Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (10 page)

“I never was clear on that. Martha knows more. It had something to do with the washhouse. Have you seen it yet? Oh, you must see it. David designed it himself, and built the water motor, too.”

“Did he very much want children?”

“I believe he did, but what he wanted more than anything was to give Martha a child. I didn’t realize until after—when my husband told me about the sessions and David’s secret hope. Martha knew when she married David that they’d likely never have children, but she loved him and made the sacrifice. She never once complained, but I’d see her face when friends announced they were in the family way. David was a good, attentive husband. He must have known.”

“Tell me, please, all you recall about the day of the tragedy. Where were you when it happened?”

“I was in the kitchen with Martha when my husband came in. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He said something had gone terribly wrong with the electrotherapy machine. We were as confused as we were stunned because he said it was David he was talking about, not Mr. Thompson. Martha and I both ran upstairs.” She put a hand over her face for a moment, fighting off tears. At last she swallowed hard. “Later, my husband went to Hoquiam to report the death to the coroner.”

“Was that necessary?”

“It’s what must be done when there’s an accidental death in an establishment like this. We’ve never had it happen before, but we knew proper procedure. Even though David is family, he died under my husband’s care. We followed procedure and he brought the sheriff and coroner here. I wish now he hadn’t, but I suppose that wouldn’t have given us any peace either. My husband would drive himself mad with not knowing what had gone wrong. As it is, he may never recover. No, we must have answers.”

Chapter Ten

The zigzagged path up the cliff, although well-carved and laid with sand and stepping stones, had no railing. Bradshaw kept his eyes cast down, his fingertips skimming the tips of dried grass rooted in the cliff wall as he climbed. Recitation always made a fair distraction, but the poem by Shelley that sprang to mind, recalled by the setting no doubt, and learned long ago, was perhaps too distracting.

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In another’s being mingle—

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

He arrived at the top having avoided vertigo, yet plunged deep in something far more disturbing. The sun’s warmth was keener up here. He loosened his collar and removed his jacket, scanning the shore until he saw Missouri in the distance, a slender figure, skirt billowing in the wind. He knew he had no right to wallow in self-pity when his loneliness was his own doing, but it was tiresome always owning up to the responsibility of his life.

And what if she refused him? What if he were to take that terrifyingly bold step and he discovered it was all him? That what he saw in her eyes was only the reflection of his own feelings for her. He’d put the question to Ann, his former lover. She’d said that in her experience, it was worth the risk, even if the answer wasn’t the one wanted. She’d confronted the man she loved and learned he felt the same. And that he would never leave his wife.

The path dipped to a garden sheltered from the ocean wind. A full half acre in size, it was enclosed by a deer fence of woven branches and ripe with summer vegetables and sweet corn. His empty, acid-laden stomach growled at the sight of firm summer squash nestled under enormous leaves, red ripe tomatoes and fat cucumbers clinging to frames. There were even apple trees heavy with fruit. Everywhere he looked, fresh fruit and vegetables glowed in the afternoon sun, and not a speck of it had been fermented or pickled. Not since Adam had a man been so tempted.

He pushed onward, following a meandering trail to an enclosed yard of scratching, clucking chickens, and beyond them, a small pasture of cows and a large donkey, happily feasting on the fish-fed greens. After cresting a small rise, he found within a neat picket fence several carved headstones and a white painted cross at the head of a recently mounded grave. He bowed his head and whispered a prayer.

The sound of trickling water caught his attention. He followed it and discovered a pipe heading south and soon found himself peering hesitantly over a precipice, at the penstock plunging into the Healing Sands’ famed laundry.

A pulsing and continuous crash, like a wave cresting without end, rose up the cliff, blending with the more distant roar of the ocean. The machinery was hidden beneath the angled roof. As he listened, he began to hear a pattern under the roar that came from the water hitting the paddles of the spinning wheel. He moved on, heading back toward the cliff path, and came upon the old native Henry had mentioned, seated on a boulder, staring out to sea.

Bradshaw approached the old man slowly, keeping a respectful distance. He wore white men’s clothing, shoes, trousers, shirt, vest, and jacket, but so worn and filthy they looked as if they’d grown on him. The top of his filthy felt fedora had been eaten away, the brim nibbled at. Yet the old man’s ramrod posture and serenity gave him a dignity as ancient as the boulder he sat upon. His skin, like his clothes, was worn and aged, reminding Bradshaw of an ancient cedar tree. A tuft of white beard lined his jaw from ear to ear like moss.

“Good afternoon.”

The old man nodded once.

“I’m Professor Bradshaw, staying down below at Healing Sands.”

“I am Yoyot.” The old man’s voice was deep and clear. “It means ‘strong’ in your language. I was once. Now, I sit.” He spoke with the rhythm of a native. “I am known as Old Cedar.”

They both looked out at the sea.

Old Cedar said, “You are here because of David.”

“You knew him?”

“For many years. I respected him. He respected me. Not many of the young do anymore. Not even of my own people. He often came up here. We talked.”

“You heard how he died?”

“I invited him to the sweat lodge, but he believed in your modern science. Now it has killed him.”

“Electricity was the means of his death, but it’s not to blame.”

Old Cedar narrowed his eyes. “In my day, we did not seek to punish those who are already suffering from regret.”

“I’m not referring to Dr. Hornsby.”

The old eyes flashed wide. “But he was there, he told me so himself.”

