The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  Sarah let Albert down and put her arm around Rosie, who was pressing her hand against her heart. “You were very brave to bring me here, Rosie. I know how hard this must be for you. We don’t have to stay here any longer. I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

  They were walking back along the shore when they saw a man in a navy blue knit cap jump out of a fishing boat and pull it up on the beach with a rope.

  “Let’s go ask him if he was out fishing that night,” said Sarah. “Maybe he saw something.”

  As they drew nearer, he took out a large bucket full of shiny flailing fish. At first Albert barked, then curiosity triumphed and he ran up to take a sniff.

  The young fisherman was wearing rubber overalls over a frayed work shirt and smelled of sea kelp.

  “That’s quite a catch,” said Sarah. He grinned proudly, showing a chipped front tooth.

  “Yes ma’am. Mid-tide is the best time to catch rockfish because they’re fishing themselves while the sea’s calm.”

  Albert sniffed the wild-eyed fish and growled when their bodies flapped.

  “Does the tide always come in at this hour?” asked Sarah.

  “Depends on the moon. I always check my tide calendar before I go out.” He pulled a small worn datebook out of his shirt pocket.

  “Do you keep records of all your fishing days?”

  “Yep, and how many fish I catch. I got plenty today.”

  “Were you fishing here on the Fourth of July?”

  “Sure was. I don’t have to look that one up. It was a full moon that night. The following morning I heard they found that poor woman washed up on shore.”

  “Did you see her on the beach the night before?”

  “No. But out in my skiff I got to see the sky burst wide open with fireworks on both sides of me. Carmel and Monterey had their own display to the north, and to the south I watched those Japs out on Point Lobos shoot off their ’works.” He crouched down and petted Albert. “It still gives me the willies when I think that drowned woman might have been floating dead near my skiff and I was so excited by the fireworks I didn’t see her.”

  He stood up and pulled off his stocking cap. A thatch of brownish hair stood up on ends, stiff from dried salt water. “Why do you ask? Did you know her?”

  “Yes, we did,” said Sarah. “We’re trying to understand what happened . . . We thought maybe it was an accident . . . that she got pulled out by a wave when her back was to the sea.”

  “It’s possible. Some tourists don’t know about these rogue waves. That’ll yank you out to sea and suck you under fast.” He scratched his head. “Your friend must have been dragged back to shore by the early morning tide.” He scratched his head again. “Though that don’t make much sense.”

  “Why is that?” asked Sarah.

  “There’s a deep underwater canyon out there. It’d be like throwing yourself off the Grand Canyon but instead of hitting rock you’d be sucked down under the kelp. If she washed ashore, it would have been farther south where the canyon doesn’t come so close to shore.”

  He pulled his stocking cap down over his forehead and started to walk back toward his skiff. “Excuse me, ladies, it’s nice talking to you but I got my catch to bring home and clean while it’s fresh.”

  They watched him drag his skiff farther up on the beach. He tied it to a rusty ring in a rocky outcrop and walked up to the road as his heavy, full bucket swung by his side.

  “These fishermen understand the coastal seas. It’s their livelihood,” said Rosie. She sat down to rest on a large boulder. Sarah joined her and Albert stretched out on the sand nearby.

  “Do you see what this means?” said Sarah, excited. “Ada couldn’t have drowned at River Beach as Judd presumed. The current would have either pulled her out into the underwater canyon and the divers’ weights would have dropped her down even deeper or, as the fisherman said, the current would’ve washed her ashore farther south. So someone must’ve brought her here after she was dead.”

  “And that someone must’ve put the diving weights in her pockets to make it look like a suicide,” said Rosie, picking up where Sarah left off. “And there’s something else that isn’t right. When I found Ada, her clothes were drenched in seawater. But her hands weren’t wrinkled as they would’ve been if she’d been submerged in water for any length of time.

  “I read about a case like this in ‘The Mask.’ Any forensic expert would have noticed the discrepancy, but when I mentioned it to the marshal he dismissed it as unimportant.”

