The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Page 11

  "Was it the boy?"

  Samuel's features screwed into a knot. He gripped the bars, and growled from deep in his chest.

  "Did you chase the boys who shot her?"

  Another nod, and she held her breath. "What did you do?"

  "Bebé," he said.

  "Show me." Isobel picked up her cigarette stub, reached for the spoon in the bowl and a cup of water. "The cup is you. This is Titus." She pointed to the spoon. "Here is Bebé." A crust of bread. "And this is John, the tall boy." The cigarette stub.

  Samuel stared at the items, and she feared the concept was too abstract. But then he began arranging the items like a child with toy soldiers. The bread stood alone on a stone with the cup some distance away. He butted the stub and spoon together. Then he made a gun with his fingers and tapped the stub, aiming it at the bread.

  "Titus and John were fighting? And then John shot Bebé."

  Samuel nodded. He walked the cup toward the boys, and chased them for a few steps, before turning it back around towards the bread. Then slowly, he walked the spoon over.

  "Titus came back?"

  Samuel grunted. He placed the bread inside the cup, and scooted it away. Then reached for the spoon and tapped it after the two.

  Isobel sat back on her haunches.

  "Home," he said.

  "Titus followed you home. Why?"

  Samuel took out a tattered, blood-stained handkerchief, and reached through the bars. He held out his hand, and waited. When she didn't move, he grunted, fingers twitching.

  Isobel placed her hand in his. He gently pulled her arm through, and tied the handkerchief around her palm with a neat bow knot.

  "Bebé." Samuel sat back, waiting. And Isobel looked at the filthy thing lovingly wrapped around her hand. A bandage.

  "Titus came back to help you with Bebé."

  Samuel smiled, a bloody twitch of a lip that twisted his face. But it was a smile nonetheless. And it touched his one good eye.

  "Where did Titus go after he bandaged Bebé?"

  Samuel walked the spoon away, and shrugged.

  Isobel studied the man, searching for deception. Was he playing the fool to hide his guilt? Or had Titus simply walked down the road and left?

  "Samuel, did you tie a magnifying glass to a tree?"

  He stared at her.

  "A magnifying glass." She made a circle with her fingers. "To make small things look larger."

  Samuel gave a twitch of a misshapen shoulder, and crawled back to his corner.

  Sheriff Nash walked into the jailhouse with Stetson in hand. The slump of his shoulders told Isobel all. He had not found Titus.

  Deputy Sharpe sat up with a start, reaching for his gun. The trigger-happy deputy stopped short of a full draw. The two men nodded at each other. "Go home, Sharpe. I'll take over."

  The deputy didn't argue. He donned coat and hat and walked out.

  "You didn't find Titus," Isobel said from her cot.

  "Careful, Miss Amsel. I'm liable to charge you, and send you to a secure asylum to finish out your sentence."

  She took a drag on her cigarette, and blew out a line of smoke. "Don't take your frustration out on me. There's whores in town for that."

  Sheriff Nash marched over, reached through the bars, and snatched the cigarette away from her. He crushed it under his boot. "You don't know when to stop, do you?"

  Isobel climbed to her feet, and faced him through the bars. "I don't stop. That's my curse." She paused. "And my gift. Are you prepared to hear what I've discovered?"

  He sneered. "I'd rather hang."

  "You won't be the one to suffer, Sheriff. Titus will. Don't allow your prejudice to get in the way of practicality."

  "Prejudice?" he asked in a low voice. He took a threatening step forward. A gun on his hip, unshaven and weary, anger boiling under the surface. Isobel was aware of her vulnerable position. A predator lurked outside her cage.

  "That's what you call it?" he asked.

  "Anger? Rage? Is it because I'm a woman?"

  His lip twisted. "You don't even know, do you?"

  "Enlighten me."

  "I'll keep my pain private. It's mine. And I'm not about to 'enlighten' you as to the cause of it."

  Isobel cocked her head as Nash walked to his desk. He brought out a bottle of whiskey.

  "Did I wrong you in another life, Sheriff?" she asked.

  He took a long draught from the bottle, hissed, and slammed the bottle on the desk.

  "If I did, I don't know it," she said softly.

  "You can go to hell, Miss Amsel."

