Suddenly, a hand grabbed him and yanked him sideways, dragging him into the empty lot behind a row of bricks.
I’m dead. Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m dead!
The man threw him down. Owen tried to sit up, but the fellow shoved him back onto the ground. A rock jabbed into his forearms and his knees, and he yelped. But nobody heard.
And nobody came to help.
• • •
“You’ve got a telegram, Mr. Greaves.” Mrs. Jewett, who’d intercepted Nick as soon as he’d stepped through the front door of her house, waved the yellowish piece of paper at him. “The boy delivered it a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jewett,” he said, taking it from her.
“You’re welcome.” She folded her arms and waited for him to read it.
Sighing, he scanned the message. The telegram had come from Ellie, a quick response to the one he’d sent first thing that morning.
Browns in Sacramento short time. From Stockton. Some scandal? No Stevensons here. Please come home.
What should he think of the fact Ellie hadn’t heard of any Stevensons in Sacramento? That the doctor had lied about his friends having lived there? However, he did know what to think about Dr. Brown being from Stockton, a scandal possibly chasing him and his sister out of the city.
And he did know what to think about Ellie’s plea to come home.
“I’m going to be gone for a brief while, Mrs. Jewett,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of Riley for me while I’m gone.”
If he left for the docks now, he might be able to catch the mail steamer bound for Stockton before it left the city that afternoon. He’d arrive in Stockton early in the morning, which would give him plenty of time to visit the state hospital and return on the mail steamer headed back to San Francisco.
“I already take care of that dog of yours most days,” said his landlady.
“Yes, and I appreciate that.”
Mrs. Jewett leaned closer and attempted to sneak a peek at the telegram. “You finally going to visit your family in Sacramento, Mr. Greaves?”
No.
He crumpled it into a ball. “Is the fire going in your stove, Mrs. Jewett?”
Her brows tucked together. “Yes. Why?”
“Here,” he said, pressing the telegram into her hands. “Stuff this inside and burn it.”
• • •
The man who’d planted his foot in Owen’s back let out a curse. “Why are you following me?”
The voice was familiar.
Dang.
Owen struggled to turn over, the gravel leaving a thousand little cuts on his skin. He caught a glimpse of the man holding him down.
“Caleb!” he shouted. He was Mr. Griffin? But then he’d never learned Caleb’s last name. It was one of those things best not to know, when dealing with mean cusses like him. “What the heck? Let me up, will ya?”
Caleb released the foot he’d dug into Owen’s back, and Owen sat up. He wiped the gravel off his hands and scowled, trying to look fierce. But he could never look as fierce as Caleb was looking right then.
“Cassidy, what in . . . why are you following me?” he repeated, snarling. He did snarl, like an animal, baring his teeth. “I could’ve gone and killed you like that!”
He snapped his fingers, the sound startling Owen.
“Why would I be following you, Caleb?” he asked.
Caleb leaned down close to Owen’s face. His breath smelled spicy, like he used Sozodont on his teeth, and the white handkerchief tucked into his vest pocket must have been soaked in rose water to give off the aroma it did. “I asked you first, didn’t I?”
Owen swallowed. “Somebody wearing a red vest is after a friend of mine. And you’ve got a red vest on. So I was wondering—”
“What does Mrs. Davies want?”
Shoot! How’d he know her name?
Owen stuck out his chin, all the while wondering if Caleb could tell how badly he was shaking. But he had to notice, just like predators could smell fear rising in waves off their prey. “Why have you been staring at her house? Why were you waiting for those women the other night?”
“Who says I did any of that?” he replied, straightening.
“I saw you myself near Miss Kimball’s place. Only I didn’t know it was you.” And when did you start wearing a red vest everyplace?
“Kimball? I’m not interested in her, Cassidy.”
“But you have been hanging around Mrs. Davies’s house,” Owen persisted, even if it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
“She knows a fellow who owes me money.”
She did?
“Did you kill Mr. Smith?” asked Owen before he could think better of it.
