He poured her a glass of water and set the pitcher down next to a stack of posters advertising Ada’s exhibition. She picked one up.
“Did Ada tell you about the Del Monte Gallery?”
Yes, she thought, it’s the gallery where Ada didn’t want her portraits exhibited.
“When we had our last exhibit there, all of Ada’s California landscapes on display sold. An unheard of success for a female artist.”
She took a sip of water. He leaned his hips against the desk, his arms crossed, watching her.
“That’s why Ada decided to exhibit her portraits at the Del Monte.” He held up the poster. “I see no reason to cancel it,” he said, adding solemnly, “It’s what Ada would’ve wanted.”
“Au contraire! That’s not what she told me.”
He glared at her. “What are you talking about? Ada wanted this exhibit. It was her idea.”
“Yes, she did want an exhibit, but not at the Del Monte.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. deVrais, my sister and I were very close. She confided in me when I saw her this past January in New York. I know of the tension between the two of you. And I know she wanted to have the portraits exhibited in New York. You needn’t suggest otherwise.”
He picked up a ship-in-a-bottle paperweight on his desk and rocked it back and forth in his hands. “That was a stupid idea. If she’d only listened to me, she’d still be alive.” He slammed down the paperweight and narrowed his eyes at Sarah just like a bull before he lances the matador. “I believe you were the one who suggested she experiment with portraits. It’s what drove her mad.”
She ignored his accusation and looked over his shoulder at a closed door. “If you don’t mind, Mr. deVrais, I’d like to see those portraits that you say drove her mad.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead, thought Sarah. He was a formidable enemy.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Miss Cunningham, but I don’t have the portraits. The last time I saw them was in Ada’s studio a few days before she died. Her assistant was packing them into crates. I would’ve arranged to pick them up sooner, but when the marshal told me you were coming I thought to wait until you got here. You can give me the key to the studio’s alley door and I’ll have them picked up.”
She could’ve easily lashed out at his appalling brashness but chose to take her time and mull over the fact that Sirena had been telling the truth when she said she packed the paintings, but why hadn’t she told Sarah that deVrais had been there too?
She took another cigarette from her packet and lit it herself, taking her time. She too could pace herself in the bull ring.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. deVrais, but the portraits are not in the studio.”
“But I saw them there. I would’ve picked them up myself, but decided to wait until you got here.”
“I have no reason to lie to you. Sirena seems to think Ada might have burned them.”
“Burned them? Ridiculous! She was too obsessed with those portraits to ever destroy them, and she was afraid of fire.”
“Then perhaps they were stolen.”
“Equally ridiculous. Why do you say that?”
“When I first arrived at Ada’s cottage, I found the alley door to the studio unlocked. I think someone was using her studio. Perhaps that same person stole the portraits. Perhaps someone you know.”
DeVrais started pacing back and forth nervously. “If that is true, I will immediately report the theft to Marshal Judd and move all of Ada’s artwork out of the cottage to my storage vault where they’ll be safe.”
His arrogance was becoming increasingly intolerable. Sarah straightened her spine and said calmly, “Let me speak plainly, Mr. deVrais. I am Ada’s executor and I forbid you to touch any of her artwork. If anyone is going to report the portraits as stolen, it will be me, the owner, not you.”
He stopped pacing and glared down at her. His mask of politeness completely gone. His face hard and bitter.
“I made Ada Davenport who she is. Her work would be worth nothing without me. Do you hear me? Nothing! Ada understood that. That’s why she entrusted me with her legacy. Not her sister who abandoned her three years ago to live in Paris.”
Sarah hurled back. “Need I remind you, Mr. deVrais, that your contract expired on July first of this year? Four days before my sister’s death.” She rearranged her rosebud shawl and imagined Ada close by, willing her to be strong.
DeVrais clenched his jaw, walked back behind the desk, and pulled out a folder from the bottom drawer. “That’s not what it says here. Only if Ada legally gave notice that she was terminating our agreement would it expire. Otherwise the contract remains in effect. Here, look for yourself.” He thrust the contract toward her.
