree noted.
He nodded. “Once integrity is broken, a man is ruined in my business.”
“As with most professions,” Miss Dupree observed. Isobel knew that the woman had her own secrets to keep. A mistress did not betray her men. At best, she’d be out of work; at worst, she’d be dead.
“Perhaps you could persuade Mr. Riot to loosen his tongue,” Isobel ventured.
The woman laughed. “An enticing challenge.”
“Ladies,” Riot said, “I am present. I believe you’re supposed to scheme out of ear shot.”
“I’ll have to keep trying my own luck, then.”
“I wish you the best of it.” Miss Dupree made to leave. And Riot stood.
“Even a morsel will be enough to elaborate on the story.” Isobel pulled out pen and paper. “Is Mr. Riot as gallant at home as he is on the streets?”
“Quite the gentleman.”
“Is he? Do you dine together often?”
“I really must go, Miss Bonnie. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Is marriage in the air?”
“I rent a room. That is all.” Miss Dupree did not saunter away, she walked briskly, eager to be away from the reporter.
When the terrace was free of unwanted ears, Riot returned to his seat, and took up his fork. “A convincing performance as the nosey reporter.”
“And you’re the tight-lipped detective who refuses to talk. Do you think she’s spying for someone?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she’s hiding something.”
Isobel smirked. “Aren’t we all?”
✥
Isobel followed Riot into the carriage house. They walked past the horses and hay, and up the back stairs. The top room was filled with worktables and spare parts, nets, and bric-a-brac of a lifetime. It smelled of grease, tobacco, and copper.
A small cot was stuffed in a corner, and a tidy kitchen and stove was the only spot of refinement. A wizened old man bent over one of his worktables. He stood on a stepping stool talking to the boy at his side.
“It’s usually safe,” Riot said to Isobel’s shock. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to attack the room and restore order. But Tim and his tinkering distracted her. They wove their way through the mess and she peered over the man’s shoulder. The electric belt was submersed in a bucket of water. Wires ran out of the bucket, connecting it to a light bulb on a stand. The bulb glowed faintly.
Tobias looked up and grinned. “Mr. Tim is teaching me about electricity.”
“And myself,” the old man grunted. “I don’t think this belt could have killed that man.” He turned to a light box. “But watch this.” Tim picked up two clamps with wires attached to the box. He fastened them over a metal disc on the belt, removed his hands, and switched on the box. The light bulb flared, illuminating the tinker’s home. A human skull wearing a prospector’s battered hat grinned from a high shelf.
“Whoever was in the house with Henry could have used a separate battery,” said Riot.
“And left the belt on so it would appear like suicide.” Isobel leaned closer, peering into the bucket. She wondered what a shock would feel like.
Riot switched off the box before she could wonder more. “It would explain the freshly scrubbed areas. The murderer was covering his or her tracks,” he said.
“Well I’m not positive, mind you,” Tim said, rubbing his beard. “I was thinking of setting something up in the bath and tossing a dog in to see what would happen.”
Tobias made a strangled sound. “We can’t!” he gasped.
Riot raised a hand, glared at Tim, and assured the boy that they were not going to electrocute a dog. His firm words were more for the old man, however.
Isobel reached into the bucket and removed the clamps, holding them up in consideration. “Even if this didn’t kill—it would hurt, wouldn’t it? Especially considering where the contact plates were positioned.”
Men and boy winced.
“The thought alone hurts,” Tim admitted.
“Torture.” Riot frowned. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“Or a man,” Isobel mused. “Considering those photographs we discovered in the house.” She looked at Tobias and Tim got her hint. The old man removed the belt and handed the boy the heavy bucket.
“Go empty that, Tobias.”
The boy sloshed his way downstairs.
“You think Henry had a male lover?”
“I don’t honestly know, Riot,” Isobel admitted. “There’s still the elusive Mr. Leeland to consider. And—” she hesitated, working her way through an errant thought. “I’m not entirely sure the Violet who visited Elma was the same woman who hopped into the sea.”
“The brooch.”
Isobel nodded, and told him about the grey dress in the ready made store.
“Mrs. Fleet said that Elma didn’t appear to recognize the visitor,” Riot said. “Any woman might have posed as Violet.”
“On the other hand, given Violet’s history in theatre, the voice under the porch could have easily been hers.”
Riot rubbed a hand over his beard. “Let’s hope Bright Waters will give us more answers.”
“I have my Vigilance boys looking for the hackman,” Tim offered.
“Your help is invaluable, Mr. Tim.” And she meant it. Tracking down a lone hackman without a name in San Francisco was a time consuming affair.
“So is yours, Miss Bel.” The old man crossed his arms and eyed her. “I’m keen on recruiting you for the agency. Good pay, full room and board if you like.”
The words brought a whole jumble of thoughts to the surface, and she kept her eyes well away from Riot, focusing on the cluttered workshop. She took a breath and looked at Tim. “I thank you, but I have a job—two in fact.”
