Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (7 page)

“Why didn’t you summon me yourself?”

“I want the cooperation of everyone here. If they all believe you’re working for Dr. Hornsby, they’ll be more willing to talk to you.”

“Are you saying you want me to work for you?”

“I’ve heard you work for the truth. Does it matter who’s paying you?”

“No one’s paying me.”

“Maybe not directly, but how many guests did you bring with you? Their stay couldn’t be cheap.”

“Except for the cost of my accommodations for the duration of my investigation, I intend to reimburse Dr. Hornsby for all else.”

“Mighty noble of you. I must admit, I respect your integrity.”

“And I respect yours.”

The sheriff grinned. “Based on what?”

“You wiped your boots.”

“You noticed that, did you? Felt slippers undermine the authority of the badge, but I didn’t want to be a complete ass.”

Bradshaw decided he liked Sheriff Graham.

“The truth is Professor, I’m damned short-handed. Deputy Mitchell has no experience, and I’ve got five other places I ought to be right now. I’d appreciate it if you’d continue investigating the case. I could deputize you, but how about if we just call you a contractor? That way we can keep the illusion you’re working for Hornsby.”

“How about I continue working for Hornsby and report my findings to you?”

“O’Brien warned me you were a stickler for the high road. That’ll do.”

“Doctor Hornsby’s having difficulty believing someone here at Healing Sands deliberately sabotaged the machine.”

“He’s an intelligent man but one who’s never experienced evil, Professor. I knew that much the minute I met him.”

“What alerted you this was more than an accident?”

“Hornsby himself. His shock, his self-blame, his bewilderment, his reputation for competence. When he came to me and told me what happened, I knew I needed an electrical expert.”

“Who are our suspects?”

“That’s the trouble, there are damned few of them. Who’ve you met?”

“Only Doctor and Mrs. Hornsby. My assistant spoke with Mr. Moss, but I haven’t yet.”

“The staff consists of Hornsby’s own family, and there were only four patients here at the time. Besides Moss, there’s a married couple, the Thompsons, and Arnold Loomis, representative of the Loomis Long Life Machine that killed David, though he tells me he didn’t design or manufacture it.”

“No, he did not. Do you have any theories, Sheriff?”

“Not a one. But you’ve got evidence of either involuntary manslaughter or murder, or so you tell me. The difference between a buzz and a hiss hardly seems like concrete evidence.”

“If you knew electricity as I do, Sheriff, you’d feel differently. Can you tell the difference in sound between the firing of a cannon and a pistol?”

“That obvious?”

“To me, yes.”

“Point taken. That sound means somebody is going to jail. I don’t want to arrest Dr. Hornsby, but I will have to if no other person can be found responsible for that machine killing David.”

“Why didn’t you allow Loomis to examine the machine?”

“Seemed prudent to get an outside opinion. From someone less involved.” The Sheriff smiled.

Bradshaw cleared his throat. The opportune moment to reveal his involvement was at hand, but he let it slip away with a small pang of guilt. “Did Loomis have a motive to kill David Hollister?”

“Maybe you’ll tell me. Was that machine tampered with to kill? Or to frighten? Or to improve results? I once was called to the scene of a woman’s death in a bathtub. She’d filled it with a face wash that claimed to beautify the complexion, but she didn’t bother reading the label to see the active ingredient was arsenic. There’s no accounting for stupidity. I don’t know what happened in that electrotherapy room, that’s why you’re here. Loomis’ machine has been involved in a death, and as far as I’m concerned, that means Loomis is implicated. If he’s peddling a machine that’s improperly designed, I want it off the market, the inventor prosecuted, and Loomis duly punished.” The sheriff got to his booted feet.

Bradshaw rose more slowly, weighing his duty to disclose fully to this man of authority. He knew he would eventually have to explain that he’d built the machine. But he wanted to know more, first. He wanted to confront Loomis.

He asked the sheriff, “Do any of the others here, besides Mr. Loomis, know anything about electricity?”

