“Why did Miss Mina have some key in her pocket, ma’am?” asked Addie, moving to the far end of the porch, away from the open parlor window that might permit Barbara or her tutor to overhear. “She canna be connected to this politician’s murder. I’ll nae believe it.”
“I wish I had an answer, Addie,” said Celia, wrapping her crimson shawl tightly around her body even though the day was mild. “Perhaps it is not the key to the Institute that Mr. Greaves is looking for and there is a completely innocent explanation. She did not recognize the key when I showed it to her, however, but that might be expected, due to her amnesia.”
“Plus, the shawl the police discovered might not be hers,” said Addie. “And that box of candy Mr. Greaves noticed might not be hers, either.”
“Very true, all of that.” Celia glanced at the newspaper Addie had tucked under her arm. “The news of Mr. Shaw’s death has not made it into the papers yet, has it?”
“Not that I’ve seen, ma’am. I was hoping there’d be an update from Mr. Twain and his excursion to the Holy Land, but there isna one yet,” she replied, tapping the newspaper. “How strange, though, that only a week ago, I read about a poor woman whose heart stopped because of chloroform used by her dentist. A story like that could give people ideas.”
Especially if that person was aware that Mr. Shaw had a weak heart.
“It might have done,” said Celia, grateful her housekeeper was such a keen reader of newspapers.
“Nonetheless, Miss Mina canna be responsible, no matter the key you found,” said Addie, bound and determined to defend the young woman. “I suppose you have to tell Mr. Greaves, though. The evidence canna be kept from the police. Doing that would make us—”
“Accomplices,” finished Celia. “Yes, Addie, I shall have to inform him at some point.” After I discover whether it works the lock on that private door.
“Will you need me to collect your portrait from Miss Shaw, then, because you are busy tending to Miss Cascarino?” asked her housekeeper. “Miss Shaw sent a note that it is ready.”
“Mina’s family is providing excellent care, which means I have the time—and the perfect excuse—to return to Miss Shaw’s studio and ask some questions,” said Celia. “I may be gone for a while, so do not worry about me.”
“Wait, you mean to interrogate the fellow’s daughter?” asked Addie, her voice full of disapproval.
“Rebecca Shaw is the only one of the Shaw family members I know,” she said. “The woman is as good a place as any to begin my search for the man’s real killer.”
Addie eyed her skeptically. “So long as she’s not the killer herself, ma’am.”
• • •
“Detective Greaves, Officer Taylor, this is my son, Leonard,” announced Mrs. Delphia Shaw with a half-hearted flip of her hand.
She had high cheekbones, made pallid by the inky blackness of her brocade gown. Her skin was remarkably free of the sorts of wrinkles that had creased Nick’s mother’s face. Wrinkles from too much time exposed to the winds and the sun. Too much worry brought on by life with an unforgiving husband.
Leonard Shaw greeted Nick and Taylor with a brief, grim smile. He was tall, lean, and muscular for a man who worked in an office all day as a banker. His dark suit of clothes was made of high-quality material, tailored to fit perfectly. “Gentlemen.”
“‘Gentlemen’?” muttered Taylor at Nick’s back. “Well, there’s a first.”
Shaw slid closed the drawing room pocket doors and crossed to where his mother sat, the massive wing-back chair she occupied a monstrosity of gold-and-red brocade. There were touches of gilding everywhere in the drawing room—the frames on the paintings hanging from the picture rail, the candlesticks on the mantel, the clock. Nick wondered if the choice in furnishings reflected Mr. Ambrose Shaw’s taste or hers.
“Perhaps you can explain why you and your fellow police officer are here, Detective Greaves,” said Leonard Shaw. “My father . . . my father perished from a sudden failure of his heart.”
“Our condolences, by the way, Mr. Shaw,” replied Nick.
“Thank you, but why are the police interested?”
“They are suspicious, Leonard,” said Mrs. Shaw. Two large jet earrings dangled from her earlobes, bumping against her square jaw each time she moved her head. They matched the jet brooch pinning her neckerchief. She might be in mourning, but she wasn’t about to neglect her appearance. “What else?”
Her tone was sharp, and her son flinched. Up close, Nick could see how much the fellow resembled his mother, his equally square jaw, broad face. Shaw had been to a barber already that morning; he smelled of bay rum.
“Do you mind if we all sit down, Detective?” asked Shaw, indicating the nearby sofa and chair. He groaned as he lowered onto the chair. “I’m still in shock over my father’s death. I only heard the news thirty or so minutes ago, when I returned from my morning appointments. From another policeman.”
Nick removed his hat and took a seat on the sofa. “News like this is never easy to hear, Mr. Shaw.”
Taylor found a spot to stand near the fireplace where the Shaws wouldn’t notice him taking notes.
“Maybe you can explain what you’re suspicious of, Detective,” said Shaw.
