The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  She turned around and walked back up the steps. “There is something. Do you know where Ada stored the portraits?”

  He frowned. “Aren’t they in the studio?”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “I suggest you ask Paul deVrais. He didn’t think the portraits had any value, but that was before Ada’s suicide.”

  —6—

  Sirena had left Sarah’s sketch box, her smock, and the ruined painting on the cottage porch. A note from Rosie was taped to the front door asking her to come to the Lodge right away. As tired and miserable as she felt, Sarah let Albert out and they walked across the road together.

  In the Lodge entryway, she heard Rosie call out, “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Set yourself down, dearie,” Rosie said, bringing out a jug from the ice box. “It’s unbearably muggy today so I thought I’d cool off with a bit of chilled wine. Will you join me?”

  Sarah looked suspiciously at the jug Rosie held in her hand.

  “It’s not contraband, Sarah,” said Rosie, putting it on the table. “I have a prescription, or more accurately a recipe, from Danny at the pharmacy. I buy a block of pressed grapes and he delivers it. It then goes into a pot with a gallon of water, ferments in a dark cupboard for ten days, and then goes in the icebox.”

  Rosie saw Sarah wasn’t interested in how she got around the prohibition laws or her wine recipe and sat down across from her. “Is something wrong, Sarah? You don’t look well.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m all right.” She didn’t have the heart to tell Rosie that Champlin had convinced her of Ada’s suicide. And she hoped foul play wasn’t what was on Rosie’s mind when she wrote her note.

  Rosie filled their glasses, and meeting Sarah’s eyes, said, “Let’s have an Irish toast.” They clunked their glasses. “Sláinte.” Sarah took an obligatory sip. It tasted like sour grape juice. She put the glass down.

  Rosie perched her round, wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose and started to read silently from a notepad while she sipped her glass of wine.

  “Rosie, was there something you wanted to tell me?” Sarah said, impatiently.

  “Hold on, dearie. I’ve been waiting all day to tell you and I don’t want to leave out anything Dr. Lewis told me this morning. Drink your wine while I go over my notes.”

  The second sip went down easier.

  “Who is Dr. Lewis?” asked Sarah, worried there might be an ulterior motive for Rosie giving her a glass of wine. Was Rosie ill?

  “Dr. Lewis is my doctor. He’s the one who insists I have my heart checked regularly. Of course, I don’t believe that malarkey. I’m as fit as a woman half my age.” She pulled in her stomach and puffed out her chest. “I know I should eat less scones and get out more often and walk, but—”

  “Rosie, what did Dr. Lewis tell you? You’re not sick, are you?” Sarah didn’t think she could handle any more bad news in one day.

  “Of course not.” Rosie swallowed a pill with the wine. “In fact, Dr. Lewis told me my heart sounded stronger and to just continue taking these pills to avoid the palpitations. My news is about Ada.”

  “Ada?” asked Sarah sitting up.

  “Yes, Ada. Dr. Lewis told me that she had come to see him with complaints of indigestion and trouble sleeping. She wanted him to give her a prescription of laudanum but he insisted on examining her first.

  “I of course asked him if he found anything wrong with her. ‘Nothing serious,’ he said. ‘Her symptoms were only natural.’”

  “Natural?” asked Sarah.

  Rosie put her hand over Sarah’s. “Yes, dearie. He told her to expect her baby in the new year, sometime in February.”

  “God, no,” gasped Sarah. A concerned Albert nuzzled against her legs but she couldn’t move to pick him up. “Was he absolutely sure?”

  “That’s what Ada asked, too. When he finally convinced her, she jumped off the table, startled him with an embrace, and said she’d just about given up on ever becoming a mother.”

  Rosie looked down at her notes, giving Sarah a few minutes to take in the full meaning of Ada’s pregnancy before she said, “Ada asked Dr. Lewis if her age was a problem, but he told her she was in perfect health for a woman of thirty-six and there was nothing to worry about. Then she asked him about traveling by train to Los Angeles. She said she wouldn’t go if it would endanger her pregnancy. He told her to have a good time and come see him when she got back.