“I thought you were smarter than to keep asking me questions, Cassidy.”
Caleb scowled, his muddy green eyes filling with disappointment. He’d been the first person to take Owen under his wing. Caleb had found him wet and shivering on a back alley near the docks and given him a bite to eat and a place to sleep. Even if that place had only been a smelly, moth-eaten blanket in a corner, it was more kindness than Owen had ever received during his trip to California to search for his parents.
The blanket and the food had come with a price tag, though. One that could’ve put Owen in jail, if he’d stuck with Caleb and his gang.
“I gotta know, Caleb.”
“The cops would like me to confess, too.”
“I wouldn’t tell ’em what you said. I wouldn’t. I owe you.” Too much. Way too much, and the obligation hurt like a hot poker stab to his chest. Mrs. Davies wouldn’t like to know that Owen had once been friends with this man and owed him his life. “But I just gotta know.”
“I’ve never killed anybody.” He leaned in, closer than before. So close that Owen imagined he could count every single one of the pores on Caleb’s nose, if he had a mind to do so. “But that could change.”
Owen swallowed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth. “You and that spiritualist lady are swindling folks, right?”
Caleb’s cheeks went a red Owen had only ever seen on his father’s face. He flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow that was sure to come. When it didn’t, he peeled open his eyes and relaxed. Just a little. He really wasn’t that stupid.
“Why are you so damned nosy, Cassidy?”
“I wanna help find who killed my friend, Mr. Smith. That’s all,” he said. “It ain’t right that he’s dead, and we don’t know who did it. They gotta hang.”
“I’d advise your friend, Mrs. Davies, to leave Ruth Loveland alone.”
“What about the folks at that séance? The one Dr. Arthur Brown went to a couple of weeks back?” Owen asked. “If you didn’t kill Mr. Smith, which one of them did? And who beat up that tobacco fellow, too?”
Caleb laughed, so hard and loud that veins popped in his neck above the folds of his necktie.
“Everybody’s so all-fired worried about Ruth swindling folks, when you and nosy Mrs. Davies and the cops should be worried about them.”
“Dr. Brown? You mean Dr. Brown? ’Cause I saw him fighting with Mr. Smith,” he said. “Or somebody else?”
“Listen, Cassidy, stop asking questions. You got that?” Caleb grabbed Owen’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. “You might stay healthy longer if you do.”
• • •
“Two tablespoons, twice a day,” said Celia, handing the decoction of iodide of potassa mixed with sarsaparilla to the young woman. How weak and pale she looked, the syphilis destroying her once-vibrant beauty. She was not the first patient Celia had treated for the disease; she feared the girl would not be the last. “It is the best I can recommend for your aches and other symptoms.”
Her patient slipped the bottle into her pocket. “How much?”
“Nothing.” Celia led her out into the hallway and opened the front door. “Take care of yourself.”
“Too late for that, ma’am,” she whispered and slipped past,
gripping the railing as she descended the steps to the street.
Poor creature.
Celia was about to return to the house when a man, his dark workmen’s clothing patched and mended in multiple spots, came walking up the road and waved to her.
He nodded at Celia’s patient and bounded up the steps. “Glad I’ve caught you, ma’am.”
“If you are seeking medical treatment, I am afraid that I only tend to women,” she said.
“That’s not why I’m here,” he said. “It’s about your husband. Patrick Davies.”
A chill slid across Celia’s arms, as cold as a drip of ice water upon overheated skin. “Would you care to come inside to talk?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t want to impose.” He smiled, a broad flash of stained and missing teeth, but full of warmth and sincerity. “I heard at the saloon that you’re asking about him.”
“I am. Can you tell me if you have seen Patrick?” She squeezed her hands together at her waist. “Is he alive and in San Francisco?”
“I haven’t seen him, but he’s like a cat with nine lives, ma’am,” he replied. “Not much could put Paddy Davies in the ground. Never met a man so durned determined to survive.”
