“I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Jane,” said Celia, settling onto one of the deeply cushioned chairs in her friend’s parlor.
“I’m grateful for the company,” Jane Hutchinson replied, taking the settee opposite, her magenta silk gown billowing around her. “With Grace away at college, it’s been very quiet around here. I even think Frank misses her.”
“Of course he misses her, just like Barbara misses her. Grace is a joy,” said Celia. “Your husband only pretends to be annoyed by his daughter’s spirited nature.”
“If so, he’s very good at pretending.” Jane leaned toward her. “Celia, were you able to . . .” She glanced at the closed parlor doors, shut tight against the rest of the household. “Were you able to pay that fellow the money he was owed?” she whispered.
Mr. Griffin. The recent upheaval had caused her to forget about him and Patrick’s debt.
“I was. Thank you for your help,” said Celia, her voice as low as her friend’s. Frank must not be aware that Jane had lent her money. “I shall make good my obligation to you as soon as possible.”
“Don’t worry. There’s no rush. Honestly.”
Celia smiled. Kind, generous Jane. A true friend.
“Oh, wait. I’ve a present for your stepdaughter.” She unwrapped the bundle she’d brought from Miss Shaw’s gallery and handed Jane one of the cartes de visite. “Barbara and I had our photograph taken yesterday by Miss Rebecca Shaw. You’ve heard of her studio, no doubt.”
“I have. I was wondering what you had wrapped in paper there.” Jane took the portrait and smiled over it. “Grace will be thrilled to get this. I’ll send it to her today.” She placed the carte de visite on the side table. “Would you like some tea? Hetty’s around here someplace.”
“There’s no need to fetch your servant. I’ve not come for tea nor to simply give you that photograph.”
Her friend lifted a brow. “You’re here to discover what I know about someone.” Her smile vanished. “Oh, no, Celia. Who is it who’s died now?”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Not at all. I’ve just grown used to the fact that you usually only show up at the house unexpectedly when you need my help on one of your cases.”
“My ‘cases’? I am not an investigator.”
Jane laughed. “You could’ve fooled me, Celia.”
“I must be cursed, Jane. What a dreadful year it’s been.”
“Have you heard from Patrick?” she asked.
“No. He has apparently gone to the Colorado Territory in search of gold.” Which did not mean he’d not return to San Francisco someday. “My visit has nothing to do with him. I’m here to ask how well you know Ambrose Shaw and his family. Aside from having heard about his daughter, the photographer.”
Jane sat back and began to toy with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Them.”
“What about them?” Celia asked.
“I don’t know the Shaws well, since Frank doesn’t agree with Ambrose Shaw’s politics,” said Jane. “A few years ago—before you came to San Francisco, Celia—I tried to convince Delphia to join the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid. When she learned we occasionally collect funds to support the Chinese Mission House, she declined to participate.”
Which would make Delphia Shaw like other ladies unwilling to offer charity to the Chinese women in the city. Several members of the Society were not comfortable with Barbara, either, whispering about Celia’s cousin on the limited occasions she’d agreed to attend a meeting.
“I’d not like her, then.”
“Probably not, although the few times I’ve interacted with Delphia Shaw she’s been cordial and pleasant enough,” said Jane. “As for the other Shaws, I’ve only met Ambrose Shaw and just one time. Strolling through the City Gardens. Broad smile, large teeth. Ready to pump a person’s hand, as Frank might refer to the fellow’s handshakes, like so many politicians. But quick to hold a grudge against those who oppose him.”
“How do others feel about Ambrose Shaw, Jane? Do you know?”
“It’s said that Ambrose is hot-tempered. As is his son, Leonard, from what I hear. Like father, like son, I suppose. Frank dislikes the both of them and refuses to do business with their bank.” Jane’s eyes widened. “Ambrose Shaw is why you’ve come. What’s happened to him?”
“You must keep what I tell you in confidence,” said Celia. “I am uncertain what the police intend to tell the newspapers about the event.”
“You know you can trust me.”
She could. Utterly.