  “Ada told him that wouldn’t be until August and that she’d bring the lucky father with her.”

  Rosie closed her notepad and took off her glasses. “Dr. Lewis wished all of his female patients were as pleased about their pregnancy as Ada was. When he got back after the holidays and heard of her suicide, he just couldn’t believe it.” She wiped the corner of her eyes with her apron. “Poor, poor Ada.”

  Sarah didn’t know how she managed to get out of the chair or put on Albert’s leash, but in a short while she found herself seated on the bench overlooking Carmel Beach.

  The bench anchored her to the sand but she’d never felt so adrift.

  Ada, I’m so sorry I ever believed for a moment what other people said about your unbalanced mind. I was so wrapped up in my own guilt that I couldn’t see clearly. You were saner than any of us and you would never have killed yourself with or without child.

  Albert pushed his nose under her clenched hands until she picked him up and pressed him against her aching heart.

  When Sarah and Albert came back to the lodge, candles were casting a warm light on the lodgers who were eating, talking, and laughing around Rosie’s dining room table. Sarah recognized their faces from Champlin’s class or from the abalone barbecue. Sirena smiled at her from across the table and a few of the girls shuffled their chairs to one side and made room for her. She had thought to go upstairs, but she was afraid to be alone and took the offered chair.

  Rosie introduced her as Ada Davenport’s sister and asked the lodgers to introduce themselves. Each girl spoke in turn. Marie and Annie were from San Francisco. Elizabeth, a gorgeous Southern belle, was from Virginia. Two sisters, Hallie and Jeanette, who had a habit of speaking at the same time, were from St. Louis. When it came to Sirena’s turn she said Sarah already knew who she was.

  Sarah dipped the warm, crusty bread in the beef stew that Rosie put in front of her, but she ate very little of it. The girls talked around her about an upcoming performance of Pirates of Penzance at the outdoor Forest Theater in Carmel. Rosie had auditioned and gotten a part in the chorus. The musical director said he couldn’t resist her enthusiasm and her strong alto voice.

  Sarah made an effort to show interest in some talk about the new shipment of pigments that had just arrived at the art supply store in Monterey, but that was her only contribution. The rest of the time she sat quietly, her emotions in turmoil.

  Later, in the parlor, Rosie served gingerbread cake and passed around a tray of sherry. Jeanette sat down at the spinet piano and played a popular Bessie Smith tune, “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home.” Her sister Hallie stood next to her and sang the lyrics. Rosie added her harmonic voice and Sarah could see why she got into the chorus of the upcoming play.

  Out of the shadows, Ada’s ghost-like figure appeared by the piano, her eyes closed, her hands spread over her swollen belly as she sang to Sarah: I’d give the world, if I could only make you understand, and then she merged back into the shadows.

  But I do understand, Ada, and I’m not going to let you down this time.

  “Sarah? Are you all right?” Rosie asked, leaning down to give her a handkerchief. “I was hoping the singing would cheer you up.”

  Sarah dabbed at her eyes, not realizing she’d been crying. “I’m all right, Rosie, it’s just that song is so sad.”

  “C’mon girls,” said Rosie. “Let’s end the evening with a cheerier tune of Miss Bessie’s. And then we should all turn in.”

  Jeanette played “Nobody in Town Can Bake a Sweet Jelly Roll Like Min
e” and Rosie belted out the lyrics, imitating Bessie by swinging her equally wide hips. Albert joined in with an off-tune howl that had everyone, including Sarah, laughing and applauding.

  After the lodgers said good night and went to bed, Rosie insisted on walking Sarah back to the Sketch Box. Albert led the way and kept looking back to see what was taking them so long.

  Rosie turned on a few lights to dispel the shadows and sat with Sarah for a while in the living room after offering to make tea that Sarah didn’t want.

  “You can go home, Rosie. I’ll be all right. I have Albert to keep me company.” Hearing his name, he jumped up on Sarah’s lap.

  “But before you go, I want to apologize for ever doubting your belief in Ada’s murder. You were right. Someone did kill Ada and her unborn child. Will you help me find out who it was?”

  “Of course I will,” promised Rosie with conviction.

