Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (14 page)

“It’s because he’s got big sisters. They talk all the time, on and on and on.”

“Some people are like that.”

“You’re not. You don’t talk unless you’ve got something important to say.”

“Thank you, son.”

“So it’s true? That sometimes people do kill themselves?”

What should he say? For the past decade, he knew he would one day need to have such a conversation with Justin. Several times the secret of his mother’s suicide had been used as a threat. It would be better for Justin to hear it from him than from anyone else. But now? The boy was too young. He couldn’t.

He said carefully, “Sometimes people who aren’t well feel so bad they don’t want to go on living. There are some illnesses doctors don’t yet know how to fix.”

Justin turned and looked at him, searching his eyes. “Was my mother one of those sick people who didn’t want to go on living?”

It was as if the air had vanished. Bradshaw couldn’t breathe. What had he said? How had the boy guessed?

Justin said, “You used the voice you always use when I ask about her.”

“I use a different voice?”

“It’s real quiet. Like you’re afraid of hurting me. Is that why you’re always so sad when you talk about her?”

Bradshaw nodded, hating he was admitting it, knowing he could do nothing else. “Yes, son. The doctors couldn’t help her.” He wrapped his arm around the boy and held him tight, resting his cheek on the boy’s fair head.

Justin knew. The horrible secret was out. No details, those would come later. He felt no measure of relief that he no longer had to hide the fact. A weight had sunk like cement to his gut and there he was sure it would remain forever. He was sick that his son now knew something so awful.

Justin said, “You wouldn’t ever want to die, would you?”

“No, never.”

“What if you got sick? Something the doctor’s couldn’t fix?”

“I would always want to live to see what sort of mischief you’ve been up to.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. In fact, I think I’ll aim for a hundred and two, so that I can see all the mischief your grandchildren get up to.”

“A hundred and two! How old are you now?”

“I turned thirty-eight in June.”

Justin was quick with mental arithmetic. “That would mean you’ll live until 1967!”

“What do you suppose will have been invented by then, son?”

“Oh, flying machines, for sure. Maybe even spaceships.”

“You think? That’s not just the stuff of fiction?”

“If you can imagine it, you can make it, isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“I do. Glad to hear you’ve been listening.” His stomached growled so loudly, Justin began to laugh.

“Maybe we should go up to the house and see if there’s any breakfast.”

“Oh, it’ll be another hour or so yet. How about we go explore the beach together until then.”

“Really? You’ll come with me?” Justin jumped up. “Come on, there’s a gigantic starfish trapped in a pool you’ve got to see!”

Chapter Fourteen

A rich, warm fragrance greeted them in the dining room, and for a moment Bradshaw silently begged,
please let there be coffee
. The origin of the teasing aroma turned out to be brewed roasted barley. Mellow, slightly sweet, non-stimulating. His taste buds told him it wasn’t coffee or Postum, his favored evening drink, but it was better than anything he’d been served thus far.

As Justin was busy dishing up his breakfast in the kitchen, Bradshaw pulled Mrs. Prouty out into the hall. Her broad face showed a touch of color, and the tip of her nose was pink from the sun. Her solid and sturdy no-nonsense stance bolstered Bradshaw even though the red stripes of her bathing costume showed though her shirtwaist. Ten years ago, when Mrs. Prouty was newly arrived from England, he’d chosen her from a lineup of housekeepers, and today he was especially grateful for her unwavering presence in Justin’s life.

“What is it, Professor? You look a fright this morning. Not sleeping well? You know how you get when you don’t sleep. You black out. Remember when you lost a whole day when you were searching for that peddler’s child? You do that here and the tide’ll come take you away.”

“Mrs. Prouty, it’s about Justin. He has learned that his mother’s death was self-inflicted.”

She gave a small gasp, but otherwise took the news with her usual fortitude.

“He doesn’t know any details. He believes she was ill and unhappy and the doctors couldn’t help her. I wanted you to know in case he asks questions or he seems quiet or upset.”

