No Quiet among the Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Good afternoon, Grace,” she replied. “You shall have Barbara’s company for several days, as your stepmother has so graciously agreed to allow her to stay here. Owen has fallen ill with the mumps and is at our house until he recovers.”

  A tiny wrinkle creased Grace’s forehead. “Will he be all right?”

  “What do you care about Owen?” asked Barbara, somewhat peevishly.

  “Bee, don’t be cross. Owen is our poor friend and in need of our charity and concern.”

  “I expect he shall recover without any difficulty, Grace,” said Celia.

  “I am so glad.” She snaked her arm through Barbara’s and picked up the portmanteau Barbara had brought. “Come up to the guest room and unpack your things. When you’re done, you can help me practice that piano piece for our Fourth of July party. And there’s music for a polka in my latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book we could look over, too.”

  Barbara had no chance to reply, for Grace was already tugging her up the stairs. Their happily chatting voices faded as they rounded the corner of the first-floor hallway.

  Jane pressed a hand to her waist. “My goodness,” she said, watching them.

  “Are you certain you can handle another teenaged female in the house, Jane?”

  “Where else would you send Barbara?” she asked. “And she will provide a welcome distraction for Grace, who has been underfoot of late and testing Frank’s nerves.”

  “I doubt Barbara will add to his peace of mind.”

  The sound of a piano drifted down from upstairs. “Barbara is always an angel when she’s here.”

  “Do tell me your secret, Jane.”

  Her friend laughed. “My secret is called Grace.” Jane gestured toward the parlor. “Would you care to sit and have something cool to drink? It’s been dreadfully hot.”

  “Thank you, but no. I should return to Owen. He was quite feverish when I left,” said Celia. “Our plans for the Fourth will have to be canceled. I do not expect Owen to recover by then.”

  “I hope you can still attend the morning parade with us, at least,” said Jane. “But what will Mr. Greaves say if you cancel your plans for the evening?”

  “I already have canceled our plans.”

  “I’m sure he was disappointed, Celia.”

  Was he? She could never be certain how Mr. Greaves felt.

  “You read too much into his sentiments,” said Celia. “His greatest care is that I keep out of his way.”

  “You need to stop telling yourself that, Celia, because it’s not true,” said Jane. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I had the most unusual conversation with Justina Brown over a breakfast a few weeks ago. With all the fuss over our Fourth of July preparations, I forgot to mention it to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Justina Brown,” she said. “You don’t recognize her name? She’s a member of the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid.”

  “I’ve not been to a Society meeting in ages, Jane.” Not since several of the members had been cruel to Barbara. Being a member of a Christian charity group did not automatically mean one acted Christ-like.

  “You should come back, Celia. Don’t let them win.”

  “What was so unusual about what Miss Brown had to say?” asked Celia, diverting the conversation away from the Society and the women there.

  “All right, have it your way,” said Jane. “She asked for my recommendation of a private investigator. I can’t fathom why she thought I was the person to ask, but I did give her Mr. Smith’s name. I suggested she speak to you, but she insisted on a professional.”

  “Despite past events, I am not an investigator, Jane.” What would Detective Nicholas Greaves think if Celia ever put forth such a claim? “Mr. Smith should be able to help her. Did she tell you what she wanted?”

  “She made clear she didn’t want to explain,” she said. “I saw her again a few days ago. I mentioned Mr. Smith, wondering if she’d hired him, and she became very upset. Distraught, almost. The way she looked . . .” Jane’s brow furrowed. “I hope she’s not in some sort of danger.”

  Chapter 3

  “I’m sorry to be such trouble, ma’am.”

  Owen watched Celia from the depths of the linens covering the massive bed. It had been her uncle’s before he’d passed away and left the entire house and its contents to Barbara. Her uncle had been a large man, and Owen was dwarfed by the thick mattress and pillows.

  “Owen, what did I say to you before, hm?” Celia wrung out the flannel cloth she’d steeped in hot chamomile water. “You are not trouble.”

