Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (4 page)

A little spark of anticipation met Bradshaw on the covered porch of Camp Franklin. How long had it been since he’d truly been alone at night, without someone else in the house with him, even his son? More than a decade? He found a pair of the required felt slippers in a covered box on the front porch, and when he stepped inside the one-room cabin, he was immediately transported to his childhood by a nostalgic scent. It was the musty scent of space long exposed to damp sea air, the scent of the modest hotel in Seattle, then still a frontier town, where he’d spent a week with his parents while on the cross-country holiday that had sown his love of the Pacific Northwest.

The cabin was spotlessly clean, the white linens and navy blue spread on the two narrow beds freshly laundered, and the glass in the windows so clean they were perfect black mirrors. He closed the navy blue curtains and felt snug in his temporary home. There was a small woodstove, a simple table with a lamp and two chairs, a wash basin and fresh pitcher of water, and as foretold, a framed sign hung like a painting listing the rules. Written politely, the rules essentially said no shoes, no smoking indoors, tidy your own room.

Other signs with health-related quotes from Benjamin Franklin drew his eye. Some he knew. “Early to bed, early to rise” and “God helps those who help themselves.” Some were new to him. Given his experience with patent medicines, he particularly liked, “He’s the best physician that knows the worthlessness of most medicines.”

He unpacked his clothing, hanging his spare suit in the wardrobe. Cradled in his pajamas was a white ceramic urn. Where to put it? The windowsill was too narrow, the table too prominent. He rested his hand on the cool lid, and his mood dimmed. He was suddenly bone weary. With a sigh that became a yawn, he set the urn on the floor in the corner. A few minutes later he was tucked in bed in the crisp white sheets, breathing the nostalgic cabin air, eyes closed. He tried not to think, but his mind was such a jumble he knew he must sort his thoughts before sleep would come.

He lined up details logically, dealing first with the concrete facts of David Hollister’s death, the presence of his own invention, and Arnold Loomis, who had chosen not to come forward this evening. When he could see the logical progression of known facts, and the gaps he had yet to fill, he allowed his mind to meander to other concerns. He recalled the look of wonder on his son’s face at the sight of the ocean, and he vowed to begin traveling more with him, to take time away from teaching and investigating, on a regular basis, and spend it with his son. He’d take him camping, fishing, and across the country to Boston to meet his grandparents. He’d been an infant when they’d moved to Seattle after his mother’s death. An infant. And now the boy was ten. Where did the time go?

Time was so elusive, so malleable. Missouri probably had a theory about time. She had a theory about everything. Her theories often didn’t conform to his traditional beliefs, but they made sense. They made him think, and question, and doubt. And he was not a man who liked to doubt. He marveled at her imagination. With a sigh, he thought of her bare feet in the sparkling sand. With a grunt, he thought of her wandering down the beach with Colin Ingersoll.

Oh, he was never going to sleep.

But he underestimated his exhaustion and the healing of the fresh, salty air. He listened to the regular rhythm of the roaring ocean, reaching and retreating, until he slipped into a deep sleep.

Toward dawn, the cold woke him. He climbed from bed and fumbled in the dark for the linen closet where his hand found a thick wool blanket. On the way back to bed, he bumped into the table. He heard a sound like “plink” and for an instant, a bluish light flashed on the floor.

He bent and skimmed his fingertips along the floor and found the little glass vial, thankfully unbroken, and gave it a vigorous shake. The grains flashed blue, then darkened. He shook it again, and this time the flash was dim. A third shake triggered only the faintest flash.

Still clutching the vial, he climbed back into bed. He’d not noticed the sand’s luminescence when he’d dropped the grains into the vial. Either the brightness of the lanterns had prevented his noticing, or more likely, the grains hadn’t been jarred enough by the action of placing them into the vial to produce the glow.

He shook the vial again. It remained as dark as the rest of the night. He was soon warmed by the blanket, but sleep was now impossible.