  "I'll be there with the likes of you," she said calmly. "We'll sort it out then. Or now. Is this how you handled the missing girl last year? Beat the nearest cripple mute, and refused offers of help?"

  "The dogs will find Titus."

  "But they haven't yet. And the trail is only getting colder."

  Sheriff Nash didn't reply. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat sipping it, staring at the barred windows in silence. Isobel was restless from confinement, but forced herself to sit on the cot, and breathe. It was hard going. She did not handle confinement well. She cast her thoughts back, to her childhood, trying to recall a younger Nash.

  Eventually, a voice interrupted her thoughts. "My little sister looked up to you. Her name was Rachel. She was always pushing at boundaries. Just like you."

  Isobel took note of the past tense. "Did I know her?" Isobel asked.

  Nash shook his head. "You're a bit of a legend around these parts. Same as Lillie Hitchcock in San Francisco. Rachel always admired women above their place with too many ideas in their heads."

  Isobel bit back a comment, and put on a contrite, listening sort of face that Lotario would have laughed himself into stitches over.

  "You, and women like you, infected her. You gave her ideas, and at fourteen she ran off and got herself with child. Rachel died in a gutter with acid burns on her lips."

  Isobel tried to put herself in Nash's place. But failed. There was a whole lot he wasn't saying. A giant gap in his narrative. "She didn't get herself with child. It takes a man, Nash."

  Nash jumped to his feet. "If you hadn't infected her with your rebellious ways, she'd have listened to her parents!"

  "And then what? She'd have married a man who beat her? A woman comfortable with bruises under the collar? The problem isn't independent women."

  "I hope to God your husband beats some sense into you,” Nash snarled. He grabbed the door to Samuel's cell.

  Isobel tightened her grip on the bars. She didn't relish watching another beating, and felt helpless to prevent it. "Samuel told me what happened, Nash," she said quickly. "Do you plan on sending him to the grave with me as a witness? A drunk sheriff beating a prisoner to death? Think, dammit!" she hissed. "Use your superior brain. Not your fists."

  Nash paused. "I hate you."

  "I appreciate your honesty. It's a rare trait. But your hate and my reckless disregard for male opinion has nothing to do with Titus Sheel."

  His fingers tightened for a moment, and then his hand fell away from the cell door. Isobel let out a slow breath.

  "What did Samuel tell you?" It was more order than question.

  "Before I came here, I dug a bullet out of Bebé." She fished in her pocket and handed over the smashed bit of lead. "I think John shot Samuel's dog. To be fair, given her coloring, John might have mistaken her for a deer."

  "So Samuel had motive."

  "To attack John, yes. But he says Titus helped him carry Bebé to his home and bind her wound. Titus was trying to save her."

  Anger faded from his eyes, and thought entered. Nash fingered a cleft on his chin. "Where'd Titus go?"

  "Samuel doesn't know."

  Nash glanced at the prisoner in the other cell, and leaned closer. "Or he's lying to you."

  "A possibility," she admitted. "But I don't think another beating will shake the truth from him. Why would he lie? Samuel is already set to be hanged by you. And if you
let him go now… he'll be lynched. Where are you focusing your search?"

  "We started around Samuel's home, and we're fanning out from there."

  "What if Titus left Samuel's home, and walked along the road, back to his brother. That's nearly eight miles of desolate road."

  Nash frowned at the possibilities. Anyone could have snatched the boy, or he could have fallen off the side of the road in a ditch.

  "There's something else," she said. "Samuel said he didn't tie that magnifying glass to the tree."

  "Who did?"

  "I don't know."

  Nash shook his head. "Miss Amsel, you're quick to believe that fellow."

  "The bandage on Bebé was tied with a square knot, while the magnifying glass was tied with a bowline hitch. Samuel ties bow knots. That's all he's ever been able to manage."

  "You've been reading too many detective novels, Miss Amsel. The real world don't work like that. Stay out of my business." Nash walked back to his desk to sleep.

  A knock woke Isobel from sleep. For a moment, she was in a gilded cage with a man towering over her. Gloating. Her heart leapt into her throat. Then she felt the coarse blanket and hard pallet, and remembered where she was. She opened her eyes to a stone and iron jailhouse.

  The rising sun teased the sky, promising another sweltering day. Nash hopped from his chair and looked out the window, rifle in hand. He disappeared outside.

