Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (12 page)

“I don’t yet know who’s involved.”

“You’ve taken an interest in Mrs. Thompson.”

What did she mean by that? She’d never known his late wife, but she’d seen her photo on his mantel. Did she, too, see the resemblance to Ingrid Thompson? Was she alluding to his inner turmoil, the jumble of emotions over his past with Rachel, his future without
her
…?

“I could be of use to you in the house. I could speak to the family, befriend Mrs. Thompson—”

“You will befriend no one.”

Her raised eyebrow told him she’d read deeply into that remark.

“Whatever happened here was personal, involving those here at the time. If you and the others stay out of the house except for meals, you won’t get involved, and I won’t be distracted by worrying about you.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“Then pack your bags, you’re going home.”

“You can’t send me off like a child.”

“No, if you were a child, you’d be obeying me.”

“Your past skews your judgment, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Yes, it does. You will relocate or leave.”

“What has happened to make you feel I’d be unsafe in the house?”

“I won’t discuss the case with you.”

“I could help.”

“Yes, you probably could, but I don’t want your help.”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

Not you, he wanted to say, at me. But even if he’d been brave enough to say that, opening the door to an honest discussion with her, he couldn’t, because galloping up the beach toward them was Deputy Mitchell.

Missouri, unaware of the deputy’s approach, said, “You’ve made it clear, Mr. Bradshaw, by keeping your distance for two years, that you’ve chosen to suppress your feelings for me. It’s not our age difference or the fact that I’m Henry’s niece or even the scars of your marriage that worries you because Ann Darlyrope helped you through those—”

His shock must have registered on his face, for she continued, “Yes, I knew about her, and I also know that it’s over now. Yes, I was jealous, but she was good for you, I could see that. I might be young, but I understand more than you realize about relationships and a man’s needs, and I thought maybe you’d have some sense now, or at least be willing to discuss the very real differences between us to see if we can find a way past them.”

He still couldn’t look away even though his face burned at the thought that she knew about his affair. The deputy paused on his march toward them, bending to examine a shell, and Bradshaw opened his mouth to say something, anything, while he had the time. But the only thing that came to him was the ridiculous thought that she was a wildflower, and he a boulder, and if he were to act on his feelings, he would crush the life out of her.

“Never mind. I’m tired of pondering your inhibitions, and tired of wondering if you’ll ever get over them. You’ve chosen your path, and I’m striking out on my own.”

His heart wrenched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a college professor, decipher my meaning. Furthermore, you have no call to be angry when Colin shows an interest in me. Sending him off with Uncle Henry—”

“Henry needed a ride into town.”

“—and then marching down here pretending your anger is all about your fear for my safety. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Colin’s behavior has nothing to do with my frustration with you at this moment.” The deputy, now just a few yards away, lifted a hand in greeting that Bradshaw did not return.

She said, “You’re jealous of Colin.”

Bradshaw’s eyes snapped back to Missouri. “Don’t play games.”

“No. No games. But I’m done waiting. I don’t know what sort of future you envision for me, but I assure you, I will not be a spinster or a nun.”

He stood dizzy with loving her, paralyzed with the knowledge he was all wrong for her. She was right that his inhibition had nothing to do with their age difference, her being his best friend’s niece, nor his being a widower. Those things had mattered to him at first, but not now. What inhibited him was fundamental to their natures. In many ways they were opposites. From afar, he could admire her, be intrigued by her. Love her. But what would happen if they became closer? Could he live daily with their differences? Would they fight over them? Would his stodgy, plodding, regimented ways strangle her free-spirited beauty? He feared so. He knew so. He could no more reach out to her safely than—well, than a coal miner fresh from a shift could safely touch a white silk cloth without ruining it.

He was wounded and bitter, she young and hopeful. He a boulder, she a wildflower. He thought of Henry’s insight. He can’t both set her free and lock her up. What had he selfishly hoped? That she’d choose a career that left no room for marriage, that kept her free and him ridiculously hopeful they’d age into some sort of compatibility?

All of these thoughts and emotions assaulted him simultaneously with a roar as loud as the ocean, swallowing him, crushing him. And the damned deputy was nearly upon them. The tide surged, sending a sheet of foamy sea sliding up the hard packed sand, flooding Bradshaw’s shoes, but Missouri was looking into his eyes with such openness and honesty he didn’t dare move. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue. Three words.

“And just so there is no possibility of misunderstanding, Mr. Bradshaw, I’ll say it straight out. I love you. I’ve loved you from the minute I stepped up on your front porch on that rainy night and you opened the door with Justin and the two of you stood there, gawking at me. I knew I was home. You knew it, too, and I believed if I gave you enough time, you’d admit it. But you’re more pigheaded than I gave you credit for, and instead of working out the very real differences that stand between us, you plod along and avoid facing them. That’s your choice, but it’s not mine. So, are we clear?”

And then Deputy Mitchell was there, oblivious to what he was interrupting, greeting them, babbling about something or other. Missouri turned on her heel, heading back to the sanitarium, and he watched her go, numb with emotion.

The deputy had been talking for several minutes before Bradshaw could let go of his own turmoil to comprehend his words. He took a few steps to get out of the surf’s reach, and the deputy, who was barefoot with his pant legs rolled up, followed him.

“Professor, now that I’ve spent time here, I don’t think I’ll want to leave when the job’s done. I’m wondering if they’d want to station a deputy full time up this way. Seems like it’d come in handy, especially once the railroad comes. What do you think, Professor?”

“The county might want somebody with a sharp eye and an aura of authority.” Bradshaw snapped, but his sarcasm was lost on the deputy.

“Exactly my thoughts.”

“You might get some practice here, deputy. One of the guests might try to flee.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t yet know, but as there are only four, perhaps you could watch them all.”

