Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (11 page)

He didn’t wonder at this sudden intimacy between them. It arose from the same instinct as saving a stranger from drowning.

At first, he didn’t speak. But when he felt her grip loosen slightly, he began to talk of simple things. He didn’t try to tell her all would be well. He knew such words were useless, even offensive. Worst of all were the platitudes that claimed a devastating tragedy was “meant to be,” part of some grand plan devised by a higher power. A man of faith, Bradshaw nevertheless could not bring himself to believe that a loving and powerful entity would devise any sort of plan that could only bring about heavenly peace through human suffering.

He spoke quietly of the ocean, currents, and water flow. He spoke of the time he’d fallen into the Snoqualmie River and found himself clinging to a rock at the edge of the falls.

She looked at him, pulled momentarily out of her misery by his story. But she couldn’t sustain the distractive thought.

“I haven’t cried yet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“It takes time. How long had you been married?”

“Seven years. Seems I’ve always known him. We were children when his family moved to Joe’s Creek. That’s up the beach a ways. He did a lot of handy work for us. Back then, my father’s practice was in Aberdeen and he was only home a few days a week. You think this stretch of beach is empty now, you should have seen it then. Just one other white family within ten miles of us. But we loved it, and we made friends with Old Cedar and some of the young people from his tribe.”

“Can you tell me about David?”

A small tight smile brought tears to her eyes, and she let go of his hand a bit shyly, now that her mood had calmed. “David was smart, and gentle, and always working on something. Even as a child, he liked to build things. He was quiet. He wasn’t one to need conversation to feel comfortable with other people.”

Bradshaw continued asking about David and learned that he had built the washhouse and the machines from reading about them in magazines and newspapers and looking at the designs in journals. “He rolled the old millwheel here from Hoquiam, he and a half dozen friends. It took them a week, and then it was too heavy to mount to the frame he’d built. He had to construct a giant hoist. Over the years, he tried to get all sorts of things running with belts and drive shafts, just to see what sort of motion he could get. When my father announced he was going to build Healing Sands, David was thrilled when he realized how much laundry there’d be. By then he’d built a washing machine, you see, that most of the families on North Beach came to use. They still come once a month. David traveled to Seattle and Portland, and hauled back scrap metal, used parts and motors, and that’s the washhouse we have today.”

“I’d love to see it, when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” she said.

It took only a few minutes to follow the path down and around the base of the cliff to the weathered washhouse. Inside, the noise of the spinning water turbine was like standing at the ocean’s edge on a stormy day, but the drive belts of the laundry system weren’t engaged and so the noise was bearable.

Martha raised her voice. “Two years ago, David added the dynamo to the turbine so we could have light at the house.” She led Bradshaw past several washing machines consisting of stationary tubs with inner cylinders of perforated staves and reverse motion paddles to prevent tangling. He marveled at the mangle wringers and the massive ventilated drying cabinet with racks that slid in and out, and the starching and ironing machines for shirts, collars, and cuffs. If he hadn’t chosen to specialize in electricity, he might have gone mechanical. There was an invigorating allure to a well-designed machine, its parts working smoothly in rhythm and performing a task.

“He changed over the boiler last year to this electric one. We used to dedicate a full day each week to cutting and hauling wood to feed the furnace; but now, the creek does the work for us.”

A storage room with a workbench contained David’s tools and supplies. Within seconds, Bradshaw found a roll of block tin foil and several spools of wire, although, as with every conductive item in the house, it was impossible for him to determine if anything here had been used to sabotage the electric outfit.

Lastly, Martha showed him David’s rotating hot air towel dryer. She said, “This is what has made our guests the happiest. I’d bet we have the softest towels of anyone in the world. The only drawback is the towels don’t last as long. They leave a bit of themselves behind as fluff each time we dry them and, so we find we have to budget for new towels.”

“All the other buildings here have names. Does the washhouse?”

“No. David never found one that felt right, and then we got used to calling it the washhouse.”

“Have any Healing Sands’ patients been in here?”

“We give all the guests a tour when they first arrive. David enjoyed that.”

“Did any of them come back at another time? The current guests, I mean.”

“Mr. Moss and Mr. Loomis were here often. I’m not sure about the Thompsons. I’m in the kitchen much of the time. David would be the one to ask. It doesn’t seem possible that we can’t ask him.”

She looked at David’s machines, biting her lip, then steadying herself with a deep breath. “He wasn’t what you’d call a social man, my David. He was quiet, like I told you, so I don’t think the guests made a habit of coming to speak with him, although he was always happy to answer questions about how his system works. He did mention he spoke to Mrs. Thompson once, not long after she and her husband arrived. She reminded him of someone he once knew in Hoquiam, but it turns out she was no relation. She has that sort of face that seems familiar. Those sleepy eyes.”

Bradshaw thought it interesting that women often called such eyes sleepy while men called them sultry.

She said, “I know enough about how it all works to keep doing laundry, but without David, if something breaks, we won’t know how to fix it.”

It was a problem without an easy answer. There weren’t many with the skills to maintain and repair a modern laundry, and those who could weren’t likely to want to move to this remote location.

“Does the creek flow all year?”

“Yes, it’s fed from an underground spring. Even on the coldest days, we have lights and laundry.” She smiled sadly. “Did you ever read the book,
The Time Machine
, Professor? I can’t say I much liked it. Very strange. But right now I’d love one of those machines. I’d go back just two months and wait for the mail to arrive with that first letter Mr. Loomis sent to my father, and I’d burn it. Then Loomis would never have come and David would still be here.”