  Samuel was still curled in a ball. For a moment she feared him dead, but his back moved with each breath.

  She dipped her hand in the fresh water bucket, and washed the sleep from her face, smoothing back her hair and pinning it in place. The hairpin was her last resort. But she wasn't there yet.

  Julius Bright stepped inside, followed by Mrs. Sheel and her son John. The doctor caught Isobel's eye. Relief was plain on his face. He must have known about her penchant for escaping.

  Isobel studied mother and son. Mrs. Sheel was blonde, pale-skinned, and willowy. She might have been the muse for a Gibson Girl poster. While John was black-haired, freckled-faced, and determined, looking nothing like his mother. His gaze was on the man cowering in the corner.

  "Titus?" Mrs. Sheel asked.

  "I'm afraid we've had no news, ma'am," Nash said.

  "Why aren't you out searching for him?"

  "My deputy is rounding up another search party. We'll find him."

  Mrs. Sheel looked directly at Isobel. "My son tells me a woman found her. Is that her?"

  Julius folded his hands behind his back, and waited expectantly.

  Nash hesitated. "Erm…yes."

  "Why is she in a cell, Sheriff Nash?" Mrs. Sheel's spine was rigid as a board, and her voice was on the verge of cracking. Julius wisely stayed in place. A touch would shatter the woman. As would the wrong answer.

  "Sheriff Nash put me in here so I could question the suspect," Isobel said. She thought it a diplomatic answer, but Nash didn't want her help.

  "Miss Amsel is a felon, Mrs. Sheel."

  "She found my son! Let her go, or I'll hold you personally responsible if anything should happen…" Her voice cracked. Tears came. Julius jumped to her side and put a comforting arm around the crying woman.

  Nash turned his Stetson in his hands.

  "I want to hire you, Miss Amsel," Mrs. Sheel said through her tears.

  Isobel arched a brow. "I accept. But as you can see…" She tapped the bars.

  "Sheriff," Mrs. Sheel said. "Please. For my son."

  Resigned, Nash took out his keys and opened the door. "I was going to let you out anyhow. You're more trouble than you're worth," he whispered.

  "You're lucky my mother didn't come," she said under her breath.

  "Always hiding behind your mother."

  Isobel clenched her jaw, and focused on her client. She walked over to mother and son, and shook the woman's hand. "I'll do everything in my power to find Titus, Mrs. Sheel." Isobel didn't bother with trivial formalities. Every second matters.

  "Julius spoke highly of you, Miss Amsel. And I've heard of you. I followed your trial." Mrs. Sheel glanced at the sheriff. "I think you were wrongly accused under the circumstances." As Mrs. Sheel turned, Isobel caught a faint mark on the woman's neck, peeking just above her high collar. A bruise.

  There were men who lost their tempers and struck their wives, and then there was the calculating sort who methodically beat their wives in ways not to leave visible marks. Isobel wondered what those long sleeves and gloves hid. She was eager to meet Mr. Sheel.

  "Father won't like the waste of money," John said.

  "It's for your brother," Mrs. Sheel said.

  "Where is your husband, Mrs. Sheel?" Isobel asked.

  "He went away on business the day…" she stuttered. "The day before the boys went camping. He left after we celebrated their birthday. I sent a telegram. Charles is due back any day."

  "Father won't come," John whispered. The boy looked down at his shoes, shoulders slumped.

  "He'll come, John," his mother assured, but she didn't reach for her son. Only stood rigid.

  "Do you have the telegram?" Isobel asked.

  The question caught Mrs. Sheel off guard. She fished around her handbag, and produced a yellow slip. It had been sent from San Francisco. Brief and to the point: I'll return shortly.

  Nash leaned down to murmur in her ear. "Maybe the father isn't really there. It might be a ruse, or better yet, a conspiracy."

  Isobel ignored the jab. "Stranger things have happened, which is why I intend to question the train station agents." She handed the telegram back to Mrs. Sheel.

  Isobel's professionalism got through to Nash. He had the decency to look abashed. Nash cleared his throat, and adopted an authoritative air. "John, if you're able, I'd like you to see if that's the man who chased you boys."

  John nodded. “I’m ready.”

  Sheriff Nash gripped the boy's shoulder and walked him toward the cell. "Is that him?"

  "I can't see his face," John said softly.

