Anything But Civil (14 page)

“I definitely appreciate the unusual pose. And delivering medical supplies must’ve been a vital task.”

Mr. Myers nodded.

“I’ll say. Hope your boss didn’t want a copy of this one, though; there’s no negative.”

“Oh, no. It piqued my curiosity, that’s all. I noticed that the book held little information about it. Do you know anything more?”

“No, what’s in the catalog is all I know. It’s always bothered me, but I have no idea where this was taken or by whom. It’s my job to ensure the catalog is complete and accurate, but that isn’t always possible.”

A man after my own heart, I thought.

“A portion of the collection came from John Pooley,” the photographer said, “when Mr. Scheerer bought the business, with some valuable tintypes taken by Edward Peirce during the war. And after the war, no one wanted these images, so the glass plates were sold and used to build greenhouses. So that means I don’t have all the information about them, or the negative plates.”

For some reason the photo drew me in. Maybe it was the mystery surrounding it, where was it taken, when was it taken, who was the photographer, what was Henry Starrett doing at that exact moment? Or was it the inexplicable expression on Henry Starrett’s face? Surprise, annoyance, fear?

“Captain Starrett piloted a hospital ship at some point during the war,” I said, pointing to the label on the crates. “Maybe that’s what this is?”

“Maybe.” The photographer sounded skeptical. “But if so, the
Lavinia
isn’t marked as one in any way. That’s pretty unusual.”

“Did you know that Henry Starrett is in town visiting his daughter and grandchildren?” I said.

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Yes. You could show him this and solve the mystery behind it.”

Mr. Myers’s eyes lit up. “That would be great!” Then he frowned and looked about the studio. “It would be, but without some help from Santa’s elves I’ll be up to my ears in work all day straight through New Year’s. And it’s too late to call at night.”

“What if
I
asked him?” The photographer’s assistant looked dubious. “I was at a dinner party at the Starrett/Reynard house last night. I’m certain to see Captain Starrett again in the next few days.”

“Would you?” The spark reappeared in his eyes. I shared his enthusiasm. “The catalog would be one step closer to perfection.” He rummaged through a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. “Here.” He put the picture carefully into the envelope and handed to me. “I’ll loan you the tintype until you get a chance to show it to him.” I was thrilled. I’d be able to look at it more closely at my leisure as well as use it to trigger Captain Starrett’s memory.

“I’ll take great care of it,” I said.

What was I thinking
?

The moment I left Mr. Myers’s I began to regret taking the photograph. What had made me so careless? I had committed myself to an inquiry into Captain Starrett’s past, against the expressed wishes of my employer. Had indulging my curiosity become a dangerous habit? What would Sir Arthur say if he knew? Would my position be in jeopardy?

“Excuse me, sir!” I said. With the envelope tucked under my arm, I had stepped out onto Main Street. I had hesitated before turning back, having moments ago resolved to return the photograph, when a man, not minding where he was going, crashed into me. The photograph slipped from my grip, but Frederick Reynard caught it before it touched the snow piled up next to the sidewalk. “Mr. Reynard!”

“Oh, no! Miss Davish, what are you doing here?” On the bustling street, it seemed an odd question to ask.

“Visiting Scheerer’s photography studio at Sir Arthur’s request.” I pointed to the envelope in his hand.

“Oh.” He handed me back the envelope. He seemed distracted, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking about him furtively. The ever present amaryllis was missing from his lapel and an irregularly shaped bulge protruded from inside his coat. What was he hiding?

“Mrs. Baines told me you were still recuperating, sir,” I said, slipping the envelope into my handbag for safekeeping. “I’m glad to see you are up and about.”

“No, no, Miss Davish, I’m not up and about.” He rubbed his forehead in distress. Suddenly he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the street into a doorway. The sign above the door said: B
URRICHTER
B
ROS
, W
HISKIES.
He leaned in close, his breath smelling of mint. “Can I trust you?”