  The room took on an ominous silence as the two women considered the weight of their decision.

  At the door, Sarah said, “I’d like you to come with me to Monterey tomorrow. There are documents in Ada’s safe deposit box at Wells Bank that might help us to get closer to the truth.”

  “That suits me fine. I have an errand to run in town myself. And after that we should get back to Carmel and see the marshal.”

  “Don’t we have to make an appointment?” asked Sarah.

  “No. I think it’s better to just pop in on him.” Rosie winked. “Take him by surprise to disarm him.”

  TUESDAY, JULY 22

  —7—

  As they stepped down from the rickety yellow bus at the Monterey Wharf depot, Rosie hooked Sarah’s arm and they merged into the flow of pedestrian traffic on Alvarado Street. Two blocks of mostly brick-and-mortar two- and three-story office buildings flanked the busy avenue congested with automobiles, a few horse-drawn carriages, and shoppers bustling in and out of stores.

  Ten minutes later, they stood in front of Wells Bank. Rosie was breathless. She pressed her hand against her heart and pointed to a bench under a shady oak. She sat down and told Sarah to go ahead. She’d wait for her. As Sarah walked away, she saw Rosie swallow one of her heart pills.

  Inside the high-ceilinged, marble-columned bank, Sarah walked up to a bank teller and told him she was Ada Davenport’s sister and wanted to access her safe deposit box. He directed her to take the spiral staircase upstairs to the bank manager’s office.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” said the portly Mr. Pritchard, waddling around his desk to shake her hand.

  “Expecting me?” said Sarah, puzzled.

  “Yes, when your sister was assigned her safety deposit box, she asked for extra keys and said that you might come by on your own to collect some papers.” He used his belly as a ledge to put his folded hands on and solemnly added, “I hope this isn’t inappropriate, but I’d like to speak for my entire staff . . . I can’t tell you how distressed we were that such a decent, upright woman as Miss Davenport would ever—” he wrung his hands—“what’s the right way to say this, ah yes . . .commit such a desperate act. We have all found forgiveness for her in our Christian hearts and pray for her redemption on the Sabbath.” He lowered his head as if expecting her to join him in prayer.

  Sarah straightened her shoulders. Until she could prove otherwise, she’d have to tolerate people talking about Ada as if she was a sinner who took her own life. “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard. Now I’d like to open the safe deposit box.”

  “Of course, but first I must advise you that we haven’t received any documentation from the probate office as to the naming of Miss Davenport’s executor. Until then, we can’t disperse any funds from her depository account.” The corners of his mouth curled up into a faux smile.

  Did he think she was money grubbing? Coming here to clean out the safe deposit box and claim her sister’s assets, so soon after her death? Sarah remained outwardly calm. Until she had the will in hand, there was no point in telling him that she was the executor. “I understand, Mr. Pritchard, but I’m only here today to look in the box and see what it contains, which my sister told you I would do.”

  “My apologies,” he said, wringing his pudgy hands. “And I’m sure any confusion in regard to your sister’s bank account will be sorted out by your attorney. Do have him contact us. We really need to clear everything up as soon as possible.” She hadn’t realized there had been any confusion, and hadn’t thought she might need an attorney.

  Blocking her view as he stood in front of a large walk-in safe, Mr. Pritchard turned the combination knob back and forth until the lock clicked open. He ushered her into a smaller room and pulled the chain hanging from an overhead light bulb, which dimly lit a wall of numbered drawers. A shaft of sunlight from a high window, like a finger, seemed to point to a slim box marked #806, which the banker pulled out. After setting it on a small metal table, he gave Sarah a solemn nod and stood outside the door, leaving it open a crack in case she needed him.

  Sarah held her breath and turned the tiny key Ada had placed in her reluctant palm at Keens that snowy January evening in New York. Six months ago, she thought she’d never have to use it.

  Clipped to the deVrais Gallery contract was a document written by Mr. Foster M. Giles, Esq. of the New York law firm Giles and Adam, dated June 1, 1924. She didn’t need to read the copy of the letter terminating Ada’s contract that had been delivered to Paul deVrais. Foster Giles had given her copies of the contract and the letter before she caught the train that brought her to San Francisco and eventually here to this stifling room. She only needed to remember the date of the termination letter.