“Ambrose Shaw was discovered dead last evening at the Hygienic Institute,” she said. “From an apparent heart attack. However, the gas jet in his room had been opened, possibly to feign an accident or a suicide attempt. The coroner believes Mr. Shaw may have been rendered previously unconscious—or dead—from chloroform. With Mr. Shaw’s weak heart, the substance could have killed him. Furthermore, an intruder was spotted outside his room not long before his body was discovered.”
“Mr. Shaw, murdered. My, my,” Jane said, as calmly as if she were commenting upon the state of the roses in Celia’s garden. “What does Mr. Greaves have to say?”
“He has informed me that one of my neighbors’ daughters is under suspicion,” she replied.
“Then you have spoken with Mr. Greaves.”
“Do not get that look in your eye, Jane,” said Celia. “There can be nothing between us. Ever.”
“Because of Patrick’s untimely return from the dead?”
Celia felt the involuntary uptick of her pulse, noted the way she held her breath at the mention of Patrick’s name. As though the sound of an indrawn breath might inform her husband where to locate her, and he would materialize right then and there, striding across the thick carpet of the Hutchinsons’ parlor, his blue eyes snapping with life.
“Yes, Jane. Because of him.”
“It’s been three months since you imagined catching sight of Patrick, Celia, and not a word from him,” said Jane. “Maybe he’s not actually alive or gone to the Colorado Territory, despite what you’ve been told.”
“Patrick’s current circumstances are irrelevant, and I’d prefer to not think about him at all,” she replied, irritation rising, the sentiment as good a marker as any of how she’d often felt about her husband. We should never have wed.
“What do you plan to do next?” asked Jane, honoring their friendship by dropping the subject of Patrick Davies.
“I intend to clear my young friend of suspicion, and in order to do that I must discover who may have had a reason to wish Mr. Ambrose Shaw dead,” said Celia. “She was acquainted with him but has no motive to harm him that I can discern. Perhaps Mina was an innocent pawn in another’s scheme.”
“He was a wealthy man, Celia, who also wasn’t afraid of engaging in heated political debates,” said Jane. “All sorts of people might have wanted him dead.”
“Precisely,” said Celia. “Rebecca Shaw made a curious comment about her stepbrother Leonard and Mrs. Shaw. Questioning if they’d be upset about Mr. Shaw’s death.”
“There are rumors that Ambrose was disappointed with Leonard. Money troubles, I think. However, Leonard works at the family bank, so their relationship couldn’t have been all that bad.”
“Shall he inherit the business?”
“Probably, pending approval of the other officers. I gather his older brothers are located in Nevada—successful mining operators, I believe—and might not be interested in running the bank here,” she replied. “Either way, Leonard Shaw should inherit a tidy sum of money. A motive to want his father dead, Celia?”
“Perhaps,” said Celia. “Delphia Shaw should become a wealthy woman, and Rebecca Shaw as well, I presume.”
“Rebecca and her father did have a falling out,” said Jane.
“She’d told me they were on decent terms.”
“Not at all. He prevented her marriage to a local wine merchant, Mr. Elliot Blanchard, when she was still young enough to require her father’s consent. Their relationship became strained as a result,” Jane explained. “Interestingly enough, Mr. Blanchard became one of Ambrose Shaw’s political opponents.”
“I wonder if the two events are somehow related,” said Celia. “I am surprised, though, that Miss Shaw, as strong-willed as she seems to be, did not simply wait until she was old enough to wed Mr. Blanchard without needing her father’s permission.”
“Rebecca may have intended to wait, but Mr. Blanchard married another,” she replied. “It was bold of her to suggest her father’s death might not upset Leonard or Delphia, when she has as much reason to shed few tears.”
“Bold? Or cunning?” Or both? “Although killing her father now makes no sense. The timing seems a trifle late, if she sought to clear a path to wedding her beloved, who is married.”
“Maybe she is suddenly also in need of her inheritance. Or . . .” Jane raised a forefinger, her thoughts changing direction. “Or she recently learned she might be cut from the will and decided to strike now.”
“A chilling thought, Jane.”
