Mittman, Stephanie (9 page)

Ash
hadn't given her so much as the time of day, so he couldn't see what it was Sam
had to grumble about.

"Hey,"
Sam shouted. "You've really done it this time, Whittier. Alls I can say
is, I'm glad this partnership is over and I hope you rot in jail. Even if they
are Chinks."

"Were
Chinks,"
Ash mumbled, wondering how he could have ever gone into partnership with a man
like Sam Greenbough. Granted the man had connections up and down the whole West
Coast and was related to half the brokers back East. Still, it hadn't turned
out worth it, financially or morally. Of course, his brother's "vagrant
defense" wasn't any better. "I didn't set that fire," Ash
shouted, hitting the wall that separated Cabot's office from Charlotte's with
the side of his fist. "And you know it!"

"Isn't
he the most irritating man?" he heard Charlotte ask. "And you here
doing all the real work while he goes sailing off to places like the Sandwich
Islands and the South Seas. Doesn't really seem fair, does it? You stuck here
to make the very best deals you can. Like on those coffee beans. That couldn't
have been easy, getting someone to take beans that had been ruined by the rain,
Mr. Greenbough, and get a decent price...."

"You
hear her?" Cabot whispered. His eyes were shiny with excitement, his vest
straining with pride. "Isn't she something? Nothing I ever taught her was
wasted. Not a thing! I even amaze myself sometimes!"

Ash
fought to keep his mind from wandering, from speculating on the other things
that Cabot had no doubt taught the pretty young woman in the next room during
five years of marriage. It wasn't like him to give any thought to someone
else's private doings. Why did those lace-topped stockings refuse to go away?
Why did he wonder what they would look like against that soft part of a woman's
thigh? Dear God! This was his sister-in-law!

Cabot
asked him something, and Ash looked at him dumbly. "What?"

"Have
you a copy of the insurance policy?" Cabot repeated. "And try not to
daydream while we're all busy saving your skin."

"I'm
trying," Ash said, studying his brother's hands and wondering if they were
gentle enough, noticing how very long his fingers were, and shocking himself
with where his thoughts were going. "The insurance policy? Me? No, you
must have it. When have you ever entrusted to me something that had value to
you?"

Those
long fingers of Cabot's played with the spokes of his chair wheel. "Does
it bother you that I've a piece of that warehouse?"

"There
isn't any warehouse anymore," Ash replied. "But, yes, it bothers me
that you refused to let me buy you out when I was in the position to do so and
that now you'll have to settle for the insurance money instead."

"Not
if it's arson," Cabot said, reaching for his copy of the
California
Penal Code
and flipping it open to the bookmarked spot. "Section Five
forty-eight, burning or destroying property insured. Every person who willfully
burns or in any other way destroys... blah, blah, blah."

"Hey—I
didn't burn the place, Cabot. And you certainly didn't burn it, so—"

"So
who did?" Cabot asked, fingering the ends of his chair arms as he looked
over at Charlotte's room, where a low drone signified that she was still
discussing the case with Greenbough.

"I
don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out," Ash told Cabot,
coming to his feet and running his hands through his hair.

"You'll
do no such thing," Cabot told him. "I've an investigator for that and
you've been remanded to my custody, which means you are not to leave this
house."

"But—"
Ash began. Cabot put his hand up and signaled for him to listen to Charlotte's
interrogation of Greenbough, as if Cabot's wife could possibly save his tail.

"So
then, what you're telling me is that because of the fire there is no way to
know to whom, or for how much, you actually sold those coffee beans?" he
heard her ask, the ludicrousness of Greenbough's assertion mirrored in her
voice.

"You
just might be a very lucky man," Cabot said as he maneuvered his chair
back and forth to get it free of the desk.

"Well,
it's certain you are," Ash said, fighting the urge to help his brother. He
was sure that a third wheel on the back of the chair, a small one that could
pivot, would make all the difference, but so far he hadn't managed to get Cabot
to listen to reason. "She's quite a woman."