Neither had she, to be frank.
“So I am to presume he is alive,” she said.
“Don’t know that, ma’am, sorry to say. But before Paddy left San Francisco, he’d gotten mixed up with some fellahs . . .” His smile turned sympathetic. “If he is alive and back in town, you don’t want to find him. That’s my advice. Leave sleeping dogs lie.”
She hated the unease that hollowed out her belly. The dread that Patrick might return, and their lives would resume the cycle of affection and recrimination, hope and despair, promise and disappointment.
“Thank you,” she said, fumbling for what to say. “If you wait here, I shall fetch the payment I promised at the tavern.”
“No, ma’am. No need. I haven’t told you what you most wanted to hear.”
He tapped the brim of his bowler hat and loped back down the steps. He began whistling, the incongruously joyful sound trailing on the breeze.
“Ma’am?” Addie leaned through the open door. “Was that news about Master Patrick?”
“Not really.” Celia reentered the house. “No confirmation he is alive.”
“Och. The man is indeed a bogle come to torture us,” said Addie, following her into the parlor.
“It is not so bad as all that.” She stopped in the center of the room to stare at her uncle’s portrait, his eternal painted smile as incongruous as her visitor’s whistled tune. What now, Uncle?
“Tricky divil, that one. Schemes and plans.” Addie harrumphed. “Weel, perhaps you can ask that spiritualist tonight about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can ask to speak with him,” she replied. “If the woman is a proper medium, she’ll be able to contact him. If he has passed on to dwell on the other side, that is.”
“Addie, even if Mrs. Loveland claims to contact him, it is hardly proof Patrick is deceased.” She had only been teasing when she’d told Mr. Greaves she might attempt to communicate with the dead.
Addie frowned and jutted her chin. “I was only making a suggestion, ma’am.”
Celia patted her housekeeper’s arm. “I apologize, Addie. You know I have my doubts about the woman.”
Mollified, Addie nodded. “And I can ask about my mither.”
“It is better that you stay here,” said Celia. “I shall be safe enough in Jane’s company.”
“Mrs. Hutchinson canna protect you like I can,” Addie insisted. “What if that dangerous Mr. Griffin is there? I’ll not be letting you go to the house of a woman who might have killed our Mr. Smith without me. Owen is well enough to stay here by himself.”
Just then, the front door slammed open, and Owen stumbled into the entryway. The knees of his trousers were dirty and the hem of one of his jacket sleeves was torn.
“Owen!” cried Celia. “What has happened? Where have you been?”
“Nothing’s happened,” he said. He glanced down at his hands, scratched and bloody, and wiped them down his thighs. “Just had a little accident, that’s all. Guess I’m not feeling as good as I thought. I’ll just go upstairs, if that’s okay, ma’am. I’m awful tired.”
Before she could say more, he bolted up the stairs.
Celia looked over at her housekeeper. “Well, Addie, it appears you’ve a need to stay here while I go to Mrs. Loveland’s.”
Chapter 19
“I’m really nervous, Celia,” said Jane, stepping into the entry vestibule of Mrs. Loveland’s lodgings behind Celia. “And I’ve got to say that Frank isn’t pleased I agreed to meet Vivi here. Especially when Grace begged me to allow her to come, too.”
“What did Barbara say?” asked Celia, gathering her skirts to climb the steps.
“She had no interest in visiting a spiritualist. Which ended Grace’s begging.” Jane gazed into the shadows of the stairwell. “How do we explain to Vivi why you’re here?”
“I will fabricate some excuse.”
Celia hesitated outside Mrs. Loveland’s door, pausing to check her attire again. She’d chosen to wear her rich widow’s garb with the brooch and jet earrings. Her bait for Mr. Griffin, should he also be inside.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” said Jane, her voice low.
“Help me keep a watchful eye on Vivi Adler.”
The building door banged open, and Miss Adler swept inside. “Ah, Jane!” Her attention shifted to Celia. “Oh, Mrs. Davies.”