“I’ll get to that, Mr. Shaw,” he said. “You both went to visit Mr. Shaw at the Institute earlier this week. How did he seem?”
“He was enjoying his little holiday away from the cares of the world,” replied Mrs. Shaw.
“Not anxious or agitated?”
“Detective Greaves, these questions are distressing my mother,” said her son. “We’re mourning the loss of my father and a great man. This is no time for the police to be nosing around.”
“He was untroubled, Detective,” said Mrs. Shaw, her voice awfully steady for somebody who was supposed to be distressed. “My husband was not someone easily agitated, or who’d find himself in low spirits. Ambrose was strong-willed and optimistic. Which is why he wasn’t initially interested in visiting the Institute, thinking he didn’t require Mr. Ross’s services, but I convinced him that the treatments would be best for his health. He had many goals to achieve, Detective, and neither of us wanted him to have to slow down.”
“I suppose the Institute’s private entrance was convenient for you and your husband to make use of, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nick. “A good way to keep from being observed by people out on the street.”
“What private entrance?” she asked, looking over at her son as though he’d been remiss in not mentioning it.
“You weren’t given a key for it?” Nick asked.
“No,” she replied.
Leonard Shaw shook his head. “Mr. Ross never provided me or my mother with a key to some private entrance, Detective Greaves.”
“Why was Mr. Shaw staying overnight at the Hygienic Institute instead of returning home each day?” he asked.
“Mr. Ross explained that the treatment would be most effective if Ambrose stayed for the week, where his diet and the quietness of his mind could be best monitored,” she said. “He was supposed to come home tomorrow.”
Taylor flipped a page of his notebook, the snap of the paper startling her.
“Detective Greaves, I’m still trying to understand why you’re asking questions,” said Leonard Shaw. “We were told my father had a heart attack. Didn’t he?”
“Mr. Shaw came into the police station last week to report that he was being followed.” Nick slid the brim of his hat through his fingers, turning it in slow circles. The movement was a habit of his, but he’d discovered its ability to unsettle folks he was interviewing, so he’d never tried to break himself of the mannerism. “What can either of you tell me about that?”
“My husband didn’t want me to be alarmed, but in the past few weeks, on more than one occasion, he noticed someone trailing him when he was out in the evening.” Delphia Shaw pressed her lips together for a second before going on. “At first, he thought he was imagining things. But by the third or fourth occurrence, he decided to go to the police.”
“Who didn’t act interested in investigating,” added her son.
“Did Mr. Shaw ever suggest a reason somebody might be following him?”
“Ambrose kept his own counsel,” said Mrs. Shaw. “But Leonard and I developed a theory.”
“And?”
“We’re convinced that Mr. Elliot Blanchard had either been following Ambrose or had hired someone to,” she said.
“Who is Elliot Blanchard?”
“You haven’t heard of him?” asked Shaw. “He plans to run against my father in the upcoming elections, and he’s done everything he can to ruin my father’s chances.”
“Planned, Leonard. Not plans,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Your father has passed, if I need to remind you.”
“Why would Mr. Blanchard try to frighten your husband by stalking him, ma’am?” asked Nick.
“You’d have to ask him, Detective,” she replied. “The fellow’s a scoundrel.”
“Opposing your husband’s politics doesn’t make him a scoundrel, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nick.
“He is a scoundrel, Detective,” she asserted, her eyes narrowing. “Mr. Blanchard has run scathing articles in the newspaper and confronted my husband in public with the worst insults. I urged Ambrose to take out a complaint against the man, report him to the police, but he resisted. He laughed off my suggestion, saying that arguing about citizenship and universal suffrage heated men’s blood and to not worry, since Mr. Blanchard’s party was not going to win. And it didn’t in the recent elections, so Ambrose was correct. People do not want citizenship nor the right to vote extended to former slaves in every state in this country.”
Taylor grumbled, but he was too far away for Nick to hear exactly what he’d said.
“Elliot Blanchard started a brawl inside the billiard room at the Bank Exchange. Struck my father with his walking stick,” said Leonard Shaw. “So you can understand why we’d accuse him of stalking my father, Detective Greaves.”
“Mr. Blanchard is a violent man,” said Mrs. Shaw. “A man who undoubtedly decided that insults and attacks weren’t enough to stop my husband from pursuing his political ambitions. So he moved on to threatening behavior. A coward.”
“Eventually your husband did file a complaint, though,” said Nick.
“He did. Late last week,” said her son. “I wonder if Blanchard found out.”
I do, too. “While Mr. Shaw was staying at the Institute, did he report seeing Blanchard or tell you he thought he was being watched?”
Mrs. Shaw’s eyes widened. “Mr. Blanchard went to the Institute and frightened Ambrose to death, didn’t he? Caused my husband’s heart to fail.”
