Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (24 page)

“No, that’s why I’m handing it over.”

Bradshaw found Captain Bell at the top of the cliff, alone, watching his men below dig. Bell silently accepted the fat envelopes, and after a glance inside said, “Squirrel?”

“He’s thorough.”

“Are you expecting anything more from him?”

“Not unless I ask.”

“You’ve been extending the scope of your investigations of late, Professor, but you seem to know when turning matters over to the proper authorities is required. Your associate could use a reminder.”

“He’s loyal to me, and devoted to justice.”

“As long as he knows this is the Rural West, not the Wild West.”

Below, Deputy Mitchell was bringing a bucket of water and tin cups to the diggers. “Deputy Mitchell has chosen to stay?”

“He gave me and Sheriff Graham a full confession of his incompetence, but decided to stay on to help out. I expect he’ll resign once this assignment is over.”

“You noticed his interest in Mrs. Hollister?”

“He confessed to that, too. He has us confused with his parish priest.”

“He’s not yet found his calling in life.”

“Well, if he stays here, I hope he has an iron stomach. I wish you’d sent a warning along with your summons, Bradshaw. The men have made it clear I’ll have a mutiny on my hands if meat and potatoes don’t soon appear.”

Bradshaw thought of his and Henry’s secret stash of coffee and edibles, but quickly decided he’d been generous enough sharing Squirrel’s information. Captain Bell could get his own food.

“Has everyone in the house been informed of Mr. Thompson’s theft?”

“It is now known in the main house and will soon be known along the entire coast that the federal government of the United States is searching for stolen gold dust. No one will be able to claim finders-keepers.”

“Are your men digging randomly or is there some method to their selection?”

“I’m not at liberty, Professor.”

“I don’t think you’ll find the gold here.”

“Where do you think it is?”

“If it’s not sitting in a bank or already exchanged for stocks or property or diamonds?”

Bell didn’t reply, but the very fact that his men were digging revealed that his department’s examination of the Seattle Assay Office employees up until now hadn’t turned up evidence of the Thompsons having deposited or spent the ill-gotten gold.

Bradshaw said, “I’d look to the Thompsons’ past. Places they were familiar with, had access to, and are fairly private. It could be in several hiding places, but my guess is they chose one, and I don’t think it’s here on the coast. This is where they came for sand, not where they came to bury their stolen treasure.”

“We’ve had a stroke of luck with their residence. They’ve lived at the Lincoln Hotel since the day they married, as I’m sure you already know, and the Lincoln keeps accurate records. The Thompsons only left Seattle a half dozen times since moving in, and each time they told the hotel they were traveling to this area. We’ve now begun verifying that. The gold is either here or there, or somewhere along the way. We’ll find it.”

“What of the deaths here, Captain?”

“What of them?”

“If David and Freddie’s deaths aren’t related to the gold theft, if there were more personal motives at work, shouldn’t the investigation dig more deeply into the lives of all of them? The clues to murder often lie in the past.”

“Not in this case. Luckily, the players in this mess only recently met. It’s safe to say we need not probe beyond the beginning of the Thompsons’ marriage and Loomis’ affairs since acquiring your outfit. I can see you want to argue with me, Professor. If you’ve got something you want to say, say it.”

“There’s more here than simple greed, Captain.”

Bell cocked his head and studied Bradshaw. “I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate your sharing Squirrel’s files.” He tipped his hat and strode to the zig-zagged path down the cliff. Bradshaw sighed. He’d been dismissed again.

Chapter Twenty-nine

It was the shouts that woke him. Bradshaw opened his eyes to utter darkness and lay tense, listening, at first hearing only Henry’s soft snoring. Then shouts erupted again, Henry snorted awake, and a light streaked by the front of the cabin.

Bradshaw leaped out of bed, shoved his legs into his pants, and ran barefoot out of the cabin, Henry not far behind. The darkness was less intense outside, the edges of the ocean surf glowed white, and lanterns flickered as they swayed in the hands of the men shouting and running after the Stanley Steamer. The automobile hissed and huffed, gathering speed on the damp flat stretches.