Celia leaned back, the chair cushions plump and soft, the midday sunlight falling warmly upon the polished wood floor, the parlor mantel clock chiming genteelly, Hetty’s voice quietly greeting Jane’s husband in the entryway beyond the closed door. The epitome of peace and calm. But all around them, Celia felt encroaching dark intrigue and danger. When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Indeed, Mr. Shakespeare.
“Celia, you haven’t explained why your young friend is suspected of murdering Ambrose Shaw.”
Celia refocused on Jane’s face. “Her shawl—or one very much like it—was found outside the Hygienic Institute,” she said. “Furthermore, I found a key in the pocket of her dress, which could possibly unlock a door leading to Mr. Shaw’s room at the Institute. Or may not.”
“All of which sounds bad, Celia,” said Jane. “Will you be able to help her?”
Celia considered her friend. A woman who was far more bold and daring than her delicate features and polite manners might lead one to believe. Addie will never forgive me if Jane is harmed in any way. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“Jane, are you busy the next hour or so?”
• • •
“There you are, Mr. Greaves. You rushed off so early this morning I didn’t have a chance to get some breakfast in you,” said Mrs. Jewett, sweeping in from the rear of the house, where the kitchen was located. She’d rolled up her dress sleeves, and flour speckled her skin. “I’ve made a pie. Apple. Your favorite.”
Was apple his favorite? Maybe it was. “You didn’t need to.”
“Well, of course I didn’t need to, Mr. Greaves. I wanted to,” she replied, wiping her fingers on the edges of the apron tied over her middle. “I thought a small taste of your childhood might bring you some comfort.”
He also didn’t recall ever telling her about his childhood in Ohio. Maybe he had, because if he hadn’t, the woman was a mind reader. Which was a scary thought. “Sorry I ran out of here before you could feed me this morning. Police work.”
“Another awful murder?” she asked.
“Can’t discuss it, Mrs. Jewett.”
“Of course not. I understand. Wait. A telegram came. I put it . . .” She flapped aside the apron and dug into the pocket of her checked merino skirt. “Ah, here it is.”
Located, she waved it at him. He grabbed the telegram and stuffed it into a pocket.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked.
Only his sister sent him telegrams, and he’d said all he had wanted to say to Ellie when he’d departed the dock in Sacramento yesterday morning. “Later. No time right now. I just stopped by to let Riley out and to grab a bite to eat.”
He had plans to meet Taylor back at the station in a half hour, hopefully with Elliot Blanchard in tow. After the Shaws’ accusations about the man, Nick wanted to question him before the afternoon papers came out with the news of Ambrose Shaw’s death.
“I’ll make sure to have some of your apple pie later, Mrs. Jewett.”
Sighing, she peered at him with her gentle, motherly gaze. “You can’t keep working so hard, Mr. Greaves. No rest. No decent meals. It’s not good for your health.”
He smiled, though moving his lips into the expression was about as easy as dragging a plow through mud. “I’ve got your pie to look forward to, Mrs. Jewett. That shall fix up my deficient health perfectly.”
“I can see you’re in one of your moods, Mr. Greaves. Maybe I should get out my extract of buchu instead of making you a pie.”
“I’m not ill, Mrs. Jewett. I’m working on a new case.”
She leaned closer, looking for all the world like she wanted to pat him on the cheek. He wasn’t the son she’d lost in the war, though, as much as she wanted Nick to be. “Working too hard.” She tutted.
“Maybe I should go to the Hygienic Institute and be restored,” he said, heading for the stairs up to his second-floor rooms.
“That place? Oh, you shouldn’t go there, Mr. Greaves. I hope you’re not serious.”
He paused on the steps. “Why do you say that? Are there problems there?” Problems other than the one Ross was already dealing with?
“Well, one of the ladies at our benevolent society had a piece of jewelry stolen when she stayed there overnight. Two weeks ago? Or was it three?” She scrunched up her face as she tried to remember. “And I believe the husband of another friend learned that an acquaintance of his was robbed of a very fine engraved gold pen while staying at the dreadful place, as well.”
Well, this was interesting. “Did your friends report the thefts to the police?”