Bradshaw wondered how far back in time he’d go. He couldn’t undo his marriage to Rachel without losing Justin. After his birth then? And what would he do differently? Have Rachel committed to an asylum to protect her from herself? Who would have believed him? To everyone but him and her parents, she appeared so normal. Could he have prevented her suicide? If he’d stopped her from drinking poison that awful night, would he now still be married to her, living in fear each day of what she might do next?

“Professor?” Martha was looking at him with concern.

He told her what he’d told her father. “What-ifs come unbidden after tragedies, Mrs. Hollister. But they do us no good, and can even do us harm by dwelling on them.”

She took a long breath. “I know you’re right. But it’s so hard now to look back at all that happened and not want to scream about our blindness. It’s more than the fact that Mr. Loomis brought that dreadful machine—oh, I’m sorry.”

“I understand, and I agree. What more is there to your regrets?”

“Well, Mr. Loomis was impressed with David, you see, and at first David was flattered by his praise and attention. We both were.”

“Something changed?”

“Mr. Loomis wanted David to draw up plans for the washhouse, put it all down in diagrams and such and include everything, even the special drive belts and water motor and heated dryer.”

“Did he?”

“He wanted to, only he didn’t know how. He’s never had formal schooling on anything, and as handy as he is—was—with a hammer, he’s that clumsy with a pencil. So Mr. Loomis said he’d draw it up for him.”

“Did he complete the plans?”

“Oh, yes. They’re lovely. I didn’t know diagrams could be lovely, but they are. So neat and tidy, with little symbols and elegant script. Made me even more proud to think they represented what my David had built.”

“Where are those plans now?”

Her face grew hard. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Loomis. He wouldn’t let David have them.”

“Why ever not?”

“He said that as he’d drawn them, they belonged to him, and he thought David understood that when he agreed to it. He was very pleasant and apologetic about it, but he refused all the same. Is that true, Professor? Does Mr. Loomis own those plans?”

“It depends on what was agreed upon. Did your husband put his name to anything? Sign any agreement or form?”

“No, sir. They just talked.”

“Then it’s Loomis’ word against your husband’s.”

“And my husband has no word now, does he?”

Chapter Eleven

He should send them all home. Standing on a massive drift log at the top of the beach, Bradshaw was moved by the sight of the boys blissfully engaged. His students had built a makeshift work station and four of them, Knut, Miles, Oren, and Daniel, were carrying out the sand experiments he’d assigned. The younger boys, Justin and Paul, were happily but unsuccessfully digging for clams under Mrs. Prouty’s occasionally watchful eye. She was reading a dime novel under her umbrella. Was he selfish to keep them here? Would it be overcautious to send them home?

David Hollister’s death was either involuntary manslaughter or murder. Evidence of why David had died still existed, if not in physical clues then in the mind and heart of one or more of the residents. For Bradshaw’s money, Loomis was looking particularly guilty.

His students and family were in no danger from whoever had killed David Hollister. His mind told him so. His gut spoke differently. He was a man who trusted instinct above logic, yet he also knew his gut could react out of fear. Was that the case now?

He swept his gaze over the idyllic scene looking for one particular, slender figure. He spotted her in the distance, dress billowing, walking up the beach. He approached Mrs. Prouty. She didn’t argue with his request. Being of a maternal nature, she nodded her grudging acceptance.

Before heading up the beach, he turned his pant cuffs up to keep them clean. The wind howled in his ears. He put his head down, and this brought his attention to the transitioning sand, changing from soft and difficult to tread to damp, packed and smooth, easy to walk upon. Rippled patterns etched in the surface fascinated him. The patterns were geometric designs, regularly repeated, created by the action of wind and water. But why were they so even? When the wind gusted irregularly, and the reach of the waves was inconsistent?

His fascination took him to the water’s edge where it felt a full ten degrees cooler than up by the house. He hated the howling in his ears.

Missouri stood at the edge of the surf’s reach with her bare feet wide, arms spread, face turned blissfully into the wind. “Isn’t it heaven?”

He walked around her to put the wind to his back. The roaring dulled. She squinted at him, amused, as usual, at his being uncomfortable. He knew what she thought, that he would enjoy it if he only let himself. If she had her way, he’d be ripping off his clothes and racing into the icy surf. He could see it in the twinkle of her dark amber eyes. She shouted into the wind, “It’s so refreshing!”

He said, without shouting, for his voice had the favor of the wind, “It’s too loud. Did Henry and Colin head out?”

“Yes, about an hour ago.”

“I need you to change your lodgings. There’s an extra bed in Mrs. Prouty’s room in Paracelsus Cottage.”

“I don’t want to share a room with Mrs. Prouty.”

“You must.”

She cocked her head, studying him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He felt sure she was reading his every thought and emotion. He said, “This investigation is more complicated than I anticipated.”

She continued studying him, her eyes dancing as if on a treasure hunt through his tangled thoughts. Then her eyes widened. “So there was foul play? Murder?”

“You needn’t look happy over the prospect.”

“If you remove the twinkle from your eye, so will I. Of course I’m saddened for the family over their loss, as are you, especially since it was your own invention involved, but why deny the appeal of a real investigation? You’re only truly happy when you’re chin deep in a problem, solving impossible puzzles. You’d be much happier in this world, Mr. Bradshaw, if you accepted your emotions instead of locking them up.”

“Been saving that speech, have you?”

“Until the opportune time, yes.”

The wind blew her hair across her face. She brushed it back with a toss of her head, and challenged him with a narrowed gaze.

“I don’t know who yet to trust in the house. I want you in a cabin. I should probably send you all home.”

“Who do you suspect?”