Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (13 page)

“None of my party was here at the time of David Hollister’s death. We are free to come and go as long as we inform the deputy.”

“That hardly seems fair. Will they return?” Her sense of fairness apparently revolved around her own needs. In that way, she was like Rachel. But her bluntness was vastly different. Rachel had had the annoying ability to mention something in a circuitous manner, leaving him feeling vaguely guilty for something not his fault.

He remained silent to see her reaction. She smiled, then bit her lip with a questioning lift of her brow. He allowed a small smile of response. He was aware that after recent events on the beach he would find a cockroach charming. Still, she did possess something that made a man feel singled out, attractive.

A few seagulls exchanged words. She twirled a lock of dark hair that tickled her neck. She licked her lips.

He cleared his throat. “What is your theory about what happened to Mr. Hollister?”

She tipped her head, her expression full of pity. “I didn’t know the man. He was the handyman here. Married to the cook, I’m told. Such a shame.”

“So you never spoke with him?”

“Only to ask about the laundry and such.”

“What about your husband?”

She gave a little sigh. “Freddie talks with everyone. He’s hopelessly friendly, a regular gadabout. I’ve tried being like him, but I’m no good at finding that balance.”

“Balance?”

“Oh, you know, if I chat up the maids, they soon stop doing their jobs properly. I don’t seem to have an aura of command. No queens of England in my ancestry. Only courtesans and a few indentured servants.” She tilted her head and said with mock disapproval, “My grandmother was mistress to some duke or other in Cornwall. I inherited her eyes, but not much else.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do see, Professor. You can’t know what it’s like to be a woman in this world without beauty or wealth.”

Mrs. Hornsby said that Mrs. Thompson came from a wealthy home. Did she now resent her choice of husband? Did she regret being tied to a man with a modest income? Is that why she flirted with Loomis and Moss? Hoping for expensive gifts? He said, “Beauty and wealth are subjective, Mrs. Thompson.”

She laughed. “I don’t know what you mean by that, Professor, but I know what it’s like to not have enough of either. Are you rich?”

“Not hardly.”

“No? That’s disappointing. You’re smart enough to be rich, I’m sure of that.”

He smiled at her attempt to flatter him as he looked out at the figures on the beach. Freddie Thompson flung down a cigarette end, fished another from his pocket case, and a match flared. “Your husband appears greatly agitated.”

She sat back. “I’m not at all impressed with Healing Sands. The curdled meals, the herbal teas. And all those horrid milk dishes.”

“You seemed to enjoy your meal this afternoon.”

“Yes, well, I’ve discovered that if you don’t breathe through your nose, you don’t notice the taste as much. And I must admit my skin has never looked better.” She touched her fingertips to her jaw line. “But as far as I can tell those little white pills Dr. Hornsby dispenses, calls it homeopathy, are just milk sugar. Even he says the amount of medicine in them is so small it can’t be measured. I ask you? How is that supposed to work?”

Bradshaw could have argued well on behalf of homeopathy, having heard Missouri on the subject many times, and he had witnessed healing that could not be attributed to the so-called placebo effect.

“Your husband is ill?”

“Oh, Dr. Hornsby says he’s accumulated toxins and must be flushed, and I won’t describe the horrors of that procedure. Freddie felt he needed a rest cure and he refused to go anywhere else but here. He’s unsettled all the time, jumpy. His stomach plagues him. He blames the stress of his job, says it’s weakening his nerves.”

“Why doesn’t he quit?”

“He says he must soldier on. I told Dr. Hornsby Freddie wasn’t behaving normally.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he’s a doctor. He’s supposed to make people well.”

“I meant, what about your husband’s behavior isn’t normal?”

“Oh, he’s a jangle of nerves. He’s always been fidgety and short-tempered and cruel, but now he goes about muttering and pulling his hair. It’s disturbing.”

Cruel? She’d slipped that word in there so casually—what did she mean by it? “But if it’s the strain of his job making him ill, then the doctor can’t be expected to provide a cure, can he?”

“He’s expected to do something for the amount of money he’s being paid.” She yawned, and tilted her head back, setting the rocker slowly going again.

“Did you know that Mr. Hollister was having electrotherapy treatments?”

“We were told that Freddie was the only one having electric treatments. Afterward, we were told it had been a secret, that even his wife, the cook, didn’t know.”

“Your rooms are on the second floor?”

She halted the rocking and lifted an eyebrow at him. “Why yes, the back corner. My room has a view of the ocean out the north window.”

“Are you aware of the comings and goings to Dr. Hornsby’s office?”

She gave a little shrug, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not in the habit of prying into the concerns of other people.”

“Well, then, what about your husband. Did he at any time enter Dr. Hornsby’s office before or after consultation hours?”

“I don’t keep track of my husband’s every move. And he doesn’t keep track of mine.” The invitation in her eyes couldn’t be clearer. He’d forgotten what it was like to be flirted with, or rather, to be aware of being flirted with. He knew it was his awareness that made him different tonight. He took a deep breath and tried to focus.

“Do either of you know anything about electricity?”

“What would we know?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“It makes bulbs light up.”

“Nothing more?”

“I tried one of those electric hair curlers that you screw into the light socket, but it burnt my hair so I got rid of it.”

“Has your husband had any training with electrical devices? At work, perhaps?”

“Not that he’s ever told me.”

With her hair over her shoulder, and her eyes half-closed, she looked more than ever like Rachel. Yet unlike Rachel, she was so easy to read, her every thought and emotion verbalized, her attempt at seducing him blatant.

“Your husband is cruel, you said?”

He looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate, knowing she wanted to.

“He hits me, if you must know. Forces me to submit to him. Is that clear enough?”