“I didn’t ask for details, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Jewett, giving every indication she wasn’t sure he understood that it was impolite to interrogate one’s friends. “That’s all I know. Somebody who works at that place is a criminal, if you ask me. A complete criminal.”
• • •
“The middle of the day, Celia?” asked Jane, who’d been ready for an adventure until they had disembarked the horsecar and Celia had finally divulged what she intended to do. “You are going to see if that key fits one of the doors to the Hygienic Institute in the middle of the day, in broad daylight?”
“My actions would be even more suspicious if I slunk down that alley and fiddled with the lock after dark, do you not agree?”
Across the road from where they stood, the Hygienic Institute occupied what had once been a corner hotel. Comprised of three limestone stories above the ground level, large pedimented windows fitted with awnings processed across the two façades, and the entire building was overtopped with a green-painted dentil cornice. A structure grand enough to evoke comfort and confidence but not so grand as to be intimidating. There was no indication it had been the scene of a crime, aside from the shutters that had been closed over the street-level windows, suggesting that the proprietor sought to hamper passers-by from peeking inside to satisfy their curiosity. The news of Mr. Shaw’s death had yet to reach the papers, though; there was little risk at the moment of intrusive sightseers.
“Have you prepared an explanation for the policeman who will eventually stroll by, Celia?” asked Jane.
“I will maintain that I am a guest of the establishment, making use of the private entrance for reasons I’d prefer not to expound upon,” said Celia. “Besides, my experiment should only take a few seconds. Hopefully a policeman will not stroll past in that amount of time and observe me.”
“Then what am I here for?”
“In case I am mistaken about the frequency with which policemen make their rounds.”
“You want me to distract a police officer while you commit what is undoubtedly a crime?” Now she sounded aghast. “Celia!”
“Thank you, Jane.”
Celia, the key clasped in one fist and her skirts in the other, dashed across the road. She dodged horse manure and a snapping dog that had taken a sudden interest in her. She’d already determined that the private entrance had to be located in the narrow alley between the Institute and a two-story building alongside, which housed a shop selling coconut matting and rugs. Head held high, which hopefully signaled that she had every right to be entering the alleyway, Celia plunged into the shadows cast by the surrounding structures.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Jane had—reluctantly—followed at a more stately pace.
“Well, hurry up,” Jane hissed, pausing at the mouth of the alley to peruse the contents of the coconut-matting retailer’s windows. Not items a woman in deep magenta silk with a matching bonnet might normally be interested in, but despite her protests, Jane was not about to allow Celia to proceed without her.
Celia smiled and quickly located the door in question, a discreet sign reading Private nailed to the wood. She prayed the door did not actually let onto a service room or Mr. Ross’s personal office. She tried the doorknob—locked—and inserted the key. It did not fit well, and she jiggled the handle to see if she could get the wards to slip into place.
Footsteps crunched along the alley. “It may not actually fit this door lock, Jane. Although . . . wait a moment . . .”
“What are you up to?”
The man’s voice startled her, and Celia jumped backward, the key flying from her hand. He lunged for where it had fallen, grabbing it before Celia could successfully battle the constrictions of skirts and a corset. Bloody . . .
Cheeks hot, she returned the man’s stare. He had a heavy jaw, a disjointed nose that looked as though it had once been broken, and a very unwelcoming expression on his face. “Might I have my key back? I am a patient here—”
“No, you’re not.” He pocketed the key. “So you’d better tell me exactly who you are and what you’re up to before I find a cop and report you.”
Behind him, Jane was gesturing wildly. “Oh, Celia! My goodness, you did wander far off. What are you doing? Is she causing trouble, sir? You have to forgive her.” Jane slipped past the man and took hold of Celia’s elbow. “Come along. We should go home now and have your tea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Do forgive us, sir. She hasn’t been at all well lately.”
“Home?” asked Celia. Heart pounding, she rushed for the alley’s exit alongside Jane. “Yes, let us go home, sister.”
They ran out into the sunlight and across the road, Jane slowing to look back.