Deputy Mitchell led the chase, his white hat reflecting the meager light. Captain Bell shouted to his men, “Stop him!”

The Stanley raced on toward the shallowest part of the creek. But the tide had not yet dropped low enough, and the steamer plunged into a swiftly flowing current several feet deep. As the driver—a man—Loomis?—stood on the seat and leaped, a sharp crack sounded a single explosive “pop.” A gun shot.

Mid-leap, the man flailed his arms, then dropped like a boulder, splashing into the creek. He got up spluttering and stumbling, but then collapsed, and the current began to carry him and the automobile toward the ocean.

Bell and his men were there now, wading in, and Bradshaw and Henry followed. Two men got hold of Arnold Loomis, and the rest of them grabbed the Stanley, hauling it up onto the beach.

Dripping, Bradshaw and Henry joined the circle of lanterns where Captain Bell stood over the prone figure of Arnold Loomis. Doctor Hornsby, in his robe, knelt beside Loomis, feeling his neck for a pulse.

Bell leaned toward Bradshaw. “Did you see who fired the shot?”

“No.”

Loomis’ mouth opened, and Hornsby put his ear low. A moment later, he sat back. Loomis’ eyes stared unblinking at the black sky. Hornsby looked up at Captain Bell, then at Bradshaw.

“He said, ‘I didn’t mean to.’ That’s all. Just, ‘I didn’t mean to.’”

Deputy Mitchell bumped up beside Bradshaw. He’d lost his hat. His right arm hung at his side, his hand wrapped around his revolver. The wavering lantern light turned his shocked expression into a frightened mask.

“He’s not dead. Right? He’s not.”

Bell exchanged a worried glance with Bradshaw before asking, “Deputy Mitchell, did you fire your weapon?”

Mitchell said, “You said, ‘Stop him’ and I couldn’t catch him, so I-I, I meant to shoot the Stanley.”

Bell put a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Well, son, you shot Arnold Loomis in the line of duty. It’s the hardest part of the job.”

“He’s not dead,” Mitchell said again.

“He is, and it’s his own damn fault. He was fleeing the scene of a crime. I ordered you to stop him, and you stopped him. You did your duty.”

Mitchell looked at his revolver with repulsion, then shoved it at the captain, who pressed the barrel down and took control of it. Then Mitchell tore off his badge and handed it to Bell before turning, walking away, a hand clamped over his mouth.

Chapter Thirty

“With the attempted escape of Mr. Arnold Loomis, we are closing the investigation into David Hollister’s death. There is sufficient evidence to prove that Mr. Loomis lethally altered the electrotherapy machine he peddled in order to steal Hollister’s washhouse design, which may be worth a considerable amount.”

They had all gathered in the library. The Hornsbys, Martha Hollister, Deputy Mitchell, Zeb Moss, Ingrid Thompson, as well as Henry and Bradshaw.

The Hornsby family sat closely together, clenching hands. With the pronouncement, Doctor Hornsby dropped his head and quietly sobbed. He blamed himself, Bradshaw knew, for bringing Loomis into their lives and for not seeing the lethal clues.

“Arnold Loomis was one of the most cunning con artists I’ve come across in my professional capacity. He spent the better part of the last two decades skirting the law and capitalizing on his fellow men by violating their trust. Here at Healing Sands, his greed finally brought about his demise.”

“Autopsy results have confirmed that Mr. Freddie Thompson’s death was the result of the ingestion of phosphorus. Barring the presentation of any evidence proving otherwise, his death is being considered a suicide, the act of a man driven desperate by guilt for having committed a federal crime.”

Bradshaw couldn’t fault their reasoning. Loomis fit the crime. He had means, motive, and opportunity, and in attempting to run away, had revealed himself to be guilty. Of something. But murder? He was tangled in the crimes here, that was certain. So tangled he’d thought running away in the dead of night was his best option. So tangled he’d told Hornsby, “I didn’t mean to.”

But murder? Had Loomis been such a good con man that Bradshaw couldn’t believe him capable of murder?