"She's
quite a lawyer," Cabot said proudly, obviously taking full credit for
Charlotte's ability while he seemed to be dismissing any other attributes she
might possess. "She's given him a motive. We've a second suspect, you see.
Now, let's go say good-day to Mr. Greenbough, shall we, and thank him for
coming in."

Charlotte
looked up with a start as Ash opened the door to her office. He nodded at her
and at Greenbough and held the door open for Cabot to go through.

"Sam,"
Cabot said, extending his hand, "I can't tell you how much help you've
been. We'll be in touch."

Sam
Greenbough looked at Cabot and Charlotte, clearly confused by their civility,
their pure and obvious delight at his presence. After all, he'd come to nail
Ash's skin to the wall, and here they were, shaking his hand and thanking him.
Cabot did have a right to be proud. He and Charlotte made quite a team.

"When
you're done getting what we need from Mr. Greenbough, meet me in the conservatory,
Charlotte, will you? I'd like to dispense with this case in the next few days
and get on to something more challenging."

Sam
turned around in his chair to watch Cabot leave. "I'm not here to help
you," Sam called out after him, as if that could change what he'd
apparently told them unwittingly.

"No,"
Cabot agreed, wheeling the chair around to face Sam, "I'm aware of that.
But stranger things have happened. It's a funny thing. They say that when a man
loses one of his senses, the others are heightened. A blind man hears better
than most sighted men. A deaf man can smell a fire a mile away.

"And
a cripple... well, a cripple hears, sees, smells, everything that goes on
around him. And doesn't miss a trick." He looked at Ash accusingly, as if
he'd been reading his thoughts and had surmised—from what was really nothing
more than a casual interest—that his brother had designs on his wife, when
nothing could have been further from the truth.

Cabot
fingered the spokes of his wheels. "No, not a trick."

Davis
Flannigan squinted his one good eye at the sign on the lawn. It was dark, so he
wasn't making nothing more out than some name that started with a
W,
then
a bunch of fancy letters after that. He did his best to keep up with the doc,
but his side was still stinging something powerful where his father's boot had
clipped him by surprise when he'd fallen.

Not
that the beating was anything out of the ordinary, mind you, but over the last
year he'd figured out that if he tightened his muscles and kept them like a
knot he could withstand the blows till tiredness had stopped the old man where
Davis himself couldn't.

Then
his father'd fall to his knees, crying and moaning, pulling Davis against him
and blubbering about how sorry he was.

All
things considered, Davis would sooner take the beatings.

But
twice now he'd had to sneak away to beg help off old Doc Mollenoff. He couldn't
set a broken rib himself, now, could he? Still, he didn't know about this
lawyer business the doctor was insisting on. His father wasn't going to like it
one bit, that he was sure of, and when Ewing Flannigan didn't like something...
well, generally Davis had to pay for it in the long run.

"You
all right?" the doc asked him. The older man stood waiting for him, his
head slightly cocked so that Davis thought his hat might fall right off his
bald head and set him glowing in the lamplight. His big sad eyes looked real
wet, like he was hurting for Davis. As if Davis wasn't hurting enough himself.
"You want I should help you?" Doc Mollenoff put out his hand, but
Davis just pretended it wasn't there, wasn't reaching out for him, hoping to
steady his step.

If
there was one thing Davis hated, it was pity. He threw his shoulders back, but
the pain was so bad that he had to suck air, and the old man wasn't blind
enough to miss him wincing.

"We're
almost there," the doc said, and Davis just avoided the old man taking his
arm.

He
was thinking it wasn't such a good idea, this coming to see a lawyer, even
before he walked up the ramp to the two front doors that met in the middle like
one wasn't enough. From the looks of the place nothing was enough for these
people. He'd be willing to bet that the people in this house had never wanted
for anything in their lives. A coddling house for coddled people. What could
they know about him and his da?

