Free No Pity For the Dead by Nancy Herriman Page B

trouble?” asked Nick.
    â€œClaim jumping.”
    How about that.
    Matthews’ small eyes glimmered in the light of the overhead gaslight. “But you know what else, Detective? Jasper Martin wanted him dead. I heard old Martin cussin’ him out one day. I did. Yes, I did. Told Mr. Russell he hoped Nash would up and die. Whaddya think of that?”
    â€œI think that’s very interesting, Mr. Matthews,” said Nick, mildly disappointed that Matthews hadn’t overheard Frank making that wish. “Very interesting.”
    *   *   *
    C elia’s hand hung suspended in the air, prepared to knock on the Kellys’ door. She dreaded this encounter, absolutely dreaded it. A neighbor, out on her front porch thumping a floor cloth with a heart-shaped rug beater, looked over. Celia smiled at the woman and rapped upon the peeling paint of the wood.
    A few moments later, a red-faced Maryanne answered.
    â€œMrs. Davies, you’re back already to check on me?” she asked, a hand pressed to the swell of her belly. From somewhere inside the house came the yowl of her young daughter.
    â€œMight I come in, Mrs. Kelly?” she asked. “I need to speak to you about your brother.”
    Maryanne’s gaze narrowed. “Which one?”
    â€œDaniel. He is in trouble with the law.”
    Maryanne’s indrawn breath came in a jagged rush, and she pressed her hand harder to her belly. “Come inside. And don’t mind the mess.”
    The interior of the narrow house—two rooms plus kitchen downstairs, three tiny rooms up—was dark, the proximity of the neighboring homes blocking the sunshine from reaching the few windows. The front room, which served as a parlor, seemed to have accumulated every piece of cast-off furniture and utilitarian item that would not fit in the remainder of the home.
    Maryanne stepped around a basket holding a pile of sewing as she led Celia toward the kitchen at the back. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea? I might have some around.”
    â€œThere is no need, Mrs. Kelly. Thank you.”
    A pot bubbled on the small iron stove, and Maryanne’s young daughter—she was named Clarissa, if Celia recalled correctly—clung to the side of the wood cradle tucked into one corner and bawled.
    â€œThere, there, Clary. Stop that,” said Maryanne, making to lift the girl from the cradle.
    â€œHere. Let me take her,” said Celia, interceding.
    â€œIf you’re sure.”
    â€œI have handled children before,” Celia replied, hoisting Clarissa onto her hip. The child, dark hair curling around her tiny face, stared in astonishment at the stranger holding her but didn’t protest.
    â€œThank you. I never have enough help around here.” Maryanne searched for a towel and used it to remove the pot of stew from the grate. She turned to look at Celia. “So what’s Dan done?”
    Celia bounced Clarissa—not all that readily accomplishedin corset and crinoline—and provided a short version of events. “Although Mr. Martin has chosen not to see him charged with attempted theft, he has apparently directed that Dan be released from his position.”
    Maryanne, who’d been listening in unhappy silence, gasped. “He’s lost his job?”
    â€œA better situation than being thrown in jail.”
    â€œI’m not so sure about that, what with so many men unemployed.” Maryanne gazed at her daughter, who’d taken to fiddling with the tassels suspended from the collar of Celia’s mantle. “John will be mad. He never did take to Dan, nagging him always, criticizing him, making Dan miserable. After this . . .” She sighed. “He won’t be welcome in this house any longer.”
    â€œEven though Mr. Martin is not pressing charges, the police will still interview your brother, because it seems he might have known the dead man.”
    â€œDan