  As Mr. Giles had explained in his office, all copyrights to Ada’s artwork reverted back to Ada on July 1, 1924: All inventory stored by deVrais or commissioned to any galleries were to be returned to Ada. DeVrais was allowed to sell any specific, named pieces currently hanging in his Carmel gallery at the usual commission, an outrageous fifty percent, which was unfortunately customary. Ada’s fifty percent royalty earned by any paintings he sold were to be accounted for and deposited in her Wells Bank account.

  Sarah imagined deVrais’s rage when he received this official document, which, of course, he had never mentioned when they met on the Del Monte Express train.

  The next document was unexpected. She blinked and reread it several times. It was a deed to the Sketch Box cottage, signed over to Sarah Cunningham-Davenport on July 1, 1924. Why, Ada? Why would you do this unless you were really frightened by deVrais’s threats?

  She turned the box over and let all the papers fall out on the table. Flipping through them, she became more frantic. Where was it? Where was the will? Ada had said it would be here.

  Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat and called out from behind the door, “Is something wrong?”

  “No, everything seems to be in order,” she said, returning the documents to the box. Mr. Pritchard came back into the room and slid drawer #806 back into its slot.

  He ushered her back into his office. “Please know, Miss Cunningham, that we look forward to having such a distinguished person as yourself, the sister of the famed artist, Miss Davenport, as our client.”

  Sarah could see no reason why she would want to become a Wells Bank client, but she needn’t tell him that. “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard. You are very kind.”

  As she crossed the lobby to the high-arched entrance, she was aware of being watched. She glanced over at the bank teller she’d spoken to earlier and he stopped talking to his customer when he saw her looking at him. Had he told everyone she was the sister of the famous artist who had committed suicide? She looked down at her feet and ordered them to march out the door and into the street. Fortunately, they obliged.

  Rosie was leaning back on the bench at rest behind heavy lids. Sarah sat down beside her and mulled over what she found and didn’t find at Wells Bank. She lit a cigarette and turned her attention to the passersby on Alvarado Street.

  Mostly women wearing pastel sundresses like hers, with s
hawls or jackets covering their bare white arms, probably a precaution for when the inevitable summer fog rolled in and the temperature dropped. For now, their wide-brimmed straw hats shaded their eyes from the bright sun. The men were dressed conservatively in linen suits and Panama or straw boater hats, walking purposely but not in a hurry like they would in Paris or New York.

  A large church bell struck once. Rosie woke up and yawned. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, seeing Sarah. “I must have drifted off. How did it go at the bank?”

  “Not good. The will wasn’t there.”

  “That’s odd. Was there anything else of importance?”

  “Yes. The deed to the Sketch Box, and it’s in my name.”

  “That’s good. Now you don’t have to worry about Marshal Judd throwing you out.”

  “Would he dare?” asked Sarah, shocked that this was even a possibility.

  Rosie laughed. “I doubt it. But without the deed he could legally do it if there is no will to prove you’re her only beneficiary.”

  “The bank manager said I needed a lawyer to settle Ada’s accounts. Do you know someone?”

  “Mr. Peabody. He helped me buy the Lodge. His fees are high, but he earns it. He’s trustworthy and thorough. With him, we can’t just pop in like with the marshal, we have to have an appointment. Mr. Peabody, like most lawyers, is very particular about his hours.”

  Rosie pulled herself up and straightened her skirt and looked at her watch. “Now I need to do my errand in Nihonmachi.”

  “Japan Town.” said Rosie as an explanation to Sarah’s raised brow. “It’s just a short walk from here.”

  They walked arm-in-arm toward the Monterey Wharf, turned onto Washington Street and stopped in front of a plain, blue two-story Victorian building with white trim. Rosie told Sarah that this is where she came to teach English and in return had learned a few words of their language. She translated the larger banner written in calligraphy: “Japanese Association and Language School.” They sat down on one of the steps so Rosie could catch her breath.