He
turned to go, sure now that he'd made a mistake in coming, and wondered how he
hadn't figured that little piece of brilliance out before he'd walked halfway
across Oakland to get to the house.

"You
don't got to be afraid," the doctor said in his funny accent, while one
hand rested on Davis's good shoulder just firmly enough to stop him from
bolting. "Mrs. Vittier is a very nice lady. And she could help you."

The
doctor was taking him to the lawyer's wife, who, the doctor claimed, was a
lawyer herself.
A
lady lawyer.
His father'd get a good laugh
about that one... after he beat the tar out of Davis for airing their dirty
laundry in public.

He
coughed and looked around for a place to spit. Heck, even the dirt in the
flower boxes was clean. The doctor handed him a handkerchief, waited while he
used it, and then took it back. Pretending not to be checking, the man stole a
quick look at it, swearing under his breath. Hey, but a doctor ought to be used
to some blood every now and then. Davis surely was.

Doc
Mollenoff grabbed the brass knocker on the left door and clapped it hard enough
to send it smack on into the parlor, then pounded on the hard polished wood
with his fist for good measure.

At
the same time he turned to Davis and put on one of those smiles Davis had
learned not to trust. After all, the man was mad enough to spit teeth and here
he was showing his pearly whites to Davis instead. "You'll like Charlotte
Vittier," he said as if he really expected Davis to believe him, a man who
couldn't even pronounce the lady's name right. When Davis had asked him who
Mrs. Vittier was, the doctor had corrected him.
Vittier,
he'd said, like
Veather
or
Vindy.
"She's a good voman," he added.

Vomen,
as
the good doctor called them, came in two varieties, like marbles. There were
the
taws,
the shooters—those were the ones that did the hitting—and
there were the
ducks
—the ones that got hit. They were all made of glass
and Davis could see through them all. Except, of course, the aggies. His mama
had been an aggie—so fine that even his father had had the sense to prize her.

Now
that she was gone, Davis's home was overrun by the common types. They were all
after his da, willing to be ducks if the mood struck him, just so as they
wouldn't have to be without a man. Half of them wanted to mother Davis, as if
he still needed that, and the other half didn't want nothing to do with a
ten-year-old boy. That was the half he preferred. Always best to know where he
stood, he figured.

He
turned, heading for the steps since the doctor was blocking the ramp they'd
come up, and figuring he didn't care much which way he went down so long as he
got away from the lawyer's house.

"Might
as vell talk to her," the doc said, his grip on Davis's shoulder about as
tight as a pipe wrench, which was pretty surprising for a man as old as he was,
what with his having practically no hair and all. "We've come a long vay,
and I know I'm not going back vitout something should fill my belly. It's a
long valk back, no?"

Davis
didn't like being taken for a fool. He knew the food was a bribe. He thought
that maybe since he knew up front and had no plans of falling for it, then it
was him pulling the scam. It'd been a while since he'd had a good meal, and so
long as it was clear that they'd be leaving soon as they ate, Davis supposed it
was all right with him. It was a long trip back, what with the doctor not
taking a horsecar after dark on Fridays, and Davis was tired as a bartender's
arm on Friday, inside and out.

"B-bu-bu-bu..."
He gave up without getting the word out, pulling at his lips as if that could
fix his tongue and make the words flow smoothly like everyone else's did. No
doubt the doctor would just promise to leave and then break his word anyways.
At least when he got his words out, Davis meant what he said.

"You
just let me do the talking," Dr. Mollenoff said, a warm hand gently
rubbing Davis's back through his thin coat. "You don't gotta say a
word." And then he rapped again with the brass knocker and muttered something
Davis thought might be German.

***

At
Maria's sharp knock Charlotte and Cabot both looked up. They'd heard the
knocker, Charlotte noting the urgency, and they'd made guesses as to the
caller. "At this hour?" Cabot had said. "No doubt a visitor for
Ash. Female. Pretty. I'd guess blond."