She pretended to read the document she already knew well. It gave her time to consider her next move. Slowly, she opened her satchel and took out her copy of Ada’s termination letter. “Then tell me what this is?”
He snatched the letter from her hand as if to tear it up and she let him know there were other copies and there was also certification from the post office that he’d received the letter and signed for it, so it was fruitless to deny it.
“Mr. Giles will be contacting you in regard to turning over all of Ada’s paintings to me.”
His face drained of color. No more the suave dealer who thought he could bluff and manipulate to get what he wanted. In a dry business-like tone, he said, “I don’t care what you say, I never received this letter.”
She stood up, picked up the stack of posters for the Del Monte exhibit, and dropped them in his wastebasket. “I must ask that you remove all advertisements for this event and inform the Del Monte Gallery that there will be no exhibition. When found, the portraits will be exhibited at Eric Crocker’s gallery in Manhattan.” She mimicked him, “It’s what Ada would’ve wanted.”
DeVrais stared at her, slack-jawed. His cigarette had nearly burned down to his manicured fingers and he stubbed it out.
“Before I go, I’d like to make you an offer,” she said, putting out her own cigarette and boldly facing him. “A Bleak Morning in exchange for my fifty percent share of the painting you just sold.” His menacing stare was unnerving, but she held her ground. “I don’t want this picture ending up in some gallery where a critic might judge it as the final artistic moment of my sister’s life.”
DeVrais seemed to be at a loss for words. Only his clenching jaw moved. Sarah continued, gaining confidence.
“And I also think you should know that I’m presenting new evidence to Monterey’s District Attorney in my petition to reopen the inquest. If you continue to deny receipt of the termination letter, I will find it necessary to put it in evidence as a motive for my sister’s murder. When she terminated your contract and you couldn’t convince her otherwise, you killed her. You may be indicted.”
“Murder? Are you out of your mind? Ada killed herself.”
She walked away from him and gave one last look at the forged painting before reaching the front door. “Please deliver that travesty to Ada’s cottage. And be forewarned, if you try to sell it, I will insist on it being authenticated.”
He threw back his head and laughed, regaining his former swagger. He approached her. “If you think that’s a forgery, you’re blind. Maybe it’s not her best work, but it certainly is a true expression of the fundamental darkness that destroyed her. If you continue to threaten me with these false accusations, I will destroy whatever’s left of Ada’s reputation and take you down with her.”
Sarah ripped the poster advertising the Del Monte exhibition off the door, dropped it in her satchel, and turning to face him, smiled. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. deVrais. No need to show me out.” The hanging bell reverberated through the gallery as she jerked open the door, stepped outside, and firmly closed it.
She started walking rapidly up Ocean Avenue with an unfamiliar boldness to her steps. Her black rose-embroidered shawl blew behind her in th
e breeze—a flag of courage.
When she reached Dolores Street, she stopped to catch her breath. Oh Ada, aren’t you proud of me. I stood up to him just like you would’ve done.
Her exuberance was tempered when she heard her sister’s disapproval. Little Sis, there’s no telling what this weasel might do now that you’ve threatened to expose him. You have to be more careful.
—12—
Sirena was waiting at the bus stop when Sarah arrived and they got on the rickety yellow bus together. As it slowly groaned its way to the top of Carmel Hill in low gear, Sarah turned to Sirena, “Do you know Paul deVrais very well?”
“Are you kidding? Mr. deVrais never pays much attention to us students. He’s too busy managing Ada and his other famous artists to have any time for the likes of me.”
“Did he often come to Ada’s cottage when you were working there?”
“Not much. She didn’t seem to like having him in the studio. I don’t know why. I wish I could get that kind of attention from a major art dealer. I’d do anything to have deVrais show my work. Why do you ask?”
“I was just at his gallery and he told me that he was in the studio when you were packing the portraits in crates.”