“The offer stands.”
“I’m trouble, and your agency would be in a world of mess if I’m discovered. I’ve involved myself too much as it is,” she realized. Her instincts urged her to leave, to sever ties and flee, but Riot’s calm voice cut through the impulse.
“I thought I’d teach Bel to pick locks. Can we use your sample locks?”
The prospect of learning to pick a lock, long ached for, overrode concern. What woman could resist such an offer?
In short order and little fuss, Tim set up his clamps and practice locks. Names like lever locks, warded locks, and the latest pin tumblers spun in her head. Torque wrenches, rake picks, and skeleton keys. There was no straightforward lock. Preparedness was key.
Riot demonstrated the lever lock, and handed her the pick. She stepped forward, and jammed the metal into the hole, fumbling blindly for what he said was a simple catch.
“Ease up, or you’ll break it, girl,” Tim said.
She removed the pick, and eyed the keyhole. “I’m beginning to get a sense of what a man must feel when he’s confronted with his first woman.”<
br />
Tim slapped his knee and made a sound like a donkey. Riot primly adjusted his spectacles. “Trust me, Bel. Not a whole lot of thought is involved.”
“Perhaps I’m overthinking,” she conceded. With a breath, she inserted the pick, and tried again. This time, it clicked, and the bolt slid. She gave a shout of triumph. And at Riot’s direction, repeated the procedure until she had the feel of it.
“That’s the simplest lock.” Riot handed her a torque wrench and selected another straight pick with a slight curve at the end. She inserted wrench and pick, and turned the wrench, applying pressure as Riot had instructed. With much scraping and forcing, she pushed up a pin, feeling the tiny internal spring, then moved onto the next, going down the line. Nothing clicked, nothing moved. She pressed her lips together and persevered.
“Gently, Bel. Try closing your eyes. Visualize the pins in your mind.” She did, and she felt Riot move behind her. Her heart galloped. “You can’t force it; you must feel it,” he said quietly. The pick snapped, and she opened her eyes with an oath.
Tim chuckled, scratching his beard. “I’m not sure you’re the best to teach her, A.J.”
Riot cleared his throat, fished out the broken end, and handed her another.
“Well,” Tim grunted, “I cannot pay witness to this massacre of my picks.” He stomped off and made himself scarce.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“These are his training picks,” Riot explained, and added in a louder voice. “And old like him.”
“Shut it, boy!”
Riot pulled over a stool, and Isobel sat, glaring at the offending lock.
“The lock is not your enemy,” he said. “It’s a puzzle. A very delicate one.”
She took a breath. “Right.” And tried again. This was far more difficult than she had ever supposed.
26
The Wonderful Sea
Monday, February 19th, 1900
“AHOY THERE!” RIOT CALLED from the wharf. Isobel was stretched along the bow spirit, making an adjustment to the lines. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
“Granted. Stow your gear,” she replied in the deeper tones of Mr. Morgan.
Riot climbed on board, and watched as she tugged and tied, and shimmied back on deck. Her short black hair was skewed in all directions and she eyed his own attire: cap and peacoat.
“I’ve just lost a wager,” she sighed.
“With whom?”
“Watson. I was sure you’d arrive in white linen and a boater.”
He held up a leather luggage case. “It’s in here minus the boater.”
“Close enough,” she grinned.
“Captain Morgan,” a voice interrupted. Isobel looked towards the dock. The watchman was there. “Would you like a tow?”
“I’ll be fine,” she hollered back. “The wind will do and the tide is good.”
The grizzled man tipped his cap. “Will your sister be sailing today?”
“Not today, sir. I’ve a charter,” she nodded towards her passenger.
“Good luck to you, then.” The watchman stomped off and Isobel moved forward, untying the warps. The Lady creaked, shifting away from the wharf. Riot blew out a breath and secured his suitcase below deck. Watson uncurled from the settee, blinked in remembrance, and the big tom shot right for him, mewling for shrimp.
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you today.” He scratched the cat behind the ears, and received a look of disdain before Watson shot up the companionway. Riot followed.
Isobel stood at the mast, hoisting the staysail. Lines glided through the blocks, and the breeze caught the red canvas in the silver light, pushing the bow towards the choppy bay. She belayed the halyard, coiling it around a pin on the mast. When the luff was taut, she set the jib flying, and hurried over planks, balancing lightly on the restless deck. The warp aft was next, and the staysail caught the wind, pulling the cutter from the wharf. Isobel dropped into the cockpit across from Riot and gripped the tiller.
“How’s your sea legs, Riot?”
“I’ve never owned any, Captain.”
Waves touched the hull, one after another, rocking the boat as it drifted into the bay. “I won’t stick you in the galley, promise.”
Watson hopped on the cabin trunk, and calmly licked his paws, oblivious to the world of water and spray.
“Where did you find that cat?”
“Same as you.”
“He ambushed you on board your own boat?”
She smiled. “Watson, unlike a detective I know, was a gentleman. He asked politely.”