  Sheriff Nash opened the cell door, and wrenched Samuel's head up by his hair. The moment Samuel saw the boy, he lunged forward. Spittle flew from his swollen lips, and screams of rage tore from his throat. Nash tackled him to the ground. And Mrs. Sheel fainted. Julius caught her.

  Isobel grabbed John's arm, and pulled him out of the jailhouse.

  "That's him! That's the man!" John shouted. It was early yet, but a few townsfolk had stopped to gawk. Isobel gripped John's shoulders. "It's all right. He can't hurt you."

  "That's him," John whispered.

  A cell door banged shut. The sound made John flinch. Boots echoed across the wood floor, and Nash joined them on the boardwalk. "You're too trusting, Miss Amsel." He thrust his finger at the open door, where Julius was waving smelling salts beneath Mrs. Sheel's nose, and where only moments before, Samuel had charged a boy in a rage. "Tell me that's a man who wouldn't hurt a boy."

  Isobel had no words.

  "I'll say it again. G0 back to your crazy house and leave police work to men."

  18

  A Persuasive Pest

  SARAH

  Bonk, bonk, bonk. The rhythmic sound was persistent. Sarah Byrne swept the floor with broad, violent strokes. Her nose throbbed, and the skin under her eyes was swollen so badly it hurt to smile. Life was unfair. That's what her Gramma had always told her, and it was as true as the sky being blue. She glanced out a small window. Or the sky being gray, she corrected. San Francisco was an odd place.

  Jin had run off, and Mr. Riot had gone after her. She was stuck with the chores for something Jin had started. Sarah should have bolted, too. Then Mr. Riot would be worried about her instead of angry.

  Bonk, bonk, bonk. "You know there's floor over there, too," a voice interrupted her fuming. Sarah tightened her grip on the broom. "A whole heap of floor. Unless you got somethin' against the floor over there."

  Sarah blew out a breath and refused to acknowledge Tobias White. She slapped a pile of dust she had gathered in his general
direction, and was cheered when the boy started coughing.

  "Now I know why you're in trouble. You must be havin' some 'women issues'."

  Sarah's mouth fell open as she gaped at the boy. Tobias sat on the stairwell, legs stuck through the railing slats, heels kicking the wallboards. His forehead rested on the slats, and all she saw of him was big eyes, a big nose, and ears too big for his head.

  "Tobias White, that is not something you should talk about."

  "I'm not talking about it. I said it. What's got you all ornery?"

  "Don't want to talk about it."

  "Did Mr. A.J. give you that nosebleed?"

  The question shocked her so thoroughly that she dropped her broom. "'Course not!"

  Tobias gave her a cocky grin. And she realized too late that he had asked the question to provoke her. Sarah ground her teeth together. She had always been slow. Not quick like Isobel.

  "Maddie says that's what most men do."

  "Do what?"

  "Hit women."

  She couldn't disagree with that observation. Sarah had seen plenty of women with bruises that didn't come from falling down stairs. "Mr. Riot wouldn't ever do that," she said with conviction.

  "Maybe you haven't got him mad enough. My Ma takes a switch to me all the time."

  "A switch ain't a fist. Your Ma is just tryin' to keep you in line."

  Tobias rolled his eyes.

  Sarah frowned. Worry brought doubt, and doubt brought fear. "You heard Mr. Riot. He won't tolerate a teacher laying a hand on us." Her voice had lost its conviction.

  "That's good, 'cause teachers like to hit kids."

  "I'd like to take a switch to you, too—'specially now."

  Rather than fearful, Tobias looked pleased with himself. Despite her intentions, she had been drawn into a conversation with the pest.

  "I'll finish the sweeping if you tell me what happened," he offered.

  Sarah blew air past her lips, and winced. She handed over the broom, and as Tobias held up his end of the bargain, she held up hers. When she fell silent, the broom ceased its half-hearted rhythm. "All that over a stupid drawing?"

  "It was my sketchbook. Mr. Sin…" Sarah caught herself. She wasn't supposed to speak of Sin Chi-Man, the man who had rescued her from her uncle's house. "I mean Mr. Lotario gave it to me after mine was burnt in the house fire." Sarah winced at the lie. She'd be sure to burn now. Eternally. Sarah quickly changed her story. "I meant to say someone gave it to me."