“Do not slow, Jane. We must get away before he decides to make good on his threat to find a policeman.” Celia hurried her along until they reached the safety of the next street and turned down it. “That was quick thinking on your part. Although I am not certain I enjoy being marked out as a madwoman.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” asked Jane, panting as she leaned against the nearest empty wall.
“Yes, it worked.”
“It was the only excuse I could think of when I spotted him charging down the alley. I have no idea where he came from,” said Jane, retying her bonnet ribbons, which had come undone. “What about the key, though? Did it fit the lock?”
“I believe it did, Jane.” Unfavorable news for Mina’s innocence. “I hate to say so, but I do believe it did.”
• • •
“I don’t understand what the police want with me, Detective . . . I didn’t catch your name,” said Elliot Blanchard, seated on the edge of the chair in front of Nick’s desk.
He was trying to sound calm, but his body betrayed him. Everything about the man was a tightly wound coil, from the taut way he held his shoulders to the flexing of the muscles beneath his clean-shaven jaw. Maybe Blanchard was always tense. Maybe folks admired that about him. Saw his pent-up energy as a sign he was a politician who meant to get things done. Personally, the man was setting Nick’s teeth on edge.
“He’s Detective Greaves, Mr. Blanchard,” said Taylor, leaning against the wall behind Blanchard. Right next to the closed door to Nick’s office, a barrier to any thoughts of rushing off Blanchard might get.
“Yes. Detective Greaves. Thank you,” he said. “As I was saying, I don’t understand what the police want with me. I already spoke with an officer about the burglary at my house last week. Unless you’ve found the person responsible?”
“I wasn’t aware you’d been burglarized, Mr. Blanchard.” Such cases weren’t Nick’s usual jurisdiction.
“A strange situation, frankly,” he said. “The person went to a lot of effort to break in and rummage through my possessions, but I can’t tell what they took. I wasn’t going to bother to file a report, except my wife insisted.”
“Ah.”
Taylor scribbled notes. He’d follow up on Blanchard’s report and brief Nick later.
Nick leaned back in his chair, which creaked in response. “Tell me about your interactions with Ambrose Shaw, Mr. Blanchard.”
“I’ve been brought here because of that argument we had at the Bank Exchange, haven’t I?” He scoffed. “But that was weeks ago. I thought Shaw had decided to let bygones be bygones. Has he lodged a complaint after all?”
“You admit to arguing with him,” said Nick.
“I’d be pretty stupid not to. There were plenty of witnesses.”
Nick rested his elbows on the chair arms and tented his fingers. “What was the fight about?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“‘There were plenty of witnesses . . .’”
“All right. Shaw made an allegation about my wife. That she is a mulatto,” he replied, his gaze fixing on Nick’s face. Watching for my reaction? “He’d like to ruin my chances at ever getting elected to any post, Detective Greaves. Announcements like the one Shaw made will undoubtedly turn some voters against me, and he knows it.”
“Is she a mulatto?” asked Nick.
Blanchard scowled. “Does her race matter?”
“Not to me personally, Mr. Blanchard, but marriage between a white person and a mulatto is a crime in this state.”
“I am aware of that, Detective,” he said, the words crisp. “She’s South American, but some folks look at her and think she might be mulatto. More of them, now that Shaw’s insinuated she is. She’s afraid to leave the house. That burglary rattled her even more.”
“So Shaw makes the claim aloud inside the billiard parlor at the Bank Exchange saloon, in front of everybody there, and you hit him.”
“We’d both had a few too many whiskeys. I lost control. I’m not proud of it,” he replied. “I punched him. The man weighs a good thirty pounds more than I do, Detective. I don’t know how I managed to knock him down, but I did.” He scoffed again, louder this time. “Maybe he faked the fall. He was muttering ‘my heart, my heart.’ Looking for sympathy, I assume. Trying to cast me as the aggressor.”
Nick shifted in his seat and contemplated Blanchard. “But then you decided to start following him, late at night, to scare him . . .”
“I’ve never . . . That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “Is he accusing me of following him? I demand to know.”