“Oh, yes, he was there. But he’s not responsible. I’m not at liberty to explain.” He’d already said as much to Mrs. Hornsby.

Old Cedar turned his face to the ocean again and closed his eyes.

After a quiet moment, Bradshaw asked, “Do you sit here every day?”

“In my youth, I fished,” said Old Cedar, opening his eyes. “I made longboats of cedar. I walked the forest. Now I sit. It is surprising how much I enjoy it.”

“I believe my housekeeper is surprised by her enjoyment of leisure as well. At home, she never stops moving.”

Old Cedar squinted at the beach. “Is she the one under the umbrella who watches the small boys?”

He paid attention to the goings-on below. What else had he noticed? “Yes, that’s Mrs. Prouty. I don’t know how I’d manage without her.”

“She’s young yet, and beginning to find work.”

Mrs. Prouty would be pleased to know someone considered her young. Today, she’d brought a basket with her embroidery.

“It’s the way of a good soul, until nature says it’s time to stop. I worked until my eightieth year. Now my hands enjoy stillness. I sit in peace.” He turned his head to look toward another section of beach. There, under the shade of an umbrella, lounged Mrs. Thompson in a reclining beach chair. Perched on the edge of the chair near her feet was Arnold Loomis, leaning forward, palms up. His words were lost to them, but his tone appeared beseeching.

Old Cedar said, “That is not her husband, I believe.”

“No, you’re right.”

Mrs. Thompson sat up, reached out to Loomis, touched his face, ran a finger around his ear, then trailed the tip over his lips. Loomis, encouraged, pressed forward toward her, and she pushed him away, sitting back again.

“She spends considerable time with him. And the other one who is not her husband.”

“Moss? A stocky man. Walks with a swagger?”

Old Cedar nodded. “In my language there is a word for a woman like her. I don’t know how to say it in English.”

“Trouble?”

Old Cedar’s eyes wrinkled with a smile. “That will do.”

Loomis got to his feet, appeared to make one more attempt to persuade Mrs. Thompson of something, then slunk away, defeated. Mrs. Thompson adjusted the umbrella to provide full shade, then reclined.

Curious.

“I’ve been observing life from this very boulder ever since I can remember. My grandfather would sit here, as I do now, and tell me stories.” Old Cedar began to speak of his childhood, and the changes he witnessed over the years. He’d been just five years old when he first saw a white man. The explorer and his team had been welcomed graciously, but they left behind a sickness that took the lives of nearly half the tribe. A quarter century later, another wave of explorers was less eagerly welcomed, but the result was the same. Sickness and death. After that, he’d gone to the city to learn to speak the white man’s language. He hoped that if he could converse with the whites, they could find a way to live in health and harmony. White men knew many things; surely they knew how to do this. But it seems they didn’t. Their solution was to isolate the natives, put them on a reservation.

“They named it Quinault, as if that would make it more attractive to us. Some of us refused to go. They keep changing the terms, changing the borders, but it does not change it from being a wooded jail. We are meant to roam, to follow the fish and berries. The land provides. What did we give up by not signing the treaty? Blankets and beef?” He swatted the air as if to toss away the pathetic offerings. “We have cedar and salmon. Your people make life difficult for mine, and also for yourselves. Look at that washhouse David built. So much effort to keep clothing clean. Why the fancy dress? The discomfort? Everything for you whites is a fight. You fight against your clothes, your natures, the land, and take anything that strikes your fancy. The guests below take everything: they kill the animals in the forest, empty the sea of life, dig all the clams in the sand. They even take the sand.”

“I can’t claim to be better than my brethren, yet I agree with all you say.” Did that clear him of responsibility, the fact that he agreed with Old Cedar? He might not have written the treaties or marched the natives from their ancestral homes, but as a white man, he lived and worked and benefited from those who did. Didn’t his own house in Seattle sit on a deforested hill that natives once freely roamed and hunted?

As they spoke, Martha Hollister had been climbing up to them. When she approached, Old Cedar gave her a polite nod of greeting, then slipped away into the woods. Martha took his place on the boulder, looking out at the ocean. She hadn’t looked directly at Bradshaw, and the set of her shoulders displayed a rigid control.

Her voice was flat when she asked, “How is Old Cedar today?”

“He’s saddened by your husband’s passing.”

“He’s known too much death.” Her words held no emotion. Shock and grief insulated her, held her trapped in a world both numbing and devastating. She turned her head to look at him. “Your machine killed my husband.” The grief and accusation in her eyes tore his heart. He felt his eyes sting.

“I’m so very sorry.”

She looked away, and he swallowed hard.

She said, “Do you have any answers for us yet about what went wrong?”

He cleared his throat. “No, not yet.”

“My mother just told me about how Mr. Loomis conned you, too, but the fact remains it was your machine.”

Only the sheriff, deputy, and Doctor Hornsby knew that someone at Healing Sands had deliberately altered the machine to make it fatal. As much as it hurt him that Martha believed him responsible, he couldn’t risk his investigation by revealing too much.

“Mrs. Hollister, I promise I will do all that I can to find answers to what happened to David. To do that, I’ll need to ask you some questions. I can wait until later, if you want.”

“No. I’d rather have it done.”

He began to question her gently about events leading up to David’s death, but when she began to tremble violently, saying, “It’s a dream, it can’t be real,” he silenced. And when she extended a shaking hand to him, he clasped it between both of his and sat beside her on the boulder, gladly enduring her fierce grip.