  “But you’re going to miss all the festivities.”

  The sounds of celebration had drifted through the open windows all morning. At first light, they’d awakened to the roar of cannons firing at Fort Point and Black Point, and as far distant as the fortifications on Alcatraz. Church bells had joined the clamor, the noise reverberating off the hills for so long that Addie had taken to screeching at them to stop.

  “Do not worry about me. You need to focus on getting well.” She pressed the cloth against the swollen glands beneath his jaw. She’d witnessed a young boy die from the mumps after the swelling had transferred to his brain. Thankfully, Owen was heartier than that child had been. “Unfortunately, you will not be able to return to your job at Mr. Hutchinson’s for a few days.”

  “Oh, I’m not working there anymore. But that’s okay. I’ve got new work. With Mr. Smith.” He grinned, proud of his resourcefulness.

  “Mr. Hutchinson has let you go from his real estate brokerage?”

  “Yep, but that’s all right. The job was boring, anyway.” His gaze met hers. “Ma’am, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course you may.” She removed the cloth, which had cooled, and refreshed it in the bowl at the bedside. “You know you can always ask me anything.”

  “Have you stopped payin’ Mr. Smith to find my parents?” he asked. “He . . . he doesn’t seem like he wants to keep on looking. He tried to get me to go away when I went to talk to him the other day.”

  She straightened, the cloth suspended from her hand dripping chamomile water back into the bowl. “I’ve not seen Mr. Smith or spoken to him since he brought the news of my husband’s death.”

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am.”

  Do not be. “Thank you for your sympathy, Owen. And I will continue to pay Mr. Smith to find your parents,” she said. “Although I am disappointed that he attempted to snub you.”

  “He acted angry, like he was bothered something fierce.”

  “No doubt he was merely distracted by a difficult investigation.” She repositioned the cloth over the swelling in his throat. “That’s all.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “You’re probably right, ma’am. He did say I could work for him. Guess I gotta get well first, though.”

  “I will make certain to see you recovered quickly and in Mr. Smith’s employ,” she replied. “But be careful, Owen. His work is dangerous.”

  “Ain’t . . . isn’t any need to fret, ma’am. I know how to take care of myself.”

  That he did. He’d spent months living in alleyways and empty lots before she had taken him under her wing.

  “I always fret about you, Owen,” she said.

  His eyes filled with longing. How the sight of his yearning tugged at her heart. I cannot be a mother to you, Owen. I can barely succeed with Barbara.

  He blinked away the melancholy. “You sure you’re not at least goin’ to the parade this morning, ma’am?” he asked. “You don’t want to miss it ’cause of me.”

  “I did send a note to Mrs. Hutchinson that I might join her and Barbara and Grace.” Celia glanced at her watch. Nearly eleven. Jane and the girls would be waiting for her where the procession would pass along Stockton, and if she meant to join them, she was late. “But I do not want to leave you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Addie’ll bring me lemonade. With ice, even!”

  “Spearmint tea woul
d be more beneficial, Owen.”

  He sulked. “No lemonade?”

  “I am afraid not.” Celia wagged a finger. “And no biscuits, either.”

  “All right, ma’am.”

  “I will send her up.” Celia squeezed his hand, went to collect her bonnet, and hurried downstairs.

  “More spearmint tea for Owen, Addie,” she said to her housekeeper, who was on her knees in the kitchen scrubbing the oilcloth-covered floor.

  “In this heat, ma’am?” The swipe of her forearm across her forehead emphasized her point. “Not lemonade?”

  “As much as you like to spoil Owen, Addie, he requires treatment and spearmint tea is for the best,” said Celia. “I shall return as soon as the parade has concluded.”

  Outside, dust swirled and the sun beat down. The bunting Addie had hung from the porch railing fluttered in the wind. Her housekeeper had proven to be a magician, managing to conjure a Union Jack from the depths of the attic to wave alongside an American flag. They would not be outdone, she had declared, by their neighbors. Every house along the street displayed not only the colors of the country they’d found refuge in but of their homelands, turning Vallejo into a riot of blues and reds and greens.