“Well, he’s mistaken. Maybe he came after I left.”
Sarah looked out at the passing pines as the bus descended the steep hill toward Monterey, her thoughts on Sirena. If only she could get her to tell the truth about herself maybe they could be real friends. Until then, she couldn’t trust her.
She turned to face Sirena. “Where are you from?”
“Hawaii. Have you been there?”
“No. I’ve seen pictures. A tropical paradise. Were you born there?”
“Yes. I grew up on my dad’s sugar plantation.”
“You must have had a very unusual childhood.”
“Not really. It’s pretty boring standing between rows of sugar cane for entertainment. It’s not like you can talk to the sugar cane or make friends with them. I’d much rather have grown up in a big city like you did.”
Sarah was amazed by how easily Sirena could lie. “Perhaps we all want what we don’t have. You must miss your family.”
“Not so much,” Sirena said dismissively. “They shipped me out to San Francisco to study nursing and then they were disappointed when I quit and came here to study art. They stopped my allowance soon after that. That was a year ago. We haven’t spoken since.”
Mon dieux, thought Sarah, but said, “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard enough to succeed as a woman artist let alone have parents who oppose it.”
Sirena shrugged. “Lots of the girls I know are in similar situations.”
Sarah didn’t think there were many girls in Sirena’s situation.
The bus screeched to a stop at the depot next to the Monterey Wharf and the passengers crowded into the aisle to get off.
As they disembarked, Sarah pointed through the towering pines to the bell tower of Hotel Del Monte. “Ada and I stayed there with my parents.”
“My, my, aren’t you the cat’s meow,” exclaimed Sirena, fluttering her eyes.
“Not really. I was only four years old,” Sarah said, defensively. “Life is quite different for me now. But I remember riding in a horse-drawn carriage, and we had a picnic high up on a cliff overlooking the sea.”
Just then a bright red, open-air sedan car driven by a uniformed chauffeur sped by. Four children and their parents were all holding onto their hats. Sirena waved and the carefree, laughing children waved back as if they were in a parade.
“I’m afraid your horse-drawn carriage ride has been replaced by touring cars like that,” said Sirena.
“I hope the Del Monte hasn’t changed. It was a gorgeous hotel. Why don’t we have tea there after our shopping?”
Sirena dug into the pocket of her saffron coveralls, which were splotched with paint and pulled out a dime, and said, “Sorry. This is just enough to take the bus back to Carmel.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sarah. “It’ll be my treat. I sold a painting before I left Paris so I can certainly afford to take you to tea.”
Sirena stretched out her coveralls like a skirt and curtsied. “Then I graciously accept your invitation.” She dropped the dime back into her pocket.
“How do you manage the cost of art supplies, lessons, and renting a room at Rosie’s lodge?” asked Sarah.
Sirena puffed out her round cheeks, took a cigarette from behind her ear, stuck it between her lips, and strutted around Sarah. “I’m a man of many trades,” she said gruffly from the other side of her mouth. “For a price, I can do just about anything.” Then she took off laughing and skipping down Alvarado Street.
In Oliver’s Mission Art and Curio Store, Sarah felt like one of the faithful entering a church. She stood very still in the center aisle, closed her eyes, and breathed in the heavy fragrance of pigments, linseed oil, and solvents, which brought back childhood memories of shopping with Ada in Chicago.
Even back then, Ada stood out, not only as one of the prettiest, but as one of the very few women shopping in an art supplies store. The other students and professional painters in Chicago were mostly men wearing dark suits and bowler hats. The few female customers wore corsets under heavy skirts down to their ankles, and wrapped their long hair in braids and hid it under bonnets with ribbons tied in bows under their chins. Not Ada. Her flaming red tresses cascaded down her back unrestrained. And, having sworn off the corset, she wore loose, flowing dresses like one might see in a Middle Eastern bazaar.
Now, at Oliver’s in California, six years after the war, the majority of customers were young women wearing trousers or mid-calf pleated skirts and, like Sarah, they wore their hair cropped.