“No one has claimed any knowledge. I suppose that limits your suspects?”

“Possibly.” But he never limited his investigations with assumptions. “Are you at all concerned that the guilty party might flee the sanitarium? Your deputy has little experience.”

The sheriff grunted. “He’s got none, that’s why I could spare him to stay here. But if someone attempts to flee, we’ll know our culprit, won’t we? And Healing Sands isn’t so easy to escape from. The only road’s the beach. The forest? Even I wouldn’t like that hike, and I don’t think anyone here could paddle a canoe up the coast.” The sheriff got to his feet. “It’s time to see our suspects. I told the doc to round them up.”

Bradshaw’s heart skipped a beat. He’d be facing Loomis for the first time in the sheriff’s presence, and he would likely undo the camaraderie they’d just established.

***

The sheriff’s boots announced their approach like a drum roll, and Bradshaw sensed all eyes upon them as they entered the library. Dr. and Mrs. Hornsby sat in the middle of the room with two young women dressed in simple white attire and a young woman dressed in black. A man and woman, whom Bradshaw took to be the married couple, sat in the upholstered chairs by the cold hearth. Zebediah Moss stood by a window, feet braced, arms crossed. And Mr. Arnold Loomis looked just as Bradshaw remembered him only slightly paunchier, his hair a bit more receded. Otherwise, he had the same apparently open and honest face with unfortunate crooked buck teeth. He lounged comfortably in a back corner, his expression innocent, his eyes focused with studious attention on Sheriff Graham.

“I’ve called you all in here to meet Professor Benjamin Bradshaw of the University of Washington in Seattle. He’s also a professional investigator of electrical incidents, and I’ve allowed Dr. Hornsby to bring him here so there will be no doubt as to what happened that brought about Mr. David Hollister’s death. I’m giving him a few days to complete his investigation. You will all cooperate with him. The sooner we have answers, the sooner you may leave. Am I making myself completely understood?”

Dr. Hornsby said, “Yes, yes,” but otherwise, the question was met with silence. The roar of the ocean and the cry of a few seagulls drifted in through an open window, and Bradshaw was struck with the incongruity of examining a death in such a peaceful place.

“Professor, you’ve met Dr. Hornsby and his wife, Miriam. Dolley and Abigail, their daughters, are housemaids.” The young women nodded gravely.

“Their daughter Martha Hollister is the cook and the deceased’s widow.”

Bradshaw dipped his head. “My sincere condolences.”

Martha gave him a tight smile that trembled into a grimace. She looked away, a hand over her mouth.

Sheriff Graham nodded toward the married couple. “The Thompsons, Frederick and Ingrid.”

Frederick Thompson said, “How do,” in a weak voice. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his mustache too bold for his skeletal, jaundiced face.

Ingrid Thompson didn’t speak. She tilted her head, lifted her chin, and studied Bradshaw. Her dark hair was swept up in the latest fashion, with one long tail of hair falling over her shoulder. Her features were too square to be delicate, yet she exuded a feminine charm. Something about her registered in Bradshaw as deeply familiar. It took him no time to understand it was her eyes. Heavy lidded. Sultry. Like his late wife’s. With practiced efficiency, he locked away his emotional response.

“Mr. Zebediah Moss over there by the window is another guest—” Moss’ expression and stance remained firmly fixed, “—and that leaves Mr. Arnold Loomis, the peddler of the machine you just examined.”

If Mr. Loomis was offended by being labeled a mere “peddler” he didn’t show it. He had dressed for the occasion in a fine linen suit, but the required felt slippers had a way of humbling even the proudest attire. His gaze had remained on the sheriff, and even now that he was being introduced and he looked in Bradshaw’s direction, his eyes were focused somewhere near Bradshaw’s ear. “A pleasure, Professor Bradshaw.”

It was the lie of those words that decided him. “Is it? Under the circumstances, I’d have thought you’d find my presence anything but pleasurable.”

Loomis shrugged, lifting his palms. “On the contrary. You are the electrical expert, and I humbly bow to your authority.”