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“Sir Arthur told the general that he prizes your discretion. Can I too rely on your discretion?”

“Regarding what?” I said. “I don’t know anything.”

“Good, that’s right, you never saw me, and you don’t know anything.”

“But Mr. Reynard—”

“Please, I implore you. Tell no one.” He squeezed my arm and then let go.

He looked about him one more time and before I could say another word darted south down the street, weaving his way through the shoppers. A woman in a plain black lace bonnet, laden with bags on her arms, led a throng of children, all under the age of eight, down the middle of the sidewalk. Frederick nearly tripped as he collided with two of the smaller children, who refused to release each other’s hands. He stumbled through the crowd until the bend in the road hid him and the children from view.
What was that all about?
I wondered. And what did I seemingly agree not to tell?

A gust of cold wind rushed between the buildings and I held on to my hat. I began shivering, despite my warm cloak. Abruptly my curiosity waned. Did I really want to know? Forgetting about returning the photograph, I clutched my handbag tightly and headed in the opposite direction.

E
xcept for the S
TAPLE AND
F
ANCY
G
ROCERIES
painted on the window in bold white letters, the building looked like any other redbrick storefront. But the sign gave me pause and I glanced above the door for the proprietor’s name: KILLIAN & SONS. In attempting to distance myself from Frederick Reynard, I had inadvertently walked by Oscar Killian’s grocery store. The temptation to get a glimpse of the man was too great. I pushed the door and entered.

“Good evening, miss,” the man behind the counter called. I froze in the doorway, the shopkeeper’s bell still ringing in my ears. It was the same man who had left the G.A.R. meeting in anger and who met Enoch Jamison on the street during the Christmas puppet display. Could this be Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s killer? My nerves left me and I started to retreat back through the door.

“Can I help you?” the man said, walking around the counter and approaching me.

“Are you Mr. Killian?” I said hesitantly, needing to confirm my suspicion.

“Yeah, what can I do for you?” Oscar Killian wore a spotless white apron around his middle. He rested his coarse, leathered hands on his hips, the
O.C.K.
tattooed on his hand appearing upside.

“I wondered if you carried Brazil nuts?” I said. Which was true but not the reason I’d come.

Oscar Killian smiled as he retrieved a burlap bag, stamped in red block letters: P
RODUCTO DEL
P
ERÚ
, from the shelf behind the counter. “You’re making cornucopias for the Christmas tree, huh?”

“Yes, how did you know?” He laughed, and if I hadn’t seen him angry I would’ve thought him incapable of killing anyone, intentionally or not.

“Ah, a good grocer can read minds,” he said, tapping his forehead. “It’s good business to know what my customers are going to want and when. How much do you want?” I told him, and he scooped the nuts into a brown paper bag and wrapped it up in string. Biding my time, I asked for walnuts as well.

“Now if there’s nothing else I can do for you, miss? . . . ,” he said, handing me the bags of nuts. I hesitated, summoning the courage to answer.

“Actually, yes, there is.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you aware of the death of Lieutenant Colonel Issac Holbrook?” The grocer’s smile disappeared.

“Yeah.”

“Were you also aware that many others at the same dinner party, including Captain Henry Starrett, were made violently ill by some type of poison?” I paused to see his reaction. Mr. Killian immediately dropped his attention to the glass case between us, straightening and restraightening jars of mincemeat and cranberry sauce. “The police suspect food poisoning as the cause of Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death.”

“That’s terrible. I didn’t know.”

“You knew Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook. Can you imagine why anyone would deliberately do such a thing?”

The grocer hesitated, wiped his bulging forearm across his head, and looked slightly over my head. “Deliberately? Why do you say that? I was with him at Stones River. You get to know the nature of a man in battle. The lieutenant colonel was a good man. Who would want to harm him?”

“So you think it could’ve been an accident?”

“Yeah, of course. What else could it be? Something was left out to spoil or wasn’t cooked properly.”