Chapter Five

Bradshaw watched the morning lighten from his porch. Birds of great variety and abundance swooped down and glided across the surface of the water, dipping and diving for their breakfast, then alighting on the wet sand. Several types of grey and white gulls, brightly feathered ducks, and species whose names he didn’t know. In a few wind-tattered treetops, bald eagles gathered, occasionally spreading their expanse of wings and announcing their domain with piercing cries. In the distance, the smokestack of a steamship puffed steadily, and nearer shore, a native paddled in a cedar longboat.

The sun had just begun to warm the sand when Justin and Paul came running out of their cabin in their blue-and-white striped flannel suits. Mrs. Prouty followed at a more decorous pace, wearing a decade-old ballooning sunbathing costume. He waved to them, and Justin made a detour to say good morning.

“What’s on your agenda today, son?”

“We’re going to rebuild the castle and have the moat lead to a holding pool that we’ll fill with crabs so they’ll be able to crawl over and attack it. Will you come see it when it’s done?”

“I’ll try. I’ll be working today.”

“You’ve got until high tide, that’ll be after lunch sometime.”

Justin ran off, and Bradshaw made his habitual pat-down before leaving the cabin, checking that his pockets contained his notebook, pencil, tool pouch, and the vial of sand grains. He put on his hat and picked up his investigation kit, a second-hand leather doctor’s bag with a hard bottom and inner compartments that held his instruments snugly.

He found Deputy Mitchell on the porch with a mug of herbal tea that he took as an omen of the absence of coffee. He asked anyway, but was resigned when his fear was confirmed.

“Doc Hornsby isn’t keen on stimulating beverages. Or intoxicating ones. The tea is quite good, though.”

Bradshaw said he’d pass for now. “I’d like to talk to you about your observations. Can you give me a tour of the house?”

“Sure, I’ll show you around.”

Both of them changed into slippers, and after disposing of his kit upstairs in Hornsby’s office, they returned to the foyer to begin the tour.

From the entry, a hallway split the house in two. The first room on the left held an impressive library, walled with shelves, leather-bound books, a selection of dime novels, and stacks of medical journals. Wingback chairs and polished tables invited readers and writers. All was picture-perfect. Even the hearth in the stone fireplace had been laid with care, the crisscrossed twigs sprinkled with matchstick-sized kindling, ready to light should the weather turn cool.

Next came Dr. Hornsby’s Osteopathic Room, a bright airy space with white plaster walls, a gleaming hemlock floor, a manipulation table, pulleys, hanging bars, several contraptions designed for self-realignment, and a device best described as a medieval torture rack.

“That one,” said the deputy, pointing to the rack, “takes out all the kinks. You just strap yourself in and lay back and it pulls you in four directions at once.” He shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his neck as if to demonstrate the flexibility of his joints.

They came next to a bathing room that had been divided into three private baths with claw-footed tubs and overhead shower faucets and shelves of white towels.

“Are these showers for guests to use? Or part of a therapy?”

“Both. Oh, you’re in for a treat, Professor. First you soak in a hot mineral bath, then shower in pure creek water. You do that right before bed, you’ll sleep like a baby. I followed that routine last night, and I can’t recall ever having a better night’s sleep. Here, feel this.”

The deputy plucked a towel from the pile and pressed it to Bradshaw’s cheek.

“Ever feel anything so soft?”

Unsure of the proper reaction to a deputy stroking his cheek with a towel, he said, “No.”

“Wait until it’s wrapped around you. And they don’t mind how many towels you use, because of that laundry house, you know.”

The deputy continued to wax poetic over the relaxing bathing experience, and Bradshaw wondered how much the man had missed since his arrival while making use of the facilities.

At the back of the house were the kitchen, pantry, and larder. Bradshaw had seen the kitchen and the adjacent dining room on the south side of the hall the previous evening, but now he took more time looking around.

“What are you looking for, Professor?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

The deputy snorted. “I get you. Just getting the lay of the land.”