“Mr. Shaw came to the station a few days ago to report that someone had been stalking him when he’d go out at night. He became alarmed,” said Nick. “Given your past history with the fellow, you’ve been proposed as the culprit.”
“By who?” he asked. “Let me guess. Leonard Shaw.”
Taylor’s pencil scratched furiously.
“Where were you last evening, Mr. Blanchard?” asked Nick.
“Not out stalking Ambrose Shaw.”
“Where were you last evening, Mr. Blanchard?” Nick repeated. “Between, oh, seven and eight o’clock?”
“I was at my house,” said Blanchard. “Reviewing the day’s business receipts after dinner. I’m a wine merchant.”
“You don’t review your receipts at your business office?”
“It’s quieter at my house,” he said. “I’m usually at home in the evening. My wife and I don’t socialize much. Especially lately.”
“She can confirm you were home,” said Nick.
“She’s gone to visit her mother in Yuba City. She left on Sunday after church,” he replied. “She wanted some time away from the city and all the gossip. The hateful whispering.”
The timing of her departure was unfortunate for Blanchard . . . or convenient. “Do you have any domestics who can vouch for you, Mr. Blanchard?”
“We have a woman who cleans and cooks for us during the week, but she leaves by seven, Detective Greaves.”
“No prying neighbors?”
“Look, I’ve told you I was not following Ambrose Shaw last night, trying to scare him,” said Blanchard. “Why don’t you believe me? What’s going on?”
Nick retrieved his battered watch from his vest pocket and flipped open the lid. Not yet twelve. In a few hours the Evening Bulletin would be out on the street, the paperboys yelping the news about Shaw’s sudden death. Blanchard wouldn’t have to guess why the police were interested in him once the story got out.
He tucked the watch back into its pocket. “Last night, around seven thirty, Ambrose Shaw was discovered dead in his accommodations at a medical facility where he’s been staying.”
Blanchard turned as white as a proverbial ghost.
“Oh my God.” He shoved back his chair, tipping it over in his haste to get to his feet. “My God! You think I’ve killed him!”
“Why would you conclude that he’d been murdered, Mr. Blanchard?” asked Nick.
Blanchard’s brows tucked low. He had even features, the sort of face you might find on a shop clerk. Somebody you might ignore when passing on the street. Pleasant enough but not worth noticing. Even and unremarkable, until he fixed his large gray eyes on a person with an intensity that was almost maniacal. Except Nick didn’t think the man was any sort of a maniac, merely earnest and smart.
“What else would I conclude from the statements you’ve made, Detective? Your questions?” he asked. “If a reporter has spotted me coming into the station . . . Damn it all.” Blanchard dropped onto his chair again.
“Can anybody vouch for you, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Nobody will vouch for me, Detective, but the absence of an alibi isn’t enough of a reason to blame me for Shaw’s death,” he answered, his color slowly returning. “Obviously, we’ve had our differences. I’ve admitted as much. But I’m no fool. I wouldn’t go to the Hygienic Institute and assault Shaw. Has somebody claimed they saw me there? Have they?”
Nick studied Blanchard. “Did I mention that Mr. Shaw was at the Hygienic Institute?”
“It wasn’t a secret. Everybody knew he’d gone there because of his heart,” he said. “Guess his opportunity to learn if their treatments work got cut short.”
“Have you ever partaken of the water cure at the Institute?” Had use of a key to a private entrance, perhaps. A key he hadn’t returned.
“I’ve never had the need, Detective,” he replied flatly.
“Ah.” Nick got to his feet. “Taylor, escort Mr. Blanchard out. And make up a story for the reporters, if there are any outside, about why he’s been to visit us.”
Taylor put away his notebook and took the man’s elbow.
“And, Mr. Blanchard,” added Nick, “don’t make any sudden plans to leave San Francisco. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The fellow shook off Taylor’s grip. “They’re lying, though, Detective Greaves. The Shaws. Lying about Ambrose Shaw being followed. Lying about me.”
“Why would they do that, Mr. Blanchard?”
“Because they want to destroy me. Even now. Even after Ambrose has died,” he said. “And hell if they aren’t going to succeed.”