Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) by Bernadette Pajer Page B

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