Riot tipped his cap at a cocky angle, and sat back. “I’m a regular scoundrel.”
“Positively rakish,” she said. “Hold her steady.” Isobel nodded towards the tiller, and Riot blinked. After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped the handle. The wood was smooth and warm, and it moved with the push and pull of waves on the keel. He looked to the horizon, spotted the distant Angel Island, and tried to keep her on course. His efforts were less than successful.
Isobel sprinted out of the cockpit, tugging sail ties on her way to the mast. The canvas slipped free, shifting with the rocking boat. When she reached the mast, she gripped both halyards and began hoisting the mainsail. With every heave, the tackle turned and the gaff and canvas raised. The sail flapped, and the boat ached to leap with the wind.
When the halyards became too heavy to manage together, Isobel switched to raising one at a time, alternating between peak and throat, using all five feet of her wiry frame. On the last few feet, she braced her feet on the mast and swigged up the throat tight, belayed it to its pin, and threw herself at the peak.
The gaff rose, the canvas flapped, and Isobel shot up the mast, scaling the mast hoops like a ladder. He craned back his neck, watching her bob and sway with the sea over open air. When she was satisfied with her adjustments in the hounds, she grabbed the ropes, and climbed, hand over hand, down, landing on the deck with soft feet.
“Tighten the mainsheet,” Isobel called, hurrying back to the cockpit. Riot looked at the maze of lines, feeling utterly lost.
“That one there,” she said, gripping the tiller. He could feel the strength in the hand; the instant assuredness and the cutter’s response.
Riot unwound the line, and pulled the rope through its tackle. The boon shifted, the canvas caught, and the Lady leapt forward, heeling to starboard as the wind funneled through the Golden Gate. Riot braced himself against the opposite bench as the boat leaned.
“There, make it fast,” she ordered.
He wrapped it back around its cleat, and the cutter surged through the choppy grey, throwing up salt and cool spray. Riot wiped the sea from his spectacles and found the captain grinning.
“I’ll make a sailor out of you yet, Riot.”
He surveyed the forty-one feet of deck and the fifteen feet of bow spirit that thrust from the prow like a spear. “How do you manage this alone?” he asked.
“The Lady is confident. She’s been on these waters all her life. Practically sails herself. Just needs a nudge here and there.”
“Still, it’s a lot of boat.”
“When I take you beyond the Golden Gate, you’ll be happy she’s over forty-feet.”
Not if, but when. That word heartened Riot to no end. But today, he was glad that they were headed north, staying well inside the bay.
27
Bright Waters
A GROUP OF WOMEN stretched towards the afternoon sun. Music played from a phonograph; a ragtime tune to inspire cheerfulness. The women’s hair flowed down their backs and their dresses were loose and white. An enthusiastic smile was plastered on the instructor’s face.
“By God, kill me now,” Isobel said through her teeth.
“Not for you?” Riot asked.
She looked at him sideways. “No.”
He offered his arm. “For reinforcement.”
Isobel accepted, and they walked under the swaying palm and oak to what appeared to be the main ward,
a hacienda-style building with an expansive courtyard. A fountain trickled in the center, and a woman in a wide hat and flowing dress stood on the green with a rabbit on a leash.
“Perhaps Watson will take a leash,” Isobel mused.
“You’d have little need of me, then.”
She snorted, and together they walked through the doors. The entry hall was open and airy and altogether welcoming. A woman wearing a blue dress and apron greeted them. It was identical to the dress that Violet had in her trunk.
“Welcome to Bright Waters,” the woman’s voice was as cheerful as the name.
“Mr. Morgan and my wife,” Riot returned. Isobel clung to his arm, looking around nervously. Her act wasn’t far from the truth, she had only to think of the group of women swaying with the breeze outside. To all appearances, Riot and she were the quintessential wealthy health spa couple. He in ivory linen and a panama hat, and she, in Lotario’s frilly white tea gown, recently recovered from fever, looking pale and delicate with her short hair.
“I’m sorry, but your name is not listed.”
“You weren’t on the telephone, so we decided to travel here ourselves. It’s—urgent. For my wife’s sake, I hoped we might tour the grounds.”
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll speak to Dr. Bright.” The woman walked off, and Isobel shared a look with Riot. He casually reached over the counter and turned the guestbook towards him, flipping through pages. Nothing caught his eye.
The nurse returned. Dr. Bright was with a patient, but the sanitarium could accommodate them. A spare bungalow was available—for a fee.
“Splendid.” Riot paid in cash, and they were shown to the guest house.
The bungalow was clean and open, and offered an unparalleled view of oak covered hills. A small sitting room led to a bedroom where a large bed dominated the space. Isobel peeked into the bathroom. A cast iron tub sat facing an open window, with nothing but trees and countryside to stare back. She thought of Henry and Violet. It took effort to tear her eyes from the bath. Closing the door, she turned on the taps to scrub the train and carriage ride from her face.
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