  “So if what we’re saying is that she didn’t drown,” Sarah said hopefully, “and her suicide note is fake, and the diving weights were planted on her after she was already dead, don’t we have enough evidence to get the inquest reopened?”

  Rosie shook her head. “No. They’d say it’s all circumstantial evidence. We need actual proof and we need a suspect.” She saw Sarah’s disappointment and added, “But it’s a good beginning.”

  Seagulls began cawing relentlessly over their heads. Sarah tried to light a cigarette but the wind had started blowing in from the ocean and she burned herself.

  “I told you those coffin nails are no good for you,” said Rosie.

  Sarah half smiled, and after cupping her hand she got it lit and took a deep drag.

  Albert barked and they both turned to look up at a tall, lanky man standing on top of a rock tower. Behind him was a stone cottage that seemed to be barely holding on to the edge of a rocky outcrop.

  “Why there’s Mr. Jeffers, our local poet.” Rosie waved at him, but he didn’t respond.

  “That tower is a gift to his wife, Una, and their two young children. He’s been building it on his own for three years. He carries the granite boulders up from the beach all by himself.”

  “A poet who builds a tower with his own hands while making a world out of words. That’s someone I’d like to know. Have you read his poetry?”

  “It’s too disturbing for my taste. But Ada admired his work and often visited him. You’ll find his books in her cottage.”

  “I wonder why he wasn’t a witness at the inquest?” said Sarah. “He has a clear view of River Beach and he might have seen Ada there on the fourth. Let’s go ask him.”

  Rosie looked at her watch and shook her head. “Not now. It’s only three o’clock. He keeps to a very strict writing schedule. Or I should say his wife Una does. She only allows visitors to see him after four o’clock.”

  FRIDAY, JULY 25

  —10—

  Sirena stopped so abruptly that Sarah bumped into her. “Why are you stopping at Mr. Champlin’s cottage?” she asked. “Aren’t we painting on the beach like we did on Monday?”

  “He wants us to work inside this morning,” said Sirena. “We’re going to make more copies of his seascape paintings. Boring! Hopefully we’ll get to paint on the beach in the afternoon.”

  Sarah had decided to attend Champlin’s class again, hoping to discover who was painting in Ada’s studio when she first arrived or anything else she could learn about Ada’s last days alive. She wanted to get back to Paris in time for her exhibit, but she had to find Ada’s killer first or at least get the inquest reopened.

  “There’s something I want to ask you before we go in,” said Sirena.

  “Sure, if you think we have time.”

  “This will only take a minute. Want a smoke?”

  Sirena deftly hand-rolled two cigarettes (something Sarah had been trying to do for years without success), lit both, and handed one to Sarah.

  The younger painter took a long draw and said in her now-familiar curt manner, “Aren’t you going to have a memorial service for your sister? Everyone is expecting one.”

  Sarah was embarrassed. She should have thought of that herself. Rosie had offered to take her to the mortuary where Ada’s ashes were being held, but first she wanted the insidious word SUICIDE deleted from the death certificate so she could give Ada a decent burial in a cemetery.

  “Sarah?” asked
Sirena after a long silence.

  “Sorry, yes, you’re right, and thank you for mentioning it. I’ve just been so wrapped up in my own grief that I haven’t considered how other people who knew Ada must be feeling. Of course we should have a service.”

  “I hoped you’d feel that way,” said Sirena. “Ada’s death was so unexpected and none of us had a chance to say goodbye or give her a proper send-off.”

  “I’ll need your help,” said Sarah. “You were her assistant, so you must know her friends in Carmel and Monterey, even San Francisco. Would you make me a list?”

  “Sure I can do that. You can also announce the date and time in our local paper, the Pine Cone.”

  “All right. But first we’ll have to decide on a date, time, and place.”

  Mr. Champlin was standing at the doorway to his studio.

  “We better get going,” said Sirena. She threw down her cigarette and stomped it out next to Sarah’s, then picked up the butts and dropped them in the deep pocket of her saffron coveralls.