“Yes, of course, I have been.”

“Where are they now?”

Deputy Mitchell shrugged. “Here and there. In the house, on the beach. There’s nowhere else, really. You knew Loomis, you said?”

“Yes, I did, and it’s my current belief that he’s a con artist, so don’t trust a word he says.”

“He doesn’t say much to me, Professor, I—” the deputy rubbed his neck, and looked suddenly thoughtful, “—you spent some time with Martha today, Mrs. Hollister, I mean. How’s she holding up, you think?”

“Admirably.”

“She’s a good woman. She’d be a good mother; it was a shame about David not being able to, you know. She’s so strong, still working though her heart is breaking.”

Dear Heaven, the man was smitten with Martha. “Deputy, I will soon be speaking with the Thompsons, is there anything you can tell me about them that I might find useful?”

“She wears the pants in that marriage. Mr. Thompson only leaves his wife’s side when she orders him away. Or to have a cigarette.”

“Any idea why he’s so agitated?”

“Well, he’s pretty sick. And he seems to want out of here, that’s for sure.”

“What about Mr. Moss? Any thoughts on him?”

“He’s the sorriest rich man I’ve ever seen. Keeps to himself, mostly. I noticed Mr. Thompson tried to chat him up a few times of an evening, seeing how they have gold in common, you know, Moss digging it up and Thompson melting it down?”

“Mr. Thompson works at the Federal Assay Office?”

“Yes, the one in Seattle. A highly stressful job, it would seem. He’s antsy to return yet doesn’t want to, if you know what I mean. I’d be looking for a new job, if I were him. Life’s too short to stay in a place that makes you miserable. I left a half-dozen good paying jobs because the work didn’t agree with me.”

Bradshaw refrained from commenting that Mitchell should consider making it seven. “Did he explain what about his work he found so disagreeable?”

“He said it was a huge responsibility and he had to be so careful. I imagine it’s a bit like being a lawman. I mean, with criminals always a threat. It’s not easy relaxing when you never know if the next man you meet is more determined to commit a crime than you are to keep breathing.”

“A long soak in a hot tub followed by a spring shower would help.”

“Oh, indeed it does.”

“Did you come out here for a reason, Deputy? Something to tell me?”

“Huh? No, I just wanted to ask how Martha was holding up. She’s quite a good woman.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to change my shoes and get back to work.”

The deputy looked down. “Hey, you got your shoes wet.”

“Sharp eye, Deputy.” Bradshaw was treated to a pleased grin. As he tromped away, his feet cold and squishing, he muttered, “Heaven help Chehalis County.”

Chapter Twelve

The sky had faded to the soft hues of twilight by the time he met Mrs. Thompson on the front porch of Healing Sands. He’d spent the prior few hours in his cabin, taking notes and drawing a chart of suspects. It had been slow-going. One minute, he’d be intent upon recording a thought about the case, the next he’d find himself staring at the cabin wall, Missouri’s voice echoing in his head.
I love you. I’ve loved you from the minute I stepped up on your front porch on that rainy night and you opened the door with Justin and the two of you stood there, gawking at me. I knew I was home.

The answer to his unspoken question. What he saw in her eyes was love. Incredible. But now what? What did he do with the knowledge? What should he do? He was a man of routine and order and she was unconventional and free-spirited, and open-minded. Did she worry about that, too? Is that what she meant when she said, “
Instead of working out the very real differences that stand between us, you plod along and avoid facing them
?”

The question battled for his attention as he tried to press it away to focus on his notes. He didn’t have the energy to face another curdled meal, so he skipped dinner and took a walk to clear his head. He achieved, if not clarity, then at least a physical calm that allowed him to compartmentalize his thoughts.

On his way to the porch of the main house, he passed Zeb Moss, sitting alone on a log with a cigar. The tide was low, the wet packed sand stretching far to the water’s edge. Freddie Thompson and Arnold Loomis were together, staring out to sea. The wind whisked away the smoke from Loomis’ pipe and Freddie’s cigarette. Bradshaw wondered what they were discussing.

His mind was now focused on his job, but Missouri’s words,
I love you
, resided in him, in his heart, his chest, his fingers, his toes. He felt her words without thinking of them even as he kept his mind engaged on his task. A man had died here, a beloved man, and it was his job to sort out the truth.

As he climbed the porch steps, he thought of his conversation with Old Cedar, how the old man had seen Mrs. Thompson with both Loomis and Moss. He recalled what he’d witnessed between Mrs. Thompson and Loomis, him seeming to plead, her touching his face before pressing him away. Trouble, indeed. Was Ingrid Thompson simply a flirt? Or was she more than that? What was her interest in Loomis? And Moss?

She sat waiting for him in one of the rocking chairs, keeping up a quick tempo. A small woman, barely five feet, and sturdily built. He thought of peasants in fields when he looked at her, and of Martha’s comment that David had said Mrs. Thompson reminded him of someone from his childhood, just as she reminded Bradshaw of his late wife. Was that part of Mrs. Thompson’s attraction—the possession of certain features that reminded men of other such women in their lives?

“Good evening, Mrs. Thompson.” He removed his hat and sat in the rocker beside her, but he didn’t set it in motion.

She gave him a polite nod, but continued to rock, her face turned toward the view. “Evening, Professor.” Her voice was pleasant, clear and feminine, with a country not city rhythm.

“Why is it some of your party were allowed to leave this afternoon? They went off in that automobile.” She spoke with a charming petulance, a child wanting her way but with a woman’s flash of control in her eyes. She stopped rocking and looked him up and down approvingly. It was expertly executed. Even knowing she’d been using her methods on Loomis earlier, he felt foolishly flattered by her positive appraisal.