“In your opinion as a grocer, could the cook have bought something already spoiled?” Oscar Killian picked up a feather duster and, turning his back to me, began dusting spotless cans on the shelf against the wall: Borden’s condensed milk, Anna Case’s first-quality butter beans, Shakers’ string beans, Preston’s sugar of lemons, Cooke’s favorite tomato, Getz Bros. & Co.’s celebrated crystal wave cove oysters.

“It’s possible. But not likely.”

“Why?” I asked. He turned around as the bell over the door chimed and another customer came in. He forced a smile and nodded to the woman, but his jaw was clenched and eyes were wide with fear.

“Selling spoiled food is bad for business, miss,” he whispered. “Very bad for business.”

 

“Pardon me,” the man said brusquely as he pushed his way past me into Oscar Killian’s store. He knocked into my shoulder, sending me stumbling against the glass storefront.

For goodness’ sake,
I thought. Was it me or had everyone else forgotten their manners? This was the second time in less than an hour a man nearly knocked me over as I stepped out of a building on Main Street. What happened to peace and goodwill toward others? Wasn’t that what Christmas was supposed to be? I was about to voice my objection when the door closed behind him. I pressed my face to the glass to see who the rude man was. It was Enoch Jamison. I was stunned. He was haggard, with dark circles under his eyes, unkempt hair, and stubble growing from his chin. His tie was loose about his neck. He looked like he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him yesterday. And he looked desperate. He approached Oscar Killian, gesticulating with a violent swing of his arms. I couldn’t catch every word that they were saying, but Enoch Jamison’s shouts could be heard in the street. Abruptly they turned their heads and both men’s eyes were upon me.

Oh, no,
I thought, blanching, less from being caught staring than from the look in Enoch Jamison’s eyes. I took a step back. Oscar Killian pointed at me and said something I couldn’t hear. Enoch Jamison nodded and started walking toward the door, never taking his eyes from my face. I didn’t wait this time to confront him.

“Hey, you! Come back! I want to talk to you!” Enoch Jamison yelled at my back as I ran as fast as I could down the crowded sidewalk.

 

It was dinnertime at the DeSoto House, the landmark hotel, built in 1855, that occupied half of the block at the corner of Main and Green Streets. Once five stories tall, it was as famous for its upper two stories’ having been removed as it was for attracting the political notable: Abraham Lincoln gave a speech from the second-story veranda, Stephen Douglas stayed here prior to the Freeport debate with Lincoln in 1858, and Ulysses S. Grant used the hotel as his presidential campaign headquarters. Slipping in the ladies entrance, I’d hoped to find a quiet spot to catch my breath and compose myself before returning to Sir Arthur’s, but the second-floor ladies parlor, and the dining rooms and bar were full of people eating, smoking, drinking, laughing. Someone down the hall was playing the harmonica. The best I could do was an unoccupied settee under the winding staircase in the lobby. I jumped the first time someone stomped on the steps above me.

How foolish,
I thought, willing my heart to slow down and my hands to stop shaking when everywhere around me was gaiety and music. Why had I run away? Did I think Mr. Jamison was going to hurt me? Was I overreacting? He probably wanted to ask me some questions, to clarify what I’d told Oscar Killian. Then why did I feel safer hiding here under the shadow of the staircase when I should have gone straight back to Sir Arthur’s? Was I becoming irrational and jumpy? This wouldn’t do. Sir Arthur would never approve of such skittish behavior if he knew. I straightened my hat and my back and pulled my small notebook out of my handbag. I made a list.

 

FACTS:

I studied the list, reading it twice without much success. My breathing had slowed, but my thoughts were still a jumble, my concentration almost nonexistent. I closed my eyes for a moment, focusing my mind by listening to the mingling of voices, clinking silverware, and harmonica, but couldn’t pause for long. I read the list again. A pattern emerged from the facts, giving rise to more questions. I flipped to a blank page and dashed them off.

There!
I thought, my mind at ease.
I’m done with this.