He certainly had nerve. And he looked as harmless as a mouse. Exposing him now meant breaking his rule and risking an alteration in testimony from the others. His gut told him to do it anyway.

“Why is your name on the outfit upstairs?”

“Why? I’m the proud representative of that therapeutic device.”

“But you are not the inventor.”

“That is true, sir, and I never claimed to be.”

“Who is?”

Loomis finally looked directly at Bradshaw, his eyes questioning, searching for complicity. Everyone was watching them now, turning from one to the other.

“Many men of science, including yourself. That machine reflects the brilliance of Michael Faraday and Nikola Tesla.”

“When the machine left my basement, four years ago, it bore my name, not yours, and it was destined for a Seattle physician’s office.”

Someone gasped, Bradshaw didn’t know who. Heads turned again. It was beginning to look like a tennis match.

Loomis shrugged, giving a smiling nod. “Indeed it was, and you and I had parted amicably, both of us better for the collaboration and satisfied with the compensation for time and materials.”

Doctor Hornsby got to his feet but then seemed unable to phrase a question or accusation and dropped down again, as if his strength had given out. His wife gripped his arm. Beside her, Martha Hollister sat pale and rigid, staring at Loomis.

Bradshaw knew Loomis’ debate skills would lead them nowhere constructive, so although he sensed everyone was on tenterhooks wanting to hear more, he put an end to it. “We have much to discuss later, Mr. Loomis.” He turned away from him dismissively, sensing everyone’s disappointment. He said, “I would like to speak to each of you individually, beginning later this afternoon. Mrs. Hornsby, might I see you after lunch, here in the library?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He looked to Doctor Hornsby. “Are there no others on staff?”

Hornsby’s expression was blank a moment, and when he replied his voice was distant. “No others. We operate as a health resort, not a hospital. Our guests do much for themselves. It’s part of our therapy. We sometimes hire extra hands from families along the beach or from Hoquiam. But not now. Not now.” His voice trailed off, and Mrs. Hornsby gripped him more tightly.

Freddie Thompson, slumped in his chair, asked, “On what grounds are you detaining us further, Sheriff? You can’t keep us here without charging us with something.”

“I could pack up the lot of you and haul you into Aberdeen, where I can guarantee the accommodations won’t be nearly as genteel and the time you’d be detained far longer.”

“No, no. Just get on with it.”

“If you change your mind and get tired of hanging around here, I’m sure I can find you a cell.”

Freddie shook his head weakly and closed his eyes, slumping further into the chair.

Sheriff Graham said, “Professor, I need to see you privately.”

Bradshaw followed the sheriff out of the library and down the hall to the vacant foyer. There, Graham stood before him nearly toe to toe, hands on his hips, which pushed back his jacket and revealed his holstered revolver.

“You built that contraption upstairs? That should have been the first thing out of your mouth.”

“When I’m investigating, Sheriff, I disclose information when and to whom I see fit.”

“I’m not sure I ought to leave you on the case. You might be to blame for that thing malfunctioning.”

“It did not malfunction. It’s not possible for a fatal current to be temporarily allowed to flow through the capacitor without human intervention. It goes against the laws of physics.”

“Maybe you’re just trying to cover your own hide.”

“You could consult a hundred engineers, they would tell you the same.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Am I staying or going?”

Sheriff Graham studied him hard. “Staying. But don’t forget who you’re working for.”

“You had me right earlier. I work for myself. I work for the truth.”

“Blasted philosopher.” The sheriff spun on his booted heel, marring the pristine floor, and marched out.

Chapter Eight

After an hour of close inspection and repetitive testing of the “Loomis Luminator” Bradshaw verified his original diagnosis. A conductive material had been placed across the Leyden jars prior to David Hollister’s death and removed afterward. Who, what, and why remained impossible yet to answer. A foolish mistake or intentional alteration? Involuntary manslaughter or murder? Who here understood electricity enough to have done it? Who knew what materials were conductive and which weren’t?