Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (30 page)

As they passed in the hall, he asked Moss, “Why did you tell me Arnold Loomis wore his slippers on the beach?”

Moss stood in the doorway of Ingrid’s bedroom. “Cause he did.”

“You saw him wearing slippers on the beach?”

“No, but he did. She told me he made a mess of them slippers and wore them into the house leaving sand everywhere.”

“Did you observe that yourself?”

“I slept in a cabin, didn’t I? What do I know about what they wear in the main house?”

They returned to their pacing and when they next met in the hall, Bradshaw asked, “Do you understand what happened with the electrotherapy machine? How it was altered and killed David Hollister?”

“What, you ain’t figured that out yet? I thought Captain Bell said it was Loomis who did something to it.”

“What did Loomis do to it?”

“I ain’t got a clue. I told you, I don’t know nothing about electricity.”

“Why do you think I was asking about the cheese wrapper?”

“Now, I’m glad you brought that up, Professor, because that’s had me stumped. Seemed petty to accuse a man of cheese stealing when you were ‘sposed to be figuring out how someone died.” A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Hey, but Loomis was sure fired up when you found it under his mattress.”

“How do you know it was under his mattress?”

“You said so.”

“When?”

“I dunno. Just now.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, that night in the library when you picked it apart and asked us if we knew what it was.”

“No, I intentionally did not say where in Loomis’ room I found it. I only said I found it in his room. How did you know it was under his mattress?”

“Dang nabbit, I put it there. And before you go blaming me for cheese stealing, I got a witness.”

“A witness to what? Not stealing cheese?”

“That’s right. Mrs. Thompson gimmee that wrapper, said it proved Loomis did something he ought not to have done.”

Bradshaw shook his head. Zebediah Moss truly was a decent, stupid man. Denser than dirt, as Henry had said. It was a wonder he’d managed to keep possession of his gold when he accidentally found it after falling off a cliff. The man needed protecting. Even after he was saved from Ingrid Thompson, there would be others lining up to take advantage of him to get his money. When this was all over, he would introduce Moss to his lawyer.

“I want you to think very carefully, Mr. Moss. Whose idea was it to put that cheese wrapper in Loomis’ room? Was it your idea, or Mrs. Thompson’s?”

“Mine. All mine. She said that what with the handyman dying, it didn’t seem nice to worry the Hornsby’s about what Loomis done, but she felt bad he was gonna get away with it. So I told her it ought to go in his room. Then later it’d get found. And it did, you found it. He was sure mad, wasn’t he? Teach him to go round stealing cheese and flirting with other men’s wives.”

“Weren’t you flirting with another man’s wife?”

“No, I weren’t. I behaved the perfect gentleman with her. She needed a friend and I didn’t offer her no more than that until she was a widow.” Moss marched off, cocky and proud, and it took another half hour of reminding him about the bodies in the cellar, the deceitful letters luring men here, and the deaths at Healing Sands, before Moss again declared he would not be Ingrid’s next victim.

Moss’ vacillation didn’t bode well. If they had to detain Ingrid for very long, Moss would become more of a hindrance than a help. Bradshaw hoped with each glance out the window that Henry and Captain Bell would arrive before Ingrid Thompson.

They did not.

Moss spotted her first. His involuntary gasp alerted Bradshaw, who hurried to Moss’ side in Ingrid’s room, peering through the sheers. She’d come by the road, riding a donkey and leading a second animal, unconcerned that she might be recognized.

She slid off the donkey and stared at the house, her expression unreadable but hard, her square jaw thrust unattractively forward. Was she looking for Moss? Wondering why boards had been removed from the windows? She’d abandoned mourning black and high fashion. In a practical brown summer suit and sturdy ankle boots, she was dressed to travel by train, donkey, or foot.

The donkeys moved away a few feet to nibble on grass. She followed to untie the pack from the saddle.