“Why did you tell him?”

“I didn’t, he guessed. With everything happening here, he began thinking. The important thing now is to keep an eye on him.”

“As his father, it’s your place to answer his questions. What would you like me to say if he asks me anything?”

“If they’re general questions, and you feel comfortable, answer them, otherwise, tell him to come see me.”

“I’m so sorry, Professor.”

“Me, too.”

When they returned to the kitchen, false smiles on their faces, Bradshaw tried to bypass the grain portion of the meal, but Mrs. Hornsby caught him with just the barley drink and berries and offered him fat slices of sourdough bread lavishly buttered. It was only after he accepted that he realized the butter today was dark yellow, not pale.

He and Mrs. Prouty joined Justin and Paul. They appeared their usual, boyish selves. Had Justin told Paul, he wondered? And might not that be a good thing? Paul was a worldly little fellow who liked to boast of his acquired knowledge, finding the world’s traumas a constant source of entertainment. Yet the more sensational, the more he liked to shrug and take it in stride.

Each boy now sat before a bowl of congealed fermented millet, topped with wild blueberries. The millet was lighter in texture than the oats had been, and slimier. Bradshaw was slightly queasy watching the boys devour it. All the fresh air had made them ravenous and less picky than they tended to be at home. A tentative bite told him what he feared—fishy. Mrs. Thompson’s trick of avoiding breathing through the nose helped, but it was far from an enjoyable meal.

The Thompsons ate alone. Freddie served them both while Ingrid sat immersed in an issue of
The Smart Set: A Magazine of Cleverness
. Bradshaw had seen a copy of that once. Once was enough. Long, dreary stories of society and fashion and the sort of events and romantic maneuverings he avoided like the plague. Little quips and jokes and poems of indecisive women longing for hats and men and devotion. He gave a little shudder and continued his perusal of the room.

Like yesterday, Loomis and Moss sat together, eating solitary meals, speaking not at all. Did their silent companionship mean anything? Or did they simply not like to eat a meal in public alone?

The chatter of his students and Mrs. Prouty, along with the clink of utensils, lent a gay normalcy from which Bradshaw felt excluded. Missouri had not come to breakfast.

To quiet his grumbling stomach, he finished his bread and barley tea before heading out to the beach with his students to get them started on their project for the day.

“Look about you,” he told the four young men, for Colin and Henry had not yet returned, “and observe a bounty of energy sources. How many can you name?”

“Wind, sun, water, wood,” chanted Knut.

“Yes, any more?”

“Chemical?” asked Miles. “Like acids, salts, minerals?”

“Yes, any more?”

“Oil maybe? Or natural gas?”

“Possibly, someone down the coast is hoping so. Any more?”

“Whales,” said Oren. “You know, blubber.”

“Not easy to secure, but yes. There are even more energy sources, and as you go through the day, take note of any you think of. Your mission today is to harness a source of energy to produce electric power. You may use anything from the crate.” He waved his hand over the supply he’d brought of odds and ends from the engineering lab. “And anything you can scavenge from the beach or woods. You are not to take anything that is the property of Healing Sands.”

They reached into the crate and began pulling out items, debating about what energy source to use until Knut shouted, “Hey, they’re back!”

With a long toot of a ridiculous sounding horn, Henry and Colin inched their way across the shallowest portion of the creek, and once successfully across, raced toward them on the hard-packed sand. The lesson was momentarily interrupted to welcome them back. Justin and Paul came running, and even Mrs. Prouty got up from her beach chair to greet Henry and Colin as if they’d been on a long adventure rather than an overnighter to Hoquiam.

Henry had brought kite kits for the small boys, which earned him hugs, and chocolate for Mrs. Prouty, which earned him a smile. Colin had brought back the makings of a large box kite and asked permission to build it.

“Like the Wrights built a few years ago. The conditions are perfect here for flying it.”