As for Freddie Thompson…suicide fit. It made sense. It all made sense. Bradshaw’s logical mind understood, but his gut screamed no. His gut asked, Where did Ingrid Thompson come into it? Merely as seductress?

He watched her now, sitting alone at the edge of the room wearing a somber but elegant dark frock, her hair carefully done up. Her face was a blank mask, her eyes glazed. He recognized that expression; he’d lived that expression. Shock, grief, confusion, uncertainty, maybe even mingled with a hidden, guilty relief. Yes, he’d been there, through no fault of his own. It had taken him years to understand he couldn’t have prevented his wife’s death.

Could Ingrid have prevented Freddie’s death? Did she have a hand in his death? Bradshaw had to admit to himself Ingrid Thompson fascinated him. She had the looks and personality of his late wife, yet she was living his own trauma. She was his marriage embodied in one person. Or was his judgment of Ingrid in this moment clouded yet again by his own experience? Hadn’t he decided that Ingrid’s evil was nothing like Rachel’s?

And Moss? Zebediah Moss was the only one of the three men who’d paid attention to Ingrid Thompson at Healing Sands who was still alive. Moss now sat across the room from her, head hung low.

Bell said, “Mrs. Thompson, you may leave at any time. Given the ongoing investigation into your husband’s theft, you will be accompanied by one of my men. I know you must be anxious to return to Seattle to bury your husband. I must ask that once in Seattle, you remain in the city until you hear from me. Is that understood?”

Mrs. Thompson nodded but her expression remained blank.

“Mr. Moss, you are also free to go.”

Moss got up and left the room as if the information had been a call to action. Everyone else except Bradshaw and Henry followed. They sat beside the cold hearth.

“Well,” Henry said. “That’s it then. Can I drive?”

Bradshaw stared at the matchsticks among the kindling. “I’m not leaving yet, but I’d like you to go home and keep investigating.”

“You heard Bell, both cases are closed.”

Yes, both cases were closed. But Bradshaw didn’t like it. Something was wrong, something nagged at the pit of his stomach that important answers had not yet been found. He said, “Then just go home, Henry.”

“Ben….”

“I need the Stanley. You can ride back with the others.”

“Don’t sulk, Ben. Makes you look old. Do you want me to keep poking around?”

Bradshaw looked at Henry. He was gruff, rough—in badly in need of a shave—intelligent, and his most trusted friend. “Are you satisfied that all is known about what happened here?”

“As Moss would say, pert near.”

“Pert near isn’t good enough for me.”

“I was afraid of that. So what more can you do here?”

“I don’t know. If I find nothing here, I’ll go home and keep looking.”

“Ah, hell, Ben. I’ll look at home. Just tell me where. You pay better than the outfitters and the work’s easier on my back.”

“Thank you. Look into the past, as far back as you can with Ingrid Thompson and Zeb Moss.”

“Not Loomis?”

“I know you disagree, but I believe Loomis is a victim in all this. Although not an innocent victim.”

“But he confessed.”

“He said ‘I didn’t mean to.’ That could be a confession, or a plea for Hornsby to understand he was lured into something he hadn’t anticipated. It’s possible he showed remorse for the part he played, and for the sake of his soul, I hope that’s so.”

Chapter Thirty-one

The wind direction shifted during the night. Bradshaw was awake when it happened, working by lantern light in his cabin. The shift rattled the windows and pulled him from his notes. He added more wood to the small stove and made another mug of Postum.

In the morning, he opened the door to a cold, thick fog that turned the porch and sand dark with dampness. With typical Pacific Northwest speed, summer weather had vanished overnight. It didn’t matter that the calendar said it was still August. Bradshaw layered his jackets and pulled on the new boots Henry had brought him, then trudged up the cliff. The main house was quiet, though lights glowed in the kitchen and a few rooms. The diggers had not yet begun. Up top, the view was no better than it had been below, and the wind was stronger, but he found whom he hoped to find. Old Cedar. Dressed in the same old clothes he had worn when the weather was warm, he seemed immune to the damp fog.