  Sarah would’ve never thought the girl to be particularly neat and asked her why she did it.

  Sirena shrugged. “It’s just something Ada taught me. She believed you should never leave any messes behind when you leave your camping grounds. I thought it was good advice to follow and now it’s a habit.

  “She read it to me out of her Book of Quotables, but I don’t know who said it.”

  Poor Ada, she did leave a mess behind, thought Sarah, but I’m going to clean it up for her. Even if it means canceling my exhibition. I owe it to her.

  She was about to tell Sirena that the quote was from one of her favorite writers, Katherine Mansfield, but Sirena had gone inside.

  Champlin’s studio looked like a garage from the outside, but inside it was as elegant as his wardrobe. The subtle light filtering through expansive windows on the northern wall made the small space look larger than it was. Edwardian couches and chairs where a model might languish in seductive poses to please the artist took up one corner.

  Eight students were seated on benches around an easel displaying one of Champlin’s iconic tonal seascapes. Champlin stood as stiff as his waxed moustache next to the easel. Hallie and her sister Jeanette turned and waved at Sarah. She and Sirena took the last available bench in the back.

  Champlin tapped a stick on the side of his easel and started a lecture on tonal color theory, using his own work as an example. “Anyone can see the relation to this . . .” His voice droned like the fly buzzing overhead while Sirena doodled and Sarah visualized the last painting to be made for her exhibit.

  Champlin finished his lecture and said, “This afternoon on the beach I want you to use these ideas on your own canvases. You should apply a refined, controlled palette.” He looked directly at Sarah.

  In spite of his jab, she spent an enjoyable morning drawing, erasing, and changing the lines and spaces until her sketches took on a formal style similar to Champlin’s. It freed her from having to produce an original composition and allowed her instead to concentrate on interpretation. In Paris and in New York, she often went to the museums to copy the masters and get away from her own work. Copying Champlin’s painting also freed her from thinking about Ada, if only for a short while.

  When he dismissed the class, he said he’d join them on River Beach after lunch. Sirena stopped Sarah outside and let the other women pass by. “Before we go down there, I think you should know—”

  Sarah stopped her. “Rosie already showed me where Ada’s body washed to shore. I know we’ll be painting nearby, but thank you for your concern.”

  They walked for a few minutes and then took the steep, rickety staircase down to the beach where the other students were seated in a circle eating from their lunch boxes. Rosie had given Sirena an extra lunch for Sarah. Ham and cheese on a roll dripping with mayonnaise. Not exactly a fresh baguette with jambon-beurre, but she was hungry and very grateful. With everything she had on her mind, she’d forgotten to add eating to her to-do list.

  Elizabeth passed around a box of homemade MoonPies her mother had sent from Charlottesville, Virginia—marshmallows squashed between graham crackers dipped in chocolate. She said they were her mother’s peace offering after their fight. Elizabeth wanted to stay in Carmel to continue her studies through the rest of the year. Her mother wanted her to come back home. There was a beau waiting for her in Charlottesville and, with Elizabeth’s twenty-second birthday around the corner, her mother thought he was her daughter’s last chance for marriage. Elizabeth didn’t want to give up her career as an artist and didn’t mind the idea of spinsterhood if it would allow her to paint.

  The close circle of women shared stories of their families who did or didn’t support their wishes to be artists. Most families didn’t. This was a conversation Sarah might have had with her girlfriends in Paris, but it would have taken place in a dank, airless studio. She was beginning to understand why Ada chose Carmel for her home. The salty breeze, the sun on her back, the open space, the reassuring rhythm of the surf, the rumble of the small rocks tumbling over one another as the waves tossed them about.

  Sirena had been unusually silent, but now she “shushed” her friends, “Quiet! Sarah has something she wants to ask you about.” But Sarah was just about to bite into a MoonPie and it took her a moment to realize Sirena was talking about the memorial service.

  “What is it, Sarah?” said Hallie and Jeanette in tandem.

  Embarrassed, Sarah put down the MoonPie. “I’m planning a memorial service for my sister and I’m looking for suggestions as to where it should take place.”