“Mr. Shaw’s death is suspicious, ma’am,” said Nick. “That’s all I’m able to say.”
“Blanchard has to be responsible for my father’s death, Detective,” said Leonard Shaw. “He must be arrested.”
“We’ll speak with the fellow, Mr. Shaw, and see what he has to tell us,” said Nick.
“Undoubtedly he’ll lie to you, Detective Greaves,” he said.
Nick kept his hat brim turning through his fingers. “Do you mind if I ask where you both were last evening between the hours of seven and eight?”
“Why would you ask us a question like that?” asked Leonard Shaw.
“Just answer him, Leo,” said his mother. “I retire early and was likely in bed by eight, Detective. Our domestic can confirm the exact time, because she helps me undress. Leonard came in from a social engagement around nine.”
“You were awake and checking the clock, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nick. Taylor flipped to a new page of his notebook, quietly this time.
“I leave my watch on a stand atop the little table right next to my bed,” she answered.
“You live in this house, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick.
“I have a room on an upper floor. No reason to leave my parents alone in this rambling place,” he said. “My stepsister, Rebecca, operates a photographic gallery in the city. My brothers have mining interests in Nevada. I intend to stay here until I marry and set up a household of my own.”
Mrs. Shaw’s expression didn’t reveal her opinion of her youngest son’s decision to remain at the family homestead.
“Did your domestic see you come in around nine, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick.
“I managed to slip in without her spotting me,” he replied. “Had a brandy in the upstairs parlor, then went to bed. Sorry if I disturbed you, Mother.”
“Ah,” said Nick. “Where was this social engagement you attended before you returned home last night, Mr. Shaw?”
“I was at a supper with several friends. A meeting of the San Francisco Club at the Parker House,” he replied. “I’m sure any of them can tell you I was there.”
“And can also tell me when you left.”
Mrs. Shaw scowled at Nick. “Of course they can, Detective,” she said. “Rather than interrogate us, you should spend your efforts on proving Mr. Blanchard’s involvement. Unless you sympathize with his politics and refuse to imagine him culpable for Ambrose’s death.”
“I wouldn’t let my sympathies interfere with my duties, ma’am.” Nick stood, and Taylor closed his notebook, stowing it away inside his coat. “I think that’s enough for today. And again, our condolences.”
Mrs. Shaw rose as well. “Mr. Ross sent a note around requesting that we come to the Institute as soon as possible to collect Ambrose’s possessions. We’ve barely had time to process my husband’s death, and he’s sending demands like that.”
“Maybe he needs to free up the room for another guest.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she replied.
Nick tapped his hat onto his head, leveling the brim with a sweep of his fingers. “We’ll keep in touch, ma’am. Once the coroner has reached a conclusion on your husband’s death, we’ll let you know.”
Mrs. Shaw inclined her head. “Leonard, please accompany the policemen to the door, if you will.”
“Gentlemen,” he said, striding for the parlor doors to tug them open.
Nick paused at the doorway. “Oh, ma’am, I forgot to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a woman named Mina Cascarino?”
“No,” she answered. “Should I have?”
“Just curious.”
Taylor bid the Shaws a good morning and scurried out of the house after Nick. “You think one of them could’ve been the intruder Mrs. Wynn saw last night, sir?”
Nick paused on the front steps of the house. “I can’t rule them out, even though Delphia Shaw acted like she didn’t know about that private entrance.” He didn’t want Mina to be guilty any more than Mrs. Davies did.
He descended to the sidewalk, Taylor on his heels.
“Suppose they’ll both inherit a lot of money,” said his assistant, patting down his coat pockets and fishing out a cigar and a match. “Never seen so much gilding in my life.”
“I expect they will,” said Nick, turning down the steep incline of the road.
“I also gotta say Leonard Shaw didn’t look all that upset about his father’s death, sir . . . Mr. Greaves, sir.”
“Maybe he’s good at keeping his emotions under control.”
Taylor looked over at him. “You think so?”
“Not really.”
• • •
Who was aware that Ambrose Shaw had a weak heart?
Celia strode down Montgomery, bound for Miss Shaw’s gallery. All of the Shaws would know, for a start. Mr. Ross at the Institute and possibly one or more of his employees. Close acquaintances, she presumed, but beyond them . . .
At the gallery, the shades were up and the front window displayed an Open sign. Celia stepped inside, setting off the bell above the door. Within seconds, Miss Shaw exited her darkroom, a thick apron tied over her dress and leather gloves on her hands. The smell of photographic processing compounds wafted out.
“Mrs. Davies, you’ve come to retrieve your portrait,” she said, peeling off the gloves and setting them aside. Despite their protection, her fingernails were stained from photograph development chemicals. “It has turned out very well. I think you and your cousin will be pleased. I have it right over here. Please take a seat.”