Bradshaw’s pulse raced. He had a length of sturdy twine in his pocket, but to face her he needed a weapon. She was small but strong, and she could be armed with a knife. He grabbed the heaviest thing he spotted, a brass candlestick, one of a pair, and stuffed it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

Moss looked sick.

“Be strong,” Bradshaw whispered. “I won’t let her harm you.

Moss’ eyes widened and he grabbed the other candlestick.

Bradshaw shook his head.

“You got one!” Moss hissed, refusing to relinquish the candlestick.

“It’s hidden. I don’t want her to feel outnumbered or physically threatened the minute she walks in.” Bradshaw pried the candlestick from Moss’ grip and pressed him toward the stairs. “Down you go.”

With Bradshaw pushing him, Moss stepped down the stairs. They paused in the dim parlor, listening. Footsteps outside paced around to the back of the house and crossed the porch, then the kitchen door squeaked open.

A sweet, feminine, sane voice called, “Zebediah Moss, are you here?”

Moss froze. Bradshaw nudged him forward, whispering, “Answer her.”

Moss croaked, “Here.” Bradshaw prodded him until they entered the kitchen.

Ingrid Thompson stood just inside the open door, sunshine flooding in behind her, illuminating the filth. She registered no surprise at seeing Bradshaw. She registered no emotion at all. With anyone else, he would say that revealed remarkable self-control. But Ingrid Thompson had no genuine emotion save self-preservation.

Her expression remained blank, her eyes like dark, lifeless marbles under their sultry lids, shifting from Bradshaw to Moss, where they lingered. And then, quickly, she transformed herself. Her eyes lit with life as she tilted her head quizzically, and a smile hovered around her mouth, softening the masculine line of her jaw.

“What’s going on?” She tossed her hat on the table, giving her head a feminine toss, her fingers fluffing her hair. “I believe the warm weather is returning.”

She moved toward the sink. “I could use a drink. Have either of you primed the pump?”

“I did,” said Bradshaw.

“Thank you, Professor.” She pumped the handle to get the water flowing then sipped from the stream, running her tongue along her lips. She cupped her palm to capture a pool and took several long swallows. “The water is so cold and refreshing here. I appreciate that now, but as a child, I hated how long it took to heat for a bath. We’d put the old tin tub right there next to the table. I dreaded Sundays.” She loosened her collar, stroked her neck with her damp hand, and lifted her hair. “Funny isn’t it, how things we hated in childhood we love as adults? I take a long hot bath everyday now. Just turn on the tap and out comes hot water. I do love the modern life at the Lincoln.”

Moss had said nothing, nor had he moved.

“The pair of you certainly know how to make a lady uncomfortable.” She smiled at Bradshaw, and he felt every muscle in his body tense. He now knew what prey felt when confronted by a predator. Her smiled slipped to a pout. “You’re not here to put me under some sort of citizen’s arrest, are you, Professor?”

“You were on the same train as Mr. Moss?”

“Why, yes. You are a good detective.”

Bradshaw calculated her timing. If she’d traveled on the same train as Moss from Seattle to Hoquiam, she would have barely managed to hire the donkeys and make the journey to the house by the road. She must have mailed Moss directions to follow the newly laid, unused railway and the shortcut through the forest so they wouldn’t be spotted together and he wouldn’t be seen heading here.

As clear as it was to Bradshaw, it was like mud to Moss. His face contorted as he looked at Ingrid, trying to work it out.

Bradshaw said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Not really.” She waved off Moss with a tender frown. “Mr. Moss agreed to rescue me in my time of need. He is a very dear friend.”

Moss looked more confused than ever, but Bradshaw knew it wasn’t the right time to explain. Ingrid’s arrival now meant they must detain her for several hours, or overnight, and he refused to play prison guard that long, especially with Zeb Moss as his deputy.

“Mrs. Thompson,” Bradshaw deliberately choose the name he felt would elicit the least reaction, “Captain Bell requested you remain in Seattle until the end of his investigation. I will now escort you and Mr. Moss back to Hoquiam.”

