Free Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) by Bernadette Pajer

a tender pointed in Bradshaw’s direction. The man nodded his chin in acknowledgement.
    Bradshaw retreated into the office to wait. Located north of the modern new piers and warehouses that stretched from the Moran Brothers shipyard to Broad Street, Galloway Diving shared a weathered dock on an old wharf riddled with mismatched buildings. From the outside, Galloway’s office could best be described as a shanty, but inside, all was shipshape. And warm. Bradshaw examined the many charts covering the walls. Old charts from Seattle’s pioneering days, charts of Puget Sound, the Washington coast, Elliott Bay, and one dated 1895 indicating the depths in fathoms of the hundreds of wrecks in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Many of the charts had little pins with colored flags marking locations.
    A diving suit stood on display in the corner. It looked well used, the canvas patched, and the copper helmet had developed a dark patina. But the three glass plates gleamed. What would possess a man to put himself into such a getup and drop himself into the sea was beyond him. No treasure of the deep could be worth that.
    A percolator sat bubbling atop the coal stove in the center of the room, reminding Bradshaw he’d missed his morning coffee. He moved to the stove to warm his hands, and his thoughts drifted.
    The newspaper had hit his front porch this morning before he’d had breakfast, bringing news of Doyle’s death and a secondhand quote from Bradshaw. The reporter had used his statement out of context in such a way as to be inflammatory and misleading, insinuating that the Edison GE bulbs were faulty. Bradshaw hadn’t spoken to any reporters, but he did recognize the words to be his. He’d said them at the Bon Marché while speaking to O’Brien when only employees had been around. It was not the first time a reporter had rushed in and interviewed witnesses to a crime investigation then presented their findings inaccurately, and it wouldn’t be the last. But in this particular case it was more than annoying.
    Under the article had been another smaller one, given less space because it was sadly so common. A suicide by carbolic acid. The sight of it lanced him. He’d crumpled the page and tossed it into the parlor grate with a glance toward the stairs, toward his son’s room. The boy knew his mother had taken her own life many years ago, but not the manner in which she’d done it.
    His stomach no longer receptive to food or coffee, he’d headed out of his house, and when he opened the front door, he found standing there the same young man who had served him papers the previous day at his office. He was handed another plain manila envelope, which he accepted without argument or evasion. He’d dropped the envelope at his attorney’s office on the way to the waterfront. J. D. Maddock was efficient, Bradshaw gave him that.
    Now, as Bradshaw stood warming his hands at the coal stove, the smell of the coffee made him light-headed. He moved away, taking a closer look at the bulky diving dress. It was composed of two layers of thin canvas, sandwiching a layer of rubber. He was examining the way the heavy rubber collar was vulcanized to the suit when Galloway came padding in, his feet still bare.
    “That was my first diving dress,” Galloway said proudly, extending a strong, cold hand. They exchanged greetings then Galloway explained, “Old Gus gave me the outfit, God rest his soul, and he taught me to dive. He was tough as they come, and not afraid of anything but ghosts.”
    “Ghosts?”
    “He saw one down below and it nearly took his life. Divers don’t tend to be superstitious, mind you, not like sailors and fishermen who won’t set sail if they see a cat just before boarding. When you’re down deep, you can’t afford to be spooked by nonsense. So when Gus said he met up with a ghost, I knew he meant it.” Galloway shuddered and made a small sound in the back of his throat.
    “What about you? Seen any ghosts down