  Celia paused on the porch to fasten her bonnet. Addie came outside to stand next to Celia.

  “You take care, ma’am,” she said, eyeing the crowd assembled in the distance. Vallejo sharply descended to Dupont before leveling out for another block until it reached Stockton, where the procession that had started at half past ten was well under way. “You never know what sort of mischief can be had in a great collection of folk.”

  “I will be perfectly safe.”

  Suddenly, a volley of pistol fire sounded from somewhere among the houses clustered across Telegraph Hill, its peak rising to the north of their house.

  Addie flinched. “Och! As if the cannons at dawn were nae enough commotion.”

  “Independence Day comes but once a year, and the Americans enjoy their celebrations.” A cheer arose among the crowd gathered on Stockton as a high-stepping cavalry regiment rode past, the sound carried on the wind. The rat-a-tat of drums accompanied a battalion of soldiers. “And this particular collection of folk would never bother any of us. Not even Barbara.”

  For which she was grateful, given the increasing vilification of the Chinese.

  “Even so, be careful,” said Addie.

  “I wish I did not need you to stay with Owen,” said Celia, adjusting the brim of her bonnet to protect more of her face from the sun. It was promising to be hotter than it had been in recent days. She had a fleeting thought over what unrest the unusual heat might provoke.

  Fanciful as ever, Celia.

  “Especially considering that Mr. Taylor might be among the procession,” she added, casting a glance at Addie. “The police were scheduled to take part, were they not?”

  “He’s already gone pa—” Addie blushed, caught in her admission that she’d gone to look for him. Addie had set her sights on Detective Greaves’s assistant from the moment they’d met. A male caller she would greatly enjoy receiving at the house, even if Barbara thought a policeman only brought problems.

  “I’ll have fresh lemonade ready for you when you return, ma’am.” Turning sharply on her heel, Addie swept back into the house.

  Chuckling, Celia hurried down the road. She dashed across Dupont and arrived at Stockton just as Kidd’s Band marched by, the members of an Irish Fenian group stepping in time to the band’s tune. The crowd was in high spirits, children scurrying about and young women dressed in their finest summer gowns beaming at handsome youths. Even the priest from nearby St. Francis had joined the gathering, a beam on his face. Flags waved in hands, and someone tossed a handful of paper confetti into the blue sky, which fluttered down onto hats and shoulders.

  Celia scanned the crowd. She and Jane had settled upon a spot near the corner grocer’s shop as the best place to watch the parade. The marchers would still be fresh, so near its start. Jane and the girls weren’t waiting there, though.

  “Jane? Barbara?” she called out as fresh cheers rose. A man in a mended military uniform blocked Celia’s view, and she leaned around him. “Barbara?” she called again, more loudly this time, anxiety rising.

  Where were they?

  “Celia!” called Jane.

  Celia returned her wave and slipped through the crush of people to join Jane and the girls. “Thank goodness. I was afraid . . . never mind.”

  “Mrs. Davies, isn’t it splendid?” Grace asked. Her cheeks were pinked by the sun despite the deep brim of her straw bonnet. “Have you seen the boats in the harbor? Stepmama had the driver go past the ships this morning in order for us to look at all their decorations. There’s even a British ironclad in port absolutely loaded with banners and flags. And there are Chinese lanterns strung all over Lick House, which is really splendid. Will you go with us to the regatta later today? And to the fireworks tonight, of course—”

  “Grace, you know she can’t,” said Jane, hushing her stepdaughter. “We were worried when you were late, Celia. How is Owen?”

  “He is better. I simply lost track of time.”

  “Aren’t you going to come to our party after the pyrotechnics display, Mrs. Davies?” asked Grace. “With Bee’s help, I’ve mastered that piano piece. You’ve got to come and hear me play it, and the piece Bee and I are playing together. It’s going to be grand fun, right, Bee?”

  Barbara appeared less certain. “Yes, Grace.”