“Miss Adler.”
Vivi climbed the stairs, her hands pressing down upon her pink silk skirts to keep them from brushing against the wall or railing. “Jane, I thought I asked you to not tell Mrs. Davies about our little adventure tonight.”
“Jane was concerned for your safety,” said Celia.
Vivi laughed, the sound not quite as carefree as previously. “Are you going to keep us safe, Mrs. Davies?”
The door to Mrs. Loveland’s rooms opened.
“Ladies,” she said, her voice deep and melodious. She ushered them inside. “Thank you for being prompt.”
Ruth Loveland was a small woman, her appearance unremarkable. Except for her eyes, which peered with a penetrating intensity.
“Thank you so much for accommodating my attendance at such short notice, Mrs. Loveland,” said Celia. “I’d hoped to speak with you directly yesterday, but you were not home when I knocked.”
Her gaze did not flicker one iota. “It is my calling to help those in need of my services,” she replied. “Much as it is yours, Mrs. Davies.”
“Ah, you are familiar with my clinic,” said Celia. “Did Mr. Griffin tell you about me?”
“Why might Mr. Griffin tell me about you, Mrs. Davies?” she asked. “Welcome, Mrs. Hutchinson. And welcome back, Miss Adler.”
Vivi unpinned her hat and searched for somewhere to set it. “Thank you. I’m glad to be back.”
“Here, Vivi, give me your hat,” said Jane, taking Celia’s bonnet as well.
Mrs. Loveland retreated into her parlor. At the center of the room sat a table covered in figured white linen. It held a water pitcher and glasses, and five chairs, not four, encircled the table.
“Are we expecting another guest, Mrs. Loveland?” asked Celia. Mr. Griffin, perhaps.
“The fifth chair is for the most important guest of all, Mrs. Davies,” she replied, her smile as mysterious as that of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
Vivi leaned in. “She means the ghostly spirits who will visit us,” she whispered against Celia’s ear.
Mrs. Loveland responded with a broader smile and crossed to the large street-facing windows to draw the curtains against the fading evening light. The solitary lantern lit upon the topmost shelf of a bookcase was all that kept the room from descending into total darkness.
Celia tracked the spiritualist as the woman tidied the drape of the curtains and turned
to murmur at a songbird hopping upon its perch within a domed brass cage.
“What have we gotten ourselves into now, Celia?” murmured Jane.
“An interesting evening, Jane,” she replied. Or had they entered the lair of a swindler and a murderer? “You have a lovely bird, Mrs. Loveland.”
“He is my companion,” she replied as the bird trilled a song, inspired, perhaps, by the woman’s proximity. “All that I have, since my husband passed on. My bird and the spirits who speak to me.”
But what of the mysterious Mr. Griffin? Was he not a companion?
The spiritualist cooed over her songbird. While the woman was occupied, Celia hastily looked around, searching for the notebook Miss Kimball had told her about. Jane subtly pointed at a narrow writing desk in the corner on the other side of the room. A small leather-bound book was stashed against one edge of the desk.
Vivi Adler had also noticed the diary, though she was taking pains to not appear interested in it.
“Mrs. Hutchinson, who is it you wish to contact?” asked the spiritualist. She retrieved the notebook and a pencil.
“Me? I don’t know.” Jane shot Celia a glance. “I’m just curious.”
“As for me, I simply must speak with my mother again,” said Vivi.
“You have not come to inquire about Etta?” Celia asked her.
Vivi scowled. Mrs. Loveland’s expression was a careful blank.
“What is it about this Etta person? I don’t understand,” said Vivi. “I’m here to speak with my mother, who should’ve been thrilled about my upcoming marriage to Arthur. That wasn’t like her at all to not have been thrilled . . . or at least, the way she used to be.”
Mrs. Loveland raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt that we were speaking with her, Miss Adler?”
“Oh, my. Oh, my, no! Not at all,” she replied. “I have the utmost faith in you. The utmost!”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 21