Sarah stood spellbound in front of the display case of metallic tubes of oil paint wondering which ones to choose. They were all delicious, like a box of chocolate.
An attractive young salesman wearing a French beret and an apron with Gus stitched on the front asked if he could be of service. He laid her selected tubes out on the counter, a cobalt blue, a Paris green mixed with arsenic to create its brilliant emerald hue, Monterey azure, lupine violet, and kelp ochre. The last three would never be available at Sennelier’s art supply store in Paris, she thought, rationalizing such an extravagant purchase. If truth be told, her transatlantic journey had depleted her savings, the money she’d made on the painting was almost gone, and she didn’t know when Ada’s estate would be settled.
Gus cleared his throat, patiently waiting for her to make up her mind.
“There you are!” She heard Sirena’s bright voice. “And isn’t it just like Gus to find the prettiest girl in the store to help.”
“Hi, Sirena,” said Gus. “You two know each other?”
“Best friends,” said Sirena proudly, linking Sarah’s arm with hers. “Sarah’s taking me to the Del Monte for tea this afternoon.” Sirena’s attention was diverted by a group of girls her age waving her over and she left as abruptly as she’d arrived.
“What else can I help you with?” asked Gus.
Sarah hesitated in front of a row of paintbrushes organized by size in Mason jars. She’d never had the same mind for tidiness as Ada, who was always keeping after her to clean her brushes.
“Take your time,” Gus said as he was pulled away by an impatient customer. Sarah was eager to indulge on her own. She tried several brushes feeling their weight and balance in her hand. Her final choice was a narrow sable brush.
Gus returned and added up the cost of her purchases at a cash register. After she paid him, he said, “Excuse me for asking, but are you Ada Davenport’s sister?”
“Yes I am. What gave me away?”
He smiled. “Certainly not your choice of pigments. She would never have chosen the Paris green you bought today. She only bought the ‘natural’ colors.”
She laughed. “You’re so right about that. Then how did you know?”
“I saw your portrait in her studio a short time a
go.”
It seemed that everyone in Monterey had seen her portrait but herself.
“Ada and I go way back. I took classes from her at the Art Students League when I lived in New York. After the war, I moved here to Monterey. Sometimes she invited me to paint with her and Sirena on the beach.”
Just then Sirena’s laughter crossed the room. They both turned to watch her modeling a parasol to a circle of customers. “She’s quite a live wire, that Sirena,” said Gus. “Nothing ever seems to faze her.”
He shut the cash drawer and handed her the change. “Your sister was very good to me. If I can ever be of any help—”
“Do you believe she killed herself?”
He paused and then waved over another salesman and said, “Let’s talk outside.”
Sarah looked around for Sirena and saw she was now posing for a young fellow who was drawing her on his sketch pad. She admired the girl’s nerve. If she had been trying to hide her racial identity, she wouldn’t be showing off, let alone let her face be drawn, even though she looked white.
Gus brought her to a quiet bench under the canopy of a giant oak in a park next to the store. Blue patches of sky filled in the spaces between the oak’s branches.
“To answer your question, no, I don’t believe Ada killed herself, but I was worried about her. When we last painted together on Carmel Beach, she was very anxious and kept looking over her shoulder. When I asked what was wrong, she said someone had been following her.”
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?” asked Sarah, feeling goose bumps on her arms though it was a hot summer day.
“No, but I can tell you this. Ada was not the desperate woman the marshal portrayed her as. She was very excited about her portraits and the upcoming exhibition. I wanted to testify at the inquest, but Judd said there were enough character witnesses already. What a laugh. It was only Rosie who was allowed to speak in her defense.”
He looked toward Sirena who was coming out of Oliver’s and turned back to Sarah. “Be careful. There are some powerful people in this town who just want the whole thing to be over with. It’s not been good publicity for the Del Monte Gallery having one of their most famous artists commit suicide.”
The Artist Colony Page 13