  “I am sorry, Grace, but I mustn’t expect Addie to devote her entire day to caring for Owen,” said Celia. “She deserves an opportunity to enjoy the celebrations, also. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course Grace understands,” said Jane. “We all do.”

  Hurrahs for the fire department, their magnificent steam engines and hook-and-ladder trucks rolling by, muffled Grace’s unhappy response. She grabbed Barbara’s hand to tug her nearer to the street, where they could better see.

  “We’ll miss you tonight, Celia,” said Jane.

  The firemen in their red shirts and black wide-brimmed fire hats finished marching past.

  “I regret not being able to attend,” she said. “How often do I get invited to parties?”

  “You’d get more invitations if you were not always so busy with your clinic, you know.”

  “I suppose that is true—” One of the spectators caught her eye. The man moved in and out of the crowd gathered halfway down the block. The set of his shoulders, the way he carried his head was so familiar. A head that would snap back with sudden laughter, his blue eyes brimming with wit and charm . . .

  Her heart leapt to her throat. Patrick?

  How could it be? He was dead. Mr. Smith had found proof of his death. Her husband couldn’t be here.

  She started toward the man, intent to follow.

  “Cousin?” Barbara snagged Celia’s elbow before she got too far. “Are you okay? Where are you going?”

  Celia tried to break loose of her cousin’s hold, but in the short time she’d been distracted by Barbara, Celia had lost sight of the man.

  “Celia, what is it?” asked Jane.

  “I thought I saw . . . a patient of mine I’d like to talk to. But I was mistaken.”

  Jane peered at the crowd. “Oh.”

  An errant rocket flaring into the sky diverted Jane and the others, freeing Celia to search the crowd gathered across the street. She no longer saw a man who resembled Patrick passing among them. It had all been illusion, like a conjurer’s trick.

  Nothing more.

  • • •

  “Have you found the McHugh girl yet, Greaves?” asked Captain Eagan, seated at his desk and bent over papers on its polished surface. He seemed far more interested in what was written on them than the question he’d just asked.

  “It’s the Fourth today, Captain.”

  And Nick wasn’t supposed to be in the office. It was supposed to be his off day, spent looking f
orward to an evening with Celia Davies. She’d canceled their plans, though, sending a brief message to his rooms about having to tend to Owen Cassidy, who had the mumps. So he’d come into the station seeking a distraction. Only to run straight into a summons from Eagan.

  “So? What about it?” asked the captain.

  “Places are closed. People are all over the streets,” he said. “That much harder to search for a missing person.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to me, Greaves.”

  Nick stared at the crown of the captain’s downturned head, wondered why he was in his office instead of out enjoying the day’s celebrations or taking part in the parade. He hadn’t noticed Eagan’s bald spot before, concealed by a strategically combed thatch of black hair. Eagan would never have been so rude to Nick’s Uncle Asa, who’d been a San Francisco police detective and had idolized the captain. Nick had become a cop because of Asa Greaves. But Nick wasn’t his uncle, wasn’t the cop he’d been. According to the captain.

  I could turn around and march out of his office right now.

  He knew how the captain would react to that, and the response wouldn’t be pleasant. He could fire Nick, and there’d been plenty of times he’d been astounded that Eagan hadn’t. Maybe he understood how good Nick was at his job. Maybe he was afraid of what Nick suspected about him. That Eagan wasn’t the virtuous, ethical police captain he pretended to be.

  Nick’s prolonged silence forced Eagan to lift his gaze. His dark, dark eyes could bore a hole in a man’s head if he let them. “Well? What’s the status?”

  “I’ve narrowed down the list of boardinghouses she might have stayed at to a small number.”

  “You’d better locate Miss McHugh soon, because her brother knows some politician in Sacramento, and I don’t want to be hearing from the chief if the guy decides to complain about one of my men.”

  “San Francisco is a big city.”

  “I think I’m aware of that, Greaves.” Eagan folded his hands atop the papers he’d been reading. “Didn’t I hear that your sister went missing a couple of years back?”