  The unfurling waves brushing against the sand filled in the silence.

  Annie, a stunning blonde from San Francisco, spoke first. “That’s a wonderful idea. We all miss Ada and I’m sure the entire artist colony would come to pay their respects. If you want a church service, I could ask Father Joseph at St. Agnes to officiate.”

  “Annie,” Sirena said sternly, “a Christian service is never allowed if someone took their own life.” The women turned their eyes away from Sarah and stared at their half-eaten MoonPies.

  Sirena was right. As long as Ada’s death was considered a suicide, there could be no religious service, not that Ada would’ve wanted one anyway. But what would she have wanted? wondered Sarah.

  Sirena gave her the answer. An answer that could’ve come from Ada. “Hey, c’mon, who wants a god-fearing priest speaking about Ada anyway? He never knew her like we did. We can have our own service, and instead of a burial we’ll scatter her ashes.”

  “I agree,” said Elizabeth, “and I know the perfect location—Whalers Cove.” She pointed to the granite outcrop projecting into the Pacific like a giant finger. “There’s a marvelous view of the sea from its summit.”

  “A terrible idea,” said Sirena. “What does the Japanese village have to do with Ada? She never went to Whalers Cove to paint. Why not have it right here on the beach where Ada used to paint?”

  Now that Sarah knew Sirena was from that Japanese village, she marveled at how the girl maneuvered the conversation away from her home and her true identity. Sarah felt an obligation to shield her. “I agree with Sirena not to have it at Whalers Cove, but I don’t think I want to have the memorial so near where Ada was found. Any other ideas?”

  “Uh-oh,” said Jeanette and Hallie, “here he comes.”

  Champlin was looking down at them from the top step of the wooden staircase.

  Sarah gave a cursory look at his students hurriedly opening their sketch boxes and propping up their easels. Their oil-stained palettes were mostly tonal and none had the black and purple pigments of the dreadful painting that had disappeared from Ada’s studio.

  Sirena’s palette was stained in black, but Sarah had seen her applying bold calligraphic lines on the borders of her landscapes with a narrow brush. The students at Académie Julian used a similar technique when copying the Japanese wood-block stamps. If only she could speak honestly with Sirena, she wo
uld ask her if she had been taught this technique by someone in her village. The Japonaiserie style that had influenced van Gogh’s paintings was all the rage in Paris, and as far as she knew it wasn’t taught anywhere in the States.

  Sarah opened her sketch box, propped up the easel, and daubed titanium white on her palette, but when she went to add cobalt blue, the tube was empty.

  There was a whole trove of paints in Ada’s studio, but since her futile search for the portraits and the disappearance of the scary canvas, Sarah had locked up the studio and hesitated to go back in. Besides, those were Ada’s paints, Ada’s palette. There might not be a church who would glorify Ada but her studio was sacred to Sarah.

  Sirena had put her easel next to hers and seeing Sarah’s disappointment, shared her own tube. “Thanks. I only brought a few oils from Paris in my sketch box.”

  “If you like, I’ll take you to Oliver’s art supply store in Monterey tomorrow.”

  Sarah had planned to see Paul deVrais in the morning but she had also promised Rosie to be Sirena’s friend. “Can we go in the afternoon?”

  “Sure. It’s open all day.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw that Champlin had walked over to the tide’s edge and set his gaze on the Carmel River outlet.

  A perfect subject, thought Sarah, blending a few pigments on her palette until she had a muddy brown she liked. She brushed quick strokes on to her canvas that defined his angular profile from the Panama hat down to his bare feet, which she exaggerated.

  She stepped back and looked from the canvas to her subject several times. Yes, she’d captured the dark tension his body emanated.

  What was her subject thinking about? She looked up at his house that was barely visible from her angle. Was he really watching fireworks the night Ada died? Could he be the father of Ada’s child? Highly unlikely.

  He turned around to face her. Was that a flash of anger at her watching him or just the glaring sunlight bouncing off his white Panama?