Miss Shaw went to a cabinet against the wall and opened it. As discreetly as possible, Celia examined the woman as she moved about. Was she a trifle pale? Or was she oddly unperturbed by the news of her father’s death? Unless she’d not yet been informed.
“Here you are.” Miss Shaw handed over the picture, the print attached to a rectangle of thick paper approximately four by six inches in dimension. “It’s called a cabinet card. They’ve become very popular since they were introduced. I can also sell you a frame to display it, if you’d like.”
Celia had never had a portrait taken, and it was disconcerting to see her image staring back from the glossy surface of an albumen print, her hand resting on Barbara’s rigid shoulder. Her cousin was quite lovely, but the two of them could not be more of a contrast—Barbara relatively petite and dark of hair and eye, while Celia was taller than she enjoyed being, her own hair and eyes cast eerily pale against the background.
“Don’t you like it?” asked Miss Shaw. Up close, Celia could see that the young woman’s eyes were red-rimmed. From crying?
“No, it is quite perfect. Thank you,” she replied, giving the print back to Miss Shaw for wrapping. “I simply have never seen myself beyond what I observe in the mirror of my dressing table.”
“I also printed four cartes de visite for you to send to friends and family.”
Would Celia’s aunt and uncle in England want a photograph of their wayward niece and their brother’s half-Chinese daughter? Not likely.
“Barbara will be thrilled to be able to send one to her friend, who is away at the Young Ladies’ Seminary in Benicia,” she said. “And I shall purchase a frame for the cabinet card. A simple one. Nothing too showy.” Nothing too expensive.
Miss Shaw set the cabinet card atop the glass case and hunted for a frame among those on display inside.
“I must tell you about the oddest coincidence, Miss Shaw,” said Celia, rising up on her toes to keep the woman’s face in view. “An acquaintance of mine turns out to be a friend of your father’s. A Miss Mina Cascarino. Do you know her as well?”
Miss Shaw’s expression gave no hint she recognized Mina’s name.
“I’ve never heard of her, Mrs. Davies,” she replied and straightened, frame retrieved. “But then my father has a great many friends. Even female ones.”
Ones he enjoyed sending boxes of candy to.
“Certainly,” said Celia. “She recently expressed to me how worried she is about your father’s health, though.”
“Oh?” the other woman asked, her fingers trembling now.
“Miss Shaw, are you quite all right?” asked Celia.
“What do you mean?”
“I am a nurse and it is my habit to be observant,” she said. “You appear upset. Is it your father? Has he has suffered a turn for the worse?”
Miss Shaw clasped her hands at her waist. “It is my father. The police were here this morning . . . a dreadful business.”
“The police?” asked Celia, doing her best to sound appalled.
“Yes,” she said. “My father has died. Suddenly. His heart.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Celia. “But why did a police officer come?” Miss Shaw eyed her. Blast, I’ve gone too far with my questions. “Have I misspoken, Miss Shaw?”
“Why are you here, Mrs. Davies?”
“To collect my photographs, of course,” she replied, wishing she’d been more interested in participating in the amateur theatrics her neighbors used to stage when Celia was a child. “If I had been aware you were suffering a recent bereavement, I’d not have done.”
“You must think I’m heartless, leaving my business open under such circumstances.”
“Your father’s death came as a shock.” Did it not, Miss Shaw? “The routine of work can be comforting.”
“I’ll close once I’ve taken care of my appointments this afternoon.” She stared at the frame she’d forgotten she was holding and set it down. “Delphia will want help planning the funeral.”
“Delphia?”
“Mrs. Shaw. My father’s second wife.”
Not referred to as her stepmother, Celia noticed. “Undoubtedly she shall,” she said. “At least you had an opportunity to visit him at the Institute not long before he passed away. A comfort.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know I went to visit him?”
Calm, Celia. Be calm. “You mentioned it yesterday when Barbara and I were here.” Exude calm despite the mistruth you just told. “Do you not recall?”
“I don’t remember saying anything about my visit to you, because I didn’t actually talk to my father,” she responded. “He didn’t want to see me, and I left after a few minutes.”
Perhaps their relationship was not as “sufficiently amicable” as Miss Shaw had yesterday claimed. Furthermore, perhaps she’d not had an opportunity to take her father’s key from his room. Which meant the one currently stored in Celia’s reticule had found its way into Mina’s pocket by some other mean than Miss Shaw giving it to her. If that key even was the one missing from the Institute.
“Do be kind to yourself, Miss Shaw. Losing a father can be hard,” said Celia, smiling gently. “Both of my parents passed away when I was young. To this day, I feel their loss keenly.”
“Hard? I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Davies,” she replied, retrieving a sheet of paper to wrap Celia’s photographs. “I wonder, though, if Delphia and Leo will agree.”