“Must we go so soon? I’m exhausted.” She pulled out a chair and sat, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn. “You were very clever to find my old family home, Professor. How did you do it?”

“I had a drawing of your likeness. You were recognized.”

“Well…you can’t blame a girl for trying. Freddie simply ruined my life with his thieving ways, and I thought I could get a fresh start here. He never knew about the place. I was a bit ashamed of it. He couldn’t have put his stolen gold here, so there’s no use looking. Or have you discovered that already?”

Her gaze slid from the cellar door to Bradshaw.

He’d looked into the eyes of many who’d killed. He’d seen anger, fear, regret, defiance. Always some powerful emotion protecting or masking the soul within that still held the potential for redemption. In Ingrid Thompson’s eyes he saw nothing redeemable. Nothing human. What had gone wrong with her? How had she become a monster?

While she was without conscience, she wasn’t without strength, and she was healthy and cunning. She knew her freedom hung in the balance as she stared into his eyes, and he knew she was plotting the most efficient way to kill him.

He said,“We must go now.”

She shifted to her new, stupefied husband. “Mr. Moss, you’re being awfully quiet. Won’t you take my side and tell the good Professor I need time to rest?”

Moss swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Course I will.” He rubbed his neck, turning his head in Bradshaw’s direction without meeting his eye. “Lady needs rest, Professor.”

Bradshaw couldn’t spare Ingrid time to scheme or Moss time to fall apart. He had to get them both outside immediately, and tie her hands before she mounted one of the donkeys. He would ride the other animal to stay apace of her, and Moss would have to take the bicycle.

“On your feet, Mrs. Thompson.”

Mrs. Thompson yawned and stretched again, reaching a hand out to Moss. She gave a playful laugh when he hesitated. “It’s all right, Mr. Moss, we are married. You can take my hand.”

Moss shuffled toward her, but Bradshaw stepped between them blocking Moss from her, fearing her touch would crumple the man.

She lifted her glowing eyes to Bradshaw and smiled, slowly trailing the fingertips of her outstretched hand down his jacket. When he felt the pressure of her fingers on his thigh, he grabbed her wrist, pressing her arm away.

Her eyes flashed at him under those sultry lids. “I heard I resemble your late wife, Professor. Is that true?” She tugged her arm, and he gripped harder.

In less time than it took to blink, expression vanished from her features and she was once again blank, a porcelain doll staring up at him.

She struggled to be free of his grasp, but he held fast as he dug into his pocket for the twine to tie her hands. He opened his mouth to tell Moss to go ready the donkeys, and the words had not yet formed when he heard a grating sound, and something heavy and solid slammed against his skull and bounced down to crack against his shoulder. He thought,
cast iron pan
, before crumpling, and the world went black.

Chapter Thirty-nine

His sense of smell came around first. The ripe, metallic scent of decay hit his nostrils like some kind of horrific smelling salts. His eyes flashed open to utter darkness, pain throbbed in his head and down his neck to his shoulder blade, and he felt damp, gritty earth beneath him.

Oh, God. The cellar. The morgue.

Panic flashed through him and he thrust his arm over his mouth and nose both to filter the smell through the cloth of his jacket and to prevent himself from hyperventilating. Something tickled his cheek, something small but multi-legged, and he swiped at his face, choking down panic.

Only his right arm had obeyed his command. The other remained motionless, lifeless but for the pain that shot down to his wrist.

He allowed himself a piercing, mental scream before taking charge and thrusting his mind out of the cellar. He visualized the university, Mount Rainier, his home, Justin. But his son’s image, and the idea the boy might grow up without him brought back the panic, so he pictured Missouri standing before him with the ocean wind blowing her hair and her eyes looking directly into his.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
He heard her words to him, and he echoed them back to her as he should have done that day on the beach. Why hadn’t he? What was wrong with him? What could be more important than loving her?