No Pity For the Dead by Nancy Herriman Page B

Jane.
    â€œSure. Why not.” He tossed his hat at Hetty, who deftly caught it. “Where can we sit, Mrs. Hutchinson?”
    Jane extended a hand in the direction of her parlor. “In here,” she said, leading the way.
    Celia gave a final look toward where Grace had vanished. Clearly, there were more mysteries than who had buried an unknown man in the cellar of Martin and Company.
    *   *   *
    C
elia Davies is a damnable pest.
    Nick folded his arms and studied both of the women seated on the parlor sofa facing the fireplace. Mrs. Davies looked back at him without a hint of contrition.
    His uncle Asa, who’d been a detective before Nick and had secured his nephew a place on the police force, would never have allowed her to stay during an interview with a witness. Worse, she’d alerted the witness about the crime, taking awayNick’s opportunity to spring the news on the woman and observe her reaction.
    A damnable pest.
    â€œAre you sure you need to speak with us, Detective Greaves?” asked Mrs. Hutchinson.
    She was clutching Mrs. Davies’ hand like a lifeline, but her gaze was steady. She was pretty, in a small-boned, delicate sort of way. Not at all like Frank’s first wife. Arabella had been spit and fire—rather like Celia Davies, if he wanted to make a comparison—as well as lithe and beautiful. There hadn’t been a man in San Francisco who hadn’t thought Frank Hutchinson was the luckiest man alive. But all that spirit and life hadn’t seen Arabella through the bout of pneumonia that had killed her. After her death, maybe Frank had been looking for somebody peaceful and quiet. Somebody who didn’t remind him of what he’d lost.
    Well then, Frank, we might both be running away from memories.
    â€œFrank has nothing to do with the body that’s been discovered at his office,” Mrs. Hutchinson added.
    â€œI think I’ll decide that for myself, ma’am.”
    Nick shifted his weight, and something crunched beneath his boot. There was a shard of porcelain on the ground, and he wondered what that was about. The room, in muted shades of blue and gold and scarlet, was otherwise in perfect order. So far as he could see, not a speck of dust marred the surface of the mahogany furniture or sullied the gilt frames of the paintings hanging from the picture rail. The floral wallpaper and the pattern in the carpet were too fussy for Nick’s taste, but he knew they were fashionable. Apparently, Frank had done very well since he’d returned to San Francisco after the war.
Very, very well.
    Jane Hutchinson was watching him, a look of concern onher face. She wasn’t as good at concealing her feelings as the woman seated next to her.
    â€œNice house, ma’am.”
    The comment caught her off guard. “Why, thank you, Mr. Greaves.”
    She glanced around her, perhaps trying to see it through his eyes. He’d been at the house before, though. Not long after Frank had bought it and he and Arabella and a young Grace had moved in. Back when they were still friends. Back before he and Frank and Jack had gotten the brilliant idea to join the Fourth Ohio Volunteer Infantry and soldier together.
    â€œFrank, however, insists on our buying a new house. Something larger, finer,” she said. “They are building up on the California Street hill, you know. Beautiful homes. He wants us there and not here on Stockton.” She turned to Celia Davies. “To impress Papa, of course.”
    So, Frank had grander ambitions,
thought Nick.
    Celia Davies smiled tightly at Mrs. Hutchinson, but her gaze shifted warily to look at Nick. They’d known each other only a brief while, and it was unsettling how well she’d learned to read his suspicions.
    He stored Jane Hutchinson’s comment away. “Since you apparently already know about the body,” he said as he glanced at Mrs. Davies, who lifted her chin in