With that I tossed pencil and notebook into my bag. I had no business thinking about or meddling in this sordid affair. If Oscar Killian or anyone, for that matter, purposely poisoned the oysters, that was a concern for the police. I had a job to do. Besides, the scents filling the lobby: the perfume, the wood smoke, the tobacco smoke, and the aromas from the dining room, were starting to churn my stomach.

“Miss Davish?” It was Officer Corbett. He was grinning. “Hello. Imagine meeting you here.”

He dropped the harmonica he was holding into his breast pocket and thrust out his hand to me. It was awkward. I held my handbag and the packets of Brazil nuts and walnuts I’d bought at Killian’s store in my lap. Before I could rearrange my things and take Officer Corbett’s offered hand, he shuffled his feet and shoved both hands into the pockets of his jacket. His smile disappeared.

“What a coincidence, Mr. Corbett,” I said, rising on my own accord. “I was thinking about you a moment ago.” Streaks of crimson materialized on the man’s cheeks. “Or should I say about the police’s investigation into the death of Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook,” I said quickly, hoping to dispel any misconception.

“Oh. What about it?”

“Could it be possible that Captain Starrett and not Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook was the intended victim?”
Didn’t I just tell myself this was none of my affair?
I thought. But it was too late now; I couldn’t retract my question. What would it hurt to learn the answer?

“Huh, you really were considering the case,” he said, sounding surprised. He motioned to the settee and I sat down again. Without his usual hesitation, he joined me. “That’s a particularly thoughtful question, Miss Davish. I too have wondered if Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death was unintended. Regardless of the reason behind the poisoning, a distraction to the burglary, an intentional poisoning, or an accident due to spoiled food, Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook was an unfortunate victim. But Captain Starrett is a different story. That man has enemies. I could list several possible suspects who would be happy to see Henry Starrett dead.”

“Are Oscar Killian and Enoch Jamison on your list?” The policeman chuckled. “Are you a secretary or a police detective, Miss Davish? I think we need to compare notes.” I blushed. I was equally embarrassed by being caught stepping beyond my obvious duties to Sir Arthur and relieved that this policeman was congenial to the idea. It was a sharp contrast to my previous experience with police.

I pulled my notebook from my handbag and told him everything I knew or suspected.

“I’m impressed, Miss Davish. Truly,” Mr. Corbett said when I’d finished. “This is definitely worth pursuing. Would you care to accompany me to Mr. Killian’s store? I think he has a few questions to answer.”

I hesitated only a moment, long enough to consider the work I was expected to complete for Sir Arthur by the end of the day. I’d ordered his photographs but still had manuscript pages from yesterday to type. If I skipped supper, as I had already fully intended to do on account of my still-churning stomach, and I went straight to my typewriter the moment I returned from Oscar Killian’s store, I could be done by the time Sir Arthur retired for the evening.

“Yes, I would,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret it later.

 

When Officer Corbett and I arrived a few minutes later at Oscar Killian’s grocery, it was closed and dark. Someone had posted a scribbled, handwritten sign on the door:
Gone for the holidays.
Mr. Corbett had inquired after Oscar Killian in the adjacent businesses, but no one knew anything more.

“Does this mean he’s guilty?” I asked, astonished at the turn of events.

“Looks awfully suspicious to me,” the policeman said. “Christmas is still days away. He must’ve had a compelling reason to close his store at this time of the year. I’ll inquire at his home, but I’m guessing he’ll have left town as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” I said. “Maybe I should stick to dictation and typing.”

“Miss Davish, why do you say that?”

“I spoke to Mr. Killian not even an hour ago and implied he might be culpable if he knowingly sold spoiled oysters.”

“It’s not your fault, Miss Davish.” The policeman gently touched my shoulder, then pulled his hand away quickly. “Forgive me,” he muttered, then looked back at the darkened storefront of Killian & Sons. I was taken aback by his gesture. I looked about me to see if anyone was watching us.