Bradshaw considered the request a moment and decided Colin’s enthusiasm was the sort that fueled invention. And he liked the idea that this additional project would keep him too busy to make puppy eyes at Missouri. “Yes, but build it near the others so that you can take part in the assignment. The others will explain.”

“Someone else is coming!” Paul pointed toward the creek at a horse-drawn wagon.

Henry said, “That’s the postman. We came across on the same steamer.” He lifted a hand in greeting as the driver leaped from the wagon with his mail bag and gave a hearty hail before hurrying up to the house. He dropped the bag on the porch and was on his way with a wave.

Henry said, “He’s gotta get a move on or he’ll miss the tide further up. You free?”

“In a minute. I need to get my students set up.”

“Right. Meet me at your place.”

Henry pulled the Stanley over to Camp Franklin Cabin and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, Bradshaw found his friend in stockinged feet at the small table with a sturdy cardboard box and two fat manila envelopes, being annoyingly perky as he gave Bradshaw an assessing sweep.

“Why the hang-dog look?”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Well, I did. Colin and I shacked up at the Grand Hoquiam, that big place at the station? We had a big old steak dinner, and a salmon fillet, a
cooked
salmon, the size of my left arm, lots of
sweet
butter and potatoes, not a bit of fiber or green vegetable or yellow milk to be seen. Topped it off with a few whiskeys. Poor boy said I snored something awful, heard me clean in the next room. Had to push his bed to the other side to get any peace. Ha! Brought us back some contraband, if you’re feeling peckish.”

“Coffee?”

“And a pot and mugs.”

“Henry, I love you.”

“Ha!”

They built a fire in the small wood stove and got the coffee percolating. The smell made Bradshaw happily woozy.

Henry said, “I can’t make this in my room, I’ll come visit you mornings before breakfast. I’ll stash the rest of the essentials here, too. Don’t hog’em.” He’d brought whiskey, chocolate, tinned cookies, cigars, beef jerky, and Bradshaw’s favored evening drink, Postum, which reflected their friendship. Henry never touched the stuff.

“Ben, is that—?” Henry was looking at the urn in the corner. For nearly two years now, Bradshaw had kept it at home as he searched for the proper final resting place, shifting it from one inconspicuous spot to another. One didn’t put the ashes of a convicted murderer on display. He’d tried his own bedroom, but its presence haunted his sleep. He’d tried his closet, but that had felt cruel, so hidden away. He’d settled on a shelf in his basement workshop, visible to him and Henry, unnoticed by others, knowing it still wasn’t right.

“He wrote of the ocean in his journal,” Bradshaw said.

“You’re a better man than me.”

“No, Henry. It’s simply that I knew him, perhaps better than anyone.”

“He tried to kill you.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Over a meal of coffee, shortbread, and jerky, they began to examine the contents of the manila envelopes that had arrived on the night train in Hoquiam. Professor Hill had exceeded Bradshaw’s expectations. In the envelope, he found his diagrams and notes, and a 1901 issue of
American Electrician
, bookmarked at a paragraph in the Anecdote section about a Mr. Arnold Loomis of Seattle, Washington, who had demonstrated a superior electrotheraputic outfit to physicians in Spokane the previous year, taken deposits, and failed to deliver the promised apparatus. The editor had found Mr. Loomis in Portland, Oregon, and was assured production delays would soon be solved.

Henry said, “You subscribe to this magazine, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t always read it cover-to-cover.” He thought of Well’s time machine again, and wished he could go back and see this.

Squirrel also impressed him at the speed of his work. He couldn’t have had more than two hours to search, yet he’d sent clippings of the announcement of the opening of Healing Sands, the engagement of Martha Hornsby to David Hollister, the arrival of the gold ship bearing Zebediah Moss, and the wedding of Ingrid Colby to Frederick Thompson of Seattle. He’d also found an article that mentioned Arnold Loomis had taken part in a business meeting on developing Washington’s resources and that he’d “had keen insight into the potential of the coast with the expansion of the railroad.”