No Pity For the Dead by Nancy Herriman

expecting—in her mid-thirties, if he had to make an estimate—and handsome.
    â€œMrs. Nash,” he said, removing his hat. “I am Detective Greaves, and this is my assistant, Mr. Taylor. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
    Her gaze was clear, her eyes dry. Nick supposed that meant she hadn’t been too shocked by the discovery of her husband’s body. Like Briggs had said, she must never have believed the story that her husband had run off with an actress from the Metropolitan.
    She settled onto a chair with a rustle of bombazine, the fabric releasing the scent of magnolia water. “I want Virgil’s killer found,” she said, her voice modulated by a good education. “You can be certain I’d want to see you.”
    Nick took a chair opposite while Taylor picked a spot out of her line of sight between a pair of potted ferns and anotherarmchair. He dug out his notebook and pencil from the pocket he kept them in and waited.
    â€œFirst of all, you have my condolences, ma’am,” Nick offered, as he’d done too many times to count to too many other family members.
    â€œPoor Virgil. Dumped in a cellar, treated with no more respect than a dog.” She drew a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve where she’d tucked it and held it to her mouth. “Where is the pity, I ask you? Where?”
    â€œIn my experience, ma’am, pity’s a rather scarce commodity.”
    Alice Nash squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. “Virgil deserved better.”
    Most folks deserved better. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about the day your husband disappeared.”
    She inclined her head, letting him know he could proceed.
    â€œDetective Briggs told me that your husband received a message that morning that had supposedly come from Jasper Martin,” said Nick. “Who brought it, and why did you think it had come from Martin? Did Mr. Nash share the contents of the message with you?”
    â€œA boy—I don’t know his name—brought it. Virgil didn’t share the contents, other than to tell me that he’d been summoned by Mr. Martin to his office downtown.” She emphasized “summoned” in a tone of disdain.
    â€œMr. Martin denies sending that note.”
    Mrs. Nash returned Nick’s stare. “I’m not one to trust
his
word.”
    â€œWhy did your husband agree to the meeting?” asked Nick. Taylor’s pencil scratched noisily.
    â€œVirgil thought Jasper had finally changed his mind about his plans for the Second Street cut.”
    â€œI gather your husband had been attempting to stop those plans before they started.”
    â€œAnd failing,” said Mrs. Nash, occupied with folding her handkerchief into sequentially smaller squares. “Jasper Martin and his partners have been working to convince the city planner to go ahead with the improvement, as they like to call it. A contract they would quickly pursue, since Mr. Martin owns land down near the Pacific Mail Company wharf at the foot of Second Street.”
    Exactly what Mrs. Hutchinson had told him. “And the easier access given by a flat road meant that land would become more valuable,” said Nick.
    â€œAbsolutely, Detective,” she concurred. “However, Virgil knew he had little chance of stopping the grading of the road. Jasper Martin has friends on the city planning commission.”
    No kidding. He took meals with the mayor, too.
    â€œSo you believe your husband nonetheless wanted to meet with Martin, hoping he’d changed his mind about the plans,” said Nick. “Seems rather optimistic, given what you’ve just said.”
    â€œI said as much at the time.” Mrs. Nash shifted slightly in the chair, and the sunlight coming through the window at Nick’s back reflected in her eyes. He noticed they were pale, but not the clear gray-blue of Celia Davies’ eyes.