Her demeanor had changed, hardened. Gone was the playfulness. In its place was what, hatred? No, it was more controlled than that. And colder.

He thought of what he’d observed of them today at lunch. Appearances could be deceiving—his own marriage had looked idyllic from the outside. But the power roles were off here. His own wife in public had fawned on him, not been demanding. Or was that the game of the Thompsons’ marriage, in private he dominated then regretted, and in public she had control?

“Why do you stay with him?”

“I could say I made a vow, but that’s not why. The truth is I’m afraid to leave him, to be on my own. Who would take care of me? I suppose I’ll have to figure it out soon enough. Now he’s dying, I’ll be left alone.”

“His condition is that serious?”

“He took a turn for the worse the other night, I thought he wouldn’t recover. He had a reaction to the glowing sand. Did you see it? No, you weren’t here. The ocean and sand were blue, all sparkly blue. Frightening and thrilling at the same time. I told Freddie he should stay away from it. A man in his condition, already weak, shouldn’t dip his hands in phosphorus. Everyone knows phosphorus is poisonous. But he wouldn’t listen. He swam in it. Well, I tried. He was sick in the night, miserable. What did he expect? He must not have swallowed much though, he wasn’t glowing.”

Anger flashed through Bradshaw. He wanted to tell her not to be so stupid. It wasn’t phosphorus in the water that made it glow. Phosphorus was a mineral, a chemical element. Yes, it glowed, but that didn’t mean everything that glowed contained phosphorus. What silenced him was the knowledge he would be explaining out of anger, to belittle her. He felt the urge to be mean. He wanted to tell her she was stupid and selfish and ridiculous, her flirtation obvious and unwelcome. But he possessed enough self-awareness to know he was angry at himself, not Ingrid Thompson. Angry that he’d been told what he so longed to hear from Missouri and he still could not decide what to do.

He looked at Mrs. Thompson with a critical eye. “You don’t wear the felt slippers provided?”

“Oh, no. They’re too flat. I need a heel or my back hurts.” She lifted a small foot and rotated her ankle to display the silk house-shoes with the low heel, material unsuitable for street or beach use. They would have been ruined had she worn them on the beach. “Freddie sent for these from Aberdeen. We put felt on the bottom so the doctor couldn’t complain.” She yawned again without apology. “Are we done, Professor?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I’ll find you if I have more questions.”

She rose from the rocker and headed for the front door. She had a sturdy stride with a feminine swing, making him think again of hardy peasants. He looked toward Freddie, a stick of a man, hunched with illness, arms hanging limp at his sides. If he’d ever forced himself on his wife, surely those days were over.

Chapter Thirteen

That night, he didn’t sleep. He sat on the porch of his small cabin, wrapped in a wool blanket, watching the ocean, the white foam crests illuminated by starlight. There wasn’t much wind. Gentle steady waves built to a deep rumble, a small crash, and a hiss of withdrawal.

The hotel in Everett near the theater, where he’d stayed with Ann, had been near the waterfront. In the early morning hours when all was still, the gentle wash of the tide would carry through the open window. Just as they were drifting off to sleep, they’d hear the sea birds waking. He’d met Ann while working on a case. She’d been the lead actress at the Seattle Grand, and still was, when she wasn’t touring. She had generous curves, a big voice, and a bigger heart. The audiences loved her. And Bradshaw? What did he feel for her? They’d actually talked about love and decided the word didn’t fit them, not in the romantic sense. Which made them laugh considering where they were when they made that decision. He said he adored her, and she said good, and they’d laughed again. He’d thought how shocked his friends and colleagues would be if they’d seen him laughing so much. His laughter would likely surprise them more than his affair.

Ann had a colorful and at times troubled life, only she handled trauma with much more aplomb then he did, finding humor in dark moments, and proverbial silver linings in every cloud. Which reminded him of Missouri.

Missouri knew about Ann. He groaned and hugged the blanket more tightly around his shoulders against the cold night wind.

How had she known? And how could she approve? In hindsight, yes, the relationship had been liberating. But Missouri’s approval staggered him, as did her pronouncement today. She loved him. Yet it seemed impossible he could ever have with her what he’d had with Ann. He’d had nothing to lose with Ann. He’d not feared harming her or changing her or holding her back from what her life could be.

Missouri was different. With Missouri, everything was at stake.

At dawn, Justin came padding across the sand barefoot, dressed in beach clothes under his wool jacket.

Bradshaw said, “You’re up early.”

“I’m going exploring,” he said, but he squeezed into the rocker with Bradshaw, and they rocked companionably watching the sky brighten and seagulls dive for their breakfast.

“Where’s Paul?”

“Sleeping. He snores. Will you have to work all day?”

“I don’t yet know. I’m sorry I missed your sand castle yesterday. Did the crabs attack?”

“No, they ran away. Paul and I are going to build a fort with driftwood. Is that OK?”

“Yes, I think that’s a fine plan.”

“Could you come see it when it’s done?”

“Build it out of the reach of the tide, and I’ll be sure to see it.”

“Did you figure out yet how Mr. Hollister died?”

“No, son. I’m still investigating.”

“Did Doctor Hornsby make a mistake with the settings?”

“No, he did nothing wrong.”

“Paul said that if the doctor didn’t mess up, then Mr. Hollister must have done it himself.”

“What do you mean, son?”

“Mr. Hollister must have done something to make the machine deadly. It couldn’t have killed anyone otherwise. You showed it to me when you built it. I was just a kid then, only in the first grade, but I remember. Why would someone do that to the machine?”

“That’s a question I can’t yet answer.”

“Paul says Mr. Hollister might have wanted to die. He said that’s called suicide.”

The dread word caught Bradshaw by surprise. He managed to say, “Paul certainly has a breadth of knowledge beyond his years.”