Free Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) by Bernadette Pajer

that square chin. She’s no beauty. Not like Rachel.”
    “Rachel wasn’t beautiful.”
    “Ah, come on, Ben. She was demented, but you got to agree she was beautiful.”
    “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. Inner ugliness overshadows physical appearance.”
    “Inner beauty, too, and hell, ain’t I glad of that? If I weren’t such a damn sweetheart, no woman could stand to look at my ugly mug.”
    Bradshaw had thought Rachel beautiful, once. Justin had inherited her coloring, fair hair, blue eyes, skin that freckled. Luckily, he had inherited none of her selfishness or craving for attention. She’d been born willful, her parents had explained after her death. They’d found it easier to give her what she demanded, rather than deal with her rages. Bradshaw wished they’d been as forthcoming before his marriage. But they’d given him no warning. They’d chosen not to tell him of the extreme measures she took to frighten them into getting her way. And yet he could never bring himself to wish he’d never married her because that would wish his son out of existence. He’d as soon wish all air to vanish.
    As he sat not eating, his heart made heavy by such thoughts, Missouri came out of the kitchen, alone. She crossed to Justin’s table, and the boy’s face lit up when she asked about his sand castle. Bradshaw tried to see her objectively. Short mahogany hair plainly cut, large nose, wide mouth, skinny figure. Nope, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be objective. She was the most attractive girl he’d ever seen. Feminine, ethereal, strong. There was something regal about her, although she wasn’t the least bit proud.
    Henry kicked him under the table. “I don’t get you, Ben. I thought that was all over with, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
    “A man can admire, can’t he?”
    “Missouri’s the image of her mother, and she was no queen of the May.”
    “You told me your sister was beautiful.”
    “Because I loved her, that’s how I saw her. Eye of the beholder.”
    “Can we get back to the case, please?”
    “In a minute. Who is it you were seeing on the sly?”
    Bradshaw shoved his plate away.
    Henry persisted. “Every other week, you were giving those classes up in Everett. You could have caught the last steamer home, but you didn’t.”
    He should have guessed Henry had suspected something. Bradshaw was a man of strict routine, a man of economy, a man who avoided society and relationships. He’d surprised himself in accepting Ann Darlyrope’s advances. Their private affair had been brief, lasting a few months and ending pleasantly. They’d remained friends. But the classes he’d used as an excuse to meet her had proved popular, so he’d continued them. And Ann? She’d recently landed the starring role with a major company and was going on tour to the Midwest. It was to Ann he’d sent flowers the day Hornsby’s summons had arrived, to say bon voyage.
    Henry said, “You got a right to your privacy, and teaching at the college, I know you got to be discreet. But when that started up, I figured you’d got over your feelings for Missouri. Am I wrong?”
    “I’ve gotten over the belief that anything could, or should, come of my feelings for her.” He’d never said it aloud. His battered stomach gave a clutch of protest, and he thought he now knew what an ulcer felt like. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care.
    “Only because you decided that’s how it’s gonna be.”
    “I need you to go Hoquiam. Wire Squirrel and tell him it’s urgent.”
    “Ben—”
    “Not now, Henry.”
    “You see what’s happening, don’t you? You’d better be sure that’s what you want.”
    “What I want is for you to wire Squirrel.”
    “All right, I give. You don’t want to talk about it. As per usual. Wire Squirrel.”
    Squirrel was the nickname of Pete Carter, a professional fact-finder, coveted by Seattle attorneys for his skill at digging up deeply buried