“Indeed.” While in the kitchen, he stepped into the larder, looking for meat. A slab of beef, a chicken breast, a pork roast. Anything with a good bit of moist flesh. But there was not a scrap of meat. Only stores of fruits, grains, vegetables, and large crocks of things fermenting. He settled for a round patty pan squash the size of his palm, slipping it into his pocket when the deputy wasn’t looking.

He was led next to a large airy room with polished floors, outfitted solely with the latest Victor Talking Machine sprouting a gleaming black horn beside a collection of Victor and Columbia disc records.

“Dr. Hornsby calls this the Dance Therapy room. It’s for foul weather, mostly. He says the next best thing to walking outdoors is to dance indoors.”

“What sort of dancing?”

The deputy turned pink. He cleared his throat and said, “He calls it Free Movement. You just do whatever you feel like doing. Sway, waltz, twirl.”

“Good God.”

“It’s really very liberating, once you get over being self-conscious.” The deputy whistled a lively version of “Beautiful Dreamer” and began to bounce.

“I get the idea. It seems you spent a great deal of time yesterday making use of the facilities, Deputy.”

“Oh, Doc Hornsby said I was free to try it all out. He has several Stephen Foster’s in his collection, and some of the latest songs, ‘Bill Bailey’, and ‘In the Good Old Summertime’, and the like. You’d have thought he would only have classical, but he’s a modern man, our Hornsby.”

“Shall we move on?”

The deputy shrugged, reluctantly abandoning his bouncing rhythms and the lure of Free Movement.

“There’s just one more room on this floor.”

They entered the room for which the entire sanitarium was named, Healing Sands. This room featured green potted ferns, much sunlight filtering through French doors, and several sand beds tucked discreetly behind white cloth screens.

“And how do you find the sand therapy, Deputy?”

“Cured my hip, I kid you not. I’ve had this pain on and off for years. Doc Hornsby said it was sciatica and that I was out of alignment. I didn’t want to bother him about it, because of the circumstances, but he said there was never a bad time to help someone heal. Nice fellow. He did something he called an osteopathic adjustment to get my bones lined up proper, then buried me in the warm sand. I’m a new man, I tell you.”

Bradshaw cocked his head. “How long have you been with the sheriff’s department, Deputy Mitchell?”

“Two months. I didn’t much care for it until I got this assignment.”

“Aah. Upstairs?”

“Upstairs? Oh, yes. The tour continues.” He grinned happily.

The next floor consisted mostly of bedrooms. He wasn’t shown those that were occupied, although he told the deputy he might later need to see them.

“Is that allowed? I’ll have to ask the sheriff. I mean, don’t you need some sort of warrant to poke around in someone’s private room?”

“I don’t yet know what I’m looking for. Don’t worry. I’m certain everyone will give me permission if my investigation leads beyond the electrotherapy room.”

“But it was an accident. All that stuff Hornsby was saying last night, he was just upset.”

Bradshaw studied Deputy Mitchell’s earnest, trusting face, and predicted a short career for him in law enforcement.

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had separate rooms; it was apparently part of the healing regime that spouses sleep apart.

The deputy gave Bradshaw a knowing grin. “I dare say it makes for some late night visits down the hall. Reminds me of a joke about this feller—”

Bradshaw raised an eyebrow, and the deputy cleared his throat. “That room there is Arnold Loomis, then your friend Mr. Pratt, and his niece next to him.” Both doors were firmly shut. Henry was a late sleeper. Missouri, he knew from the brief months she’d lived in his home when she first moved to Seattle, had likely been awake for hours, and was either writing in her journal or already out on the beach. Was Colin?

“And here are the Hornsbys’ private rooms, the doctor’s office, and electrotherapy room. We can return to those; do you want to see the third floor?”

They climbed the stairs to the topmost floor, empty of guests and staff.

“Hornsby says these rooms fill up a few times a year, but they weren’t being used when the accident happened.”